Acting Out of Character (GL) - Chapter 3

Luo Jingyi’s eardrums still hurt.

Ever since the early morning, she had been locked in a heated argument over the phone with Old Tao regarding the casting for the female lead in her new film, Minor’s Last Wish. Every candidate Old Tao recommended had been flatly rejected.

Old Tao was so exasperated he started laughing. “I say, Jingyi, aren’t you being a bit too picky? You’re not even satisfied with Bai Xing? Who else is there? You’ve practically shot down every actress in the country. Their managers are showing up at my house crying—tell me, what am I supposed to do?”

“Don’t ask me, ask your security guard. Why are they letting just anyone in?” Luo Jingyi sat in the back seat of her car, wearing her Bluetooth headset and staring out the window, her words firing like a machine gun. “If that doesn’t work, dial 110 and see if the police can handle it.”

Old Tao: “…”

Rule number one: Never argue with a screenwriter. Especially one as sharp-tongued as Luo Jingyi; she could shut you down with a single sentence.

Old Tao was the director and producer of Minor’s Last Wish. He was Luo Jingyi’s senior from the Directing Department back in art school and was a big name in his own right, boasting international awards. To the outside world, people bowed so low to Director Tao they’d see stars; in front of Luo Jingyi, however, he usually just saw his blood pressure rise.

During their last collaboration, Director Tao had been so frustrated by her during the casting phase that he developed a fever and had to be on an IV drip for three days. Despite his own sharp tongue, he couldn’t even steal a punctuation mark from her.

Eventually, he realized it wasn’t worth his life to argue. He let her decide everything. After all, the investors relied on her, and as a screenwriter, she had the power to carry the box office herself. Later, Director Tao washed his hands of the details, and the film—deeply stamped with Luo Jingyi’s signature style—swept the National Day box office. It proved that Luo Jingyi never missed when it came to casting.

Director Tao had nothing left to say. Working with Luo Jingyi meant enduring some temper, but the fame and fortune that followed made it worth it. He had even treated her to a meal afterward to have a “heart-to-heart” about life.

Perhaps because three years had passed since that last project, Director Tao had forgotten the sheer terror of being dominated by Luo Jingyi. For this new movie, he was using her script again. Minor’s Last Wish was aimed at both critical acclaim and commercial success, yet they were stuck at the casting stage again.

Initially, Director Tao had four candidates in mind. Acting skills? Check! Beauty? Check! Traffic? He had it ready. He even had a candidate who possessed all three! He thought it was a sure thing this time. The result?

Teacher Luo didn’t like a single one of them.

Director Tao was beyond confused. “Teacher Luo, can you tell me what exactly is wrong with Bai Xing? Did you see her audition clip? She is the literal embodiment of your protagonist, Chen Yao.”

Luo Jingyi said, “Her acting is too mature.”

“Huh?”

“Chen Yao is a bit green. She doesn’t understand herself well, nor does she understand life. She’s someone with only a half-baked understanding of the world. Bai Xing is too knowledgeable, and her acting is too seasoned. I don’t want that seasoned quality.”

“So you mean you want to pick a young newcomer?”

“A newcomer’s acting won’t be able to carry this role.”

“…You might as well just ask for a goddess from the heavens!”

Director Tao had argued with her for ages, saying the investors were pressuring him and he couldn’t sleep. He begged her to decide as soon as possible. Even the usually calm Luo Jingyi felt her eardrums ache from the badgering.

As if the casting issues weren’t enough, she had discovered a fatal contradiction in her new script. The entire logical chain she had previously built had to be torn down and reimagined.

The script wasn’t flowing, she couldn’t find a personal assistant, and then she walked into her office only to find a “filthy thing” sitting in her chair wailing. The wailing was so gut-wrenching it nearly made her ears bleed, and to top it off, this “filthy thing” claimed she was demonstrating her acting skills—insisting she was Chen Yao from Minor’s Last Wish.

Luo Jingyi had been remarkably restrained. Following her doctor’s advice to avoid anger for the sake of her liver, she had only said the word “Get out.” She didn’t use any profanity, nor did she throw a monitor at the girl’s head as a parting gift.

Once the intruder was gone, her secretary, Xiao Wei, ran over with a racing heart. “Teacher Luo, what happened?”

Luo Jingyi’s face was dark. She didn’t say a word, but her silent expression was more terrifying to the secretary than if she had started screaming.

“It couldn’t be that Xiao Mao who didn’t have an appointment… did she barge in?”

Everyone knew Teacher Luo had a volcanic temper when writing scripts. To be fair, even when she wasn’t writing, she wasn’t exactly mild-tempered, but once she entered full work mode, “Grand Empress” didn’t even begin to describe it. She was a walking nuclear bomb. Not only was she highly explosive, but the radiation range was wide and the lingering poison ran deep.

Teacher Luo was a stickler for time. If she said she’d see you at a certain time, you’d better be there. Arrive early and wait; arrive late and goodbye. She also never allowed anyone to touch her personal belongings. If someone did, she would sanitize them immediately.

Xiao Wei had been her secretary for three years and had seen many eccentrics violate her taboos. But someone like this morning’s girl—who hit every single one of Teacher Luo’s pet peeves without missing a beat—was a first.

Facing the silence of Teacher Luo, Xiao Wei was nearly breaking out in a cold sweat. Luo Jingyi’s gaze fell on the desk and chair. She said flatly, “Replace them.”

Xiao Wei felt like she’d been granted a royal pardon. “Yes! I’ll take care of it right now!”

