“Mr. Chen!”
“Mr. Chen!”
Chen Qi took his seat and found the organizers hadn’t corralled the leftist crowd into one corner; they were mixed in with the other film folk.
In front sat Mai Dangxiong and Chu Yuan, behind were Li Xiuxian, Zhang Manyu and the like.
The arrangement was very telling — Hong Kong was all red.
“Seems a good beating makes people see reason,” he thought.
He shook hands with the others.
Mai Dangxiong specialized in roguish male roles and bawdy heroines; Chu Yuan was old yet vigorous; Li Xiuxian had just transformed into a statesman.
Chen also gave Zhang Manyu a look — only twenty-one, still a little chubby-faced, with a gap-tooth smile, not yet the femme fatale she’d later become.
Acting is about talent; it shone through on her.
It showed just as plainly on Da Mimi, Yang Tianbao, Nazha, Liu Haocun, and so many others.
Chen Qi scanned the venue.
It was still a bit shabby — how grand could a university opera house be? But you could tell some money had been spent; a lot of little details were arranged.
Guests kept arriving.