Chapter 103: Even I Am Afraid When I Get Perfectionistic

“Golden Residence,” grand living room. Countless crystal chandeliers and sconces cast a brilliant light. A noblewoman dressed in luxurious attire sat on a redwood sofa, counting her prayer beads and murmuring softly.

An exceptionally handsome young man, wearing a sharply tailored outfit somewhere between a trench coat and a formal suit with slight tails, walked briskly to sit beside her. After a moment’s hesitation, he spoke tentatively, “Mother, are you tired?”

The noblewoman opened her eyes slightly. “What is it this time?”

“I want to go for a walk.”

“You’re such a child—if you don’t go out and roam, you get restless!”

“Reading ten thousand books isn’t as good as traveling ten thousand miles. I just want to stroll around a bit.”

“Ah, go ahead then.”

Throughout, the young man’s expression remained calm and composed, without a trace of exaggeration or slyness. Yet somehow, this only accentuated his restless spirit perfectly.

“CUT! Good! Next scene. Father, mother, and the concubine, please come on set.” Director Li was very satisfied with Gu Cheng’s performance and immediately moved to the next set of shots in the same episode and room.

After discussing with Gu Cheng the previous night, Director Li rearranged the shooting schedule today to help all the actors quickly flesh out the complex interpersonal relationships within this great family.

“It’s agreed—you must portray the nuanced differences in Jin Luoxi’s defiance toward his parents’ discipline. Now it’s all on your performance.” As Director Li muttered this internally, the other actors had already taken their places.

Kou Zhenhai, playing Jin Luoxi’s father, the Prime Minister Jin, was a seasoned veteran with the most extensive drama experience in the group. They hoped he could bring layered interactions to the scenes with Gu Cheng.

“ACTION!” The assistant called the slate, and everyone immediately slipped into character.

This scene, like the previous one, showed Jin Luoxi being lectured by his elders in the living room, this time with his father expressing disapproval of his aimless wandering and neglect of studies.

“Father, Mother, Concubine, greetings to you. When did you return? Been busy?” Jin Luoxi entered just as in the previous scene.

“What are you asking that for?” Father Jin’s tone was slow and authoritative. He lifted his gaze to glare at Jin Luoxi, the intensity making the young man uneasy. Hastily, Jin Luoxi dropped his crossed leg.

Father Jin continued sternly, “Were you hoping I’d be gone? That without me at home, you could misbehave every day? What kind of order is that?”

Caught off guard, Jin Luoxi replied, “Not at all! I’m always eagerly waiting for you to come back.”

Luckily, Mother Jin cut in sharply, “And yet, you show such a sour face the moment we return!”

After a brief exchange setting the scene, Father Jin fixed his stern gaze on Jin Luoxi’s academic progress. “Those books I had you read last time—how are you doing with them?”

Jin Luoxi answered with a small sense of satisfaction, “I’ve read them all!”

Director Li’s eyes brightened slightly at Gu Cheng’s performance.

According to the script, Jin Luoxi should feel a bit guilty here, since he wasn’t doing well in his studies.

“Let’s see how he plays it,” Director Li thought to himself, suppressing the urge to call CUT and redo.

On set, Father Jin continued with a grave expression, “Then recite them for me!”

Jin Luoxi was startled. “Recite? I only read them; how could I recite from memory?”

“If you don’t memorize your studies, then what’s the use of reading?” Father Jin’s presence intensified. “If you disdain school, then you’ll memorize at home! One more misstep, and family discipline will be enforced!”

At this point, Jin Luoxi should have cowered, per the script.

But Gu Cheng’s Jin Luoxi did not back down: “I wonder, Father, which book do you govern the country by? Could it be the Four Books and Five Classics like the Qing Dynasty? Foreign knowledge evolves daily—how many books can one truly memorize in a lifetime?”

This line was an improvisation by Gu Cheng, not in the script. Veteran actor Kou Zhenhai was caught off guard, his expression shifting to astonishment before quickly regaining composure, perfectly capturing the fury of a feudal patriarch being challenged by his child.

