Chapter 127: A New Film
The number of scripts sent to Lu Xu’s hands had doubled, and film scripts far outnumbered TV scripts.
“Are there really this many scripts waiting to be filmed in a year?” Lu Xu asked curiously.
“Not all of them make it to release after being filmed,” Xu Wen replied. “Too many end up shelved.”
Lu Xu noticed that the scripts he received were highly repetitive—just this morning, he had read through ten youth drama scripts.
The protagonists switched from playing badminton to basketball or volleyball, while the romantic subplots were crammed in abundantly. The main focus was always on the conflict between athletic dreams and harsh realities.
Among them, Lu Xu found an interesting horror script. It was suspenseful, and the horror scenes were cleverly designed. Unfortunately, the market for horror films was currently very narrow. Lu Xu had rarely seen a successful horror movie; most only lasted a few days in theaters before ending up on streaming platforms.
“Didn’t find anything suitable?” Xu Wen asked.
Lu Xu nodded.
Xu Wen picked out a variety of scripts for Lu Xu, covering all sorts of genres. There were even a few artistic urban dramas centered on themes like the “seven-year itch” in marriage.
These types of films seemed to aim for both box office success and awards. Lu Xu had never acted in such a genre before, but he felt that scripts written to win awards often came off as forced and lacked a natural flow. The character portrayals weren’t particularly deep either.
Lu Xu couldn’t immerse himself in those scripts. Even if he forced himself to take on such roles, he wouldn’t be able to bring out the essence of the characters.
As for the other scripts, Lu Xu glanced through them and found a decent police drama. However, the role he could take didn’t have enough standout moments.
“What about playing a villain?” Xu Wen asked, glancing at him. “Would you consider that?”
“There’s actually a script here where I think you could shine,” Xu Wen said. “But you’ll have to compete for the role—there are plenty of interested actors.”
Although this character was a villain, the personality and design were highly intriguing. It was particularly suitable for actors looking to transition in their careers. Moreover, there were no age restrictions for the role—actors aged anywhere from their thirties to forties, the backbone of the industry, could play it.
The best part was that this character had substantial screen time, with a presence that even overshadowed the protagonist.
The production team hadn’t initially considered Lu Xu for the role, but Xu Wen had been keeping an eye on it for him.
It was a renowned director, a major production, balancing both narrative and artistic value. On top of that, the director’s previous films had achieved impressive box office results.
Naturally, actors within the industry flocked to work with this director.
He only directed crime films and was a master of crafting criminal art. His works delved deeply into the cruelty and darkness of the world, and his mastery of visual storytelling was widely acknowledged in the industry.
For actors, appearing in one of his films was considered a ticket to stardom.
“What we’re looking at now is just the initial script,” Xu Wen said. “Once filming begins, the details will definitely be refined. You know how it is—top-tier directors always have their quirks.”
“Director Mu Lang is still meticulous, though. Over the years, he’s maintained an exceptionally high standard and isn’t one of those who chase fame without substance.”
“He’s also a fairly low-profile person,” Xu Wen emphasized to Lu Xu. “But his personality is very eccentric, and his casting criteria are impossible to predict. For one role in his last film, according to the actor himself, he was chosen because his shoe size was just right.”
Lu Xu: “?”
“That’s how it is.” Xu Wen gave a wry smile. “Not your average level of eccentric, huh?”
“Even big-name actors have to hold back their egos in front of him,” Xu Wen added, recounting an incident where a well-known middle-aged star had caused trouble on set, relying on his popularity, only to be kicked out of the crew by Mu Lang himself.
That middle-aged actor had only acted out once, but his film career had struggled ever since. While his peers were steadily winning awards and rising to stardom, he remained stuck in the television industry, paying a hefty price for his actions.
However, it wasn’t due to any revenge from Mu Lang. The actor’s own personality made him difficult to work with, and the roles that others could easily secure often eluded him.
On the flip side, many actors had achieved rapid success by starring in Mu Lang’s films.
