Chapter 0303: The Great Director

Zhao Fusheng had never really believed in the concept of presence, but since his rebirth, he had come into contact with several big shots, and he truly understood that some people are simply born with a power that can influence others.

Jiang Wen was that kind of person.

"Hello, I'm Jiang Wen." At their first meeting, the self-introduction was only six words, but Zhao Fusheng could feel that the man was introducing himself with great sincerity.

"Hello, I'm Zhao Fusheng." Smiling, Zhao Fusheng extended his hand to Jiang Wen.

Their hands clasped together, the grip light, and they parted after a brief touch.

"President Wang, you've had a hard time." Zhao Fusheng then looked at Wang Zhonglei, who was exhausted from being dragged all the way by Jiang Wen. The younger President Wang also wore a tired expression.

"Don't mention it. We're friends; it's what I should do." Wang Zhonglei smiled. "To be honest, I really want to hear you tell that story in person."

Since they had put it that way, Zhao Fusheng knew it wouldn't be easy to refuse.

Things often go like this: when the other party shows sincerity, you have to respond. It's a troublesome matter, after all, we're all just ordinary people living in this world.

"Let's settle in first, then we'll talk." Zhao Fusheng thought for a moment and said to Wang Zhonglei and Jiang Wen.

The two naturally had no objections. They booked two rooms at the International Hotel. Wang Zhonglei, exhausted, went straight to sleep, while Jiang Wen, excited, dragged Zhao Fusheng back to his room.

"Consultant Zhao, to be honest, I didn't expect anyone else to share my thoughts." After sitting down, Jiang Wen said earnestly to Zhao Fusheng.

Zhao Fusheng shook his head helplessly, really wanting to tell him that he was not the kind of person Jiang Wen thought.

But he also knew that no matter what he said now, Jiang Wen probably wouldn't listen. For someone nearly obsessed with drama, a good script in front of him was like a naked beauty—utterly irresistible.

In other words, if Zhao Fusheng said he didn't want to write the script now, Jiang Wen might just slam the table and curse.

"Teacher Jiang..." Zhao Fusheng coughed and started to speak, but Jiang Wen waved his hand. "Call me Old Jiang, and I'll call you Xiao Zhao. Let's drop the 'Teacher Jiang' and 'Consultant Zhao'—I hate all that pretentious formality, okay?"

Zhao Fusheng nodded. After all, this guy was known for his bad temper. During the filming of *Red Sorghum*, he argued with the director from start to finish, and they ended up creating a classic.

"Old Jiang, after reading the story outline, you should know that if this story is made into a film, it might not get released." Zhao Fusheng sighed and directly said to Jiang Wen. "That's why I threw away the draft after writing part of it."

Jiang Wen lowered his head, silent. He casually took out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Zhao Fusheng, who waved his hand. "I don't smoke."

"Oh." Jiang Wen nodded gloomily, put the cigarette in his mouth, took out a lighter, and with a click, the flame ignited. As he inhaled, a wisp of smoke appeared before Zhao Fusheng.

"To be honest, as soon as I saw your story, I knew it would be another fucking banned film." Jiang Wen sighed, finished half the cigarette, and then said to Zhao Fusheng with a smile. "But I just can't help myself."

Zhao Fusheng laughed. "What's the matter, can't control yourself?"

"Myself?" Jiang Wen was taken aback, then laughed at Zhao Fusheng's accent, a smile appearing on his serious face. "Yeah, I just can't control my own hands. I want to make this story and let people see what it was really like back then."

Zhao Fusheng didn't say anything. He knew that compared to himself, who was just trying to make money, Jiang Wen truly approached filmmaking with the intention of making art.

Their starting points were different, so naturally their thoughts differed.

Perhaps this was the gap between pragmatism and idealism. It was also why Zhao Fusheng admired many of China's fifth and sixth-generation directors. Most of them had made so-called banned films and risked their careers to submit these films for review. That's why we could see films like *Devils on the Doorstep*, *Blind Shaft*, *Beijing Bicycle*, *Suzhou River*, and *Platform*.

Although some of them, or rather most, eventually compromised with the market, it wasn't their fault but the fault of the times.

Often, it's not that we don't know the truth; we just lack the courage to speak it out.

"Old Jiang, if you want to make it, I can write the script for you. But I can guarantee that what you produce will never pass the censorship." Zhao Fusheng sighed heavily and said to Jiang Wen.

Though they had known each other for less than an hour, Zhao Fusheng knew exactly what kind of person Jiang Wen was. In his previous life, after the success of *Let the Bullets Fly* in both box office and reputation, this guy quickly turned back to his old ways and continued making films that people couldn't understand.

