Chapter 83: Official Jewelry Partnership
If Mu Qian were asked to describe it, he wouldn’t be able to put into words just how outstanding Lu Xu’s performance was in that moment.
He could only compare it to Lu Xu’s audition for the role of Wu Shen—Lu Xu had an incredible ability to communicate emotions and evoke empathy in those watching.
This was not only a testament to his acting skills but also to his natural talent.
It was clear that Lu Xu had fully grasped the essence of Huang Luning’s character.
Before Jin Mu wrote the script for When I Was 18, he had discussed it with Mu Qian. As someone who had already reached middle age, Jin Mu wanted to create a story about a middle-aged man returning to his past. But going back in time didn’t mean sudden success, wealth, or marrying a wealthy beauty to achieve a life of perfection. That type of wish-fulfillment plot wasn’t Jin Mu’s style.
Instead, the script leaned toward a more heartfelt narrative. It depicted the societal changes Huang Luning experienced from age eighteen to forty and the small actions he took to make his home warmer. The story wasn’t about creating a perfect life but about making a simple and imperfect one a little more complete.
Huang Luning seemed ordinary, but in the current television market, such roles were actually quite rare.
Last year, Son of Heaven’s biggest competitor at the Stellar Awards was We Live in Ordinary Times, a show that also centered on the lives of ordinary people. The director, Ou Qingchun, excelled at portraying such characters, though his subjects usually had specific roles, such as construction workers or mountain guardians. Huang Luning, on the other hand, represented the most common type of person in everyday life—an indistinct, ordinary individual.
Directors and screenwriters these days had largely lost interest in depicting such ordinary people.
Of course, audiences weren’t particularly eager to watch them, either.
It was precisely because such characters were so commonplace that they were difficult to portray—actors’ real lives were often far removed from the experiences of these characters.
In comparison, roles in Ou Qingchun’s dramas were arguably easier to perform.
For characters with specific professions, actors could readily find someone to imitate. By observing real-life individuals in those roles, actors could gradually grasp the techniques needed for the performance.
…
“Have you ever played this kind of role before?” Han Xiao asked Lu Xu.
In the drama, he played the role of Huang Luning’s father.
Lu Xu nodded. “Never before.”
In his past life, Lu Xu had played a similar role, but it couldn’t be said to be 100% like this role.
In this particular scene, Han Xiao and Lu Xu were eating roasted sweet potatoes around a sweet potato stove. The two of them waited for a car by the roadside while the wind howled. A sweet potato cost two yuan and fifty cents. It was scalding hot when they took the first bite, and they had to blow on it repeatedly. Yet, with one mouthful of roasted sweet potato, the wind somehow felt less biting.
Sweet potatoes weren’t expensive. When Huang Luning was younger, he never thought much of them. But just as he was about to buy one, his father said he didn’t eat them.
In the past, Huang Luning had thought his father simply didn’t like sweet potatoes. But now that he had traveled back in time, he understood—it wasn’t that his father disliked them; he simply couldn’t bear to spend those two yuan and fifty cents.
It was like how his parents rarely went to restaurants, wouldn’t buy even a one-yuan bottle of mineral water, and always carried a water bottle and towel wherever they went, carefully planning every single yuan.
After getting the sweet potato, Huang Luning broke it in half and handed a piece to his father.
“I don’t want it.”
For a while, the half sweet potato remained in Huang Luning’s outstretched hand, and his father had no choice but to reluctantly take it.
The father and son ate sweet potatoes in the wind. Huang Luning was wrapped in a down jacket, while his father only had an old cotton coat. Yet, his father and mother never thought of buying themselves new clothes. Anything good at home—be it food or other necessities—was always saved for Huang Luning first.
After finishing the sweet potato, his father instinctively reached for a cigarette, forgetting that he had already quit smoking.
Han Xiao, acting opposite Lu Xu, was also a seasoned actor. However, he was different from veteran actors like Cheng Yun. While both primarily played supporting roles, Han Xiao excelled at portraying everyday, down-to-earth characters. When he performed these roles, there wasn’t the slightest trace of acting.
For example, in this scene, after failing to light a cigarette, Huang Dad smiled awkwardly at his son and said, “I forgot I quit smoking. Smoking too much isn’t good—it’s bad for your health.”
After saying that, he lowered his head in embarrassment.
This small moment was slightly different from the script written by Jin Mu—it was Han Xiao’s suggestion to change it.
