Famous! Ch.221

Chapter 221: Miscellaneous Discussions

After leaving the cinema, Jiang Lei finally realized that the movie he had just watched was the highly popular domestic film Clay Man. His friends occasionally discussed it, and he had assumed he would only be able to watch the online version. He hadn’t expected Clay Man to have been released in overseas theaters so early.

The forums Jiang Lei usually followed didn’t have much discussion about Clay Man, but on domestic platforms, the conversations never seemed to stop. Even a character like Ma Yanwen had videos carefully edited by netizens.

However, the points Jiang Lei cared about had already been brought up by online users, along with many details he hadn’t even noticed.

He genuinely thought Clay Man was a great film, but unfortunately, its overseas box office performance had been quite mediocre—limited screenings and lukewarm reception.

Jiang Lei tried recommending it to his classmates, but their reactions were all rather indifferent.

That was until one day, a friend from his club, whom he was on good terms with, suddenly asked him, “Was the movie you recommended called Twisted?”

Jiang Lei blinked in surprise and nodded.

“I really regret not watching it sooner. It’s an amazing film. A lot of people are talking about it.”

Only then did Jiang Lei open his social media and discover that the reputation of Clay Man had started to spread.

Curious, he scrolled back further and found that a well-known local actor had recommended the movie.

Moreover, despite Clay Man having limited screenings and competing with a major blockbuster, when it came to storytelling, it was actually the most refreshing and full of twists in that release window. Because of this, those who had watched it enthusiastically recommended it to their friends and acquaintances.

All in all, nearly everyone who had seen Clay Man had given it exceptionally high praise.

At this point, when Jiang Lei checked the box office again, he was surprised to find that Clay Man had unknowingly climbed from the very bottom to fifth place in the rankings.

In Jiang Lei’s region, the lower-ranked films didn’t have particularly strong casts, but Clay Man was truly an unknown underdog, relying solely on word-of-mouth to accumulate ticket sales.

Jiang Lei had assumed that fifth place was the highest Clay Man could reach. However, a few days later, the film’s ranking continued to rise, unexpectedly shooting up to second place.

Naturally, this Chinese film started attracting even more attention.

For its overseas distributor, the higher the film’s visibility, the greater the business opportunities. Initially, Clay Man had limited profit potential, but now, as its box office earnings continued to grow, its profitability became increasingly evident.

Aside from organic word-of-mouth promotion, the distributor also invested some money into marketing.

Frequent moviegoers were already familiar with Lu Xu’s face, and during the promotional campaign, his previous work Code A77 was deliberately mentioned.

As a result, one day, the trending discussion about Clay Man revolved around this contrast: “Swooning over Lu Xu from Code A77, but equally horrified by Ma Yanwen’s ugliness.”

On the topic of Ma Yanwen’s inner ugliness, both domestic and international audiences shared the same opinion.

Jiang Lei had been among the earliest viewers to pay attention to Clay Man’s box office performance. Though he hadn’t checked it for a few days, the film’s later trajectory completely exceeded his expectations.

By the end, Clay Man’s box office earnings had nearly caught up with regular North American releases. While it wasn’t among the absolute top-grossing films, reaching $100 million was undeniably a huge success.

In terms of reputation, Clay Man even surpassed Code A77, becoming the most talked-about film at that year’s Sunset Film Festival. 

The news made its way back to China, but both the industry and the audience had grown numb to the success of any film associated with Lu Xu’s name.

Audiences had become accustomed to the pattern of Lu Xu making a movie → box office explosion or critical acclaim, with most of his films achieving both.

[I can’t even imagine how much someone else would brag if they won Best Actor at the Sunset Film Festival!]

[This should mean a step up in resources—endorsements, sponsorships, everything. But unfortunately, Lu Xu doesn’t lack any of that.]

[Honestly, ten years ago, if someone brought home a Best Actor trophy from the Sunset Film Festival, they’d be guaranteed a top-tier career. Back then, Qi Zhu won Best Actress overseas first, and when she returned, her career skyrocketed, securing her place among the biggest stars. But now, fewer people are developing their careers abroad, and the era of the ‘big flowers’ is gradually fading.]

Although Lu Xu had won Best Actor at the Sunset Film Festival, he was widely acknowledged as the winner who gained the least from it. His status in China was already at the top tier—unless he shifted his focus to the international market, the award wouldn’t significantly change his career.

Still, audiences couldn’t help but reflect on the shift in the industry. In the past, directors and actors had poured everything they had into chasing international awards. Now, Lu Xu had won his trophy with what seemed like effortless ease.

[It just proves his acting is truly exceptional.]

[What strikes me is that every country’s film industry seems to lack a strong new generation. The productions and actors making it to the Sunset Film Festival still feature the same familiar faces.]

[That’s because the film industry is incredibly closed off. Lu Xu managed to break through, but how long will it take before we see another like him?]

Even for the Sunset Film Festival itself, it seemed in dire need of fresh blood.

…

After Lu Xu won Best Actor, some foreign media outlets aggressively spread false reports, claiming that he was about to enter Hollywood or that a renowned director had taken a liking to him and was eager to collaborate. Some even went as far as stating that a certain company was working to pair him up with an Oscar-winning actor and a Hollywood A-lister.

The last part, however, wasn’t entirely false—there was indeed a project proposal sent to Lu Xu. But in his view, the project had little appeal. The role they offered him could just as easily be played by anyone else.

It felt more like a blatant box-office cash grab.

Lu Xu declined the offer, and while the project’s initiators expressed disappointment, they quickly leveraged the Oscar-winning actor’s name to attract another top-tier star.

