Chapter 62: A Broader Perspective

“What exactly is a camera movement script?”
“I’ve only ever heard of a dialogue script and a shot breakdown.”
Faced with Gu Cheng’s offhand and matter-of-fact remark, Director Cai and the cinematographer exchanged baffled looks.
But they were aware that Gu Cheng was one of the investors, so they turned helplessly to Zhi Ping Chai: Sis, you brought him in, you deal with him.
Gu Cheng quickly sensed the awkwardness in the room and hurried to smooth things over. “I’m just not used to it, got a little worked up, that’s all. Please, carry on.”
That should have been the end of it, but Zhi Ping Chai, hoping for more investment from Gu Cheng, was eager to maintain a good relationship. “Anyone who has questions should feel free to ask. Mr. Gu mentioned the camera movement script—why not explain it so everyone can learn?”
Gu Cheng hesitated, then covered up. “Oh, that… It’s something I saw when I was studying in the East Isles. Over there, filmmakers often script out exactly how the cameraman should move the camera for each shot—whether it’s wide, medium, close-up, or special, zooming, tracking, panning, or following. They hand it out to the actors, so during filming, no one falls out of focus or strays off camera.”
Of course, this was a complete fabrication. Not only did the East Islanders not do this, even in America such a thing didn’t exist.
People nowadays simply had no use for such a script; Gu Cheng was confusing it with practices from forty years in the future—by then, the role of cameraman had disappeared, replaced by entirely automated camera movement, thus requiring a script (or rather, the cameraman had become a writer of intelligent scripts instead of manually operating the camera. For simple movements, motion capture technology could automatically adjust things; only when seeking a specific artistic effect would special settings be needed).
But scripting did have its advantages, namely making things more intuitive for actors, sparing them from relying solely on a few data points and their own experience to hit their marks.
Zhi Ping Chai, unfamiliar with foreign entertainment circles, was taken in by Gu Cheng’s explanation. “So that’s how it is, but isn’t that unnecessary? For years now, cameramen have known how to move the camera instinctively—at most, for certain tricky shots, the actors just get a few notes on what to watch out for. Don’t make things harder for everyone.”
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble, I was just making a casual remark. Maybe actors in the East Isles are a bit stubborn and can’t rely on experience, so they need something like this.” Gu Cheng managed to patch up his story and then added at the right moment, “But the last shot really wasn’t good. When we pulled back from the wide shot, we couldn’t coordinate the car’s speed with the zoom-out, so the car kept drifting in and out of focus—so I think for tricky parts like that, it’d help to clearly spell out the camera movement rules for the actors.”
Zhi Ping Chai found this reasonable and instructed the cinematographer to do as Gu Cheng suggested.
The cinematographer reviewed the digital playback and had to admit the wide shot had indeed been a little blurry, so he accepted the feedback.
Gu Cheng’s comment was genuinely valid; he wasn’t just throwing his weight around as an investor.
As for Yan Chengxu and Zhou Yumin, the newcomers, they had no clue what Gu Cheng, Director Cai, and the cinematographer were discussing and could only ask bystanders for clarification.
Since it was the first day of filming, all the main actors, whether or not they had scenes, were present. Lin Zhiling, who had done some modeling before, happened to be nearby and quietly explained, “Lenses all have a focal length. When the focus is set to a certain distance, only things at that distance will be sharp, anything nearer or farther will be blurred. Because of the optical properties, the longer the lens, the less margin for error in focus. Earlier, as you drove closer, you didn’t precisely match the cameraman’s zoom-in speed, so things went repeatedly out of focus.”
Yan Chengxu and Zhou Yumin smiled shyly and promised to be more careful next time.
The cinematographer gathered all the actors who would appear in the shot, produced a hastily scribbled note, and clearly wrote out the camera movement speeds for the next take, so everyone could synchronize: for the first few seconds, drive at a certain speed, then after a few more seconds, shift to another speed, and so on—a rough three-stage speed distribution.
“Everyone got that?” After he finished, he noticed that apart from Gu Cheng, who looked confident, the other two leads were still utterly confused, and he couldn’t help but feel uneasy.

