Chapter 140: A Battle of Acting Skills
The scene where Ji Chongyang and Luo Ying became friends played out in a calm atmosphere.
Reverse City had no shortage of intense moments, but a film couldn’t rely solely on adrenaline-pumping sequences to engage the audience—it needed a balance of tension and release. The scene Lu Xu was shooting today clearly belonged to the latter category.
Mu Lang was meticulous about camera work and emphasized the subtlety of an actor’s performance. Objectively speaking, even though Lu Xu felt that Zhao Yifan’s acting was already quite solid, he had still gone through multiple NGs.
In a TV drama, these moments could have been used as highlights to showcase acting skills.
Of course, the filming process for TV series and movies was vastly different. The time spent on a two-hour film could be enough to produce forty full episodes of a drama.
“Take it slow for this scene, no need to rush. Let it breathe,” Mu Lang instructed as he glanced at both Lu Xu and Zhao Yifan. “You need to leave room for the audience’s imagination.”
Despite having acted in three films, Lu Xu had never encountered a director who explained scenes the way Mu Lang did.
To be honest, Mu Lang’s directing style leaned toward the abstract. He wouldn’t dissect the script in detail, nor would he provide precise action guidance—everything relied on the actors’ own interpretation.
And yet, Mu Lang still added a pointed “Do you understand?”—which only left Lu Xu feeling even more bewildered.
He could only say that he probably understood the effect the director wanted to achieve.
The original script had already been condensed as much as possible. But after filming officially began, Lu Xu received a revised version, in which the lines had been simplified even further. He couldn’t even grasp what the phrase in parentheses—(improvise)—was supposed to mean.
There was no denying that Mu Lang was a director with a highly distinctive personal style.
Noticing that Lu Xu was still poring over his lines just moments before filming, Zhao Yifan shot him a subtle look.
“Lu Xu has only worked with rookie directors before, right?” he asked his manager.
The manager nodded. “As far as movies go, yes.”
“No wonder.”
Zhao Yifan had suspected as much—Lu Xu had likely worked with too many new directors, and rookie film crews tended to be more flexible. A big name like Lu Xu could interpret his role however he pleased, and no one would interfere.
But things were different with veteran directors. A great director would establish a rigid framework, leaving actors with no choice but to “dance in shackles.”
When Mu Lang finally announced the official start of filming, Zhao Yifan cast a discreet glance at Lu Xu.
In this scene, Ji Chongyang believed he had secretly passed along a message without anyone noticing. But the next moment, he overheard some gang members casually discussing the very same information. Panic surged within him—had his secret been exposed, or was someone merely testing him?
Just then, Luo Ying appeared, unknowingly shielding him from disaster.
Luo Ying wasn’t a high-ranking member of the gang. In fact, Ji Chongyang had never even seen him before. When he first emerged, he looked utterly battered—his temple, neck, and chest bore the brutal marks of a whipping.
Within the gang, Luo Ying was known as someone defiant and unruly—a man who refused to follow orders.
The two had no prior connection, yet for some reason, in that fleeting moment, their eyes met as if guided by fate.
…
Zhao Yifan had already been playing Ji Chongyang for quite some time and felt confident in his portrayal of the character. When filming began for their first meeting scene, he immediately conveyed Ji Chongyang’s inner turmoil—fear that he tried his best to conceal.
For this shot, Zhao Yifan believed he had given it his all.
Ji Chongyang was, by nature, unsuited for gang life, making it difficult to capture his emotions. But today—perhaps because it was his first scene with Lu Xu—Zhao Yifan felt as though his emotions had been fully ignited.
Outside the monitor, Mu Lang’s brows furrowed ever so slightly.
However, he didn’t say anything. After all, Lu Xu was already prepared for the scene, and it wouldn’t be right to interrupt him out of nowhere.
Then—Mu Lang’s gaze fell on Lu Xu’s performance at that very moment.
On the screen, Luo Ying’s face was defiant, like that of a lone wolf, filled with an untamed spirit. In a gang where everyone’s faces were consumed by desire, he appeared distinctly different.
