Chapter 59: Mr. Star: Want Me to Write You a Script?
“Director, aren’t you rushing to add scenes for me?”
Zhang Yang pondered for a moment, not immediately agreeing.
He had taken up sword practice because he’d just inherited this Void Sword technique, feeling an irresistible urge to try it out. It was like a child getting a new toy or a grown man receiving a 3D character figurine.
Moreover, he wasn’t practicing in front of everyone. He was using the empty space behind his dressing room.
Having Zhou Xingchi see him and voluntarily offer to add scenes was not part of his plan.
“What’s wrong with that?” Zhou Xingchi asked in his Cantonese-accented Mandarin, his eyes gleaming. “You’re so good with the sword, it’d be a waste not to show it off on the big screen.”
He’d heard Zhang Yang had joined the production team and came proactively to discuss the script further. Unable to find Zhang Yang in the dressing room, Nazha had volunteered to lead him to the empty space behind, not expecting such a delightful surprise.
As a martial arts enthusiast and practitioner himself, Zhou Xingchi could tell that Zhang Yang’s sword technique wasn’t mere showmanship, but a genuine, versatile style he’d never seen before.
When creating the character of Master Kongxu for The Legend of Carolina’s Drift Trilogy, he’d designed the Konghu Sword Technique based on the remnant of Singularity and the Heavenly Jade Maiden.
Zhou Xingchi believed Zhang Yang’s unique sword method could enrich his character further, and would undoubtedly make for stunning special effects in post-production.
“You know, I still need to film my TV series,” Zhang Yang said.
“Waste,” Zhou Xingchi said severely. “With your talent, why bother with TV series?”
A few years ago, Zhang Yang wouldn’t have argued with these words. But soon, the era of big data on the internet was about to dawn. While movies were still prestigious, they weren’t as effective at drawing fans and increasing one’s profile as TV series or even variety shows. Fans meant traffic; traffic meant money. As long as you had traffic, capital would push you forward. At that time, if you wanted to act in movies again, it would be easy—and the pay would be exceptionally high.
By then, he’d either be the hottest star or be running a company that could promote other top-tier celebrities. Naturally, he couldn’t miss any opportunities to become famous now.
“It’s a self-produced drama by our company. I have to do it for my job,” Zhang Yang said, deflecting blame onto Tangren. He deliberately lowered his voice so that Mo Xiangwan and Nazha wouldn’t hear.
Zhou Xingchi instantly transferred his displeasure to Cai Yining, grumbling, “We’ll talk when your contract is almost up.”
This was a clear sign that he wanted to sign her.
Zhang Yang immediately agreed, seeing no problem with that.
Her contract would expire in early 2014. According to his plan, he should be able to become a first-class actor by then. By that time, given Zhou Xingchi’s personality, he’d probably choose to forget about signing her.
“We’re filming today, starting with your scenes. Don’t hold back on the acting,” Zhou Xingchi said.
He still wanted to add more to Zhang Yang’s role, but he’d wait until filming began to see Zhang Yang’s true acting skills.
The entire crew got to work. Several main actors gathered around Zhou Xingchi, clearly eager to witness Zhang Yang’s renowned acting for themselves.
Indeed, Zhang Yang’s exceptional acting despite his young age had already spread within the industry. This was partly due to Cai Yining’s deliberate efforts and partly thanks to the “user-generated buzz” from Lin Feng, Chen Jia Shang, and others.
“Aikson!”
Climb!
“The demon pig is formidable, even more so on nights when the moon is full.
“Who else can you trust to face it, apart from me?”
Flowers blossomed across the sky as Zhang Yang, dressed as the Empty Vessel Prince, made his dramatic entrance.
Clad in a long robe, his scholarly appearance was unmistakable—that of a well-read man of letters.
Yet upon closer inspection of his face, it was deathly pale, with dark circles under his eyes, as if emblazoned with the words “Excessive Indulgence.”
The tiger immediately spoke up upon seeing Zhang Yang: “So who’s the one with the big mouth? Ah, it’s you, Young Master Empty Vessel!”
The actor playing Heavenly Mutilated’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard much about your unparalleled Empty Sword Technique, Young Master Empty Vessel. Perhaps it’s time for me to challenge you to a duel.”
The tone and delivery were clearly practiced—not merely for humor, but to strike a balance between comedy and wit.
