Chapter 50: It’s Her, It’s Her, It’s Truly Her!

The biggest difference between Zhou Xin and the other three young actresses was that she had no formal training. Zhang Ziyi was a graduate of the Central Academy of Drama, Zhao Wei and Xu Jinlei both attended the Beijing Film Academy, but Zhou Xin had only studied folk dance for three years at Zhejiang Arts Institute.

Yet among these four leading ladies, aside from Zhang Ziyi who dominated the mainland film industry, Zhou Xin possessed the finest acting skills. Her performances were devastatingly powerful, and she had won nearly every major award across the Chinese-speaking world.

Zhou Xin’s unique intuition and ethereal quality were gifts that many professionally trained actors could only dream of—she was once dubbed by the media as "a sprite fallen to the mortal world."

Her talent, beauty, and spirit were all of the highest order. Gu Zhi himself was a great admirer of her performances, and he had watched every film she starred in at least twice.

But after careful consideration, he still felt Zhou Xin was not quite right for the role of Song Mingxi.

First, she was too short. Barely over 1.6 meters, she was at a stark disadvantage compared to Jun Ji-hyun’s 1.73 meters. Zhou always gave off an impression of delicacy and frailty, which was worlds apart from the wild and powerful image of Song Mingxi.

Then there was her age. Zhou Xin was already twenty-six. Song Mingxi in the film was around twenty, still in college—her very first impression should be one of youthful vibrancy and long legs.

Zhou Xin had graduated from art school nine years ago and had been making her way in the industry ever since. She no longer had the aura of a college girl.

Gu Zhi believed that, if Zhou Xin were given some time to prepare, perhaps by experiencing campus life anew, her talent would allow her to perfectly capture a college girl’s essence.

But he was pressed for time to start shooting; there was simply no opportunity for Zhou Xin to find her way into the role of Song Mingxi.

Finally, Liu Qi checked Zhou Xin’s schedule and found she was already committed to two TV dramas this year. “April in the World” was finished, but “Like Fog, Like Rain, Yet Like Wind” was still filming; she’d be busy on set nearly all year.

Even her schedule for the next two years was full. She’d already signed for “When the Oranges Turn Red,” and as soon as “Like, Like, Like” wrapped, she’d have to start the next one.

With no availability, it didn’t matter how suitable she might have been—Zhou Xin was out of the question.

With none of the four leading actresses chosen, both Gu Zhi and Liu Qi were feeling desperate. But there was nothing for it but to grit their teeth and keep searching.

So it was that another day slipped by as the two of them sat in that small conference room, endlessly sifting through candidates, but still unable to find a suitable one.

"Should we consider artists from Hong Kong?" Liu Qi suggested tentatively.

She had brought in almost every young mainland actress with even a shred of fame; in her mind, Zhao Wei was the best candidate, but Gu Zhi simply refused.

Now, not a single one had been selected, and Liu Qi had lost even her appetite from frustration. With no other options, she could only look to Hong Kong.

Gu Zhi had a headache too. He really didn’t want to use Hong Kong actors, but he couldn’t believe that in such a vast mainland industry, he couldn’t find anyone suitable.

“If only those young actresses had been born a few years earlier…”

In truth, his reluctance to use Hong Kong artists was not just due to their two-faced reputation. Another key reason was that those coming to the mainland were already signed to various film companies. Even if Gu Zhi made one of them a goddess, it wouldn’t be his goddess—they belonged under contract elsewhere, so any promotion would only benefit other companies.

Gu Zhi had no desire to fall into that thankless trap.

“Let’s hold off for now. Over the next few days, let’s expand our search—cast a wider net. Even some lesser-known actresses or female students still in college might be worth auditioning,” he finally decided, declining Liu Qi’s suggestion.

“Fine, Boss Gu, you’re the boss. I’ll do whatever you say,” Liu Qi replied, disgruntled. If she’d had anything in her hand, she would have chucked it at Gu Zhi’s face.

But when it came to college girls, suddenly her eyes lit up as she remembered someone.

“Wait, how could we forget Tang Wei? She’s a bona fide college student, and she’s so pretty.”

“I’ve already spoken to Tang Wei about this. Her temperament isn’t right for Song Mingxi, and her acting is still mediocre. I told her to focus on honing her craft at the drama academy—I didn’t involve her in this project.”

Liu Qi’s lips curled in disappointment, and her expression quickly dimmed.

“You could have said so sooner, instead of letting me get all worked up for nothing.”

“When did you get worked up? That was only two seconds ago.”

…

At half past eight that evening, Gu Zhi and Liu Qi went to a Sha Xian snack shop near the China Film Group building.

With countless branches across the nation, Sha Xian Snacks had, by 2000, already conquered the streets and alleys of every city.

As they say, a city without a Sha Xian snack shop has no soul.

They ordered a plate of stir-fried rice noodles, a black-bone chicken clay pot, a bowl of wontons, a bowl of pork rib soup, a serving of fried soup dumplings, and two tea eggs—all for just twenty-six yuan.

The food was delicious and cheap, but the service was nonexistent—a hallmark of Sha Xian Snacks.

In the upper right corner of the shop, a color TV hung on the wall. Many such street eateries had a television suspended overhead, usually playing some barely audible drama for who knew whose benefit.

While devouring his meal, Gu Zhi occasionally glanced up at the TV.

In the upper left of the television screen was the “ttcv8” logo—the drama channel of CCTV. At that moment, a series was playing. In the lower left, a line of red characters read, “The Interns’ Story”—the drama’s title.

Liu Qi kept her head down, eating furiously, not even bothering to talk to Gu Zhi. He, meanwhile, watched the TV from time to time, eating slowly.

After a while, the camera cut to a young woman in a school uniform, her delicate face at the center of the screen. She smiled gently, and it was as if her smile brightened the entire screen.

“This person… she…”

Seeing that slightly youthful, refined face, Gu Zhi felt a sense of familiarity, but for a moment couldn’t place her.

He was so caught up in thought, he forgot to eat.

“What’s wrong? Not eating?” Liu Qi asked, seeing his lack of movement. She quickly reached for his tea egg to put it in her own bowl.

“It’s her!” Gu Zhi suddenly exclaimed. Startled, Liu Qi’s hand jerked, and the tea egg fell into the bowl with a splash, broth spraying all over her.

“You’re insane, Gu Zhi!” she snapped.

“It’s her! I’ve found Song Mingxi!”

Gu Zhi was oblivious to Liu Qi’s anger, lost in his excitement.

Liu Qi froze as well, her annoyance instantly forgotten. She hurriedly asked, “Who?”

He pointed at the hanging television, enunciating each word:

“Gao. Yuan. Yuan.”