Chapter 2: Reputation Is Crucial

Rebirth—a word so grandiose.

Cao Yang had graduated from an art academy majoring in directing. He had spent over thirty years in the industry, with his greatest achievement being the role of executive director or assistant director. He would oversee the entire production for directors who were just figureheads or who had switched careers, essentially doing the directing work himself—and this happened more than once.

What was remarkable was that each time, the films he worked on performed well at the box office.

Finally, he was given the chance to direct a low-budget film himself.

But the film flopped miserably.

Cao Yang was furious. Why was it that whenever he was behind the scenes as the real director, with someone else as the named director, the film could sell well, yet when he himself was credited as director, it was a complete failure, not even making a splash?

Was it just because others had bigger names and greater reputations?

Was it because the crew was packed with actors brought in through connections who lacked talent?

Was it because the script was carelessly cut and altered?

Perhaps it was his stubborn obsession. Upon rebirth, he had been granted a reputation system.

This useless contraption had no fancy powers; it had only one function: it could consume existing reputation points to convert them into “immersion experience.”

Immersion experience—did it literally mean allowing an actor to experience the character’s journey? Cao Yang had no idea; the system offered no explanation.

He checked: current reputation—10,627; usable reputation—10,627; immersion experience +1.

Why was there already one immersion experience? Cao Yang didn’t know—maybe it was a gift?

Currently, reputation couldn’t be converted into immersion experience; whenever he tried, it showed -89,373. In other words, it required 100,000 reputation points to exchange for one immersion experience.

Fortunately, the system had gifted him one immersion experience, which could be used on the lead role to enhance the acting. But since he didn’t know the effect of a single immersion experience, it was still best to choose actors with good skills.

The urgent task was to raise his reputation to exchange for more immersion experiences.

Though the system gave no instructions on how to increase reputation, it was obvious: box office success and awards.

It was only the year 2000; the domestic film industry was still struggling to survive.

The number of screens nationwide was fewer than two thousand.

Twenty years later, this number would exceed eighty thousand!

Such a vast difference.

The commercial film market was weak; box office success could be set aside for now.

But art films still had hope.

For art films, market conditions mattered little.

Winning awards at the three major European film festivals, then selling foreign rights—achieving fame and fortune, and reputation soaring—would be wonderful.

This was the proper way to open the door for an art film.

The key was how to win awards.

How could domestic directors more easily win awards abroad?

Themes like backwardness, criticism, social darkness, and human evil—any random combination could earn a chance to enter the main competition.

Of course, these alone were not enough to win.

The three major festivals each had different focuses; the jury members changed every year with differing tastes; the festival themes varied annually…

Winning was difficult, with many factors influencing the outcome.

But it could also be easy—if just a few jurors liked your film, or the jury president supported you, you could at least snag a few awards.

In this era, awards from the three major European festivals were prestigious and internationally recognized.

Cao Yang didn’t want to shoot films about domestic ignorance, backwardness, or wounds to please foreign audiences. He was interested in those foreign “wound” films and wanted to shoot them, but without funding or reputation, it was unrealistic.

So he chose to take a new path: to make an auteur film with a strong personal style.

There was an interesting director, Nan Bang, who specialized in a single type of film but was a frequent award-winner—precisely the kind of film European audiences favored.

He neither filmed sex, violence, nor human evil, nor social darkness. His award-winning films focused solely on women.

He captured and refined everyday conversations and behaviors that people took for granted but held deeper meaning, imbuing mundane affairs and romantic entanglements with philosophical significance to explore human complexity and mutability.

“Alone by the Seaside at Night” was such a film.

For Cao Yang, this was the best choice so far. The settings were simple, no special effects needed, few actors, filming was not complicated, and above all, it saved money.

It was another auteur film with a very strong personal style.

The entire film made extensive use of fixed long takes and simple, slow push-pull shots—something a traditional great director like Tian Zhuangzhuang would disdain.

Too simple, too straightforward.

When the film was made, no one would mistake it for Tian Zhuangzhuang’s work; the style was clearly different.

If Tian Zhuangzhuang had directed it, with his humanistic care, it might have turned into an alternative “Spring in a Small Town.”

The plot was very simple: the female lead, a famous actress, falls in love with a married renowned director, and they have an extramarital affair—this was the prelude.

The film opened with her unable to bear the pressure of public opinion, escaping abroad to relax, dining, walking, and chatting with friends.

Then she returns home, dining and talking with friends.

Finally, in a dreamlike encounter, she meets the married director again; they eat and talk.

It seemed plain, dull, and bland.

In truth, it was dull, bland, and plain.

Especially for audiences seeking sensory stimulation, this film was torture.

No social darkness, no violence, no eroticism—just two words: ordinary.

Europe’s current version hadn’t evolved; the focus remained on women—female directors’ works, portrayal of female characters, and exploration of female themes.

Any film involving these themes easily got nominated for the main competition.

If few films of this type were nominated, there was a high chance of winning a major award. Political correctness still wielded great power.

This film was told from a female perspective, with nearly all shots centered on the female lead. By exploring female themes, it reflected social issues and gender equality. It not only depicted women’s growth and change but also critiqued gender discrimination and stereotypes.

It perfectly matched the tastes of the three major European film festivals.

Cao Yang saw Tian Zhuangzhuang again the next day.

In a hotel conference room rented under the crew’s name, Old Tian looked listless, yawning repeatedly. No one knew what had happened the previous night.

Tian glanced at Cao Yang but said nothing. After a brief greeting, they quickly got to work.

It was good that Old Tian didn’t cause trouble.

Today was the last day of auditions for the female lead.

“Auditions” was a euphemism; invitations had been sent to several favored candidates, but they either declined or vanished without reply.

There was no choice. Previously, films supervised by Tian—by senior member Lu and Wang Xiaoshuai—had been stuck in censorship for a long time. This time Tian wasn’t allowed to hold a formal position in the crew.

Officially, Tian was just an actor in the crew.

Outsiders saw a low-budget film directed by a twenty-something as nonsense.

Hence, the female lead was hard to cast.

Actually, Cao Yang’s top choice was Gong Li.

Back then, before the National Master divorced, Gong Li and him had fallen in love during filming and gotten together. An actress falling for a married renowned director, having an extramarital affair…

Didn’t it sound familiar?

It was exactly the same as the film’s plot. Given Gong Li’s skills and such a similar experience, she would have been perfect for the role.

Unfortunately, she was too expensive. The entire film’s budget couldn’t cover her fee.

Though the coal boss was generous with money, he was not a fool. Paying tens of thousands for a mistress to play an important role was a game of nurturing and gaining a sense of achievement.

Paying more? That was a different game.

Cao Yang had once considered inviting the National Master to act as the director character in the film.

If National Master agreed, Gong Li, after reading the script—especially the last scene where the married director tearfully tells the female lead he never regretted falling in love with her but was too weak and too concerned about societal views—

Just for that scene, Gong Li would have joined even at her own expense.

If the National Master had spoken those lines, even in the film, she would have felt her life was complete.

What a sensation!

It would have shaken the entire Chinese-speaking film industry.

But later Cao Yang thought: if the National Master saw the script and still agreed, one of them would surely die.

So he abandoned that wild yet brilliant idea.

He could only beg Old Tian to play the role.

The end.