Chapter 53: Pressing the Scene
Chen Bai nodded in realization. “I see.”
He waved his hand, adding, “Then I definitely won’t.”
He was more confident than anyone else in this regard, being someone who had already decided to stay single for life.
The agent felt the same way. This person only categorized people in the crew as friends or colleagues, never allowing for a third type of relationship.
Strictly speaking, the only one who transcended those two identities was Xu Sinian, who had become a higher-level friend.
With his good looks and firm decision to remain single, the two assistants couldn’t help but glance at the white-haired guy, feeling a bit regretful.
But there was no real sense of loss; taking advantage of their break, they had only superficially gotten to know the lead, expressing their surprise at how little they had previously understood.
The rest period wasn’t long, and as the time to join the crew approached, the two assistants, along with the agent, helped Chen Bai manage his messy hair.
His hair was soft and thick, impossible to keep tidy; a gust of wind or a tug would make it messy again. With three pairs of hands working together, they managed to smooth it out, and Gao Qian finally withdrew her tired hands, saying, “By the time this film wraps, your stylist will definitely be on the way.”
Stylist would certainly be needed; she had already had enough of his hair becoming messy within minutes.
As they neared the time to head to the lobby, someone knocked on the door, and Chen Bai stepped out, showing off the efforts of the three people who had helped him.
The launch ceremony was tomorrow, and today the crew had already begun setting up in the hotel, with the movie’s large poster already completed, featuring the imposing title ‘Record of Blossom’ in bold brush characters.
Gao Qian, having been in the industry for a while, knew quite a few people and took the opportunity to introduce him to some of them.
In any film production, whether due to budget or other considerations, there aren’t usually many big-name actors. ‘Record of Blossom’ was no exception. Aside from the male and female leads and a well-known supporting male actor, most of the cast consisted of seasoned veterans—not particularly famous but with solid acting skills and a lengthy list of credits.
There were also a couple of newcomers with minor roles, obviously new to the industry.
Chen Bai, unfamiliar even with popular figures outside the industry, recognized hardly anyone. The agent tried to discreetly help him identify the cast.
Surprisingly, Chen Bai was quite capable; he could match faces to names without much help, except for the two newcomers.
The agent blinked and asked softly, “When did you learn all this?”
The cast list was released while they were on the plane, and he had seemed dead to the world, not checking his phone at all after he woke up. She couldn’t imagine when he had the time to memorize these faces.
Chen Bai patted the phone in his pocket and replied, “I memorized them while waiting for the elevator.”
Since he’d joined the team, he figured he should familiarize himself with his coworkers. He’d had a moment, so he’d taken a look.
The “moment” referred to those few minutes waiting for the elevator.
There were two elevators by their hotel room, one of which was under maintenance, while the other stopped at every floor from the bottom, taking its sweet time.
Normally, that brief time was just enough to remember a few names and glance at some photos.
Gao Qian glanced at him, unable to resist saying, “How have you managed to keep your brain intact with all those sleepless nights?”
Chen Bai replied modestly, “Good genes.”
Today was the day before the launch ceremony—a chance for the cast and crew to get to know one another and run through a brief rehearsal.
Having attended two launch ceremonies before, he was already familiar with the routine. His assistant was on standby, and the agent went off to socialize.
The rehearsal didn’t start as scheduled because the lead actor, Chu Mingyuan, got delayed by fans downstairs. When he finally arrived, they could begin.
Now, Chen Bai finally met the man reputed to be a bit problematic in relationships.
Chu Mingyuan entered, followed by an entourage.
There were seven or eight assistants, along with a stylist, manager, and other staff, making for an impressive visual impact.
At the center, he wore a black top, chatting casually with the director. With his naturally drooping eyelids, he exuded a laid-back vibe, though not to the point of disrespect.
His demeanor was somewhat like Zhang Something, but a little more serious.
Chen Bai took a couple of glances and thought that it was no surprise he’d had so many relationships with female co-stars.
He wasn’t particularly moved but did acknowledge that the guy was quite good-looking.
Once the main star arrived, things finally got underway, and they quickly ran through the process.
During the group photo, Chen Bai switched places with the actor playing the fourth male lead, moving himself to the edge.
The arrangement was initially by character role. The actor playing the fourth male lead next to him was in his fifties. Out of basic courtesy and respect, Chen Bai offered to swap places.
They made the exchange silently without drawing attention.
After the rehearsal, Chen Bai, who somehow had a knack for getting along with seniors, exchanged contact information with the actor playing the fourth male lead and added each other on WeChat.
