Chapter Twelve

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Meng Kaiyan thought her makeup looked good, but Chen Yu felt something was still missing. She circled Meng Kaiyan, scrutinizing her for several seconds, then furrowed her brow and asked, “Xiao Meng, how much do you weigh now?”

Meng Kaiyan touched her cheek. “102.”

Was she too fat?

Chen Yu pinched her shoulder and patted her back. “Try to lose five pounds in the next few days. You’re not fat; it’s just that your energy and spirit are so strong that even makeup can’t cover it up. Try to suppress it a bit with hunger.”

Meng Kaiyan had nothing to say. It was the first time she’d heard such advice, but she nodded in agreement.

“Scene 25, shot 1, take 1. Action!”

The clapperboard snapped, and Meng Kaiyan instantly slipped into character. Her back straightened naturally, then slightly curved; her head hung down.

In the corner of the room, Chen Yu, who hadn’t gone on stage yet, watched this and couldn’t help but feel satisfied.

The slouched, hunched posture was well conveyed—it was clear some thought had gone into Ji Ping’s external image.

But the lead in this shot wasn’t her. Gao Qingjian, playing Ji Hua, pushed the door open, the camera fixed on him, following his movements slowly.

“Ji Hua” slammed the door with a bang, hands in pockets, cursing as he stormed in. He headed straight for the bedroom and pulled open a drawer searching for money.

He rummaged wildly, growing more impatient, “Damn it! Where’s the money?”

“Ji Hua” smacked the table in frustration, turning his head to look toward the bedroom door as he spoke.

*Click.*

“Not bad!” Chen Yu applauded. “Old Gao’s expression is really ruthless this time.”

Gao Qingjian said nothing. He hadn’t broken character, still radiating anger.

Meng Kaiyan sensed that Chen Yu was inexperienced as a director. If it had been Chen Man, she could have seamlessly transitioned from Gao Qingjian’s performance to Meng Kaiyan’s entrance, maintaining the actors’ emotional flow.

Fortunately, Chen Yu didn’t delay long, and soon it was Meng Kaiyan’s turn.

“Ji Ping” was a high school girl who, besides studying, also had to handle household chores. Her mother was busy tending to over a dozen pigs in the sty, while her father was addicted to gambling.

Hearing noises outside, Ji Ping’s pen paused; her body trembled involuntarily.

She had to go out to heat up her father’s meal. The poor girl stumbled on the table leg as she stood.

Chen Yu hadn’t anticipated this, but the cameraman quickly captured the moment. Chen Yu was startled but didn’t call for a cut.

Was it an accident, or had the girl staged it? Chen Yu was puzzled.

Ji Ping opened the door, and Ji Hua stormed out of the bedroom angrily. “Did your mother take the money?”

Ji Ping stepped back two paces, trembling, shaking her head fiercely. “I don’t know.”

With a loud slap, the impatient Ji Hua struck Ji Ping. “You and your mother are both cowards, so unlucky.” Then he stormed out.

Ji Ping didn’t have time to touch her burning cheek. She ran to the window and looked out to see Ji Hua striding toward the pigpen.

The camera was outside the window, the rusty old iron bars framing the shot perfectly. Through them, it captured Ji Ping’s calm, nearly indifferent eyes.

*Click. Cut!*

Meng Kaiyan breathed a sigh of relief—good luck was on her side.

Her final gaze wasn’t improvised. While small gestures that enrich a character are allowed, significant changes in a character’s emotional expression can only be made with the director’s consent.

This was the result of Tao Heng’s script revision. Tao Heng had made the slap the trigger for Ji Ping’s personality shift. Ji Ping’s second personality emerged from repeated domestic abuse, usually suppressed by the primary personality, but surfacing when she was hurt again.

The following scenes would be relatively easier: two housework scenes and two conversations with neighbors.

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The neighbors were going to the temple fair and asked Ji Ping to help feed the chickens in the evening.

But even though the scenes were easy, filming extended until noon.

Jian Zhenzhu brought lunch. Meng Kaiyan was eating her last proper lunch for nearly half a month, chewing each bite dozens of times, determined to imprint the taste of a normal meal on her palate.

“Can you still adapt, Ni’er?” Jian Zhenzhu asked. This time she hadn’t accompanied her on set and usually stayed at the hotel.

Meng Kaiyan nodded, chewing away. “I’m adapting. The filming intensity isn’t as high as the last drama.”

Jian Zhenzhu worried, “Not many scenes?”

Meng Kaiyan replied, “Quite a few. I have the second most scenes after the director. Honestly, it’s the heaviest role I’ve played.”

Jian Zhenzhu smiled brightly. “That’s great. Ni’er, do your best. Maybe this film will make you famous overnight.”

Meng Kaiyan hoped so too, but the domestic film market was worrisome.

In the past two years, once the big box office cooled off, it stayed cold for half a year. War films, sci-fi, comedies—all failed to revive the market. Now, all the big names crowded into the Spring Festival releases.

As the mother and daughter talked, the assistant director approached. “Xiao Meng, you have to work overtime tonight. We need to shoot the night scene for the 25th, so you’ll probably work until two a.m.”

Meng Kaiyan was stunned. “On the 25th?”

“Yes.” The assistant director looked busy and left to make adjustments with the camera crew.

