For the first time setting foot in a foreign land, Guo Fan still felt a bit nervous!
Back in June, he had managed to break through the competition and be chosen as one of the twenty-nine selected. What happened afterward, however, took him by surprise—someone actually tried to buy his spot.
Needless to say, everyone knew that polishing one's résumé in Hollywood and coming back meant instant success.
Look at those who studied for a short time at some random "chicken feather" university abroad—once they returned, they were treated like treasures at home. That was the trend of the times.
Going abroad was good, going abroad was beautiful—going abroad meant being above everyone else.
So, when it came to Guo Fan's slot, plenty of people were drooling over it, willing to pay big money just to purchase it.
Not only that, some even promised to help him get work at a major film company or even secure a government post. For people back in Shandong province, a government post was considered the ultimate dream.
Others tried a more indirect approach—lobbying Guo Fan's parents.
Although his parents were tempted, they still respected their son's decision. If he chose to go, they wouldn't block him.
After all, if they could dictate his choices, Guo Fan's mother would have made him study law back when he was filling out his university applications—so that later he could become a civil servant.
Guo Fan knew his choice would face major resistance.
He wasn't a child anymore, and even back in school he'd heard plenty about the existence of all sorts of "circles." By the usual way of doing things, these slots would have been quietly distributed among the different circles after some backroom discussions.
But nobody expected Gilbert to throw in an exam, wiping out all the pre-arranged names, leaving only a handful of truly talented people.
Although these circles cursed Gilbert behind his back for not understanding "human relations" and causing this mess, none of them dared confront him.
He was, after all, an American—a big Hollywood director—he couldn't care less about anyone's family background back in China.
So the circles convened again and decided to start with politeness before resorting to pressure. In other words: buy the slots!
And if you refused to sell? Well, don't blame anyone later if you couldn't find work within the circle. Once everyone joined forces, you'd be frozen out.
Sure enough, apart from a handful of people, most gave in under intimidation and promises of benefits, selling off their hard-won slots.
Among the few who refused stood Guo Fan.
He was furious. He'd rather give up ever becoming a director than collude with these people.
Friends tried to persuade him, including Liu Ji—the one who had fought to get him this chance in the first place. But Guo Fan wouldn't budge. He got his visa and left for America.
These people figured that even if the replacements weren't the originals, foreigners wouldn't notice—after all, weren't foreigners also face-blind?
Besides, the visas were processed and the replacements were already in the U.S. Bringing the real candidates over now would take time. Surely the Americans would just pinch their noses and accept it.
After all, teaching was teaching. Everyone knew perfectly well that Hollywood's system wasn't something Chinese cinema could truly absorb. Most of these folks were just there to burnish their credentials—and maybe indulge in the pleasures of the American lifestyle.
But reality turned out nothing like they expected.
At the set of The Adventures of Jackie Chan, while the trainees were still marveling at the massive Hollywood production scale and futuristic soundstages, Gilbert arrived.
As the film's producer, it was natural for him to stop by during early preparations. And since it was the Chinese trainees' reporting day, he had come specifically to see them.
Upon arrival, Gilbert looked over the twenty-nine faces. Aside from Guo Fan, whom he recognized, and a few others who looked vaguely familiar, the rest were strangers.
Back in June, after the exams had ended, Gilbert had spoken briefly with each of the successful candidates.
He might not remember every detail of their faces, but he remembered enough to know: these were not the same people. Which meant the original candidates had sold their slots.
These were impostors, hoping to bluff their way through.
If it had been another Hollywood director or producer, they probably wouldn't have cared. But what these people didn't understand was that if Gilbert hadn't cared, he wouldn't have bothered creating the exam in the first place.
There was no need. If he didn't care, he'd have just let them stuff in whoever they wanted. After all, none of them would truly master Hollywood's craft anyway.
But the circles back home had treated Gilbert like a fool, assuming the test was just his way of showing authority—a vanity move, nothing more.
Thinking of this, Gilbert couldn't help but laugh.
"Guys, you've underestimated me. The petty tricks of the entertainment world? Even if I haven't witnessed them all, I've at least heard of them. If you think you can fool me, you're far too green."
Gilbert then told the coordinator: "As I recall, each of the Chinese trainees had files with photos attached after they passed the exams. Read the names one by one and compare them to the photos. Anyone who doesn't match, have them step aside. I'll deal with them."
The coordinator was a Chinese-American named Allen, whose Mandarin was quite decent.
Allen nodded, fetched the files, and began calling roll.
The trainees looked puzzled. Why weren't they giving speeches? Why was he calling names? What was going on?
Though confused, they lined up. Whenever they heard the name they were impersonating, they stepped forward.
"Zhao Peng…"
The first name was called. Someone answered loudly: "Here…"
"Step forward," Allen beckoned Zhao Peng over, then lifted the file photo and compared it to the trainee's face.
The man calling himself Zhao Peng was nervous. His real name wasn't Zhao Peng at all—it was Zhang Chuan. He had spent a fortune to buy this slot and come to America for a bit of "gold plating."
But Zhang Chuan already sensed trouble. Things weren't turning out as promised—these foreigners were actually checking one by one against the photos.
"You, stand over there." Once done with the comparison, Allen didn't waste any words and told Zhang Chuan to step aside.
"Teacher, this…" Zhang Chuan's voice trembled with both fear and guilt.
But Allen wasn't in the mood for nonsense. He simply moved on: "Li Chunlai…"
Zhang Chuan swallowed the rest of his words. This was a foreign land—this was America—not their home turf. Throwing a tantrum wouldn't work here.
So Zhang Chuan could only stand quietly to the side, waiting to see what would happen.
He already knew their so-called "gold-plating plan" was finished. Their fake identities had been exposed.
Exposure was inevitable, but the circles back home had assured them foreigners wouldn't care. Now, though, it was clear things weren't going that way at all. These Americans were taking the matter seriously.
As Allen continued down the list, one by one comparing photos and faces, he finally separated out five genuine candidates—including Guo Fan—who had not been replaced. These five were told to stand off to the other side.
Guo Fan felt uneasy. True, he hadn't done anything wrong, but he knew about the situation and hadn't spoken up. That made him an accomplice of silence.
What would the crew do with them now? Deport them back to China immediately? Guo Fan wasn't sure.
On the impostors' side, the mood shifted. Sensing that things were going badly, one hot-headed fellow suddenly exploded.
"What the hell is this? I paid money! Why won't you let me into the crew?"
Allen cast him a cold glance, not even bothering with an explanation. "Wait for instructions. Don't move."
"Screw your instructions!" the furious man barked back, ready to charge forward—only to be grabbed and held tight by those beside him.
"Guo Zhuang, are you insane? You think this is back home, where you can swagger around? This is America!" someone hissed sharply in his ear.
The scolding brought Guo Zhuang to his senses.
He suddenly realized—here in America, none of his family background or wealth counted for anything. The Americans didn't care in the slightest.
The realization left him shaken, chilled by the thought that bluffing his way through today wasn't going to be easy.
From a distance, Gilbert had been watching coldly. Once Allen finished the identifications, Gilbert finally stepped forward, ready to deal with the matter.
At that moment, Steven Schmidt, the film's producer, spoke up: "Let me handle this. I am the producer after all—I'm directly responsible for it."
Gilbert thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
He then returned to an office on set and instructed Ivanka, who was by his side, to place a call to China.
He intended to give these impostors a lesson they would never forget—a strike from the highest level—to purge the rotten habits that plagued the Chinese entertainment industry.
.....
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