Chapter 63: Techniques of Expression Across Two Eras

Xu Xiyuan had a keen eye. After just a few scenes with Gu Cheng, she had already seen through him: this guy knew a bit about everything, his breadth of knowledge was almost frightening. Yet, he wasn’t truly proficient at any one thing, as if he had never immersed himself deeply enough to hone a skill to perfection. Moreover, he seemed to pick up anything astonishingly fast, with an intuitive grasp that allowed him to draw connections easily.

A young man of such talent, starring in a romance drama for which the audience had no preconceived notions, was bound to succeed. If it were a historical drama, or an adaptation of a well-known martial arts novel, the audience would already have fixed expectations for the characters, and acting ability would be crucial. But the original manga of "Meteor Garden" was unfamiliar territory for the local audience; no one had any idea what Hanazawa Rui should be like.

Gu Cheng claimed that Hanazawa Rui, with his autistic traits, was cold and aloof, so aloof he would be. He infused the role with new charms that made his young female fans swoon, and success followed naturally.

The days passed smoothly, without unexpected setbacks. In terms of filming sequence, aside from scenes that required large sets or the rental of luxury yachts for showy displays of wealth, most of the school scenes were shot in the order of the episodes. In just two weeks, the first five episodes were completed.

During this period, Gu Cheng mainly followed the script, though occasionally he found some settings too silly and requested minor changes. Xu Xiyuan, acting opposite him, was sometimes caught off guard, but upon reflection, she had to admit Gu Cheng was right.

Take, for example, Hanazawa Rui’s iconic handstand.

“When you feel like crying, if you do a handstand, the tears that were about to fall just won’t come out.”

Whenever Gu Cheng came across lines like this, he felt it was a little excessive. He had endured a year and a half of grueling dance training at S-M Company, could do street dance and all sorts of stunts, so a handstand was nothing to him. But he simply refused to perform such a move—it was just too embarrassing.

Regarding this bit of the plot, he thought the line could stay, but should be delivered more subtly and concisely. As for actually performing a handstand, like some circus act, it was absolutely unnecessary.

Perhaps because his mindset wasn’t right, Gu Cheng just couldn’t find the right feeling after two takes, and the onlookers found his performance stiff.

“Cut. Forget it, everyone, let’s take a break for lunch. Gu Cheng, take some time to find your groove. This just doesn’t have the impact of your previous scenes.”

After wasting two takes, Director Cai called for a timely break. After several days working together, he knew that this investor-slash-second male lead was having another one of his episodes—who knew what ideas he was cooking up now.

Yet, every time he had one, it broadened everyone’s horizons.

Gu Cheng walked aside to grab his lunchbox, feeling a bit guilty, and instructed Lin Zhiling to order some takeout and extra drinks, offering to pay out of his own pocket to treat everyone.

By rights, Lin Zhiling, being the second female lead, shouldn’t have to handle such chores—an assistant should do it. But she graciously took care of it, choosing a place that delivered braised dishes quickly.

Ten minutes later, after everyone had washed up and settled down for lunch, Gu Cheng, lunchbox in one hand and extra food in the other, walked into the break room where Chai Zhiping, Director Cai, and the cinematographer were resting, bringing along Xu Xiyuan, Lin Zhiling, and Yan Chengxu as well.

“Here, Aunt Chai, Director Cai, don’t just eat stir-fried pork with green peppers. I’ve ordered some Chaoshan beef hot pot.”

Gu Cheng personally placed the dishes in the center of the table and offered a few words of apology—after all, he had wasted two takes earlier that morning.

“A little Gu, you don’t need to put on this act. Just say what’s on your mind—have you thought of something else?” Chai Zhiping was used to his routines by now.

Gu Cheng gave an awkward smile and chose his words carefully: “Aunt Chai, I think the way we’re presenting this drama is a bit old-fashioned in many places. There’s too much emphasis on repetitive dialogue and heavy-handed actions. Take the handstand line, for example—why does he have to do an actual handstand?

Why not film a shot of him gazing out over the balcony, then halfway through, turning to lean his back against the railing, looking up with an expression of sorrow on the verge of tears? Wouldn’t that convey the emotion much better than an actual handstand? If we absolutely must mention the handstand as a cute quirk, just have him say it, or save it for a later scene when he’s alone.”

He was one step away from directly saying, “Doing a handstand in front of a strange girl is just over-the-top and idiotic, don’t you think?”

“Gu, you don’t understand the conventions of idol dramas. The audience for these is mostly housewives, or young girls watching with their parents while doing homework.

Most of the time, they’re not paying full attention, so the dialogue has to be repetitive—‘even if your eyes aren’t on the screen, your ears catch enough of the lines to know what’s happening.’ You focus too much on expressions and detail—who’s going to appreciate those smoldering looks? For the audience, staring at the screen the whole time would be exhausting.”

This was Director Cai’s response, but it reflected the consensus of the whole crew. Even the Japanese made their idol dramas this way—in fact, the recently released “Endless Love,” the original idol drama from the East, was shot in exactly this style.

