Chapter 195: The New Script
The gossip surrounding Family and Nation was not just limited to a few topics—it involved money as well as casting choices. After Liu Rennong’s reputation collapsed, top-tier actors became more cautious about their public image and refused to take on roles in Family and Nation. In the past, any opportunity to star in a Liu Rennong film would have sparked fierce competition among actors.
However, after this year’s Golden Flame Awards, some celebrities in the industry realized Liu Rennong’s personal influence over this prestigious award. They were willing to get closer to him in hopes of gaining recognition during future award seasons.
After all, Family and Nation was clearly the type of film that had the potential to win major awards.
Roles were constantly being reassigned, and investments kept shifting—these were things only insiders knew. To the general audience, Family and Nation appeared to be filming smoothly, surrounded by an aura of glamour and success.
Although Liu Rennong’s reputation had suffered, his directing skills were still highly regarded by audiences. With the success of Fearless Life as a precedent, many viewers anticipated that Family and Nation would stand alongside—or even surpass—Fearless Life.
—In the early stages of production, Family and Nation was indeed marketed with this angle in mind.
“A film like this requires sincerity from those making it. Without sincerity, it won’t be any good.”
One day after the Golden Flame Awards, Director Mu Lang had a phone call with Lu Xu. Mu Lang was a serious person, and even when offering comfort, he wouldn’t use particularly gentle or pleasing words.
He strongly opposed the current industry trend where, as soon as one film became a hit, investors would rush to fund similar projects. After Fearless Life became a sensation, it ignited audience enthusiasm for the genre, making similar films seem like safe bets.
However, not every film could be Fearless Life.
The reason Fearless Life earned nearly 4 billion at the box office and dominated the awards season was the sincerity of Miao Zhi and Lu Xu.
Could others achieve the same?
Mu Lang hadn’t called Lu Xu just to offer comfort. He had a new film in the works and wanted to invite Lu Xu to play the lead role.
As a director, he also felt a sense of making amends. Although Reverse City had earned Lu Xu his first Contention Award, the filming process had been riddled with turbulence—from the various controversies stirred up by Zhao Yifan to Lu Xu’s repeated NGs due to Zhao’s influence. All of this left Mu Lang feeling guilty toward Lu Xu.
He wasn’t good at expressing such emotions through words, but the role in his new film was practically tailor-made for Lu Xu.
“Well, that’s not entirely accurate,” Mu Lang chuckled. “There aren’t many roles you can’t handle.”
In Reverse City, Lu Xu had played the villain, but this new film would revolve entirely around him. Of course, the production budget wasn’t as high as Reverse City, but it still stood out due to its unique premise.
“Take a look at the script when you have time. Let me know if you’re interested,” Mu Lang instructed.
Just before hanging up, the director couldn’t resist making a passing remark about Liu Rennong—not out of malice, but simply noting how Liu Rennong had a knack for chasing trends in filmmaking.
When martial arts films were popular, Liu Rennong made martial arts films. When family dramas were in demand, he made family dramas. Whenever a particular type of film won an international award, Liu Rennong would inevitably produce a movie with a similar core theme but a distinct genre.
This was something that directors like Mu Lang looked down upon.
After all, filmmaking was, in many ways, about borrowing and reinventing. Remakes were common in the industry, and many directors started their careers by imitating others. However, imitation could only take someone so far. As a leading director in the industry, Liu Rennong had responsibilities beyond just box office numbers and awards—he was also expected to contribute to the healthy development of the film industry.
During a break in filming, Lu Xu took the time to read the script that Director Mu Lang had sent him.
This script… was quite different from Mu Lang’s previous works. As the director had mentioned, the production cost was indeed low—because the entire film revolved around a man in captivity.
At first glance, it sounded like an 18+ theme, but in reality, it was a story about a man who was inexplicably imprisoned. As he reflected on all the good deeds he had done throughout his life, he eventually found a way to rescue himself.
