Chapter 204: New Film
The marketing account’s report was naturally exaggerated, but it was enough to reflect the awkward situation the Golden Flame Awards were currently facing.
In the past, when had any marketing account dared to criticize the Golden Flame Awards so directly?
The report had only one central theme—The Golden Flame Awards had brought this upon themselves, and Liu Rennong bore 60% of the responsibility.
Lu Xu no longer paid attention to the Golden Flame Awards. He only knew that this year’s awards ceremony was noticeably less lively than before. The glory of the Best Actor and Best Actress winners failed to shine through, and the atmosphere was cold and subdued.
“It’s only been one year, and things have already fallen apart. Ridiculous.”
“The Golden Flame Awards wouldn’t regret inviting Liu Rennong anyway. They’d probably just think the audience was making a fuss.”
It wasn’t just about prestige—there was also a stark contrast in the post-award career trajectories of the winners.
After the lead actress of Ugly won the Contention Award for Best Actress, luxury brands immediately approached her. She attended high-end events one after another, and brand endorsements and commercial deals followed suit. Meanwhile, the actress who won Best Actress at the Golden Flame Awards had a far less impressive trajectory. She had commercial opportunities as well, but it was clear to everyone that she wasn’t on the same level as the former.
Looking back, Lu Xu reflected on the situation and felt that not winning the Golden Flame Award for Best Actor was actually a good thing.
Had he won the award, public opinion would have inevitably spun a narrative about Liu Rennong’s supposed “favor” toward him—how the man had been “magnanimous,” “impartial,” and “fair.” That would have only made Lu Xu feel even more uncomfortable.
Knowing Liu Rennong’s character, Lu Xu was certain that he would have played into that narrative.
For Lu Xu, it was actually better not to win the award. At least this way, he could criticize Liu Rennong openly and without hesitation, without having to dodge any discussions about their supposed feud.
…
After the Contention Awards ceremony, Lu Xu joined the set to film Director Mu Lang’s new movie.
It had been a long time since Lu Xu had seen the director, and he felt that Mu Lang looked more energetic than before.
“I was diagnosed with high blood lipids during a recent health check-up, so I don’t dare to eat recklessly anymore. I have to eat three meals a day on schedule,” Mu Lang said with a rare look of helplessness. “This time… my wife came along too.”
Seeing the director’s expression, Lu Xu found it amusing. Mu Lang, slightly embarrassed under his gaze, rubbed his nose and said, “If you don’t want to eat boxed meals, you can come join us. We can always set an extra pair of chopsticks. But I’m warning you, it’s all light home-cooked food.”
Lu Xu hesitated for a moment before responding, “…Alright.”
He didn’t have the heart to say anything else. He had a feeling that if he did, the director would only feel more awkward.
As expected, their conversation eventually drifted to this year’s Contention Awards and Golden Flame Awards. Lu Xu could tell that Mu Lang felt a sense of regret over the Golden Flame Awards’ decline.
“When we were young, winning an award wasn’t easy. It meant that the audience truly recognized us,” Mu Lang said.
He was even older than Liu Rennong and Miao Zhi’s generation of directors. Back in his youth, he had endured plenty of criticism as well.
At one point, when Mu Lang was particularly frustrated by all the criticism, he took on a high-paying custom film project. He made a good amount of money, but the frustration remained. He was still young and ambitious at the time, determined to make a great film, win awards, and gain audience recognition.
Yet the once-sacred awards had now lost their integrity.
In his earlier years, Mu Lang had also served as a judge for these awards, though he no longer participated in them.
Now, he focused solely on filmmaking and didn’t involve himself in industry disputes. “You only realize as you get older that health is the most important thing,” he said.
Their new film had a modest budget, and the crew was made up of people Mu Lang had worked with many times before.
Mu Lang could have rested on his laurels and taken it easy, but he still wanted his longtime collaborators to have work and make a living.
At the very least, as long as he made a film, they could earn some income.
“You’ve read the script, right? Don’t tell me you’ve been too busy judging awards to go through it,” Mu Lang teased. After working together for so long on Reverse City, he knew Lu Xu well.
Perhaps because his wife was also on set, Mu Lang seemed much more easygoing than usual.
