Rebirth 02, the Celestial Being Told Me to Stop Pretending

Fame is like a contagious disease.

On Monday, only the directing department knew about the film analysis; on Tuesday, the acting and cinematography departments found out; and on Wednesday, the literature and sound recording departments found out.

But no matter how big the Beijing Film Academy is, it's still just a school; its reputation will only last for a short time on campus.

Lu Chen understood this pattern very well. In his previous life, he had seen too many talent show contestants who became incredibly popular during the show's run, only to be forgotten three months after the show ended.

Without a continuous output of content, popularity becomes a consumable resource; once it's used up, it's gone.

He needs to transform this wave of popularity into something that can be preserved before it fades away.

Money is the easiest thing to save, but where does it come from?

He lay on his dormitory bed, staring at the Chow Yun-fat poster on the ceiling, going through all the possible ways to monetize it in his mind.

Competing in competitions? Even if you were shortlisted for a student film festival or similar event, you wouldn't get any prize money, at most a certificate. In the film industry in 2002, a certificate was practically worthless.

Selling copyrights? In 2002, there were no short video platforms, no online cinemas, and no streaming media.

The VCD market is dominated by piracy, and the cost of releasing a seven-minute student short film through legitimate channels is higher than the cost of making the film itself.

Taking on jobs? Using this film as a portfolio to get commercial short films, romantic comedies, wedding videos. That's the most reliable route, but who would hire a second-year university student to make one?

All three paths are blocked.

Lu Chen rolled over and suddenly realized something. He had been thinking about how to make money, but forgot to think about a more fundamental question: who can help me make money?

It's not about who will give money, but who has the channels, resources, and motivation to help me turn this into money.

In his past life, when he was a producer, he never sought out money himself, but rather sought out people.

Investors, publishers, and platforms—these people hold the channels and resources. What they lack isn't money, but content that can generate revenue. If you present the content to them, they will find a way to make money themselves.

So the key issue isn't how to make money, but how to get people with the connections to see the film.

People within the Beijing Film Academy had already seen it, but they lacked external channels. Students are students; even if it becomes popular, it's still just a campus phenomenon. Lu Chen decided to let this fire burn even brighter.

Four days after the film analysis class, Lu Chen went to an internet cafe, not one of those chain internet cafes that later sprang up everywhere.

In 2002, the internet cafe was located on the ground floor of a residential building. It was a small storefront with a handwritten sign hanging at the entrance that read "Internet access 2 yuan/hour". The handwriting was crooked and looked like it was written with a foot.

Pushing open the door, I saw more than twenty large-screen monitors lined up in two rows, the air thick with the smell of smoke and instant noodles.

Lu Chen found a corner to sit down and turned on the computer. The computer was running Windows 98, and its boot speed was as slow as an old man taking a walk; the hard drive light flashed for ages before it finally reached the desktop.

He opened Internet Explorer and entered the URL of Tianya Forum.

In 2002, Tianya Forum was the most vibrant cultural community on the Chinese Internet.

The film and television sector is a battleground for all sorts of experts, including professional film critics, industry practitioners, and simply those who are there for the spectacle.

Lu Chen had spent some time on Tianya in his previous life and knew the platform's logic for spreading information: whether a post goes viral depends 50% on the title, 30% on the content, and 20% on luck.

He registered a new account on Tianya with the ID "Beijing Film Academy Directing Student". He didn't choose a fancy name; the more straightforward, the more convincing.

On the internet, identity tags are the best passport.

Post title: "A Sophomore's Short Film Creation Experience".

The content was very restrained; there was no self-praise or sob story, just a few paragraphs written calmly:

"I recently filmed a six-minute short film called 'Who Turned Off My Lights,' which has a multi-narrative structure. A friend suggested that I share the creative process, so I'll just give a brief overview."

"During the script conception stage, I considered how to tell a story well under limited conditions. I chose an old tenement building as the setting because this kind of environment itself has a sense of story."

"Many unexpected things happened during filming, such as a light bulb in the hallway accidentally wobbling, but I chose to keep these unexpected things because they are often more realistic than the design."

"The most time-consuming part of editing is pacing. The four storylines alternate, each with its own independent emotional arc, while also serving the overall narrative."

After posting the message, Lu Chen left the internet cafe. The October night breeze was already chilly. He wrapped his coat tighter around himself and walked along the road toward school.

The streetlights cast a long shadow of him, making it look like there were two people walking alone on the road.

He knew in his heart that this post would most likely go viral, not because he wrote it well, but because the tags "sophomore at Beijing Film Academy" and "Tian Zhuangzhuang's film analysis" already attracted a lot of attention.

But he can't mention Tian Zhuangzhuang himself, that would be considered riding on his coattails; he has to let someone else do it.

The next day at noon, Wang Yan rushed back from the internet cafe, panting, and pushed open the door: "Brother Lu, your post went viral!"

How many replies?

"More than two hundred!"

"Um."

