CDJMM – Volume 4 – Chapter 10 Filming in the Interstellar Era (10)

This time, Qi Jiang Video Network did a good job promoting the competition, so there were many submissions. According to the website’s published data, during the registration period, the site received a total of 251,482 entries.

With such an enormous workload, it was obviously impossible for the staff to review everything manually. So Qi Jiang Video Network implemented a bold new approach—public judging.

Interested users could register on the site to become judges. The website would then randomly send them videos, and they would decide whether each video could advance.

A submission only needed to receive approval from more than half of the judges reviewing it to pass the preliminary selection and move on to the next round.

All participating judges would receive a certain amount of Qi Jiang Coins based on the number of videos they reviewed. These coins could be used to purchase any products offered by Qi Jiang Video Network.

Le Jing was fully confident that his work would pass the preliminary selection.

So now, all his attention was on the production of Republic Era.

In recent days, he had been keeping track of the Republic Era crew through Zhou Jinsen, and the situation didn’t look good.

Director Li Jianye had never been a big-name director, and the script was an unconventional detective suspense drama, naturally not favored by investors.

After the investors pulled out, Li Jianye ran around trying to secure funding but barely got any. With the sets, props, and actors already hired, every day the production stopped was money down the drain. In the end, Li Jianye gritted his teeth and decided to finance the filming himself.

However, though Li Jianye was a director, his previous works were all art films that didn’t make much money. This was his first attempt to transition into commercial films, and unexpectedly, he had a falling-out with investors right away—no funding secured, and now he had to put in his own money. His already modest life became even tighter.

So when Le Jing called to say he wanted to invest, Li Jianye was shocked. “You really want to invest? Where did you get the money?”

He remembered Zhou Jinsen mentioning that his old classmate was an orphan with a large student debt. After graduation, due to a stubborn personality and lack of connections, he mostly stayed unemployed at home with no steady income.

Li Jianye sighed upon hearing this, recalling his own youth. He was similar to Le Jing—no background, proud and stubborn—so his early career had been frustrating. Now in middle age, he was just a small-time director at a minor entertainment company, unable to even secure a sponsorship.

When Le Jing had previously come to help on set, Li Jianye had taken good care of him. Later, when Le Jing resigned, Li Jianye generously gave him 10,000 Star Coins as a token of appreciation.

Now, this same poor guy suddenly said he wanted to invest in Li Jianye’s TV drama. Li Jianye even wondered if Le Jing had gone mad.

Le Jing vaguely explained, “Another director liked one of my scripts and gave me some adaptation fees. Now I still have about a million left—no more than that.”

Li Jianye forced a bitter smile, thanked him for the gesture, and spoke frankly, “I’ll be honest with you. Your one million will barely make a sound in this production. To shoot this series properly, eight to nine million is barely enough, and there’s no guarantee we’ll recoup after release. You should keep your million for yourself.”

Le Jing calmly replied, “Surely you can put together another one or two million, right? That would make over three million total. We can shoot it as a web series, airing as we go, recouping funds early to fund the rest of production.”

Li Jianye frowned. Coming from an art film background, he subconsciously looked down on web series. But he knew they were popular now, had huge traffic, and this method could efficiently gather funding—a sensible plan.

But…

“Is that really feasible? You know the current era is obsessed with entertainment. I’m shooting a serious drama, no thrill, no romance. Will online audiences even watch it?”

So initially, Li Jianye planned to sell the completed series to several serious-drama-focused TV stations for broadcast.

“Then the script needs some changes.”

“Change the script?” That hit a nerve. Li Jianye immediately became angry. “It’s my script! I won’t change it! If I wanted to, I would have done so long ago—why wait until now? If your idea is to make me change it, then don’t invest.”

Le Jing patiently explained, “I, like you, want this drama to be better. I have some preliminary ideas for the script, but rest assured, they won’t affect the overall framework or story direction. If you find my ideas unreasonable, I’ll respect your judgment.”

“Then what do you want to change?”

