Night, Room 302.
The weather was getting warmer.
Chen Qi, wearing a sleeveless shirt and thin pants, sat at his desk, engrossed in writing.
The Great Wall Company had been a great help this time, sending people to accompany the Yuan brothers on their trip north, saving them a lot of trouble.
The bond between them was undeniably deep.
Chen Qi had always been clear about gratitude and grudges.
If you gave him a bowl of rice, he would return a feast.
If you glared at him, he would wipe out your entire family.
He wanted to repay them in some way, and the only thing he could offer at the moment was a script.
Writing plays for the leftists was quite troublesome.
Nowadays, the leftists were also bound by many restrictions.
For example, feudal superstitions couldn’t be filmed—except for Liaozhai, because it was a classic, and the same went for Journey to the West.
Secondly, local Hong Kong plays couldn’t be written.
Chen Qi had never been to Hong Kong, so how could he write about it?
Big productions were also out of the question.
They were costly, time-consuming, and the leftists had very few directors and actors available.
Without big stars to anchor the production, it would be doomed to fail.
Chen Qi’s goal was to make quick money with low-budget films.