Huang Dad had quit smoking partly to save money and partly because low-cost cigarettes had become increasingly rare in stores.
Everyone cared about appearances. If you smoked, you had to smoke good cigarettes. When meeting friends, you’d offer them cigarettes, and handing out cheap ones would only show that you weren’t doing well.
But if you accepted someone else’s cigarette, you’d have to return the favor the next time you met. It was simpler to just say you’d quit smoking from the start.
In the script, Huang Luning had specific memories tied to cigarettes. When he was young, his dad smoked brands like Yuxi and Suyan. Later, it was Hongta Shan and Yunyan. Eventually, cigarette packs disappeared entirely from the house.
It was like how his mom used to talk about returning to their hometown someday, building a courtyard, and planting a peach tree and a loquat tree at the entrance. But over time, even those mentions became less frequent.
These were the subtle details in When I Was 18. To Lu Xu, Jin Mu’s script seemed casual on the surface but was actually meticulously crafted, with many elements subtly echoing each other throughout. However, others reading the script might think Jin Mu’s approach was unnecessarily laborious since these were details the audience could easily overlook.
Han Xiao managed to vividly convey Father Huang’s mix of awkwardness and discomfort. Meanwhile, in the scene, Lu Xu’s portrayal of Huang Luning didn’t point it out or stare at his father; instead, he simply pretended not to notice.
There’s a saying: love is always feeling like you owe something.
Parents never want their vulnerable side to be seen.
…
While filming, Han Xiao remarked to Mu Qian with a sense of admiration, “Lu Xu is truly remarkable.”
He and Zhou Lin, the actress playing Mother Huang in the drama, were regulars in various production crews, often cast as middle-aged couples in everyday life dramas. Naturally, this meant frequent collaborations with younger actors.
Han Xiao and Zhou Lin had seen countless young actors in the industry, both those who were famous and those who weren’t. They could confidently say that talented and hardworking ones were rarer than giant pandas.
And there were already thousands of giant pandas.
Lu Xu belonged to the rare breed of actors who were both diligent and gifted.
Every time Han Xiao acted alongside Lu Xu, the latter could seamlessly follow his lead, making Han Xiao feel as if he wasn’t working with a young actor but with an old colleague he had collaborated with for years.
Especially when it came to portraying Huang Luning’s shifting mindset, Han Xiao felt that if he were to take on the role himself, his performance would probably be on par with Lu Xu’s.
Mu Qian, too, was highly satisfied with Lu Xu’s performance.
There were some things he couldn’t say openly to actors like Han Xiao, but he had no reservations about discussing them with Jin Mu. “Lu Xu’s been under heavy fire lately. All because he starred in a movie? Do people really think he’s suddenly soaring to the top?”
“What did Lu Xu ever do to deserve this?”
During the days when they weren’t filming, Mu Qian had closely followed all the gossip online. He had a clear understanding of the source of the conflict between Lu Xu and Zhang Che.
It all started with the Stellar Awards, where Lu Xu, who had been nominated, consoled Zhang Che, who hadn’t received a nomination.
Then came the simultaneous release of The Empress and The Path of Bones. Zhang Che’s agency actively tried to sabotage The Path of Bones in favor of The Empress.
In Mu Qian’s eyes, Lu Xu hadn’t done anything wrong.
As for Zhang Zhizhen’s remarks, they might fool outsiders, but anyone within the industry could see the truth—Zhang Zhizhen was clearly eyeing Lu Xu’s popularity and trying to lure more of his fans into theaters.
But Lu Xu didn’t fall for it.
The golden era that had belonged to Zhang Zhizhen in the ’80s and ’90s was long gone.
However, directors like him still clung to the glory of the past, yearning to return to the days when they could call the shots and command attention.
In Mu Qian’s opinion, the declining appeal of the movie industry to audiences today was largely because some individuals, who should have stepped down long ago, stubbornly refused to leave, leaving no room for new talents to thrive.
Lately, Mu Qian had been busy filming When I Was 18. On the one hand, he didn’t have the time to call out Zhang Zhizhen. On the other hand, doing so wouldn’t benefit the crew in any way.
Mu Qian didn’t believe The Swordsman would achieve high box office returns.
If Zhang Zhizhen could win over audiences with the storyline alone, he wouldn’t have approached Lu Xu in the first place, and, after being rejected by him, turned to Zhang Che.