As Xiao Wei prepared to flee, Luo Jingyi asked, “The one crying here—which company was she from?”

To save her own skin and redirect the fury, Xiao Wei immediately handed over her tablet, showing the information the girl had left when trying to book an appointment.

“White Horse Media…”

Luo Jingyi was puzzled. She wondered what these unknown small companies were up to these days. Instead of training their actors properly, they were coming up with all sorts of “innovative” ways to try and get ahead.

Since the desk and chair were being thrown out and the new ones wouldn’t arrive until the afternoon, Luo Jingyi couldn’t stay at the office. She decided to go home and hole up to write.

Luo Jingyi’s home was located near the East Fifth Ring Road in Beijing, not far from her studio. The estate was called “Qianli Chunqiu” (Thousand Mile Spring and Autumn), situated next to a small hill and an artificial lake.

Luo Jingyi didn’t care much for the name; it sounded too grand and feudal, as if only “local emperors” lived there. It lacked a certain level of culture. At the time, her assistant—who had nearly walked her legs off looking for houses—had pleaded with her:

“Teacher Luo, Thousand Mile Spring and Autumn is very good. Otherwise, would you like to look at Hepburn Gardens, Oriental Provence, or Imperial Forest Villas?”

Luo Jingyi: “…”

The detached villas at Qianli Chunqiu were quiet, sparsely populated, and well-landscaped, with a clear separation of pedestrian and vehicle paths. At the very least, during her golden morning writing hours, there was zero noise except for the chirping of birds and insects. She had spent a fortune on the property two years ago specifically for its “quiet amidst the bustle” quality.

Another reason was the responsible security. No one but residents were allowed in. This saved her a lot of trouble from people trying to show their faces, get roles, or even get into her bed.

Like most places in Beijing, the estate was filled with ginkgo trees, and the lakeside was lined with plane trees. In autumn, when the ginkgo leaves turned yellow and the plane leaves fell in thick layers, it felt poetic. Once, when she couldn’t find a location for a scene she was writing, she brought a crew to the lake and the result was stunning.

Luo Jingyi liked places with a bit of drama. When she couldn’t think of a conflict or get the right feeling at home, she would borrow a small boat from the property management and float on the lake for a while. Only the center of the lake provided absolute silence, a place no one else could reach. Looking out from the water at the concrete super-city, the sight of a peaceful lake inspired her.

Luo Jingyi hated noise and trouble. Because she worked her brain year-round, her intracranial pressure was high, and long periods of focus made her prone to neurasthenia (nerve exhaustion). Consequently, her home was renovated with soundproofing materials. Once inside, as long as the cat remained quiet, it was as silent as outer space.

However, during her most irritable days, her old cat, “Zuzong” (Ancestor), had learned a startling skill: pawing at the door handles. Whenever Luo Jingyi was in her study researching or writing, Zuzong would leap unexpectedly and use its cannonball-like weight to yank the handle down. The “bang” of the handle would give the focused Luo Jingyi a massive fright, making it feel like an intruder was bursting in.

Luo Jingyi felt that by not giving the cat a proper name to save trouble, it had lived up to its namesake—acting like a literal ancestor you had to serve. The problem was that even if it was “bad,” it was just a cat; she couldn’t really fight with it.

She couldn’t stay at home anymore. All of Beijing felt incredibly restless. She planned to find a scenic small town in the south to stay in for a while. The script she was currently writing was a suspense drama adapted from a murder case; she couldn’t write it in a vacuum. Getting out would help her clear her thoughts and perhaps spark some unexpected inspiration.

She called her mother, asking her to come over and take care of Zuzong while she went on a scouting trip. Her mother said that “Xiao Qiao” wasn’t feeling well and had just had surgery, so she had to stay home to help.

Standing in her walk-in closet picking out clothes to pack, Luo Jingyi paused at her mother’s words. “Surgery? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her mother sighed. “It’s nothing, just a small polyp. It’s gone now. Besides, I didn’t think you wanted to hear about her.”

“Oh, so you were looking out for my feelings. It’s fine. I didn’t feel much when I caught the two of you rolling around in bed when I was a minor. It’s been so many years; stop hiding, aren’t you tired?”

“…You child, your tongue is always so sharp.”

Luo Jingyi said, “Why don’t you bring Xiao Qiao over to my place? I have mountains and water here—a place the smog can’t reach. It’s perfect for recovery. Bring her here to convalesce; she’ll get better faster.”

After some polite refusal, her mother shifted the topic and started worrying about Luo Jingyi’s love life again. She said Luo Jingyi was thirty-four and only had work in her eyes; it was time to slow down, look around, and think about the future.

Luo Jingyi was amused. “What’s going on? I’m being nice and you’re starting trouble with me? I’m fine on my own. Why is having work in my eyes a bad thing? If I hadn’t poured all my passion into my work, could you be taking your old lover to such a picturesque place to recover?”

“Are you being fresh with me? Is my situation the same as yours?”

“How is it different? We’re biological mother and daughter—what if you passed your lesbian genes to me? Marriage might be out of the question, but maybe tomorrow I’ll bring a girlfriend home for you to meet. Then our family of four will be perfectly complete.”

Her mother was silenced by her words and changed the subject to idle chatter, telling her to be safe. Luo Jingyi brushed her off and hung up. Recalling the words she used to tease her mother, she couldn’t help but let out a short laugh.

The Author has something to say:

Luo Jingyi: Don’t ask. If you ask, it’s just me teasing my mom. I won’t turn gay—I won’t turn gay in this lifetime.

T/N: Lier.