Just because I wrote "Zhu Xian," the school beauty sent me razor blades.

Late December, in a certain place in Northwest China.

Two months, not a long time, but not a short time either—short enough that Lin Yuan lost a full twelve pounds.

The sixty days of filming "Qian Xuesen" were like a war without gunpowder.

I get up at 5:30 every morning, arrive at the film set at 6:00, and finish work at 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning. The Gobi Desert in Northwest China can dry you out during the day and freeze you to the bone at night. The sandstorms are so strong that the photographer had to replace his lens cap twice in three days.

Everyone was sunburnt on the Gobi Desert, their skin peeling off twice, but no one complained.

Because everyone who joins this production team knows that they are not filming a story, but a period of time that actually existed.

December 23rd.

The final scene.

This scene is the soul of the entire movie.

Dongfeng-2 rocket launched.

The filming location was chosen in a military-controlled area in Northwest China. With special approval and coordination from the military, the production team obtained permission to film around a real missile test range. Of course, the actual launch pads and underground control rooms could not be filmed; they were all recreated at a 1:1 scale by the model workshop of the August First Film Studio.

Lin Yuan prepared for this scene for a whole week.

He and Xu Heng meticulously refined every camera angle, every color temperature of light, and the length of every shot. The storyboard went through eleven drafts, the final version covered in annotations. After reading it, Xu Heng remarked, "You know what you want better than any director I've ever met."

Lin Yuan didn't respond to that, but simply said, "If this scene isn't filmed well, the whole movie will have been a waste."

At nine o'clock in the morning, the entire crew assembled.

The wind in the Gobi Desert is strong, and the sand stings your face.

Old Zheng stood at the front of the crowd with a megaphone, shouting his final pep talk—although the pep talk was somewhat superfluous, since everyone present had been preparing for this for two months.

"The final scene, the last scene! Everyone was on their toes! Just this one take, there's no 'do it again'—the sandstorm won't wait for us!"

Lin Yuan stood behind the monitor, wearing sunglasses, his face tanned a wheat color by the northwest's ultraviolet rays.

He glanced at Xu Heng.

Xu Heng gave a thumbs up.

He glanced at the male lead who was playing Qian Xuesen.

The actor took a deep breath and nodded slightly.

Lin Yuan picked up the walkie-talkie.

"Attention all departments."

His voice was broadcast throughout the entire film set via the channel.

"Underground control room, prepare. Ground command post, prepare. Photography teams A and B, prepare."

The entire room fell silent.

On the Gobi Desert, more than a hundred people held their breath at the same time.

Only the sound of the wind.

"—Power on."

The dim lighting, the densely packed dials, and the tense, oppressive atmosphere filled the air.

Seven operators took their positions, their fingers hovering above the buttons.

The actor portraying Qian Xuesen looked at them, his voice steady and resonant.

"You are seven brave warriors. The first two tests went very smoothly, and this thermal test will definitely be fine. See you again when victory is achieved."

The other side responded in unison, "Please rest assured, sir, we guarantee the mission will be completed!"

"5——4——3——2——1——点火！发射！"

The sound was transmitted to the ground via communication equipment.

The main camera position was personally designed by Xu Heng – an ultra-low angle shot.

This was the camera angle that he and Lin Yuan argued about the longest.

"The angle had to be so low it was almost touching the ground," Lin Yuan said at the time. "I wanted the audience to feel the tremor coming from the ground, the oppressive feeling of flames sweeping overhead."

Xu Heng did it.

In the footage, a huge, blazing white and red flame suddenly erupts from the tail of the missile.

It's not a special effect.

The model workshop at the August First Film Studio has installed realistic flamethrowers on the tail of simulated missiles. The fuel is specially formulated to simulate a near-realistic thrust flame effect. Of course, the actual propulsion system cannot be mounted on the model, but visually—

enough.

Thick black smoke billowed and rose, and a deafening roar exploded across the Gobi Desert.

The ground shook violently, dust flew everywhere, and the camera footage trembled slightly—not because Xu Heng's hands were shaking, but because the earth itself was trembling.

The moment the missile broke free of its launch support, it slowly rose into the air, as if the earth was making a final attempt to hold it back.

It then accelerated suddenly.

Trailing a long, fiery red tail, it pierced the azure sky, flying higher and higher, gradually shrinking from a colossal creature into a tiny speck of light, and rapidly disappearing into the distance towards the Lop Nur test range.

Lin Yuan stared at the monitor, his eyes burning slightly.

It's not about being sentimental.

The scene looks too real.

He almost forgot he was filming a movie.

Switch from unit A to the underground control room —

The operator stared intently at the instrument screen, where flight trajectory data was displayed.

Camera B cuts to ground—

Everyone looked up at the sky.

No one spoke the entire time.

The only sounds were the beeping of the instruments and the rustling of sand hitting the military uniforms.

The announcer's voice kept coming from the communicator—

"Radar tracking normal 10 seconds after takeoff."

"Flight attitude is normal."

"The missile flew smoothly for 20 seconds after takeoff."

"Speed ​​is normal. Course is normal."

Lin Yuan gripped the walkie-talkie tightly.

Qian Xuesen stood at the ground command post.

The missile climbed upwards, leaving a trail of intense flames, and everyone looked up in awe.

