Chapter 156: The Film Crew
The industry found the skyrocketing box office earnings of The Female Grandmaster bizarre and, at the same time, was puzzled by Lu Xu’s ability to make money.
It was one thing for Lu Xu to bring in box office revenue, but how could even the films he invested in become hits?
With the cast and crew of The Female Grandmaster, who would have thought it could become a blockbuster?
[…Speaking of which, hasn’t Lu Xu’s annual income already surpassed Lin Ge Entertainment?]
[It surpassed them a long time ago. Just the money he’s made from filming in the past few years is equivalent to the earnings of a mid-sized company.]
[Lin Ge Entertainment really hasn’t made much money in recent years. The Wei Fangfei incident cost them a lot, and as for the members of Verse… better left unmentioned. If they hadn’t let Lu Xu go back then, Lin Ge Entertainment might not be struggling so much now.]
[But think about it—if Lu Xu had stayed at Lin Ge Entertainment, he might not have made it this far. Lin Ge Entertainment only ever focused on making quick money. Even the original formation of Verse was designed for short-term gains. It’s just that Verse unexpectedly became a hit.]
The entertainment industry didn’t rank people by income, but if they did, Lu Xu would undoubtedly be at the top. Especially with Deception and The Female Grandmaster, Lu Xu had surpassed many veteran A-list actors who had been making movies for years.
[It’s all the power of metaphysics.]
[If I were one of the members of Verse, seeing Lu Xu’s success now, I’d probably be spitting blood in rage.]
As expected by the industry, The Female Grandmaster ultimately settled at a box office total of 1.5 billion. A massive sum was deposited into Lu Xu’s bank account. Even after taxes, the earnings were still staggering.
“Teacher Lu, take me with you!” Zheng Xiao, from the neighboring film crew, expressed his hopes.
This was one of the rare times Zheng Xiao had ever called him “teacher” since they had known each other.
Meanwhile, Shao Yao was still eating sand.
Lu Xu video-called Zheng Xiao and Shao Yao, but he was starting to have trouble recognizing Shao Yao’s original appearance. The man on the screen was dark-skinned, skinny, and flashing a set of bright white teeth.
The filming for Shao Yao’s drama had taken an incredibly long time. Throughout the production, he barely took time off for commercial events or other business engagements, focusing entirely on the shoot.
As for Lu Xu making money, Shao Yao was simply happy for him. “If we have enough funds, maybe we can try investing in our own TV series or movies in the future?”
“Sounds great!”
While outsiders claimed Lu Xu was just lucky, Zheng Xiao and Shao Yao disagreed. The reality of the film industry was that those highly anticipated, “guaranteed blockbuster” projects never went to someone like Lu Xu, who was considered more of an outsider.
If those jealous investors truly believed in their own words, why hadn’t they invested in The Female Grandmaster in the first place?
With The Female Grandmaster’s explosive success at the box office, the marketing accounts quickly dug up all the investors and film companies that Mo Qi had originally approached—only to be rejected.
Back then, Mo Qi hadn’t gone to Lu Xu first; she had approached them.
For various reasons, they had all refused to invest in The Female Grandmaster. But now that the movie had made it big, they dismissed Lu Xu’s success as mere luck.
[Tsk, so this is the ‘prestigious’ film industry.]
[This is exactly why Lu Xu deserves to make money! Besides, he never interfered with Mo Qi’s vision. He let her create freely and never looked down on a new director.]
[Hilarious. They can act tough all they want, but we’re talking about nine-figure profits here. Any investor who passed on The Female Grandmaster must be dying of regret!]
Fans had noticed that ever since Lu Xu entered the film industry, the once seemingly untouchable and lofty world of cinema had suddenly revealed its true face.
They were obsessed with making money, yet they refused to bow their heads to the audience, insisting instead that the audience kneel and hand over their money.
Lu Xu was already immensely popular, and Li Yan’s films had already raked in huge profits. But in the eyes of certain self-important figures in the film industry, they were still unworthy of its so-called prestige.
The profits from Lu Xu’s investment in The Female Grandmaster were enough to make anyone envious. After all, lawsuits over mere millions were commonplace in the industry. When The Swordsman flopped, even a director of Zhang Zhizhen’s caliber nearly lost his mind from frustration. Yet, when it came to Lu Xu, these people still carried an unspoken arrogance, as if the money he made reeked of vulgarity.
