Chapter 63: Outmatched, The Final Scene

As time went by, the members of the film crew grew increasingly attuned to one another, and the two leads became ever more precise in their grasp of their characters’ inner worlds. Lu Chuan’s directorial skills advanced by leaps and bounds as well. This rapid progress meant that the shooting process grew swifter; what once required three days to complete could now be accomplished in just two.

Within the entire crew, Gu Zhi was the slowest to develop, and thus the most idle. By the later stages, his presence was hardly needed. With the storyboarded shots and Lu Chuan’s practiced hand, all Gu Zhi had to do was stand by and briefly confirm the results.

“My Sassy Girl” itself was a simple drama—so long as the lead actors delivered, there would be no insurmountable challenges in filming. The only truly difficult scene in the entire film was a sequence set in Song Mingxi’s imagination, where she transforms into an invincible female assassin, engaging in a chaotic gunfight with numerous enemies before ultimately vanquishing them all and rescuing the hapless Liu Qian from captivity.

This brief segment belonged more to the realm of action and gunplay. Song Mingxi even had a few rooftop leaps, requiring Gao Yuanyuan to be suspended on wires—a significant challenge for her. As a result, although the scene was less than three minutes of screen time, it took the crew a full seven hours to shoot, not counting breaks, before an effect emerged that barely satisfied Gu Zhi.

Gao Yuanyuan was thoroughly exhausted, but she gritted her teeth and persevered. In stark contrast, Tong Dawei had little to do in the scene; bound hand and foot, all he needed was to watch as Gao Yuanyuan struggled valiantly to rescue him.

With this most arduous scene completed, the energy of the crew became unstoppable. At last, by November 26, only the final scene remained; all else was done.

The setting for this last scene was a Western-style restaurant, where Liu Qian’s aunt had arranged to introduce him to a girl—a traditional matchmaking meeting. This prospective match was mentioned at the film’s beginning, but Liu Qian had always found excuses to avoid his aunt. Later, after meeting Song Mingxi, the matter simply faded away.

Only at the film’s end was the truth revealed: the blind date arranged by his aunt was none other than Song Mingxi herself, and the boyfriend Song Mingxi mourned—the one who had passed away—was Liu Qian’s cousin, the son of his aunt.

Thus, Song Mingxi was, in effect, Liu Qian’s would-be cousin-in-law. This explains why, the first time she saw Liu Qian on the subway, she mistook him for her late boyfriend and called out, “Darling.”

This final scene required little in the way of technical difficulty; as long as Gao Yuanyuan and Tong Dawei could channel the right surge of emotion, it would be done in no time.

For the role of the aunt, Han Sanping invited Jiang Wenli to play the part. It was essentially a cameo, with only one clear shot of her face, and it came at the film’s end. Gu Zhi wanted a big name for this small role, hoping to give audiences a pleasant surprise.

Gu Zhi was familiar with most of the young, beautiful female stars in the entertainment industry—even the lesser-known ones—but when it came to the previous generation, his knowledge was scarce. In the end, he had to trouble Han Sanping for help. According to Liu Qi, at least Third Master Han was a nominal producer of the film; this small favor was the least he could do.

So Han Sanping recommended Jiang Wenli, a veteran television actress who had won the Golden Eagle Award for Outstanding Actress the previous year. Gu Zhi had a faint impression of Jiang Wenli, primarily from “Farewell My Concubine,” where she played Little Douzi’s mother. In just a few brief scenes, she portrayed both the allure and grace of a courtesan and the decisive tenderness of a mother, leaving a lasting impression.

Though Jiang Wenli’s screen time in “Farewell My Concubine” was no more than two minutes, her performance lingered in Gu Zhi’s mind after the film ended. Perhaps it was his own ordinary nature—he noticed above all Jiang Wenli’s beauty and charm, forgetting the deeper meaning of the movie.

He also recalled that Jiang Wenli had a niece named Ma Sichun, who later won the Golden Horse Award for Best Actress alongside Zhou Dongyu for “Soul Mate.” Ma Sichun and Zhou Dongyu truly represented the new generation of leading actresses in China—while still young, they had already far outstripped the previous generation in both skill and accomplishment.

