Chapter 18: What You Wrote Is Nothing But a Pile of Excuses

Late at night, Ji Yu returned home and lay in bed, pondering what to do next. Signing with the company was only the first step; it was far from enough to establish himself in this industry.

He had never even heard of "Detective Koran" before—probably just a trash show. Relying on this drama to gain fame seemed unrealistic, unless he could truly deliver an outstanding performance. He would have to review the script tomorrow to see if there was room to shine. But since the lead was Li Yapeng, the story would likely revolve entirely around him. To play well, he would need space to express himself. Securing better roles was essential.

What other projects did Tangren have lined up? The "Chinese Paladin" adaptation wouldn’t air until 2005, and Ji Yu wasn’t willing to wait that long. Besides "Chinese Paladin," there was supposed to be a new Jin Yong martial arts drama, which Ji Yu vaguely remembered. Jin Yong adaptations were very popular on the mainland now; he could try to fight for a role in the next one—ideally the lead.

What was the title? "The Book and the Sword"? A costume martial arts series. Ji Yu knew he would have to brush up on his combat skills for that. Hopefully, "Detective Koran" would bring him some good rewards. After thinking it over, Ji Yu turned over and fell asleep, dreaming of dating Teacher Li.

Early the next morning, Ji Yu arrived at Tangren. After a brief chat with the receptionist, he went to find Old Cai. In Old Cai’s office, Jiang Qingqing and Li Yapeng were already there, which made Ji Yu feel a bit out of place. He apologized and then found a seat.

Old Cai smiled and said, “There’s been quite a bit of publicity about you all in the past couple of days; it’s working well.” Ji Yu glanced at Jiang Qingqing, realizing he was benefiting from her fame.

Old Cai continued, “Today we’ll hold a press conference. The company plans to announce Qingqing and Yapeng first. Ji Yu and Sun Li will be announced later to let the rumors stew for a few more days, which should amplify the effect.”

No one objected. Publicity was normal for filming dramas. As long as the parties involved didn’t respond, once everyone realized it was staged, they’d just grumble briefly and move on. In this era of mass hype, reporters often deliberately stirred conflict to create news. Many would provoke rival parties just to get more headlines.

After discussing the marketing strategy for a while, the conversation turned to the filming itself. Ji Yu had received the script and immediately began reading it, eager to see if his role was exciting. The script was tens of thousands of words long; it took them over an hour to finish reading.

Ji Yu couldn’t help but feel disappointed. The script was a mishmash of genres: action, suspense, sci-fi, romance, Republic of China era, idol drama... nearly every trendy element was crammed in. The cases were bizarre—a mix of murder and assault, biohazards, cyborgs, aliens... From the entertainment industry to the foreign concessions, then to patriotic wartime scenes, it had everything.

And it all centered on the protagonist, Koran. The female characters revolved around him, while the others were mere supporting roles. Ji Yu played the second male lead, a detective who was the protagonist’s underling until he turned villainous at the end. The role was utterly uninteresting—this was clearly a drama made just for Li Yapeng to look cool.

Ji Yu was disheartened. The character lacked any depth, and the protagonist was equally dull, just a forced tough guy. And Li Yapeng wasn’t even the type to pull off that “tough guy” style. A flop of a show.

At that moment, the director, screenwriter, and Li Guoli arrived. They all sat down to discuss the characters. Ji Yu had no enthusiasm for the discussion since the roles had no highlights. Instead, he started writing character bios to enrich the roles. After all, designing a disguised identity was a crucial part of espionage. The disguise began with crafting the character’s background.

Ji Yu scribbled in his notebook, rewriting much of the original plot. Who said suspense had to be complicated? There was no need to create a mysterious figure and then reveal the truth at the end. That kind of suspense was a joke—just the protagonist showing off everywhere, with no intense confrontations.

There needed to be an antagonist directly opposing him, someone who set traps repeatedly, only for the protagonist to narrowly escape. That would rile up the audience and keep them on edge. Stirring emotions was key.

Ji Yu made his detective character the chief villain, using his position to constantly oppose the male lead. Outwardly, they were brothers; secretly, the detective was behind all the protagonist’s misfortunes. Ji Yu was so engrossed in his rewriting that he didn’t notice what the others were saying about the script.

Old Cai noticed Ji Yu’s intense note-taking and wanted to give him a chance to speak. “Ji Yu, after listening so long, what do you think?”

Ji Yu looked up and spoke bluntly, “The plot events seem plentiful, but the development is too bland. The characters are flat and lack personality. There are lots of gimmicks—biochemical stuff, cyborgs—but no emotional tension or conflict. The protagonist is protected by luck; you can guess the ending from the start. There’s no suspense or anticipation. As a screenwriter, this script is just... a glass of plain water—completely unremarkable.”

The room fell silent at his words.

Were you just about to say it was a pile of dog dung? The screenwriter was right here, and you slapped him in the face like that?

Old Cai hadn’t expected Ji Yu to be so sharp, outright dismissing the script as worthless. Li Yapeng frowned, thinking the script was fine. The male lead was surrounded by beautiful women, smart and righteous, always catching the villains—so positive and uplifting!

Several directors looked at Ji Yu with mixed feelings—he seemed too arrogant, yet he hit the nail on the head. The script was flashy but lacked substance.

The screenwriter was furious and snapped at Ji Yu, “What do you know, you rookie? How many films have you done? How many scripts have you read?”

Old Cai quickly tried to calm the situation, “Don’t get mad. He’s just speaking casually.” Then she turned to Ji Yu and said, “Apologize to the writer!”

“Sorry,” Ji Yu said without much sincerity, then added, “I’m new as an actor, but I’ve been an audience member for over ten years. How many people would watch a script like this? It’s boring to death.”

Just as the screenwriter was about to explode, Ji Yu hastily added, “Sorry!”

“I... you... don’t think an apology makes this okay!” The screenwriter was confused, unsure how to react to being insulted and apologized to at the same time. Was this too much?

Old Cai was equally bemused. If you said his attitude was bad, he apologized; if you said he was polite, he kept complaining after apologizing. Li Guoli had remained silent, watching Ji Yu’s notebook intently.

“Ji Yu, let me see what you’ve written.”

Curious about Ji Yu’s notes, Li Guoli took the notebook and was somewhat surprised. These were character bios? Very detailed indeed. They covered everything from the character’s birth and upbringing to appearance, mannerisms, and speech quirks. The character bios alone were excellently done.

There was also a lengthy rewrite of the plot with significant changes. Li Guoli compared it with the original script and found Ji Yu’s version much more engaging. It enriched the story, creating a stronger atmosphere of suspense and tension—more gripping and emotionally charged. The anticipation, suspense, and character depth were all well reflected.

Li Guoli frowned, glanced at Ji Yu, tapped the notebook, then handed it to the screenwriter. “Take a look. Here’s a chance to criticize him.”

The screenwriter snorted and took the notebook, preparing to tear into it. “Just wait—I’ll roast you for this!”