To fans, this only further shattered the illusion of the so-called elite film industry.
[As long as Lu Puppy keeps making money, I don’t care about anything else! What’s so great about the film industry anyway? Aren’t there still legends like Qi Di and Zhao Yifan in it?]
…
The script Lu Xu had accepted, Fearless Life, told the story of scientist Bai Qianshan.
Bai Qianshan was a genius in the academic world. After years of intense study overseas, he made the decision to return to his homeland, determined to contribute to its development. His journey was fraught with hardships—scarce resources, a shortage of talent, and countless seemingly impossible challenges awaited him.
Yet he chose to tackle each one head-on. He was stubborn, calm, and possessed the kind of madness unique to scientists.
Despite the harsh conditions he lived in, his vision encompassed an infinitely vast universe.
It wasn’t an overly complex script, as Bai Qianshan was based on a real-life figure. The screenplay had been written only after visiting the family of the real Bai Qianshan and receiving their approval.
What moved Lu Xu was the script’s sincerity and depth. The screenwriter had clearly poured their heart into it, crafting a story that turned a scientist’s life into an epic tale of struggle and triumph.
Just like The Female Grandmaster, even without a complex plot, the film still managed to touch audiences with its sincerity and emotion.
Lu Xu never had strict requirements when choosing scripts—he just went with what felt right. Fearless Life was his fourth film, and it was at this point that he suddenly realized his film choices seemed to follow a pattern: complex, simple, complex, simple.
When Fearless Life began filming, Lu Xu saw the discussions among his fans. Many of them didn’t want him to take on this project, mainly due to concerns about its box office potential. Compared to other films, Fearless Life didn’t seem like it would bring in massive earnings; it might even struggle to break past the 2-billion mark, a number seen as a “curse” in the industry.
To be honest, before joining the production, Lu Xu hadn’t given much thought to the box office. Deep down, he also believed Fearless Life wouldn’t be a major commercial success.
But as filming went on, his mindset began to shift.
The outside world—including his fans—only knew that Fearless Life was a biographical film about Bai Qianshan. They had no idea what the actual story entailed and likely assumed it would be just another formulaic biography.
But that wasn’t the case.
Feather of Youth had an incredibly simple story, yet it still had moments that deeply moved audiences. Even with the niche limitations of its youth and sports themes, Feather of Youth still managed to surpass 1.5 billion at the box office.
And when it came to emotional impact, Fearless Life was no less powerful than Feather of Youth. Bai Qianshan’s story was already well-known to the public, which meant the film had a strong built-in audience. Lu Xu believed Fearless Life had a solid foundation for success.
The screenplay was written with such depth and emotion that portraying Bai Qianshan took just as much effort from Lu Xu as any of his previous roles.
Every time Lu Xu fully immersed himself in the character’s emotions, he always had a strange feeling—Bai Qianshan was watching him.
He was portraying an extraordinary figure, and he needed to bring this great life to the screen with the utmost sincerity. At the very least, he could not dishonor the role.
Compared to Reverse City, Fearless Life had a slightly weaker production lineup.
But “weaker” didn’t mean weak. A director like Mu Lang, who was considered top-tier in the industry, had both talent and vision. He was highly regarded by his peers and had a strong track record at the box office. However, the film industry also had another kind of director—those who handled various genres with steady competence. They consistently delivered films that were above average, sometimes even bordering on excellent. But because they lacked a distinct personal style, their fame never reached the highest levels, and while their box office results were solid, they never skyrocketed into massive hits.
The director of Fearless Life, Miao Zhi, fell into this category.
Miao Zhi was short, bald, and had a flat back of the head—one of those people who didn’t look good with hair but didn’t look any better without it. In short, he wasn’t particularly attractive.
His personality was also mild-mannered and easygoing. He had none of the typical temperamental outbursts of famous directors, nor did he rant about the industry on Weibo. When Lu Xu followed his account, he discovered that Miao Zhi mostly posted about his flowers, plants, and pet birds.
He was incredibly calm—so much so that he didn’t even seem like someone who had spent years navigating the chaotic film industry.
According to Xu Wen, Miao Zhi had once been an ambitious young director. However, compared to the top-tier talents of his graduating class, he always lagged just a little behind. Eventually, he settled down and focused on quietly making his films.
