Chapter 209: Filming the New Movie
Later, Xu Wen told Lu Xu that Liu Rennong might not have wanted to retire, but there were obstacles in the industry preventing him from staying.
Shen Wenjie was a ticking time bomb, but aside from him, neither the audience nor those within the industry who had past dealings with Liu Rennong were willing to let him continue his career in entertainment.
If Liu Rennong left the industry, the rumors surrounding him would gradually fade. But if he stayed, there would be new gossip today, another scandal tomorrow—over time, it would wear everyone down.
“With Liu Rennong’s personality, he would never willingly give up his position in the entertainment industry.” Xu Wen wasn’t the only one who said this—both Director Miao Zhi and Director Mu Lang gave the same answer.
Everyone knew that, for Liu Rennong, this was already a pretty good outcome.
The failure of Family and Nation had nothing to do with him, opening a studio had earned him a significant sum of money, and on top of that, Lu Xu had even been robbed of a Golden Flame Award for Best Actor—all the benefits went to Liu Rennong, while the consequences fell on others.
Later, Lu Xu did see some news about Liu Rennong. Some reports claimed he had taken on a pseudonym to continue directing, while others mentioned that he had won some obscure awards at overseas film festivals. However, any time he tried to return to the film industry, someone was bound to block him.
The impact of Shen Wenjie’s assault case was simply too great.
It was well known that competition in the entertainment industry was fierce. No matter how turbulent things were behind the scenes, people maintained a surface-level peace.
Shen Wenjie and Liu Rennong had shattered that peace.
Shen Wenjie had been sent away, but Liu Rennong was far from innocent.
From Lu Xu’s perspective, he had initially thought Liu Rennong would continue to disgust him for a long time. After all, despite their relatively short period of interaction, Liu Rennong had managed to repulse him multiple times.
He hadn’t expected Liu Rennong to disappear from the entertainment industry in such a way—it felt like he had been gathering strength for so long, only to strike at nothing but cotton.
Lu Xu only occasionally felt a trace of sentiment about it. Compared to how disgusted Director Miao Zhi had been, what he had experienced was hardly worth mentioning.
As for Liu Rennong’s departure, Director Miao Zhi remained calm—decades had passed, and he had long since moved on from that incident.
“I said back then that his actions would bring retribution sooner or later, and isn’t that exactly what happened?” Miao Zhi remarked. “It just took a little longer than expected.”
What Miao Zhi found more regrettable was that if Liu Rennong had chosen to focus on making films properly, by this stage in his life, he would have earned a solid reputation and accumulated a few good works. Whether he chose to retire or keep making films, he wouldn’t have ended up in such a miserable state.
Although Liu Rennong appeared to have left quietly, the financial disputes behind him were far from simple. Issues involving money were never easy to resolve. The fact that he was still trying to make a comeback, even considering an overseas route, suggested that he was under financial pressure.
In the industry, some celebrities loved to invest and engage in high-stakes gambling, spreading their resources widely, while others preferred to focus steadily on acting. Though the latter had limited resources and almost no chance at major awards, they still lived comfortably.
“That’s his problem, not ours.” After that, Miao Zhi rarely mentioned Liu Rennong again.
Life on the Line once again secured the Spring Festival box office championship. Although its total earnings fell slightly short of Fearless Life, Miao Zhi’s talent as a director was reaffirmed, and Shao Yao successfully broke into the film industry with the movie.
Of course, Shao Yao continued to balance both film and television in his career. His agency, Mingniao, had limited film resources to offer him, so when there wasn’t a suitable movie script, he preferred to return to television dramas.
His mindset was similar to Lu Xu’s—he never believed that films and TV dramas were inherently superior or inferior to each other. In the end, quality was what truly mattered.
For now, Shao Yao didn’t have as many options as Lu Xu, but compared to before Life on the Line, the number of offers he received had multiplied several times over.
…
After catching up on the Spring Festival box office gossip, Lu Xu resumed filming his new movie. The one thing he was grateful for was that the schedule wasn’t rushed—Director Mu Lang prioritized quality over speed.
In any case, every day Lu Xu opened his eyes, the first person he saw was the director. And every time the director woke up, he saw Lu Xu. They kept each other in check, staring each other down like a never-ending duel.
Objectively, the production was progressing at a steady pace. After working together for so long, Lu Xu and the director had developed a strong sense of mutual understanding. Even the simplest sound from Mu Lang was enough for Lu Xu to grasp his intent immediately.
Portraying Ma Yanwen was a gradual process. In the latter half of the script, Ma Yanwen’s malice began to surface, but it wasn’t the kind of unhinged villainy Lu Xu had played before. Instead, it was the hidden darkness that lurked within an ordinary person—so subtle that, unless scrutinized, it would go unnoticed.
The script contained no scenes of Ma Yanwen breaking down in tears or expressing remorse, so Lu Xu had no intention of playing it that way. By the film’s end, it was simply his concealed malice that was exposed.
Because his friend had been a good person. And his friend had died.
This world was not made up of people like Ma Yanwen alone. Since his friend was a good person, his kindness was never meant for Ma Yanwen alone.
The students whom his friend had mentored and secretly helped remembered his kindness. The strangers he had aided remembered it, too. Even in the apartment complex where he had lived, the janitor he once lent an umbrella to, the one he had given a ride home, placed flowers on his grave.
He had treated the world with such warmth, and not all of it had responded with cruelty.
That was the true reason why Ma Yanwen’s hidden side was ultimately revealed.
Lu Xu really liked this ending—not just because it tied the script together, but also because, in the end, his friend’s kindness had not gone unrewarded.
Ma Yanwen’s slander, his false accusations, and his utter disregard for his friend’s death had ultimately led to his downfall. What the law couldn’t accomplish, something beyond the law had completed in its place.
