Chapter 77: Truly Just for Fun

For the past couple of days, Weidong had been busy with the tape recorder business, leaving Gou Dan and the rest to team up with the university students and sell cameras. The technician who had rushed overnight from Xishan's plastic factory in a 212 jeep had brought along two thousand cameras. Naturally, these were first stored at the office, where Dong Xueqing distributed them to the “sales staff” as needed.

The grateful plastic parts factory, whose office was right next door, had also entrusted their affairs to Zhang Lanzhi. Conveniently, this office doubled as the warehouse for their tape recorder casings; this meant deliveries to the provincial capital would be much easier in the future—both for tape recorders and cameras.

Weidong privately found it amusing that the secretary was now well and truly stuck in Rongdu.

But he hadn’t anticipated the unique spirit of Rongdu, which was unlike Beijing, Zhezhou, or any other city. There was a natural air of bohemian nonchalance to the place.

Within just a few days, a student from the sales team reported back: “Some people in the Chinese department are working on ‘photographic novels.’ Would that be useful for our sales or photo exhibition?”

This was exactly the advantage of having university students as salespeople—their minds were quick and perceptive.

A photographic novel, it seemed, was a narrative written as a script, then staged and photographed as a series of still images. These photos, carefully arranged, exploited the jump-cuts and continuity between them to build a coherent story, develop characters, and reveal themes.

In essence, it was the picture-story book reinvented as a photo album. Classic picture books had always been the work of famous artists, but most were hastily sketched. Now, with vivid photographic scenes, the effect was naturally more striking and easier to spread. In fact, many film-story picture books were really just this—directly processed from film stills.

So long as they could find attractive young men and women to act out pleasing little plots, this trend was suddenly taking off at Sichuan University.

Weidong could only marvel internally—some people were born clever and destined to shine.

Even if this fad would not last long, and even though he’d never heard of it in his previous life, wasn’t it just like the short video skits of this era? The only difference was that video had become static images.

After hearing their report, he flipped through a sample and frowned: “This story is weak—the plot’s too long-winded. It needs editing…”

He casually suggested two memorable skit ideas. The secretary, attempting to maintain her professional composure, couldn’t help but burst out laughing, her uniformed dignity multiplied tenfold in that moment.

Fengchu immediately rolled her eyes. She had never realized he was so good at making girls laugh. But she herself was soon laughing so hard she had to leap up and clap her hand over her mouth. “How could you! Couples don’t act that way at all.”

Dodging her playful attacks, Weidong turned to the giggling sales students and said, “See? The heroine should be just as fiery and hands-on as she is.”

Dong Xueqing, nominally the supervisor of these student salespeople, jumped even higher. “No way! I’ve never been fiery!”

The one whose cheeks now ached from laughing quickly agreed, and, before the memory could fade, hopped on a bicycle to spread the word.

Soon after, several others cycled back, eager to invite the reform-minded sales ace to give on-site direction. Everyone agreed his “scripts” were hilarious and wanted his guidance.

After all, a photographic work couldn’t simply be delivered as-is. The original creator had to be present.

One of the more enterprising underlings, aware they weren’t to let the secretary find out the sales strategy, whispered in Weidong’s ear: “There are a lot of people at the scene, all eager to buy cameras and start creating.”

Weidong suddenly thought this sales promotion was a brilliant idea. He called Yu Songhai to ask if he wanted to come along and cover the story.

The reporter replied that the timing was perfect—he’d just submitted the panda donation story to headquarters and could meet up.

So they drove the truck to the provincial university. On the way, Weidong casually reminded the secretary, “You can buy a bicycle here in Rongdu. It’ll make getting around much easier.”

Zhang Lanzhi, sitting across from Fengchu, interjected, “Walking is good, too. If you haven’t eaten, you can work up an appetite. If you have, you can digest.”

Dong Xueqing immediately picked up on the hidden innuendo and stealthily pinched the driver’s waist.

Who taught her such tricks? Weidong yelped, slapping her hand away, which only made the girl, who thought he would keep quiet, blush even more.

The female soldier kept her gaze straight ahead.

When they reached the university, Weidong really did ask Dong Xueqing to demonstrate for the beautiful female student. But perhaps the southern beauty, gentle as a painting, simply couldn’t act out the plot Weidong had described.

On the other hand, Dong Xueqing, with her fiery Sichuan temperament, found it effortless. For all her cleverness and usual meekness, she would explode in a heartbeat if an outsider messed with her family.

After a few gestures, the students invited her to try the role. The technical-school girl shot Weidong an eager look and, upon his nod, quickly put on some makeup and got ready.

Yu Songhai, who had also cycled over, arrived a little later to find the whole crowd of students roaring with laughter.

Even the female soldier couldn’t help but crouch behind a tree, shoulders shaking.

