Huayu: A master director who debuted as a singer

Chapter 87, "In Time"? Or...?

After trying out the curls, he glanced at them and divided them into two main parts.

The first part covers general knowledge of literature and art and film history, while the second part covers story writing.

He first looked at the first part, which was densely packed with questions, taking up two whole pages.

After scanning it briefly, he had a general idea of ​​what to expect.

Seventy percent of these topics are related to literature, while the remaining thirty percent are related to film.

Moreover, the questions about the film were very tricky, all asked from the perspective of the screenwriter and writer.

For example, analyzing the script structure of a movie, or evaluating the gains and losses of a writer transitioning to directing.

The core focus is on the candidate's reading volume and writing skills.

For Zheng Hui, these were all easy questions.

He already had all sorts of information stored in his mind, and he knew everything about movies.

The surrounding candidates were either scratching their heads or sighing over the questions, their pens scribbling on the draft paper but never quite landing on the answer area.

"Discuss the realist characteristics of Balzac's *The Human Comedy*."

"Analyze the multiple narrative perspectives of Rashomon from the perspective of narrative structure."

The title of the film is also quite interesting.

For example, one question was: "As a writer, evaluate the merits and demerits of the screenplay adaptation of the film 'Farewell My Concubine'."

Zheng Hui picked up his pen to answer the question, and neat lines of handwriting flowed from his pen. His viewpoints were clear, his arguments were solid, and he quoted classics with ease.

He even had the leisure to mention Zola's naturalism as a contrast when analyzing Balzac, and when evaluating "Farewell My Concubine," he quoted a passage from the original author Li Bihua's essay collection as evidence.

He finished answering all the questions in the first part in less than forty minutes.

He put down his pen and stretched his wrist. The classroom was quiet, with only the sound of other candidates' pens scratching on paper and the soft sighs of some people due to nervousness.

Zheng Hui flipped over the exam paper and looked at the second part.

Story writing.

The task is simple: you are given three keywords to choose from, and you must develop a story outline and write the opening paragraph.

The three words are: time, theft, and dream.

Zheng Hui's gaze lingered between the three words.

His gaze paused briefly on the word "time".

A movie instantly popped into his head.

He picked up a pen and wrote the title on the draft paper: Time Planning Bureau.

Time becomes a marketplace, where the poor sell their lives to survive, while the rich live forever.

This setting is very profound and full of satire on capitalism.

The lives of the poor are quantified as numbers ticking on their wrists, every minute and every second slipping away, and they are exhausted from trying to live one more day.

The rich, on the other hand, have endless time, enjoy eternal life, and look down on all living beings from a high position.

If this story were written down, it would definitely have enough depth and meaning.

But Zheng Hui quickly frowned again.

He remembered the latter half of the movie, which, whether due to obstruction from American capital or censorship, was forcibly transformed from a profound social satire into a clichéd story of Robin Hood.

The protagonist robs a time bank, distributes time to the poor, and then flees with the female protagonist.

The scope suddenly narrowed.

They didn't delve into the logic behind the system, nor did they explore the philosophical questions of immortality and death.

If he had enough time, he could revise the second half, but now it's an exam, and time is limited. He simply doesn't have time to construct such a vast and rigorous worldview.

Just to straighten out the logic of this story and write a complete outline, it would take several hours.

He picked up his pen and drew several horizontal lines on the few lines of text on the draft paper.

This idea is out.

His gaze shifted to the second word: theft.

The moment he saw that word, the name of a movie immediately popped into his mind.

Crazy Stone.

This is a great story. It features multiple narrative threads, dark humor, vivid characters, and an ingenious structure, much like a clockwork mechanism.

Most importantly, it's low-cost.

A broken rock, a few bumbling thieves, and a BMW car key that fell into the sewer are all it takes to put on a good show.

Zheng Hui even started to plan that if he wrote this story down, he could use the name of Beijing Film Academy to put together a makeshift production team to film it next year.