Lu Xu had watched Mu Lang’s films before. The characters were always rich in tension, and the plots often featured surprising twists. Some of Mu Lang’s works had even been adapted by international directors, receiving solid reviews and maintaining strong popularity.
Objectively speaking, Mu Lang had a remarkable ability to showcase actors’ talents. Though he wasn’t a cinematographer like Zhang Zhizhen, he had a distinct taste in how he framed his shots. Even if an actor didn’t win any awards, they could still leave behind a timeless, iconic role in his films.
“I’ll give it a try,” Lu Xu said. “This character is interesting.”
Lu Xu had played a villain before, such as Ji Xiuya, but Ji Xiuya wasn’t the type of villain with a cunning mind or complex schemes. He was more of a brute-force antagonist—a walking bomb with maximum destructive power that everyone avoided.
At the moment, Lu Xu didn’t need to consider transitioning his career or proving his acting skills through villain roles. However, he was genuinely intrigued by this particular character. The mysterious nature of the role, with layers of depth hinted at just through dialogue, was enough to ignite his curiosity.
Suddenly, Lu Xu thought of something and turned to Xu Wen. “Are there any films worth investing in lately?”
Since earning a considerable sum from the box office success of Deception, Lu Xu had been considering investments. He saw it as a way to build goodwill and connections in the industry. Though he had plenty of resources at the moment, there was no guarantee he’d always have roles to play in the future.
Lu Xu didn’t have time to keep up with the latest promising scripts. Big-name directors or those with a history of excellent work didn’t lack investors, so it wasn’t as if he could swoop in and provide funding to them.
He entrusted this matter to Xu Wen, asking his manager to keep an eye out for opportunities on his behalf.
“There actually is something,” Xu Wen said, sitting down and taking a sip of water before slowly continuing. “But unfortunately, it’s not a role you can take.”
Most of the projects Xu Wen presented to Lu Xu were films spearheaded by female directors, with women as the central focus.
Compared to male directors, female directors faced much greater challenges in the film industry. Female-centric works were rare in the circle because everyone knew that films led by women “don’t make money.”
Objectively speaking, the lack of female-centric films was already disheartening, but in the vast majority of movies, female characters were relegated to secondary roles, often serving as decorative elements. If not part of an award-focused production, there had been a brief period when “chick flicks” enjoyed some popularity, but even those had disappeared from the market in recent years.
Lu Xu picked up one of the scripts and skimmed through it. It was a martial arts film.
Martial arts films were already a niche genre, and a female-centric martial arts film was even more so. However, this script was written with exceptional detail, vividly portraying the fiery, righteous spirit of the martial arts world.
It wasn’t like The Swordsman, a martial arts film that felt overly abstract and disconnected from reality. Instead, it was grounded, solid, and filled with genuine storytelling.
When Lu Xu had decided to invest in films, he hadn’t been solely focused on making money. He carefully evaluated scripts, knowing that other investors might not be as discerning. To be frank, even for a new director’s work, as long as the film demonstrated potential, there was always someone with a keen eye who would recognize its value.
Xu Wen had taken Lu Xu’s mindset into account, which was why he recommended these relatively “niche” films.
This particular film told the story of the founder of a certain martial arts style. However, because one of the founder’s successors had gained immense fame, there hadn’t been much attention paid to the founder within the industry.
After all, it was martial arts. It was kung fu.
In most people’s minds, kung fu was similarly regarded as a man’s domain. Male directors were more inclined to channel their passion for martial arts into male-centric stories.
“Are you planning to invest in this one?” Xu Wen asked.
Lu Xu nodded. “What can I say? I’ve got too much money.”
Xu Wen: “…”
He… didn’t want to say anything.
But Lu Xu wasn’t wrong—he spent so much time on set that he earned money far faster than he could spend it.
Lu Xu suddenly remembered the horror film script he had read earlier. “Does that one still have a funding gap? If it does, I could invest in it too.”