“It’s inconvenient to explain over the phone. When you have time, let’s meet and discuss it properly.”

“Tomorrow then. Come to the set at noon, and we’ll have lunch together.”

“Okay.”

…

The next day, Le Jing met Li Jianye as scheduled.

Recently, Li looked worn out—stubbly, bloodshot eyes, heavy dark circles—overwhelmed by production funding issues.

When Le Jing arrived, the set was nearly empty, a stark contrast to its previous lively atmosphere.

“Has filming stopped?”

Li Jianye rubbed his face, looking dispirited. “After Bai Lang left, we couldn’t find a suitable lead, so filming paused. Some actors couldn’t afford to wait and terminated their contracts.”

He smiled bitterly, forcing himself up, and said, “Let’s go to a nearby Chinese restaurant. They specialize in Cantonese cuisine—it’s quite good. We can eat and talk.”

Li Jianye was likely a regular. Upon entering, the owner warmly greeted, “Mr. Li! What a coincidence. I just finished a Buddha Jumps Over the Wall dish!”

Li Jianye smiled, “What luck, I’m in for a treat.”

“I’m here with a friend to discuss something. Are there private rooms upstairs?”

“Of course, please go upstairs,” the owner said enthusiastically.

While waiting for food, Le Jing explained his ideas in detail.

Initially, Li Jianye was skeptical, even annoyed. He valued the integrity of his script highly. In his view, compromising the script for the market and ruining it would be worse than not filming at all.

He agreed to hear Le Jing out purely out of gratitude for the young man’s help in his own down times. Historically, it’s easy to embellish someone already successful, but rare to help someone struggling. Regardless of Le Jing’s motives, Li Jianye appreciated this gesture.

He planned to politely decline the suggestions afterward.

But as he listened, he gradually set aside his resentment, finding Le Jing’s ideas interesting.

As Le Jing had said, the main structure and storyline of the script would remain unchanged, but the theme would gain depth, exposing social realities and reflecting life in the Republic Era.

Though stubborn, Li Jianye wasn’t unreasonable. He realized Le Jing’s ideas elevated the script, making this detective suspense drama more vivid, with richer characters.

Originally, the script focused on crime-solving, with social commentary secondary.

Under Le Jing’s adjustments, the protagonist Zhou Dezhang’s investigations also expose the hardships of ordinary people in the Republic Era: a prostitute buried alive, a child sold by parents, a starving opium addict, a stray child mauled by dogs…

While the Shanghai Bund thrived with glamour, disaster areas were plagued by starvation and violence.

Yet beneath the suffering, hope and dreams burned bright.

Under the gaze of the red phantom, the country would one day change.

Zhou Dezhang and his young friends, with burning dreams and noble beliefs, trust not in gods but in Marx.

They believe that if the world’s proletariat unites, the Internationale can be realized.

It is the best of times, the worst of times.

This is paradise and hell at once.

This is the Republic Era, a time of hope born from suffering, light called forth from darkness.

Though storm clouds loom, light will come.

Even Li Jianye, often arrogant, had to admit the revised script had more depth and emotional resonance.

Ultimately, what moved Li Jianye most was Le Jing’s words:

“Art isn’t just lofty and elite; it can also be accessible and appreciated by all. Many audiences lack the background or aesthetic literacy to understand high art. A director’s job is to express ideas and emotions in ways everyone can understand, making your vision comprehensible and accepted. Only art that spreads is true art; art that disappears has no value.”

Li Jianye inhaled deeply, a tinge of bitterness on his lips.

He wanted to argue but had to admit Le Jing was right. He had once not understood this, but now, in middle age, he did.

Talent without recognition is meaningless. If no one watches, what value does it create?

He looked at the young man across the table, speaking confidently, and felt both admiration and shame. Le Jing had seen through what Li Jianye hadn’t.

Le Jing met his gaze and asked knowingly, “Director Li, what do you think of my ideas?”

