Chapter Fifty-Four: The Supporting Actor Is a Roaring Type! (Please add to your favorites, and don’t forget to recommend!)

Even though he didn’t want Li Shixin continuing to throw his weight around at home, Zhang Shuo was quite invested in the old man’s audition. He couldn’t help but be. Ever since Li Shixin’s scandal with Liu Xin broke out, “End of Days at the Forbidden City” had ridden the wave of publicity, launching a round of promotion and speeding up the filming schedule. Judging by the crew’s intentions, they meant to wrap up and air the show within two months.

Which meant Zhang Shuo would have to find a new job.

The crew of “Soaring Against the Wind” was casting right now, and he’d set his sights on extra work.

At nine-thirty, Zhang Shuo drove Li Shixin to the actors’ guild’s back courtyard—the location for the audition that Jiao Chendong had called Li Shixin about yesterday.

When the two arrived, they found quite a scene. The large courtyard square was already packed with groups of hopeful auditioners. Seeing the situation, Zhang Shuo scratched his head in disbelief.

He’d been in Rongdian for a long time, but he’d never witnessed anything like this.

“Godfather, looks like this is an open audition!”

Inside the small square, staff members were setting up tables and audition cameras. Li Shixin narrowed his eyes.

“Huh?” Zhang Shuo shook his broad head. “These days, crews are terrified outsiders will find out about their lead casting. Sometimes, even before shooting starts, the lead still hasn’t been set. Why? Because when a good script forms a crew, everyone’s watching! Who gets the lead is a tug-of-war between several agencies. An open audition like this… that’s rare!”

Hearing Zhang Shuo’s muttering, Li Shixin nodded deeply.

He recalled how Jiao Chendong’s tone had been rather grave when he called last night.

Taking advantage of the moment, he surveyed the assembled actors. This was nothing like when he’d wheedled his way onto the “End of Days” crew through Zhang Shuo. Anyone who made it here was no mere bit player.

Most were guest actors; some even had agents in tow. Li Shixin found several faces familiar—up-and-comers who hadn’t yet made it big.

It was clear these people weren’t happy about the open audition. They grouped together, grumbling among themselves.

“Look, look, the director’s here!”

Just as Li Shixin was considering what tricks might be hidden in today’s audition, someone in the crowd called out.

Following the surge of people, he saw Jiao Chendong approaching with several obvious bigwigs, making their way down the guild’s corridor.

With the staff maintaining order, the crowd soon quieted. Jiao Chendong and his entourage entered through the cleared path. As they passed Li Shixin, Jiao Chendong gave him a long, unreadable look and nodded, a subtle greeting.

In truth, today’s open audition was Jiao Chendong’s idea.

“Soaring Against the Wind” was adapted from the memoir of Qiao Hong, the retired national gymnastics princess and former Olympic world champion from the 1980s.

A year ago, Tianmeng Entertainment had bought the adaptation rights and announced the project. With Jiao Chendong’s reputation, he normally wouldn’t have gotten his hands on such an IP.

But as a company veteran with several period dramas under his belt, Jiao Chendong shamelessly lobbied the company for three months and finally secured the project.

He genuinely wanted to make this film shine.

Yet for a property like this, it was impossible to remain untouched by capital; the company was too small, and for a literary film with little box office guarantee, they couldn’t risk an independent production.

So they needed to attract investors by offering casting opportunities.

Jiao Chendong had only one goal: to keep casting under his control. Ideally, he’d discover some talented newcomers; only with hardworking, obedient actors could he bring out the expertise he’d honed over years of period dramas, establishing at least a solid foundation for the film’s reputation.

But only when casting began did he realize how challenging it was. Over castings, the general manager, Wang Hai, had slammed the table at him six or seven times.

Today’s open audition was Jiao Chendong’s last stand.

Under his agreement with Wang Hai, all 170 actors who submitted resumes would be evaluated by a panel made up of the producer, executive producer, supervisor, and director, and only those unanimously approved could join the crew.

It seemed fair, but in reality, the producer was Wang Hai and the executive producer was the company’s deputy general manager—those two votes could decide everything.

But Jiao Chendong had no other options; this was all he could fight for.

“Quiet, everyone! I’ll now announce the audition rules—listen carefully. Today, we’ll be auditioning for fifteen roles. We’ve received a total of one hundred and ten resumes.

Since there are so many people, please keep quiet to save time. When your name is called, come to the panel, and present a self-prepared two-minute act as directed.

Everyone else, do not leave. Your name will be called three times. If you miss all three calls, your application will be invalid. Understood?”

The actors responded in unison, and a young crew member handed the megaphone to the panel.

“Mr. Wang, shall we begin?” Jiao Chendong came back to himself and turned to Wang Hai for permission.

“Heh.” Wang Hai, stylish in a fitted suit and wrapped in a military coat against the chill, offered a thin, insincere smile. “Director Jiao, make your own decisions. If you’re ready, start.”

“Alright, then let’s start with the male roles.” “Soaring Against the Wind” was, after all, a female-driven story; apart from the coach, the male parts weren’t very prominent. Jiao Chendong wanted to test Wang Hai and the deputy general manager’s attitude with the less important roles first. He forced a laugh.

As Wang Hai rolled his eyes, Jiao Chendong picked up the megaphone and brought out the actor profiles sorted for each role.

“The first role: Qiao’s father. The audition requires a short scene of a homeless man scavenging. When your name is called, please come to the audition area.”

As he announced the skit, Jiao Chendong picked up the first actor’s profile, but Wang Hai snatched the pile from his hand.

After leafing through the seven or so files, Wang Hai laughed coldly.

“Old Jiao, I thought you had some real talent up your sleeve—just these oddballs? Look: this one’s only done online period dramas. That one’s played a traitor for five years. And this one—most absurd of all. The role of Qiao’s father is only early forties, yet you even accepted a sixty-five-year-old’s resume? What, do you want to send this antique to Korea for a facelift before he acts? Oh, and here we go—this Li Shixin is something else. Just registered as a guest actor, and only ever played an extra! Jiao Chendong, you won’t let the company interfere with casting, but you want to pick actors from this lot?”

Wang Hai’s sudden attack left Jiao Chendong dumbstruck.

He’d designed the open audition so that, with all the actors present, even Wang Hai would have to consider the company’s image and keep casting transparent.

He never expected his own boss to not care in the slightest!

From the cluster of actors, Li Shixin heard his own name and smiled faintly.

He shrugged off his Zhongshan suit, wordlessly grabbed Zhang Shuo’s ill-fitting, unwashed cotton jacket, and put it on.