Zhang Yang, now fully embodying Prince Kongxu, shook his head with a sigh. “There’s no need for a comparison!”
“My first place is yours by default. Being number one is a lonely, empty feeling.
“How could you mortals possibly understand?”
These words gave off a sense of forced pretentiousness, yet they didn’t feel awkward. Instead, they seemed somewhat entertaining.
Amidst the amusement, there was an air of inexplicable awe and deep-seated doubt. Was this man truly skilled, or was he all talk?
Putting away his fan, Zhang Yang turned to the middle-aged woman on his left, his expression serious. “Keep a low profile. Don’t toss the flowers.”
The woman’s face hardened. “Boss, weren’t you the one who told us to throw them away?”
“Ahem.” Zhang Yang’s expression shifted slightly, caught off guard.
“What does ‘ahem’ mean? So, are we tossing them or not?” The woman’s face was filled with disdain.
Zhang Yang clenched his fists, tempted to silence her permanently. Yet he managed to maintain a smile, barely. “No, don’t toss them.”
“We still expect payment for our work, even if we didn’t toss the flowers,” the woman said firmly, as if Prince Kongxu owed her money.
Feeling utterly helpless, Zhang Yang replied, “I know… I know.”
With that, he turned to the Tiger and the others, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Ha! Actually, I have no idea what she’s talking about.”
Tiger, having watched this comedic performance, barely suppressed a laugh, his expression turning strange. “Wow! Where did you manage to dig up these four withered old onions?”
“In this desolate wilderness, finding four of them is already quite fortunate,” Zhang Yang attempted to save his pride.
“Why don’t you try walking a few steps yourself?” Goat’s Leg responded, clearly incredulous.
Using these four old onions as maids isn’t embarrassing enough?
Zhang Yang quickly adopted his pompous demeanor once more. “Walking like you would be no different than I am,” he insisted. “As a Prince Kongxu, I have my own unique style.”
But in the very next second, Big Mama dealt him a stinging blow: “It’s not your soul that’s empty, it’s your lungs!”
The second Big Mama giggled at this.
Zhang Yang’s facade crumbled, leaving him in a state of enraged exasperation. “Listen, don’t just spout nonsense! The term ‘Prince Kongxu’…,” he trailed off indignantly.
This iconic scene unfolded, with many on-set staff barely suppressing their laughter, fully immersed in the moment.
It wasn’t until Zhang Yang had delivered all his lines and Zhou Xingchi finally shouted “Cut!” that everyone snapped back to reality.
“A single take for such a long scene? That’s insane!” Huang Bo couldn’t believe it.
Even Emphasis, often praised for his acting talents, now looked at Zhang Yang with newfound respect.
Amateurs think humor is easy; comedy films frequently get overlooked or underestimated. But professionals know all too well that comedy is the hardest genre to perform.
In a broad sense, tragedy marks the end, while comedy represents the journey. Without the journey, there can be no end—thus, comedy is more challenging to enact than tragedy.
Comedy, with its primary objective of eliciting laughter, often suffers from actors with exceptional skills overacting or those with lesser skills failing to meet expectations. To perform comedy effectively, one must possess talent, skill, and a well-crafted script; without these, it’s challenging to strike the right balance.
Zhang Yang’s ability to nail his lines in a single take astonished everyone present.
“It’s not just about him, though,” Zhou Xingchi stood up and remarked. “He’s managed to pull everyone else into the act too.”
Pulling fellow comedians into one’s performance? That was a truly rare talent!
Even Zhou Xingchi himself had mostly caused audiences to burst out laughing during his performances.
“We need more scenes! Must add more!” Zhou Xingchi saw an opportunity and couldn’t contain his excitement.
In the following days, Zhang Yang’s filming went smoothly, whether acting with the female lead, male lead, or even with monkeys.
Zhou Xingchi repeatedly suggested adding more scenes for Zhang Yang, but was firmly rejected each time. “Xing Ye, you’re the master of comedy. Prince Kongxu’s role in this film is perfect as it is—any more would disrupt the overall balance.”
Reluctantly giving up, Zhou Xingchi had a new idea. “What if I wrote a script, specifically about Prince Kongxu’s story? What do you think?”
Zhang Yang: ”…”
Is he trying to elevate me to the status of a lead in a Xing Ye comedy? But what about ‘Mermaid’ then?
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