With his current wealth, he could easily spend a few million to make a movie like this.

Although the film market is not doing well right now, with the quality of "Crazy Stone" and the film's star power, making money is almost a certainty.

However, the idea only flashed through his mind before he dismissed it.

He shook his head inwardly, deciding to forget about it.

If we really run out of ideas and can't find any good stories in the future, we can bring this up again.

Right now, I have plenty of winning strategies in my head, so there's no need to use this one.

Ning Hao hadn't provoked Zheng Hui, ruling out theft. Finally, his gaze fell on the third word.

dream.

This word is very broad and empty; there are too many directions from which to write about it.

It can be a teenager chasing a dream, a middle-aged person losing their dream, or an elderly person reminiscing about their dream.

But if it's not written well, it can easily turn into empty slogans and cheap platitudes.

But in Zheng Hui's mind, a story full of blood and sweat came to mind.

An obsessive drummer, a mad mentor.

In their pursuit of the ultimate art, the master and apprentice tormented each other.

There was no tenderness, no patient guidance, only endless humiliation, coercion, and challenges.

"Do you want to be a decent drummer, show off to your family and friends, and then be forgotten, or do you want to be the next Charlie Parker?"

"I would rather die a glorious death at forty than grow old in obscurity at eighty."

Classic lines and dramatic scenes flashed through Zheng Hui's mind.

Finally, the image freezes on the climax of that breathtaking concert.

Sweat, tears, and blood mingled together and splashed onto the drumhead.

The boy used all his strength to play a magnificent solo.

He stared intently at his mentor, the man he hated to the core.

He saw a satisfied smile on the man's face.

It is it.

Whiplash.

This story is extreme, insane, and shocking enough.

It doesn't explore the beauty of dreams, but rather the painful price to pay for pursuing them.

This kind of story of being obsessed with one's dreams is most likely to move examiners who consider themselves artists.

Zheng Hui picked up his pen and began writing on the exam paper.

Instead of writing every plot point in detail, he focused on depicting several key points of conflict in the story outline.

The first time, the boy was publicly humiliated by his mentor for missing a beat, and was kicked out of the band after his chair was thrown at him.

The second time, in order to reclaim his position as the lead drummer, the boy practiced until his hands were worn raw and his drumsticks were stained with blood.

The third time, the boy was in a car accident and crawled onto the stage covered in blood, but was abandoned by the mentors again because of his poor condition.

For the fourth and final time, when everyone thought he would give up, the boy used a perfect solo performance to avenge his mentor and surpass himself.

He used the simplest words to depict the evolution of the characters' relationships and the protagonist's inner struggles and growth.

As he finished writing, he even felt a surge of excitement.

As the last word was written, the bell rang, signaling the end of the exam, and a long sigh echoed through the classroom.

"Everyone stop writing! Put your exam papers and scratch paper on the table, and don't touch them!"

The proctor's voice echoed in the classroom.

Zheng Hui capped his pen, stacked the answer sheet and the draft paper covered in writing together, and placed them on the corner of the table.

The students walked out of the classroom one after another, their faces showing a variety of expressions.

Some looked dejected, clearly because they hadn't performed well.

Some gathered in twos and threes, excitedly discussing the topic they had just discussed.

"What story did you choose to write? I chose 'dream,' and wrote a story about a volunteer teacher."

"I feel that my writing about theft is just so-so, because I was too short on time."

"Sigh, I don't know the answers to many of the general knowledge questions about literature and art. I guess I have no chance."

Zheng Hui did not participate in their discussion. He put on his hat, pulled the brim down, and silently walked out of the teaching building, blending into the crowd.

I walked out of the school gate, hailed a taxi, and disappeared into the traffic.

Inside the classroom, most of the students had already left.

Two proctors are collecting the exam papers separately.

One of them was the same person who had verified Zheng Hui's identity earlier; his surname was Liu.

