"Come back whenever you're free!"
"No need to see us out, it's freezing! Head back inside!"
Late at night, the small gathering finally wound down.
Zhang Jinling, who also lived in the tongzilou, left first. Tang Guoqiang gave a wave, hopped onto his bicycle, and sped off, leaving the remaining two to stroll slowly back toward the guesthouse.
A light snow was still drifting down. Dim yellow streetlamps within the studio grounds faintly illuminated the ground. Gong Xue pulled her military greatcoat tight, rubbing her hands together, her heart heavy with reluctance to leave *Romance on Mount Lu* behind.
Chen Qi wore a thick padded coat over a light padded jacket, with a woolen sweater beneath that. Winters in this era were far colder than in the future.
"Do you need help moving your things tomorrow?"
"It's just a few clothes, nothing to move."
"Oh, then I won't bother."
"I didn't need help in the first place. I'll just wrap up a bundle and be off..."
Gong Xue glanced at him, a trace of envy in her voice. "I don't have your talent. You're lucky—you get to keep staying here."
"Just so-so, only third in the world!"
Chen Qi tossed out a catchphrase from who-knew-what future era, adding, "Your scene today was great, exactly the feeling I talked about. With this under your belt, handling similar scenes in the future will be a breeze. The tears will come on cue, making you the actress who weeps most beautifully in the entire country!"
"I'd rather not have a title like that—it sounds so weird."
"You're still young. Once you taste the benefits, you'll understand. When you get back, don't forget to practice in front of the mirror. Practice all kinds of expressions until they become muscle memory."
"I remember. You called it representational acting!"
"Don't look down on it. Ninety-nine percent of people just embarrass themselves; only one percent can truly be called representational."
Many people misunderstood representational acting, believing it inferior to experiential or method acting. But that wasn't a flaw in theory; it was a matter of individual performers.
The core of representational acting was turning oneself into a massive reservoir of muscle memory through relentless practice and refinement.
Most people simply lacked the discipline. Take Da Mi Mi, for instance: she had shown genuine spark back when playing Guo Xiang, but after doing too many trashy dramas, she realized she could coast through an entire production on just a handful of stock expressions. The director didn't care, the fans didn't care, so why bother trying?
Earlier, when star acting had come up, people often brought up Yang Mi.
Give me a break! She didn't qualify as star acting. Star acting didn't mean acting poorly; it meant delivering a solid seventy or eighty out of a hundred across every role, even if one never melded deeply enough with the character to hit ninety. Not just anyone could ride that coattail.
If one were being honest, what kind of acting did traffic stars like Da Mi Mi, Yang Tianbao, and Liu Haocun practice?
Sub-par trash! Not even worth mentioning.
*Crunch, crunch!*
The sound of shoes treading on fine snow was crisp in the winter night. The distance from the tongzilou to the guesthouse was short to begin with, and even at an unhurried pace, they arrived in no time.
Standing beneath the entrance, Gong Xue looked at him, hesitating repeatedly before speaking in a soft voice: "You know I'm not good with words, but I don't believe keeping things locked inside lets the other person know either. How should I put it? I'm truly, deeply grateful for your help. Without you, I couldn't have pulled this off. I don't have many friends in the capital. I consider you a close friend. If you ever need me in the future, I will definitely come."
"So formal?"
"I told you I'm bad at this!"
Gong Xue lowered her head. Just saying those few lines had taken all her courage.
"I get what you mean. Honestly, it was nothing. You fed my bad habit of wanting to lecture and teach people anyway."
Chen Qi glanced at the entrance behind her. "Your military troupe has a telephone, right? Give me the number so I can reach you if anything comes up."
"Mm, I'll give it to you tomorrow morning."
"You're heading home for Spring Festival, right? Give me your home address too."
"My home?"
"Your home in Shanghai. Just in case I can't reach you, at least I'll have a place to write to."
"..."
That seemingly casual remark made Gong Xue's heart skip a beat. A feeling she had never contemplated before swept through her, only to be suppressed at once.