“Should… be okay?” Yan Chengxu and Zhou Yumin tried to encourage each other.
The cinematographer wasn’t convinced and compromised: “Let’s run through it once with the digital camera to get a feel for it, so we don’t waste film.”
They reshot the scene, and sure enough, except for Gu Cheng, the others still couldn’t get it right. After all, the rate at which the optical zoom closes in isn’t linear, so simply dividing up the car’s speed wouldn’t work—unless you chopped up a long tracking shot into several short segments.
Director Cai, watching from the side, grew anxious and made a snap decision: “Here’s what we’ll do, Lao Yang—let Mr. Gu follow your camera movement. He’s steady, so let Yan Chengxu pull ahead by over 20 meters and shake left and right, speeding up and slowing down at random—after all, the character Daoming Si is supposed to be brash, so his motion will contrast nicely with Huazelei’s calm. And you don’t have to worry about clearly showing Daoming Si driving; a bit of blur will just underscore his arrogance.”
The cinematographer listened and adjusted the plan.
“ACTION!” The clapperboard snapped, and shooting began.
The cinematographer focused intently through the viewfinder, silently counting beats to adjust focus. Ever since Gu Cheng had pointed out the coordination issue, he’d paid special attention to this. When they reshot, the difference was immediately obvious.
Yan Chengxu’s Daoming Si drove like a hyperactive child—blurry and erratic. But Gu Cheng’s Huazelei maintained the perfect distance for the camera movement at all times.
A Rolls-Royce is over six meters long; with a telephoto lens, a six-meter error would definitely blur part of the car. But Gu Cheng managed to keep the Spirit of Ecstasy hood ornament precisely in the sharpest area of the lens throughout.
Without even showing his face, Gu Cheng made a silent impression in a long shot—no need for soap opera lines or shouting to project the “domineering CEO” aura.
Finally, as the car came to a stop next to Shancai, Gu Cheng slightly turned his head, resting his elbow on the window, seamlessly transitioning into the close-up dialogue at the next camera position.
Usually, with the wide shot taken from outside the windshield, subtle movements inside the car wouldn’t be visible, and the director hadn’t required Yan Chengxu or Gu Cheng to act them out—just wait for the close-up at camera two.
But Gu Cheng improvised, requesting a pair of sunglasses as a prop, wearing them while driving, and taking them off before the conversation with Shancai.
And then the cinematographer witnessed a perfect moment.
As the car stopped, the wide shot caught a flash of light across the inside of the car—the instant Gu Cheng turned his face, the sunglasses reflected the sky and trees. Through the windshield, the reflection on the lenses conveyed the subtle, elegant, aloof tilt of his head.
To deliver such detail, one didn’t necessarily need extraordinary acting skills, but a top-tier understanding of environmental lighting—only an actor who had studied the gaffer’s craft could pull it off.
Even Director Cai, watching the monitor, was full of praise: “Good, that’s a wrap. Quick, let’s keep going while we’re on a roll—next shot!”
…
In just half a day, they finished all the scenes set on the road outside the school gate—dozens of shots in total. Gu Cheng had no trouble with any of them; the hardest part was simply learning how to operate a manual transmission car—after all, forty years in the future, such cars had vanished from the earth.
Once filming was done, Zhi Ping Chai had her assistant drive the expensive rental cars back to the city immediately—the daily rental fee for these luxury cars was more than the entire F4 cast’s fee for an episode, so any overtime would be costly.

It was precisely to save on car rental costs that everyone worked straight through until two or three in the afternoon before breaking for lunch.
Everyone had the same boxed meal: braised pork rice with char siu chicken and some vegetables—no distinction between high or low. Gu Cheng cheerfully took two boxes and found a sunny spot to eat; the other guys gathered close, chatting about the scenes as they ate.
It was December, and even in tropical Taiwan, there was a chill in the air.
Yan Chengxu and Zhou Yumin soon discovered that Gu Cheng wasn’t the “demanding investor” they’d imagined. He was three years younger than any of them, yet remarkably steady; no matter the topic, he always seemed to know something about it, as if he were well-versed in everything.
The girls, afraid of getting tanned, ate under the trees despite the chill. Xu Xiyuan and Yang Chenlin, who had scenes that day, sat together with Lin Zhiling, who didn’t, gossiping as they ate.
“Zhiling, has Gu Cheng acted before? He seems to know everything.” Yang Chenlin was the youngest in the group, even half a year younger than Gu Cheng, and had only sung for two years without filming any dramas. Naively, she asked whatever came to mind.
“I’m not sure, I’ve only known Mr. Gu for two months,” Lin Zhiling replied gracefully, making it clear she didn’t know any more than the others.
Yang Chenlin blurted out in surprise, “No way, aren’t you the one Gu Cheng brought into the production?”
Xu Xiyuan, focusing on her chicken, realized this could be a problem: Girl, are you clueless? How can you mention “brought in with funding” right in front of her?
Awkwardly, she tried to smooth things over. “Don’t mind her, Zhiling. Chenlin just speaks without thinking…”
“It’s all right. I did come into the production thanks to sponsorship. I still have a lot to learn from everyone, but I’ll do my best.” Lin Zhiling smiled and let the matter drop, then tactfully clarified, “Still, I don’t know why Mr. Gu has helped me so much. I wouldn’t even say we’re close—I only returned from studying in Toronto four months ago, and was hoping to find a quiet job at the National Art Museum.”
With this, she made it clear: Yes, she was brought in with funding, but she’d never used connections for favors, nor was she originally in the industry.
Xu Xiyuan understood the subtext and was newly impressed with both Lin Zhiling and Gu Cheng. She thought to herself, “To think that Gu Cheng helped Zhiling join the cast without sleeping with her—he’s a real gentleman.”
All three women were newcomers and had no airs; once the misunderstanding was cleared up, they quickly formed a close-knit group.
Yang Chenlin effusively praised Gu Cheng’s acting that morning, but Xu Xiyuan cooled her enthusiasm: “I’ve shared a few scenes with him—he’s not as amazing as you say. His acting is better than ours, but definitely not top-tier. Still, he really knows a lot—it seems like he’s had experience with writing, directing, cinematography, props, lighting, just about everything.”
As she spoke, Xu Xiyuan seemed to recall something and turned to Lin Zhiling: “By the way, Zhiling, is this really his first time working on a TV series? He feels like an old hand who’s produced dozens of shows.”