Shang Yechu curled the corners of her mouth: "Aren't the hundreds of readers below urging for more chapters proof of your success?"
“Your expression is more telling,” Sheng Wenzhi said, pushing the bread aside. “What do you think?”
Shang Yechu hadn't read many horror novels, so she couldn't make a direct comparison between good and bad ones. She could only express her immediate impression: "It's eerie. Very hopeless and dark. Although I didn't see the ending, 'I' will probably die. Maybe I'm already dead."
Before reading, Shang Yechu was worried that Sheng Wenzhi would include some overly sentimental reminiscences and make it awkward. After reading a few paragraphs, that worry completely disappeared. Guilt is merely a starting point in this novel, playing a very minor role. The protagonist is less about feeling guilty and more about constantly dissecting his own heart.
"Whether I live or die is actually irrelevant," Sheng Wenzhi said with great interest. "The fear of death itself is more terrifying than death itself."
Shang Yechu wiped his sweat again: "Name your price."
“I don’t want your money.” Sheng Wenzhi frowned. “I already said, you can take it if you want.”
Shang Yechu was somewhat at a loss: "There's no such thing. Copyright fees and written contracts must be clearly stipulated. Otherwise, it will be very troublesome if something goes wrong later. Unless you're an author who's been dead for fifty years, you can't be so hasty..."
Sheng Wenzhi's attitude remained lukewarm: "Then go and do it."
"Okay, I'll call Lao Ji first." Shang Yechu handed the phone back to Sheng Wenzhi.
"Who is Lao Ji?"
Shang Yechu: "He's my boss. You two have had dinner together before."
"Oh." Sheng Wenzhi remembered, "The person who asked me to give voice to 'The Mute Woman'?"
"Okay. Let's not mention this again." No one answered the phone. It seemed that Zhuang Sheng's fight had caused quite a stir. Shang Yechu had no choice but to send a message to Ji Juntao first.
Sheng Wenzhi, resting his chin on his hand, watched Shang Yechu's actions and finally remembered a serious question: "I know. Tell me first, why did you suddenly want to make a horror movie? As far as I know, the market for domestic horror movies..."
Before Sheng Wenzhi could finish speaking, Shang Yechu understood his meaning without him even needing to finish.
This has always been a hidden pain point in the domestic horror film industry.
Domestic horror films are notorious for being "ghost movies without ghosts," characterized by a three-way balance of moralizing, didacticism, and melodramatic sentimentality, with mental illness and hallucinogens each making up half the cast. The special effects are shoddy, the costumes and props are tacky and cheap, and the acting is consistently cringe-worthy. Often, it's just a rehash of the same old story, sprinkled with some softcore pornographic scenes, and served up poorly to the audience.
Audiences will be disappointed. If this continues, domestically produced horror films will essentially become a bottom-tier genre in the Chinese film market. Even before release, their reputation is already poor; once they hit theaters, their screenings are immediately reduced.
Although it has its established audience, the potential of domestically produced horror films is limited. For Shang Yechu, a promising actor, to suddenly switch to making horror films is as bizarre as a professional basketball player suddenly practicing shooting with a ping-pong ball.
Even Sheng Wenzhi knew this, so Shang Yechu certainly didn't.
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