CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 39 Writing in the Republic Era (38)

Movies were not exactly a novelty in the Republic of China. At the end of the 19th century, during the twilight years of the Qing dynasty, Shanghai had already begun screening imported foreign films. After the birth of China’s first domestically produced film Dingjun Mountain in Beijing in 1905, the country’s film industry, starting from zero, quickly began to develop. By 1922, it had entered a period of rapid growth, with all kinds of film companies springing up like bamboo shoots after the rain, and domestic films flourishing in variety.

However, due to the limitations of technology, the movies of this time were all silent black-and-white films. Inspired by shadow puppetry, many cinemas would hire people to hide behind the scenes and provide live dubbing during screenings. Le Jing had accompanied Li Shuran to watch a few dubbed films before, and he had to admit that, although the technical level and visual quality of Republican-era films could not compare to modern ones, they did have their own advantages.

First of all, the voice actors’ dubbing. The “Old Mandarin” pronunciation popular in the Republic was very similar in tone and accent to modern Mandarin, making it easy for a modern person to understand. Moreover, these dubbing actors were professionally trained—their voices clear and pleasant, their intonation full of charm. Although they carried a very heavy broadcasting accent, their emotional expression was still rich and moving.

Then there were the actors. Republican-era actors in historical costumes far outshone the overly stylized modern photo-studio style. Regardless of gender, their bearing was graceful and dignified, with costumes and mannerisms meticulously refined, exuding a classical beauty. Because there was no sound in films, their performances were more delicate, placing greater emphasis on the expression in their eyes. Their gazes seemed to brim with unspoken words, speaking volumes through their eyes alone—something that, in modern times, only a few seasoned actors could achieve.

After trying out the cinema experience a few times, Le Jing no longer went. It was like a gourmand accustomed to seafood and abalone finding it hard to go back to plain boiled cabbage. In later generations, movie genres were richly diverse, but Republican films had monotonous themes—many of them simply adaptations of novels or operas. Given the choice, Le Jing would much rather read the original works themselves. Compared to a film’s secondary interpretation, he preferred the unfiltered, authentic original text.

Still, he wholeheartedly supported the idea of his own works being adapted into films. After all, compared to novels, films naturally had a much wider audience.

So he smiled in delight and asked: “Now that is wonderful news. Which film company? And who is the director?”

Yang Jinglun reported the name of a company, one Le Jing had never heard of—probably just an obscure small studio. Somewhat embarrassed, Yang Jinglun admitted: “This company is newly established, with limited funds. The offer isn’t very high, only three hundred silver dollars. But Director Ji Qi himself is very sincere. He made a special trip from Shanghai to meet you in person.”

Three hundred silver dollars indeed wasn’t much. When Le Jing serialized Memoirs of a Courtesan, he earned four yuan per thousand characters, and with over one hundred thousand characters in total, he had made more than four hundred yuan. Still, three hundred yuan wasn’t exactly negligible either. After all, in the Republic, even the top stars only made about two thousand yuan a month—and half of that would be taken by the film companies. Ordinary actors earned just a few dozen to two hundred yuan a month.

That was why, when he had first crossed over and considered how to make a living, Le Jing chose to earn manuscript fees by writing. In the Republic, professors and writers were the two most lucrative professions, and many literary masters often combined both teaching and writing.

Because the nation had been weak for too long, and its people bullied for too long, both the government and the populace longed for knowledge to save the country. They looked to scholars, hoping they could use their knowledge and skills to rescue a storm-tossed nation. The government invested heavily in education, which allowed writers of the Republic to live quite well.

Of course, this didn’t mean the present was inferior to the past. Writers in the Republic earned high incomes because there were fewer intellectuals. Imagine if the government allocated one hundred thousand yuan, to be divided among one hundred people—each person would get one thousand yuan. But if modern China allocated one million yuan to be divided among tens of thousands, each person might only get a few dozen.

Le Jing had never been someone obsessed with money, so the size of the copyright fee didn’t concern him much. What caught his attention now was the name “Ji Qi.” Though he outwardly maintained a look of contemplation, his heart was surging with waves—the name “Ji Qi” flashed across his mind again and again.

Le Jing had once watched a documentary on the movie channel about this great man, learning of his extraordinary and brilliant life. The name might not yet be famous at this time, but it wouldn’t be long before its owner would rise to prominence, etching his name into the annals of Chinese film history, and making monumental contributions to its growth and global spread.

