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Chapter 506: 279: You Can't Win, You Trash with a Combat Strength of 5 - Part 2
Chapter 506: 279: You Can't Win, You Trash with a Combat Strength of 5 - Part 2
Chapter 506: Chapter 279: You Can’t Win, You Trash with a Combat Strength of 5 – Part 2
It’s very likely that not only did the other party write a good script, but they also sought advice from a famous screenwriting teacher, and made numerous revisions based on their suggestions.
It’s even more likely that He Guojin had read the script and consulted others about whether it was possible to write a better script based on the Southern Expeditionary Army in Yunnan.
But the answer He Guojin got was negative, which is why he seemed so pessimistic. In such an extreme case, he didn’t even consider asking me to look over a script.
Perhaps he had never harbored any expectations in his heart and had already made plans to connect me with other directors, so… what’s all this about?
With a click, Gan Wenchang emerged from the bathroom after washing up. Seeing Xu Qingyan, who had been waiting on the sofa to leave the house with a furrowed brow, he couldn’t help but ask curiously,
“What’s on your mind so early in the morning?”
“He Guojin just called me, well… it seems like our chances of winning this time aren’t great,” Xu Qingyan said with a shrug, “He told me not to lose heart and that he’d introduce me to a new director another day.”
“Don’t worry, He Guojin is a man of his word,” Gan Wenchang said, picking up the keys from the table and preparing to leave, then turned and added, “If he said he’ll find someone for you, he definitely will.”
In the elevator.
Xu Qingyan suddenly spoke up, breaking the silence.
“Do you think I could possibly… win against Zhao Mingyuan?”
“It’s good to dream, but your combat power is 5, and the opponent is already in the hundreds of thousands,” Gan Wenchang said with a laugh, “I’m not trying to be unsupportive, but the gap is too big.”
“Zhao Mingyuan’s mentor is Li Lanzhou; do you know who he is? If the screenwriters’ circle had a top ten list, Li Lanzhou would definitely make the cut.”
“Just making the cut?” Xu Qingyan asked.
He lacked confidence in himself, but not in his film archive. No matter how strong a creator was, they couldn’t claim they’d always perform at their peak, let alone screenwriters.
Last night, he specifically looked up screenwriters and completely shattered his illusion about the profession. Only a small portion made money, and within that portion, Zhao Mingyuan belonged to the slightly above average group.
There were industry veterans, but not many of them were still writing.
According to the search results, Xu Qingyan found that Zhao Mingyuan indeed had talent, but his subject matter expertise was extremely limited and it didn’t include war dramas.
Zhao Mingyuan was skilled at depicting trivial household issues, such as mother-in-law and daughter-in-law conflicts, couples struggling in the city, or the complexities of blended families after divorce and remarriage.
He had one or two scripts that became popular, but most flopped.
Upon this revelation, Xu Qingyan even went to take a closer look at the plots of the scripts he had written. The content and character setting were rather monotonous, which might make one feel uncomfortable after a while.
Upon reflection, he realized why.
In Zhao Mingyuan’s scripts, the poor were always portrayed as short-sighted; the rural mother-in-law, or the poor lad who cheats, while rich people were always depicted as exquisite, smart, and far-sighted.
In summary, it could be put in one sentence: “Poor people, drop dead.”
Facing such an opponent, a newcomer or a young screenwriter would indeed feel nervous upon knowing that the other party had brought in outside help.
But Xu Qingyan had confidence in “My Battalion Commander, My Regiment.” The screenwriter of this drama in his film archive, if judged by Gan Wenchang’s standards, would definitely rank in the top three.
At the very least, how about “Bright Sword” or “Snow Leopard”?
“Just making the cut means he’s tough to beat. You know how extensive Zhao Mingyuan’s mentor’s network is,” Gan Wenchang said, “He’s paving the way for his disciple.”
“Paving the way? How so?” Xu Qingyan asked.
Ding! The elevator opened.
Gan Wenchang stepped out of the elevator and said with a touch of sarcasm, “Zhao Mingyuan was accused of plagiarism in his last show, and he got someone to suppress the issue. His mentor protected him.”
“Filming an emotional drama full of trivial discomforts would certainly bring up past criticisms, but choosing a red drama is safer. After all, even an average production will have decent viewership rates.”
Upon hearing this, Xu Qingyan suddenly had a moment of realization. War dramas, in a sea of fiercely competitive TV series, command big and stable viewerships; even poorly made ones have a loyal audience.
Undoubtedly, transitioning to such a genre was a good choice.
