Chapter Sixty: A Midnight Conversation

That night, everyone simply decided to hold a bonfire party in the courtyard of the Phoenix Tree Inn, right by Erhai Lake. Since there was filming scheduled for tomorrow, Chen Ling forbade drinking, but the overall atmosphere was still wonderful.

Shen Teng and Xu Zheng were experts at enlivening the mood, and by the end of the gathering, everyone had thoroughly enjoyed themselves. It wasn’t until past eleven at night that the group dispersed. Although the inn had not officially opened for business, Chen Ling had already ensured that every room was fully furnished, so there was no issue with accommodations. The environment was comfortable, much better than staying in a hotel, and the inn was spacious enough that each member of the crew could have their own room.

After returning to his room and taking a shower, Chen Ling didn’t immediately go to sleep. His mind was still occupied with thoughts about the Spring Festival release. In fact, when filming had gone smoothly in the early stages, the idea had already taken root in his mind.

Although companies now paid more attention to the Spring Festival slot, it was far from the focus it would become in later years. The consensus in the mainland film industry was that the summer holiday was still the hottest period, followed by the Spring Festival, with other slots like New Year’s and National Day trailing behind.

The summer slot became popular mainly due to the influence of Hollywood, as most global blockbusters were released during that time. With students on vacation, the audience naturally increased, making the period thrive.

However, upon closer inspection, it was clear that the Spring Festival suited domestic viewing habits even more. The slogan of "watching movies as a family to celebrate the New Year," and the fact that Stephen Chow had reaped the most rewards from the Spring Festival, meant he had authoritative insight.

Though the Spring Festival period was shorter than the summer slot, its box office explosiveness was unmatched. In just seven days, the revenue could rival one or two months of the summer releases—astonishing, really.

After Stephen Chow’s "Journey to the West: Conquering the Demons" earned 1.2 billion at the Spring Festival box office, major studios began to place the slot on par with the summer period. When "The Mermaid" shattered the Chinese-language box office record with 3.3 billion during the 2016 Spring Festival, the slot became a fiercely contested battleground; movies of poor quality didn’t even dare to compete.

Chen Ling wanted to release "Heart Blossoms on the Road" during the Spring Festival not only because the slot was underappreciated by production companies at the time, but also because it was perfect for comedies.

Frankly, whether it was "Journey to the West: Conquering the Demons" or "The Mermaid," were the laughs really that plentiful? Would they have earned so much without Stephen Chow’s legendary name attached?

Chen Ling was self-aware; he knew his box office appeal was worlds apart from Stephen Chow’s. But "Heart Blossoms on the Road" was genuinely funny. Such a comedy, packed with laughs, could unleash tremendous box office potential during the Spring Festival—almost more than he dared imagine.

But achieving great box office results required everyone’s effort. The first person he needed to persuade was Chen Zhixi, and he had to win her genuine approval. After she conducted her research, he believed she would understand. As a future leader of Wanda Pictures, she surely had the vision.

With all these thoughts swirling in his mind, Chen Ling found himself unable to sleep. He got up and went to the third-floor terrace to enjoy the breeze.

When Chen Ling reached the terrace, he discovered he wasn’t the only one struggling with insomnia.

“I thought I was the only one with worries keeping me awake, but I see you haven’t slept either, Sister Liu Yan.”

A small table and lounge chairs were arranged on the terrace, and Liu Yan was sitting in one of them, holding an unfinished bottle of beer. At her feet were two empty bottles—clearly, she had already been drinking alone for a while. He wondered if she, too, was troubled.

She had obviously just showered; her half-damp hair was swept across her windward cheek by the gentle breeze, and her loose silk nightgown, fluttering slightly, accentuated her figure. This subtle, elusive allure was even more captivating—a thirty-year-old woman’s charm was irresistible.

In short, she was an exquisitely beautiful woman in her prime.

“Director Chen?! Is that you?” Liu Yan was startled by his voice, but upon recognizing Chen Ling in the glow of the terrace lights, she exhaled in relief. It was unnerving to hear someone suddenly speak behind her at night.

“Couldn’t sleep; I wanted some fresh air.” Chen Ling noticed several unopened beers on the table, picked one up, and without a bottle opener, pressed the cap against the table edge and gave it a firm smack.

With a gentle pop, the beer opened. He faced the lake breeze and gulped down half the bottle—it was chilled, refreshing.

“Seems like next time we should allow drinking at gatherings, otherwise it always feels like something’s missing,” Chen Ling said, relishing the cool, lakeside beer with a beautiful woman beside him—a rare pleasure.

“I don’t have any scenes tomorrow, so I wanted to have a drink since I couldn’t sleep,” Liu Yan quickly explained, thinking Chen Ling might be reproaching her for drinking.

“Why are you nervous?” Chen Ling almost laughed at her unease—the difference in their status was even greater than the gap in their ages, so her nervousness was understandable. “You have no scenes tomorrow, so drinking alone is fine. In fact, your role isn’t large, so even if you joined the crew just for your scenes, it wouldn’t matter.”

Actually, Liu Yan had been very supportive of Chen Ling. Though she was only a minor character with few scenes, she hadn’t taken a single day off since filming began. He knew she was also a host for Light Media—she must have postponed plenty of hosting gigs to stay with the crew.

“Director Chen, do you think I…” she began.

“Don’t call me Director Chen. We’re not on set; it sounds awkward. Call me by my name, or like Yifei, call me ‘junior’ if you want,” Chen Ling interrupted. Outside the crew, he preferred friends to use his name.

“I’ll call you ‘junior’ then.” After a moment of thought, Liu Yan decided against using his given name. Though Chen Ling was younger, his standing in the entertainment industry was far higher.

“That sounds much better.” Chen Ling finished the rest of his beer in one gulp and opened another bottle. “Continue what you were about to say. Let the big director hear what’s troubling you.”

His playful words made Liu Yan relax a little.

“Junior, do you think I’m not really cut out to be an actress?”

A woman half-drunk, half-awake is always enchanting. Chen Ling couldn’t tell if Liu Yan was actually tipsy, but her slightly flushed cheeks were obvious, and the faint fragrance of her hair, carried by the breeze, lingered around him. He felt a bit intoxicated himself—a mature woman who had just finished drinking was hard to resist.

“Success as an actor requires talent,” Chen Ling replied, which was almost a direct answer to her question. When he saw the hint of disappointment on her face, he continued, “But you don’t need talent to be a celebrity. Appear in movies and TV shows, and with your status as a host, it’s tough to reach the top tier, but second tier shouldn’t be a problem.”

Liu Yan’s expression improved somewhat at his words, but she still looked dispirited, lacking enthusiasm.

“Second tier? That’s still out of reach. Besides, where would I get enough opportunities to appear?” She didn’t even mention the top tier—those words were as distant as the stars in the sky.

Indeed, Liu Yan’s fame was still far from what it would be later on. Even at her peak, she could barely be called second tier. Whether in film or television, most of her roles relied on her figure—a type of character audiences remember, but not one that boosts her standing.

With this in mind, Chen Ling understood her mood; she was probably frustrated that even relying on her looks hadn’t secured her a desired role this time. Actors at the bottom valued every opportunity intensely.

“I’m sorry, Sister Liu Yan.”

“Hmm?”