Chapter 43: Returning to Simplicity

Just as township entrepreneurs in the early days of economic reform and opening up prided themselves on wearing suits, a decade or so later, as history rolled into the 1990s, those poorly made, cheap suits became the quintessential emblem of the rustic entrepreneur.

Conversely, truly successful people began to favor understated and low-profile attire. Especially after the rise of the internet circle, genuine titans took Versace crew-neck polos or, at the very least, Steve Jobs-style casual wear as their benchmark.

In the film and television industry, the shifting perception of computer-generated special effects followed almost the exact same trajectory.

Back when computer graphics were unavailable, filmmakers shooting martial arts and wuxia effects relied obediently on wire-fu and buried explosives. Aside from defying gravity and leaping across roofs, explosions were the primary method used to visually represent transcendent palm strikes and invisible sword qi.

By the late 1970s and early 1980s, after George Lucas and James Cameron in America started playing with lightsabers in Star Wars and laser weaponry in The Terminator, a value system emerged and ran rampant: one that took pride in making sure the audience could tell the effects were computer-generated, taking pride in making sure the elements looked artificial.

Because computer special effects were scarce and prohibitively expensive back then—even the divine tool of Photoshop was originally invented by Lucasfilm specifically for filming Star Wars—wouldn't it feel like a loss if the final product showed no trace of digital alteration? The explicit goal was to make the digital edits deliberately visible, as if to broadcast one's high-tech status to the world.

It wasn't until 1994, when James Cameron and Arnold Schwarzenegger slammed the door shut on that era with True Lies, that Americans experienced a sudden awakening. Realizing that the rustic entrepreneur's suit was dreadfully tacky, they experienced a profound epiphany and shifted toward a new philosophy: using CGI, but with the sole purpose of making films feel more authentic, rather than deliberately chasing artificiality.

Hollywood then returned to its roots, gradually gravitating toward the paths paved by The Matrix and The Lord of the Rings.

Meanwhile, in a China that was still relatively impoverished, while Americans were indulging heavily in laser effects, Chinese filmmakers simply could not afford them.

After True Lies, the American trend of taking pride in artificial-looking effects was largely phased out, causing the prices of those low-end special effects to plummet dramatically.

Domestic directors, particularly those in Taiwan, discovered that the high-end, elite black technologies they previously could not afford had suddenly become dirt cheap. Like sudden upstarts, they rushed to import them in massive quantities, indulging in a single binge for all the desires they had lacked the funds to satisfy over the past decade.

The origin of this trend in wuxia films can probably be traced back to the special effects created by Yang Pei-pei's studio in 1998 for Richie Jen's version of The Return of the Condor Heroes.

Before that, Louis Koo and Carmen Lee's Condor Heroes, as well as Felix Wong's Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils, maintained a relatively orthodox approach.

After that, leading all the way up to The Storm Riders, directors and audiences alike caught a glimpse of a brand-new path for wuxia cinema:

It turned out martial arts films could be shot this way. One could cast pure idol actors with zero martial arts foundation, requiring virtually no stunt doubles. Richie Jen could just stand there motionlessly while swirling lasers and flashes of sword qi instantly obliterated the Golden Wheel Dharma King.

Today, four years have passed since Richie Jen's version of The Return of the Condor Heroes.

Chinese directors had by then more than satisfied the CGI craving they missed out on earlier in their careers due to a lack of love—no, a lack of money.

(It seems those who grew up in extreme poverty often develop psychological scars, leading them to overcorrect drastically once they strike it rich. Just as the People's Army had their worldview violently reshaped by the sheer volume of Van Fleet's artillery barrage at Shangganling, nowadays, upon gaining wealth, they frantically manufacture colossal explosive artillery. Meanwhile, Americans, ever since the era of Donald Rumsfeld, have even gone so far as to scrap the Crusader artillery program.)

Given Gu Cheng's supreme level of prestige, if he were to personally step into the fray, he naturally had to teach domestic directors what a genuine philosophy of special effects looks like, and how to bridge the ideological generational gap with Hollywood.

He couldn't teach the technical minutiae of film directing; he lacked both the capability and the qualification for that.

However, when it came to the aesthetic values of artistic appreciation, his far-sighted vision certainly qualified him to impart some wisdom.

If a prop needed to be physically crafted and then scanned to capture authentic material properties, it must never be drawn using Photoshop. Even if the cost for the art department to digitally paint a Heavy Iron Sword was only one-tenth the price of actually forging one.

A true aristocrat who changes his clothes four times a day certainly never does so in a way that makes people instantly notice he has changed his clothes.

...

Liu Hui felt she had grown immensely over the past half-month or so.

In comparison, her previous understanding of special effects films now seemed, in hindsight, no different from that of a "township entrepreneur."

She terminated her partnerships with three previously utilized prop companies and CGI studios.

If Industrial Light & Magic and Skywalker Sound wouldn't take her orders, she turned to Digital Domain; if even Digital Domain declined, she sought out independent studios spun off from its alumni.

In short, regardless of the technical level, the foundational philosophy had to surpass even Hollywood's return to authenticity, with the absolute golden rule being a complete absence of visible digital tampering.