Jian Zhenzhu asked, “What’s up?”

Meng Kaiyan blinked. “The 25th is a key scene, one of the most important in the whole film. But this means it connects with the scenes we shot today.”

She felt anxious. Her emotions weren’t yet ready, and suddenly jumping into an intense scene made her worry she might not handle it well.

—

Night.

Because of the overtime, Meng Kaiyan had the rare chance to eat supper and walked around the set to digest. The moon was bright, and from the rooftop, she could see a nearby beach.

There were even people moving about on the beach. Meng Kaiyan thought they were tourists, but the assistant director told her it was the props team setting the scene.

Meng Kaiyan thought carefully, recalling the script’s scene of throwing bones by the sea.

Half an hour later, she quietly stayed in a corner.

What was Ji Ping’s mindset during the dismemberment?

Meng Kaiyan leaned against a pillar in the darkness, pondering.

Would she feel sad? Meng Kaiyan shook her head—definitely not.

Whether it was Huang Dongying, played by Chen Yu, or Ji Ping herself, in Ji Hua’s eyes—after he had fallen into gambling addiction—both were no different from the pigs in the sty.

Ji Hua had once been a pig butcher, responsible for catching, slaughtering, and selling pork. When Ji Ping was a child, her family would slaughter pigs on market days to sell.

Therefore, Ji Ping had seen many pig slaughtering scenes.

As the saying goes, even if you’ve never eaten pork, you’ve seen pigs run; even if you’ve never dismembered a body, you’ve seen pork cut.

Ji Ping surely bore resentment from being treated like livestock, so when she stabbed Ji Hua with the butcher knife, the thrill of revenge must have surpassed all other emotions.

Meng Kaiyan’s breathing quickened. Perhaps it wasn’t just revenge—after witnessing so many pig slaughtering scenes, Ji Ping’s psyche might have warped.

It was an act of mimicry, a form of release.

Meng Kaiyan broke off a dry branch about the length of her forearm from a nearby tree, absentmindedly striking the air.

The sharp butcher knife would easily pierce the skin but be stopped by the hard bone; drawing the blade back required distance, or else blood might splash.

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Maybe she should also wear an apron—the butcher’s apron Ji Hua used to wear.

Made of PVC, waterproof, oil-proof, and easy to clean.

Chen Yu walked over and saw this scene. “...”

In the dead of night, it was eerie. The bright moonlight seemed sinister.

Chen Yu interrupted, “Xiao Meng, let’s rehearse the scene.”

Meng Kaiyan paused for two seconds before snapping back to reality, tossing the branch aside casually. “Okay, director.”

Chen Yu felt she had misjudged Meng Kaiyan. She had initially thought Meng Kaiyan wouldn’t go far in the industry or could only play supporting roles in serious, slice-of-life dramas.

Teenage Meng Kaiyan had an advantage—her acting outshone her peers, earning good roles—but that edge would disappear after turning twenty.

The adult world was cruel, and the entertainment circle even more so. To some extent, a beautiful face was favored over outstanding acting.

Meng Kaiyan was neither a dazzling beauty nor could she play the delicate, girl-next-door type. Chen Yu had struggled to find a suitable niche for her.

More precisely, in an industry filled with beauties, lacking a distinctive memory point was fatal—more so than ugliness. But now it seemed her acting could be her unique mark.

Their rehearsal went smoothly. Chen Yu was at ease, and Meng Kaiyan held her own.

This made Chen Yu genuinely pleased, especially since a few months ago, Fang Qun had beaten the enthusiasm out of her.

Still, Meng Kaiyan wasn’t arrogant enough to think her acting rivaled Chen Yu’s. On one hand, Chen Yu was clearly just casually acting, not giving her all; on the other, the role of Ji Ping came with a natural boost—gripping characters are easier to shine with.

Time slipped to 9:30 p.m.

The set was ready, cameras positioned for simultaneous indoor and outdoor shooting.

Inside the room, Ji Ping sat like a puppet, eyes downcast, occasionally frowning in irritation.

Huang Dongying and Ji Hua were arguing again. Ji Ping felt no fear—only annoyance. Even through the closed door, their quarrel frayed her nerves.

Outside the room, Ji Hua roared, “Give me the money!” His face flushed a dark red from agitation.

Huang Dongying’s forehead veins bulged as she gripped her chopsticks tightly. “There’s no money! You’ve gambled it all away. Where would there be any left?”

Ji Hua scowled. “Bullshit! Ji Hong said someone came to settle accounts this morning and gave you at least two thousand. I’m telling you again—give me the money.”

Huang Dongying snapped, “That was money from selling pigs!”

“Yours is mine. You’re getting cocky, huh? Acting tough with me? Looks like you haven’t been beaten into submission yet.” Ji Hua panted heavily, looking around for a weapon.

He grabbed a broom and fiercely struck Huang Dongying with its wooden handle.

She dodged.

Due to missteps in blocking, the director had to call for two pauses, forcing Meng Kaiyan, Chen Yu, and Gao Qingjian to reshoot multiple times.

When the blocking finally went smoothly, both felt their emotions weren’t as intense as the first takes, so they kept reshooting.

Just when everything went well, Meng Kaiyan’s stomach rebelled from over-digestion, growling loudly—unfortunately caught by the recorder.

No need to say more; the fifth take began.