Actresses like Yang Mi, Liu Shishi, Liu Yifei, Tang Yan, Angelababy, Zhao Liying, and others—none of them could be said to possess real acting talent. They began their careers with some dedication, but gradually became pure traffic stars. If a production could even count on their physical presence, the crew might as well offer prayers; as for genuine effort, that was out of the question.

Awards such as the Golden Horse, the Hong Kong Film Awards, or the Palme d’Or were likely forever out of reach for this generation. By contrast, two newcomers in their twenties had “effortlessly” taken home a Golden Horse Award.

Not winning awards was no crime—there was little point in caring what a panel of judges thought—but this generation of traffic-star actresses couldn’t even guarantee box office returns. If they weren’t starring in bad films, they were headlining disastrous ones, with the result that they spent their days stirring up gossip, buying their way onto trending lists, and acting in TV dramas notorious for plagiarism.

Despite their constant presence on search rankings, when it came to film industry resources, all of them together did not match what Ma Sichun and Zhou Dongyu could command. The difference in clout between movie stars and television stars was vast—only somewhat less pronounced in China, but in Hollywood, they were not even considered the same profession.

Gu Zhi remembered at the 2016 Golden Globe Awards, hosts Tina Fey and Amy Poehler spent over ten minutes introducing the film nominees, then Amy Poehler said, “Now let’s introduce the television nominees. Oh, the director says we’re running out of time—sorry for TV.” It was a joke, of course, but the audience’s laughter made clear the status of TV actors.

Hollywood’s discrimination against TV actors was notorious; if an Oscar nomination included both a TV and a film actor, the one with a television background was far more likely to be cut. In China it wasn’t as extreme, but any film actor with real ambition would avoid television. The most obvious example was Zhang Ziyi—when had she ever acted in a TV drama?

So this generation of leading ladies found themselves in an awkward position. Their predecessors included veterans like Zhang Ziyi, Gong Li, and Zhou Xun, while the next generation boasted rising stars such as Ma Sichun, Zhou Dongyu, and Zhang Zifeng. Compared with their seniors, they fell short; compared with their juniors, they were still lacking.

They called themselves “flowers,” but forgot that all flowers must eventually wither.

···

Returning to the final scene:

Jiang Wenli’s aunt sat elegantly at the dining table, her makeup understated and refined, her charm undiminished by the years. The camera began at her profile, slowly panning behind her until, coming to rest, the focus shifted to Song Mingxi, who approached with a gentle smile.

The aunt stood and embraced Song Mingxi, cupping her face in her hands. “You’ve grown even more beautiful since I last saw you.”

“And you,” Song Mingxi replied, “you still look so young. How have you been lately?”

The camera then shifted to the next shot.

“Have you been in England all this time?”

“Yes, a year and a half.”

The aunt’s expression grew wistful; she looked down, then quickly lifted her head, forcing a smile as she said, pretending nonchalance, “I understand. You must feel much better now, don’t you?”

“Yes, much better.”

Though she spoke the words, Song Mingxi’s face betrayed no happiness. At that moment, Liu Qian approached from behind her.

“Auntie, sorry, I was just taking some photos.”

At the sight of Liu Qian, the aunt’s face lit up with delight. She rose and patted his round face. “Look at you, you unruly child.”

Song Mingxi’s expression, previously impassive, froze the instant she looked up and saw Liu Qian. In her eyes, there was room for nothing but him.

“This is Liu Qian. Doesn’t he look just like my son?” The aunt turned Liu Qian’s head and introduced him to Song Mingxi with a smile.

Liu Qian, too, was struck motionless, gazing at Song Mingxi in a daze.

Tears welled up in Song Mingxi’s eyes. As the aunt continued her introductions, Song Mingxi couldn’t help but smile, and at last, a crystal tear slipped down her cheek.

“What’s this? Did you two know each other before?”

Song Mingxi and Liu Qian stared at one another, neither willing to let the other slip from view ever again.

“You might not believe me, but I think I’ve met a man from the future.”

“From your future.”