Chapter Thirty-Four: The Producer, A Meticulous and Self-Serving Little Man

“There’s no problem, I can sign right now,” Xu Zheng said, nodding after a brief moment of thought. The script was solid, the director was reliable, and the pay was satisfactory—he saw no reason not to sign.

“I’d like to ask Director Chen a question, if I may.”

“Ask whatever you like,” Chen Ling replied, lounging comfortably on the sofa, curious about Xu Zheng’s inquiry.

“It’s like this: Do we already have a producer for this film?”

The question caught Chen Ling off guard, and he sat up a little straighter. A film’s producer is a crucial figure, involved in everything from project development, team assembly, and actor scheduling, to crew management and, finally, distribution and promotion. They are the linchpin throughout the entire process; in fact, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say a film’s fate often lies in the producer’s hands.

During the production of “Love is Not Blind,” Chen Ling’s mentor and some people from Wanda had jointly filled the producer role. This time, however, Chen Ling hadn’t planned to invite his mentor, so the producer’s seat was still vacant. That was one reason he’d set the shooting schedule for October—choosing the right producer was far too important to rush.

“Are you interested in being the producer yourself?” Chen Ling asked, unable to discern Xu Zheng’s true intention.

“Of course not. I don’t have that kind of ability,” Xu Zheng waved his hands quickly. “It’s just that I have a friend who’s quite interested in the role.”

“Oh? Who might that be?” Chen Ling tried to recall if Xu Zheng was close with any notable producers, but none came to mind.

“Director Chen, I’m not sure if you’ve heard of her. Her name is Chen Zhixi. She used to be an actress, then worked for a few years as an agent, and just last year she tried her hand at producing. The film she produced, ‘You Deserve to Be Single,’ was released this June and both the box office and word of mouth were pretty good.”

Hearing the name Chen Zhixi, Chen Ling immediately recalled who she was and sat up straight. The future chairwoman and president of Wanda Pictures, a formidable woman in the industry—how could he not know of her? She had transitioned from acting to become a powerful producer, and starting next year, she would be behind the production of several blockbuster films: “Lost in Thailand,” “Detective Chinatown,” “Hot and Spicy”—one or two box office hits might be luck, but a string of them? That was no accident.

Surprisingly, Xu Zheng and she already knew each other, even though “Lost in Thailand” hadn’t been filmed yet. They must be quite close if Xu Zheng was recommending her right after landing his own role.

“Oh, Chen Zhixi. I know her,” Chen Ling replied, pretending to think it over. “If she’s interested, she can come up for a chat. The producer’s position is still open.”

“She’s here with me, downstairs,” Xu Zheng said eagerly, seeing no objection from Chen Ling.

“What a coincidence! The two of you came together—that suggests more than mere acquaintanceship. They must have a good relationship, or else Xu Zheng wouldn’t have recommended her so quickly. Could it be they’re already planning to work on ‘Lost in Thailand’ together?” Chen Ling felt a slight pang of anxiety. Was he about to lose out on the “Lost in Thailand” opportunity? Still, he smiled and replied, “Well, what are we waiting for? Invite her up!”

“Will do!” Xu Zheng hurriedly pulled out his phone to contact Chen Zhixi.

Chen Ling called the receptionist, asking her to bring Chen Zhixi to his office when she arrived. He’d soon see for himself what kind of partnership Xu Zheng and Chen Zhixi might have.

Not long after, the receptionist led Chen Zhixi in. She was every bit the former actress—refined and poised, with wavy brown hair that accentuated her immaculate makeup and a black casual suit that gave her a sharp, professional presence.

“Director Chen, it’s an honor to finally meet you. Your ‘Love is Not Blind’ really gave my film, ‘You Deserve to Be Single,’ a tough time at the box office this year,” Chen Zhixi said with a gracious smile. Although she was new to producing, she knew how to show respect—Chen Ling was currently the bigger name, and the hierarchy in show business was clear and rigid.

“Just luck, really. I never expected ‘Love is Not Blind’ to be such a box office hit,” Chen Ling replied modestly. At this stage, Chen Zhixi didn’t yet possess the commanding aura she would have in the future. She was humble and respectful, not dismissing Chen Ling for his youth.

“I don’t think it’s just luck. To be honest, I’ve been following ‘Love is Not Blind’ since its inception. I paid attention to its online marketing before and after the release. In my view, its success was inevitable,” Chen Zhixi responded, not letting Chen Ling’s modesty go unchallenged. She wanted to demonstrate her professionalism and value—without that, there’d be no reason for Chen Ling to hire her.

“Targeting the potential audience so precisely and using online marketing so effectively is really impressive. With the added boost from the Golden Melody Awards, it was almost impossible for the film not to explode at the box office.”

Chen Ling knew she was referring to the video marketing strategy—a tactic that, while commonplace in later years, was still novel and impressive at this point in time.

“With the rapid development of the internet and the ever-increasing number of netizens, online promotion will only become more important in a film’s marketing mix. Even a mediocre movie can rake in high box office numbers if it’s marketed well. Of course, quality always helps.”

“I completely agree. The internet and the film industry will only become more entwined in the future,” Chen Ling said, nodding in agreement. It was clear her success wasn’t a fluke—she had real ability.

In the coming years, why would so many bad films still rake in big numbers? It was all about the marketing. Even terrible movies could benefit from relentless promotion, piquing the audience’s curiosity about just how bad they could be. Such tactics were unimaginable to filmmakers today. Later, it would even give rise to outright scam films, where the marketing bore no resemblance to the actual content—classics like “Love Apartment” and “749” would go down in infamy.