He first leaned forward slightly, and his previously tense shoulders slowly relaxed.

Then, he subconsciously raised his right hand.

He raised his palm lightly towards the sky.

Their eyes were fixed on the missile that was rapidly ascending into the sky.

He pursed his lips slightly and remained silent throughout.

His eyes held a suppressed excitement that had been building up for years, and his fingertips trembled slightly.

The surrounding wind and sand fluttered the hem of his clothes, while the researchers behind him all gazed silently at the sky.

No one cheered.

No one applauded.

Only the wind, and that flame that grows ever more distant.

The missile flew higher and higher, gradually shrinking into a tiny point of light in the sky.

Unable to contain his surging emotions, Qian Xuesen started running quickly towards the direction the missile was flying.

The pace wasn't exactly a frantic run.

It was an urgent feeling that had been suppressed for a long time.

With each step I tread on the rough sand of the Gobi Desert, I feel the weight of twenty years.

He kept his head up, his right hand still raised, his gaze never leaving the trail of flame.

The staff around him turned their heads to look at him.

The camera slowly pulls back from a close-up to a side view—

In the vast, empty desert, he jogged forward alone.

Behind him stood rows of soldiers.

Between heaven and earth, there is a person, a row of people, and a flame that can no longer be seen.

Lin Yuan pressed the walkie-talkie: "Team B drones, follow up, maintain a side-long shot, don't cut to it."

The buzzing of a drone came from overhead, and the camera slowly pulled back high in the sky, shrinking the running figure on the Gobi Desert smaller and smaller.

Xu Heng turned around and glanced at Lin Yuan.

Lin Yuan didn't look at him; his eyes were fixed on the monitor, his sunglasses off, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

Xu Heng didn't speak, and turned his gaze back to the receiver.

He knew that some shots didn't need the director to yell "cut".

It will pass by itself.

The camera switched back to the command post, and the instruments continued to report that the flight was normal.

Then, all the sounds suddenly disappeared.

The scene shifts to Lop Nur.

On the horizon, a burst of white light suddenly exploded.

A mushroom cloud rose into the sky.

First came silence.

Then came the shock.

And then—

The success message was transmitted back to the ground via communication equipment.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Cheers, applause, hugs, tears—everyone released emotions that had been suppressed for too long at this moment.

And in the center of the picture—

Qian Xuesen slowly stopped walking.

He slowly lowered his raised arm.

The wind and sand blew across his face, but his expression remained calm.

It's not that I'm not excited.

Twenty years of wandering, five years of house arrest, and countless days and nights on the Gobi Desert have finally come to an end at this moment.

He neither cried nor laughed.

I just stood there, looking into the distance.

It's like looking at a mushroom cloud, or perhaps looking into the distance.

"Card!"

Lin Yuan's voice came through the walkie-talkie.

It wasn't shouted.

Yes, that's what they said.

It's very light and flat.

It's as if they can't bear to break anything.

There was a two-second silence on set.

Then, applause rang out from somewhere.

At first, they were scattered, then they grew larger and denser, and finally merged into one.

Old Zheng took off his hat, clapped vigorously, and his eyes were red.

Xu Heng put down the camera and let out a long breath.

Zhao Mingyuan stood on the props team's side and silently wiped the corner of his eye.

The male protagonist was still standing on the Gobi Desert, maintaining the posture of "slowly lowering his arm" from before, and did not move for a long time.

He's still in character, not out of character yet.

Lin Yuan stood up from behind the monitor, his legs feeling a little numb—he had been squatting in that position for almost twenty minutes.

He walked to the center of the set and stood among the group of people who had just stepped out of "history".

"Filming wrapped."

Two words.

It's very light.

But everyone heard it.

That evening, the crew had a wrap-up dinner at their accommodation.

There were no banners, no flowers, just a few large round tables set up in the barracks mess hall on the edge of the Gobi Desert, a big pot of stewed mutton, and a few cases of liquor.

Old Zheng stood up, holding his wine glass, and looked around.

"I've worked for sixty days, and today I'm done." His voice was a little hoarse. "I've acted in over thirty films in my life, but this one—" He paused, "was the most tiring, but also the most worthwhile."

He looked at Lin Yuan: "Director Lin, let me toast you."

"Brother Zheng," Lin Yuan picked up his glass, "you saved me."

"Come on," Old Zheng laughed and cursed, then tilted his head back and downed his drink.

Xu Heng leaned over and patted Lin Yuan on the shoulder: "Leave the post-production to me, don't worry."

Zhao Mingyuan, who was silently eating meat beside him, looked up and added, "Several of the guys in the props team cried today. Not from exhaustion, but from feeling that their work was meaningful while filming that launch scene."

Lin Yuan held his wine glass but remained silent.

He recalled that more than two months ago, in the Tianxing conference room, Sun Heming asked him: Give me a reason.

He said at the time: Because this story is worthwhile.

Now he can say it again.

worth it.

The wind from the Gobi Desert blew into the canteen, making the liquor glasses on the table sway.

Lin Yuan tilted his head back and downed the whole thing in one gulp.

hot.

But my heart is warm.

Outside the window, the northwestern sky was unbelievably bright.

It was just like the same sky that group of people looked up at sixty years ago.