Chapter 215: Nomination
No one had expected that at the very last moment before Code A77 went off-screen, its box office earnings would actually surpass 4 billion, exceeding all platform predictions for the film’s final performance.
By this time, it was already October.
The summer movie season had long passed, and the entire month of September had been relatively quiet for the film market. Only a few low-budget films had been released, and comparatively, Code A77 stood out among them.
With a lineup of unfamiliar films in theaters, audiences preferred to watch Code A77 instead—it was at least a relatively lighthearted film with an easy-to-follow plot.
As a result… Code A77 not only became the summer box office champion but also took the top spot for the entire year. In terms of global box office earnings, it was even on par with Observing the Stars at Night.
By this point, Lu Xu’s total box office earnings as a leading actor were less than 1 billion away from reaching 20 billion.
His ranking on the charts had risen once again.
[The ranking isn’t the point. Doesn’t anyone think that Lu Xu has acted in very few films?]
[With an average box office of around 3 billion per film, Lu Xu’s cost-performance ratio is insane.]
[There’s also a chart for total box office earnings from all films an actor has participated in. Lu Xu’s ranking is lower there, but that’s only because Black & White was the only extra film added to his total.]
With Code A77 surpassing 4 billion at the box office, both the industry and audiences turned their attention to the film’s production costs.
The movie had only one major star, Lu Xu, and its production and post-production costs amounted to just 280 million. To be honest, in today’s film market, Code A77 could only be considered a mid-to-high-budget investment—yet its return on profit was obvious to everyone.
[Amazing!]
[It’s clear that the money was well spent—every penny was used where it mattered, unlike those high-budget films that pour everything into marketing.]
[I feel like Lu Xu is truly unstoppable. From Fearless Life to Observing the Stars, and now Code A77—that’s three consecutive wins.]
Netizens had no doubt that if Lu Xu continued on his current path, he would inevitably become a legendary figure in the film industry.
In some ways, he already was.
From television to film, Lu Xu had created one iconic character after another. Even a “pretty-boy” role like Code A77 still secured a spot on the list of “most handsome movie characters.”
—
Before the buzz around Code A77 had even settled, Lu Xu’s name was once again tied to the three major film awards.
For his role as the villain Cui Kaiwen in Black & White, he had received his first-ever nomination for the Best Supporting Actor category at the Contention Awards.
[The first nomination in history.]
[I can’t help but laugh—Lu Xu’s supporting role is worth more than his leading roles.]
[This nomination comes after he’s already won three Best Actor awards. It took six lead roles just to finally earn a single supporting actor nod—this one’s definitely a treasure!]
Lu Xu: “….”
He was completely speechless about the situation.
Still, the nomination for Black & White did take him by surprise. He had practically been pushed into the role at the last minute, and his time on set as Cui Kaiwen hadn’t been long.
“Isn’t a nomination a good thing?” His manager shot him a glance. “Best Supporting Actor isn’t easy to win either.”
Every past recipient of the Contention Award for Best Supporting Actor had been recognized as a true master of their craft.
Lu Xu could only sigh—the Contention Awards really did seem to favor him.
A film like Black & White was never the typical choice for the Contention Awards. Take this year, for example—Ren Ningyi, the film’s lead, hadn’t even received a nomination.
Of course, while Lu Xu had been nominated, his chances of actually winning were quite low—aside from his own nomination, Black & White had barely received any other nominations at this year’s Contention Awards.
Because of this, Ren Ningyi was teased by his old friends, but he didn’t mind at all. He understood—they were just venting their frustration at not having had the chance to work with Lu Xu.
He chose to be magnanimous because, after all, he had already collaborated with him.
—
After wrapping up director Mu Lang’s new film, Lu Xu planned to take a break and put a pause on accepting new projects.
Since Deception and Code A77 had both performed well in overseas markets, a certain Hollywood agency expressed interest in signing Lu Xu, hoping to guide him into the Hollywood film industry.