That star was none other than Wang Luo—a young actor whose career trajectory was second only to Lu Xu’s. Of course, in terms of actual achievements, Lu Xu had outpaced him by several times.

Wang Luo’s career had been steady. He had competed with Lu Xu at the box office before, but there had never been any direct conflict between them. He was known for his low-key personality, rarely making public appearances and focusing solely on honing his craft.

“Wang Luo took that project?” Lu Xu asked casually when he saw the news online.

“I heard he did,” Xu Wen confirmed. “He probably wants to expand his reach internationally. He’s not entirely satisfied with his current situation.”

Back when Lu Xu first broke into the film industry, people often compared him to Wang Luo. But now, such comparisons had almost disappeared.

As the one being compared, Wang Luo was undeniably a step behind. He was likely not happy about it, but at this stage, surpassing Lu Xu was an almost impossible challenge.

For actors who debuted in the same era as Lu Xu, he wasn’t just a towering mountain—they lived under his immense shadow.

Lu Xu didn’t pay much further attention to the project, but from the news reports, he later learned that Wang Luo had suffered a setback.

The Hollywood company had originally promised that the lead role would go to an Oscar-winning actor. However, just before filming began, the actor was replaced with a second-tier Hollywood star. The official reason given was that the Oscar winner had dropped out last minute, but there was another possibility—he had never been involved in the project at all, and it was merely bait from the production team.

Aside from the last-minute casting change, the production encountered several issues midway through filming. There were problems like uneven screen time distribution and even a sudden funding shortfall. Wang Luo didn’t publicly complain about the setbacks he faced, but with a project of this scale, it was impossible to avoid scrutiny.

Lu Xu didn’t feel relieved about dodging this collaboration. He didn’t believe these issues had popped up suddenly; they had likely existed from the very beginning. No matter who took on this project, they were bound to fall into the trap.

For Hollywood, even if a foreign actor had achieved massive success in their own country, breaking into Hollywood still meant facing the challenges of navigating an unfamiliar and unpredictable environment.

When the film was finally released, its box office performance was mediocre. After all, it was widely known that a divided production team significantly increased the risk of failure. Any problem—be it casting, funding, or coordination—would inevitably impact the final product.

For Wang Luo, this project cost him a considerable amount of time and led to some losses among his core domestic fanbase.

Fortunately, he quickly adapted and learned from the experience. While he remained open to working on international projects, he became far more selective, no longer swayed by star-studded lineups alone.

This ordeal even led to an unexpected connection between Wang Luo and Lu Xu. Afterward, Wang Luo ended up working with the same distribution company that had handled Code A77 and Clay Man, crossing paths with Lu Xu on multiple occasions and eventually exchanging contact information.

Previously, Wang Luo had been somewhat hesitant to interact with Lu Xu. But after going through this experience, he gained a new perspective—he no longer avoided the idea of working with him.

After all… everyone knew that working with Lu Xu had no downsides. At the very least, he wouldn’t make empty promises, nor would he set people up for failure.

…

After Clay Man made its international run, Lu Xu didn’t experience a dramatic surge in his market value, though his pay did increase somewhat. He had now reached a level where he could negotiate profit-sharing deals—not the accidental kind like in Deception, but real, at-the-table negotiations.

Of course, this model was still underdeveloped in the domestic industry. When Lu Xu proposed taking an equity share in exchange for a lower upfront salary, most production companies were reluctant. After all, compared to his pay, the revenue Lu Xu could bring in was far more substantial.

That said, Lu Xu himself was his greatest bargaining chip. A production company could refuse to offer him a share of the profits, but he could just as easily turn down a role.

In today’s film industry, Lu Xu was undeniably a top-tier actor. His salary was firmly in the A-list range, far beyond what low-budget productions could afford.

However, he had a reputation for being easy to work with. His rates were flexible—if a script truly moved him, he didn’t mind taking a pay cut.

A film like Clay Man, for example, wasn’t necessarily the kind of project big-name actors would jump at. But then again, Clay Man had Mu Lang’s name attached, which made it a different case altogether.

After returning from overseas, Lu Xu continued sifting through scripts. He had a long period of downtime, and during the days when he wasn’t filming, it was as if he had disappeared from the public eye.

While the outside world believed there was no room left for Lu Xu to improve his acting, he disagreed. Even during his break, he kept studying his craft—revisiting his past performances over and over, searching for areas where he could push his limits further.

Watching his own performances was an interesting experience. From an audience’s perspective, certain scenes might seem like moments of brilliance, where his acting was at its peak. But when Lu Xu watched them himself, he saw plenty of imperfections—flaws that made him feel a little embarrassed.

Lu Xu had also broadened his range of films, watching a wider variety of genres than before. Occasionally, he even flew abroad to attend film festivals or visit screenings—not as “Actor Lu Xu,” but simply as “Audience Member Lu Xu.”

Some films were truly fascinating, while others only seemed intriguing on the surface but were, in reality, nothing more than attention-seeking gimmicks. He could tell when a director lacked real talent—when making a traditional film that earned critical acclaim was too difficult, they would take a more unconventional approach, choosing extremely obscure subjects instead.

Some of these so-called films could hardly even be called movies. Lu Xu found no joy in them whatsoever. Of course, if the creators insisted on labeling them as “art,” he had nothing more to say.

And so… once again, Lu Xu was spotted wandering around film events by fellow Chinese travelers. Over time, netizens even identified a pattern—wherever there was a film festival, Lu Xu was bound to be there.

It got to the point where even fans taking pictures with him started urging him to return to filming.

“When are you joining a new project?”

“It’s been a year since your last movie. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Are the movies good? I want to watch one too—yours.”

Lu Xu: “…”

He started avoiding photo requests.

<< _ >>