Chapter Seventy-One: The Premiere of The Orphan of Zhao, and Hong Kong and Taiwan’s Struggle with Historical Dramas

This was the second time Chen Ling had attended a movie premiere; the last one had been for Zhang Yimou’s “Under the Hawthorn Tree.” The way Zhang Yimou controlled the entire film had left a deep impression on Chen Ling. So this time, he was genuinely looking forward to the premiere of “Orphan of Zhao,” and even put aside his own editing work to be there. In his previous life, Chen Ling had seen quite a few films, though not every single one—this particular movie happened to be among those he’d never watched.

His curiosity was piqued—not only by the film itself, but also by Kaige Chen’s reputedly difficult temperament. This time, the invitation to the premiere had been delivered straight to his company, with his name written in bold, unmistakable letters. After some deliberation, Chen Ling decided he should attend after all. In this industry, keeping to oneself too much could easily lead to isolation, unless one had the power to form a circle of their own. Clearly, Chen Ling wasn’t at that level yet; for now, it was better to follow the crowd and keep a low profile for a while longer.

Unlike Zhang Yimou’s understated decision to hold his premiere in the small auditorium at the Beijing Film Academy, Kaige Chen had chosen a far grander venue—the Great Hall of the CPPCC. It was Chen Ling’s first time there, and he found himself awestruck by the solemnity and grandeur of the place. He even considered whether he might one day host his own film’s premiere there. Perhaps Director Han could pull some strings? Then again, the lively, irreverent spirit of his film seemed ill-suited to such a stately setting. He decided to revisit the idea once editing was complete.

Kaige Chen’s approach was not only more upscale but also more flamboyant than Zhang Yimou’s. Even the actors dressed as ancient generals and soldiers posted at the entrance were intimidating. If not for concerns about his own identity, Chen Ling would have been tempted to snap a photo for social media—no, wait, for Weibo, not his old circle of friends.

Inside the venue, the number of guests far exceeded that at the premiere of Zhang Yimou’s film. Many looked to be of advanced age—likely representatives of various associations, given Director Kaige’s prestigious background. Chen Ling even spotted a few familiar faces. He had no interest in squeezing into Han Sanping’s central circle; it held no appeal for him. Wasn’t the “Fairy Sister” more alluring than even Director Han?

“Yifei,” he called.

Today, Liu Yifei seemed to have come alone; Chen Ling saw no sign of her mother nearby. Of the “Lost in Love” crew, only he and Liu Yifei had the credentials to attend a Kaige Chen premiere—Lin Zhilin, for instance, likely did not.

“Where’s your mother? Did you come by yourself?” Chen Ling greeted her with a smile. Liu Yifei had always seemed to be an outsider in the industry, especially among actresses. Female rivalry was one reason, but she was also a bit of a homebody—perhaps even more so than Chen Ling himself. Her reluctance to socialize, coupled with her status as a resource-seeker, had gradually narrowed her circle. Now, at the event, the “Fairy Sister” was indeed alone.

“Yes, I did. Did you come by yourself too?” Liu Yifei’s eyes sparkled with genuine delight at seeing Chen Ling there; her smile was radiant.

Chen Ling shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious? Even my ex-girlfriend’s run off. I don’t even have anyone to accompany me to events.”

Liu Yifei covered her mouth, laughing at his words, clearly reminded of the gossip about him on set. “Hasn’t it been over half a year since you broke up? Time to find someone new.”

“I’d like to, but I haven’t met the right person.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, her expression playful rather than ladylike, yet utterly charming.

“Yifei, you’re single too, right? Why don’t we make do with each other?” After more than a month working together on the film, they were on familiar terms; as long as the jokes weren’t too outrageous, it was all in good fun.

“You’re not my type,” Liu Yifei replied, giving him a thorough once-over and tilting her head in a way that suggested he simply wasn’t worthy.

“Then, Yifei, may I ask what your type is?” Chen Ling couldn’t help but grumble inwardly—if he wasn’t to her taste, did that mean someone else, perhaps a “Korean idol,” was?

Tapping her chin thoughtfully, Liu Yifei squinted her eyes and said with a mischievous smile, “It’s definitely not someone like you.”

“Besides, I don’t think you like my type either, do you?”

“I actually like your type.” Whether true or not, one must never hesitate to answer such questions from a woman.

Liu Yifei’s eyes narrowed even further, resembling a sly fox. “Oh, please. That line might work on schoolgirls, but not on me.”

“I mean it.”

Even if he was only pretending, Chen Ling’s expression remained playful, but his gaze was sincere. After all, it had been over six months since his breakup—finding a new girlfriend hardly counted as “overlapping.”

“Do you think I’d believe that? Back on set, you were ogling Lin Zhilin and Liu Yan every day. Did you think I didn’t notice?”

“What ogling? When was I ever so lecherous? Wait a minute, were you secretly watching me on set?” Chen Ling caught a flaw in her words—had she truly been observing him?

Things were starting to get interesting.

“No one was watching you. Secretly or otherwise,” Liu Yifei replied, her eyes darting away and her face turning slightly as well. In the glow of the lights, Chen Ling even caught a faint blush rising on her cheeks. Was she really blushing? Had the joke gone too far? Or had he stumbled upon the truth? Chen Ling scratched his head, momentarily at a loss for words.

“Um—”

After less than a minute of silence, Chen Ling decided to break it. If the atmosphere dragged on, things could go either very well or very badly. He couldn’t let the conversation stall.

“I heard you turned down two offers from ‘Banquet at Hongmen’ in a row?”

Liu Yifei seemed surprised, then shot him a dramatic eye roll—what a way to change the subject.

“The news has been out for days and you’re only just finding out?”

Chen Ling offered an embarrassed smile. “I’ve been holed up editing my film lately, haven’t really checked the news. Still, I have to say, you’ve got guts—not many would twice refuse a starring role in a hundred-million-yuan production.”

But Liu Yifei, instead of joking back, seemed contemplative. “You don’t know… The Hong Kong and Taiwan directors just can’t do justice to historical dramas. Sure, the investment is huge, but odds are it’ll be a flop. If it weren’t for your film’s offer, I probably would’ve accepted.”

Chen Ling nodded in agreement. He shared her view—directors in Hong Kong and Taiwan, limited by their perspective and education, often lacked a basic grasp of historical context. Their scripts diverged wildly from actual history, and their creative scope was so narrow that even a large-scale battle might end up feeling like a street brawl in Causeway Bay. To expect them to faithfully recreate a grand historical scene was wishful thinking. A film like “Hero” was something a Hong Kong or Taiwan director could never pull off in a lifetime; it was the product of environment and vision, immutable.

Still, Liu Yifei’s repeated rejections of major Hong Kong–Taiwan productions would surely have far-reaching consequences for her career. If “Lost in Love” didn’t succeed, it would be even harder for her to access resources from that side of the industry.

“Those directors really can’t make epic historical films, but now that you’ve turned them down and chosen my project, the pressure’s on me!” Chen Ling said.

“I believe in our film. I’m counting on this one to turn things around!” With that, Liu Yifei raised her fist in a gesture of encouragement to Chen Ling.