While horror films might not perform spectacularly in theaters, if they were well-made, they could still achieve decent success once they hit streaming platforms.
Xu Wen left with Lu Xu’s requests, while Lu Xu used his free time to watch more of Mu Lang’s films. He had to admit, though Mu Lang hadn’t directed many films, the quality of his work was indisputable.
…
Mo Qi returned home disappointed yet again.
The Female Grandmaster was a martial arts script she had co-created with her friend Lin Hui. The two had known each other since university—Mo Qi majored in directing, while Lin Hui studied screenwriting. They had clicked from the start.
In their senior year, Mo Qi and Lin Hui co-wrote a script that was a big hit when performed at their college showcase. Lin Hui later entered a screenwriting competition hosted by a company, won a prize, and embarked on her professional screenwriting career. Meanwhile, Mo Qi started directing short films and gradually transitioned to feature-length projects.
As a female director and screenwriter duo, their works naturally focused on amplifying women’s voices. The Female Grandmaster was a project they had been nurturing for a long time and had finally completed together.
Unfortunately, the script faced obstacles at every turn as they tried to pitch it to investors.
Those investors, as soon as they met Mo Qi and realized she was a female director, would reject her outright.
Some investors, however, waited until they had read the script for The Female Grandmaster before declining.
“This film has no potential.”
“Miss, your intentions are good, but your ideas are far too naive. During that era, women had very low status. Could a female martial arts grandmaster really carve out her own legacy?”
“A script that can’t make money is worthless—garbage.”
At first, Mo Qi approached large film production companies. After hitting dead ends for a while, she realized that these companies had no shortage of scripts to produce, and The Female Grandmaster didn’t have what it took to attract their interest.
She then shifted her focus to smaller, reputation-focused investors, including participating in initiatives like the industry’s “Rising Star Program.”
But unfortunately, The Female Grandmaster still failed to garner any attention.
Over time, both Mo Qi and Lin Hui began to lose hope.
To write this script, they had poured in a great deal of effort—researching historical records, conducting on-site visits, and even delving into local folklore—all to make the script as captivating as possible.
They simply wanted to tell the audience about an exceptional woman, someone whose name deserved to be remembered, a figure who had acted with integrity and left a bold mark on the martial arts world.
“No one’s willing to invest,” Mo Qi said dejectedly. “Recently, someone approached me about making short dramas. I’m thinking maybe I could shoot a few more of those, save up some money, and then we can tighten our belts and finish this movie ourselves.”
“Then I’ll ask my parents for help,” Lin Hui replied.
“I’ll go too.”
Given that both Mo Qi and Lin Hui could afford to study arts programs like directing and screenwriting, their families were clearly well-off. But the production costs for a film were staggering—burning through money faster than they could manage.
“Why don’t I have ten million?”
“Why won’t some big investor at least give me a chance?”
Mo Qi let out a loud howl, praying that one of the new investors, industry veterans, or even brokers she had recently reached out to would contact her.
At the exact moment her frustrated cry ended, her phone actually rang.
Unfortunately, the number wasn’t from any of her saved contacts.
Feeling a slight pang of disappointment, Mo Qi picked up the call.
After a day of setbacks, the corners of her mouth naturally turned downward.
She couldn’t even muster a smile—she really couldn’t.
Then, from the other end of the line came a deep male voice, asking about The Female Grandmaster and expressing an interest in investing.
Mo Qi’s brain buzzed loudly. She didn’t catch much else, only the word “invest.”
After hanging up, she immediately rushed to inform Lin Hui about someone showing interest in The Female Grandmaster.
Lin Hui, however, sounded cautious. “Could it be a scam? Is it a private investor or a production company?”
“Private.”
Lin Hui quickly warned her, “Then be careful. It’s more reliable if there’s a company backing it. Private investors might not be trustworthy.”
“The investor’s name is Lu Xu.”
Lin Hui: “?”
Mo Qi: “!”
“?”
“!!!”
It was the Lu Xu himself!