Lu Xu had only one question: “Director, are you sure this role suits me?”
What kind of image did Mu Lang have of him, exactly?
That was what Lu Xu was thinking—and what he asked outright. In response to his skepticism, Mu Lang simply remained silent.
“Director, next time, I want to play a good guy.”
Mu Lang: “…I don’t think there are any purely good people in my films.”
Objectively speaking, the script was quite interesting. The protagonist had immense room for performance—since the “imprisonment” scenes had no interaction with other actors at all. It was entirely a one-man show.
All of the protagonist’s stories—whether real or fabricated—would be portrayed by Lu Xu, shaping the audience’s perception of his character.
Lu Xu usually went to bed early, but he stayed up late to finish reading the script. Not only that, but he even called Mu Lang and forced the director to stay up with him. Fortunately, he didn’t have any filming the next day, so he slept in until noon.
Having made up his mind to take the role, he reached out to Xu Wen and sent the script over to his manager.
This time, Mu Lang had given him the full script—unlike before, when Lu Xu had been left confused about his own character.
“You’re really going to take this role?” Xu Wen asked in surprise. “It’s a great script, but… this image—if you’re not worried about your idol persona, then go for it.”
“This script is indeed excellent. The character has a lot of depth,” Xu Wen remarked. Having filtered scripts for Lu Xu for years, he knew that in any given year, truly interesting scripts with compelling characters were rare—usually no more than five.
Among those, some were purely based on wild concepts, with production teams that lacked the ability to execute them properly.
But Mu Lang was a top-tier director. Even if his scripts were unconventional, the final product was always worth anticipating.
Since Lu Xu had previously worked with Mu Lang on Reverse City, he trusted the director’s skill completely. Mu Lang was the kind of filmmaker who invested 100% of his effort into a script.
Of course, what attracted Lu Xu the most was the range of emotions the role allowed him to explore. This character—deceptive, vile, and even borderline repulsive—was unlike anything he had played before.
He had portrayed villains before—both classic antagonists and completely inhumane ones—but the protagonist in Mu Lang’s script embodied a different kind of evil. Lu Xu was immediately intrigued.
As an actor, he found it difficult to resist roles like this.
“So, it’s decided?”
“It’s decided.”
At the moment, Lu Xu had Observing the Stars at Night awaiting release, Black & White had finished filming and was in post-production, and he was currently working on another film. With Mu Lang’s project added to the mix, his lineup finally felt substantial.
“I’ll cut down on commercial gigs for you for now,” Xu Wen said. “There shouldn’t be too many award ceremonies coming up either. Just focus on filming—you don’t need to worry about anything else. The company will keep an eye on online discussions for you.”
Xu Wen wasn’t concerned about Lu Xu’s future prospects in the awards circuit. He had already won the Contention Award and the Critics’ Choice Best Actor Award. Even if he completely fell out of favor with the Golden Flame Awards—so what?
Besides, all of Lu Xu’s recent films had been typical commercial blockbusters, with almost no chance of winning awards. In a few years, once the controversy surrounding him and the Golden Flame Awards faded, he could reconsider chasing accolades.
Xu Wen didn’t have much faith in the future of the Golden Flame Awards anyway.
Their biases were far too obvious. With so many directors, actors, and creators in the industry, playing along with the Golden Flame Awards once in a while was fine, but no one would be willing to do it every single time.
…
In Lu Xu’s latest film, Code A77, he played an assassin implanted with a chip and controlled by an organization. He had many companions, but as they carried out missions for the organization, they were killed off one by one. To the organization, they were nothing more than expendable tools—not even considered human.
His character had no name. His designation, A77, signified his production sequence. One day, a malfunction in his programming caused A77 to start regaining his emotions.
That was when his personal war of vengeance against the organization began.