Lu Xu, however, rejected the offer without hesitation. His core fanbase was domestic, and besides, going to Hollywood at this point wasn’t a cost-effective move.
Following Fearless Life, the three films he had starred in had all achieved box office earnings that ranked within the top ten of Hollywood-produced films. If he went to Hollywood, he would never land a project on the same scale as Fearless Life.
Even though Lu Xu refused to sign with an overseas agency, their pursuit of him didn’t stop. If he wouldn’t do Hollywood films, they suggested co-productions instead—this way, he could earn money from both markets, and who knows, maybe they could even turn it into a franchise.
During the film market boom in previous years, several Hollywood films that had flopped overseas had been saved by the Chinese market.
Lu Xu couldn’t help but sigh. “They’re not even trying to hide their intentions.”
They might as well just say outright that they weren’t after him as a person—but they sure wanted his money.
Lu Xu wasn’t completely against foreign films. He acknowledged that Hollywood’s film industry was far more developed, with more advanced technology and a more professional approach to training actors.
However, he preferred to play roles that felt real and alive—not just be a tool in someone else’s production.
Lu Xu didn’t mind taking on roles that reflected cultural exchange and conflict. At the very least, such a character shouldn’t feel deliberately inserted or out of place—it should appear naturally within the story.
At the very least… the agency’s pitch to Lu Xu wasn’t particularly enticing. They had only dangled vague promises: the chance to work with a certain director, a path to the Oscars, and the possibility of achieving world-class fame.
But everyone knew—no matter the country, the entertainment industry always had more scammers than honest people.
—
Lu Xu attended the Contention Awards red carpet that year.
The competition for Best Supporting Actor was fierce—so much so that, in Lu Xu’s eyes, it rivaled the years he had competed for Best Actor.
Black & White had a clear disadvantage—Lu Xu was one of only two nominees in the category whose films hadn’t been nominated for Best Picture.
Without nominations in heavyweight categories like Best Picture or Best Director, the chances of an individual actor winning were slim—unless their performance was so exceptional that the judges couldn’t ignore the film’s overall shortcomings.
On top of that, Lu Xu had already won two Best Actor trophies.
At this point in his career, that was his biggest disadvantage.
If he won again, he would make history. The Contention Awards weren’t even a hundred years old yet, and across both the Best Actor and Best Supporting Actor categories, there had been just over a hundred trophies awarded in total.
For Lu Xu to take home three of them? His win rate would be absurdly high.
The outcome didn’t surprise him—his performance in Black & White hadn’t been enough to secure the trophy. This year’s Best Supporting Actor award went to Yang Zhun, who had played a schizophrenic patient. His performance was so disturbingly real that it sent chills down the audience’s spine.
“Not winning is normal,” Lu Xu remarked. “Yang Zhun’s performance was definitely more impactful than mine.”
Of course, neither of them had played “normal” characters.
Cui Kaiwen was terrifying in his own way, but Yang Zhun’s character belonged to society’s underclass, exposing audiences to the harsh reality of someone struggling with severe mental illness.
The film Yang Zhun had starred in was also a niche production, yet his outstanding performance had compelled the jury to select it from nearly a hundred films.
Lu Xu felt no regrets—this was a fair and honorable loss.
[You should at least feel a little regret, Puppy. You won’t have many chances to play supporting roles in the future.]
[Lu Xu doesn’t always play the lead, okay?]
[A loss is a loss, but Lu Xu’s attitude this time is completely different from that year at the Golden Flame Awards. Look at what you did, @GoldenFlameAwards (pointing fingers).]
The entertainment industry had always been a place where people flattered the successful and trampled the fallen. The higher someone climbed, the more they were revered—and this applied to awards as well.
The Golden Flame Awards had hit a rough patch last year and were now trying to rebuild their reputation. However, last year’s winning films had received little attention, and the award recipients had failed to secure the post-win opportunities they had expected. This only pushed filmmakers who had once held the Golden Flame in high regard further away.
