CDJMM – Volume 4 – Chapter 21 Filming in the Interstellar Era (21)

Chosen by the production team of Republic-era Literary Masters Chronicles as one of the 20 fans allowed to visit the set, Luo Bao did not feel the excitement he had imagined.

Right now, he was deeply confused.

After seeing the endless wave of exposés online—after realizing that the veteran actors who had once moved him were actually so disgraceful—he no longer knew how he should view Republic-era Literary Masters Chronicles.

To be fair, he did genuinely like the drama. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have worked so hard to recommend it everywhere at the beginning.

But once he learned about the actors’ various past misdeeds—gambling, domestic violence, cheating, soliciting prostitutes—he felt as if his admiration had been trampled on.

He felt ashamed.

And yet, he couldn’t help but hold on to a sliver of hope.

Maybe the scandals were fake!

Maybe it was all a misunderstanding!

Maybe jealous people were smearing them out of spite!

…But if it were a misunderstanding, why hadn’t the production team clarified anything? Why had Old Scenery remained unusually silent?

Luo Bao watched helplessly as the situation spiraled out of control. Forum threads cursing the actors had reached hundreds of floors, and many netizens had even reported the drama to the Broadcasting Bureau.

In this atmosphere of public outrage, the Republic-era Literary Masters Chronicles crew not only refused to explain anything—they calmly continued holding a fan lottery for set visits, which looked almost like silent admission.

Luo Bao couldn’t help feeling disappointed. The more he had liked the show back then, the more disappointed he felt now.

Originally, he didn’t want to go on the visit. He struggled with the decision for a long time before finally deciding he still had to go.

He probably just wasn’t willing to give up yet.

He wanted to hear Old Scenery’s explanation in person.

Twenty years after leaving the industry, Zhang Yanfang never thought she would once again become the center of public opinion, once again become someone the public paid attention to. Even if the attention came with insults and malice, she was satisfied.

For an actor who lives by the camera, the moment no one pays attention to you is the moment your career dies.

Infamy is still fame.

For Zhang Yanfang—who had been forgotten for 20 years—even if she was now being condemned by thousands, she accepted it willingly.

When she chose to return to acting, she had long been mentally prepared for the criticism that would follow.

After leaving the industry, in order to live—simply to survive—she had indeed done some… disgusting things.

Those things were unbearable to remember, yet undeniably part of her past. She could never escape them, not even in death. They were mistakes she had no choice but to commit for the sake of survival. They were shameful, yes, but not something she regretted.

The past was the past. She wasn’t going to complain about life being unfair. All she could do was look forward and keep walking.

The only thing she could do now was grit her teeth through the long agony before dawn arrived.

If she endured it, Zhang Weier would live again. If she didn’t, the world would simply have one more ordinary person named Zhang Yanfang.

Besides—wasn’t she cursed plenty back then as well?

Being cursed now only meant that people had started paying attention again.

Zhang Yanfang and her old comrades had already experienced the highs and lows of life, endured storms and turmoil; they no longer cared much about fame.

As far as they were concerned, being able to act, being able to live again as actors, was already a blessing.

Wu Yan even gave a bitter laugh and said, “Just treat this as me paying for my past mistakes.”

Zhang Yanfang asked him with a smile, “Will you still gamble in the future?”

Wu Yan lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, exhaled a smoke ring, and calmly replied, “I’ve already decided—if I ever feel the urge to gamble again, I’ll jump off a building and end it all.”

Zhang Yanfang felt a chill run down her spine. She now fully understood the resolve of her old friend.

When the scandals broke online, Shi Jing immediately told them: “You have me. All you need to do is focus on acting. Trust me—I will turn the insults you’re receiving now into future popularity.”

This 24-year-old young man possessed a calmness and steadiness far beyond his age. His words had a strangely comforting power.

Zhang Yanfang wanted to believe him.

And aside from believing him, she had no other choice.

Shi Jing told them to wait, so even though the outside world was boiling, these veteran actors remained steady, filming diligently every day.

Only the young actors were unable to keep their composure.

Huang Tingting, who played Li Shuran, was only 14 years old. She had never seen such chaos before. She had been affected heavily these days, growing more haggard, performing poorly during filming, and causing many delays.

Her manager, however, was thrilled, comforting her by saying “Black fame is still fame.” But Huang Tingting was too young to accept it.

Zhang Yanfang heard that Huang Tingting’s manager had already approached the director, hoping the crew would cooperate with some PR efforts—preferably distancing Huang Tingting from the scandal to minimize any impact.

But Shi Jing rejected the request.