"Just 'hmm'?" Wang Yan looked incredulous. "Over two hundred! I never get more than ten replies to a single post!"

What did you send?

"Looking for recommendations for good Japanese anime."

"Then you deserve to be ignored."

Zhao Bo rolled over on the top bunk and added, "Next time you post, change the title to 'Beijing Film Academy Directing Student Asks for Recommendations for Japanese Action Films,' and it'll definitely go viral."

Wang Yan thought about it and felt it made sense, but then felt something was off.

Lu Chen ignored them, picked up his laptop, and went out. He was going to an internet cafe to check the specific direction of the discussion in the thread.

He opened Tianya, and the post had already been pushed to the homepage of the film and television section, with the number of replies rising from two hundred to more than four hundred, faster than he had expected.

The discussion went largely as he had anticipated. First, someone asked, "Are you from the Beijing Film Academy? What's the name of your short film?"

Then someone recognized the film: "I know this one. It was shown in a film analysis class at the Beijing Film Academy. Tian Zhuangzhuang analyzed the film himself."

"Tian Zhuangzhuang? Really? He's known for being very strict."

"It's absolutely true. My friend, a graduate student in directing, saw it with his own eyes. Forty-five minutes, disassembled frame by frame." Good grief, a friend made out of thin air.

However, Lu Chen also noticed that dissenting voices began to appear below the post.

"How could a sophomore make a film like this? Was it ghostwritten?"

"Are all the students at Beijing Film Academy this good at self-promotion now? They even bring Tian Zhuangzhuang's endorsement when they post something. They can really brag."

"Stop pretending, OP. You just want to be famous, don't you?"

Lu Chen looked at the comments, a slight smile playing on his lips. Criticism is a good thing; it breeds discussion, and discussion generates buzz. In the entertainment industry, the worst thing isn't being criticized, but being ignored.

He didn't reply to any comments and closed the page.

The afternoon class was Film Aesthetics, and Lu Chen, as usual, sat in the third-to-last row by the window. But he noticed that there were several unfamiliar faces in the classroom today, a few of whom were clearly not from the directing department. They sat in the front row and kept turning around to look at him.

Zhao Bo leaned closer and whispered, "You're a celebrity at Beijing Film Academy now. Even people from the acting department come to audit our classes."

"They didn't come to see me," Lu Chen said, flipping through his notebook. "They came to see what 'the person who made the short film' looks like. Celebrities are different from people. Celebrities are labels, people are living beings. They're interested in the labels, not the people."

"Then how do you turn the label into a person?"

"Film the next one."

Zhao Bo didn't say anything more and continued reading his photography theory. But Lu Chen noticed that he was turning the pages much faster than usual, clearly not paying attention.

That evening, Lu Chen went to the internet cafe again. The post had already received over 800 replies and was featured and pinned by the moderator.

The discussion expanded from the short film itself to broader topics: some analyzed the application prospects of multi-narrative in Chinese films, some discussed the teaching system of Beijing Film Academy, and some started to look up Lu Chen's previous film reviews on Tianya.

What surprised Lu Chen the most was that people actually started discussing his outfit.

"The white shirt Lu Chen was wearing had a very unique collar design, like an Italian brand from the 1990s."

"His belt buckle was also very exquisite, a square buckle design without any extra decorations."

"It's not easy for a bankrupt rich kid to maintain this kind of taste."

Lu Chen almost spat out his mineral water when he saw these comments.

His clothes, which he bought from the wholesale market near the zoo, cost thirty yuan for a white shirt and fifteen yuan for a belt. The total cost was less than the price of someone else's afternoon tea, yet he interpreted them as representing the essence of Italian brands. These people really have nothing better to do.

But he also knew that this attention wasn't a bad thing. In the entertainment industry, fame is currency. The key is how to spend that fame, rather than letting it rot in your pocket and depreciate.

He closed Tianya and opened Xici Hutong.

Another forum that was very popular in 2002 had a user base that overlapped with Tianya but also differed from it. Tianya was more culture-oriented, while Xici was more lifestyle-oriented.

Lu Chen decided to post something here as well, but the content couldn't be the same as on Tianya; he had to take a different angle.

After thinking about it, he wrote an article titled "On the Production Ideas of Low-Budget Films: A Case Study of 'Who Turned Off My Lights'".

This post is more technical, detailing the equipment limitations, scene selection, actor scheduling, and other issues he encountered during filming, as well as how to find the optimal solution under limited conditions.

After sending the message, Lu Chen glanced at the time; it was almost eleven o'clock. He stood up, stretched, and walked out of the internet cafe.

He felt his pockets; he still had a little over thirty yuan in his wallet. From one hundred and seventy-six yuan and thirty cents to now, he had survived for more than half a month, relying on his writing fees and frugal living. But the money problem was only temporarily stabilized; it was far from being solved.

From "Bankruptcy Guy" to "Rising Star of Beijing Film Academy," his identity has changed, but his financial situation hasn't. He's still that poor student with hardly any money in his pocket, only now he's more famously poor.