When Lu Xu took on this role, he jokingly complained that he had played far too many revenge-driven characters. Of course, in The Path of Bones, Yu Yi’s revenge was fueled by hatred and suffering, whereas Code A77 was purely a spectacle-driven film packed with special effects and stunning visuals.
He didn’t even need to delve too deeply into the character’s emotions. A77 maintained an expressionless face throughout the film—even after regaining his emotions, revenge and mission execution remained one and the same to him.
Lu Xu’s only real job was to look effortlessly cool. He had to exude charisma while killing—whether wielding cold weapons or firearms, gliding from ten thousand meters in the air, or executing a flawless throat-slitting maneuver atop a speeding train.
When the synopsis of Code A77 was revealed, Lu Xu faced a wave of criticism. Many people argued that, despite his undeniable acting skills, he kept choosing roles that lacked depth—wasting his talent on flashy but hollow performances.
Lu Xu: “…”
For one, he never looked down on any particular genre or character type. He didn’t believe some roles were inherently more “noble” than others. Besides, the director’s flattery had completely gone to his head.
The director had repeatedly emphasized that this role was made for him—talking about how unbelievably cool the character was, how unmatched his combat skills were, how he was practically invincible. And then, as the final push, the director added, “Who else could possibly play this role besides you?”
Lu Xu was instantly sold.
The director clearly had an eye for talent. Plus, the character was cool. As a commercial film, the script at least met a reasonable standard—the protagonist wasn’t randomly making nonsensical decisions, and the story stuck to a straightforward revenge arc without unnecessary distractions.
And the character’s costume design? Looked fantastic.
His manager, Xu Wen, didn’t consider Code A77 an exceptional script, but he also didn’t think it was a bad choice. Since Lu Xu wanted to take it, there was no harm in doing so. At this stage in his career, he wasn’t suited for youthful, coming-of-age films like Feather of Youth anymore. And in a few years, he probably wouldn’t even be able to pull off roles like A77 either.
It wasn’t realistic to expect every single one of his roles to be award-winning.
Objectively speaking, Lu Xu wasn’t slacking off in Code A77—but compared to his previous projects, this role was much easier to play. Aside from the physically demanding action scenes and a few motion-capture sequences that required multiple takes, the character itself wasn’t particularly challenging.
Lu Xu was having a great time filming, and the director was absolutely thrilled with his performance—especially since there wasn’t a single shot where Lu Xu didn’t look cool. His tight-fitting suit, combined with the way he wielded a machine gun, was a masterclass in raw, unfiltered charisma.
“If I were an audience member, I would definitely pay just to see this shot,” Director Wu Ming said, his face flushing with excitement at the thought. “Wouldn’t you?”
The crew all nodded in agreement.
Beyond just the visuals, Wu Ming was extremely satisfied with Lu Xu as an actor.
The machine gun was heavy, and the action sequences were far from easy, but Lu Xu executed every move with effortless precision. Whatever the stunt coordinator instructed, he replicated it flawlessly—no hesitation, no sluggishness. Wu Ming told him to make it look good, and Lu Xu made it look as good as humanly possible.
It was like he could do no wrong. No diva attitude, no unnecessary retakes.
Wu Ming felt it was a waste for only the film crew to appreciate such a visually stunning performance. So, he secretly posted a few behind-the-scenes photos of Lu Xu on the set of Code A77, pretending they were just leaked shots.
Of course, anyone with a keen eye could tell—since when were “leaked” photos this high quality?
But the audience hadn’t seen them before. And more importantly, they wanted to believe.
Add the hashtag #LuXu and attach the so-called “leaked” photos of his new project—
[ABSOLUTE GOD-TIER HANDSOME!!!!!!]
[WOW COOL WOW COOL!! Super hot!! Lu Puppy, our visual king!!]
[I knew it! Handsome guys should take on roles that maximize their handsomeness. PERFECT CHOICE!!!!]
The number of likes on the post made Wu Ming’s eyes widen in disbelief. He never expected a few photos to cause this much of a reaction.
