Chapter 196: Continuing the Shoot
[I only have one question—when will Code A77 be released?]
Even though only a few behind-the-scenes photos had been leaked, fans were already able to “see through” Lu Xu’s physique beneath his tight-fitting clothes.
[I just want to drool, who can relate?]
[I’ve been saying this all along! Lu Xu, you should’ve listened to me! Following my advice is always right—one word: strip!]
Wu Ming, using his alt account, lurked around the discussion and was stunned to see that the buzz was still skyrocketing. This new set of photos had even sparked a wave of image-sharing in the comment section—ranging from Ji Xiuya in Supreme to Yin Pei in Feather of Youth. Lu Xu had never been short of stunning drama stills, but he had played serious roles for so long that people almost forgot he could also be an idol-type actor.
With that, Code A77 instantly became the center of attention.
Fans were already preparing to watch it without even caring about the plot.
Of course, it wasn’t that they had lost all rationality in their love for Lu Xu—it was just that, after so many dramas and movies, he had never once let them down.
Even My Baby Prince, despite being a terrible drama, had such a unique charm that it still generated over ten thousand discussions, even surpassing The Watchers.
No matter how bad the plot of Code A77 might be, the fact that Lu Xu had chosen it meant there had to be something worthwhile about it.
The only regret for fans was that only one set of stills from Code A77 had been released, with nothing new after that.
That was all part of the director Wu Ming’s strategy—hunger marketing. If fans got to see everything too soon, they might lose interest by the time the movie actually premiered.
By releasing a little at a time—dangling a carrot in front of them—Code A77’s anticipation level could reach its peak.
…
The filming of Code A77 went incredibly smoothly. Since Lu Xu had previously starred in The Path of Bones, gunfight and action scenes weren’t much of a challenge for him. Observing the Stars at Night had also given him extensive experience with special effects filming. Among all the movies he had worked on, Code A77 had the fewest lines, but it was packed with stylish moments—riding motorcycles, high-speed chases, changing disguises, hacking into systems… Lu Xu felt like he had officially become a qualified secret agent.
The defining feature of this type of film was its visual spectacle. Lu Xu put great effort into his action scenes—after each take, he would personally review the footage, and if he wasn’t satisfied, he would insist on reshooting it.
The most exhausting scenes had him carrying a machine gun until his body was covered in bruises, his feet blistered, and his arms so sore he could barely lift them. But if the result wasn’t up to par, he would push through the pain and keep going.
Compared to his previous films, Code A77 had fewer emotional expressions but far more intense action sequences.
Xu Wen believed that once Lu Xu got older, his looks might not be suited for roles like Code A77. Lu Xu, however, thought that by then, his stamina would be the real issue.
“Put more force into it! Your voice needs to hit!”
“Control the emotions yourself—I feel like a smile here would be more fitting!”
“Alright, cut!”
On set, Wu Ming would often give Lu Xu some filming guidance, but when it came to acting, he offered little advice. The director knew that Lu Xu understood how to handle his own performance.
Wu Ming operated in a different lane from directors like Mu Lang and Miao Zhi, but that didn’t mean he had lower expectations for his actors.
His lead actor needed to be tough—someone willing to take on dangerous stunts without hesitation. Wu Ming actually had a deep appreciation for veteran action stars who had risen to fame early in their careers. But most of them had either retired or were no longer physically capable of handling action scenes. Among the younger generation, there were barely any actors who could truly fight.
Wu Ming was also a firm believer in the power of good looks. In his opinion, if the protagonist was meant to be a handsome man, then they should cast a genuinely handsome actor. And if that actor could also fight? That was nothing short of a gift from the heavens.
Lu Xu perfectly fit the first criterion, and as for the second—his sheer willingness to endure hardship put him ahead of 99% of actors.
He was highly cooperative, throwing himself into each fight scene, one after another. Before he knew it, the end of the year had arrived.
During this time, even if a production took a break, it was usually a short one. Since Lu Xu would soon begin a promotional tour for his new film, Code A77’s crew adjusted the schedule to wrap up his scenes before the Lunar New Year, compressing the filming timeline as much as possible.
The earlier part of the shoot focused on exterior scenes, depicting the protagonist, “Code A77,” carrying out assassinations and revenge missions in the sky, on land, and deep underwater. The production team spared no expense, deploying helicopters, luxury cars, and submarines. While the number of locations wasn’t vast, setting up these scenes was a logistical challenge, which significantly extended the filming duration.
As the Lunar New Year approached, filming shifted to scenes of “Code A77” being controlled and trained in a confined space by the organization. These sets were simpler, allowing Lu Xu to shoot one scene after another. One moment, he was filming a scene where “Code A77” was being manipulated, and the next, he was shooting the sequence where he broke free from control. Since the same set was used for both, they could film however they wanted, as long as they got the shots they needed.
At first, Wu Ming was worried that Lu Xu might get confused switching between these states. But in the end, Lu Xu turned out to be no different from the programmed machine his character was—except he was a machine designed to act.
For the production team, Lu Xu’s efficiency was a godsend, making the filming progress feel as fast as if they had taken a flight.
By the year’s end, all film crews were racing to meet deadlines. If a project fell behind schedule, they would have to keep working through the Lunar New Year, but that came with its own problems—background actors needed to return home for the holidays, and the more urgent the production became, the more chaotic it would get.
Thanks to Lu Xu’s speed, all his essential scenes were completed in record time, allowing the crew to take a well-earned break for the New Year.
Wu Ming didn’t feel that Lu Xu was rushing through his scenes at all.
Despite his fast-paced schedule, the quality of Lu Xu’s performance remained largely unaffected—he completed his scenes with an even higher standard than Wu Ming had anticipated.
