Dramas, like movies, can roughly be divided into three types:
The first type is both critically acclaimed and commercially successful.
These dramas have great reputations and high ratings, but such masterpieces are rare, maybe one every few years. They become timeless classics, rerun by TV stations annually.
For Wen Ying’s generation, childhood memories include summer and winter break staples like *Journey to the West*, *The Legend of the White Snake*, and later *Princess Pearl*.
These dramas were ratings hits on their debut, and during reruns, old viewers rewatch fondly while new ones are drawn in.
Classics withstand time’s test, creating iconic roles. Actors lucky enough to star in them can live off the role’s fame for life.
Such classics are rare and require a perfect blend of script, production, and actors. Small fame can be engineered, but true stardom depends on fate. Wen Ying knew of future hits, but even if she stooped to plagiarizing, success wasn’t guaranteed.
A different director, cast, or even airing slot could ruin a classic.
Besides, Wen Ying wouldn’t plagiarize. Her moral line forbade it. And as a reborn lawyer, copying others’ work? Where’s the dignity in that?
The second type is critically acclaimed but not commercially successful.
These dramas are well-made with good reputations but lack viewership.
Does quality guarantee an audience? No. If the subject is too niche or doesn’t appeal to the masses, it won’t work, no matter how much a small group loves it.
Family-friendly dramas have a better shot at high ratings.
*Journey to the West*, *The Legend of the White Snake*, and *Princess Pearl* were all suitable for families to watch together.
The TV remote reflects household power dynamics. Students like Wen Ying rarely control it; parents decide what’s watched.
To watch Taiwan idol dramas, unless a satellite channel imports them, kids had to sneakily rent video discs when parents weren’t home.
Idol dramas aren’t exactly critically acclaimed but unpopular—they’re the type many parents would ban!
The third type is commercially successful but critically panned.
These dramas may have decent ratings and buzz but are undeniably bad. Zhang’s script for Li Mengjiao falls into this category.
As for dramas that are neither acclaimed nor popular, Wen Ying didn’t bother counting them. Poor production, bad scripts, shoddy acting, and terrible directing doom them to obscurity from the moment they’re finished.
Knowing Zhang’s script would be a hit, Wen Ying couldn’t in good conscience say he was negligent.
He delivered a valuable script.
Whether it was a bad drama didn’t matter to Zhang or Yuan Fenghui.
A bad drama that makes stars and money—what’s to complain about?
Facing Yuan Fenghui’s questioning, Wen Ying’s mind raced for a suitable reason.
“Teacher Yuan, do you remember the *Meteor Garden* ban?”
In February 2002, *Meteor Garden*, the pioneer of Taiwan idol dramas, hit mainland TV, sparking a ratings frenzy. But after just six episodes, it was pulled. Wen Ying’s generation watched the full series on pirated discs.
Why? The drama’s massive negative influence on teens, with its focus on materialism, alarmed the broadcasting authority. Teens loved it, parents hated it, and despite its commercial value, it couldn’t survive the ban.
Zhang’s script wasn’t much different from *Meteor Garden*: a Cinderella heroine with multiple male leads, lavish clothes, cars, mansions, and millions in pocket money—settings out of touch with China’s reality.
A ban was unlikely, but Wen Ying felt it still clashed with mainland social values.
She recalled this drama, filmed in Taiwan, was later imported to mainland satellite TV in the summer of 2008. Three years earlier or later, social climates differ!
On the phone, Yuan Fenghui fell silent. Wen Ying pressed on, “I’m not cursing Teacher Zhang’s drama with a ban. Even if it airs smoothly, it doesn’t align with the image you want for Mengjiao or your long-term goals for her. In idol dramas, the male leads or supporting males get the spotlight. When does the heroine ever gain lasting popularity?”
Idol drama fans are mostly young girls.
They scream for the rich, handsome male leads or supporting males.
Girls project themselves into the Cinderella heroine, “dating” the male characters, remembering her but obsessing over the guys post-series.
Taiwan had “idol drama queens” who could make any male co-star famous, and producers loved casting them.
But their fame faded. Years later, who lasted?