It was all just a “skit shoot,” and the “director” had no qualms about doing several takes, even inviting the reporter to try photographing as well.

At first, Dong Xueqing was a bit embarrassed after “breaking character,” but when she saw the reporter lift his SLR towards her, she instantly transformed—never flinching in front of the lens.

She had grown up in the city, and though her older sister had shielded her so she could focus on her studies, her upbringing was a world apart from a hothouse flower.

Playing herself, she slipped immediately into character: “When we get married, what if my ex shows up?”

A photographic novel, after all, needed to focus on capturing static moments. She delivered her line with an expression that was both worldly and sly, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

This was exactly the result of Weidong’s “scene direction.” The surrounding students started warming up with laughter, grabbing one another to keep from bursting.

Zhang Lanzhi, with no one to restrain her, yanked furiously at the knots on the tree, yet still craned her neck to peek from behind.

There was no synchronized sound recording, so what did it matter if they were noisy?

Weidong, with a voice like rolling thunder, waved his hand and declared, “Tell him to get lost!”

Dong Xueqing instantly changed her tone: “But he brought a thousand yuan as a wedding gift!”

Weidong shifted gears even faster: “A guest is a guest! Please, come in!”

Fengchu immediately put on the fierce glare of a neighborhood auntie: “You’re really going to let him in?”

Weidong spread his hands in perfect reasonableness: “What else could I do? He came bearing such generosity—we must treat him well. All brothers, no matter who came first…”

Whether or not they understood the innuendo, Dong Xueqing flew at him, pretending to slap him mid-air: “You’re so blinded by money!”

It was 1984, after all—the films were all war epics like “Marching South, Fighting North,” and even the rare urban dramas focused on everyone’s joint efforts to build a modern China. Just a couple of years ago, scenes in “Shaolin Temple” where someone was tied up and their clothes torn had already left deep impressions—who had ever seen such comedic skits?

Even if Weidong’s delivery was mostly about comedic reversals, everyone was determined to film and caption them.

The male character’s shameless attitude could really only be pulled off by Weidong, but he insisted on being shot only from the shoulder.

This was, in fact, the classic first-person angle so common in short videos; he simply didn’t want his face to appear, but everyone else found it ingenious. It forced the heroine to fully display her talents.

So Dong Xueqing’s flying slap was shot several times. She never actually hit him—just cleverly angled her strikes—though Weidong’s back was still shown “rolling away in disgrace.”

The exaggerated movements were reminiscent of anime; everyone was left wide-eyed. Could acting really be like this?

But this kind of over-the-top slapstick skit easily had everyone in stitches.

The “delicate” male lead, sprawled on the ground, decided to play along: “What if, at the wedding, my ex shows up?”

Fengchu immediately put on the look of a money-grubber: “What is she planning to bring?”

Weidong, still on the ground and hamming it up: “She plans to take me away…”

The heroine, shaking with righteous fury, exclaimed, “Someone brings a thousand and you let them in, but now you’re just going to leave with her?”

The man replied matter-of-factly, “She has no money. It’s only right—I can only go with her.”

Dong Xueqing simply leapt up and stomped, pretending to kick him: “Am I supposed to sympathize with her, too?”

The camera, of course, shot upward from ground level, so it never caught her actually stomping the curb—only her imposing, tigress-from-the-mountains aura.

If you weren’t a wild woman from eastern Sichuan, it would be hard to play the part.

Once again, the crowd was shaking with laughter.

At the same time, the artists of the era were still busy writing “scar literature” and reflecting on life, while the films were all serious narratives. The TV dramas were still full of the fiery passion of “Volleyball Girl” or the pure romance of “Blood Suspicion.”

These little video skits, which were several evolutionary steps beyond slapstick, were both closer to real life and deadpan hilarious.

No one had ever seen anything like it. Even Yu Songhai, who was only there to record a bit of photography training—not as a professional photojournalist—couldn’t stop laughing as he snapped away.

Everyone else was left pondering: “Is this a satire of materialism, or a protest against domestic violence?”

But Weidong, who had kept a straight face throughout the performance, finally collapsed laughing. “It’s just for fun! All that matters is making everyone laugh—why overthink it?”

But in this era, everything needed a proper explanation.

What’s more, it was obvious that they meant to submit these works to newspapers and magazines!

Now, the students—still doubled over with laughter—had already set their sights on the female soldier behind the tree. Yet none dared approach her, so they surrounded her at a respectful distance, pleading, “You should act in the second skit! You have just the right aura!”

“We read the script and it’s clearly written for you. And since Gezi brought you along, you’re obviously the perfect choice!”

Sometimes, the things people say by accident turn out to be true. Perhaps it was seeing the contrast in these two women’s temperaments that had inspired Weidong to imagine these two completely different skits.

But the whole thing only became funnier.