Ji Qi had been born poor, to ordinary farming parents, and this deeply influenced his later films. His camera lens always focused on the lives of the laboring masses, capturing the sorrows and hardships of the poor, giving voice to the vulnerable through cinema. Later generations hailed him as “the medicine of society, the voice of the people.”

It was no surprise that Le Jing had never heard of Ji Qi’s current company name, since history recorded that it would soon collapse due to poor management. Ji Qi would then endure years of hardship, only truly rising to prominence a decade later, in his thirties—a true “ten years to sharpen a sword” story. And fate had its wonders—Ji Qi’s breakthrough in the future would also come through a film portraying the real lives of courtesans, The Long Road to Reform. That film not only made his name in the industry, but also won the heartfelt praise of the common people. Now, by a twist of fate, Ji Qi was about to shoot a courtesan-themed film ten years earlier—who knew whether he might also achieve fame ten years ahead of schedule?

So Le Jing smiled and said: “In that case, please tell Mr. Ji that I will be at home this weekend, and he is welcome at any time.”

Yang Jinglun nodded. “I will deliver your message to Director Ji.” Then, he brought up an old topic again: “Sir, about your new serialization…?”

Le No Inspiration—A Happy Pigeon Jing replied with a straight face: “I’ll definitely hand it in in a few days.”

Yang stared at him closely. “A few days?”

Le Jing: “Next Sunday, without fail, I’ll give you the new serialization.”

Receiving this firm reply, Yang finally left satisfied.

After corresponding with Le Jing once more to confirm the time, Ji Qi arrived at his home early on the weekend morning.

Ji Qi’s appearance could only be described as ordinary. He wasn’t tall, barely one meter sixty-something, and looked rather unremarkable. Le Jing could tell he had made a great effort for this meeting—he had specially borrowed a suit. Unfortunately, the suit didn’t fit him, hanging loose on his body, making him look like a child sneaking into an adult’s clothes—quite comical.

At twenty-three, Ji Qi had just returned from studying abroad in the United States on a government scholarship. Though born into a poor family, through his own efforts he had earned an impressive academic record, successfully breaking free from his original circumstances and completing a leap across social classes.

While Le Jing was sizing him up, Ji Qi was also scrutinizing Le Jing.

Although he had seen The Watchman’s photos in newspapers, the difference between a photo and real life was enormous. The youth before him looked even younger than expected, with very fair skin and a frame that was almost too thin, as if he weren’t in the best of health. Ji Qi had known The Watchman was young, but he had always assumed they were around the same age. Seeing him in person, he realized the boy looked a few years younger than the photos—likely not even twenty yet!

And at such an age, he had written Memoirs of a Courtesan? That was beyond the scope of genius—this was monstrous talent.

The youth clasped his hands politely, his gaze clear and bright, his smile warm and composed.
“You must be Director Ji. I am Li Jingran. ‘The Watchman’ was merely my former pen name.”

Ji Qi’s eyes lit up, and only one phrase came to mind: a gentleman as refined as jade. From his director’s critical eye, the youth before him had the kind of bearing and appearance more than suitable even for the silver screen. His looks weren’t the most striking, but what truly drew people in was his unique, transcendent temperament. Indeed, a man refined by poetry and books exudes his own brilliance.

After a few polite exchanges, they moved on to business.

Le Jing asked curiously, “Why did Director Ji take interest in my novel?”

Ji Qi’s gaze grew distant, clearly lost in memory. “Memoirs of a Courtesan was sent to me by a classmate in Beiping who thought I’d like it—and he was right, I did. Very much.” He looked sincerely at Le Jing, admiration shining in his eyes. “From your writing, I felt something rare—rebellion.”

“Rebellion?”

Ji Qi nodded. “Yes. Rebellion. What is rebellion? To me, it means refusing to accept fate! Bai Moli refused to resign herself. Though she ultimately could not escape her destiny, to me her defeat was still glorious.”

At that moment, fire burned in the eyes of the otherwise unimpressive little man. “Are the poor to accept suffering without resistance? Why? On what grounds? From the current government all the way back to emperors thousands of years ago, the poor of Huaxia have always resigned themselves to fate. But has Huaxia grown better because of it? No—the only ones whom destiny favors are the privileged. Since that’s the case, why should the poor submit? Only by defying fate is there any hope of defeating it.”