Gu Cheng had somehow sourced a documentary for Liu Hui to study. It featured a bearded American gentleman, flanked by a few assistants, operating a smithy equipped with a variety of bizarre machine tools to forge the weapons of Aragorn and Legolas for director Peter Jackson, and to craft Frostmourne for Blizzard Entertainment's promotional use in Warcraft III.

This meticulous rigor deeply shocked Liu Hui, inspiring her to resort to all sorts of methods to personally visit high-end custom metal processing plants locally.

It was already the new millennium, and China had never lacked skilled technical artisans or manufacturing capabilities. The total volume of China's physical manufacturing sector had long surpassed those of the United States and Germany; it was merely that high-end orders had been scarce, and businesses were reluctant to upgrade their technology.

Through introductions from friends, Liu Hui approached several manufacturing units that had previously never produced props, placing orders for dozens of weapon props. Initially, upon hearing that the items lacked technological complexity and were merely meant to be beaten around on set for play, coupled with the diminutive order volume, the suppliers refused to engage with her at all.

Later, hearing that despite the small batch, the unit price offered was extraordinarily generous, those suppliers' expressions shifted dramatically in awe. Upon learning that successful collaboration could lead to documentaries and exposure alongside the top Hollywood prop makers who served The Lord of the Rings and Warcraft, those men finally struck their chests and got to work.

Perhaps no one in the country had ever done things quite this way before.

Through this persistent polishing, late September arrived.

Liu Hui had marshaled all her prop makers, set designers, and props, and hurried over to Gao Dasong's recording studio to report to Gu Cheng.

Gu Cheng himself had spent the past half-month busy recording songs, preparing the soundtrack for his television series.

Ever since Meteor, Gu Cheng had established a personal convention: whenever a television series involved him, the opening and closing theme songs had to be handled by himself.

From Meteor's "Non-Intentional" and "Meteor Shower," to The Golden Powder Family's "Faint Fragrance" and "Chrysanthemum Terrace," and now to The Condor Heroes' "Rivers and Lakes Laugh" and "Hair Like Snow."

This time, as per usual, Gu Cheng did not resort to endless plagiaristic shortcuts; he simply solicited original compositions.

"Rivers and Lakes Laugh" was originally composed and written in Taiwan by Xiao Chong, who served as the exclusive songwriter for Richie Jen's studio.

Historically, this track served as the ending theme for the Liu Yifei version of The Condor Heroes. Furthermore, considering that Xiao Chong's previous theme song for the franchise, "Heartbroken Pacific," had generated the highest-selling record in Taiwan's history, leveraging this momentum and hype offered immense advantages.

Once Gu Cheng sang it, the record sales could surpass those of Richie Jen's "Heartbroken Pacific" from back then, thereby forging a piece of history and proving that this adaptation was "the most musically successful version of a Jin Yong drama in history."

"Rivers and Lakes Laugh" was intrinsically a wonderful song; it had simply been sung into the ground by amateur guest vocalists like Huang Xiaoming and Producer Zhang in another spacetime. Now that it was being performed by a professional-grade vocalist like Gu Cheng, there was no need to replace it.

As for "Hair Like Snow," it was naturally solicited from Jay Chou. Gu Cheng merely outlined the emotional tone, drafted a few lines of lyrics, explained that the theme was "the enduring romance of Yang Guo waiting bitterly for sixteen years until his hair turned white overnight," and then handed the assignment to Jay Chou and Vincent Fang.

Everything then fell into place naturally.

Whether it was because Gu Cheng had inadvertently interfered with Jay Chou's creative trajectory remained unknown. Back in 2002, Jay Chou's creative style had not yet fully crystallized, remaining at the level of The Eight-Dimensional Space, with his Chinese-style songs having only advanced as far as "East Wind Breaks."

Yet because Gu Cheng had preemptively used up the commission for "Chrysanthemum Terrace," and coincidently birthed "Lanting Pavilion Preface," Jay Chou's train of thought seemed to have narrowed somewhat. Without Gu Cheng commissioning him, he himself did not subconsciously view classical Chinese styles as a viable creative direction to explore.

To prevent tunes like "Hair Like Snow" and "Blue and White Porcelain" from fading into oblivion in this world, Gu Cheng had no choice but to periodically commission a piece, prodding him along. At worst, he would explicitly credit Vincent Fang and Jay Chou for the lyrics and music, with Gu Cheng performing it—which would at least do them justice.

Aside from the opening and closing themes, Gu Cheng had also produced several grand, majestic background tracks intended for use during scenes where Yang Guo comprehends the Heavy Iron Sword technique, masters the Melancholy Soul-Depriving Palm, or fights the momentous battle at the Quanzhen Taoist Temple.

However, that endeavor was quite troublesome, and when Liu Hui arrived, it had not yet been finalized.

...

"Your hair like snow makes the parting desolate and poignant, whose heart did I move with burning incense? Inviting the bright moon to make the memories crystal clear, love is perfected beneath the moonlight..."

"Your hair like snow scatters tears into flight, whose aging am I awaiting? Drunk on the mortal world of intoxicating years, I use a love without regret to carve a monument to love you for eternity..."