Professor Liu is a veteran teacher in the literature department. He has proctored countless art exams and has seen many students, both talented and untalented.

As he collected the papers, he habitually glanced at the students' answer sheets.

Most of the papers had messy handwriting, disorganized thoughts, and the stories were all the same, either about car accidents or cancer.

He accepted it expressionlessly, his heart already somewhat numb.

When he received Zheng Hui's seat, he habitually picked up the stack of papers.

The handwriting on the answer sheet was neat, clean, and pleasing to the eye.

Teacher Liu's gaze fell on the draft paper.

At the very top of the draft paper were the words "Time Planning Bureau," which were then crossed out with several horizontal lines.

Below is a short text describing a world where time can be traded as currency.

Teacher Liu's eyes lit up after just one glance.

He taught literature his whole life and reviewed countless scripts and novels.

He can tell at a glance what kind of setting has potential and what kind of story is original.

This setting of time for currency is brilliant! There's so much to discuss here.

The value of life, the solidification of social classes, and the greed and struggles of human nature.

Any one of these points could be the subject of a major article.

Teacher Liu was so engrossed in watching that he could even picture the world he was in.

People on the street hurried by, constantly watching the numbers on their arms that were steadily decreasing.

In the mansions of the wealthy neighborhood, people leisurely enjoy afternoon tea, their life timers displaying hundreds or even thousands of years of history.

What an absurd, yet real, world this is.

The more Mr. Liu looked at it, the more excited he became. He felt that this idea was even comparable to the works of science fiction masters.

But when he saw the outline that had been written halfway through and the crossed-out line, a strong sense of regret welled up in his heart.

How could such a great idea be crossed out?

He looked down the draft paper.

Below the Time Planning Bureau, there is also the idea for another story.

爆裂鼓手。

Teacher Liu frowned. The name sounded like a noisy youth film.

He patiently read on.

"A paranoid teenager, a mad mentor—"

"I don't want just good, I want the best!" The instructor's roar echoed in the rehearsal room.

"The boy practiced until his hands were covered in blood for a single beat, and the blood droplets splattered on the drum surface like blooming red flowers."

Teacher Liu seemed to see the boy who, after the car accident, dragged his injured leg and limped towards the concert hall.

I saw that boy who, on a stage under the spotlight, was publicly challenged by his mentor, but launched a counterattack with a crazy solo performance.

I saw the rapid, torrential drumbeats, and the drummer's face, a mixture of sweat and tears, an expression of both pain and ecstasy.

crazy.

This story is absolutely insane!

The obsession and madness of pursuing one's dreams at all costs, pushing oneself to the brink of despair, is palpable in this brief outline of just a few hundred words.

Another proctor walked over and patted him on the shoulder.

"Old Liu, what are you daydreaming about? We've collected the papers, let's go."

Teacher Liu seemed to wake from a dream. He looked up, his eyes still filled with lingering shock.

He glanced at the draft paper in his hand, then at the name signed on the answer sheet next to him.

Zheng Hui.

He remembered, it was that singer, the big star who performed on the Spring Festival Gala.

It was him.

Teacher Liu's feelings became complicated.

He originally thought that most celebrities who came to take the exam were just there to gain prestige and go through the motions, and their professional abilities were probably mediocre.

Unexpectedly, they weren't just there for fun; they had real skills.

The idea he abandoned on this draft paper alone is enough to surpass that of 99% of the candidates in today's exam room.

His final choice of "Whiplash" further reveals his unrestrained and imaginative talent.

"Old Liu? What are you thinking about?" his colleague urged again.

"It's nothing."

Teacher Liu came to his senses, carefully collected Zheng Hui's answer sheet and exam paper, and put them into the grading file folder.

He also put the draft paper with a story outline written on it, which should have been put into the waste bag, into the grading file instead.

He planned to show the papers to those old guys in the department when he graded them that evening.

Let them see what a true genius is.

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