I am not Ximen Qing.

I finally met the assistant director. I heard he has over ten years of experience in the industry. He had a small braid, like a bird enthusiast from the late Qing Dynasty. Indeed, in China, barbers often wear braids, supposedly for those in the arts. He had to be a little different. But the assistant director didn't have the guts to get a tattoo, so he opted for a braid. I don't know where he got his hands on that old, beat-up BAIC Jeep, but it had a certain artistic flair. He'd been involved with some big shot in the entertainment industry, and Song Yu said he'd acted in many TV dramas and knew many big stars from China and Korea. Why wasn't there a Japanese Noriko Sakai? Meng Liang chuckled. The Tsushima Strait blocked his way. He'd been in this apartment building for a while now, a large apartment in the middle of nowhere, located near the Qinghe Lishui Bridge.

The assistant director lived in this apartment. As soon as he got out of the car, a young man with a puffy hairstyle stepped out of the passenger seat. He was a pale-faced, scholarly-looking young man with an arrogant demeanor; everything seemed insignificant to him. However, he was all smiles and jokes with the assistant director.

"Hello, assistant director."

"Who is he?"

"Oh, this is a top screenwriter my brother introduced me to,"

"What can I write? Are there any existing works? Oh my, those classics like 'Farewell My Concubine' and 'Jing Ke' from the Records of the Grand Historian' are so good. If I could ever have a script like that, I would have made the most of my time in this industry."

"Hello,"

"Why are you pulling and tearing at me like that? Don't do that,"

"You are the producer."

"Oh, producer, I'm the producer. You should try to get close to him; he's a talented director..."

This apartment is practically a circle in hell. If it caught fire, you'd be guaranteed to never find an escape staircase. Wandering through the Matrix, you'd end up like the savior of humanity in *The Matrix*, the last angel.

"I am Leo, the savior of humanity!"

"That's interesting. They're similar to us creative people; we're all a bit eccentric."

"You flatter me, you flatter me, you flatter me."

"Don't listen to him; he's been in contact with too many screenwriters. Screenwriters are all a bit crazy, so naturally, I'm the same."

The assistant director and the pretty boy were flattering each other, acting as if the three of them were top Hollywood screenwriters. The room contained a large pearwood table, stripped bare, with tea-making equipment. A large, comfortable leather sofa sat on it; it was just a 30-square-meter apartment. To the left was a loft with a tatami-style bedroom, taking up half the space. Next to it was a standing bookshelf filled with records and books on art and screenwriting. After entering, the assistant director busied himself in the open kitchen for a while, quickly boiling and stir-frying crab. Japanese dishes were laid out on the coffee table, which served as both a dining table and a banquet table. Due to the limited space in the apartment, many of the furniture items were shared.

"That's quite a feast! I'm starving; I've been busy all day."

Before the assistant director could even sit down at the table, he was already devouring the food, completely lacking the demeanor of a producer. He grabbed a thoroughly boiled red crab, peeled off its shell, and greedily picked out the crab meat like a seabird.

"It's so delicious, I won't drink beer."

"Have some baijiu,"

"I don't drink baijiu (Chinese liquor),"

"Then let's drink dry red wine,"

The assistant director took out a bottle of red wine, opened the cap, let it breathe for a while, and poured a large glass for everyone.

"Come on, cheers!"

Do you have any works?

"Not yet, it's still in the creation process."

"I want it ready-made,"

"Write a book and then adapt it into a screenplay,"

"Then I might as well buy the copyright, right? That's more reliable."

The producer always says things that seem reasonable. He occasionally quotes the works of China's first Nobel laureate in literature, saying that they are indeed well-written, and then mentions that he has read all of his works.

"I've never been poisoned."

"What Chinese works haven't you read? Tell me, what do you, a great screenwriter, read? Let's exchange ideas."

The producer, that pretty boy, must have eaten his fill; he's probably been in hell for lifetimes, a perpetual starving ghost. The assistant director saved his hungry soul, but he'd never seen such a lewd-looking fellow. He reminded me of the Taotie and Pixiu monsters from the *Classic of Mountains and Seas*. And that beetle from *The Metamorphosis*... I hope the pretty boy was Cao Cao in his past life, or maybe he accidentally woke up as a monster with a sheep's body, tiger's teeth, and human claws.

"A gluttonous beast, it's simply a gluttonous beast."

"Oh, no wonder you dream of being a screenwriter. What exactly is Taotie?"

That glib tongue of his, so smooth-talking, made him incredibly deft as he bit into the crab meat; his small white teeth gleamed like razor blades. How could he not stuff himself? He took another sip of red wine...

Where was I?

"You're asking what books screenwriters have read?"

The assistant director was indeed more experienced and had a rather refined manner of eating.

"Come on, let's celebrate together!"

"Never even think about smashing a Mercedes-Benz."

"They must be really rich to even want to smash a Mercedes."

"It's nothing, just burning down a house while filming. The 8 yuan Mercedes is just an appetizer. He's always liked the idea of ​​smashing the Mercedes if he ever makes a great film of his own."

"Don't listen to his nonsense,"

"Eat up, don't be shy,"

"I've finally found someone to make movies! Director, I can make up anything. Hollywood, let's take down Hollywood together and create original works in China that can defeat Hollywood!"

"Are we being a bit delusional? Hollywood? Forget about that kind of thing for now. Let's think about South Korea and Japan first. South Korea has surpassed Japan. China is not only lagging behind, but South Korea and Japan are generations ahead of China. Yes, Rashomon, chaos, Seven Samurai,"

"Hollywood is copying Japanese works, I'm so anxious, I'm searching the world for your works to watch."