Meanwhile, some male idol drama stars used their fame as a springboard to movies.
Regardless of box office results, they at least crossed from TV to film!
Li Mengjiao could act in idol dramas, but not brainless ones like this. Beyond typecasting her and fleeting hype, what would she gain?
As Yuan Fenghui said, this fleeting hype was what many newcomers dreamed of. Xu Mei would kill for it.
But for Li Mengjiao’s first screen role, Wen Ying wanted a better start—a personal wish.
After a long silence, Yuan Fenghui chuckled, “You’re really sharp, I’ll give you that. You’re persuasive, almost swayed me.”
After a pause, her light tone turned serious, “Anyone can theorize. Reality isn’t theory. If I could, I’d have Mengjiao star in a movie or make her album top the charts. Is that realistic? She can be a lead because I’m promoting her, because her family can afford it! If you think Zhang’s script is no good, give me a better one.”
Yuan Fenghui’s words boiled down to: “If you’re so great, do it yourself. Otherwise, stop complaining.”
“Hey!” Wang Shuang couldn’t hold back, but Wen Ying glared, silencing him.
“Teacher Yuan, I understand. I’ll work on a script. I’ll explain things to Teacher Zhang myself.”
Explain what? Questioning a senior, Zhang might storm back to Taiwan.
Yuan Fenghui liked Zhang’s script and wouldn’t let Wen Ying ruin it.
“No need. I’ll talk to Zhang. You write your own script. If you don’t understand something, ask him for advice.”
Beep, beep, beep.
Yuan Fenghui hung up, her dissatisfaction clear.
To her, Wen Ying was like a law student challenging a seasoned lawyer. If a student criticized Lawyer Wen, she’d be annoyed too.
Yuan Fenghui was already quite restrained.
But Wang Shuang trusted Wen Ying’s judgment more.
Zhang wrote for money, Yuan Fenghui for Li Mengjiao’s fame. Only Wen Ying acted purely for friendship, free of ulterior motives.
Once the call ended, Wang Shuang spoke, “Write it yourself. Show them!”
Adults always doubted teens’ abilities, and Wang Shuang knew that well.
If Wen Ying wrote a script that left Zhang and Yuan Fenghui speechless, he couldn’t wait to see their faces.
Yuan Fenghui wasn’t unkind to Li Mengjiao, but her kindness carried Taiwan’s producer arrogance. Did only Taiwan know how to make stars or hit dramas?
“Easy for you to say. You’re not writing it,” Wen Ying shot Wang Shuang a look.
Wang Shuang, thick-skinned, grinned, “What’s our relationship? Your script is basically mine!”
He finally earned a smack.
If her script counted as his, would she have to split the pay?
Dream on!
A lawyer’s bargain wasn’t so easy to snag.
Wen Ying set Zhang’s outline aside, trying to clear her biases.
Write it, then.
How would she know if she didn’t try?
If it didn’t work, as a high schooler, she had no face to lose. Worst case, she’d humbly ask Zhang for help.
Five hundred thousand wasn’t just for an outline. No script was that expensive.
While Wen Ying planned how to use Zhang, Yuan Fenghui had already told him not to count on Wen Ying. He should flesh out the script himself.
“Let her mess around, Zhang. You two stay out of each other’s way. Just finish the script.”
Zhang hadn’t really expected much from Wen Ying.
Her rejecting his script? Probably because she couldn’t handle the details.
Zhang laughed, “No big deal. Give me a few days, and I’ll deliver a full script to Tianjiao Film.”
Taiwan idol dramas had fast production cycles. Zhang’s story wasn’t complex, and with details, it’d be about a dozen episodes. For an experienced screenwriter, a complete script took a week at most.
Some idol dramas were even written episode by episode during filming!
Yuan Fenghui sensed Zhang’s displeasure.
She wasn’t too happy herself.
Idol drama heroines were often foils for male leads and supporting males. If the drama hit, the guys got the fame. Wen Ying didn’t need to remind her—she knew.
But Taiwan had proven success. Female singers took idol drama roles not for acting glory but to boost fame and album sales. That was Yuan Fenghui’s plan for Li Mengjiao’s rise!
