Chapter 95: Joining the Crew
In the following period, Lu Xu observed the entire process of Zhang Zhizhen and Zhang Che clashing in the Deception production team.
For TV dramas, even if they flopped, streaming platforms could still provide some level of support. But when it came to films, if they flopped… other than losing one’s sanity, there seemed to be no other options.
Zhang Che’s fate was already sealed—he had been returned by the film industry.
If he hadn’t made such bold claims before, he could have gone back to acting in TV dramas. Unfortunately, he had also managed to offend the organizing committee of the Stellar Awards, leaving the path of using awards to cement his status entirely closed.
Thus, only one option remained for Zhang Che: acting in historical idol dramas, the very genre that had brought him fame but for which he held little appreciation.
However, the entertainment industry had always been a cycle of newcomers replacing the old. The historical idol drama track was crowded, filled with many young male actors eager to make a name for themselves.
Yet, even if Zhang Che was unwilling, there was no other choice. The Swordsman had flopped disastrously.
Although Zhang Che still had a devoted fan base and strong support, this time he still managed to lose a significant number of followers.
Back when Ye Hai Entertainment hinted that Lu Xu had snatched resources from Zhang Che, he had already lost quite a few fans. This time, aside from The Swordsman’s massive flop, some fans were beginning to realize that Zhang Che’s emo phase had fallen into a predictable pattern.
Almost every time, Zhang Che would express sadness, disappointment, and frustration, prompting his fans to fight for him.
If it had only happened once or twice, the less perceptive fans wouldn’t have noticed. A few years ago, when Zhang Che’s career was smooth, his emotional posts were mostly about dissatisfaction with himself, and fans could sense his ambition.
But now, every time Zhang Che posted late at night, his words carried strong implications.
If the Stellar Awards didn’t nominate him, it was Lu Xu’s fault. If The Swordsman flopped, it was Zhang Zhizhen’s fault. When a drama became a hit, the male lead didn’t deserve the credit—it had to be his. In other words, Zhang Che was never at fault.
In the past, Zhang Che had at least been somewhat subtle, but this time, the fans felt particularly exploited.
Zhang Che had been loved by so many people, and there were good reasons for that. For instance, he rose to fame through historical idol dramas, enduring repeated doubts from the industry. Yet, he had persevered, attempted to transition, and taken on diverse roles. At the very least, he had genuinely tried.
But now, both fans and casual observers shared the same sentiment—Zhang Che had changed.
[Why focus solely on the director’s reputation? It’s obvious the problem lies with the script of The Swordsman.]
[This is such an ugly fight.]
Zhang Zhizhen’s act of shifting blame aligned with his established persona. The director had always carried himself this way—looking down on his peers, dismissing TV dramas, and even disrespecting the audience. But Zhang Che was different. In the eyes of his fans, he had always been more focused on his craft.
However, this time, with more and more information about Zhang Zhizhen being exposed, many people got dragged into the mess.
Details about Zhang Zhizhen’s behavior during The Swordsman’s production came to light—his autocratic tendencies, his mistreatment of extras, and his disdain for actors who rose to fame through TV dramas. These things deserved to be revealed. But why weren’t they exposed during the filming of The Swordsman?
Why did it have to wait until The Swordsman completely flopped and everyone turned on it?
Claiming that these leaks weren’t orchestrated by Ye Hai Entertainment was something even the most naïve fans wouldn’t believe.
As a result, Zhang Che faced the greatest crisis of his acting career.
His past emotional outbursts were once again dug up. Even casual onlookers knew by now that every time Zhang Che went into an emo phase, someone else would inevitably take the fall.
[Hilarious. Watching this unfold, the only person who escaped Zhang Che’s emo curse is Lu Xu. Truly a case of fighting fire with fire.]
[Zhang Che: ‘Time to emo about someone today. Who should I pick?’]
[Help me, Puppy!!!]
When Lu Xu saw a flood of comments like “Help me, Puppy!” and “Protected by Puppy!” in the comment section, he was dumbfounded for a few seconds. Once he pieced together the context, he couldn’t help but feel a mix of helplessness and amusement.
Why go to such lengths? Wouldn’t it be better to focus on acting?
No matter how many tricks an actor plays outside the spotlight, their footing ultimately depends on their body of work.
…
That said, from a certain perspective, The Swordsman’s massive flop wasn’t entirely a bad thing.