When the agent returned, she found that the natural social butterfly, Chen Bai, had already finished networking and gained several new WeChat contacts—surprisingly more efficiently than she had.
Speechless for a moment, she could only say, “That’s so you.”
She glanced at his phone’s new contact list and asked, “You didn’t add Chu Mingyuan?”
He had added almost everyone around, even accepting friend requests from the newcomers, but hadn’t added Chu Mingyuan.
Networking is essential in this industry, and making connections with higher-ups is a valuable opportunity. Typically, it’s something to seize when available.
Chen Bai glanced at his contact list and replied, “These are enough.”
He already had a “Zhang Something” on his contact list. No need for a “Zhang Something 2.0.”
The agent didn’t fully understand but nodded anyway.
That evening, they had a script read-through, and the next day was the launch ceremony. Some major investors attended, but Chen Bai didn’t recognize anyone. He couldn’t tell who had recommended him for the role, so he just looked away.
Gao Qian was observing too and asked around but couldn’t figure out much, concluding that his company must have found someone.
Time is precious on set, with every minute translating into real money. After two days in the city hotel, the crew officially headed to the filming location on the morning of the launch.
The two days of luxurious hotel accommodations in the city were just a small comfort before the storm.
Holding the launch ceremony in a city hotel was all for show; it didn’t mean they’d actually be staying there.
At six in the morning, with light rain falling, the crew’s vehicles formed a long convoy, leaving the city one after another.
They drove from the city to the county, and then to the town, watching the high-rises outside the window fade into the rain, replaced by mid-rise buildings on the streets.
As expected, there were no hotels in town—only inns. With so many people, they couldn’t all fit in one, so they were spread across several inns.
If nothing else, at least the innkeepers were happy, bringing along their staff to help with the luggage.
The teams for the three lead male actors, along with some of the primary crew, stayed in one inn.
The vehicle came to a stop, and the agent turned to the person sitting by the window, looking down at the script, and said, “We’ve arrived.”
Raindrops slid diagonally across the window. Hearing the voice, Chen Bai raised his head and looked outside, then quickly put the script away.
With no convenient place to keep the script on him, the assistant in the front turned around and reached for it, taking it for safekeeping.
The car door opened. It was raining outside, though not heavily. The distance was short, and using an umbrella would have been cumbersome, so everyone, including the actors, simply stepped into the rain and took a few strides to the inn’s entrance.
The driver and assistant handled the luggage. Since they’d already planned it out, trying to help at this point would only get in the way. Chen Bai stood to the side of the inn where he wouldn’t block anyone, propping up his suitcase and raising his cap slightly to take in the small-town scenery.
The town still retained some of its old-fashioned charm from the previous century, with stone alleyways, gray walls, and tiled roofs, though poorly preserved. Mixed with newer buildings, it looked like a blend of rural and urban styles.
Aside from weddings, the locals hadn’t seen such a spectacle of vehicles lining the streets. Even the rain couldn’t keep them from gathering to watch, umbrellas in hand as they stood across the street.
Chen Bai pulled his cap back down.
With minimal luggage, it didn’t take long to unload. Soon, the assistants and drivers entered the inn. Chu Mingyuan’s entourage arrived next, and the small lobby suddenly felt crowded. The innkeeper quickly led them upstairs.
The inn had no elevator, and there were three floors. The rooms upstairs were larger, and Chen Bai was assigned to a spacious twin room on the top floor. A twin room for one—one bed for sleeping, the other for his belongings.
The agent and assistant entered the room first, while he paused at the door for a glance inside.
Seeing there was no desk, he felt reassured about his decision not to bring his laptop.
Footsteps echoed from down the hallway as the agent, having checked the room, waved him in. He rolled his suitcase inside and shut the door behind him.
Chu Mingyuan, having just reached the third floor, caught a glimpse of white hair disappearing behind a closing door.
His agent noticed too and, opening their room door, remarked, “So, Chen Bai’s our next-door neighbor.”
They didn’t need to see him to know it was him; the iconic white hair was enough.
Chu Mingyuan stepped into his room with a nonchalant response.
The agent commented, “Although he’s someone recommended by the investors, I heard from the director that his acting’s pretty decent and he has some natural talent, so he should be fine.”
Directors and producers have their own criteria; even if someone’s recommended by the investors, they won’t settle if he’s truly unsuitable.
Chu Mingyuan removed his mask and said, “Maybe.”
His indifferent tone spoke volumes, and his agent could guess why.
