Chapter 94: Casting Spells

[If creating shit counts as art, then I’d rather never understand this kind of art in my entire life.]

[As someone who doesn’t understand art, I never even considered watching The Swordsman, thank you very much.]

[LOL, as a paying audience member, I hadn’t even started criticizing your movie, and you’re already blaming the audience for it being trash.]

[I’m never buying another ticket to a Zhang Zhizhen movie again in this lifetime.]

Zhang Zhizhen’s comment section was drowned in insults. He tried to maintain his “great director” posture, but the public wasn’t having any of it.

Zhang Zhizhen, accustomed to being above it all, couldn’t grasp the mindset of the average viewer. Naturally, the viewers saw no need to understand him either.

They just kept venting their anger.

In the end, it was the investors behind The Swordsman who stepped in, demanding that Zhang Zhizhen disable the comments on his Weibo. Only then did the flame war finally come to an end.

Opposing the audience = opposing money. The investors, who were footing the bill, obviously understood this truth better than anyone.

By this point, The Swordsman’s reputation had been thoroughly destroyed.

On Friday night, its box office revenue stalled at 74.23 million yuan, with no further updates. By Saturday morning, when the weekend box office surge should have kicked in, The Swordsman’s total box office stood at—1.76 million yuan.

Yes, just 1.76 million yuan.

On the daily box office rankings, The Swordsman was sitting in seventh place, trailing behind two other new releases and several successful films from the summer season.

Equally notable as the 1.76 million yuan revenue was The Swordsman’s still-dominant screening rate, which remained the highest among all movies showing that day.

Among the films playing that day, The Swordsman had double the screening rate of the current box office leader, a suspense film, yet its revenue was less than one-tenth of the latter’s.

[This is the ultimate strategy to drive away audiences—I’ve never seen anything like it.]

[To be fair, isn’t this exactly what the Swordsman production team deserves?]

[No need to feel down, Director Zhang. At least 1.76 million yuan worth of viewers understood your art.]

Throughout Saturday, The Swordsman failed to break 10 million yuan in daily box office revenue. Meanwhile, the comedy and suspense films released at the same time both surpassed 100 million yuan. In stark contrast, The Swordsman’s total box office revenue lingered at just over 80 million yuan, falling short of the 100 million mark.

More embarrassingly, half of that 80 million yuan had come from pre-sale tickets purchased before the movie’s release.

As dismal as the numbers were, nobody sympathized with The Swordsman.

After all, the director himself had declared that audiences didn’t understand art. Were those same “unappreciative” viewers supposed to hand over their money to support him?

#Not That Masochistic

Even Zhang Che’s fans, as dedicated as they were, couldn’t salvage the film’s disastrous box office performance.

On Saturday, The Swordsman managed to maintain its high screening rate, but by Sunday, even the wealthiest theater chains couldn’t justify wasting valuable slots on such a box office flop. The Swordsman’s screening rate plummeted, falling behind the two other films released at the same time and even lagging behind a movie that had been in theaters for 20 days.

The investors and distributors found it increasingly difficult to justify spending more money to buy trending hashtags for The Swordsman. The film’s production budget had already exceeded 100 million yuan, with a similarly staggering amount spent on marketing. Since the movie wasn’t earning money, the priority became cutting losses wherever possible.

“At this rate, it’ll be nearly impossible for The Swordsman to hit the 100-million mark,” Xu Wen commented. “Yesterday, at least, it made over 10 million. But today? I’d be surprised if it even reaches 5 million.”

The film’s box office trajectory was like a free-fall amusement park ride: a sudden, plummeting drop.

Lu Xu remarked, “It’s… impressive.”

But in his view, this outcome was exactly what The Swordsman deserved.

A poorly written script that made no sense was bad enough—at most, audiences would dismiss Zhang Zhizhen as someone with limited creative talent. But blaming the low box office on the audience? Who could tolerate that?

After years of working as an actor, Lu Xu had come to one simple conclusion: anyone who disrespected the audience would eventually pay the price.

Zhang Zhizhen’s arrogance was practically overflowing, but what gave him the right to be so condescending?

Was it because he had made The Swordsman, a film that nobody could even understand?