Inside the recording booth, Gu Cheng layered the final vocal track, deemed the effect absolute perfection, and finally called it a wrap.

In Gao Dasong's control room, through the anti-reflective coated soundproof glass, Liu Hui watched Gu Cheng perform for a long time. It wasn't until Gu Cheng stepped out of the soundproof zone that she snapped back to attention.

She hurriedly offered a flattering remark: "Director... Director Gu, you are truly a born romantic; your singing pulled me right in. This song is definitely going to be a massive hit."

"Let's talk business, no need for pleasantries," Gu Cheng said amicably as he wiped the sweat from his brow and sipped some tea.

Tense, Liu Hui blurted out her words in a breathless rush: "The main props you arranged are finally all completed. Would you like to inspect them yourself? The other secondary props will arrive in batches; we definitely won't miss the schedule. We've sampled a few silicone blood-filled body dummies, and the remaining ones can be cast from molds. We can replenish as many as we use on site, very quickly..."

"Take your time, tell me one by one," Gu Cheng patted Liu Hui's shoulder, gesturing for her not to rush. "Let's first take a look at those most important props."

Liu Hui pursed her lips: "Then... shall we look in the lounge outside? That replica of the 'Heavy Iron Sword' weighs seventy or eighty catties. We also forged one with an internal core of ordinary elastic ship-building steel wrapped in an outer layer of an iridium-tungsten alloy, which is slightly lighter at thirty catties."

Gu Cheng nodded, motioning for Liu Hui to lead the way, and shortly thereafter beheld the props he desired within the lounge.

Gu Cheng picked them up to test them. The thirty-odd-catty knockoff he could barely manage to level and swing a few times. As for the eighty-catty version, he could only haul it by the hilt, finding it difficult even to extend his arm straight.

And this was the result of Gu Cheng's decent physical fitness, having trained in dance for two years in the past and maintaining a regular fitness regimen to this day.

Just imagine, the sensation felt akin to lifting a massive five-gallon jug of water with one hand while holding it horizontally.

During actual filming, for scenes featuring intense combat, they would still have to rely on identically shaped green-painted wooden props embedded with motion-capture sensors as stand-ins, with the sword's model and texture digitally painted back in during post-production.

Of course, many people habitually assume that an important shooting characteristic of using computer graphics is covering backgrounds or unwanted elements with green screens. In truth, this is a misconception.

The reason many productions utilize green screens is simply because backgrounds captured on location contain the least amount of that specific color, minimizing the workload during post-production digital rotoscoping. If a scene were filmed amidst the "elven" ambience of a grassland jungle, it might be necessary to adapt locally and switch to a "yellow screen" or a "blue screen."

Once Gu Cheng finished testing the sword, Liu Hui finally breathed a sigh of relief, assuming her task was complete.

To her surprise, Gu Cheng shattered her imagination once more.

"Director Hui, since the items are ready, have the prop masters and audio engineers work a bit of overtime these next few days to design the sound effects for this sword. We'll track them in later."

Liu Hui wore a pitiful, utterly bewildered expression: "Sound effects? What sound effects could a sword possibly need?"

"The sound effects when it's swung, as well as the impact sound effects during strikes—when we're filming, the prop I'm holding in my hand can't possibly produce such a powerful impact when striking something during post-production! Come, let me show you a piece of equipment."

Gu Cheng mysteriously pointed to a corner of the lounge, where a piece of equipment he had urgently purchased from Germany a short while ago rested. He had specifically stored it in Gao Dasong's recording studio to facilitate local recording.

As the dust cover was pulled away, Liu Hui saw an articulate robotic arm resting beneath.

"I can't swing an eighty-catty sword, but this robotic arm can do it with ease. Furthermore, through PLC motion programming, it can execute simple, direct maneuvers like the 'Heavy Iron Sword technique.'

The rushing sound of the wind when a genuine heavy sword is swung—I don't want to use synthesized noises, nor do I want those 'whoosh-whoosh' sounds typical of Hong Kong films; I want them authentically recorded. The sound of a heavy sword crashing into metal armor, striking wooden pillars, smashing against city wall bricks, and even the sound of it cleaving into human flesh—I want all of it recorded from physical actions. If there's no human flesh to cleave, we'll record using slaughtered pigs clad in armor or silicone mannequins."

Liu Hui quietly watched Gu Cheng put on a masterclass, feeling a secret sense of shame deep within her.

She had never expected to encounter a director so exquisitely meticulous when filming domestically.

It wasn't that other directors lacked the desire for such meticulousness; the crucial bottleneck was a lack of funds.

Back when she was studying in the directing department at the Film Academy, she had only ever heard professors mention such cases with a tone of legendary awe.

For instance, back when Lucas filmed Star Wars, he insisted on personally testing hundreds of metallic friction sounds to finally create the clanking armor of the Jedi Knights, subsequently dedicating a separate audio track to such an unassuming background noise before mixing it back in.

And that sound design company which crafted Star Wars for Lucas was Skywalker Sound, which later ranked as the world's number one in the industry.

One sword, one layer.

One sword, one track.

Now *that* is what you call professional!