Chapter 102: Humanity, the Hardest Portrait to Paint Since Time Immemorial

Gu Cheng and the young actresses had spent two earnest days studying the script, during which they grew to understand each other better, quickly becoming friends.

Two days later, the filming of "The Golden Powder Family" commenced as scheduled.

Arriving on set, Gu Cheng couldn’t help but acknowledge that the directors and producers at CCTV were quite reasonable atheists: unlike the producers in Hong Kong who might burn pig heads and joss paper, here there were no such superstitions.

Everything was very low-key, devoid of any ceremonial pomp, and the shooting proceeded at a brisk pace.

Gu Cheng was among the last actors to begin preparations. At first, Director Li worried that Gu Cheng might struggle to mesh with the supporting cast.

However, after only two days and several dozen scenes filmed, Director Li began to relax: Gu Cheng adapted quickly and was at least among the top three performers in terms of getting into character.

In contrast, some important supporting roles with complex relationships were underprepared, resulting in a pale and lifeless portrayal of interpersonal dynamics, much to Director Li’s frustration.

On the third day of filming, they wrapped up at 11 p.m.—an early end for a shoot.

Since everyone skipped dinner, they combined it with a late-night snack.

Unlike the "Meteor Garden," which had Gu Cheng’s investment and thus better conditions, the production of "The Golden Powder Family" was considerably less well-off. The crew was served unappetizing dishes of green pepper shredded pork with dried shrimp and winter melon, accompanied by a box of steamed rice.

In 2001, it was not uncommon for state-owned production companies to skim off the back-end catering budget, because the payment standards for central media were much lower than private studios. Over time, a tacit understanding evolved: a lunchbox reimbursed at 20 yuan might only contain ingredients worth 5 yuan.

Of course, this corruption never reached the directors or producers; minor staff would prepare special "secret" treats to shield their superiors.

Gu Cheng was not there to flaunt wealth, nor was he unwilling to endure hardship, so he obediently ate the unpalatable meals for two days.

At this moment, he was preparing to find a place to eat lunchboxes and discuss the script with Cheng Kun and Dong Jie. An assistant approached to inform them that Director Li wanted them to come to his office to eat and talk.

The three rose to leave. Gu Cheng paused Cheng Kun briefly, took his lunchbox along with his own unopened one, returned them to the logistics area, and picked out two separate lunchboxes from the pile.

The staff distributing the food didn’t stop Gu Cheng; instead, they showed a faint look of relief.

Dong Jie, who was dieting and only ate winter melon and dried shrimp, was oblivious to the underlying meaning and had no reaction.

Cheng Kun, however, was perceptive. Weighing the exchanged lunchboxes, he cast Gu Cheng a knowing smile: “Didn’t expect you to be so savvy.”

Gu Cheng smiled kindly: “Those who are pure remain pure. I doubt I’ll ever work with these people again, so there’s no need to offend anyone just to change things.”

Cheng Kun’s expression shifted slightly, and much of his earlier resentment faded. Gu Cheng’s meaning was clear: I don’t care about this place at all; I’m only here because I was forced.

After exchanging lunchboxes, the three entered Director Li’s office. He was eating as well and gestured for them to sit anywhere. They didn’t hesitate and opened their lunchboxes.

Taking a bite of crab roe lion’s head meatball, Director Li posed a question: “Xiao Gu, Xiao Cheng, you two are the most experienced in the group. You’ve seen everyone’s performance these past few days—what are your thoughts?”

Gu Cheng and Cheng Kun exchanged glances and cautiously replied, “I think it’s pretty good. Everyone is quite into their roles and adapts quickly. The characterizations are solid.”

Director Li looked at Cheng Kun: “What about you?”

Cheng Kun humbly said, “I also think it’s good. The acting is mostly spot-on. Occasionally there’s a touch of exaggeration, but that’s necessary for setting the background.”

Director Li sighed softly. “Don’t you feel everyone is too shallow when it comes to interpreting interpersonal relationships? Each character’s image and personality traits are precise when looked at individually, but their attitudes toward each other are all the same—monotonous.”

Gu Cheng and the others were slightly stunned, wearing puzzled expressions.

Director Li had to explain further before they realized he was right.

“Xiao Gu, take your role as an example—I’m not saying your portrayal of Jin Guangxi is poor, but since he has the most scenes opposite others, I’ll use him. Jin Guangxi is the seventh child in the Jin family, with three older brothers and three older sisters. Should his attitude toward the three older brothers be the same? Should his harmony with the fourth, fifth, and sixth sisters be handled with the same nuance?

“Look at the 1987 version of 'Dream of the Red Chamber.' Jia Baoyu has four sisters: Yuan Ying, Yuan Tan, Yuan Xi, and Yuan Si. His feelings toward Yuan Chun are somewhat admiring; toward Ying Chun, respectful but distant; toward Tan Chun, fond and unwearied; and toward Xi Chun, protective with a delicate understanding—there’s a rich layering of relationships.”

Hearing this lofty comparison, Gu Cheng and Cheng Kun both drew a sharp breath.

To act well as a single character is one thing; to embody the nuanced interpersonal attitudes of that character toward all related roles is an entirely different, far more difficult challenge.

The former tests the skill at a single point; the latter demands mastery of an entire surface. Achieving this requires the ensemble’s tacit understanding rather than individual acting prowess.