She bit her lip gently. The dim yellow light before the doorway blended with the pristine white snow, mirrored in her eyes. After gazing at him for a moment, she nodded. "Mm, I'll give them both to you."
"Head on up. I'm going back too!"
"Goodbye!"
Each went up to their own rooms.
Back in her room, Gong Xue felt thoroughly unsettled.
There was the melancholy of leaving the cast, as well as the ripples he had just stirred. She couldn't tell what that guy meant—did he simply want to write letters, or was it something else?
She wasn't stupid. Though inexperienced, she was a grown woman. She had never considered crossing that line—there was an age gap of several years between them. But what if he truly meant it that way? What should she do?
It turned out to be a sleepless night.
***
With filming wrapped, *Romance on Mount Lu* entered post-production.
In this era, on-set sound recording wasn't an option; everything relied on post-synchronization dubbing.
Future audiences would despise voice dubbing for actors, but right now it was entirely standard. People pursued the overall artistry of a production rather than individual performers, and there was no need to enter foreign film festivals.
In *Dream of the Red Chamber*, for instance, aside from Yuanyang who used her own voice, everyone else was dubbed. Many actors couldn't even speak fluent Standard Mandarin, weighed down by heavy regional accents.
There was also *Farewell My Concubine*, where Yang Lixin dubbed Leslie Cheung; to enter the Cannes Film Festival, the credits intentionally omitted Yang Lixin's name.
So Wang Haowei would eventually call Gong Xue back to test-dub a segment. If it worked, she would dub her own lines; if not, professional voice actors would step in—though that would have to wait until after Spring Festival.
If all went smoothly, *Romance on Mount Lu* would hit theaters by next summer.
With the New Year approaching, Chen Qi set screenwriting aside and gave himself a few days off.
He rented a camera—yes, they could be rented—and roamed the streets and alleys of the capital, snapping photos left and right. He had no grand purpose other than leaving behind some trace of his first year after crossing over, which was also the final year of the 1970s.
"Comrade Zhanying, could you talk about your hopes for the eighties?"
"All I hope for is making more money! Every day I open my eyes, more than thirty brothers and sisters are waiting for me to feed them. And you're not doing a lick of work, running around snapping with that broken camera—piss off!"
"Mom, the eighties are almost here. Do you have any hopes?"
"Find a partner soon, get married when you reach the age, and once you're married you'll need a place to live. Where is that cooperative of yours going to find an apartment to allocate? A family of four can't squeeze into one room forever—it's worrying me sick!"
"Xiao Cai, what expectations do you have for 1980?"
"Me? I hope for world peace!"
"What about you, Old Liang?"
"Earn a bit more in royalties!"
"Ge You, how about you?"
"I hope the drama troupe stops making me play a combat engineer hauling logs. Those logs have worn me raw. Switching to a signalman would do—at least that's a technical specialist."
"Shanshan..."
"Ahhh, stay away!"
After making the rounds, Chen Qi concluded that the general public's cultural refinement left much to be desired; not a single person could offer a proper, presentable answer.
Finally, he sought out Wang Yang.
Wang Yang sat in his office, chuckling. "What have you been running around doing these past few days?"
"Just leaving some traces behind. Hold still, Director, let me take one of you!"
Chen Qi snapped a photo of him. Decades later, these images would be priceless historical records.
"I looked into that Yang Luchan matter," Wang Yang said. "His descendants are rebuilding his tomb, so it's fine to write about him. Are you going home for New Year's?"
"Yes, I'm heading home."
"Then you'd best finish the script in January, otherwise Spring Festival will hold things up."
"It'll definitely be done in January, don't worry... Say, Director, how about sharing your hopes for 1980?"
"Haha! I don't have any grand wishes. I just hope Chinese cinema keeps getting better and institutional reform comes sooner!" Wang Yang laughed.
Reform?
Chen Qi paused, then understood in a flash. Smiling, he made his exit.
Left alone in the room, Wang Yang spread open a thick file on his desk. It contained the complete income and expenditure records for all Beijing Film Studio projects this year, along with the film budgets set to roll out next year.
Chapter 70