Chapter 399: A Play Within a Play: How to Portray an Actor Who “Can’t Act”
Three days later.
Yingshi City, Haoting Grand Hotel.
This was the most expensive area in the entire film and television city,
and also the holy land in the hearts of countless young men and women carrying starry dreams.
The ‘King of Extras’ film crew had rented the largest multi-function conference hall here,
to shoot a crucial scene in the film: the open casting audition.
Inside the conference room, it was packed with people.
In pursuit of realism, Gu Zhiyuan hadn’t hired background actors this time.
Instead, using Lin Wan’s connections, he directly pulled over a busload of third and fourth-year acting department students from the neighboring Film Academy.
These favored children of heaven were now sitting bolt upright one by one, their eyes feverishly fixed on a corner.
That was where Jiang Ci sat.
“Is that Senior Jiang Ci? Oh my god, he looks even more… broken in person!”
“Is that a costume? How does it look like high fashion on him?”
“Shh! Don’t talk, he’s getting into character, it’s immersive acting!”
The students whispered among themselves, their eyes filled with nothing but worship and awe.
Jiang Ci took a bite of an apple, feeling goosebumps on his back.
He sighed and tossed the apple core into a trash bin three meters away.
“Director Gu.” Jiang Ci spoke gloomily, “Can you tell these juniors to tone down their… vibe a bit?”
Gu Zhiyuan was currently hunched over adjusting the monitor. Hearing this:
“This is exactly the effect I want! When Chen San enters a place like this, he should feel inferior! He should feel out of place!”
“The out-of-place feeling is definitely there now.”
Jiang Ci pointed at the group of students who practically wanted to rush over for an autograph, “But they’re looking at an idol, not at garbage.”
Song Mei, sitting in the very center of the judges’ table, took off her sunglasses and rapped on the table.
“Jiang Ci is right.” Song Mei’s aura was fully unleashed as her gaze swept over the students in the room,
“You are here to act, not to chase stars.”
“When we start rolling later, if anyone’s eyes show even a hint of admiration, get the hell back to school and retake your classes!”
The veteran actor’s words immediately commanded the room.
The students were startled, quickly adjusting their attitudes.
One by one, they puffed out their chests and lifted their heads, recovering that unique arrogance and restraint characteristic of those trained in the system.
“That’s more like it.” Jiang Ci nodded with satisfaction, then hunched his body.
That “sleaziness” emanating from his very bones instantly took over.
“All departments, ready!” Gu Zhiyuan raised a megaphone, “Scene 133, Chen San’s audition, Action!”
The camera slowly pushed in.
In the resplendent, golden hall, Chen San huddled in the very last row.
Watching the fair-skinned, handsome guys and beautiful girls around him doing splits and vocal warm-ups,
he instinctively hid his hands in his sleeves.
That sense of shame, that inferiority complex, didn’t need any lines; it was all in that hunched, turtle-like posture.
On the judges’ table, besides Song Mei who played the director, Sister Juan,
there was also a special guest cameo by veteran actor Wang Jianguo, famously known in the industry as the “villain specialist,”
playing the profit-driven Producer Zhang in the film.
“Next!” the clapper loader shouted.
Chen San stood up. Because he was too nervous, his knee knocked against the chair in front of him with a loud “CLANG!”
Low chuckles rippled around him.
Chen San’s face flushed bright red. He bent over, apologizing repeatedly, then walked with his same-side arm and leg swinging to the center of the hall.
“Hello, esteemed teachers. My name is Chen San. I am an act… actor.”
Jiang Ci’s voice trembled, his eyes darting around, not daring to look at the judges’ table at all.
“Cut!”
Song Mei suddenly called out.
It wasn’t Sister Juan in the film calling cut; it was the real-life Song Mei.
The whole set froze.
Gu Zhiyuan poked his head out from behind the monitor: “Teacher Song, what’s wrong?”
Song Mei frowned deeply, staring at Jiang Ci: “It’s not right. Jiang Ci, you’re acting wrong.”
Jiang Ci was taken aback, straightening up. That sense of lowliness vanished instantly, replaced by his usual calm composure: “What’s wrong?”
“It’s too precise.” Song Mei hit the nail on the head.
“Your performance is a meticulously designed ‘clumsiness.’ It’s the highest level of technique from the academic school.”
Song Mei stood up and walked over to Jiang Ci: “Chen San is self-taught. He never went to school. He doesn’t understand what ‘design’ means.”
“His clumsiness should be uncontrolled, not the kind of… aesthetically pleasing wretchedness you’re showing now.”
The surrounding students were dumbfounded.
Was this what a battle between gods looked like?
They thought Jiang Ci’s fall just now was textbook-perfect,
yet in the Best Actress’s eyes, it was “too precise”?
Jiang Ci fell silent.
He stroked his chin, sinking into thought.
Song Mei was right.
He was acting Chen San the same way he acted Shen Qingyuan.
Shen Qingyuan was restrained; every micro-expression was calculated.
But Chen San was a stray dog. How would a stray dog know dance steps?
When he opened his eyes again,
the light in Jiang Ci’s eyes had vanished.
“Director Gu, another take.” Jiang Ci’s voice had changed, becoming somewhat dry.
Gu Zhiyuan keenly captured this change, his breath hitching: “Action!”
The camera focused on the center of the hall once more.
Chen San stood there stiffly, hands pressed against his pants seams.
He was trembling.
“I… My name is Chen San.”
Jiang Ci spoke.
This time, he didn’t stutter.
But he spoke extremely fast.
“I’m an extra, but I can act, really, I can play anything, dead bodies, passersby, eunuchs, I can play them all…”
He rambled incoherently, desperately trying to sell himself.
Ugly.
Real.