Others then scolded and persuaded, eventually softening Gu Cheng’s Jin Luoxi, concluding the scene.

“CUT!” After calling CUT, the script supervisor stared blankly at Director Li, uncertain if the take counted. But since the script ended here, there was nothing further to film without a cut.

Even Director Li felt conflicted and signaled a five-minute break, replaying the footage on the monitor thoughtfully.

It was clear Gu Cheng wanted to use the difference between a mother’s shallow understanding and reliance on coaxing and a father’s worldly experience and reasoned persuasion to layer the Jin brothers’ collective rebellion into nuanced degrees of defiance.

Yet this approach transformed Jin Luoxi from a mere spoiled heir into something akin to a rebellious Jia Baoyu challenging feudal conventions…

“It feels quite good, elevating the literary level immediately, but somehow I feel Gu Cheng is gradually redeeming Jin Luoxi. He’s too natural in his role, deepening the character...” Director Li hesitated long, deciding to keep the scene and observe its impact after other scenes were filmed. After all, these two episodes were to be released soon for everyone to study the complex web of relationships.

“Next scene!”

...

For four or five consecutive days, Director Li’s satisfaction with Gu Cheng’s performance steadily increased.

In front of the lecherous eldest brother lusting after the maid, Jin Luoxi showed a mixture of respect and a hint of disdain.

Facing the greedy second brother scheming to claim more family inheritance, he balanced brotherly harmony with a subtle strategic doubt about his elder’s avarice.

When out with the third brother, who enjoyed patronizing Peking opera actresses and mingling with unsavory friends, Jin Luoxi was curious and tried to advise, yet when his brother truly got into trouble, he stood loyally by his side.

Each day, Gu Cheng studied meticulously in his notebook, analyzing the nuanced differences among his three prodigal brothers. Using the rigorous mindset of a science student, he modeled their personalities and filled in his own varied emotional responses accordingly.

Within a week, the technique he honed to express respect toward parents was subtly extended to portray all siblings and sisters-in-law, vividly sketching the rich tapestry of characters within the Jin family’s “Grand View Garden.”

After finishing the first two episodes, Director Li rushed post-production to assemble a rough cut for the cast to watch. Everyone eagerly discussed the supporting characters’ relationships not detailed in the script, enriching the story’s depth through collective insight.

Dong Jie, who had acted alongside Gu Cheng all week, increasingly sensed an extraordinary depth in him.

It seemed this young man was truly the refined scion of a fallen noble family, born to belong in the Jin Residence or the Grand View Garden, his very being inseparable from the setting.

After the initial shock, the level-headed Dong Jie occasionally confided in Cheng Kun to try to understand this baffling transformation.

Gu Cheng’s rapid progress appeared almost mysterious to her.

Hindsight is always easier than foresight. Cheng Kun, a formally trained Beijing Film Academy graduate, explained to Dong Jie:

“Gu Cheng’s insight is indeed brilliant, but it’s not merely acting skill that wins the day. At first, under Director Li’s directive to model after ‘Dream of the Red Chamber’ and fully grasp the aristocratic family’s relationships, Gu Cheng was far from ready.

“But the advantage lay in the fact that while countless scholars specialize in ‘Redology,’ none specialize in ‘Jinology.’ So Director Li lowered the bar: just convey the layers of relationships, not necessarily matching the original text.

“At this point, an actor with top talents in both acting and scriptwriting can outline the entire interpersonal network.”

In other words, if they had cast Liu Dehua or Liang Chaowei as Jin Luoxi, their personal portrayal would easily surpass the inexperienced Gu Cheng. Yet, in carrying the entire drama’s relational structure, they would not match his skill.

This is not a lack of acting prowess but rather that the established stars focus solely on acting, not on scriptwriting, nor are they ‘Redology’ or ‘Jinology’ experts.

Gu Cheng’s edge is precisely that he was once a data director at an entertainment platform, having reviewed countless masterpieces. He is a polymath crossing disciplines.