“If I could join your new film, I believe I could make it even better,” Chen Zhixi said eagerly when she saw Chen Ling agreed with her views.

“Producer Chen, do you really have that much faith in my new project?” Chen Ling asked, a little wary of her enthusiasm.

“It’s not just your new movie I believe in—it’s you. I’m convinced your future achievements will far surpass what you’ve done so far,” Chen Zhixi replied, her gaze unwavering.

Chen Ling couldn’t help nodding. He could tell she was being sincere, but her insight was almost unnervingly sharp. And wasn’t “I believe in you” supposed to be the protagonist’s line? Was she stealing his script?

After a brief pause, Chen Ling extended his hand, meeting Chen Zhixi’s expectant eyes. “Welcome aboard, Producer Chen. Welcome to ‘Breakup Buddies.’”

He’d already made up his mind: as long as he remained in control of the project, he could always let her go if things didn’t work out. At worst, he’d pay some compensation and pause the shoot for a few days—it wasn’t a big deal.

“Thank you, Director Chen. I won’t let you down,” Chen Zhixi replied, standing and shaking his hand firmly.

She hadn’t expected to land the producer role so easily. She’d anticipated at least a few days of negotiation, given how pivotal the position was. If she could secure this role, it would be a springboard for her career. She was a smart woman with a clear plan for her future—she’d left acting to become an agent because she saw that actors had little control over their fate, but as a producer, director, and eventually an investor, she could shape her own destiny.

She hadn’t lied to Chen Ling—she genuinely believed in him and in his project. For her, this was a crucial stepping stone, and with it, her future path would be much smoother. The ease of success surprised her; she was still a little dazed when it came time to sign the contract.

The rest was straightforward. With a lawyer present, the three of them signed their contracts: Chen Zhixi as producer, Xu Guangtou as actor.

Chen Zhixi’s fee was set at five hundred thousand. She’d initially said three hundred thousand was sufficient—coming from a wealthy family, she wasn’t focused on the money. If she did well on this project, whatever she didn’t earn here she’d make back many times over elsewhere. Chen Ling, not one to pinch pennies and recognizing her talent, offered her the market rate of five hundred thousand.

Just like that, in a single day, Chen Ling had secured two lead actors and a producer—three of the most vital positions for his film.

After the contracts were signed, Chen Ling called in his agent Zhao Qian, now the company’s manager, to hand over the project to Chen Zhixi. From here on, casting, auditions, and all the chaos of assembling a crew would be Chen Zhixi’s responsibility—the producer’s domain, and she had no objections.

Chen Ling could now focus on preparing for his own role and organizing the film’s production plan, while Zhao Qian could turn her attention to expanding the company.

As for Zhao Qian’s compensation, though Chen Ling had acted for free in “Love is Not Blind,” he’d promised to calculate his market-rate fee after box office receipts came in and pay her commission accordingly. An agent’s earnings are tied to their artist’s income, and for one film, Zhao Qian would earn a tidy sum.

Even if the film didn’t make a killing, Chen Ling wouldn’t shortchange her—he’d seen how hard she’d worked during production. Zhao Qian might not be the most capable, but her execution was excellent, and Chen Ling needed reliable people. With his advantage of more than ten years’ foreknowledge, he didn’t require prodigies—just people who did their jobs.

He instructed Zhao Qian to prepare an office for Chen Zhixi at the company, so she’d have a proper workspace. There was no shortage of work ahead, and she agreed she’d settle her other affairs in the next couple of days and then get started.

Once everything had been arranged and the two were seen off warmly, Chen Ling called Zhao Qian back into his office.

“Qian-jie, there’s something I need you to handle.”

“What is it?”

“You know the film ‘Lost on Journey’? It just finished its theatrical run recently?” Once Zhao Qian nodded, Chen Ling continued, “Find out who owns the rights to that film. See if they’re willing to sell. If the price is right, buy them—I want to make a sequel someday.”

“Understood. I’ll get right on it,” Zhao Qian replied, as efficient as ever.

“Also, the box office settlements from China Film Group and Wanda will be in soon. When the money arrives, set aside a portion for buying film rights. I’ll send you a list by email.”

The first batch of box office proceeds—about ten million—would be used to buy copyrights. Chen Ling already knew exactly which ones he wanted, thanks to his knowledge from another life. The funds for “Breakup Buddies” could come from later box office settlements; there was no rush.

But the most urgent priority was securing the rights to “Lost on Journey.” Now that Xu Zheng and Chen Zhixi were working together, Chen Ling couldn’t be sure they weren’t planning a “Lost in Thailand” of their own. To be safe, he needed to secure the rights, register the script, and claim his stake.

The “Lost” series could be directed by others, but the overall control needed to remain in his hands. Otherwise, the IP would be wasted. It was so clear—sharing a little profit could elevate the whole series, but Xu Guangtou was always too stingy to let go of even a small share.

As a result, Bao Qiang turned around and made “Detective Chinatown,” and each film in that series performed better than the last. Meanwhile, what happened to the “Lost” series? “Lost in Hong Kong” was a mess. Bao Bei’er, whether in acting, comedic timing, or box office draw, simply wasn’t in the same league as Bao Qiang.

As for “Lost in Russia,” if it hadn’t been for extraordinary circumstances, it would have been a flop in the New Year’s season—and Xu Zheng’s move to bypass theaters earned him the wrath of cinema chains, which tanked his career for years.

So, in Chen Ling’s view, Xu Zheng was the epitome of the self-interested, small-minded man: ambitious and capable, but lacking vision. He’d never amount to much.

This time around, with the chance to take control of the “Lost” series, Chen Ling had no intention of letting go.