…
While Lu Xu was quietly filming with the crew of When I Was 18, Zhang Che’s side was full of excitement.
With covers on three major magazines and an endorsement deal with M-brand, Zhang Che had been riding high, strutting around like the top young actor of his generation.
After joining the cast of The Swordsman, the publicity blitz never stopped. One moment, there were candid behind-the-scenes shots; the next, character designs from the film. Then came leaks from one of his stunt doubles, praising the beauty of the real locations used in the movie. To top it off, Zhang Che and Zhang Zhizhen took turns lavishing each other with glowing compliments.
Zhang Che wasn’t even having late-night emo anymore.
Even Xu Wen couldn’t help but complain, “Is this a movie shoot or a reality show? I don’t remember Zhang Zhizhen being like this before.”
He reminisced about a time when an actress he once managed had collaborated with Zhang Zhizhen. Of course, that was a long time ago.
Back then, Zhang Zhizhen was meticulous about the script and extremely strict with the actors. Sometimes, even after the entire film was completed, actors couldn’t say for certain who they had worked with—scenes involving actors without direct interactions were deliberately filmed separately.
“Maybe they’re trying to save on promotional expenses?” Lu Xu speculated. “This way, without much advertising, the audience would naturally know about The Swordsman.”
“Maybe.”
Although Lu Xu hadn’t been paying attention to the filming details of The Swordsman, he couldn’t avoid seeing all sorts of leaks and rumors about it.
And, of course, plenty of them involved stepping on him.
Lu Xu himself wasn’t afraid of Zhang Zhizhen and wouldn’t have minded directly calling out his lies. However, a senior executive at Feiyang Entertainment specifically sought him out for a talk regarding the matter.
On one hand, Zhang Zhizhen had mentored several artists from Feiyang Entertainment in his early years. If Lu Xu openly criticized him, it would put the company in an awkward position.
On the other hand, Zhang Zhizhen was an established, long-famous director. Even if Lu Xu defended himself, the number of people who believed him would likely still fall short of those siding with Zhang Zhizhen.
“Whatever you want to say, wait until The Swordsman is released, okay?”
To address the fact that Lu Xu had been unfairly treated, Feiyang Entertainment made amendments to his contract, slightly increasing his share of the revenue.
As for Zhang Che—
Zhang Che’s fans had recently shifted their focus to global recognition, paying little attention to domestic awards, especially television awards, which they now deemed beneath him. They frequently disparaged the Stellar Awards, accusing them of bias. Some even suggested that the nomination had been unfairly handed to Lu Xu, who was signed with Feiyang Entertainment.
The Stellar Awards committee members, of course, weren’t deaf to these remarks.
It’s widely known that the judges of major domestic awards are… rather petty.
This assessment is quite fair, considering that directors, screenwriters, and actors alike must maintain good relationships with the judges to have a chance of winning.
In other words, the Stellar Awards committee was accustomed to sitting on a pedestal, unaccustomed to criticism, let alone the direct attacks from Zhang Che’s fans.
The previous year’s nomination list had already been finalized, leaving the committee little room to act at the time.
This year, however, Zhang Che didn’t have any shows eligible for nomination, so withholding a nomination wouldn’t affect him directly.
But the Stellar Awards weren’t about to take things lying down.
Zhang Che didn’t care about the Stellar Awards?
Well—whether it was intentional or not—M-brand was notably excluded from this year’s official jewelry partner list for the awards.
Last year, M-brand had been one of the sponsors, but this year, it was conspicuously absent.
As the brand ambassador for M-brand, Zhang Che naturally wouldn’t be walking the red carpet at the Stellar Awards. In previous years, M-brand had always been a fixture on that carpet.
This year, however, the Stellar Awards partnered with C-brand for their jewelry collaboration.
Industry insiders quickly picked up on the underlying message. Although the nomination list for this year’s Stellar Awards hadn’t been released yet, stars who intended to attend the awards ceremony or had performed well in last year’s dramas promptly and tacitly instructed their companies to borrow jewelry from other brands.
Initially, M-brand didn’t realize what was happening. After all, there were typically only one or two official jewelry partners for the Stellar Awards each year, and being passed over wasn’t unheard of—it might simply mean that C-brand’s PR team had outperformed them this year.
However, as the list was finalized, and the usual influx of requests from celebrities to borrow jewelry failed to materialize, even M-brand, slow as they were, began to sense that something was off.