The pretty boy looked on expectantly at the assistant director, as if his future fate depended on this assistant director.

"I think it should be like The Count of Monte Cristo, The Three Musketeers, Les Misérables, and Balzac."

"Everyone knows that,"

"And Shakespeare."

"What's the point of talking about this? We can't film it anyway,"

"It's useful. Didn't Mr. Jin write his martial arts novel after reading the story of 'The Three Musketeers' and finishing the Twenty-Four Histories?"

"But I also know that this is useless; what we need are original Chinese works that we can start filming immediately."

The assistant director also calmed down, "Actually, I've always wanted to dig up some stories, newspaper articles, short stories, and Ma Jiajue, you know?"

"Knowing that he killed all his roommates with a hammer."

"Yes, that's the kind of subject matter we should film. It really shows the good and evil of human nature and the tragedy of ordinary people. It's really impressive to copy Korean films in this aspect."

"That subject matter won't pass censorship,"

"What's there to be afraid of? I just want to film it, even if it means being blacklisted."

"What will you do then?"

"What to do? Go into exile for art."

"It's so tragic."

The screenwriter thought he had found someone who truly created art, and tears streamed down his face in excitement. The pretty boy and the assistant director fell silent, unable to understand what had made the screenwriter cry.

"Our dream will definitely come true, won't it, producer and assistant director?"

Meng Liang also arrived and had a few drinks with everyone. The assistant director felt it was time for him to show off his skills, so he inserted a memory card into the projector. It contained years of accumulated content—not Chinese, but Japanese, Korean, and of course, all the famous Hollywood dramas.

"No problem, it's just farting, right? We can make it even more disgusting than farting."

"is it?"

"Of course, even pooping, peeing, and wetting your pants can be turned into a dramatic scene. Drama is too low-class and has no substance."

"I don't understand what you artists are talking about. I'm only now realizing how crazy art can be."

It seems the four gentlemen in this apartment are living in a dark age for Chinese cinema. They're like Marvel's superheroes, destined to save China's declining film industry. The assistant director is discussing a project he wants to make, with a budget of around 500 million yuan. He's asking if he can get big stars—not Chinese, but Korean stars.

"One million is enough to get a big star,"

"I'm very familiar with those Korean actresses,"

The assistant director, quite pleased with himself, casually mentioned the names of Korean and Chinese stars.

"Really? I've watched Korean dramas and followed Korean directors. And the Chinese stars you mentioned, I've also watched their shows."

"Of course it's true! How can we not believe in a future great director? He's my hope!"

A pretty boy. With a pointed mouth and monkey-like cheeks, his mouth was stuffed full of crab meat. He ate the most hairy crabs on the plate and drank dozens of cups of wine. His face was quite rosy.

"Director, rest assured, we will work together to create a Chinese Shakespeare who will be remembered throughout history."

He released several more acclaimed works, including *On Golden Pond*, all Hollywood classics. In fact, any screenwriter or director would have watched Quentin Tarantino's films. It's said he's watched Jet Li's *Fist of Fury* countless times, and also watched a lot of Akira Kurosawa's works. To become a director, you need to watch thousands of films; otherwise, you can't even say you can make movies. It's understandable that this young director is anxious and frustrated. He's almost exhausted his creative ideas, so what he can watch is what he finds appealing. Originality is dwindling. Film creation is quite similar to Einstein's paradox. Will future film ideas be like Bitcoin—a fixed quantity, dwindling with each use? What's left of Chinese cinema? At least in the past, they could make films like *Shangganling* and *The Peacock Flies Southeast*. The films from the Republican era, like *The Three Battles with the White Bone Demon*, *The Fairy Couple*, *Du Shiniang*, and *Romance on Lushan Mountain*, had spirit, sentiment, substance, and soul.

"What's left now? I'll only admire anyone who can recreate 'Farewell My Concubine'."

“Brother is dead,” the assistant director said strangely, referring to Leslie Cheung.

"Red Sorghum is also good." Love and romance in the sorghum fields.

"If China can win awards for its ugliness, I believe there was a period after the founding of the People's Republic that saw war films that were no worse than Hollywood's 'Saving Private Ryan',"

"Then Lao She should be the first person to win the Nobel Prize."

"It's a pity that he committed suicide by drowning himself in the lake, just like Wang Guowei."

"How tiring! Hold on, let me tell you a story about how to pursue girls."

I am reminded of a saying by Song Yu,

"You just want to pick up girls, you write scripts just to pick up girls, I see right through you,"

This phrase is perfect for gigolos.

"You know, I've got some skills when it comes to picking up girls. Basically, anyone I meet can sleep with me. We're better than those rich guys,"

A pretty boy, a thief and a prostitute. He only talks about romantic escapades, like how the top courtesan makes the boss incredibly happy.

"Only two thousand yuan, and that's for the top girl at the nightclub. You guys should try it out with that brothel girl. She wouldn't even step on you."

"why?"

"That gets right to the point I'm trying to make. The key is to have that kind of aura that instantly intimidates her, like a king. The top courtesan has to be obsequious, afraid of offending a big shot. Now I finally understand what that means."

"what happened?"

"Practice makes perfect sense" and brings to mind the love-hate relationship between Freddy and Nana. It makes sense that the pretty boy was using investors' money to do the same kind of thing as Gloucester. But compared to Gloucester's handsome and dashing appearance, the pretty boy still lacks a lot in terms of temperament. The story of spiritual redemption that the Iranian director made in Japan was quite touching. It won many awards, including the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film. It tells the story of a taxi driver and was made with very little investment.