He locked eyes with Ji Chongyang.
In that instant, his gaze seemed to pierce straight into the depths of the other’s soul. That sense of a predator catching its prey, that electrifying collision of performances—it was something even an outsider could clearly perceive.
Without a single line of dialogue, only through his gaze, Luo Ying’s character was fully revealed in that fleeting moment.
He was different—he had planted a seed in Ji Chongyang’s heart.
“Cut.”
The scene ended in a flash, but Mu Lang called for a pause even faster.
Zhao Yifan and Lu Xu both returned to their usual expressions.
Mu Lang gestured for Lu Xu to come over. “Dial it back a bit for this part—take a look at how it’s written in the script.”
“You don’t get it? If you don’t get it, come ask me, ask the screenwriter. Analyze the character, let it sink in, then go back and refine it.”
“The issue isn’t too big. Just go back and make some corrections,” Mu Lang said as he waved his hand, signaling for Lu Xu to take another look at the script.
Seeing Lu Xu walk away with furrowed brows, Zhao Yifan felt a flicker of joy.
So it wasn’t just him—others also thought the industry had been overhyping Lu Xu’s acting skills.
Lu Xu had only been acting for a few years. Could he really grasp a character that well?
But then, Mu Lang waved his hand again, calling Zhao Yifan over.
From what Zhao Yifan had observed, the director always frowned when watching Lu Xu but was noticeably gentler in his attitude toward him.
However—
“That take didn’t work. We need to do it again.”
To Zhao Yifan, the word “again” struck like a bolt of lightning, leaving him momentarily speechless.
He had been playing Ji Chongyang for quite some time and considered himself to have a solid grasp of the character.
Yet, the director’s next words left him even more stunned.
“Lu Xu has a scene coming up. Watch how he performs it first.”
Zhao Yifan: “…”
Why? How could this be?
…
“He overdid it again,” Mu Lang sighed. “He had this problem when we first started filming, finally managed to correct it, and now, after this scene, he’s fallen back into it.”
Luo Kun let out a sigh as well. “Take it slow.”
Mu Lang rubbed his temples, hesitating for a moment before finally speaking the truth in front of his long-time collaborator. “Individually, his performance is fine. But when compared side by side, the gap is obvious.”
Zhao Yifan’s acting was certainly above the acceptable threshold on its own. But once placed next to Lu Xu’s, the difference became apparent—his Ji Chongyang felt too one-dimensional.
That was the only way to describe it: thin. It lacked depth.
It could be corrected, of course, but doing so would require a significant amount of time and effort—and Zhao Yifan himself would have to be fully willing to cooperate.
The scene between Lu Xu and Zhao Yifan was temporarily postponed until both of them could find their rhythm.
Instead, filming continued with Lu Xu’s scenes alongside other actors.
Strictly speaking, in Reverse City, Lu Xu and Zhao Yifan didn’t actually share that many scenes together.
The moment Lu Xu began acting, Zhao Yifan’s expression darkened. His dislike for Lu Xu was obvious, so much so that the entire crew had likely noticed.
However, with Mu Lang overseeing the production, and considering that Lu Xu’s popularity and reputation were on par with Zhao Yifan’s, the crew hadn’t engaged in any exclusionary behavior toward him.
At this moment, Lu Xu was portraying a different side of Luo Ying.
The defiant, street-hardened look he had before was gone. Even though he wore the same face, he didn’t deliberately exude the arrogance of a gang leader—the kind of performance Zhao Yifan had expected from him.
Yet, what unfolded before his eyes was something entirely different.
A bottomless black hole.
Like an abyss.
Mysterious, seemingly unthreatening—but the moment one let their guard down, it could consume everything in an instant.
Clearly, Luo Ying embodied the quintessential image of someone at the top. He was indifferent, composed, even rational—yet entirely devoid of human warmth.
But that didn’t matter.
He could perform warmth—just to make the game more interesting.
At that moment, Lu Xu’s gaze landed directly on Zhao Yifan.
