Chapter 313: The Perfect Script
Chapter 313: The Perfect Script
Pei Qian thought for a moment and concluded that he absolutely could not take this risk.
It would be best to coax Feihuang Studio into spending a lot of money, while also letting them come up with their own ideas and scripts.
Only then would the chances of losing money be maximized!
So, instead of responding to Huang Sibo’s hopeful gaze, Pei Qian deliberately shifted the topic elsewhere.
“Creativity isn’t something you should rush.”
“Plenty of famous directors write their scripts on the spot while shooting.”
“I believe Director Zhu Xiaoce can do the same!”
“The key issue is—your studio has already been established for nine months, and with the Tengda Group backing you, yet you’re still stuck making short skits, relying on sponsorships and the online shop to earn money. Isn’t that a little too unambitious?”
Huang Sibo opened his mouth, instinctively wanting to argue.
What’s wrong with being established for nine months? Nine months is supposed to be a long time??
Many film studios don’t even make it six months before shutting down. Feihuang Studio has survived for nine months, and although some videos lost money and some earned money, most were well-received. That’s already pretty good, okay!
But when he saw President Pei sitting across from him, Huang Sibo felt too embarrassed to say any of that out loud.
Indeed… just look at Tengda. How many good games had they made in nine months?
Compared to that, Feihuang Studio’s achievements were rather insignificant.
No wonder President Pei was disappointed.
Feeling a bit ashamed, Huang Sibo asked, “So… President Pei, are you suggesting that Feihuang Studio should try making a proper movie?”
Pei Qian nodded.
“Exactly. You’ve done short videos, you’ve done documentaries. The director and staff are all capable. What are you hesitating for?”
Huang Sibo frowned.
“Uh… We don’t have enough budget?”
Pei Qian smiled slightly.
“If the budget is small, then shoot a low-cost film. And if you really run out of money, you can always ask me for more. It’s no big deal.”
Huang Sibo hesitated.
“That… The budget is only part of the reason…”
“President Pei, it’s not that I’m being overly cautious. The main point is that making short videos and making a full-length movie are completely different things!”
Huang Sibo began explaining the intricacies to Pei Qian.
President Pei’s Daily Life was only a few minutes long.
A Day in the Life of a Great Inventor was quite a bit longer, but still only around ten minutes per episode, with the longest one barely thirty minutes.
But if they were to make a proper film—one eligible for theatrical release—it had to be at least 90 minutes.
On the surface, that’s just a few times longer.
But in reality, the difference is enormous.
A short video of a few minutes can be pieced together with random comedic skits.
The story can be messy, fragmented—as long as it makes the audience laugh, it’s successful.
But a 90-minute movie?
Making the audience laugh isn’t nearly enough.
To produce a good film, you need a complete story, proper emotional pacing, and solid structure.
The difficulty is far greater than shooting short videos.
A handful of jokes simply can’t carry a full-length movie.
Many web dramas that tried to produce a “movie version” ended up with disastrous reviews—because their teams didn’t have the skill needed for a real movie.
They treated a theatrical film as nothing more than a “longer version of a web short,” and naturally ended up crashing.
“So, President Pei… making a proper movie involves enormous risk!”
“Without absolute confidence, it’s best not to take the risk.”
“At the very least… we need a good script, right?”
Huang Sibo spoke with utmost sincerity.
Pei Qian also fell silent.
Looks like this Huang Sibo really gets it!
But if he puts it that way, then he has even more reason to go ahead with the plan!
What he wants is precisely a project with a high chance of flopping!
Of course, then again—President Pei was a very benevolent person. Since the risk was huge and failure was extremely likely, he couldn’t possibly let Huang Sibo and Zhu Xiaoce carry the blame.
As the saying goes: If I don’t descend into hell, who will?
This blame… naturally had to be carried by President Pei himself!
Pei Qian thought for a moment and said:
“Since that’s the case, Tengda will fund this movie. I’ll figure out the script. All you and Zhu Xiaoce need to do is focus on the filming.”
This way, if the film tanked, the blame would fall squarely on President Pei. The loss would be Tengda’s money, and Feihuang Studio’s employees wouldn’t feel discouraged.
Huang Sibo froze, then hurriedly said:
“President Pei, you misunderstand. I’m not afraid of taking responsibility, it’s just that—”
Pei Qian smiled and waved his hand.
“I understand.”
“You’re the CEO of Feihuang Studio now. You need to take responsibility for your projects, assess risks properly, and ensure the studio stays profitable. That’s the right thing to do.”
“You can think of this filming project simply as a training opportunity. It’ll help pave the way for Feihuang Studio to enter the actual film industry.”
Huang Sibo’s eyes grew moist.
He was moved!
He understood—President Pei was worried that if Feihuang Studio failed, it would hurt his and Zhu Xiaoce’s confidence. So President Pei volunteered to invest and personally shoulder all the risks!
No matter whether the film succeeded or failed, Feihuang Studio would definitely gain valuable experience through this shoot, accelerating its growth.
Huang Sibo wanted to say a lot, but he felt saying too many words of gratitude would feel too distant and polite.
In the end, a thousand words condensed into one line:
“In that case, we’ll follow President Pei’s plan. Feihuang Studio will fully cooperate and complete the shoot successfully!”
“And also, President Pei… Feihuang Studio can’t let you do everything for free. We’ll pay 100,000 yuan to purchase your script. It’s not much, but it represents our sincerity. Please don’t refuse.”
Huh?
A hundred thousand for a script?
Pei Qian had said everything casually, but the moment he heard “100,000,” his spirit immediately lit up.
