Chapter Thirty-One: A Song

Music plays a multifaceted role in film and television art. Generally, the opening theme serves as a prologue, leaving a memorable first impression on the audience. The main theme, woven throughout, acts as a brand, enabling viewers to recognize and associate a unique identity with the entire work. Interludes adjust the atmosphere, propelling the plot and enhancing the film’s rhythm. Scene music is an indispensable tool for creating ambiance, while the ending theme summarizes and extends the story.

Excellent film music expresses emotion, participates in storytelling, displays the environment, and creates rhythm. Music can establish a specific tone for parts or the whole of a film, capturing the characteristics of time and space, thereby deepening the visual effect and amplifying the impact of the images. It can also locally create atmosphere: at times, a scene may convey a character’s emotions—be it joy, sorrow, tension, fear, or ease.

Perhaps what film music excels at most is revealing the inner world of characters, expressing complex emotions that cannot be conveyed visually on screen. The primary purpose of using music in film is to intensify the emotional palette of the work, fostering a bond between the film and the audience’s feelings.

Sometimes, in a film, music acts like a silken ribbon, linking scattered and disjointed shots together—this is its power of continuity. Though the film’s music may not be continuous as a whole, its local continuity often organizes the fragmented visuals it accompanies, creating a sense of coherence in the minds of viewers.

The unique gift Yan Xu gave to Zhou Huimin was a song. To help the audience fully comprehend the pain in Ah Jian’s heart after his wife’s death, and to evoke their empathy, Yan Xu planned to insert a song during Ah Jian’s moment of grief, with Zhou Huimin, naturally, as the singer.

“What is this?” After filming, Zhou Huimin waited for Yan Xu to present her with something unique. She expected a surprise, but he handed her an envelope. Inside was a letter. “Devotion for Deep Affection? Is this a poem or a song?” She stared at the words, puzzled and murmured to herself.

“It’s a song—how about it, as a gift?” Yan Xu looked at Zhou Huimin. This was the song he chose from his memory that best suited her voice, one of her signature works. “Devotion for Deep Affection” was the Cantonese version of “Hard to Sleep with Feelings,” the ending theme of the TV drama “Tales of Qianlong.” It was a classic, previously covered by singers such as Kao Shengmei, Li Yijun, Zhuo Yiting, and Jiang Yuheng. The Cantonese version appeared in Zhou Huimin’s album “True Classics,” and her rendition surpassed any prior covers, her voice overflowing with emotion, fully expressing the heart of a lovelorn woman before all, earning her the year's Best Golden Song.

Most importantly, the melody was lyrical and sorrowful, expressing deep devotion to a lover and steadfastness in love—perfectly reflecting Ah Jian’s feelings after losing his wife.

“The lyrics are well written. Where did you copy them from? Don’t try to brush me off; I want something truly unique!” Zhou Huimin glanced between the lyrics and Yan Xu.

“Copy them? Have you ever seen them? This is absolutely one-of-a-kind,” Yan Xu replied.

“Not copied? Did you really write this?” Zhou Huimin looked at him in disbelief.

“Of course. It’s written for you, as an interlude for our show.” Yan Xu was quite pleased with himself.

“Really? Wow, Xu-ge, you’re amazing—you even write songs!” Zhou Huimin exclaimed in admiration. She knew Yan Xu only had a secondary school education; writing screenplays was already impressive, and now he could write songs too—he was a true talent. “But, where’s the music score?”

“The score recognizes me, but I don’t recognize it. I can’t write one, but I can sing it, and I can teach you,” Yan Xu explained. He’d never been formally trained; to him, the score was five lines and a lot of tadpoles, and do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti were simply numbers one through seven.

“Really? I’ve never heard you sing.” Zhou Huimin promptly sat beside Yan Xu.

“In this world, perhaps others could make me recklessly love for a while, but why am I so serious about my fleeting love for you? Passion, love—so hard to sleep with…” Yan Xu wasn’t particularly gifted at singing—his voice wasn’t raspy, but neither was it especially pleasing, about on par with a second-rate singer. His rougher voice suited rock, but this was a lyric song written for a female vocalist, so he sang it awkwardly and couldn’t quite let himself go.

Yet, hearing Yan Xu sing, Zhou Huimin listened intently, quickly picking up the tune. Even after he stopped, she continued singing softly to herself, reading the lyrics.

…
Letting fate pass, you no longer ask
Unaware of cherishing this moment
You watch me grieve again and again
Because you’re used to seeing my tear-stained face
No longer moved by me
Even seeing it doesn’t hurt anymore
How can love be like the dialogue in a play
Promising a lifetime together
Said, yet never happened
Thoughts have retreated, never to return
Having loved, suffering for a lifetime
Stained with tears in my heart
…

Zhou Huimin’s singing was far superior to Yan Xu’s. Her gentle, plaintive voice fully portrayed the devotion of a young girl. Though there was no instrumental accompaniment, her voice seemed to envelop everyone like a vast net, drawing them in and immersing them completely.

Her singing attracted members of the crew, and more and more people gathered. When her song ended, the crowd applauded and praised her.

“You sang beautifully.” Brother Nine nodded in approval.

“Amin, you should release an album,” Wu Mengda said with a cheerful smile.

“Xu, I never thought you could write songs!” Ji Mao looked at Yan Xu in surprise.

“Is it really good?” It was the first time Zhou Huimin had sung before so many people and received such praise; a flush crept up her cheeks.

“It’s excellent—ask everyone if you don’t believe me,” Yan Xu said, nodding to the crowd. “What do you all think about Amin singing this as our interlude?”

“Great!” “Wonderful!” The crowd chimed in with smiles.

**************************
“This is the place.” In Sham Shui Po, at an ordinary residential building, Wu Mengda led Yan Xu and Zhou Huimin downstairs.

They had the song and a singer, but to record it, Yan Xu’s amateur skills wouldn’t suffice. Brother Nine knew his way around film, but music was beyond him. To produce a good song, they needed a professional, but none of them had suitable connections. Luckily, Wu Mengda remembered a friend he’d met on set—they’d chatted, exchanged addresses, but he didn’t know him well. He only knew the man was a musician, returned from studying in America, occasionally taking bit parts in films and composing for a few movies, though not yet famous.

“This should be it.” After climbing several floors, they stopped in front of a door that stood out from the others. On this ordinary apartment door hung a sign reading “Ating Music Studio.” To have a small studio in such a residential building was rather unexpected.

“Ding dong! Ding dong! Ding dong!” Wu Mengda pressed the doorbell.

“Who is it?” Not long after the bell rang, a woman’s voice sounded from within.