The script for this film was relatively simple—throughout the entire movie, Lu Xu would be performing a one-man show. His character was held captive by a mysterious figure who remained unseen, only heard as a voice. Despite this, the production still brought in a veteran actor for the role.
Though the character didn’t appear on screen, the actor was required to be present so he could engage in real-time dialogue with Lu Xu, ensuring a deeper sense of immersion in the scenes.
Lu Xu’s character was named Ma Yanwen—a name that immediately suggested he was an honest, traditional man.
One day, Ma Yanwen woke up to find himself imprisoned in a sealed-off room. No matter how much he shouted, no one responded. He couldn’t understand why something so terrifying had happened to someone like him.
The room was airtight, devoid of any distinguishing marks or signs of its location. He had no phone, and when he called out, the only response was his own echo bouncing off the walls.
Despair set in.
Ma Yanwen could not find a single reason why he had been imprisoned.
In his everyday life, he wouldn’t even dare to step on an ant. He treated his neighbors warmly, and those around him had nothing but good things to say about him. He worked as a university professor, respected by his students. Though his career had hit a temporary bottleneck, it never affected his dedication to teaching.
When his friends were in trouble, Ma Yanwen lent them money, helped them write lesson plans, and even covered their classes. Even when one of them spread rumors about him, he forgave them magnanimously.
Everyone had difficult times—there was no need to be overly harsh.
—That was how Ma Yanwen saw himself before the mysterious voice first spoke.
He was an ordinary man, someone who truly didn’t deserve to suffer such misfortune.
Director Mu Lang felt that the only part of the character that didn’t quite match Lu Xu was the idea of being “ordinary.”
In terms of appearance alone, Lu Xu was far from plain. The production team had to rely on makeup to downplay his looks as much as possible, trying to mold him into someone who fit the concept of “unremarkable.”
Mu Lang wasn’t worried about the latter half of the script—Lu Xu was an experienced actor, and handling the intense, emotionally charged scenes would be second nature to him.
What concerned the director more was whether Lu Xu could convincingly portray Ma Yanwen’s ordinariness in the first half of the film.
Ma Yanwen was the kind of person who would blend into a crowd, someone you wouldn’t take a second glance at. Lu Xu, on the other hand, had an inherently sharp presence.
He had played ordinary people before, but as an actor, there was always an edge to him—something that made him stand out, no matter how much he tried to blend in.
During the early scenes, Mu Lang watched Lu Xu closely and gave constant instructions. Even when Lu Xu occasionally stopped by for a meal, the director would mutter complaints at him—only for his wife to scold him, at which point he would immediately fall silent.
Lu Xu grinned. “Director, I’ll come by again next time.”
Then he bolted before Mu Lang could say another word.
It was rare to see the director put in his place.
That said, Lu Xu had never played a role like this before. His character was timid, weak, and even a bit long-winded—so much so that anyone watching would wonder if they had locked up the wrong person.
In the industry, there were actors known for specializing in pathetic, cowardly roles. Lu Xu had never been one of them.
But Ma Yanwen was not the typical coward. He lived cautiously, almost excessively so—so much that he wouldn’t even dare to step on an ant. It was as if he lacked vitality, yet Lu Xu couldn’t play him in a way that felt too gloomy or sinister.
This balance was incredibly difficult to achieve.
Lu Xu realized that every time he took on a script from Director Mu Lang, it pushed him to the limits of his acting abilities.
And Mu Lang’s concerns were valid—Lu Xu struggled to grasp the right tone in three consecutive scenes.
This was a rare occurrence in his acting career.
“Keep searching for the right feeling,” Mu Lang said. “At least from where I’m standing, this character hasn’t come alive yet.”
Lu Xu nodded.
He wasn’t satisfied with his performance either—something just felt off.
At the start of his imprisonment, Ma Yanwen was panicked and terrified. But as time passed, he became chatty, resentful, and full of complaints, embodying the bewilderment of an honest man caught in an unexpected catastrophe.
Everyone knew someone like Ma Yanwen.
But Lu Xu had to admit—he had spent too long as an actor, living a life far removed from ordinary people. His days of standing above the crowd had long outnumbered the days he spent among them. That was why he struggled to connect with the role.