“All right!”
“I’ll give you the first draft in a couple of days!”
An unexpected bonus!
Back when they filmed President Pei’s Daily Life, Pei Qian had already pulled off a similar trick—he cameoed as himself and earned some money.
Now, Pei Qian had discovered a new way to make money:
Becoming a screenwriter!
Scriptwriters’ fees varied wildly in the market.
Top-tier writers could earn six figures per episode, while newcomers might only get a few thousand or ten thousand per episode—and still be forced to revise endlessly.
This 100,000 yuan fee should count as reasonable compensation in terms of the System’s evaluation, and not as malicious extraction of System Funds.
And for Pei Qian, he didn’t even need to write in much detail—providing a basic idea would be enough.
In short, perfect!
After chatting for a bit longer, Huang Sibo got up and took his leave.
Since they had decided to officially make a movie, Huang Sibo’s enthusiasm for work was fully ignited.
After returning to Feihuang Studio, he still had a lot to do—most urgently, he needed to recruit more staff.
…
After Huang Sibo left, Pei Qian opened a document and began writing the script.
He knew absolutely nothing about film scriptwriting.
But since this manuscript was worth a full 100,000 yuan, he had to handle it with proper “care.”
No need for planning—just open the document and start typing!
“First, decide the genre!”
Pei Qian typed the word “Science Fiction” without hesitation.
Sci-fi costs a lot of money, is easy to get criticized, and is a hotspot for terrible movies. It perfectly fits the goal of deliberately tanking the box office.
Choosing sci-fi already meant half the job was done!
Next came the general story outline.
Half an hour later…
The document still contained only the words “Science Fiction.”
Pei Qian silently sighed.
Crap. Looks like he really wasn’t cut out for this…
He originally thought he could casually whip up a brain-dead, audience-insulting trash story—but once he actually started writing, he realized that writing a garbage story wasn't easy either…
Right now, Pei Qian desperately wished he could remember the plots of all those awful movies.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t a movie fanatic at all. His film-watching experience was extremely shallow.
On top of that, he hated bad movies. Never watched premieres, and if a movie’s word-of-mouth dropped, he’d never buy a ticket.
So he had zero recollection of the details of those awful films—leaving him without anything to draw inspiration from.
He wrote a line, deleted a line, and in the end, the document still contained nothing but “Science Fiction.”
Pei Qian scratched his head.
“This won’t work. I need to change my thinking a bit.”
“Hmm… I can write it in reverse!”
Suddenly, Pei Qian thought of a brilliant idea.
Whether it’s movies, novels, or games, the underlying logic is the same.
To make a good movie, you need to know what the audience likes.
So on the contrary, to make a movie that flops, just fill it with things the audience hates, right?
A lot of terrible movies have extremely hollow plots that make people fall asleep. That was certainly a valid direction—but hard to execute directly.
The real problem troubling Pei Qian right now was the specific details of the plot.
If he could first lock down some specific scenarios, he could then pad the script with filler and achieve the desired effect: an empty, boring plot that puts the audience to sleep.
So… what kind of plots do people hate?
Pei Qian suddenly remembered a concept from online novels:
Toxic Points.
“Toxic points” are scenes or tropes that make readers uncomfortable.
For example, a groveling “simp” character is a major toxic point.
Thinking of this, Pei Qian happily typed a new line beneath “Science Fiction”:
“The male protagonist is a simp.”
As the saying goes:
A simp never ends well.
If the male lead actually managed to “lick” his way into winning over the heroine in the end, then the story’s toxicity would drop drastically.
So Pei Qian added another line:
“The simp ends up with nothing.”
He thought for a moment.
Still not vicious enough.
“The male lead gets cheated on.”
“The child isn’t his.”
“The male lead wants to raise the child anyway, but the child hates him.”
“After a series of blow after blow, the male lead mentally collapses and decides to take revenge on society.”
Pei Qian paused, then frowned.
“…No. The male lead can’t go on a revenge spree. He’s a coward.”
He absolutely didn’t want this film turning into some kind of superhero movie—like ‘The Avenger’—and then accidentally winning an award overseas.
That would be disastrous.
So he revised:
“After a series of blows, the male lead collapses and chooses suicide.”
But Pei Qian still found it unsatisfactory.
“Hmm… suicide is still a dramatic high point. It becomes a traditional tragic ending. Not ideal.”
He typed again:
“The male lead lives out the rest of his life in miserable indignity.”
Pei Qian thought a bit longer.
“That’s also not great. Too bland. Ideally, at the ending, give him a tiny glimmer of hope… and then ruthlessly crush it.”
But what kind of hope, and how to crush it?
Pei Qian didn’t have a concrete idea yet.
No need to rush. As long as the script is mostly done in two or three days, it’s fine.
Just as he was about to close the document, Pei Qian suddenly remembered something and bolded the words “Science Fiction.”
Can’t forget—it’s a sci-fi film.
To burn more money on props and special effects, the story must include some sci-fi elements.
As for what exactly those elements would be…
He would think about it tomorrow.
Pei Qian reread the draft outline from top to bottom with satisfaction, nearly poisoned to death by his own plot.
Pure toxicity.
Absolutely lethal.
Every kind of “toxic trope” imaginable was packed in.
Later, he just needed to flesh out the plot a bit, wrap it in a layer of sci-fi, and pour in some filler…
Perfect!
“Sigh… what an evil man I am.”
Pei Qian felt he truly had a talent for making terrible movies.
He should have gotten into the film industry sooner!
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