Gu Cheng knew they were right. He accepted their points with humility, ate a few beef balls, and after everyone had calmed down, tried to persuade them from a different angle:

“Director Cai, Aunt Chai, when it comes to filming, you certainly know more than I do—I’m still just a student in your presence. But I work in the internet industry, and when it comes to insights on future trends, I might have an edge. Right now, we’re just at the start of the internet winter, and I think this cold spell might last more than two years. But once it’s over, the ways we watch and distribute video content will change dramatically.”

As the producer, Chai Zhiping was most concerned about content distribution, so she immediately took an active interest. “Oh? And how exactly will things change?”

Gu Cheng replied with certainty: “At the moment, people watch our shows on TV, or a few buy DVDs. But even with DVDs, fast-forwarding and rewinding rely on the remote, and each skip is at least ten seconds, if not half a minute.

But I guarantee, within three years, people will be downloading video files online to watch movies and shows. Within five years, streaming video will become the norm. What kind of audience will we face then? They’ll pause with the spacebar, replay exciting scenes frame by frame, and any small goofs or plot holes that might go unnoticed on TV will become glaringly obvious with pause-and-play viewing.

By then, our current approach will seem too verbose and outdated—these long scenes with gratuitous handstands will absolutely need to be cut.”

Chai Zhiping and Director Cai fell silent, deep in thought. Gu Cheng had no concrete evidence, but everyone remembered the technological leaps of the recent internet boom; it all seemed plausible.

Gu Cheng had managed to keep his online business thriving even during the downturn—who among them would doubt his foresight?

Rather than skepticism, Director Cai felt a surge of unwillingness. He muttered, “So… in the future, does that mean idol dramas will have to become more nuanced and concise? But there will always be viewers who only half-watch, who need us to cater to them, right?”

Gu Cheng replied, “Of course. In the future, there will still be dramas you can follow just by listening to the dialogue, without watching the screen. But those will split off from the idol drama genre. For example, there will be a type called ‘morning dramas’—designed for Japanese housewives to watch while doing chores in the morning, using fragmented viewing time without needing to sit in front of the TV. But I don’t think any of us want ‘Meteor Garden’ to target that niche.”

Morning dramas were a hallmark of the Japanese TV market, a result of fierce competition and strict differentiation. People in Taiwan often believed that “Japan fifteen years ago is Taiwan today; Taiwan now is mainland China in fifteen years.” So when Gu Cheng brought up this example, everyone immediately understood.

Chai Zhiping made the decision: “Then let’s tweak a few things. ‘Meteor Garden’ is already a gamble—no one else in the province is making a drama in this style, so we’re already innovative. So why not bet bigger? Bet that this series will not only become a hit, but stay hot for three years, or even longer! If it means spending a little more to make it future-proof, so be it.”

After all, if filming continued, Gu Cheng’s investment would soon exceed fifty percent. Chai Zhiping and Director Cai were “technical partners,” investing little money but hoping for a breakout hit to make a name for themselves. As for the profit split between Gu Cheng and Fulong Productions, Chai Zhiping and Director Cai didn’t care.

Director Cai thought for a moment and said, “How about this: Hanazawa Rui’s characterization will be more introverted and his scenes more understated. But we still need to keep the show simple and easy to follow, so explanatory lines and straightforward narration will fall to Dao Ming Si. If Hanazawa Rui’s actions are too cryptic for the audience, let Dao Ming Si, or Shancai, or Jing explain them through dialogue.”

Yan Chengxu, Xu Xiyuan, and Lin Zhiling, listening nearby, felt like ten thousand wild horses were galloping through their minds.

So we’re doomed to be the talkative ones? All the cool aloofness goes to Hanazawa Rui? Who’s the male lead here, anyway?

Well, if the number of lines determines the lead, then Dao Ming Si really is the male lead.

Before they could finish brooding, Director Cai added, “Hmm, Jing is also pretty smart and cool, so let Dao Ming Si and Shancai be the loud, clueless types who ask questions. Jing can be the wise, supportive sister who explains things when needed.”

…

After lunch, and an additional promise from Gu Cheng to invest another three hundred thousand for the show’s adjustments, filming resumed.

The scene where Hanazawa Rui first advises Shancai to do a handstand was moved from the school corridor to the rooftop.

A blazing sunset, the sky washed in gray and gold, backlit.

A figure six feet tall, leaning against the railing, his heels just touching the lower right corner of the frame, making the most of his height and long legs.

Decades later, selfie addicts would know: stretch your legs toward the edge of the frame to make them look longest.

Gu Cheng wasn’t a selfie addict, but he had seen plenty of them.

After preparing himself emotionally, Gu Cheng delivered the line in a deep, world-weary, almost omniscient tone: “When you want to cry…”

He kept his profile to the camera the whole time, never once glancing at Shancai.

Xu Xiyuan suddenly felt her knees go weak, almost compelled to kneel in awe.