In other words, last year’s nominations had at least been somewhat presentable—a thin veil to maintain dignity. But this year, the Golden Flame Awards had practically nothing to offer.
Why had the Golden Flame Awards been prestigious in the past? Because they were authoritative, because the competition was worth watching, and because winning a Golden Flame for Best Actor, Best Actress, or even Best Supporting Actor or Actress could elevate an actor’s career—boosting their film choices, commercial deals, and standing in the fashion world.
But now, that advantage was gone.
Winning an award required PR efforts, and in most cases, companies spent unimaginable amounts of money and resources lobbying for just two major awards. Focusing on a single award, however, meant a lower investment with potentially better results.
The reputation of the Golden Flame Awards had taken a hit, making the Contention Awards the new gold standard in the eyes of audiences. Naturally, major companies and celebrities shifted their efforts toward the Contention Awards instead.
That year, the Golden Flame Awards were nothing short of disastrous.
Not only was the event far less star-studded than in previous years, but the red carpet also saw fewer A-list celebrities and more influencers showing off their outfits. Even the longtime title sponsor of the awards had pulled out, and the remaining sponsors had dropped from top-tier brands to second-tier ones—clearly, sponsorship was now available to anyone willing to pay.
Years later, when the industry reflected on the decline of the Golden Flame Awards, the Fearless Life incident was seen as a turning point the awards could never fully recover from. But no matter how dire the Golden Flame’s situation became, the public found it hard to feel any sympathy.
It wasn’t the audience that abandoned the Golden Flame Awards—it was the Golden Flame Awards that abandoned the audience first.
In short, from the announcement of nominations to the awards ceremony itself, the Golden Flame Awards barely made it into the trending topics. Instead, the hashtag #GoldenFlameAwardsFlop trended for an extended period—until the organizing committee protested and had it removed.
The drama surrounding the awards turned out to be more interesting than the awards themselves. After hosting a lackluster ceremony, two core members of the organizing committee filed a lawsuit against Liu Rennong.
Though the two had proceeded cautiously—waiting nearly a year after Liu Rennong had left the industry before taking legal action—the case still attracted attention.
During Liu Rennong’s peak in the film industry, these two had collaborated with him and made a fortune. However, once he left, their old methods no longer worked. Worse still, Liu Rennong had outmaneuvered them at the last moment—shifting debts onto their shoulders while pocketing all the profits for himself.
Lu Xu happily watched the drama unfold and couldn’t help but remark, “Liu Rennong really is a business genius!”
From the moment Lu Xu had first heard the name Liu Rennong, he had never once seen the man suffer a loss. Liu Rennong was always the one taking advantage of others, setting traps, and reaping benefits—whether it was scheming with partners to manipulate box office numbers or conspiring to rig award shows. In the end, everyone who worked with him ended up being the one at a disadvantage.
“Just wait and see,” Lu Xu’s manager said. “People who spend their days scheming against others will eventually take a massive fall. And when that happens, climbing back up won’t be so easy.”
Lu Xu deeply suspected that his manager might have been a crow in a past life—whenever he spoke of good news, it was hit or miss, but when he predicted bad news, he was eerily accurate.
Lu Xu only knew that Liu Rennong had gone overseas to make films. Naturally, working in the foreign film industry was far less comfortable than staying in China, where he had been treated like a film maestro. Back home, he was respected as a great director, with top actors competing to collaborate with him, and no one daring to slight him.
But abroad, no one cared who he was.
Lu Xu had simply assumed that Liu Rennong was having a rough time adjusting. But not long after, he saw a report in the financial news: a foreign company had been accused of fraud, and domestic film investors had lost everything.
That company happened to be the one Liu Rennong had partnered with for his overseas film project.
Back in China, all Liu Rennong had to do was focus on making movies. But abroad, if he wanted directorial control, he had to put up money himself—there was no such thing as getting something for nothing.