He was merely acting, yet under that gaze, Zhao Yifan couldn’t deny it—he genuinely felt a sense of intimidation.
Luo Ying, speaking in a low voice, was giving instructions to his subordinates, his gaze still casual, weightless—like it was nothing at all.
Zhao Yifan couldn’t help but ask himself: Which was more terrifying—the type of gang leader who relied on brute force and intimidation, or the kind that Lu Xu portrayed?
He couldn’t say the answer out loud, but deep down, he knew.
…
Lu Xu noticed that during the next few takes, Zhao Yifan had finally stopped glaring at him.
Not that he cared.
After Director Mu Lang pointed out his own issues, Lu Xu had focused entirely on the script, paying no mind to anything else.
The upcoming scene with Zhao Yifan undoubtedly required cooperation from both of them.
While Zhao Yifan had stopped glaring, his expression remained stormy, as if Lu Xu owed him money. Lu Xu, however, didn’t care about his attitude—he just needed them both to deliver a solid performance.
But Zhao Yifan wasn’t handling it the same way.
In fact, after being guided by Director Mu Lang, his performance was even worse than their first take.
Now, it was Mu Lang whose face had darkened.
He had given Zhao Yifan plenty of time to adjust, hoping he would quickly get back on track. But instead, his performance was slipping further and further from what was needed.
As a scene partner, Lu Xu didn’t say much, nor did he display a bad attitude like Zhao Yifan.
He remain calm but the rest of the crew grew more dissatisfied.
With Zhao Yifan repeatedly messing up his takes, everyone else suffered as well—the cinematographer had been staring at the monitor until his eyes felt sore, and the props had to be reset again and again. Yet, Zhao Yifan himself seemed to be the angriest of them all.
Who should have been the one getting frustrated here?
Among actors in their thirties and forties, Zhao Yifan was known for holding himself to high standards—but this was not the right way to be strict.
“You should really think it over,” Mu Lang said, his expression turning serious as he emphasized once more to Zhao Yifan. “I mean, really think.”
He could see that with each repeated NG, Zhao Yifan was growing increasingly agitated.
“I’m afraid telling him to learn from Lu Xu hit a sore spot,” Luo Kun concluded.
Mu Lang sighed. “…Should his motivation really be directed there?”
“I wasn’t wrong, though.”
After all, Lu Xu was a good example to follow.
—
After multiple failed takes, Zhao Yifan was truly lost. The more he struggled to grasp the right feeling, the more anxious he became. And when he looked toward Lu Xu, who still appeared completely at ease, his frustration with himself only deepened.
Why was Lu Xu able to understand exactly what the director wanted?
Where had he gone wrong?
Zhao Yifan could clearly feel Mu Lang’s growing dissatisfaction, yet no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t fully control the role of Ji Chongyang.
He thought he had a grasp on it—but in reality, he didn’t.
As filming progressed, Lu Xu’s performance kept improving, and everyone on set could see it. Whether it was Director Mu Lang or screenwriter Luo Kun, their attitudes toward Lu Xu were noticeably softening.
Zhao Yifan refused to dwell on it any further. If he continued down that train of thought, it would lead to talent—and he absolutely refused to admit that Lu Xu was simply more talented than him.
That day, he once again had a scene with Lu Xu.
The one thing that pleased him was that, for once, he didn’t get scolded—Mu Lang was actually somewhat satisfied with his performance.
However, there were far more things that displeased him—
The entire dynamic between Ji Chongyang and Luo Ying was completely under Luo Ying’s control.
It wasn’t until Zhao Yifan suddenly snapped to his senses that he realized—he had actually been led into the scene by Lu Xu!
The moment their eyes met, he had instinctively adjusted his expression and delivered his lines naturally, without even thinking about it.
After the scene wrapped, Zhao Yifan replayed the footage over and over. Even he could see it—his previous failed takes had been too forced, too excessive. But this time, he had been completely relaxed, completely natural.
And the worst part? Lu Xu had been the one to lead him there!
Niiice. Who doesn’t love a good face slap based on professionalism? 👍