Over the years, they’d encountered many actors who had joined a production with connections or financial backing. Directors often justify these choices by saying they’re “naturally talented,” as it’s a vague claim that can’t be disputed.
With nothing certain, they dropped the subject. The agent then turned to Chu Mingyuan, who had taken off his hat and was running his fingers through his hair, saying, “This time, take it easy. Don’t start any drama, and definitely don’t start any on-and-off flings.”
Having known each other for nearly a decade, he spoke freely.
Chu Mingyuan replied with a noncommittal “Mm.”
The agent clutched his chest as if staving off a heart attack.
Despite the rain, the weather didn’t hinder their work. They’d arrived at the inn near noon, and after a brief rest, the crew began setting up. Filming officially commenced that afternoon.
Crew members donned raincoats and drove to scout the location. Meanwhile, the inn’s makeup room was cleared out. Though simple, it was serviceable.
Due to limited space, Chen Bai shared a makeup room with the second male lead.
Neither of them could drink, so they’d bonded over fruit juice at the launch ceremony. By now, they’d progressed from mere coworkers to friends.
The second lead, named Qian Jin, had been in the industry for a few years but wasn’t quite up to this film’s standard. Luckily, his family could provide material support.
Simply put, he was as his name suggested, very rich, and had essentially bought his way into the cast since his father was one of the main investors.
Chen Bai, amused by this young master chasing his acting dreams, offered encouragement, while silently swallowing a bitter laugh.
Some people pay to act; others act to earn a living. Now, the two of them sat side by side, letting the stylists work.
Unlike TV dramas, which prioritize traditional beauty, film requires a gritty realism that holds up under close-ups. Makeup and styling took quite some time.
The character of Jianzi Changyang was once a proud young master from a noble family, whose downfall left him unable to protect his kin. Fleeing for his life, he was saved by the daughter of an innkeeper. To evade capture, he married her, though she was later kidnapped and killed, and again, he failed to protect someone dear.
His hair turned white overnight, his heart hollow, and he wandered aimlessly, a lost soul adrift.
The film begins with him in this desolate state, unkempt and ragged.
Ragged in the truest sense, Chen Bai looked at himself in the mirror and felt he could easily lie on the street and pass as a beggar.
His white hair had been lengthened into a tangled mess—a look that, somehow, felt distinctive in its disarray.
After a moment, the stylist whispered, “Mr. Chen, could you close your eyes for a moment?”
He closed his eyes, casting an uneven shadow beneath his lashes.
The stylist wrapped a strip of coarse cloth over his eyes, looping it twice before securing it loosely at the back of his head.
“All done.”
Chen Bai opened his eyes, but all he saw was darkness.
In a physical sense, his vision went black. The linen cloth wrapped around his eyes was specially made, with wide gaps in the weave. He could vaguely make out light filtering in from outside and faint outlines of objects, but anything more than that was unclear.
Just seeing a bit of outline was enough. It worked for filming; if he saw any clearer, he wouldn’t seem blind anymore.
The light transmission was decent, and since he didn’t need to wear it all the time, the stylist took off the cloth and returned him to the light, saying he’d wear it again for the actual filming.
Qian Jin’s costume was, in some sense, less complicated, and he was already finished. He sat off to the side, looking at the linen cloth in the stylist’s hands with a touch of relief and said, “Good thing I’m not Changyang.”
Initially, he’d wanted the role of Changyang but was firmly turned down by the director, who said he couldn’t handle the role. Instead, they gave him the second male lead.
Though the role was larger, it wasn’t the one he had originally wanted, so he wasn’t happy about it at first. But now, he was suddenly glad.
Performing with that thing on his face—he figured he’d be lucky just to walk straight, never mind act well.
Chen Bai chuckled.
With their preparations finished, the set at the filming location was also nearly complete. Once ready, they’d leave the inn and drive to the location.
The crew had several filming sites in the area; today’s was the nearest, on the edge of town.
At the edge of town stood an old, abandoned building that had gone without repair. The local government wanted to renovate it to look more presentable, but tight finances had prevented any progress, so it was handed over to the film crew.
Workers had been repairing the old building for two to three months before filming began, completing all work just in time for the shoot. Once the crew arrived, they could use it immediately.
By the time they arrived, the old building was fenced in by metal sheets. The vehicles drove through an entrance left open and parked in a temporary lot.
Assistants held umbrellas for them as they got out of the car, while the staff, dressed in raincoats, guided them into the building.
