After Transmigrated as a Black-Hearted Entertainment Boss [Transmigration] - Chapter 42

Within two days, Tao Zui received a WeChat friend request from Wu Zheng.

After accepting the request, this idiosyncratic director sent a long string of text without a single word of pleasantry.

Wu Zheng: Normally, I wouldn’t show a script to anyone without a signed contract. But since Old Jiang is willing to bet his reputation on your character, and I’m genuinely quite satisfied with your artist, go ahead and read it. However, reading it doesn’t mean it’s a done deal; I still need to see him act in person.

Wu Zheng: Water Village Script (First Draft).wps

Tao Zui looked at the text and the attached script file, unable to help but laugh.

This Director Wu was truly a difficult character. One moment he says he’s satisfied with Gu Nan, the next he insists on an audition—is he satisfied or not?

However, being able to send the script over so readily must mean he’s satisfied, right? Perhaps he just can’t let go of his director’s ego and is intentionally finding faults to prove he’s demanding and hard to please… Is this just the stubbornness typical of independent filmmakers?

Shaking his head to clear his wandering thoughts, Tao Zui replied.

Tao Zui: Of course, everything will be done according to your requirements. I will give you an answer by tomorrow at the latest. Please rest assured regarding the script; it will not be leaked in any form.

Wu Zheng: Fine.

Watching that concise reply, Tao Zui shook his head with a smile and opened the script for Water Village.

Perhaps because it was a first draft, the script wasn’t long, and the story was quite simple. To Tao Zui’s surprise, it truly was a pure-romance gay film.

In the late 1960s and 70s, a coach of a city men’s swimming team and one of his athletes developed mutual feelings for each other. Due to the peculiarities of the era, their relationship never progressed beyond guiding swimming strokes and the near-intangible touches during training.

Whenever someone wanted to cross that line, the sound of slogans in the distance, the omnipresent propaganda posters, and even their own selves became stumbling blocks.

At the end of the story, the swimmer was selected for the provincial team due to his outstanding performance, and the coach went to the station to see him off. In the end, the two merely shook hands and parted ways, never to see each other again in this lifetime.

Using a special love story from a special era, Wu Zheng told of the shackles and tempering of humanity during that time. And because the protagonists were a swimming coach and an athlete, it seamlessly allowed for the display of beautiful physiques—using exposed bodies as a counterpoint to imprisoned minds. The design was incredibly ingenious.

All of the above, coupled with the grand backdrop of that special era, marked it clearly as a project aimed at winning awards. This made Tao Zui reminisce: in the original novel, when Wu Zheng collaborated with Gu Nan, did he have any awards under his belt?

It seemed… he did! It didn’t specify which film, but he vaguely recalled that when the original book introduced Wu Zheng, it used Long Feifei’s perspective to mention that he was the only mainland director to have won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival in the last twenty years. The winning work wasn’t released domestically due to its subject matter… wouldn’t that be Water Village!

Tao Zui straightened up and woke his computer to look up information on the Venice Film Festival. Sure enough, the international Class-A film festival was generally held between August and September… which perfectly aligned with the filming schedule!

Realizing Water Village had the potential to win awards, Tao Zui couldn’t sit still anymore; he stood up and paced around the office.

The set design for Water Village could be entirely resolved within the film and television base. In fact, there were film cities in North City that perfectly replicated the style of the early liberation period. Regarding the music, due to the era-specific themes, most would consist of propaganda slogans and revolutionary model operas of that time; at most, they would only need one theme song to complete the score.

Beyond that, the film required no post-production, and films submitted to the “Big Three” festivals required a premiere at the festival. Since this subject matter couldn’t be released domestically anyway, there was naturally no need to worry about scheduling a release window…

This is a case of picking low-hanging fruit—it would be a crime not to do it!

Tao Zui stood firm, grabbed the phone from his desk, and rushed out of his office, heading straight for the first floor.

He hurried down the stairs to the outside of the small conference room where Gu Nan was taking his class, but suddenly stopped. After calming his breathing and his mood, Tao Zui put on a nonchalant expression, knocked on the door, and pushed it open, offering an apologetic smile to the teacher.

“Teacher, my apologies. I have something to discuss with Gu Nan, so let’s call it a day for today’s lesson. Sorry for the trouble.”

The acting teacher let out a soft sigh of relief. “Alright. Gu Nan, remember the points I just made, and remember to practice after class.”

Gu Nan stood up and nodded. Watching the teacher leave, he looked at Tao Zui: “Did Director Wu send the script over?”

“Smart!” Tao Zui rushed to Gu Nan in two or three steps, unable to wait a moment longer before thrusting his phone right in front of his face. “Take a look quickly. After you’re done, tell me how you feel. I promised Director Wu I’d give him an answer by tomorrow.”

Having said that, he suddenly realized he might have been a bit too eager and added: “But I have to state this upfront: for a film of this subject matter, even if it isn’t released domestically, it will still have an impact on your acting career.”

Winning an award would be a solid achievement—how could it not have an impact?

“Also, I’ve read the script. This performance is incredibly difficult; it’s a massive challenge for any actor.”

But I believe you have absolutely no problem—you’re the protagonist, after all!

“Don’t rush to make a decision. Read it carefully, think it over. In any case, the company supports your decision.”

