Chapter Fifty-Four: Correcting Mistakes on an Excellent Test Paper

On screen, Dou Xiao’s character, the “Homewrecker,” parks the car, then starts climbing the steps one at a time. Hearing footsteps, Geng Hao turns and looks down, spotting his target. He inhales the last bit of his cigarette forcefully, a subtle hint at his resolve to act. He tosses the cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it under his toe with deliberate force, then stands up, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his head in one fluid motion.

His right hand, now free after having put down the bottle earlier, lifts the back of his shirt and pulls out the hammer tucked into his waistband. Raising it above his head, he strides quickly toward the “Homewrecker,” who is just about to enter the building. It looks as though Geng Hao is ready to deliver a thunderous, decisive blow—like Hua Qiang splitting a watermelon. Just as he’s about to swing, the “Homewrecker” hears footsteps behind him, turns his head, and sees Geng Hao.

Startled, Geng Hao hurriedly hides the hammer, turning his back quickly.

A cigarette dangling from his lips and a lighter in hand that refuses to spark, the “Homewrecker” asks Geng Hao, “Hey man, got a light?”

“Huh? What?” Geng Hao, head down and visibly nervous, doesn’t catch what was said.

“I asked, do you have a light? Lend me a light!” the “Homewrecker” repeats.

“Oh! Uh… yeah, I do,” Geng Hao stammers, too anxious to form a full sentence. Holding the hammer, his right hand is occupied, so he fumbles with his left, pulling out a lighter to light the man’s cigarette.

At this moment, Geng Hao suddenly realizes: Wasn’t he about to bash this guy’s head in? How did he end up lighting his cigarette, and with such practiced ease?

Noticing Geng Hao holding the lighter but not striking it, the “Homewrecker” leans in, allowing Geng Hao to light his cigarette, even guiding Geng Hao’s left hand to press the lighter and ignite the flame.

“Thanks, man.” Although he finds Geng Hao a bit odd, the “Homewrecker” thanks him and heads inside.

Watching the man’s back disappear into the darkness of the stairwell, Geng Hao seems to collapse, his strength drained. With a clang, the hammer drops to the ground. The alcohol-blurred mind regains a sliver of clarity.

Only now does he realize what he’s just done: humiliation, fury, frustration, dejection, and above all, a stinging sense of uselessness. Especially when he looks up and sees the convenience store clerk inside, phone raised, recording him—at that moment, Geng Hao feels like a clown.

Chen Ling completely immersed himself in this scene, finding the right feeling. “This should be a one-take shot,” he thought.

When Geng Hao’s original version was released, there was an unresolved question—how could the “Homewrecker” not recognize Geng Hao, the real husband? Actually, this was addressed in a scene during filming: at the wedding at the end of the film, Geng Hao and the “Homewrecker” meet in the restroom, and Geng Hao thoughtfully removes a piece of confetti from the man’s clothing. The “Homewrecker” thanks him, and when Geng Hao says “no problem,” the man replies, “Thank you for not swinging the hammer that day.” This tied up the loose end, though for some reason, the scene was cut from the final version.

Although it’s unclear why Geng Hao didn’t include this scene, Chen Ling was determined to film it and include it in his final cut. As always, he aimed to correct the “wrong answers” on an already excellent test paper.

“Cut!” The reactions by the monitor were quite different from Chen Ling’s immersion; several people nearly burst out laughing. The script was brilliant, and seeing it brought to life was even more hilarious. That’s the beauty of shooting a comedy—there’s never any shortage of joy.

When Guo Fan yelled “Cut,” Chen Ling hurried over to the monitor to review his performance. Dou Xiao also came bounding out from the stairwell, grinning.

“That was awesome!” Xu Zheng, standing by the monitor, gave Chen Ling a thumbs up in recognition of his acting. At first, when Xu Zheng heard Chen Ling would be acting, he had his doubts. If the script hadn’t been so compelling, he might not have taken the role himself. But now, seeing Chen Ling’s performance, he realized his concerns were unfounded.