On the way, Gan Wenchang glanced at his phone while waiting for the traffic light and couldn’t help but swear,
“Damn, you’ve really made a splash.”
“What’s on fire?”
“Your song, ‘Nanshan Nan’, it’s number one on the short video charts today!” Gan Wenchang cussed and marveled for a while, watching as the traffic light turned green ahead.
He didn’t feel like continuing to look, so he simply threw his phone to Xu Qingyan.
“See for yourself, 1.5 million likes on the video, and that’s just overnight. Seriously, what did you put in that song to get so many likes?”
“How should I know? I never even thought about it.” Xu Qingyan was equally astonished, watching himself on stage in the hazily lit video.
The sound of the guitar gently resonated through the car with the song.
“He no longer talks to anyone about the solitary island of their encounter because his heart has long been barren and uninhabited. He can’t make room in his heart for a home anymore, becoming a mute who only lies to himself.”
Even though he knew the song was sung by him, Xu Qingyan still felt indifferent. Thinking about his lack of engagement while singing, he couldn’t help but reflect.
“These lyrics are so pretentious, and yet… it’s really like ‘unintentionally planting willows and the willows create shade.’
Resonance with music varies for everyone, and for Xu Qingyan, perhaps he was unmoved by these lyrics simply because he was not the type to wallow in the melancholy of seasons changing.
If faced with misfortune, he’d rather punch the world a few times.
As for deep love, profound love, he really didn’t have any at the moment—not even for Pei Muchan and Lin Wanzhou. His current proposition was to climb higher together.
In relationships, liking someone is only part of it, even less than half.
If he were to experience the long-distance relationship and emotional torments sung about in the song, his first reaction would likely be to break up, then move on to the next money-making city.
At this wolfish age, love can wait. A ‘Spring Breeze’ battle station isn’t much worse than a real person; it even provides real-time ranking and global male strength statistics.
But making money can’t wait, because whether it’s short videos or TV dramas, almost all the top dogs you can access through any channel are echoing one thing.
“Poor bastards can drop dead.”
No one cares about a poor sod’s love life, nor about when a speck of dust blends into the smog. Indeed, nobility is the credential for the noble.
But Xu Qingyan felt he was destined to be among the despicable—the world was nothing but a huge brothel teeming with whores. His only job was to let loose and go to work!
“Damn son, how can you even…?” Gan Wenchang was stunned into cursing, “Shit! How come you get all the good stuff!”
“What a bunch of crap! You make me feel sick.”
“Calm down, jealous? Remember to buy your buddy’s single.” Xu Qingyan smiled; with this sort of popularity, “Nanshan Nan” was definitely going to be released as a single.
As they parked the car, Gan Wenchang grumbled and led Xu Qingyan into a building. They immediately came face-to-face with a crowd blocking the entrance, causing both of them to stop.
“Who’s that, blocking the way?” Xu Qingyan whispered.
“Coincidentally, your rival.” Gan Wenchang put his hands on his hips and nodded toward the group, “Those are the screenwriters attending today’s seminar, and that guy in the middle is Zhao Mingyuan.”
“So many people?”
“It’s about participating; some have pulled strings to get in for the sake of their resumes.” Gan Wenchang explained, “You’ll see. Seniority is a big deal in this industry.”
“If the entertainment circle is all about interests and connections, then the screenwriting circle is all about relationships. It doesn’t matter if you have skills, just outlandishly stand out.”
Xu Qingyan looked at Zhao Mingyuan, who was surrounded and talking animatedly, evaluating him from afar. The man looked scholarly, indeed appearing professional.
In contrast, someone with his own standout appearance would immediately give the impression of being out of work—although he certainly didn’t have any work, but there were industry heavyweights in the film library!
Everything today was earned through individual effort—apply more deep blue points!
With great interest, Gan Wenchang eagerly added a few more words, “Have you seen ‘Grandpa’s War’?”
“No, what about it?” Xu Qingyan shook his head as they were still blocked outside, watching people in the distance flattering and greeting each other with loud and cheerful voices.
“The screenwriter came up with a young sniper, but the client suggested an old sniper would be more creative. When the other side wanted the protagonist to have a cooler identity, the screenwriter made him a disciple of Qian Xuesen.”
“That outrageous?” Xu Qingyan gasped.
“That’s why I say the screenwriting circle is rotten, and this is just the tip of the iceberg,” Gan Wenchang chuckled, “An elderly protagonist with a sniper rifle returns to the country, and his only daughter is harassed by enemies, then he seeks revenge….”
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