Chapter Thirty-Three: Bald Xu and Thai Trouble

Just after seeing off Liu Yifei and her mother, Chen Ling received another message from his agent. Xu Guangtou had replied, saying he wanted to arrange a meeting to talk face-to-face. Chen Ling instructed Zhao Qian to reply that if Xu was available, he could come to the office that afternoon—Chen would be waiting.

It had only been two days since Chen’s invitation, and both Xu and Liu Yifei had hurried back from out of town. This showed just how much everyone valued Chen Ling’s new project.

Downstairs, Liu’s mother, who was driving, turned to her daughter in the passenger seat and said, “Qianqian, at least one of those two Hong Kong projects is going to overlap with Director Chen’s new film. Have you decided which one you want to drop?”

Upstairs, her daughter’s intentions had already been clear—Chen Ling’s film was her top priority. That inevitably meant she’d have to give up one of the Hong Kong roles.

A few years ago, Liu Xiaoli would have made the decision herself without consulting her daughter. But after nearly ruining her daughter’s career during the filming of “The Forbidden Kingdom” by acting on her own, and having reflected on it in the years since, she now preferred to discuss such matters with her daughter.

Her daughter had grown up now. Although to outsiders she might seem a little naive and simple, only her mother knew that was just a facade—she was actually smarter and more observant than most, with a keen sense for detail.

But what her daughter said next almost made her lose her composure: “Mom, I want to turn down both roles!”

That afternoon, back in Chen Ling’s office, in the same seat Liu Yifei and her mother had occupied that morning, Chen Ling met Xu Guangtou, who was not yet famous at the time and still carried the label of riding on his wife’s coattails.

“Director Chen, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting these two days, really sorry,” Xu started off by apologizing. Whether or not he meant it, his attitude was commendable.

“You didn’t keep me waiting at all—it’s only been two days.”

“Would you like to look at the script first?” Chen Ling asked.

“If it’s convenient, of course,” Xu replied. He wanted to see the quality of the script before making any decisions.

Chen Ling had made several copies of the script and handed one to Xu from the safe.

Xu settled onto the sofa and began to read.

Xu took much longer than Liu Yifei had earlier; it was a considerable time before he finally finished reading.

“Well?” Chen Ling asked as Xu put the script down. He was curious to hear a comedian’s perspective on the film.

“It’s even better than I expected. Road comedies are a fantastic genre that really fits our audience’s tastes. If I could be part of this film, I’d be honored,” Xu said sincerely, clearly impressed. As a comedian, he had a keen eye for scripts; even Liu Yifei could see this was a good one, so how could he not recognize it? Such an outstanding script was not something he wanted to miss.

“How does it compare to ‘Lost on Journey,’ the film you just starred in? That was a dark horse at the box office, too.”

“Lost on Journey” had been released on June 4th, about a month before Chen Ling’s movie. With a budget of a few million, it raked in nearly forty million at the box office—a remarkable performance. If not for Chen Ling’s “Love Is Not Blind” bursting onto the scene, “Lost on Journey” would have been the year’s most talked-about sleeper hit.

“How dare I claim to be a box office dark horse in front of your ‘Love Is Not Blind’?” Xu replied, a little embarrassed—the box office gap was indeed significant.

“This film has a bigger scale than ‘Lost on Journey,’ more complex filming techniques, and higher demands on acting. Its box office potential is much higher, too,” Xu commented objectively.

“I plan to play the role of Geng Hao myself. When we act together, I hope you’ll give me some guidance,” Chen Ling said.

“Director Chen, you’re playing Geng Hao?” Xu raised his eyebrows in mild surprise, but when he’d read the script and seen Geng Hao described as in his twenties, he’d already suspected as much.

Xu, ever tactful, replied quickly, “In that case, I’d better lose some weight to look younger, or else the age difference between us will pull the audience out of the story.”