The old building had been transformed into an inn, with an art director ensuring every detail was in place.
The actors hadn’t all arrived, and the equipment was still being set up. The first scene, featuring the lead and the second male lead, was scheduled to begin in about thirty minutes. Since it was the first day of filming, they hadn’t scheduled any intense scenes—mostly dialogue for now, with no fight scenes planned.
However, this arrangement was challenging for Qian Jin, the second male lead.
The first scene was with Chu Mingyuan. Though he’d been in the industry for a few years, he had only worked on TV dramas and had never shared a scene with an award-winning actor. The friendly smile he’d had in the makeup room disappeared, and he grabbed a stool to sit in the corner and frantically rehearse his lines.
The film would capture the actors’ original voices, so every word had to be precise; a single missed word would mean starting over.
Not wanting to disturb Qian Jin’s rehearsal, Chen Bai found a stool a short distance away and asked his agent, “Why’s he so nervous?”
Though his role was essentially bought, Qian Jin had graduated from a proper acting school and had been working in the field for a few years. He shouldn’t be this anxious.
Liu, the assistant, had some insight. “Chu Mingyuan isn’t too fond of actors who buy their way into the cast. If they can’t keep up with the filming pace, he’s likely to give them a cold shoulder.”
In the past, he’d worked with an artist who’d used their connections to get roles. Once, they had the chance to act with Chu Mingyuan, and after failing to keep pace, one cold look from him left them too shaken to eat for an entire day.
Chen Bai glanced at the schedule.
How nice—after Qian Jin, he was the next to share a scene with Chu Mingyuan.
Thirty minutes passed quickly; it was just enough time to set up the location. The actors barely had time to run through their lines when the first scene officially began.
The set fell silent as Chen Bai set his script aside and looked up.
Chu Mingyuan played a mercenary swordsman, while Qian Jin was an information broker. Though they weren’t exactly friends, they had a symbiotic relationship: the swordsman relied on the broker for jobs, while the broker took a cut. They were more like business partners.
This scene was a simple one where the broker met with the swordsman at the inn to introduce a new job—to capture the son of a disgraced official in hiding.
It seemed straightforward, but it was more challenging than it appeared.
Chen Bai had heard of ‘scene-stealing’ but had never truly witnessed it in his previous three projects.
This time, he saw it firsthand.
Some people seem unassuming, but once they get into character, they transform entirely in terms of aura, posture, and everything else. From the moment Chu Mingyuan, as the swordsman, slapped his knife onto the table, the atmosphere on set shifted.
He was the swordsman—rough, battle-hardened, with an aura of danger. The information broker was supposed to be his equal, but the atmosphere overwhelmed him, making him seem smaller.
Recognizing this, Qian Jin’s voice trembled during his line.
They had to redo the take.
“…”
The energy on set was unlike anything Chen Bai had encountered in his TV projects.
So, this was what it was like to work with an award-winning actor.
Scene-stealing could be deliberate or a natural byproduct of an actor’s presence. Chen Bai looked up, momentarily unsure of which type Chu Mingyuan’s performance was.
His first scene with an award-winning actor was intense, but Qian Jin had stronger nerves than Liu’s former client. After taking a couple of sips of water, he was ready to try again.
This time, the director spoke to Chu Mingyuan in advance, and in the next take, it was clear he had reined himself in.
It was their first take of the project, so repeatedly retaking a scene wouldn’t be ideal. With Chu Mingyuan easing up and Qian Jin doing his best, they completed the scene without any major issues.
Chen Bai watched his new friend, who now seemed deep in contemplation, return to the corner.
Then it was his turn.
The set was rearranged, and the stylist approached, holding the linen cloth and signaling to him, “Mr. Chen.”
From across the room, the person who had been sitting in the same spot since the previous scene turned his gaze slightly toward him. His expression was unreadable.
Chen Bai didn’t pay attention and cooperated by closing his eyes.
The linen cloth was wrapped around his white hair, eventually sinking into the messy strands.
This was Qian Jin’s first time acting with the award-winning actor, and it was his first time too.
His manager stood nearby, showing a rare hint of worry in his eyes. He patted his shoulder and reassured him, “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself.”
Sitting calmly as the stylist worked, he laughed lightly, then reassured them in return, holding his fingers up a short distance apart. “Actually, I handle stress pretty well.”
Compared to four million, this amount of pressure was nothing.
There are people in this world who, the more pressure they face, the stronger they become, staying perfectly composed.
Thanks to good upbringing, he was exactly that type of person.
—