Especially when a drama attempts to portray a complex aristocratic family, reflecting an entire era, the difficulty reaches its peak.

For example, the 1987 "Dream of the Red Chamber" cited by Director Li as the benchmark.

Back then, Chen Xiaoxu and Zhang Li had virtually no acting experience before playing Lin Daiyu and Xue Baochai, yet the entire cast exuded a natural elegance and subtlety in their every gesture. Their intimacy and distance were exquisitely balanced. After release, it was hailed as a classic unlikely to be surpassed for decades.

Director Li saw "The Golden Powder Family" as a rare opportunity. He was determined to approach the heights of the ’87 masterpiece. However, he was uncertain if his own and his actors’ abilities were up to the task.

Cheng Kun, having just resolved some friction with Gu Cheng, now heard Director Li’s grand ambitions and couldn’t help but speak up for Gu Cheng.

“Director Li, I think what you’re asking is too difficult. When 'Dream of the Red Chamber' began filming, the actors spent two full years living and learning together in the 'Grand View Garden,' exchanging insights and rehearsing until they achieved that level. We’ve had the script for less than two months. To portray the intricate relationships of such a large family with that depth is practically impossible.”

Cheng Kun truly meant what he said, knowing that even if he were still playing Jin Guangxi, he couldn’t meet Director Li’s expectations.

In another timeline, Cheng Kun played the male lead in "The Golden Powder Family." After filming, seasoned critics said that Jin Guangxi didn’t need to be the seventh son—third son would suffice. His three older brothers could be merged into one, and the three older sisters combined as well, because his attitude toward all siblings was uniformly loving.

In truth, not even Cheng Kun could accomplish this, nor could the greatest actors in Chinese cinema.

Take, for instance, the acclaimed crime epic "Infernal Affairs," released two to three years later, which boasted a gathering of Hong Kong’s last generation of best actors: Lau Tak Wah, Leung Chiu Wai, Huang Qiu Sheng, and Zeng Zhiwei—all Golden Horse Award winners. No matter how much they showcased their skills, the actors only managed to clearly define their own roles and their broad attitudes toward the boss, brothers, enemy moles, and their lovers.

To further subdivide attitudes toward each individual brother would multiply the mental complexity exponentially—something even Lau and Leung couldn’t manage.

The industrialized, assembly-line style of filming simply doesn’t allow time for such fine-grained exploration.

To reach that level, one must look to Hollywood—and not the "waterfall" model of the eight major studios, but independent arthouse producers like Miramax, who create refined, award-winning films through painstakingly slow processes akin to the three years of refinement that the "Dream of the Red Chamber" production undertook.

It’s like winemaking: without careful fermentation and infusion, even the gods can’t manage so many layered nuances.

After this thorough explanation, Director Li was quite disheartened.

“Sigh, it’s all about budget. If the State Television really supported me like they did the ’87 'Dream of the Red Chamber,' giving me three years to refine a single production, I could make a timeless classic too!”

After much contemplation, Director Li refused to abandon his ambition to create a masterpiece.

“How about this,” he proposed, “starting tomorrow, we stop shooting scene by scene. Instead, we’ll film the first two episodes in chronological order according to the script. Then the post-production team can assemble the footage and show it to everyone at the end of the day. That way, we can all get a feel for the relationships and better understand the dynamics. What do you think?”

Gu Cheng, lacking experience, didn’t see any problem with this.

Normally, television dramas shoot by location: if a room’s lighting and set are ready, they shoot all scenes in that space before moving on. This lets actors build emotions over time and saves the director and cinematographer from rearranging setups repeatedly.

Shooting strictly in chronological order is possible but increases costs. The advantage is that in dramas with intricate relationships, it helps most actors form a unified understanding of the social web, subtly guiding their performances accordingly.

The interpersonal relationships conveyed through the finished two episodes would be far richer than those written plainly in the script. No script, no matter how verbose, can detail every nuance of character X’s relationship with Y, Z, and others.

However, this approach is challenging, especially for characters introduced with complex relationships who must quickly act opposite many others. Their time to build rapport and embody relationships is greatly compressed.

Dong Jie, who had been silent, expressed concern upon hearing Director Li’s plan.

“This puts a lot of pressure on Gu Cheng. I don’t mind since in the early episodes, Leng Qingqiu only interacts with Jin Guangxi, Ouyang Yujian, her close friends, and her mother. But for the Jin family’s aristocracy, he has to simultaneously grasp the relationships with dozens of family members—won’t his mind be a complete muddle?”

Dong Jie’s words made Gu Cheng’s expression tighten, as he fully grasped the enormity of the challenge.

Director Li recognized that his sudden demand was somewhat unreasonable and earnestly suggested:

“I’m not asking for a true ‘Dream of the Red Chamber’ level. Xiao Gu, I just want to see that Jin Guangxi’s rebellion against his father and mother manifests differently; that his private friendships and attempts to counsel each older brother differ; and that his intimacy varies with each older sister. You decide how you want to express these layers—I don’t care how, only that I see the differences in depth. Once you do this, the other actors can watch the two finished episodes and then ‘choose sides and refine their characters’ accordingly.”

“I’ll give it a try,” Gu Cheng said, quickly running through all the family members he had scenes with, biting his lip before agreeing.

“Too rash!” both Dong Jie and Cheng Kun lamented Gu Cheng’s blind confidence.