So Zhao Fusheng clearly knew that a real fire was burning inside this guy.

Unlike a certain director who claimed to be the best commercial film director in China but tricked audiences with nostalgia, Jiang Wen pursued perfection in filmmaking.

"I know, but I still want to try." Jiang Wen looked at Zhao Fusheng seriously.

Zhao Fusheng shook his head. Since it had come to this, he knew he couldn't convince Jiang Wen.

After thinking for a moment, Zhao Fusheng said, "Give me three days. I'll write the story for you. I won't get involved in the rest. You can make the film without asking me, okay?"

It wasn't that he was afraid of anything, but rather that Zhao Fusheng felt this film should belong solely to Jiang Wen.

Jiang Wen was taken aback, then smiled: "Alright, then write it. I'll wait for you."

He understood Zhao Fusheng's meaning—the latter simply didn't want to wade into troubled waters. More importantly, Zhao Fusheng was still young and didn't want to be targeted by certain departments because of this script.

On the way over, Wang Zhonglei had told Jiang Wen about Zhao Fusheng: a rising star in the advertising world, single-handedly propping up a fledgling ad agency, whose ad copy had caught Liu Dehua's eye and been adapted into a film.

In other words, Zhao Fusheng had a bright future ahead and had no reason to get involved with him.

In fact, before coming, Jiang Wen had little confidence that Zhao Fusheng would help write the story; his plan was merely to get authorization from him.

But unexpectedly, Zhao Fusheng agreed.

Zhao Fusheng stood up and walked toward the door. When he reached it, he suddenly thought of something and turned to Jiang Wen: "I don't care about anything else, but the screenwriting credit has to include me, or I won't be happy."

"You..." Jiang Wen was stunned, looking at Zhao Fusheng in surprise.

Zhao Fusheng smiled: "I don't like being bothered by reporters. Besides, if you, a director, aren't afraid, why should I, a screenwriter, be afraid?"

Jiang Wen nodded: "Got it. You won't be shortchanged on your screenwriting fee."

With his back to Jiang Wen, Zhao Fusheng raised a finger and gently wagged it as he walked away.

When he returned to his lodgings, Zhao Fusheng went upstairs and began to recall the film *Devils on the Doorstep* he had watched, trying to write out the plot as completely as possible.

He said three days, but it actually wouldn't take that long.

By evening, Fan Baobao came back, dragging her tired body. As soon as she entered, she shouted, "Zhao Fusheng, get out here!"

Zhao Fusheng was writing. Hearing this, he opened the door and went downstairs, only to see Miss Fan, her face slightly flushed, lying on the sofa like a giant octopus.

Shaking his head helplessly, Zhao Fusheng said, "Have you been drinking?"

"Yeah," Fan Baobao nodded obediently.

Zhao Fusheng sighed: "Didn't I tell you to drink less when you're out?"

Fan Baobao didn't hold her liquor well, and Zhao Fusheng had warned her before to drink less when he wasn't around.

"It's fine. Yuan Lu and the others were with me; they even saw me to the door," Fan Baobao said with a smile.

Zhao Fusheng let out an "oh." No wonder—it seemed Fan Baobao and Yuan Lu had made up.

"Alright, go take a shower and then sleep," Zhao Fusheng said, waving his hand at Fan Baobao.

She was in a dazed state now—definitely not drunk, but not entirely sober either.

People who drink often experience this: when they're out drinking, their mind and body are clear, and they can fully control their actions.

But once they get home after drinking, they feel terrible. Some hug the toilet and vomit, some become completely delirious, and some just lie flat on the floor playing dead.

Fan Baobao, on the other hand, was the obedient type.

Hearing Zhao Fusheng's words, Miss Fan obediently walked toward her room. When she reached the door, she suddenly turned around, glanced at Zhao Fusheng, and chuckled: "Zhao Fusheng!"

"Hmm?"

Zhao Fusheng raised an eyebrow: "What?"

"Thank you." A smile appeared on Fan Baobao's face as she looked at Zhao Fusheng and blinked: "I know you're doing this for my own good."

Zhao Fusheng nodded: "Good that you know. Go change and shower."

Fan Baobao hummed in acknowledgment and obediently went inside.

Watching her close the door, Zhao Fusheng shook his head helplessly. He walked to the door and locked it, then went to the bathroom to check the water heater temperature. After making sure it wasn't too hot, he turned and quietly went upstairs.

A drunk woman is the scariest thing, especially a drunk Fan Baobao. So it was best for him to lie low and let her do whatever she wanted.

As for whether Miss Fan would scream and shout in anger when she woke up tomorrow morning, Zhao Fusheng figured she wouldn't remember a thing once she was sober.