Mu Lang told him to take his time to figure it out, so Lu Xu used every moment wisely.
He read through the script repeatedly, practicing as he went. He didn’t just try to imitate someone like Ma Yanwen—he analyzed the character from the ground up, breaking him down in relation to the story.
After all, Ma Yanwen wasn’t a real person—he was a character meticulously crafted by the script.
After some time, Lu Xu went back to the director. “Director, I think I’ve got it.”
“Oh?” Mu Lang raised an eyebrow. “You’re ready?”
Mu Lang didn’t blame Lu Xu—he knew very well that this kind of character was incredibly difficult to portray. If Lu Xu leaned too much into making him pathetic, it wouldn’t work. If he played him like an average small-town citizen, that wouldn’t work either.
To the director, Ma Yanwen was the kind of guy who carried “bad luck” and “weakness” like a permanent aura.
Characters like this weren’t common in modern films, and Lu Xu had rarely encountered such roles before.
As filming started, Mu Lang kept his eyes locked on the monitor.
Lu Xu’s makeup and styling were plain to the point of being unrecognizable. If someone weren’t paying close attention, even his own fans might not recognize him on set.
And this time…
The moment Lu Xu appeared in the frame, he exuded an air of deep, unshakable misfortune.
Just by looking at his expression, you could tell that in the very next second, he was about to start complaining about everything—from fate itself to the fact that his morning egg didn’t have a double yolk, cursing his luck for leading him into such a miserable situation.
Honestly, all Lu Xu had done was change his expression, but the entire atmosphere shifted.
This performance fit the script’s description of Ma Yanwen perfectly.
Mu Lang’s eyebrows lifted slightly, almost imperceptibly.
Now he was genuinely interested in Lu Xu’s performance.
During the captivity scenes, Ma Yanwen didn’t slam himself against the walls in a desperate frenzy, nor did he rise to the occasion like some courageous protagonist, bravely overcoming obstacles and outwitting his captor.
Instead, he just kept rambling—complaining about everything from his breakfast egg to the way he stepped out of his office in the afternoon.
All in all, this interpretation perfectly captured Ma Yanwen’s personality.
When the scene wrapped, Mu Lang wasn’t sure whether to give Lu Xu the green light yet. He decided to pull him aside and ask about his thought process.
“I was thinking about how to play someone really annoying,” Lu Xu admitted candidly. “I modeled him after the kind of person I personally can’t stand—the type who hasn’t actually done anything wrong, but still manages to get on your nerves.”
The key to Lu Xu’s portrayal of this character was simple: he had to be annoying.
Ma Yanwen was an “honest man,” but there was nothing likable about him.
“…Alright.” Mu Lang sighed. “That interpretation isn’t wrong.”
After all, Ma Yanwen was not a character designed to be charming.
To be honest, Mu Lang found it difficult to give Lu Xu concrete, detailed guidance. That wasn’t his directing style. The best he could do was provide a framework for Lu Xu to work within—he wasn’t like Miao Zhi, who had the patience for meticulous direction.
The problem was that Ma Yanwen’s framework was extremely narrow, leaving Lu Xu to figure things out mostly on his own.
Yet, by sheer instinct, Lu Xu had landed on the right tone.
Once they finished shooting the first part of the captivity scenes, they moved on to Ma Yanwen’s everyday life—this was where the audience’s perception of him would start to shift.
Yes, he was annoying, but gradually, he stopped being unlikable.
People like Ma Yanwen existed in real life. They weren’t exactly friend material. They sometimes got in the way more than they helped. But in some strange way, they were an essential part of life’s texture.
However, when that mysterious voice finally spoke, things began to unravel.
The more Ma Yanwen spoke, the more inconsistencies surfaced in his words.
His memories—if they could even be called that—were less recollections and more self-inflicted br*inwashing.
And slowly, Ma Yanwen realized there was no escape.
The more he glorified himself in his memories, the more ridicule and punishment he invited.
Ma Yanwen was a coward.
He had become a university lecturer because of a friend’s recommendation.
His lesson plans had been written during his friend’s all-nighters.
His students hadn’t particularly liked him. In fact, his friend had been far more popular than him on campus.
And now, that friend was gone.