On the judges’ table, Wang Jianguo, playing Producer Zhang, furrowed his brow.
He waved a hand dismissively, his face full of disdain: “Alright, alright, where did this beggar come from? Security!”
“Why are they letting just anyone in? With that look, he’d dirty the lens even playing a villain.”
Chen San’s words cut off abruptly.
The handsome guys and beautiful girls around him burst into undisguised laughter.
Chen San lowered his head, turned to leave.
“Wait.”
Song Mei, as Sister Juan, spoke.
She twirled a pen in her hand, her gaze falling on this man covered in mud stains.
“Try another scene.” Song Mei said lightly, “The prompt is simple.”
“Play a fugitive. On the run for three years. In a small noodle shop. Eating noodles while looking at a photo of his mother he just managed to get.”
It was an extremely difficult prompt, relying entirely on miming.
And within the mundane action of “eating noodles,” he had to convey the fugitive’s terror and the son’s deep affection.
The hall fell quiet.
Everyone stared at Jiang Ci.
Jiang Ci didn’t start immediately.
He first looked around carefully, then cautiously pulled out a non-existent “stool” and sat down.
This detail instantly established the “fugitive” character—a frightened bird.
Then, he picked up a non-existent “bowl.”
Slurp, slurp.
He started eating noodles.
Shoveling them into his mouth in big mouthfuls, his cheeks puffing out.
Suddenly.
His movements froze.
His left hand trembled slightly as he pulled out a “photo” from his chest pocket.
He didn’t lift the photo to gaze at it longingly. Instead, he pressed it flat on the table,
covering half of it with his palm, only revealing a corner.
Then, while nervously glancing left and right, he quickly looked down for a peek.
Just one glance.
Jiang Ci’s puffed-out cheeks suddenly stilled.
His eyes fixed tightly on that corner of the “photo” on the table.
Slowly, the rims of his eyes reddened.
But no tears fell.
He sniffed hard, forcing the tears back down.
Then, he started shoving noodles into his mouth even more frantically.
“Uh…”
An extremely suppressed sob leaked from his mouth.
Followed immediately by violent coughing.
He was choking.
But he didn’t dare cough out loud, covering his mouth tightly, the veins on his forehead bulging.
Coughing while still desperately swallowing.
The students who had originally been ready to watch a spectacle,
one by one, their mouths hung open, goosebumps rising all over their bodies.
They had learned how to act crying scenes, how to act explosive outbursts.
But no one had ever taught them how to act “holding it in.”
How to chew up that heart-wrenching pain and swallow it down with the noodles.
Was this even acting?
This was clearly slicing life open and showing people its bloody insides!
Behind the monitor, Gu Zhiyuan felt his throat tighten.
This was Chen San.
This was the Chen San who had struggled at the bottom, who didn’t even dare cry out loud!
Finally, Jiang Ci “finished” his last mouthful of noodles.
He used his greasy sleeve to wipe his mouth hard, then wiped his eyes.
Then, carefully putting away the “photo,”
he stood up, bowed to the empty air, and turned to melt into the darkness.
“Good!”
Wang Jianguo couldn’t help but shout.
This veteran actor was genuinely shaken. For a moment there, he even wanted to fetch a glass of water for the kid.
The “Producer Zhang” in the film was startled by this sudden outburst of praise.
And the “Sister Juan” in the film was now staring fixedly at Chen San’s retreating back.
“Stop.”
Song Mei’s voice was a bit hoarse.
Chen San stopped, turned back. His eyes still held the fear and confusion from just being in character.
“The male lead for ‘The Unknown’,”
Song Mei stood up, slamming the pen in her hand down on the table, pointing at the disheveled man, “is you.”
A strong light hit Jiang Ci perfectly on cue.
That was the film’s design—Chen San’s life, illuminated by light for the very first time.
Jiang Ci stood in the light.
He was stunned.
First, he blinked in disbelief, then pointed at his own nose, his lips trembling: “Me… me?”
Song Mei nodded: “Yes, you.”
Jiang Ci’s legs suddenly went weak.
He wanted to smile, but the muscles on his face seemed out of control.
He lifted his head, facing that blinding light.
Tears finally streamed down his grease-stained face.
This time, it wasn’t an act.
It was Chen San, and also Jiang Ci.
“Cut! Perfect!”
Those proud acting students now clapped until their hands were about to break.
Someone shouted towards Jiang Ci in the middle: “Senior, you’re amazing!”
Jiang Ci plopped down on the floor.
Gasping for breath, crawling out of the shell of “Chen San.”
The Emotion Isolation skill subconsciously activated.
Song Mei walked over, crouched in front of him, and handed him a tissue.
“Thank you, Teacher Song.” Jiang Ci took the tissue and wiped his sweat.
“Don’t thank me.” Song Mei looked at him, her expression complex, “That noodle-eating scene just now… what were you thinking of?”
Jiang Ci’s movements paused.
What was he thinking of?
Before the system bound to him, he only ate one meal of plain noodles a day to save money?
That version of himself in the rented room, practicing crying scenes in front of the mirror until he was lightheaded?
“Nothing much.” Jiang Ci grinned, reverting to that unserious tone,
“Just felt like… the air today is a bit sweet.”
Song Mei was taken aback for a moment, then smiled.
“You kid.” She patted Jiang Ci’s shoulder and stood up,
“Alright, stop pretending to be deep over there.”
Jiang Ci immediately sprang up from the floor with a laugh.
In the corner, veteran actor Wang Jianguo, who played “Producer Zhang,”
was packing up his things while sighing to his assistant beside him:
“For a moment there, I really thought that kid was a country bumpkin who’d never seen the world. That acting… it’s too deceptive.”
“In this circle, he’s the first one who can make ‘not knowing how to act’ so believable.”