When Lu Chen returned to the dormitory, Wang Yan was browsing the forum. Upon seeing Lu Chen enter, he immediately shouted, "Brother Lu, do you know you're famous? That post on Tianya is incredibly popular right now."

Lu Chen nodded: "Basic procedure, don't be silly."

But in his heart he was thinking: This would definitely be a trending topic in later generations, but unfortunately there isn't even a trending topic list in this messed-up era.

He noticed that Zhao Bo seemed to be thinking about something but hesitated.

"Speak your mind." Lu Chen walked to the table and sat down.

"Someone from the Central Academy of Drama contacted me."

"Who?"

"My high school classmate, Fang Yuan, from the Directing Department of the Central Academy of Drama, class of 01, called me this morning. He said he saw the post about the film analysis course online and asked if I could get the film tapes to watch."

"What did you say?"

I said I'd think about it.

Lu Chen frowned as he looked at Zhao Bo. "What are you considering?"

"You said you'd let me lead the next film, but you're already pushing this one away before it even leaves the campus. I don't know if you genuinely want me to lead the next one, or if you're just using this promise to keep me in check."

That's a rather blunt statement.

But Lu Chen wasn't unhappy. In his previous life, when he led a team, what he feared most wasn't conflict, but rather that conflicts were kept quiet.

"Your analysis is logically sound," Lu Chen said, "but your conclusion is wrong."

"Where did I go wrong?"

"I've seen many relationships between directors and cinematographers. The best kind isn't about mutual compromise, but about taking turns leading. I lead this film, and you cooperate. You lead the next film, and I cooperate. That way, neither of us becomes the other's tool."

He paused for a moment and looked at Zhao Bo.

"You are free to refuse to help me contact people at the Central Academy of Drama. That's your right. But if you do help, it's not because I'm using you, but because you're part of this team. If this team's film becomes a hit, it will also benefit you in leading your next film."

Zhao Bo was silent for a while before finally saying, "I need to make things clear to Fang Yuan first. This film was edited by Lu Chen and directed by Zhao Bo."

"no problem."

"Also, you're not allowed to talk about that title of photographer of the viral short film you mentioned."

"I'm not Sun Hao."

Zhao Bo glanced at him, his lips twitched but he didn't smile, but the curve of his lips showed that he was relieved.

Lu Chen mentally labeled Zhao Bo: He is promising, needs space, cannot be bought with money, and must be respected.

"When does Fang Yuan need it?" Lu Chen asked.

"The sooner the better. He said someone at the Central Academy of Drama has already inquired, and Fang Yuan wants to be the first to get in."

"Then go ahead and have it engraved. Also, do you know anyone at Communication University of China?"

Zhao Bo thought for a moment. "I have a fellow villager named Xu Lei, who's majoring in television directing. But I don't know him very well."

"It's okay if you're not familiar with them. Tell Fang Yuan that the Communication University of China also has one. If Fang Yuan knows anyone at the Communication University of China, ask him to pass it on. If he doesn't, contact Xu Lei."

Zhao Bo glanced at him. "You're making them run errands themselves."

"That's right. I don't know them, but you know Fang Yuan, and Fang Yuan might know people from the Communication University of China. It gets passed down layer by layer, and each layer adds another layer of connections and endorsements. In the end, the person who gets the film doesn't feel like it's Lu Chen's film, but rather like it was given to me by a friend of a friend. The psychological feeling is different."

Zhao Bo didn't speak, but the way he looked at Lu Chen changed.

Whether it changes or not doesn't matter; what's important is that the film will be sent to the Central Academy of Drama tomorrow. The day after tomorrow, it will be sent to the Communication University of China, and the day after that, it might be sent to the Shanghai Theatre Academy, or any other university with a film and television major.

Once the film leaves the Beijing Film Academy's circle, it is no longer a student assignment.

Lu Chen went to the dormitory next door and used his classmate's computer to browse the school's "Screen Frontier" forum.

The post about film analysis lessons has been upvoted to over 600 posts, and someone posted a link to Lu Chen's film reviews on Tianya, which has sparked a new wave of discussion.

The nature of the post has completely changed; it has shifted from discussing Tian Zhuangzhuang assigning students homework to discussing Lu Chen as a person.

People started digging into his family background—his story as a bankrupt rich kid was brought up again, but this time the tide had turned.

It wasn't mockery, but a tone of sympathy mixed with curiosity: What exactly did this bankrupt rich kid go through to make a short film that Tian Zhuangzhuang showed in his film analysis class?

The phrase "bankrupt rich kid" is more effective than any marketing copy.

Lu Chen looked at the label and his lips twitched slightly. In his previous life, he spent more than a decade putting on the label of "Gold Medal Producer," which took a lot of effort.

This life is really something else. The label of "bankrupt rich kid" was stuck on him in just three days, and it wasn't even his own doing.

But he knew that such a label was a double-edged sword. Used well, it could be a story; used poorly, it could be a joke.