Li Jianye pounded the table, cheering loudly, “Good, very good!” He looked at Le Jing sincerely. “Your understanding of the Republic Era surpasses mine. Your adaptation approach is excellent, truly excellent.”

“Let’s shoot it like this. I believe it will be a great work.”

Excited, he said, “Organize your ideas into a script and give it to me quickly so we can start filming.”

Le Jing smiled and nodded. “I’ll write it as soon as I get home.”

Li Jianye nodded, then asked frankly, “Are you interested in co-directing this series with me?”

Fearing refusal, he added earnestly, “From your script adaptation, I see your deeper understanding. I believe your help will make this drama even better.”

Le Jing had no intention of refusing; it was part of his plan. Since Li Jianye volunteered, he went along.

Li Jianye drank his tea in excitement, thinking about the opening scene when suddenly he remembered the biggest problem—casting.

Most actors had left, and the budget was tight, so they needed newcomers with low fees.

But newcomers…

Just as Li Jianye fretted, Le Jing calmly said, “I have someone in mind for the lead Zhou Dezhang—what about Chang Zehai?”

Li Jianye paused, trying to recall, then exclaimed, “He’s not dead? Wait, wasn’t that years ago? I remember he died in a car accident!”

Le Jing shook his head, explaining what he learned from Sister Zhang. “He did have an accident but didn’t die. Someone with the same name died in the same hospital, and the media reported it as him. Later, it was clarified, but the rumor stuck. He also disfigured in the accident, withdrew for reconstruction and rest, and by the time he returned, he was completely past his prime. Many friends thought he was dead.”

Li Jianye sighed.

Chang Zehai had once been a formidable actor, skilled and low-profile, with films now considered classics. Unbelievable that such talent had been buried.

“Do you have his contact info? I’ll reach out for an audition.”

Chang Zehai agreed readily, and they scheduled him for the next day.

Following the principle of keeping talent in-house, Le Jing also recommended Sister Zhang and Zhang Ting.

Seeing Sister Zhang’s photo, Li Jianye froze, a wave of nostalgia in his eyes. “It’s her…”

“You know her?”

Li Jianye shook his head, his gaze distant. “Of course… She was my dream girl,” he laughed and added, “I had a youthful crush.”

Le Jing was surprised. “You were lovers?”

“No, no, no. She could never have noticed a small-time director like me. Just unrequited love. My youthful fancy—it must amuse you.”

“So many years later, and I get to see her again, and her son’s grown up too. Time spares no one,” Li Jianye sighed. Then his eyes brightened, locking onto Le Jing.

“…Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I have a feeling this series will be a hit!” Li Jianye relaxed his brow, laughing heartily. “We have the best script, the best actors, and two stubborn directors. If it doesn’t succeed, there’s no justice!”

Le Jing smiled lightly, his tone calm but imbued with quiet authority: “Coincidentally, I feel the same.”

That day’s discussion was lively and fruitful. Ideas flowed like gold, and the two didn’t leave until the restaurant closed.

They didn’t yet know how legendary the TV series they were creating would become.

…

Three days later, various veteran actors arrived from across the country to join the Republic Era Literary Figures Chronicles crew.

Le Jing witnessed Sister Zhang’s influence firsthand.

Though she had retired decades ago, she knew a group of equally struggling old-timers.

Some were ruined gamblers, some divorced, some infamous, some banned for years, some long thought dead by audiences.

They had no commercial value or star power, and some had numerous scandals.

But they had honed their acting through years. They lived and died for the craft, true drama fanatics.

They only lacked an opportunity.

Now, the opportunity had arrived, and they flocked in.

They didn’t care about pay, only to stand in front of the camera again and burn for their art.

When such veterans gathered, initially quietly, they were unnoticed.

But legends are born in ordinary times.

It would take decades for future generations to understand what was happening.

Le Jing couldn’t help but laugh. After establishing Sunset Red Studio, the Sunset Red crew also began operating.

A celebration for the old-timers of a bygone era was about to begin.

Le Jing was thrilled to be the organizer and conductor of this party.