He added his own example: “I too am the son of the poor. But I refused to accept it—so today, I get to taste meat in my soup.”

Le Jing smiled.

This was a warrior destined to wrestle with fate. Anything that failed to crush him would only make him stronger. Even without the hindsight of future history, Le Jing could already foresee that Ji Qi was bound for greatness.

Indeed, no one’s success is ever a mere accident.

“You’ve passed,” Le Jing said with a smile. “If it’s you, I’m certain you’ll turn my novel into an outstanding film.”

Ji Qi was stunned. To be honest, he had prepared extensively for this meeting. He knew his offer wasn’t very competitive, so he had planned to show his sincerity in other ways. That was why he had not only brought his adapted screenplay of Memoirs of a Courtesan, but also several thick notebooks of his reading notes, hoping to prove his dedication and earn The Watchman’s approval to make the film.

But before he even brought out these “assignments,” The Watchman had already decisively chosen him as director. Wasn’t this development a bit too smooth? Even if money wasn’t the concern, shouldn’t The Watchman at least listen to his interpretation of the novel and his adaptation ideas first?

His mind blanked, and he blurted out his doubt directly.

The boy’s eyes sparkled as he laughed, bright as stars dancing across the sea. “Because you refuse to accept fate. That’s a quality I’ve always admired. And I believe only those who defy fate can create the film I want.”

A gentleman as jade—these were the only words Ji Qi could find to describe Li Jingran.

What is a gentleman?

Confucius said: A gentleman has nine thoughts: when seeing, to see clearly; when hearing, to listen attentively; in appearance, to be warm; in demeanor, to be respectful; in speech, to be sincere; in conduct, to be reverent; in doubt, to ask; in anger, to think of consequences; in gain, to remember righteousness.

And the Book of Changes said: As heaven maintains vigor through movement, a gentleman should strive unceasingly for self-improvement.

Because Li Jingran was a gentleman, he could so readily trust a stranger with just a few words. Because he was a gentleman, he resonated with his defiance of fate.

If Le Jing had known Ji Qi’s thoughts, he would have been amused. He considered himself nothing but a scheming petty man, far from the dignity of a gentleman. But this misunderstanding was, in its way, a wonderful one.

Ji Qi then pulled from his briefcase a thick stack of manuscript paper, dropping it all on the table in one go. Speaking quickly, he said: “This is my adapted script and my reflections on Memoirs of a Courtesan. I humbly ask for your guidance.”

Le Jing accepted the stack, but instead of reading immediately, he asked: “Recently, my Memoirs of a Courtesan was adapted into a stage play, with the performers being real courtesans. I wonder, has Director Ji seen it?”

Of course Ji Qi knew of it. When he had first arrived in Beiping, he had been eager to go watch. But…

He shook his head with a wry smile and sighed. “I’ve long admired that play, but it was far too popular. I could never get a ticket.”

Le Jing smiled. “I know the actors well. If you’re free tomorrow, I can get you in without a ticket.” Tomorrow was Monday—so it seemed he’d have to ask for sick leave again.

Ji Qi beamed. “That would be wonderful. I’ll owe you one, sir.”

Le Jing smiled. “No need to thank me—I do have a selfish request.” He grew serious. “I want to ask one favor.”

Ji Qi seemed to guess. “Whatever it is, say the word. If I can, I will.”

“I hope the film’s actors for Memoirs of a Courtesan can be chosen, as much as possible, from among the stage actresses.” Meeting Ji Qi’s knowing gaze, Le Jing added calmly, “I want courtesans to play courtesans.”

He could already imagine the uproar this would cause. The very title Memoirs of a Courtesan inevitably stirred associations with eroticism. If actual courtesans were cast, many would outright dismiss it as an erotic film. It would bring plenty of unwanted scandals and trouble.

But there was no better medium of publicity than cinema. If courtesans wished to defy their dreadful fate, then a film giving them voice was indispensable.

Ji Qi chuckled. “Sir, you’ve truly given me a tough challenge.”

Le Jing raised a brow. “What, can’t be done?”

Ji Qi burst into hearty laughter, free and bold. “You really are my kindred spirit, sir—your writing reflects your spirit perfectly!” With a grand sweep of his hand, he declared, “To have one true confidant in life—let’s raise a great toast to that!”

Le Jing pointed to himself with a smile. “Sorry, I’m underage, frail, and not allowed to drink.”