Chapter 17

Zhou Siyou’s scenes for the second phase were her scenes opposite Zheng Su, and the first half of them still took place in the “school” setting.

These scenes would ultimately be woven into the film as memories.

Which meant that on set, portraying a character’s mindset across such a vast span of subjective and objective perspective was the hardest and most crucial thing for an actor to nail.

“Your performance needs layers,” Director Zhong Qing said, word for word, as she walked the actress through the scene. “Jiang Jin shows a different face to the outside world than the one she keeps inside.”

“What you need to be clear on is that this is Jiang Jin’s memory, and also Jiang Jin’s ‘soliloquy’ inside the interrogation room. What does she want to hide? What does she refuse to mention, refuse to face? Whether out of fear or disgust, all of that is the layering you have to grasp.”

“Make the audience believe your performance. And believe Jiang Jin’s performance as well.”

Zhou Siyou nodded along eagerly, while a little assistant beside her blinked in confusion and muttered, “I don’t get it.”

Then she fawned all over Zhou Siyou anyway: “But Teacher Zhou didn’t NG a single time last phase, so this time is gonna be a guaranteed no-NG too!”

A few hours later, that assistant slapped herself on the cheek and decided to change her name to “Jinx.”

Zhou Siyou’s second-phase NG came on the very first day of shooting, in the very first scene.

In that scene, Jiang Jin returns to campus after several months away from school. By now she is no longer bullied, but she has become a “ghost” in everyone’s eyes.

Through the camera’s lens, Jiang Jin stands punished in the corridor over her coursework. Scolded out of the classroom in sharp, cutting tones, the look on her face is relaxed, because in the vacuum of an environment where she is ignored day after day, even a targeted punishment like this gives her a strange sense of belonging.

Along the corridor, students drift past in twos and threes.

“Why doesn’t a murderer have to go to jail?”

“Shh, keep your voice down…”

“It’s terrifying. What if she kills us too?…”

In the scene, Jiang Jin freezes at the words.

It was an emotion never marked in the script. Fleeting as it was, the camera caught it, and magnified it endlessly.

Behind the monitor, an assistant whispered, “Director Zhong, isn’t there an emotional break here?”

Zhong Qing said nothing.

Nor did she call cut.

So everything continued as planned.

Summer. Cicadas beginning to sing. And beyond a hazy halo of light, the male lead Yuan Qinghua appears at the end of the corridor.

A thirty-year-old man, a seventeen-year-old student. To the former, the thoughts and emotions of the latter are largely transparent.

Easy to read, easy to handle, easy to manipulate.

A melancholy, resilient girl is to be captured with illusory art, music, literature, and romance. And those happen to be the very things Yuan Qinghua excels at.

Skilled at art. Skilled at music. Skilled at deception and lies.

During filming, several members of the camera crew found themselves thinking, in unison, that Zheng Su had truly brought out every one of “Yuan Qinghua’s” oily, affected mannerisms.

Yuan Qinghua is premeditated from the very start, so everything he does carries a sense of purpose, and every ounce of emotional investment is like a calculated, cost-accounted investment.

What a pity.

Such superb acting got absolutely demolished by Zhou Siyou.

Nobody in the studio saw it coming. The moment Yuan Qinghua leaned in close to Jiang Jin, before that deliberate physical contact could even land, “Jiang Jin” had already raised her leg and, in the stance of a woman fighting off an attacker, driven a vicious kick straight into his crotch.

Half a second later, “Yuan Qinghua” stood pale-faced and bug-eyed, clutching himself, then crumpled to his knees on the floor.

The studio erupted. Every male crew member felt a chill run through him, the pain vividly shared.

Behind the camera, the directors all seemed to freeze, and no one called cut.

A panicked shriek shattered the silence. “Hey!!!” Zheng Su’s assistant rushed forward in a fluster, helping the kneeling Zheng Su up, then rounded on Zhou Siyou with eyes bulging. “A-are you out of your mind!?”

Half-leaning against the fake windowsill built into the set, Zhou Siyou seemed a little dazed herself.

Her lips parted slightly.

But before she could speak, whether to apologize or explain, someone was already shoving past the equipment, hurrying over, and catching Zhou Siyou by the wrist.

Zhou Siyou turned, and met a pair of worried eyes.

The next second, in front of everyone:

The person gently wrapped an arm around Zhou Siyou’s shoulders and drew her into an embrace.