Lu Xu’s anger wasn’t about Zhang Zhizhen stepping on his head for rejecting the role and then badmouthing him afterward. Truthfully, from the very beginning, Lu Xu had been deeply dissatisfied with The Swordsman’s script.

The Swordsman was not a film made for the audience—it was purely a vessel for Zhang Zhizhen’s so-called “artistic fantasies.” In fact, it could even be described as his “artistic fetish.”

This wasn’t much different from an exhibitionist, except while exhibitionists bare their bodies, Zhang Zhizhen was exposing his delusions of artistic grandeur.

Lu Xu couldn’t help but feel sorry for anyone who had watched The Swordsman.

“I wonder how the Swordsman production team plans to handle the fallout,” Lu Xu mused. “Things are bound to get lively again.”

“Absolutely,” Xu Wen replied. “Just wait and see.”

The estimated investment in The Swordsman was around 300 million yuan. Most scenes were shot on location, with only the fight sequences relying on green screens. Since the beginning of its promotional campaign, the film had poured vast sums of money into marketing. While the results were underwhelming, the expenditure was very real.

If one were to combine production costs, marketing, and miscellaneous expenses, the total would likely reach 500 million yuan. For the production team to break even, the film would need to achieve a box office gross of 1.5 billion yuan.

But as it stood, The Swordsman’s total earnings had yet to hit even 100 million yuan, and a significant portion of that would be taken by theater chains.

In other words, the gaping financial shortfall—who would be responsible for filling it?

The lead actor, Wei Qiao, had disappeared from the public eye early on. Zhang Zhizhen, meanwhile, was busy arguing with netizens. Logic would dictate that the director should shoulder the blame.

But Zhang Zhizhen?

He was a towering figure in the film industry—a veteran who had been making movies long before box office performance was even a consideration in China. With his temperament, he would never willingly accept responsibility for The Swordsman’s catastrophic failure.

After all, this was the same man who would rather accuse the audience of lacking artistic sensibility than admit that The Swordsman was a cinematic disaster.

So, on a day when the pitiful state of The Swordsman elicited more sympathy than ridicule, a visibly subdued Zhang Zhizhen appeared on camera.

He agreed to an exclusive interview with Film magazine.

In the interview, Zhang Zhizhen admitted, with unusual candor, that he had been ill-prepared for The Swordsman. He confessed that while he had built a “martial arts world of his own imagination,” he had failed to create the kind of world the audience wanted to see.

He also acknowledged missteps in the casting process: “We strayed from our original choices. Some actors misunderstood the script, and I shouldn’t have compromised.”

The Film magazine journalist didn’t ask which actor Zhang Zhizhen meant by “certain actors,” but later in the interview, Zhang Zhizhen praised lead actor Wei Qiao and also commended Yin Yin, who played the adopted daughter in the film.

It became clear who “certain actors” referred to.

Zhang Che’s fans were furious.

[Only 20 minutes?! 20 minutes of screen time can’t possibly ruin your 140-minute trash fire of a movie!]

[Ha, so now you’re shifting the blame, huh?]

[The movie itself was terrible, thanks. It’s so bad, yet you keep dragging Zhang Che onto trending topics—what are you even thinking, Director?]

[If not for Zhang Che, The Swordsman wouldn’t even have hit 50 million at the box office!]

In truth, this mess wasn’t entirely Zhang Zhizhen’s fault.

Because Zhang Che had spiraled into his own emo phase.

He didn’t dare post publicly on Weibo but instead dropped into a fan group late one night to share his regrets.

[I didn’t understand the script and felt anxious every day.]

[There were parts of the script I couldn’t grasp, but I was too scared to ask. If I did, the director would have scolded me for sure.]

[It’s my fault. The director was so emotional, and I should’ve calmed him down. Things wouldn’t have gotten this bad otherwise.]

[I just can’t figure it out—how did The Swordsman end up like this?]

This message was screenshotted by someone and sent straight to Zhang Zhizhen.

Zhang Zhizhen was furious.

Inviting Zhang Che had already been a fallback after Lu Xu turned him down, and now Zhang Che had the audacity to complain?

Was it Zhang Zhizhen who begged Zhang Che to take the role?