In ‘Meteor Garden,’ he carried the show with both acting and cinematography talents.

Now with ‘Golden Powder Family,’ he carries it with acting and scriptwriting skills, plus a foundation in classical culture.

This is a niche interdisciplinary talent, perhaps only required by a handful of dramas like ‘Golden Powder Family,’ ‘Dream of the Red Chamber,’ ‘Gone with the Wind,’ or ‘Downton Abbey.’ Gu Cheng happened to hit precisely one of these.

Dong Jie found Cheng Kun’s analysis convincing. The mystery surrounding Gu Cheng gradually faded, leaving only his intoxicating brilliance.

Like a sage wielding a feather fan and silk kerchief, who can dissolve mighty fleets with a smile and then defend his multifaceted talents by saying, “We read not for deep understanding, but for the grand outline. To seek every phrase and verse is the folly of petty scholars.”

...

By the time the first two episodes wrapped, it was already late October. After the cast had gained a deeper understanding of the drama’s relational web under Gu Cheng’s guidance, Director Li reverted to the original shooting schedule—filming episode by episode, scene by scene.

The reason was simple: Northern winters were harsh, and foliage withered early. By December, outdoor scenes would be impossible, as trees would be bare and unsightly.

Director Li decided to shoot all the outdoor scenes in late October and November, then focus on interiors toward year’s end.

Long sequences of emotional exchanges between Gu Cheng and Dong Jie were prioritized—since most of the romantic scenes between Jin Luoxi and Leng Qingqiu took place during outings.

Dong Jie was deeply immersed, expertly managing emotional nuances, recovering days of filming progress. Even the kissing scenes mostly passed in one take—no camera tricks, no dodging—fully capturing Leng Qingqiu’s gradual warming from coldness.

By early November, after several days of intense acting together, Gu Cheng and Dong Jie were very familiar and deeply connected with their roles.

According to Director Li’s plan, in two days they would film the drama’s most beautiful scene—

Jin Luoxi takes Dong Jie on an excursion to Fragrant Hills, where amidst a sea of golden flowers, he arranges a bed of blossoms. They embrace and kiss within this floral expanse, then lie peacefully hand in hand, gazing at the sky and earth.

This scene was not only the emotional climax across the 40 episodes but also intended as the closing music video for the theme song “Subtle Fragrance.” The golden floral sea symbolized the zenith of the Jin family’s opulent rise before its fall.

“See how he builds the grand mansion, hosts the grand banquet, and watch how it all collapses.”

Because this scene required the flower sea, it was the most time-sensitive of all—if the chrysanthemums withered in the next ten to fifteen days, they’d have to wait a full year or resort to a greenhouse with a far inferior backdrop.

Gu Cheng and Dong Jie grew more earnest.

However, they had no idea that the set design for this scene would become a tortuous ordeal.

At the end of one day’s shoot, as Gu Cheng and Dong Jie prepared to discuss how to portray the flower sea scene, Director Li delivered bad news:

“Gu, Dong, the script may need slight revision. Be prepared. We can’t create the chrysanthemum sea set; we might have to switch to a sunflower field.”

Both Gu Cheng and Dong Jie were stunned, completely unprepared.

Originally, the script by Writer Liu described the leads wandering through a vast golden chrysanthemum sea atop Fragrant Hills.

Choosing chrysanthemums was deliberate. The female lead’s name, Leng Qingqiu, evokes cold, clear autumn—a refined beauty akin to the understated chrysanthemum. What better flower to match her than chrysanthemums?

Replacing them with sunflowers... come on, sunflowers are native to the Americas! They only entered China during the Qing Dynasty. There’s no classical Chinese poetry praising sunflowers!

The only reason to use sunflowers was their golden color, somewhat linking to the “Golden Powder Subtle Fragrance” title. But the large central seed disk made Gu Cheng feel they were a poor substitute, lacking any aesthetic appeal.