All Wu Ming could do was sigh in admiration—Lu Xu was a born film actor.
He had talent, dedication, and exceptional acting skills, yet what truly set him apart was his profound love for the craft.
In the end, what separates great actors is passion.
Once they have money and enough accolades, some start coasting, taking on roles half-heartedly just to keep the cash flowing. But then there are those who keep pushing forward, continuously giving back to the industry. At that point, passion is what makes all the difference.
After the Lunar New Year, the director gave Lu Xu a break, while the crew continued filming other scenes. Although Lu Xu’s role occupied the majority of Code A77, there was still plenty left to shoot. Some action sequences, in particular, were beyond what even he could perform—like climbing onto a flying helicopter, taking out an enemy with pinpoint precision, and then hijacking the aircraft. Those stunts were left to professional doubles.
Given Lu Xu’s performance throughout the shoot, Wu Ming seriously considered whether he could transition into a full-fledged action star.
There was precedent for this both domestically and internationally. Take that famous X-wood actor, for example—he started his career in arthouse films but transitioned to relentless action-packed “rescue” roles in his middle to late years, cranking out one intense action movie after another.
Lu Xu appreciated the director’s recognition, but he had no intention of confining himself to a single genre. His stamina also wouldn’t allow him to pursue a long-term career as an action star.
…
By the time Lu Xu finally joined the promotional tour for Observing the Stars at Night, it was already late in the campaign.
Fortunately, he wasn’t the only lead actor. Li Yan had been carrying the bulk of the promotional workload.
Before finalizing the title, the production team considered several options—The Way of Ghosts and Gods, Demon Hunters, and other names that were either too dramatic or not memorable enough. In the end, after much deliberation, they decided to stick with Observing the Stars at Night.
“It’s not great, but at least it’s not terrible,” said director Yue Chen with an optimistic shrug.
During filming, the cast and crew had been anxious, mainly worried about the movie’s box office performance. But as the release date approached, their nerves unexpectedly settled, leaving Lu Xu curious about their shift in attitude.
“What’s the point of stressing?” Yue Chen said. “It’s already shot, already scheduled for release—what are we gonna do, take back the money we spent? The Spring Festival slot is never easy, so rather than overthinking it, we might as well just ride it out.”
Lu Xu silently gave him a thumbs-up.
As Yue Chen pointed out, the Spring Festival box office battle was always fierce, and this year was no exception.
Two years ago, Uncertain Return disrupted the market, affecting the scheduling of other films. Though some studios had signed private agreements with theaters this year, none dared to be as aggressive as Uncertain Return.
After all, audiences had grown increasingly resistant to studios manipulating screenings. Any production that tried to strong-arm the market like that risked massive financial losses.
The reason Uncertain Return had suffered such a heavy loss back then was simple—it went up against Fearless Life, a film that truly won over the audience’s hearts.
This year, Observing the Stars at Night was the most expensive and star-studded production in the lineup. With a production cost of 460 million yuan, it was one of the priciest films in recent years.
As production costs continued to soar, Observing the Stars at Night’s budget wasn’t particularly eye-catching. Many film crews exaggerated their expenses, and Sanzu River was a prime example. Some films also had an unreasonably high percentage of their budget allocated to actor salaries—again, Sanzu River was a textbook case.
Compared to previous years, inflation had undeniably hit the film industry. Labor costs had risen, as had venue rental fees, props, and actor salaries.
But audiences weren’t blind. Even casual moviegoers could tell which films actually invested in production and which ones didn’t. The moment Sanzu River appeared on the big screen, it was obvious that the money hadn’t gone into the filmmaking process—though no one could quite figure out where it had gone.
For the Spring Festival release, Yue Chen had been negotiating with industry experts and theater chains well in advance, fighting for more screenings and better time slots. Even the number of promotional standees and themed merchandise sent to theaters was carefully planned.
As a VFX-heavy film, Observing the Stars at Night put extra thought into its merchandise. The production team partnered with professional manufacturers early on, finalizing designs and timelines to ensure a batch of promotional items would be ready before the premiere—both as audience giveaways and for direct sales.
The merchandising industry for domestic films wasn’t very developed. If a movie made enough at the box office, most production teams didn’t bother with extra revenue streams.
But Yue Chen cared—because they needed the money.
Rather than letting bootleggers profit off unofficial merchandise, he figured the production team might as well make that money themselves. While other studios dismissed this as small change, Yue Chen valued every bit of it.
Having spent his career making VFX-heavy films, he was determined to see domestic CGI films rise to international standards.
Franchises like the overseas Wars series, the Ring series, and major IPs like the Pirate Captain and the Little Wizard were producing fewer films these days, but the revenue from their intellectual property kept increasing. That kind of long-term profit was something Yue Chen deeply envied.
This year, with Observing the Stars at Night securing its place in the domestic Spring Festival box office race, Yue Chen planned to take a step further and push the film into overseas markets. He had attempted this before, though past efforts had met with little success.
But for him, international promotion wasn’t purely about profit. After all, cinema wasn’t just entertainment—it carried cultural significance as well.
As long as Observing the Stars at Night could recoup its costs and turn a modest profit, Yue Chen was determined to follow through with his plan. Since he had already gone through the process once before, this time would be easier.
Thanks to his persistence, Observing the Stars at Night secured 28.6% of the opening-day screenings during the Spring Festival—a strong showing. This was largely due to the fact that most of this year’s competitors were drama films, and none had the same blockbuster-scale production.
On top of that, the first-ever collaboration between Lu Xu and Li Yan—two box office powerhouses—was enough to draw audiences into theaters.
Would Observing the Stars at Night become a massive hit, or would it end up as the next Sanzu River?
Both audiences and industry insiders were eager to find out.
