Chapter 53: Chen Ling’s Acting Skills

The methods of filming movies and television dramas are far from set in stone; every director has their own preferences. Some directors are accustomed to arranging the shooting schedule according to the actors’ availability—focusing on one actor at a time, filming all their scenes consecutively until they wrap, then proceeding to the next. The advantage of this approach lies in its efficiency: after an actor finishes, they are free to leave, whether to join another production or simply to rest. This makes coordinating actors’ schedules much easier. However, the drawback is that it becomes difficult for both actors and directors to immerse themselves in the narrative. Without the story’s continuity, even directors can struggle to fully engage, and this method often leads to the need for reshoots later in post-production.

Another approach, favored by directors with higher standards for their films, is to shoot strictly according to the script’s chronological order. Actors who are not yet finished cannot leave the crew—except those whose roles have concluded. The benefit here is that everyone—actors, directors, and crew—can devote themselves wholly to the production, ensuring the film’s quality. The downside is that all the actors must remain with the crew throughout, so those with fewer scenes may feel their time is being wasted.

For this shoot, Chen Ling decided to adhere strictly to the script’s timeline, believing this was the only way to guarantee the quality of the film as well as the shooting schedule. He entrusted the task of casting a replacement for Yang Mi’s role to Chen Zhixi. In the face of such unexpected circumstances, Chen Ling couldn’t possibly halt the entire crew for a single person. Since they were filming by the script’s timeline, and the character Siqing wouldn’t appear until the latter half of the movie, Chen Ling estimated that as long as an actor was found within two weeks, the crew’s progress wouldn’t be affected.

Thanks to several days of table reads, the actors, assistant directors, and cinematographers were all intimately familiar with the script. They had a clear idea of how to shoot and perform each scene.

On the first day of filming, the daytime shoot was mostly interior scenes of furniture being dismantled—essentially a solo act for Chen Ling, with only the ex-wife’s lawyer and Liu Yifei’s little dog as scene partners. Chen Ling was in excellent form, nailing his scenes in one take. The little dog, “Sorry,” was also cooperative, not holding up the shoot. Given the time lost to the opening ceremony, they only managed to film a few shots during the day.

That evening, they were scheduled to film the scene where Geng Hao, played by Chen Ling, gets drunk and prepares to attack his wife’s lover with a hammer. Instead, the alcohol only emboldens his cowardice, and he ends up lending a lighter to his rival—an embarrassing moment that is fortuitously recorded on a convenience store clerk’s phone across the street.

This scene was carefully crafted as a setup for Geng Hao’s later line, grumbling about how even “post-90s punks are cowards now.” The “coward” in question is, of course, Geng Hao himself. A well-made film ensures that setups and payoffs resonate, with every line and gesture carrying significance.

Before the shoot began, the actors were gathered by the monitors, having their makeup done. In the script, Chen Ling had revised Geng Hao’s age to be around twenty-seven or twenty-eight, just shy of thirty—slightly older than his actual age. Makeup was essential, and to add a touch of world-weariness, Chen Ling had grown a beard.

There were only three actors in this scene: the lover, who appears briefly; the convenience store clerk, who records the video; and Geng Hao himself, sporting a hammer at his waist, a cigarette between his lips, and a bottle of liquor in his hand.

The convenience store clerk was a cameo role Chen Ling gave to Wang Chengsi, a colleague of Shen Teng at Happy Mahua, nicknamed “The Genius”—the modern-day Wolong. Before he appeared in “Hello Mr. Billionaire,” being called “Wolong” or “Phoenix Chick” was still a compliment. During the script read, Shen Teng had suggested that if any simple cameo roles were available, Happy Mahua actors could give them a try, assuring Chen Ling they wouldn’t let him down. These were all experienced stage actors, and cameos were no problem. Besides, his first girlfriend had benefited from “Goodbye Mr. Loser,” and now that the star herself had asked, how could Chen Ling refuse such a simple favor? Extras cost money, but Happy Mahua actors only needed to be fed—a win-win that also strengthened their relationship.

The role of the lover went to Chen Ling’s good friend Dou Xiao, who fit the “tall, rich, and handsome” requirement perfectly. Upon hearing that he’d be playing the man who cuckolds Chen Ling’s character, Dou Xiao didn’t even discuss payment—he showed up eagerly.

The three of them were having their makeup done. “The Genius” hardly needed any—just his natural appearance was enough. Stage actors, especially comedians, often have faces that make people want to laugh at first sight. Dou Xiao’s styling was simple too; he was naturally handsome and needed little enhancement. Finished with makeup, he watched Chen Ling get ready, hugging his arms and chuckling at the upcoming scene.

Still, he complained, “Make him look a bit uglier, will you? He doesn’t look the least bit down-and-out, makes it hard for me to outshine him.”

“Get lost. Keep it up and next time I’ll cast you as a eunuch in a period drama,” Chen Ling retorted, playing the cuckolded husband and not understanding what Dou Xiao was so pleased about.

“Heh, let’s see what you can do to me,” Dou Xiao replied, grinning.

Chen Ling, unable to move with the makeup artist working on his face, could only respond with a middle finger.

Soon, the makeup was done. Chen Ling’s skin was noticeably darker, his age more apparent, but the handsomeness remained—the beard only enhanced his mature appeal. If the female lead hadn’t been Liu Yifei, Chen Ling’s good looks might have broken the audience’s immersion. After all, with such a handsome husband, what wife would stray? Initially, Chen Ling worried this differed too much from the original, but on reflection, he felt it would highlight the uniqueness of his protagonist, especially in contrast to Xu Zheng’s character. It would also reinforce that the female lead’s departure wasn’t due to the protagonist’s appearance, prompting viewers to contemplate: if the hero is so talented and attractive, why did the heroine choose divorce?

“Actors in position, lighting and cameras ready—standby…” With Chen Ling on camera, Guo Fan took his place at the monitor, having directed the morning’s shots well and now using the evening scene for further practice—he’d be reviewing it all later anyway.

The camera rolled. Geng Hao, played by Chen Ling, squatted on the steps of the overpass platform, legs apart, surrounded by a pile of cigarette butts—props set up in advance. The cigarette in his mouth was real, as was the half-empty bottle of liquor in his hand. Across from him, the convenience store gleamed brightly, its lights illuminating Geng Hao’s face—worn, desolate, with a hint of savagery in his eyes.

Beneath the overpass was the parking lot; Geng Hao had already marked his spot. When the lover returned, parked, and walked into the building, his back would be to Geng Hao—perfect for a sneak attack.