Chapter 110: New Movie
Although the statement cleared Qi Di of responsibility, netizens were not convinced. After all, compared to evidence of Qi Di grinning with his pearly whites and “amicably” taking photos with domestic fans, there was far more evidence of him showing disdain for fans and other celebrities.
[Once again, Puppy’s magic was activated. Honestly, why did you provoke him for no reason?]
[…Earlier, I saw someone in the fashion industry reveal something. It seems that Qi Di has been vying for the C-brand endorsement over the past few years. His performance has been decent, but his general popularity just doesn’t measure up. The C-brand ended up choosing Lu Xu, who is stronger overall.]
[As it turns out, the C-brand made the right choice. Even when Lu Xu participates in overseas events, he fulfills his duties as a spokesperson perfectly. Honestly, if Qi Di had been chosen with his temperament, would the C-brand have survived?]
[One more thing: fashion is all about the face. The same brand can look completely different on different people. The contrast between Lu Xu and this so-called ‘high-end face’ is especially stark.]
Because of a set of comparison photos posted by netizens, Qi Di’s reputation plummeted. Although Liu Rennong’s studio continued to fight for resources on his behalf, investors remained cautious. Qi Di had stepped on precisely the point that film investors are most wary of.
At least for the foreseeable future, Qi Di would find it difficult to act so arrogantly again.
…
Lu Xu no longer paid any attention to Qi Di, merely marveling at how the latter could be so two-faced. “Do his fans owe him money?”
Xu Wen shook his head. “Not only do they not owe him money, they’d probably willingly give him money, but even that wouldn’t earn them a smile from him.”
Lu Xu couldn’t comprehend this kind of lofty attitude, going against benefactors and money alike. He certainly couldn’t pull it off himself.
Instead, he remembered the trouble he’d gotten into with Liu Rennong.
Lu Xu had just brought it up when Xu Wen handed him another stack of scripts.
“What’s there to worry about? Liu Rennong doesn’t control the entire industry. If you can’t star in his films, there are plenty of other directors’ films to choose from.”
The overseas success of Deception and the fact that Lu Xu had offended two industry heavyweights, Zhang Zhizhen and Liu Rennong, ironically earned him favor with a new wave of up-and-coming directors. Recently, he was receiving even more scripts.
Surprisingly, two of them were for youth films!
Lu Xu was a little excited.
He wasn’t that old, and he certainly wasn’t unattractive (at least in his own opinion). Yet for some reason, ever since Son of Heaven aired, no youth drama productions had approached him.
The same went for films!
Lu Xu had once suspected that playing too many dark and brooding characters had made audiences associate his face with creepiness.
“It’s pretty creepy,” was the blunt answer from Zheng Xiao and Shao Yao. “You’re the king of creepy. We might as well crown you the King of Creeps.”
Lu Xu: “…”
He decided to secretly sell Zheng Xiao and Shao Yao’s bicycles.
No, better yet, he’d buy a rival brand’s bike instead. That way, Zheng Xiao’s sponsor would find out that their ambassador couldn’t even promote their product successfully to the people around him!
Xu Wen added, “Maybe production teams think you’re not interested in sunny, cheerful roles?”
Lu Xu: “…”
After reflecting for a moment, he realized he couldn’t blame them for the misconception.
It was his own fault.
None of the roles he had played had anything to do with being sunny or cheerful!
Of the two youth films, Lu Xu didn’t like one of them very much. Though it was labeled a youth film, its core was dark and gloomy. The protagonist faced oppressive parents, cold relationships with classmates, and a future devoid of light. Everything was shrouded in gray, and the light he pursued never ultimately reached him.
Lu Xu felt like he was reading a youth-centric version of The Path of Bones, with the father-son relationship in the script resembling a modern-day version of Son of Heaven, only even more despairing.
At least Yu Yi avenged his friends in The Path of Bones, and in Son of Heaven, although Qin Zhao and Emperor Cheng were nominally father and son, their relationship was fundamentally that of ruler and subject.
This script was just too oppressive, too tragic.
Though Lu Xu believed that if this film were made, it could resonate deeply with some young people—it vividly captured the extreme realities of certain lives—he still preferred stories with at least a glimmer of hope.
It was the same reason he disliked Eternal Night. This youth film similarly highlighted issues without offering solutions. The script’s portrayal of darkness and oppression would only serve to make the already gloomy and repressed feel even more so, without providing any outlet for release or means of self-redemption.
The production team had communicated with Xu Wen, expressing their desire for a skilled young actor who could portray the struggles of contemporary youth. From that perspective, Lu Xu was an obvious choice.
The team was incredibly enthusiastic and even offered Lu Xu a pay rate well above the standard. However, he still decided to decline.
He simply didn’t like the script; reading it left him feeling uncomfortable.
The second script, however, was a genre Lu Xu had never tackled before.
To be precise, it was the kind of role that portrayed a sunny, cheerful, “big golden retriever” type—a sporty, optimistic boy, much like how fans often imagined him.
Although…he wasn’t exactly a sports enthusiast in real life.
Before joining a production, Lu Xu would naturally adjust his state to fit the role, but in his day-to-day life, he was as lazy as he could get away with. Sure, he attended events often enough… but physical activity? Not so much.
His manager had no complaints about this, so Lu Xu didn’t consider it a flaw.
Compared to the previous script, this one was almost too cheerful, telling the story of boys and girls striving and fighting for their dreams.
“Striving! Fighting! Passion! It’s perfect for me!”
