Chapter Nine: The New Year's Money, Almost All Spent

The next day, Chen Ling obtained Bao Jingjing’s contact information through the homeroom teacher of the directing department.

At this point, Bao Jingjing hadn’t yet graduated from the literature department. Though she’d recently gained some fame thanks to a serialized novel online, internet celebrities didn't wield much influence in those days. Especially at Beijing Film Academy, where the last thing lacking was famous people.

Once he got her phone number, Chen Ling called Bao Jingjing directly and explained his purpose. Upon hearing that Chen Ling was from the same school and the directing department, and that he had some ideas about her novel, Bao Jingjing considered it for a moment and agreed to meet. They scheduled to meet the following morning at a café outside the school.

Chen Ling didn’t waste the time before their meeting, preparing materials for the occasion. He wasn’t sure whether any film companies had contacted Bao Jingjing to buy the adaptation rights for her novel at this point. He only remembered that Teng Huatao bought the rights after the novel was published. The publication was scheduled for January next year, still several months away. But who could say if Teng Huatao or other film companies had already reached out to her during this period?

If other companies had approached her, that would mean competition, and facing competition required preparation. Compared to other film companies, what advantages did Chen Ling have? Money? Connections?

None, absolutely none. Chen Ling’s greatest—and unique—advantage was the foreknowledge his time travel had granted him.

In his previous life, he’d watched this movie with his girlfriend and even written a review with her online, so he remembered the plot vividly. He couldn’t write a full screenplay in a day, but a rough story outline and some storyboard sketches based on his memories were well within reach.

As an aside, Chen Ling was talented in drawing. His family had enrolled him in art classes, and he’d received professional instruction. He wasn’t on par with professionals, but he was certainly ahead of amateurs.

The next day, Chen Ling arrived at the café half an hour early, carrying the story outline he’d written and the storyboard sketches he’d drawn from memory.

Bao Jingjing arrived not long after. For some reason, girls always favored coats in winter. Bao Jingjing wore a khaki coat, paired with a plaid scarf and black-rimmed glasses, perfectly embodying the literary young woman.

That was Chen Ling’s first impression of her.

After some brief introductions, and once their coffee and desserts were served, Chen Ling went straight to the point.

“Senior, I believe you know why I invited you here today, so I’ll be direct: I want to purchase the film adaptation rights for your serialized novel. I want to bring it to the big screen.”

Bao Jingjing listened calmly, sipped her coffee, and asked, “Since you want to adapt this novel into a film, I’d like to ask: what are your thoughts on the novel, or on the screenplay adaptation?”

Her question set Chen Ling’s mind at ease. She didn’t ask whether he had a company or directing experience, but instead went straight to discussing the novel and screenplay. Compared to those conditions, Bao Jingjing valued others’ understanding of her novel more—typical of a literary young woman.

“You probably know,” she continued, “this novel is based on my own experiences, so I hope others can grasp its deeper meaning.”

Deeper meaning? Are you sure?

“The protagonist’s inspiration isn’t actually male, is it?”

Chen Ling stared at Bao Jingjing, dropping a bombshell. Since she wanted his interpretation of the deeper meaning, he’d deliver—secrets were hard to keep from someone with knowledge from another timeline.

Bao Jingjing nearly spat out her coffee, staring at Chen Ling through her glasses in shock.

“How did you figure that out?” she asked after regaining her composure.

“From reading the novel, of course,” Chen Ling replied, unwilling to tell the truth.

“Senior, here’s the story outline and storyboard sketches I put together these past days based on your novel and my own ideas. See if they match your vision.”

Seizing the moment while Bao Jingjing was unsettled, Chen Ling handed over the bound stack of A4 pages he’d prepared.

“Let me take a look,” she said, now taking him seriously and carefully reading through his materials.

A full hour passed before Bao Jingjing looked up, closed the script, and placed it on the table.

She said, “To be honest, you’re the first person to contact me about adapting my novel, even though it’s had some response online.”

Good—no competition yet. Chen Ling felt much more at ease.

“After reading your outline and sketches, I can see you’ve put real effort into this. While selling the rights means the work will no longer be mine, I still want to find a suitable home for the film adaptation. I hope you understand.”

“You also said you want to direct it yourself, so let me ask: from a director’s perspective, who in the entertainment industry do you think is most suitable to play the protagonist, Wang Xiaojian?”

