The screenwriter from Taiwan, surnamed Zhang, wasn’t a top-tier talent there, but he had penned a hit drama that made the ratings charts. To secure his services, not only did Yuan Fenghui pull some strings, but Tianjiao Film also shelled out a full five hundred thousand as his fee.
Zhang was partly persuaded by his connection with Yuan Fenghui, but mostly by the five hundred thousand.
In 2005, producing a twenty-episode drama in Taiwan typically cost a few million, covering actors’ fees, crew wages, costumes, props, and other expenses. Naturally, the screenwriter’s share was modest.
Yet, with just a few million, Taiwan churned out multiple hit idol dramas, yielding high returns on small investments, fueling a thriving entertainment industry.
Looking back from 2019, the idol dramas that exploded post-millennium seemed cringe-worthy to grown-up fangirls. The cheap costumes and props, even male leads sporting garish hairstyles, had once driven them wild. Truly, the aesthetics of youth were naive!
Wen Ying viewed these Taiwan idol dramas through her 2019 lens.
If Li Mengjiao were to star in such a drama, Wen Ying would object.
But Zhang, brimming with confidence, had no clue what the high school girl before him was thinking.
Zhang already knew Tianjiao Film and Yuan Fenghui had hired him to boost a young girl.
For the sake of his friendship with Yuan Fenghui and the five hundred thousand, Zhang had reviewed Li Mengjiao’s profile and Super Girl competition footage before coming to Rongcheng. He tailored a script to her persona, drafting the plot outline on the plane.
He didn’t need to flesh it out too much.
Tianjiao Film had told him an assistant screenwriter was waiting.
Zhang figured he’d let the assistant handle the details while he guided from the sidelines.
But upon meeting the assistant in person, Zhang felt Tianjiao Film was utterly unreliable.
Had they brought him to the wrong office?
The girl before him, if Tianjiao Film claimed she was a signed newcomer, Zhang would believe it.
Her features were attractive, her round face approachable, likely to win over audiences.
By normal standards, she exuded youthful energy.
But on camera, her build was too stocky.
The camera is unforgiving; to look neither fat nor thin on screen, you need to be lean in real life. The “camera adds ten pounds” saying wasn’t a joke!
Since Tianjiao Film was willing to pay, Zhang decided to kindly suggest after the collaboration that their newcomer needed some body management.
As for Wang Shuang, Zhang gave him a glance and thought he was decent.
A teardrop mole by his eye gave him distinctiveness.
Clean-cut and with a cool vibe, he fit the current aesthetic trends.
No need for him to slim down.
After sizing them up, Zhang smiled and asked, “Where’s the assistant screenwriter your company assigned? I’d like to meet her to discuss script details.”
Wang Shuang nearly burst out laughing.
What a rare moment, someone doubting Wen Ying’s ability!
Their friend group was used to Wen Ying handling all sorts of challenges with quiet competence. Encountering someone who didn’t trust her felt novel.
Who was the last to doubt Wen Ying?
Wang Shuang thought hard and refused to admit it was him.
Wen Ying was exasperated.
The saying goes, “Get famous young,” but she wasn’t famous yet, so it was normal for others to doubt her.
“Teacher Zhang, I’m the assistant screenwriter assigned by the company. While you’re in Rongcheng, I’ll work with you to complete the script.”
Li Zhentao had said Wen Ying would lead, with Zhang assisting.
Wen Ying had never written a script before, and a good story didn’t guarantee a polished screenplay. Zhang was brought in by Li Zhentao as an industry mentor to teach Wen Ying and review the script.
This mentor’s fee was five hundred thousand, enough to buy a house in Rongcheng. Not cheap!
But when Li Zhentao proposed this, neither Wang Jun nor Qin Xianming, the other shareholders, objected, so it was settled.
Wen Ying, aware of her inexperience, chose to take the “assistant screenwriter” role out of respect for the industry veteran from Taiwan. She wanted to learn something real, and that meant keeping a humble attitude.
Wen Ying extended her hand. Zhang stared at her for a long moment, then turned and left the office.
Bang.
The office door closed behind him.
Zhang seemed a bit upset.
“Hey, does he feel insulted?” Wang Shuang nudged Wen Ying’s arm.
Wen Ying glared at him, “Do you know how much Uncle Li is paying him? If this is an insult, I wish someone would insult me like that!”
Wang Shuang knew, of course, Tianjiao Film had spent a full five hundred thousand to bring Zhang over.
Though a rich second-generation kid, Wang Shuang wasn’t yet old enough to take over the family business. Five hundred thousand was a huge sum for a high schooler like him!
So Wang Shuang didn’t have the nerve to say, “Stand still, and I’ll insult you with five hundred thousand.”
Wen Ying and Wang Shuang waited over ten minutes before Zhang reappeared, this time trailing behind Li Zhentao. Whatever Li Zhentao said, Zhang reluctantly extended his hand.