The script never explicitly stated Ma Yanwen’s fate, but it was clear that whatever awaited him was not a good ending.
Before the film wrapped, Lu Xu meticulously analyzed the character one last time, making sure he had fully grasped every nuance. At the very least, Director Mu Lang had no objections to his portrayal.
In the final two or three scenes, Lu Xu focused on highlighting Ma Yanwen’s despicable nature—the smug satisfaction on his face upon learning of his friend’s death, the twisted pleasure he felt when projecting his own depravity onto his friend. As Mu Lang put it, anyone watching this version of Lu Xu would want to punch him in the face.
“The emotions are spot on. Keep going!” Mu Lang gestured for him to continue, and the cameras rolled once more.
For Ma Yanwen’s friend, the biggest mistake of his life had been meeting Ma Yanwen in the first place. If not for his kindness, their paths never would have crossed. But the script never suggested that kindness was a mistake—rather, it simply emphasized the depths of Ma Yanwen’s malice.
After the final scene was shot, Lu Xu felt sweat bead on his forehead, his back damp from exertion. Though Ma Yanwen wasn’t particularly deep or sinister, portraying him had been mentally exhausting.
“Hah… That was tough.”
Mu Lang glanced at the monitor before handing Lu Xu a cup of water. “Worn out?”
Lu Xu exhaled deeply. “It took a lot out of me, but I’ll get used to it.”
Among the scripts he had taken on, Ma Yanwen was one of the most memorable characters for him. He was different from Bai Qianshan—Bai Qianshan’s greatness was built upon his deeds. Even if the audience knew nothing about Bai Qianshan as a person, they could still form a clear image of his character through his actions.
When Lu Xu had portrayed Bai Qianshan, he had built the character by following his accomplishments. But Ma Yanwen was different. His malice was ingrained in his very nature—there was no cause or backstory to justify it. He was like a rat born in the sewers, developing a dark mentality simply as a matter of course.
Neither role was necessarily easier or harder; they simply required different approaches to performance. For Lu Xu, both were challenging in their own way.
For Ma Yanwen, the real suffering did not come from concealing his friend’s death or turning a blind eye to it. Instead, it stemmed from having his darkest self exposed for all to see.
The reason he tried to force his friend’s positive image onto himself was because he knew exactly what kind of person he was. He could never be as warm and radiant as his friend—he would always be shrouded in darkness. But he could pretend, he could disguise himself, and he could keep his true nature hidden from everyone.
He thought he had concealed it well. But in the end, he was still discovered.
While portraying this role, Lu Xu constantly attempted to analyze Ma Yanwen’s twisted psyche. But he could never resonate with him, nor could he empathize. Bai Qianshan, on the other hand, had been easy to understand and relate to. Even the villains he had played before had deeper motivations behind their actions.
Luo Ying from Reverse City was also a villain, but he was one who was indifferent to life and death, someone who sought to control everything. He had an aura of dominance, and there was no need to delve into the reasoning behind his actions.
In other words, Luo Ying existed in an inherently corrupt city, a place where morality and logic did not apply. The audience never expected him to follow any ethical code in the first place.
Ma Yanwen, however, was different. He existed in a world with stable social relationships, and everything he did violated the fundamental logic of right and wrong.
Repaying kindness with betrayal was something that had no place in a normal relationship.
When Lu Xu studied the character of Ma Yanwen, he ended up writing nearly as much as he would for a full-length academic paper.
He recalled that someone had once suggested he write about his experience portraying Bai Qianshan. He had indeed written it, but never published it. Now, he planned to post both articles online once the new film was released.
—A way to leave a mark. Since he had put in the effort, it deserved to be seen.
All in all, playing Ma Yanwen had been exhausting. If possible, Lu Xu didn’t want to take on such a role again.
But at the same time, the challenge this character presented was unmatched.
Lu Xu couldn’t help but suggest to the director that if there was a similar role in the future, he could consider casting him again.
Mu Lang glanced at him. “Didn’t you say you didn’t like playing such a wicked character?”
Lu Xu blinked his large eyes. “The character is bad, but that doesn’t mean I am.”
Mu Lang: “…”
The director had nothing to say to that.
Though Lu Xu talked a lot, Mu Lang had to admit—casting him for this role had been the right choice.
When it came to understanding the character and the effort put into the role, no one could compare to Lu Xu.
From the moment Mu Lang first got the script, even though Ma Yanwen and Lu Xu were nothing alike—one was dark and insidious, the other open and bright—even though Ma Yanwen’s actions were things Lu Xu would never encounter in his lifetime, the first actor that came to Mu Lang’s mind was still Lu Xu.
Aside from Lu Xu, there was probably no one else who could truly handle the role of Ma Yanwen.
To be honest, apart from the very beginning when Lu Xu was still adjusting to the role, every performance afterward—even when it deviated from Mu Lang’s initial vision—was a result of Lu Xu’s careful deliberation and interpretation.
Mu Lang never insisted that Lu Xu follow his exact directions.
The sense of security that came from working with an actor like this was rare, even in Mu Lang’s directing career.
Reverse City had earned Lu Xu a Contention Award. Later, when the film was featured at an overseas film festival, the lead actor Zhao Yifan’s performance was met with lukewarm reception, but Lu Xu’s acting was highly praised.
For this new film, in addition to its domestic theatrical release, Mu Lang also planned to push it into the international market.
Lu Xu had already gained some recognition overseas, but the domestic film market was large enough that he didn’t need to seek opportunities abroad. A while back, a prestigious film website had released a box office ranking for male actors under 35. Even on a global scale, Lu Xu’s box office performance placed him among the top in his age group.
It was worth noting that while Hollywood dominated the global film market, Lu Xu’s films—except for Deception—had primarily relied on domestic box office revenue.