Two other films released around the same time had solid quality. After The Swordsman surrendered its screening slots, the two films went on to achieve considerable box office success. It was a case of “one whale falls, and all life thrives.”
The only ones left bitter were the Swordsman crew.
Zhang Che was particularly frustrated.
Before The Swordsman’s release, he had presented himself as someone making strides into the film industry. Despite that, he still received offers to act in TV dramas. But now, the quality of opportunities that came his way had dropped significantly. One drama even approached him to play a supporting role.
“Me? A supporting role?” Zhang Che was so angry his muscles twitched. He couldn’t help but laugh incredulously. “Then who’s playing the lead?”
The production team, seemingly unaware of how the entertainment industry worked, replied with brutal honesty: “For the lead role, we’re considering casting Lu Xu.”
Zhang Che: “…”
Absolutely insane.
It wasn’t just about refusing to play second fiddle. Even if he agreed to a supporting role, he would never play second to Lu Xu.
…
While the Swordsman crew’s conflicts escalated into a noisy spectacle, Lu Xu remained quietly focused on filming Deception.
In the movie, Lu Xu’s character, Yan Huan, was a master of fraud who became entangled in a high-stakes con. He found himself hunted and cornered.
However, the best hunters often present themselves as prey.
Yan Huan appeared laid-back but always managed to strike at the heart of the matter. In this game of deception, he was the one who survived until the end.
Yan Huan was a character with multiple layers of disguise. Initially, he appeared as a timid and rigid bookworm. Later, he became the collective target of the con artists, seemingly their perfect prey. Only gradually did Yan Huan begin to peel back these facades, revealing a side of himself that seemed more genuine. Of course, even this “genuine” side did not necessarily reflect his true self.
He never showed his real self to anyone.
Not long after joining the crew, Lu Xu found himself interacting more frequently with Yue Hui.
Before this, he and Yue Hui had only crossed paths once at the Stellar Awards ceremony. Their subsequent interaction was limited to phone calls discussing the Deception script. While Lu Xu had readily agreed to collaborate, he didn’t actually know Yue Hui well.
However, after a few conversations on set, Lu Xu discovered that Yue Hui, despite his smooth and polished demeanor, was fundamentally a sincere person.
In other words, he was empathetic without coming across as fake.
The entertainment industry was filled with sharp and savvy individuals. Still, Lu Xu believed that anyone who managed to establish themselves in this world wouldn’t be overly slick or shrewd.
People who were excessively smooth operators and too clever to suffer even the smallest loss inevitably forced those around them to bear the cost instead.
The entire Deception crew was assembled by Yue Hui. The director, Gao Xingchuan, was only 27 years old and came from a background in short films. Prior to Deception, he had directed just one other movie, which shared a similar style but achieved mediocre box office results.
Lu Xu had taken the time to watch Gao Xingchuan’s earlier work. In his assessment, Gao had a remarkable talent for creating atmosphere. The film carried a touch of cultish flair. Although its story was straightforward, Gao’s direction imbued it with an eerie, unsettling tone.
In more detail, Gao Xingchuan had the ability to make even a plain story captivating through his masterful atmosphere-building.
“It’s really hard to write an engaging script nowadays,” Yue Hui explained when discussing why he had invited Gao Xingchuan. “There are only so many stories out there. Any creative idea we come up with has probably already been done by another movie.”
“So, producing something fresh is quite an achievement.”
Yue Hui wasn’t one to blindly revere renowned directors. Having worked in the film industry for a long time, he had collaborated with nearly all the notable directors in the business. However, being a well-known director didn’t mean one was all-powerful or adept at every genre.
Especially for a film like Deception, which didn’t follow a traditional narrative style, it was more suitable to choose a director with innovative ideas.
Lu Xu had read the entire script of Deception before joining the crew. After filming began, the actors, director, and writers held a meeting to discuss the approach to shooting.
In film production, the screenwriter’s influence isn’t as central as it is in television. While TV dramas are often more writer-driven, films rely on visual storytelling, music, and atmosphere to convey themes. This difference explains why cinematographers can transition into film directing, but television directors rarely can.
In movies, dialogue doesn’t carry as much weight as it does in TV dramas, though it’s not entirely insignificant—The Swordsman’s failure was proof of that.
From Lu Xu’s perspective, Zhang Zhizhen had been too focused on the audiovisual elements, neglecting the thinness of the script itself.