Dong Jie, more attuned to beauty, was upset when she heard the director’s plan. “Why can’t we use chrysanthemums? They’re so perfect!”

She was Leng Qingqiu! Any change diminishing her cool, elegant aura was disheartening.

Director Li sighed helplessly: “The writer was a bit naive. We need the flowers taller than people for the ‘green gauze curtain’ effect—so the leads can search and find each other hidden among the blooms.

“Sunflowers grow to nearly two meters tall. Chrysanthemums at most reach 1.2 meters, not even blocking the sightline of a 1.6-meter-tall woman. Without that, how do you get the sense of ‘winding paths and hidden nooks’?”

“Of course, it’s also our fault for lacking botanical knowledge when writing the script.”

Gu Cheng, seeing Dong Jie’s disappointment, offered a suggestion: “If 1.2-meter chrysanthemums existed, we could shoot with the flower beds raised on mounds. Walking in the furrows between, the height difference of 20 to 30 centimeters could block the woman’s eye line.”

“The problem is, 1.2 meters is theoretical. I asked countless domestic suppliers—farmers prune the tops early to promote large blossoms, sacrificing height. The tallest chrysanthemums available are only 60 centimeters. How could we shoot a scenic sea with that?”

Gu Cheng understood the “pinching” technique—removing the apical bud to direct nutrients to the flower, widely used in cotton farming to increase yields.

Dong Jie’s hope faded. “Is there no supplier who grows chrysanthemums purely for floral art, letting them reach maximum height without pruning?”

Director Li shook his head. “I’ve asked all the major suppliers. None.”

Gu Cheng also disliked the idea of replacing the elegant Eastern aesthetic with Western-style sunflowers. As a perfectionist and artist involved in the project, he resolved to find a way.

“Director Li, do we have two days? I can ask my agency to help find suppliers. I have contacts in Taiwan and the East; maybe they have better leads.”

Hearing this glimmer of hope, Director Li was reluctant to give up and asked Gu Cheng to try.

That day, Gu Cheng sent the request to Lin Zhiling, who mobilized all resources. The next evening, she reported back.

There was hope.

Gu Cheng immediately showed Director Li photos: “Director, we found a resource. In Fukuoka or Kumamoto, Japan, they grow tall chrysanthemum fields—the ‘Higo Chrysanthemum’ variety—and their bloom period is just right now.”

Director Li examined the photos, pleased with the chrysanthemums.

Higo Chrysanthemum is a medium-sized bloom, flower diameter under 15 centimeters, but taller than large chrysanthemums. The petals are broad, resembling sunflower petals rather than the thin ones of ordinary chrysanthemums. Most Higo chrysanthemums are white, but there are carefully bred yellow variants.

However, joy was tempered.

“To shoot in Japan? We don’t have the budget for that,” Director Li said.

With a state-owned enterprise production, extra prop spending was acceptable, but international travel was risky and could raise red flags.

“Don’t worry—it’s just a small cost. For this scene, only Dong Jie and I actors need to go, plus you, the cinematographer, one script supervisor, and one set dresser. Six people total,” Gu Cheng persuaded.

Seeing Director Li’s hesitation, Gu Cheng added boldly, “I’ll cover the extra cost. I know CCTV won’t accept private investment profit-sharing, so even if I give it away for free, I just want my image to be perfect!”

Director Li blushed slightly, feeling ashamed. Gu Cheng had been caught unexpectedly yet pursued artistic perfection so earnestly.

He patted his chest. “The investors can’t approve extra spending. But since you’re so committed, I’ll talk to them. After filming, I’ll sell you the digital rights for one yuan.”

In 2001, there was no online streaming; DVDs mostly circulated as pirated copies. Digital rights were cheap. Director Li’s promise was likely to be accepted, with any extra cost counted as part of Gu Cheng’s pay.

He felt a bit guilty for bargaining with Gu Cheng using such a worthless right.

“Deal! It’s settled then!” Gu Cheng didn’t care about the money.

The scene was set to become a masterpiece.