After Transmigrated as a Black-Hearted Entertainment Boss [Transmigration] - Chapter 41

“I wanted to invite you and Gu Nan over for tea the moment I saw the social media post about your wrap-up party, but Qisheng was so busy he only just managed to find the time.”

Wang Minda smiled as he poured the brewed tea into the cups, then placed three of them in front of the others. “Taste this, pure Big Red Robe; it’s a part of my private collection!”

Tao Zui picked up the dainty teacup, smelled it first, took a small sip, and immediately praised: “Mellow and clear, lively sweetness and fragrant—truly a premium tea.”

Wang Minda’s eyes lit up. “An expert! I didn’t realize CEO Tao was a tea enthusiast!”

Tao Zui laughed lightly. “I wouldn’t call myself an enthusiast, just someone who picked up some basics because the elders in my family like it.”

In reality, it was knowledge he had painstakingly crammed during his previous life to cater to clients. He couldn’t actually taste the difference, but if asked to describe the characteristics of a specific tea, he could rattle them off like a connoisseur.

It was fortunate Wang Minda had mentioned the tea variety beforehand, otherwise, he might very well have described green tea while holding an Oolong.

Wang Minda had no idea about the trickery; he genuinely thought he’d met a kindred spirit, acting with the enthusiasm of finding a soulmate and pouring Tao Zui another cup.

“A rarity! CEO Tao looks so young, yet you enjoy tea! And you understand it! I’ve gained another tea friend!”

Wang Minda’s joy was written all over his face. Beside him, however, Jiang Qisheng wore a dark, somber expression, staring blankly at his teacup after taking a sip, as if he had written “life is ten parts disappointment for every one part success” right on his forehead.

This demeanor naturally caught the attention of Tao Zui and Gu Nan. The two exchanged a glance, then looked at Wang Minda simultaneously, their eyes filled with confusion.

Wang Minda was in no hurry. He took another sip of tea before saying, “Ignore him. He’s suffering from a director’s common ailment, colloquially known as ‘Post-Editing Syndrome’.”

Tao Zui understood immediately: “Has the editing for Day and Night finished? The progress is much faster than I imagined! If that’s the case, the release window is likely set for the summer block, right?”

Wrapping up editing by the end of September left only post-production work to produce the final print. Since Day and Night was a modern suspense film, post-production primarily involved music and dubbing. If they pushed the schedule, they might even make it for the Spring Festival release.

However, the Spring Festival release was always intensely competitive, and publicity costs soared accordingly. From a cost-control perspective, it wasn’t suitable for low-budget films unless the creators were incredibly confident in their work.

Jiang Qisheng clearly lacked that confidence; otherwise, he wouldn’t be in this state.

Hearing Tao Zui’s remark, he let out a long sigh, set his teacup down on the table, and looked at Gu Nan. “The greatest regret of my life was giving up on Gu Nan for the sake of that investment.”

That sentence nearly caused Tao Zui’s eyebrows to fly off his forehead. He hurriedly suppressed his reaction and tentatively asked: “Director Jiang, what do you mean by that…?”

Since the words were out, Jiang Qisheng had no intention of hiding it and recounted how Xincan had cut in halfway. Tao Zui expressed a timely look of surprise, but his final reaction was a relieved smile.

“Market competition is normal, Director Jiang, so don’t take it to heart. Besides, ample funding is indeed crucial for creation; I’ve fully experienced that during my time with the crew.”

Jiang Qisheng offered a wry smile. “Having investment isn’t the problem. The problem is that they think they’re the bosses just because they threw a bit of money at it—not only are they acting like tyrants, but they’re also frantically rewriting scenes…”

“Rewriting scenes?” Tao Zui caught the keyword and frowned at Wang Minda. “Did Qin Shuang rewrite scenes?”

Wang Minda drank some tea, a mocking curve playing on his lips. “He didn’t, but his agent did.”

This sort of thing was common. When an actor wanted to cause conflict with a crew, they wouldn’t step forward themselves, instead letting their staff play the villain. Once the dust settled, the actor remained as pure and innocent as a white lotus. They wouldn’t directly offend anyone, and if things didn’t go their way, they could always pass the blame off as their company or staff acting without authorization. In any case, they had nothing to do with it.

“…So, did they change it?” Tao Zui asked again.

Wang Minda sighed. “They did. They added a few scenes. Bone’s screen time is only slightly less than mine and Old Zhang’s now.”

The “Old Zhang” that Wang Minda referred to was Zhang Cheng, a veteran actor who played the villainous drug lord in Day and Night. They were originally the absolute leads of the entire film—a dual male-lead setup where the narrative focus lay solely on them. If Bone’s screen time really rivaled theirs, it wasn’t just a matter of adding a few scenes; the entire narrative thread had likely been altered.

Tao Zui frowned, wanting to say something but not knowing how. In the original novel, Day and Night became a massive success upon release, netting a billion in box office and countless awards. Gu Nan, as the third male lead, hadn’t been nominated, but he had attended major film festivals with the crew, garnering significant exposure in the industry.

Now that Bone had been snatched up by Qin Shuang, and even the script had been altered—jumping from the third lead to the second—the consequences were impossible to predict.

After pondering, Tao Zui raised his teacup and offered a consolation: “Every work has its own destiny, Director Jiang. What’s done is done. The final result isn’t out yet; perhaps there’s still a turning point? Looking to the future is more important.”