His manager: “…”
The manager felt the need to look away.
Technically speaking, Lu Xu’s age was slightly on the higher side for this role. However, he didn’t have the kind of face that aged noticeably, and his overall vibe still felt youthful. Perhaps it was because he focused more on acting and avoided too many social events in the industry’s glitzy circles. He looked much the same as when he acted in My Baby Prince.
My Baby Prince was also a youth drama set in a school. While it leaned heavily into absurdity and melodrama with little actual connection to youth, it at least proved that Lu Xu could handle this type of role.
In this new script, the role being offered to Lu Xu was that of a young college athlete. After suffering a critical injury in an important high school competition, he was unable to achieve his dream of becoming a professional athlete despite making it into college.
Becoming a professional athlete had always been his ultimate goal, and he was willing to sacrifice everything for it. However, reality proved to be brutally unforgiving.
Even so, the character refused to give up. He committed himself to rehabilitation, training, and relentless perseverance. Starting with lower-tier competitions, he gradually worked his way back until, in the end, he stood in the arena he had dreamed of all along.
There was no doubt that this was a lead role. In the story, the character’s persistence was fueled by the encouragement and warmth of his friends, the love he received, and his own unwavering determination. Together, these factors culminated in his miraculous comeback.
The script contained very few distressing elements. The protagonist was always portrayed as positive, cheerful, and optimistic. Off the field, he was as lively and energetic as a husky, but on the field, he became as composed and powerful as a German Shepherd.
Xu Wen told Lu Xu that this script hadn’t been considered for anyone else—it was decided for him at first glance.
Xu Wen felt Lu Xu should give it a shot. Not because the production team was particularly eager to chase after him, but because this was a type of role Lu Xu had never tried before.
If he passed on it now, it might be difficult to revisit such opportunities later.
Many actors who achieve fame tend to avoid youth films, especially in the film industry. Esteemed directors often prefer crafting deep, meaningful stories, and youthful, energetic films are typically the domain of new directors making their debuts.
It was almost as if starring in a youth film would imply that the actor lacked maturity or that the project was just a “cash grab targeting fans.”
For instance, directors like Zhang Zhizhen disdained the idea of exploiting fans for money. He sought an audience that could “appreciate the art of cinema.” Even when his film The Swordsman featured Zhang Che, his goal wasn’t to milk Zhang Che’s fanbase but rather to “give a young actor who had never done a film a chance to open his eyes to the vast world.”
Lu Xu’s take on this: Let’s hope Zhang Che doesn’t open his eyes any further; he’s already been blindsided enough.
Lu Xu set the youth film script aside and studied other options. Eventually, though, his attention returned to the youth film.
Objectively speaking, there were good scripts in the industry. He’d come across some more artistic ones, but the characters offered to him were too deep and complex. Even he found it hard to untangle their nuances, let alone expect audiences to connect with them.
As for commercial films—it was evident that directors didn’t yet recognize his commercial appeal.
The film industry was, at its core, a place that favored stories about men, and this principle was even more apparent in commercial films. However, even in male-centric commercial films, the leading roles almost always went to middle-aged male stars.
Buddy cop films, investigative thrillers—these genres’ dual male lead setups typically relegated roles like Lu Xu’s to the supportive young officer or a standout villain. While these characters could have a strong presence, their screen time was minimal.
Young actors were essentially relegated to the sidelines.
Unless a major director crafted a role specifically for them—like the character Qi Di played in How Much Do You Know?—it was hard for them to break through.
The roles offered to Lu Xu in these films weren’t even as compelling as Yan Huan in Deception.
As an actor, he couldn’t allow his career to regress with each project.
Lu Xu couldn’t help but sigh, “Am I going to have to bake my own cake from now on?”
A certain actor, once a top star in the television industry, had faced a similar dilemma. In his youth, the film industry had written him off as unsuitable for movies. It wasn’t until he was much older—and after fostering close relationships with several directors—that he began landing high-quality films and winning awards.
Even then, the old-school directors still didn’t think much of him, claiming he wasn’t suited for film. Most of the roles he landed were thanks to favors from new directors or movies he invested in himself.
“It’s not impossible,” Xu Wen glanced at him. “You’ve got plenty of money now, don’t you?”
Lu Xu suddenly realized, “That’s true.”
After the massive box office success of Deception, Lu Xu started to understand why Yue Hui had transitioned to television.
Yue Hui was the kind of actor who could win awards but couldn’t reliably bring in box office revenue. As he aged, the roles available to him grew narrower. Faced with that reality, creating his own opportunities—his “own cakes”—became the only option.
Still, the success rate of such endeavors was painfully low. In that sense, Yue Hui had been exceptionally lucky.
Even though Deception had been a major success, Yue Hui didn’t attempt to bake another “cake.” Instead, he returned to acting. The long process of bringing Deception from script to screen—its development, production, and eventual release—was exhausting. The challenges and struggles along the way were far too much.
Yue Hui no longer had the energy to endure such grueling processes.
But Lu Xu was different—he was still young, and, most importantly, very rich.
After receiving his share of the profits from Deception, even health supplement companies started cold-calling him. To top it off, the insurance company that had once scammed the original owner of his assets enthusiastically reached out, asking if he was interested in purchasing another policy.
Lu Xu: “…”
Did he look like someone who’d wake up to find his billion swindled away?
Xu Wen: “Not quite.”
“You look more like someone who’d wake up to find his billion swindled away, get furious, and snatch back 999.9 million.”