After this meeting and hearing the director and writers articulate their vision, Lu Xu began to feel the pressure.
To illustrate, Deception tells the story of a group of people drawn into a game where mutual deception escalates into a struggle for wealth. Each character harbors a dark, hidden past, including Yan Huan, disguised as Chang Qing, which is the reason he became involved in the game.
The original script followed a linear narrative: characters appeared one by one, the schemes unfolded, and events progressed sequentially. As an outsider observing the script, Lu Xu found the structure easy to follow.
However, Gao Xingchuan planned to dismantle this linearity. He wanted to rearrange the timeline, increasing the story’s deception and making it harder for the audience to predict the plot’s progression.
Lu Xu thought carefully about the proposed approach. Filming Deception this way would undoubtedly make it more intriguing, but it would also demand more creativity to support the narrative. At the very least, Gao Xingchuan would need to masterfully control the pacing to prevent the story from devolving into chaos.
He would have to be the steady anchor holding it all together.
…
Lu Xu quickly realized that Gao Xingchuan’s confidence in this method came from extensive preparation. During the set construction phase, Yue Hui had already shown Gao the script and discussed his ideas with him.
During Lu Xu’s time on set, Gao refined his vision, discarding any elements that didn’t hold up. This ensured that even with a non-linear narrative, the script’s logic remained seamless.
However, the actors now had to relearn their lines. The scenes filmed each day didn’t necessarily connect to those from the previous day, creating additional challenges.
Yue Hui, in particular, seemed to feel the strain more than others.
He wasn’t as quick at memorizing lines as Lu Xu. Age had also begun to affect his vision, so he always carried reading glasses, a notebook, and a pen. He meticulously wrote down the key points he needed to remember for the day.
Yue Hui’s script was similarly filled with neatly written notes, a stark contrast to some actors whose scripts were either pristinely untouched or covered with incomprehensible scribbles.
Despite its complexity, the atmosphere on the Deception set was notably calm. Apart from Lu Xu and Yue Hui, the rest of the cast wasn’t as well-known. Yet, when it came to performing, Lu Xu could tell immediately that they were immensely talented.
—And so was Yue Hui.
Lu Xu’s first scene with Yue Hui depicted the bookish “Chang Qing” meeting Yue Hui’s character, Shi Xinshan, for the first time. With just a few lines of dialogue, Shi Xinshan detected something off about “Chang Qing.”
Shi Xinshan resembled a fox, adept at subtly luring people into his traps without them even realizing it.
“Is the first scene today between Mr. Yue and Lu Xu?”
Early in the morning, the cast gathered to discuss the day’s shoot. When they saw Lu Xu and Yue Hui already preparing in the makeup chairs, their gazes naturally drifted toward the pair.
The cast of Deception was full of seasoned actors, and everyone was well aware of each other’s strengths.
Still, compared to Yue Hui, the group—comprising actors with extensive film experience—was less familiar with Lu Xu. Yue Hui’s decision to cast him as Yan Huan had sparked curiosity among the others about how Lu Xu would interpret the role.
Once Gao Xingchuan called for the cameras to roll, the set fell silent.
In the scene, it was Yue Hui who spoke first.
Using an unsettlingly upbeat tone, paired with a wrinkled smile that seemed almost predatory, he brought Shi Xinshan to life.
Although Yue Hui was more known for playing righteous characters, there was something deeply unnerving about Shi Xinshan—he exuded an air of cunning and eerie peculiarity.
When “Chang Qing” made his entrance, Shi Xinshan looked up and remarked, “A fresh face, eh?”
Chang Qing was dressed in a stiff, outdated shirt and thick glasses that resembled the bottoms of soda bottles. He seemed like an utterly ordinary person—so unremarkable, in fact, that one might not even bother striking up a conversation. Faced with this unfamiliar world he’d stumbled into, Chang Qing appeared genuinely uneasy.
Alienation was the defining trait that Chang Qing exuded at this moment.
His presence was so minimal that it was hard to believe the man behind the character was Lu Xu.
But this was exactly the impression Chang Qing was meant to give upon his debut.
No one could have predicted that he would be the one to survive until the end.
Lu Xu deliberately suppressed his star persona, burying it beneath Chang Qing’s heavy glasses. Even his strikingly handsome features were concealed, leaving only the character’s plain, awkward facade.