But clearly, these words didn’t resonate with Jiang Qisheng.

“I know my own work. If I was full of confidence before, believing Day and Night was the bargaining chip to prove my talent, then now it has become evidence of my compromise with capital. Even if it succeeds, it’s no longer my child.”

As Jiang Qisheng spoke, tears welled in his eyes, and he looked to have aged significantly.

Wang Minda reached out to pat his shoulder, handing him a fresh cup of tea with his other hand.

The small tearoom fell silent. Everyone sipped their slightly astringent tea in silence, their minds teeming with their own thoughts.

A long while later, Jiang Qisheng put down his teacup and smiled self-deprecatingly: “Excuse my outburst. My main purpose in shamelessly coming to see you today with Minda wasn’t to complain or express regret—we all choose our own paths, and we have to keep walking them even if we have to grit our teeth…”

He paused before continuing: “A college classmate of mine reached out to me a while ago, asking me to help him find a male actor. He needs to be handsome and eye-catching, not too old, not formally trained, and with a low salary. I thought and thought about it, and the only one who came to mind was Gu Nan. So, I came to ask if you have any interest.

“This classmate of mine isn’t exactly a big-name director. Over the years since graduation, he’s shot a dozen or so films—all low-budget arthouse flicks. He’s a frequent guest at international film festivals, but his luck with awards has been poor. Filming his movies involves harsh conditions, high requirements, and a shoot that lasts for nearly half a year. But any actor trained by him, even if they don’t skyrocket, at least establishes a name for themselves in the circle.”

Tao Zui listened with growing interest and stepped in, picking up the teapot to pour Jiang Qisheng a cup. “May I ask which director this is?”

“Wu Zheng.”

Wu Zheng! The Wu Zheng who would cooperate with Gu Nan later in the original novel, helping him win his first international award! This… isn’t this appearance a bit too early!

Tao Zui nearly failed to control his expression. Reflexively, he cast a glance at Gu Nan.

Feeling his gaze, Gu Nan, who was about to lower his head to drink tea, looked up at him. His eyes were clearly displaying two question marks—

Why are you looking at me? You make the call.

Tao Zui, who for some reason understood his gaze, felt momentarily speechless. Muttering “at least you aren’t afraid of me selling you out” to himself, he looked back at Jiang Qisheng: “May I ask what type of film this Director Wu is planning to shoot?”

To be honest, a handsome, young male actor always gave Tao Zui a premonition of impending doom…

As expected, Jiang Qisheng answered almost instantly: “A gay-themed film (Tongzhi film).”

Before Tao Zui could show any expression, he added: “But he told me that this film won’t have any explicit segments. He wants to shoot a pure romance type of gay film.”

Tao Zui was visibly startled. A gay film? Pure romance? How could those two words possibly go together?

It wasn’t that Tao Zui was prejudiced, but throughout history and across all cultures, there had been very few pure-romance gay films. Even if there were, there would almost always be a female lead caught in the middle, forming a love triangle or even a love square, which had nothing to do with “pure romance.”

Seeming to perceive the hesitation on Tao Zui’s face, Jiang Qisheng spoke again: “I know filming a gay movie doesn’t offer much of a boost for actors in the domestic circle, and the risks are high. But I know my classmate’s character—he’s always been a man of his word. If he says there are no explicit scenes, then there absolutely won’t be. As long as there are no lewd scenes, the impact on the actor will be minimized.

“Of course, if Gu Nan doesn’t have the schedule, then treat it as a lack of fate. But if possible, I still hope you can meet up and have a chat in person.”

Tao Zui pondered for a moment, then smiled: “Schedule or not, you know the situation at Taoli, Director Jiang. It’s not my style to let an opportunity slip through my fingers when it’s right in front of me. However, as you said, there are risks involved, so I truly cannot promise you right this second.

“How about this? You send Gu Nan’s portfolio to Director Wu first to see if he meets his requirements. As for me, I’ll boldly ask for a script outline or synopsis. If both sides have an intention to cooperate, we can then meet to discuss the details, how’s that?”

Tao Zui’s requirements were reasonable and sound, so Jiang Qisheng naturally didn’t object, his heart feeling a weight lift.

Wu Zheng had indeed mentioned the pre-production of a pure-romance gay film to him recently and had grumbled about how hard it was to find a suitable actor, but he had never intended to ask for his help.

After finishing Day and Night, a feeling of indignation had been festering inside him. The sensation of his ideals surrendering to capital had kept him tossing and turning at night for the past while, leaving him feeling frustrated and stifled.

Upon hearing about the film Wu Zheng was prepping, a sudden thought stirred in his heart—

If Gu Nan starred in Wu Zheng’s low-budget film and achieved success, would it prove that he himself, the man who surrendered to capital, was wrong? Could he then regain the courage to fight for his ideals once more?

If Gu Nan decided to take the role, Wu Zheng would definitely submit the film to the Venice Film Festival next August—which would clash perfectly with Day and Night‘s scheduled release date.

Then, they would see who would triumph: Wu Zheng, who persisted in his ideals, or himself, who had yielded to capital.

Jiang Qisheng raised his teacup and swallowed the clear, astringent liquid, smiling bitterly in his heart.

In the end, even now, I’m still finding excuses for my own compromise…