Chen Ling smiled, seeing that Xu had no objection to him playing Geng Hao. Not that it would have mattered—he was determined. “I’ll grow a bit of a beard and use some makeup—I won’t look like this on screen. By the way, the female lead was confirmed this morning.”

“Who is it?”

“Liu Yifei.”

“Well, that’s perfect—you and Liu Yifei are about the same age, so you’ll make a believable couple. I can’t wait for the film to start shooting.”

“Any plans for a sequel to ‘Lost on Journey?’” Chen Ling asked, though he already knew the answer—he was well aware how that project would develop.

“The director hasn’t said anything, so I’m not sure,” Xu replied, though he wasn’t being completely honest.

The reason Xu had taken two days to respond to Chen’s invitation was because he was discussing the possibility of a sequel with the director of “Lost on Journey.” But the director wasn’t very interested. The first film had made money, but not a huge amount—just a good return on a small budget. If they made a sequel, production costs and actor salaries would surely increase, making future profits less certain. Overall, the director didn’t have much faith in the genre and was hoping to move onto bigger projects. To him, “Lost on Journey” was just a stepping stone to something grander—no director can resist the lure of a major production; even Zhang Yimou fell into the “Great Wall” trap, so what hope did others have?

Chen Ling guessed that Xu wasn’t telling the full truth. This was, after all, the same man who, when the original director had no interest in a sequel, went ahead and made “Lost in Thailand,” marketing it as the sequel to “Lost on Journey,” and ended up being sued for infringement by the original director. The matter was eventually settled privately, but compared to the twelve-billion-yuan box office of “Lost in Thailand,” whatever Xu paid out was negligible.

It would be a lie to claim Chen Ling wasn’t tempted by “Lost in Thailand”—after all, it was the first Chinese film to break the one-billion-yuan mark at the box office. The investment was only about thirty million, but the box office reached 1.2 billion.

Only a fool would pass up the chance to get involved if the opportunity arose.

In fact, Chen Ling had been watching “Lost on Journey” closely since its release. Now, from Xu’s reaction, he was sure the copyright holders had no immediate plans for a sequel.

Chen Ling planned to buy the rights to the film; whether he directed the sequel himself or handed it to Xu, he would remain in control—he didn’t want someone like Bao Bei’er ruining things.

In short, he wanted Xu Guangtou, and he wanted “Lost in Thailand.”

Sitting opposite, Xu Guangtou could never have imagined that, from a single sentence, Chen Ling had already mapped out a whole series of plans in his mind.

“Let’s not get sidetracked. Back to our film—I’m planning to start shooting at the end of September or early October, and wrap by early December at the latest. Does that fit your schedule?”

“No problem,” Xu said after a moment’s thought.

“And what are your thoughts on your fee?” Chen Ling asked, getting to the issue that mattered most to Xu.

“I was paid 700,000 for ‘Lost on Journey.’ I believe I have some box office pull in comedies now, so I’d like to increase my fee a bit,” Xu said directly. At this stage, directness was necessary.

Normally, an actor’s fee would be negotiated by their agent, but Chen Ling liked things to be straightforward, so he handled it himself.

But 700,000 was a bargain—so cheap Chen Ling could barely believe it.

“You want a bit more? No problem—how about a million?” Chen Ling wasn’t stingy; he immediately bumped Xu’s fee by 300,000 over the last film.

“Thank you, Director Chen, that’s perfect. I’m very happy with that,” Xu agreed at once, not expecting Chen Ling to be so forthright. He loved the script so much that he would have taken the role for the same fee.

In fact, actor salaries were about to skyrocket in the next couple of years, especially after 2014 when internet capital flooded the market—fees would multiply ten- or twenty-fold in just a few years, it was astonishing. In a few years, you wouldn’t be able to get Liu Yifei for three million, or Xu for a million—even with another zero, they wouldn’t bother to respond.

“Any other questions? If not, can we sign the contract today?” Chen Ling wanted to settle things as soon as possible.