“Don’t be fooled by how little he talks,” Xu Wen said. “He and Liu Rennong absolutely hate each other.”
Liu Rennong had risen to fame early and achieved better results, constantly overshadowing Miao Zhi. Over the years, Miao Zhi had suffered quite a bit under Liu Rennong’s suppression.
“They’re not young anymore, so not many people still remember this rumor.”
Lu Xu nodded thoughtfully.
As a Metaphysics Master codenamed ‘Willow Breaker’, he couldn’t help but wonder—if Miao Zhi and Liu Rennong had such a bad relationship, wouldn’t putting them in the same production be like assembling a revenge-driven Avengers team?
However, after joining the Fearless Life crew, Lu Xu realized he had overthought things.
Miao Zhi’s personality had long been worn down by time—he was the very definition of an easygoing, honest man. He was always cheerful, and aside from maintaining some authority during filming, he stayed out of everything else.
Because of this, Lu Xu suddenly noticed something one day—some of the actors in the crew didn’t show the director enough respect.
The entertainment industry was inherently a place where people flattered those above them and stepped on those below. In the TV drama world, this kind of thing happened all the time. Sometimes, even directors couldn’t control actors with too much clout. Take Wei Fangfei’s Nine Revolutions, for example—it was obvious the director had no real authority, and the big-name actors in the crew dictated the entire production.
But in the film industry, this kind of situation was much rarer. Movies were director-driven, and directors typically held the final say.
Lu Xu wasn’t particularly sensitive to these things. Besides him, Fearless Life had two other young actors who were currently quite popular. When interacting with Lu Xu, they were very polite—probably because they knew he wasn’t someone to mess with.
But when dealing with Miao Zhi, their attitude was more flippant.
They weren’t outright rude or aggressive, but they were dismissive.
If Miao Zhi pointed out an issue with their acting, they would nod in agreement—but when the cameras rolled for the second take, their performance remained exactly the same as before.
Lu Xu couldn’t help but furrow his brows. Miao Zhi, however, acted as if he didn’t notice anything and continued pointing out the flaws in their performances. At this point, the two actors would restrain themselves somewhat, but in Lu Xu’s eyes, their attitude was still far from what a good actor should have.
From Lu Xu’s perspective, while Miao Zhi was indeed mild-mannered and avoided conflict, he was still an experienced director. The feedback he gave, which seemed casual on the surface, actually pinpointed the exact issues in their performances. This made Lu Xu realize just how skilled Miao Zhi truly was.
He recalled what Xu Wen had told him about Miao Zhi being suppressed by Liu Rennong.
Liu Rennong’s talent was undisputed—everyone in the industry knew it. He had great connections with investors and could secure top-tier resources, while also enjoying a solid reputation with audiences. He was capable of producing films like How Much Do You Know, which grossed over 4 billion at the box office. Qi Di and Bei Hong had good resources as well, especially the latter, who landed the lead role in Sanzu River right after debuting.
Yet, despite being suppressed by someone as formidable as Liu Rennong, Miao Zhi still managed to direct films. That alone was proof that he was no ordinary director—he definitely had real talent.
Lu Xu respected directors, and he especially despised the way some people in the industry fawned over the powerful while looking down on others—particularly young actors who acted this way.
An actor’s career was long. Young actors today could still have decades of work ahead of them. Many who once played leading roles would one day be relegated to playing mothers/fathers and grandmothers/grandfathers. Who could guarantee they would stay popular forever?
Those who stepped on others would eventually be stepped on themselves.
…
That day, when one of the actors once again messed up a take, Lu Xu finally had enough. With an icy expression, he spoke up, his tone sharp:
“Can you take this seriously? Stop wasting everyone’s time. How much longer do I have to wait?”
Lu Xu’s cold demeanor was particularly intimidating. Young actors in the industry knew all too well—when Lu Xu decided to turn hostile, he didn’t hesitate. He had already put far too many people in their place, leaving a trail of defeated opponents in his wake.
The worst part was that Lu Xu was widely recognized as a pioneer in multiple disciplines within the industry.
Naturally, the actor did not dare to put on airs in front of Lu Xu. He obediently finished filming his remaining scenes. The advice that had previously fallen on deaf ears was finally understood.
Although Lu Xu overheard the actor privately calling his manager to complain about how fierce he was, he didn’t mind at all.
He was indeed fierce—and he could be even fiercer.