Even as she was pulled in, Zhou Siyou was still foggy.

All she felt was Zhong Qing’s fine, stray hair brushing her bare neck, warm breath settling against her skin. Eyes seemingly closed, Zhong Qing let out a sigh so soft it was nearly impossible to catch.

In a voice pitched for only the two of them, Zhong Qing asked quietly, “Did you think of… ‘him’ just now?”

…Him?

Zhou Siyou slowly came back to herself, her gaze dimming at the question.

“Him.”

Zhou Siyou naturally knew whose name stood behind that pronoun.

But she hadn’t expected Zhong Qing to bring those things up on her own.

After a two-second pause, Zhou Siyou’s whole manner flipped. Her eyes curved again as she slipped back into her usual devil-may-care persona.

“Actually, no.” She shook her head, giving Zhong Qing a gentle half-push, then laughed. “Ha, it’s just that Zheng Su’s acting was so scary it got to me.”

Zhou Siyou hadn’t bothered to lower her voice for that second half, so everyone nearby heard it loud and clear.

Zheng Su’s face flushed green, then white.

But Zhong Qing paid the onlookers no mind. She lifted her head and stared at Zhou Siyou intently for a few seconds, as if asking silently: Really?

Zhou Siyou squirmed and nudged her away. “Let’s go back, come on…”

“Little Director Zhong, you really play favorites.” Zheng Su’s assistant cut in abruptly, tone joking, though the reproach was clearly genuine. “We’ve got two leads here, yet you only care about Sister Siyou…”

Someone else laughed too. “Besides, it was Teacher Zheng who got kicked. Why is Director Zhong comforting Sister Siyou instead?…”

Zhong Qing seemed to only now register the situation. She blinked, slow. “I…”

“Okay, okay, everyone stop ganging up on Little Director Zhong.”

Zhou Siyou wedged herself into the middle of the group, then turned to Zheng Su with an apologetic smile and bowed respectfully. “Teacher Zheng, I am so sorry. Truly, sorry. That was completely unprofessional of me.”

Zheng Su stared blankly for two seconds, then straightened his back and said awkwardly, “It’s my fault… for failing to catch Little Teacher Zhou’s performance.”

The people around them laughed it off at just the right moment, and the camera crew and assistant directors stepped in to smooth things over. “Teacher Zheng, it’s because your acting was too good! Little Zhou was unprofessional, very unprofessional, haha…”

Zheng Su sighed helplessly. “It’s fine… really, it’s fine…”

Since Zheng Su himself had said as much, the whole affair was hastily papered over a few minutes later.

~

At the next call of “Action,” both actors slid back into character almost immediately.

From then on, everything went smoothly.

The subsequent scenes spanned an even wider stretch of time, from school to home, where the bride’s bouquet is thrown into the sky, putting a full stop to this fabricated romance.

Yuan Qinghua’s attitude toward Jiang Jin remains deliberately ambiguous. He has tamed a pretty songbird, claimed himself a young lover. He coaxes her to stay home, using gratitude and companionship as binding knives, tying Jiang Jin down, snipping away her ties to the outside world.

These were the scenes that had to translate all that summary prose into gestures, dialogue, and expression.

Until that evening, everything had gone smoothly, smooth enough to bury the earlier NG.

But before the final scene, Zhong Qing called a halt.

“Thank you all for your hard work today,” Zhong Qing said, rising to her feet and bowing to the crew. “I discussed it with the directing team, and we’re moving the last interior scene here to a few days from now.”

Everyone nodded, exchanged the usual pleasantries, and wrapped for the day.

Zhou Siyou trudged out after her assistant, and sure enough, was intercepted just outside the studio.

Zhong Qing studied her, then said softly, “The traces of acting were a little heavy today. You weren’t as immersed as before.”

Zhou Siyou’s reading of that line: I didn’t call NG out of courtesy. If you have any professional self-awareness, you’ll own up to it yourself.

Zhou Siyou was a good student. At least in front of Teacher Zhong she was.

So she promptly owned up. “I promise it won’t happen again tomorrow.”

“Not just tomorrow.” Teacher Zhong shot her a pointed glance, then said, with grave sincerity, “Zhou Siyou, from today on I’m holding you to an even higher standard. Do your best. Unless you’d like to be crowned the King of NGs on this set.”