Here came the test. Chen Ling thought to himself, but he already knew the answer from her later interviews. Giving the standard answer couldn’t go wrong.

“For Wang Xiaojian, I think Wen Zhang is best suited—his acting and his connection with the character are ideal.”

“Agreed, Wen Zhang is indeed the perfect fit. Seems we’re on the same page,” Bao Jingjing said delightedly.

She probably considered Chen Ling a kindred spirit now.

“I have more questions,” she continued.

“Ask away, Senior,” Chen Ling replied.

“First, as far as I know, you’re only a freshman and haven’t directed a film before. Are you confident you can handle it? Second, filmmaking requires money—how do you plan to solve that?”

Better to have questions than none at all.

Chen Ling thought for a moment and answered, “To your first question: everyone has to start somewhere. If only those with directing experience could direct, it would be a paradox. I’m sure you’ve looked into the directing profession. In our department, the first lesson the teacher gives is that the director coordinates the entire crew—cinematographers, writers, actors, and so on—to translate the director’s vision onto the screen. You’ve seen my storyboards; honestly, this novel has already become a film in my mind.”

“And,” Chen Ling paused, “although I have a clear vision, bringing it fully to life is beyond my abilities alone, so I plan to find an experienced assistant director to help.”

“Hmm,” Bao Jingjing nodded. “Do you have someone in mind?”

“Yes, our department’s homeroom teacher—I have a good relationship with him, and he’s agreed to help.”

In fact, Chen Ling had spoken to him before, though not about the specific project or timing; the teacher probably assumed it was for a senior thesis film, nothing too taxing, and had agreed. Who would have thought Chen Ling planned to shoot a film as a freshman? He’d probably have plenty to do as assistant director.

“No problem with the first question, then. What about the second?”

Making a film requires money. No matter how good the idea or story, if it can’t be made, it’s all for nothing. Funding was crucial—without it, all preparations were in vain.

“I’ve calculated that the production cost for this film wouldn’t be much. I can direct for free. Aside from the main cast, supporting roles can be filled by classmates, with only nominal compensation—I believe they’ll be eager to participate. For cinematography and lighting, we can recruit upperclassmen, which will further cut costs. All told, the budget shouldn’t exceed seven million; I can cover most of it myself, and I’ll look for investors for the rest. That shouldn’t be too difficult,” Chen Ling replied.

By now, Bao Jingjing was already inclined to sell the film rights to Chen Ling. He’d considered everything she wanted, and more. However, she was still skeptical about his ability to secure investment—film financing wasn’t easy in those days.

Originally, she hoped that if filming could start soon and the crew was competent, she could treat the rights as an investment and wait to share the box office earnings.

Though Chen Ling’s preparations were thorough and his answers comprehensive, Bao Jingjing remained uncertain.

“Alright, since you’ve thought it all through and made such preparations, I’m willing to sell you the rights. But I want this price,” she said, holding up two fingers.

“And when the film is released, my name must appear in the credits as the screenwriter.”

“No problem with crediting you as screenwriter, Senior, but could you lower the price a bit? It’s not cheap, and my funds are tight,” Chen Ling replied.

Credit costs nothing, but the rights fee—he’d rather save where he could. At that time, adaptation fees hadn’t risen, and Chen Ling wanted to economize.

“Fifteen thousand—that’s my final offer,” Bao Jingjing decided.

Chen Ling calculated his years of saved New Year’s money—yes, it was enough.

“Alright, that’s settled. I’ve brought the agreement as well; we just need to fill in the amount,” Chen Ling said, having prepared not only the outline and storyboards, but also a professionally drafted contract.

Bao Jingjing, though a young woman, was straightforward. She reviewed the contract, found no issues, and signed it.

Afterward, they went to the bank, and Chen Ling transferred nearly all his remaining savings to Bao Jingjing.

Though he parted with his years of accumulated money, he’d acquired the film rights and felt genuinely happy.

With the transaction complete, the film adaptation rights belonged entirely to Chen Ling—no further ties to Bao Jingjing.

Whether Chen Ling chose to produce the film himself or resell the rights was now his decision; the contract didn’t prohibit transferring the rights. Chen Ling had deliberately left that out, expecting Bao Jingjing might ask to add it, but she didn’t—either she missed it or didn’t care.

Since she didn't mention it, Chen Ling certainly wouldn’t bring it up. If the film didn’t get made, he could still resell the rights, leaving himself an option for the future.