Within this crew, Xu Zheng was arguably the best actor. Receiving his genuine praise made Chen Ling truly happy—his hard work had paid off.

Watching his performance on the monitor, Chen Ling felt he’d reached his current peak. Nonetheless, to be safe, he decided to do another take; there was no rush.

“Director Chen, if you’re not satisfied with a performance like that and want another take, you’re making me nervous,” Liu Yifei joked. She, too, thought Chen Ling’s acting was superb—honestly, better than hers.

“I’m the one who’s nervous. My next scene is with Xu Zheng. If I don’t raise my game, I’ll be crushed.” To be honest, acting as a co-lead with Xu Zheng put a lot of pressure on him; though Xu Zheng could be a bit self-serving, his acting was beyond question. In a dual-male-lead film, if one performance is weak, critics are ruthless. Audiences scrutinize both leads with a magnifying glass, so Chen Ling could only strive for perfection and hope to avoid too much criticism.

“Old Wang, if Director Chen isn’t satisfied with his own performance, what will we do if we ever get leading roles in a film?” Shen Teng and Wang Chengsi, watching Chen Ling’s performance on the monitor, exchanged worried looks.

“Lead roles? Us?” The “Big Brain” turned to Shen Teng, incredulous. “Do you really think any director would cast us as leads? Film budgets run into tens of millions—who would take that risk?”

Hearing this, Shen Teng fell silent. Indeed, for the two of them, even a bit part was a big win. Shen Teng still remembered the envy on his colleagues’ faces when he got the call to audition for Chen Ling Pictures. It was only a minor supporting role, but it was the best film opportunity the entire Happy Mahua troupe had seen in nearly a year.

For Shen Teng, the stage had its limits—the ceiling was just so high. For real progress, he needed to break into films. But for now, both skill and opportunity were lacking.

This film was a golden opportunity for him—not only did he need to play his part well, but he also had to cultivate a good relationship with the director. Only then would more doors open in the future. As for hoping Happy Mahua would invest in films—even if they sold the company, it might not be worth thirty million.

At Chen Ling’s request, they shot the scene again. Before filming, Xu Zheng generously shared tips and insights based on Chen Ling’s earlier performance—details and nuances he’d accumulated over years of acting. These were precious secrets, and if not for the prospect of directing the sequel to “Lost on Journey,” Xu Zheng would never have revealed them. Even so, compared to the sequel Chen Ling now controlled, these tips were a small favor.

That was why, before production began, Chen Ling told Xu Zheng he’d acquired the rights to “Lost on Journey.” In this industry, interests always come first. As long as Xu Zheng still cared about the sequel, he had every incentive to cooperate with Chen Ling and give his best during filming.

Thanks to Xu Zheng’s coaching, Chen Ling’s performance did improve in the next take, though not dramatically. This wasn’t the kind of miraculous improvement you read about in novels—just a gradual, tangible progress. Chen Ling was satisfied with that.

With this scene complete, the next was set in a hospital, with IV drips. The extras were in place, and the crew prepared to move and start shooting.

In this scene, Chen Ling and Xu Zheng had a confrontation. Though Chen Ling was familiar with Xu Zheng’s acting, facing him directly on set was a different experience—Xu Zheng’s skill was formidable. It took several takes before Chen Ling was satisfied. One was certainly not enough; after a few more, they finally wrapped the scene, bringing the day’s shoot to a close—it was nearly midnight by then.

Chen Ling wasn’t a slave driver, nor did he believe late-night shoots guaranteed better results. After a full day, everyone was exhausted—except Guo Fan, who, instead of tired, was practically giddy at the prospect of leaving the set.

Excited, was he?

Very well—he could stay up late and help Director Chen review the day’s footage.

Ever since his transmigration, Chen Ling’s memory and stamina had improved noticeably. After a day as both director and actor, he didn’t feel particularly worn out. With Guo Fan for company, he was ready for a bit more overtime.