Although Zhang Yanfang didn’t care about the curses online, she understood that continued scandals might cause major trouble for the production—worst-case scenario, the whole drama might be banned.

She didn’t know what Shi Jing was planning behind the scenes, but she decided to trust him.

He had trusted them first—he had boldly chosen them to act in this drama. Now, it was their turn to believe in him.

Mo Mingrui spotted the film city from afar. He took a deep breath, quickened his pace, and felt his heart pounding.

This was it—the Republic-era production team was filming here. He was about to meet the director he worshipped, Old Scenery.

For the Republic-era Literary Masters Chronicles crowdfunding, Mo Mingrui had invested almost two months’ salary.

Maybe he had contributed enough money; maybe fate had smiled on him—but he had successfully become one of the 20 set-visit participants.

His cousin wasn’t so lucky. Not that she would want to come now.

Because of the actors’ endless scandals, his cousin had completely unfollowed the drama. She had once watched Republic-era Literary Masters Chronicles with great enthusiasm, but now she hated it so much she didn’t even want to mention it.

Mo Mingrui felt that an actor’s character and their work were two separate things. In foreign entertainment industries, it was common for actors to take drugs, solicit prostitutes, join gangs, drink heavily, attend group parties, or cheat—but that didn’t stop them from being great actors who created timeless roles.

If an actor committed a crime, then boycotting them made sense. But if it was only a morality issue, viewers could dislike the actor, but attacking their work was unnecessary.

It was the same with many scientists—despite flawed private lives, they made huge contributions to their fields and were admired by later generations. Should we call their scientific achievements trash just because they visited prostitutes, cheated, or mistreated their parents?

Humans are complex creatures.

If you judge someone solely from a moral high ground, you easily fall into the trap of black-and-white thinking.

How many heroes and legends throughout history had flawed private lives, yet remained noble in their greater achievements? Truly flawless saints probably only exist in myths.

Disliking an actor and disliking their work are two separate matters.

His cousin mixed the two together, which was why she went from fan to hater—and why she projected her disgust for the actors onto Republic-era Literary Masters Chronicles itself.

When Mo Mingrui walked into the film studio, he found a few people already standing sparsely near the entrance—men and women, old and young. From their clothes, they didn’t look like staff members.

Curious, he asked, “Could it be that you were also picked by the official Republic Weibo to visit the set?”

A teenage boy nodded and asked in surprise, “You too?”

“Yeah.” Mo Mingrui grinned. “Looks like we’re all pretty lucky.”

Being praised for his luck, the boy tugged at the corner of his mouth in an attempted smile, though it hardly looked happy.

Mo Mingrui didn’t wait long at the entrance before a man came out. Seeing them, he quickly apologized, “Sorry, I’m late. Thank you for waiting.”

Mo Mingrui looked at the newcomer—a young man, average-looking, with a staff badge around his neck. He should be part of the crew.

He introduced himself: “My name is Cheng Dali. I’m the assistant director and also help with miscellaneous on-set tasks.”

The selected fans all introduced themselves one after another.

The teenage boy said, “I’m Luo Bao, online ID ‘Luo Bao, Not Radish.’”

Mo Mingrui was surprised. So this teenager was the owner of the fan group, Luo Bao Not Radish. He hadn’t expected him to be so young.

…

Old Scenery wasn’t wrong—the Republic crew was indeed very poor.

The set design was simple, the actors’ costumes were obviously cheap Taobao goods, and as for the makeup…

Mo Mingrui’s gaze landed on the woman applying makeup for someone. She was no longer young, but she was indeed beautiful.

While time had given her wrinkles, it had also endowed her with a gentle and serene grace.

She was now called Zhang Yanfang, formerly Zhang Weier—a genius actress who had once taken the nation by storm twenty years ago.

If not for the overwhelming wave of scandals online, Mo Mingrui would never have known the twists and turns of her past.

Curious, he intentionally looked up her films before she retired. Even after twenty years, he was once again captivated.

This woman was truly worthy of the title “genius.”

Republic Literary Masters Chronicle was her painstaking work—twenty years in the making. In this drama, she surpassed herself, delivering a master-level performance that deeply impressed him.

He didn’t care what kind of past Zhang Weier had. He only knew that she was a good actress, currently working on a good project—and that was enough.

As he zoned out, he saw a young man walking toward them, smiling as he asked the assistant, “Is everyone here?”

The assistant nodded awkwardly. “Some people didn’t come.”

Mo Mingrui understood why he felt awkward: including himself, only eleven fans had shown up. Nine of them had bailed.

The young man showed no displeasure. Instead, he smiled warmly and introduced himself: “Hello. I’m one of the directors of Republic Literary Masters Chronicle. My name is Shi Jing, online ID ‘Old Scenery.’”