“You’re Wen Ying, right? Here’s to a pleasant collaboration.”
Wen Ying took it as sincere and eagerly accepted his olive branch.
Zhang handed her the plot outline he’d written on the plane.
If Tianjiao Film wanted a young girl as assistant screenwriter, what was there to worry about? Li Zhentao had promised the five hundred thousand wouldn’t be short, so Zhang gritted his teeth for the money’s sake!
In 2005, five hundred thousand had immense purchasing power in Rongcheng and, converted to Taiwan dollars, was no small sum in Taiwan either.
Zhang told Wen Ying to try writing two episodes, and he’d guide her if anything was off.
“Thank you, Teacher Zhang. I’ll write them carefully.”
Wen Ying kept a humble posture, and Zhang’s mood improved slightly.
Rich people were strange.
If they were willing to spend millions to make their daughter a star, what was odd about spending a few hundred thousand to boost a niece as a screenwriter?
Zhang thought he’d figured out Li Zhentao’s true intentions.
No wonder they offered five hundred thousand. Tianjiao Film likely wanted to buy out the script’s credit, passing it off as the young girl’s work. A “genius screenwriter” could be manufactured.
Zhang’s eyes glinted. If they were buying the script’s credit, five hundred thousand seemed a bit low.
These mainlanders treated TV production like a game, a bunch of amateurs messing around, bound to lose money. Might as well let him earn more.
Li Zhentao politely saw Zhang out, leaving Wen Ying with the plot outline, forcing a wry smile, “Uncle Li, Teacher Zhang doesn’t trust me at all.”
Li Zhentao laughed, encouraging her, “Then show him what you’re capable of.”
Li Zhentao had blind faith in Wen Ying.
Fair enough.
When Li Zhentao invited Wen Ying to write the script, she hadn’t even won first prize in the New Concept Essay Contest.
After winning, her image in Li Zhentao’s eyes was gilded with an extra layer of brilliance.
Li Zhentao left, leaving just Wen Ying and Wang Shuang in the office.
Wang Shuang was curious about the script Zhang wrote for Li Mengjiao and asked Wen Ying to let him see the outline.
The outline was brief, just two pages, and Wang Shuang read it quickly.
He was incredulous, asking Wen Ying in shock, “Uncle Li spent five hundred thousand for this?”
Wang Shuang, who rarely read novels or watched dramas, preferred gaming and anime. Idol drama tropes didn’t move the unromantic Wang Shuang.
Scripts differ from novels. Novels have emotive descriptions, while scripts, for directors and actors to understand, are straightforward.
To most, this style feels dry, but good directors can discern plot conflicts from brief descriptions and guide actors to achieve the desired effect.
Wang Shuang couldn’t appreciate Zhang’s skill, partly because this was just a rough outline written on a plane, lacking detailed polish, making it hard for him to connect.
More importantly, Zhang’s story stuck to the Taiwan idol drama “Cinderella and Prince” formula.
Li Mengjiao was to play the female lead.
But Cinderella?
How was Li Mengjiao anything like Cinderella?
Wang Shuang scoffed, tossing the outline on the table, “Li Mengjiao’s really going to act in this?”
Wen Ying picked it up and read carefully.
Her worst fears were confirmed.
Zhang had perfectly replicated the Taiwan idol drama formula.
Such dramas were undeniably popular, so Zhang wasn’t cheating anyone.
But this wasn’t Taiwan, and Li Mengjiao wasn’t a Taiwan actress. She was a naive newcomer, barely stepping into the mainland entertainment industry, and just a high school freshman.
Taiwan idol dramas revolved around romance.
Li Mengjiao, starting her career with a drama full of lovey-dovey scenes with a rich, handsome male lead, including kisses, Li Zhentao hadn’t seen this script. If he had, Zhang might not get his fee.
And what would the school think?
No matter how progressive a provincial key school was, they wouldn’t want their underage student playing sappy romance on TV!
“You’re right. This script doesn’t suit Li Mengjiao, from character to plot, it’s all wrong.”
Wen Ying made her judgment, and Wang Shuang was excited, “That’s what I think too!”
Wang Shuang felt they should immediately report this to Li Zhentao. As an intern producer, he had to look out for Li Mengjiao.
Kissing scenes? That’s just letting someone take advantage of her!
As a filming novice, Wang Shuang didn’t know kissing scenes could use camera angles, where lips might not even touch despite looking passionate on screen.
That didn’t matter. The real issue was the script’s incompatibility with the mainland market.
Even if Li Mengjiao weren’t the lead, Tianjiao Film shooting such a drama might disappoint shareholders with its returns.
Wen Ying stopped the eager Wang Shuang, “Running to Uncle Li with every little issue, what’s the point of him hiring us? I’ll talk to Teacher Yuan first. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll go to Uncle Li.”