I beg of you, you must take this! If you don’t take it… I’ll… I’ll cry for you to see!

Gu Nan looked at Tao Zui, whose expression was serious and earnest, but whose eyes were exceptionally “theatrical.” His curiosity, already piqued, was now hooked even higher.

What kind of script was it that made Young CEO Tao take it so seriously, acting as if he’d miss out on a world-class masterpiece if he didn’t take the role?

Gu Nan lowered his head to read the unfolded script. The more he read, the tighter his brow furrowed.

It wasn’t that the script was bad, nor was he concerned about the subject matter. Rather, the plot touched completely on his performance blind spot: romance.

Gu Nan’s acting style couldn’t be strictly attributed to any one school, but generally, it was based on his own experiences and personality, amplifying a certain emotion to perform. For many scenes, even if he hadn’t experienced them personally, he could find similar emotions to substitute.

For instance, the scene in The Afterlife where Lei Ze encountered an accident on a mission, watching his partner breathe their last beside him while he was too severely injured to move or even scream.

For this kind of situation—suffering extreme physical pain while undergoing the psychological torture of a friend’s departure—Gu Nan drew upon his experience with pain after the bone marrow transplant and the psychological state of discovering his parents had abandoned him.

The two situations couldn’t be completely analogized, but they shared a commonality. He seized upon this commonality to adapt to the character and project it onto the screen.

But his life experiences didn’t include romance.

He could find a reference for the desire part of the script because he once… cough cough, anyway, that part was fine. But this kind of pining, tossing and turning in bed due to a love that couldn’t be attained… perhaps he could replace it with other experiences?

As Gu Nan read the script, Tao Zui sat in front of him, carefully stealing glances at his expression. Every time he detected something slightly off, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to persuade him.

In the end, Tao Zui said nothing, waiting quietly. And this wait lasted until the end of the workday.

It wasn’t until they got into the car and the Cullinan rolled onto the driveway that Gu Nan spoke: “I want to take this role, but I’m worried I won’t play it well.”

The heavy stone in Tao Zui’s heart finally dropped. Swallowing the words “if you want to take it, take it, we’ll sign the contract tomorrow” that were at the tip of his tongue, he weighed his words for two seconds before asking: “Why do you say that? Because of those scenes requiring emotional depth and inner nuance?”

“Yeah,” Gu Nan responded in a low voice.

Tao Zui smiled: “I actually think this is an opportunity. A challenging performance paired with a demanding director—isn’t that the best whetstone? And if you haven’t tried, how can you be certain you can’t do it?”

Seeing Gu Nan still looking hesitant, Tao Zui paused and softened his tone: “How about this? Wu Zheng also said he wanted an audition anyway, so let’s go audition. If he thinks you have the potential to play it well, we’ll take it. If not, then forget it.”

Gu Nan turned to look at him: “I thought you were very keen for me to take this role?”

Tao Zui raised an eyebrow: “How so?”

Gu Nan: “That’s the meaning behind the look you gave me when you handed me the script.”

Tao Zui: “……I just thought the script was good, the director was good, and it would be a shame to miss it.”

Gu Nan: “Since it’s a shame, why did you say ‘forget it’ just now?”

Tao Zui: “Isn’t that because you were wavering? I have to consider the feelings of my cash cow, don’t I?”

Gu Nan: “What if the cash cow says they don’t want to take it?”

Tao Zui: “……You decide first—take it or not—give me a definitive word.”

Gu Nan: “See, you definitely want me to take this role!”

Tao Zui: “Gu, Nan! I’ve discovered you brat are truly getting more and more…”

Gu Nan: “Look ahead, don’t look at me. You’re driving, pay attention.”

Tao Zui: “……”

So irritating, I want to chop down a tree.

Naturally, no trees were chopped down, and the audition had to be done.

Almost the day after agreeing to take the role, Tao Zui and Gu Nan went to Wu Zheng’s studio and met this independent filmmaker known throughout the industry.

The reason Wu Zheng was famous in the industry, besides being a frequent guest at international film festivals, was his reputation for not lacking funds while filming.

However, this “not lacking funds” wasn’t the kind where Zhou Fanghong spent hundreds of millions casually. It was that while other independent filmmakers spent years preparing for a film, he could shoot low-budget movies one after another with almost no gap time.

High productivity coupled with superior quality was his secret weapon for traversing international film festivals.

The person behind him supporting this wasn’t a billionaire—it was a “sucker” who had a dream of cinema but wasn’t involved in the industry.

“Let me introduce you. The sucker behind this movie, Qi Hongxuan.” Wu Zheng gestured toward a middle-aged man sitting on the sofa brewing tea.

Qi Hongxuan, who was already showing signs of a receding hairline, trembled at these words, spilling half the boiling water. “What sucker? I’m your producer, no matter how you look at it! Can’t you introduce me properly?”

“Fine,” Wu Zheng replied unhurriedly. “Then I’ll put your name in the producer column for this movie and introduce you to the whole world properly.”

Qi Hongxuan instantly chickened out: “Don’t, absolutely not! If my wife sees that, she’ll make a scene with me again.”

Wu Zheng gestured toward Tao Zui and Gu Nan: “See? Gives money but won’t take credit—if that’s not a sucker, what is?”

Tao Zui remained silent for a moment before speaking seriously: “For suckers like this, please give me a dozen.”