Not at all. Lu Xu had declined, and Zhang Che had enthusiastically jumped at the opportunity. Since Zhang Che was a relatively well-known actor among the younger generation, Zhang Zhizhen had merely settled for him.

Zhang Che felt shortchanged, but if not for starring in The Swordsman, where would his luxury endorsements and cover features in top magazines have come from?

Sure, The Swordsman was a flop, but that didn’t mean Zhang Che didn’t benefit from it.

Now he was complaining about The Swordsman being marketed as “Zhang Che’s debut film.” Wasn’t this promotional angle a mutual agreement between The Swordsman’s production team and Ye Hai Entertainment?

Besides, the character Zhang Che played wasn’t particularly artistic. When it came to understanding film as an art form, Zhang Che lagged behind the other cast members by a significant margin.

This was clearly the aftereffect of acting in too many TV dramas.

To correct Zhang Che’s bad habits, Zhang Zhizhen believed he had done his utmost. Even Zhang Che’s one highlight-worthy scene in The Swordsman—his only redeemable moment—was a result of Zhang Zhizhen meticulously adjusting the angles and setting the atmosphere.

Zhang Che himself didn’t even look that good!

If Zhang Che had started something, he couldn’t blame Zhang Zhizhen for finishing it.

Zhang Che should be grateful for the opportunity to star in The Swordsman.

Zhang Zhizhen’s candid remarks in the Film magazine interview were clearly a counterattack aimed at Zhang Che. However, Ye Hai Entertainment wasn’t slow to respond.

Shortly afterward, a former long-time employee of Zhang Zhizhen’s studio came forward, revealing that Zhang Zhizhen had been “flopping for years.” The role in The Swordsman was initially offered to Lu Xu, but Lu Xu had turned it down after reading the script.

[Anyone who’s seen the movie knows how terrible it is. Lu Xu has a reputation for picking good scripts—why would he step into that mess?]

[When Lu Xu declined, Zhang Zhizhen started pretending he didn’t know him. But come on, you were the one who approached Lu Xu first!]

[This guy is a piece of work. There’s so much dirt on him that we can’t even keep track anymore. Honestly, The Swordsman flopping should be the director’s responsibility, right? But instead, he’s trying to pin it on Zhang Che. The lead in The Swordsman is clearly Wei Qiao, not Zhang Che.]

Ye Hai Entertainment had pinned high hopes on The Swordsman. After all, Zhang Che was currently their most profitable male artist. Seeing him nearly ruined by the film, Ye Hai could no longer care about Zhang Zhizhen’s standing in the industry.

The Swordsman had thoroughly sabotaged Zhang Che.

However—somehow, the blame circled back and managed to intersect with Lu Xu.

A reporter specifically sought out Lu Xu for an interview, asking him what he thought about The Swordsman’s flop and whether he was happy about not taking the role.

Caught on camera in high-definition, Lu Xu’s entire expression radiated confusion:

“Huh?”

Reporter: “…”

The face was handsome, but the person… seemed a bit dazed.

The interview fell apart right there.

Of course, Lu Xu did follow up later—he posted a meme of a puppy riding a bike and captioned it: “Puppy knows nothing.”

[Combining English and Chinese—truly cultured.]

[Clearly someone who understands art.]

[LOL. If he truly understood art, maybe he’d have grasped The Swordsman’s script and accepted it.]

[Lu Xu: ‘Grateful my younger self didn’t understand art.’]

Lu Xu made a clear effort to show he had nothing to do with the mess. After all, The Swordsman’s failure had absolutely nothing to do with him. He couldn’t understand why reporters insisted on connecting him to the film.

At least with Rising Sun, he had auditioned for the role. But with The Swordsman, he had no actual involvement. From the moment he first read the script, it was clear he would steer far away from it.

The issue was that, during The Swordsman’s release, When I Was 18 was airing its finale.

While the The Swordsman crew was embroiled in a loud dispute, the buzz around When I Was 18 only increased day by day. Some netizens even commented that Lu Xu was “secretly casting his spell,” giving The Swordsman a profound lesson through his success in a completely different genre.

Lu Xu: “…”

#I didn’t say anything weird#

#Am I really that capable?#

#Maybe I should try it one day#

#How do you chant this spell again?#

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