Chapter 72: The Most Revered Figure in the World of Directors

Wu Xiang had no idea who this man was, but the question he posed was clearly a challenge. How could a man back down from that, especially in front of such a crowd, with so many onlookers and admirers?

Wu Xiang replied, “That’s right. I’ll have Xiao Bo play the leading role. If you don’t believe me, just watch—I’ll shoot a film this year and cast him as the main character. And I’m not boasting, it’s going to be a box office hit!”

Honestly, what could be easier? At worst, he’d just borrow another script. Besides, Ning Hao listened to everything he said—making a movie would be a matter of minutes.

The moment he finished speaking, even if others had no comment, Huang Bo was so moved he started crying on the spot. Wu Ge was so good to him! Whether or not this was a challenge didn’t matter; just the promise to make him the lead actor was enough.

“Wu Ge, you’re like a brother to me!” he sobbed, his artistic airs completely forgotten.

“Don’t get carried away, hold it in,” Wu Xiang reminded him, knowing they needed to maintain their composure.

“Okay!”

While they were building their momentum, the tall man didn’t make any superfluous gestures. Instead, a wry smile played on his face.

He said, “So it really is Wu Xiang. Impressive, you certainly think differently from others. I respect that. My name is Guan Hu, formerly of the Beiying Studio, now with China Film, working on projects for the movie channel. Nice to meet you.”

His tone carried no hint of aggression; in fact, he courteously extended his hand for Wu Xiang to shake.

Guan Hu? Wu Xiang shook his hand, and suddenly it clicked. There really was such a person in the entertainment industry. But in his memory, Director Guan was nothing like this bear of a man.

Back then, Guan Hu always wore glasses and dressed sharply, his suits always ahead of the curve—not at all the scruffy figure he saw now.

Then again, with glasses on, no one would have noticed his sleepy look. Wu Xiang remembered that this man was taller than him—reputedly the tallest director in the country, standing at 1.92 meters.

“I used to think I was the tallest director,” Wu Xiang mused inwardly, but what he said aloud was different: “So you’re Director Guan! I’m Wu Xiang. I might have gone a bit far earlier, but we’re practically alumni, aren’t we? My apologies.”

One should never treat a smiling man with hostility, so Wu Xiang decided to show him some respect, especially since Guan Hu was also a film academy graduate.

“I really want to know—can you actually let your friend act in a film?” Guan Hu seemed genuinely hung up on the issue. “Let’s not talk about looks—you can tell at a glance he’s had no formal training. Can he really play a leading role?”

That was the mark of a professional director: a sharp eye for whether someone had received proper training, just by their presence and bearing. At the film academy, every morning, everyone did drills together. Performance majors did vocal exercises and movement classes; someone without such a background couldn’t fake it before a trained director.

“Senior, I’m not bluffing. I truly plan to have Xiao Bo play the lead. Haven’t you noticed, even if he can’t sing and isn’t good-looking, he has a unique kind of presence?” Wu Xiang replied earnestly.

“Presence? What kind?” Guan Hu looked puzzled.

Not only Guan Hu—everyone was confused, even the people drinking nearby turned to listen. Huang Bo, meanwhile, was elated—Teacher Wu was amazing to see something special in him. What kind of presence could he have? He’d never noticed it himself.

Everyone waited for Wu Xiang’s answer, eager to see what kind of presence the famed director would find in this rock-and-roll youth.

Wu Xiang struck a pose, then patted Huang Bo on the shoulder. “Xiao Bo, you probably haven’t noticed yourself, but you possess a rare and uncanny migrant worker’s presence.”

Migrant worker’s presence?

Pfft!

Many in the room had just taken a sip of their drinks, and with Wu Xiang’s words, the waiters suddenly had their hands full.

The people around Wu Xiang were speechless. What could they say? They wanted to laugh, but to laugh now would be too cruel, too out of place—so everyone had to hold it in, which was excruciating.

Poor Xiao Bo was on the verge of tears. What kind of presence was that? Was this a compliment or an insult? But this was Teacher Wu, Wu Ge, his idol—surely he couldn’t be wrong.

“Teacher Wu…” Huang Bo began, but Guan Hu jumped in.

“Hold on, let me take a look.” Before finishing his sentence, Guan Hu stepped forward and reached out, as if to touch Huang Bo’s hair.

“What are you doing?!” Huang Bo dodged immediately, running his hand over his artistically styled hair.

Even in tidying up, he gave his hair a little flick, and just that flick—

“Aha! That’s it! I’ve been searching everywhere…” Guan Hu exclaimed, suddenly inspired.

Just that flick—a perfect migrant worker from the provinces!

Wu Xiang, seeing what was going on, laughed. “Come on, Senior Guan, if you have something to say, just say it.”

“You’re actually pretty good. Hey, buddy, where are you from?” Guan Hu ignored Wu Xiang and turned to Huang Bo.

“Why do you care where I’m from?” Huang Bo naturally wasn’t going to answer easily, but in his flustered state, his words slipped into his native Shandong dialect.

“So you’re from Shandong—excellent, excellent!” Guan Hu slapped his thigh in delight.

What was going on? Director Guan finally revealed his true purpose.

It turned out that Guan Hu, now with China Film, had received an assignment from Old Han: to make a movie. But not just any movie—this time, the country was planning to heavily promote a new form: the television movie.

Television movies had existed for a long time, nothing new, but they fit the country’s current circumstances. The traditional film market was in decline, whereas television was booming. It was clearly more promising to work in TV than in film. Now, with a dedicated movie channel, there was a push to develop TV movies: lower costs, a ready market, plenty of demand, and, importantly, it provided jobs for many film professionals.

People couldn’t just make art and starve; besides, plenty had already moved into TV drama.

Now, Guan Hu was preparing to shoot a TV movie, using a script he’d written himself. As a writer-director, this was right up his alley. The story? It was about migrant workers in the city.

The film was titled “All Aboard, Let’s Go.”

“…Two young men from Shandong, arriving in Yan Jing, the capital of our country, dazzled by the city’s splendor, determined to make a living here. How? By driving a minibus—the kind where, at every stop, they shout, ‘Let’s go, seats available!’…”

This was drawn from Guan Hu’s own experiences—he’d ridden those minibuses and found them fascinating. The idea had stuck, and soon he’d written a screenplay about ordinary city folk struggling, surviving, and experiencing life.

But why did he want actors from Shandong? There was an interesting reason.

“…Buddy, do me a favor—could you shout this line in your native Shandong dialect: ‘All aboard, let’s go!’ Would you?” Guan Hu, at the end, made this request.

“I’m not shouting it! Why should I? I won’t!” Huang Bo flatly refused. He’d already taken a dislike to Guan Hu—he’d just been enjoying a good meeting with Wu Ge, everything was fine, and then this big oaf showed up to ruin things.

At that moment, Wu Xiang spoke up.

“Xiao Bo, just shout it a couple of times for Director Guan.”

Damn.