His skin was fair, his features refined and scholarly. He looked even younger than Mo Mingrui!

Mo Mingrui was dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe Old Scenery was this young! He had imagined him to be at least in his thirties!

“I didn’t expect you to be so young!”

“You’re not still a college student, are you?”

All their amazement made Luo Bao’s question stand out sharply: “Is everything online true? Why are you using these scandal-ridden actors? Were you deceived?”

The young man blinked, then smiled lightly as he answered each point: “Some things online are true, some are false. I know their pasts. I hired them because they act well.”

Luo Bao didn’t know what he was feeling now.

There was disappointment, anger, sadness—but above all, the fury of having his admiration betrayed.

“But they have terrible character!” he shouted. “What’s the use of acting skill?! They’re scum! Trash! They don’t deserve to act!”

“Actors who are better than them are more expensive. Actors with better character don’t act as well.” The young man replied calmly. “Rather than using virtuous ‘flower vases,’ I prefer talented scumbags.”

“I’m making a drama, not producing Touching China. I need actors who can act—not flower vases with good character.”

Luo Bao was speechless. He instinctively felt something was wrong, but couldn’t find a rebuttal.

A female fan objected, “But if actors have bad morals, it leads to negative influence, corrupts minors, and promotes unhealthy social values!”

The young man nodded, then added, “So you can criticize their personalities, but you have no right to criticize their work.”

Luo Bao was confused. “Aren’t the actor and the work the same thing?”

Shi Jing thought for a moment and gave a simple example: “Let’s say the inventor of air-conditioning was a scumbag. Would you refuse to use air-conditioning? If your chef cheats on his wife, would you refuse to eat his cooking? If an engineer who built a spaceship gambles and hits his wife, would you refuse to ride the spaceship?”

“Law is law, morality is morality. Actors who break the law are punished by law; actors with terrible morals face public criticism. But you don’t get to condemn their work. Their acting has no intrinsic relation to their personal life. You can’t hate the actor and then, by extension, declare their work trash.”

Mo Mingrui nodded inwardly.

Shi Jing’s thoughts were exactly the same as his.

As long as the work itself was legal and proper, the actor’s private life had nothing to do with it.

Luo Bao’s mind was spinning—completely confused.

“So you’re saying… we can criticize actors, but not the work?”

Shi Jing nodded. “Of course, if a work truly violates moral principles or harms society, then you can criticize the work too.”

“But if you only hate the drama because of an actor’s private life, that’s pure misdirected anger.”

The fans fell silent. Mo Mingrui saw comprehension dawning on many faces.

He couldn’t help but look at Shi Jing admiringly. This young man—he was young in age, but not in clarity or maturity. More importantly, he was brilliant. Someone like him was destined for a bright future.

Mo Mingrui suddenly felt grateful that he could meet him now, at the beginning of his career, and personally witness his growth all the way to soaring success. It would be a precious memory.

Luo Bao finally understood Shi Jing’s words—and with understanding came shame.

Old Scenery was right. The actors’ past mistakes had nothing to do with Republic Literary Masters Chronicle!

Even if those actors were scumbags, that didn’t prevent the drama from being a good work!

He had disliked the whole drama because of a few actors’ scandals—how childish.

“I’m sorry.” Luo Bao lowered his head and apologized sincerely. “I shouldn’t have let my dislike for a few actors’ private lives extend to the entire drama. That was… really immature…”

Facing the boy’s earnest apology, Shi Jing smiled. “I accept your apology. But… who said our actors even had problematic private lives?”

Luo Bao: “Huh?”

“Well, not completely true—Wu Yan really was a gambling addict. But he’s changed now. Are people not allowed to turn over a new leaf?”

Luo Bao: “What?”

Shi Jing sighed dramatically. “Sigh, our veteran actors are so pitiful. Everyone throws mud at them—every kind of filth dumped on their heads. Just because our crew is poor and the actors past their prime!”

Luo Bao: “What??”

“Since you’re all here already, listen to these seniors tell their stories.”

Shi Jing stroked his chin, eyes glinting mischievously.

He had been waiting a long time for this fan meeting.

No filming today. He was going to hold a face-to-face discussion session.

During the session, the veteran actors would tell their stories in full detail.

No whitewashing, no excuses, no hiding—Sister Zhang would speak everything truthfully.

Right or wrong would be left to the audience.

All she needed to do was be real.

He planned to film these talks as a documentary series, each episode focusing on one veteran actor.

He already had a name for it: “Entertainment Industry Exposé.”

He would upload it to the StarNet.

Only truth can defeat rumors.