The Martial Arts Stunt Double of the Entertainment Circle – Chapter 17
by Little PandaZhang Huaye had given Tuoba Yan a full day’s leave yesterday, meaning for her to rest and reset her condition—and yet here the girl was, back on set today all the same. On reflection, though, it was just as well: getting on good terms with the crew early and growing used to the grounds could only help the shoot down the line.
In yesterday’s idle chat, Tuoba Yan had said she loved acting and had long entertained the idea of applying to a film academy. But she had no foundation in dance, song, or stagecraft, and her single-parent background meant money was perpetually tight—systematic training was out of the question.
Her mother, moreover, wanted her to study dutifully like any ordinary child, and she could hardly refuse the woman who had raised her through such hardship. As it happened, Tuoba Yan had suspended her schooling for a year for certain reasons, and a stroke of chance had carried her to the outer edge of the stunt world—her dream had finally met its turning point.
Zhang Huaye hadn’t known what to say to that. When Tuoba Yan spoke of it, her eyes glittered—the girl was genuinely interested in the acting trade; the moment acting came up, the whole of her came alive. But on her finances, the formal academy route was honestly beyond reach.
Zhang Huaye admired the girl, so overflowing with enthusiasm, her kung fu uncommonly fine, and was willing to offer what help she could. So she had a word with Unit Manager Xu and had an extra copy of the script set aside for Tuoba Yan.
By rights, someone of Tuoba Yan’s standing had no business being issued a complete script. But Zhang Huaye was willful, fiercely protective of her own, and blunt to a fault—and her standing in the industry was high enough that Director Fei Dong was glad to do her a good turn. He duly had Unit Manager Xu issue Tuoba Yan the script, along with a shooting schedule for the coming seven days.
With the day’s first scene in preparation, everyone was busy at their own duties. The female and male leads each had a dedicated makeup artist, while the extras due on camera had changed into costume and sat in queue, waiting their turn in the chair.
Tuoba Yan glanced over the shooting schedule, then located the corresponding passages in her script.
The scene: the heroine, Wu Zhen’er, has brought Huzi, one of the courtyard children, out to browse the temple fair. Spotting a pickpocket working the crowd, she tells Huzi to wait to one side while she goes after the thief. Only once she has subdued the man, trussed him up, and handed him over to the authorities does she realize Huzi has vanished.
The scene that follows marks the in-drama debut of the male lead, Gu Qing’an, played by Xie Xian: clad head to toe in green, his face half-hidden beneath a plain silver mask, he stands on high cradling the lost Huzi and hails the heroine. The two take an instant dislike to each other—Wu Zhen’er snatches Huzi back and strides off without a backward glance, and Great Hero Gu Qing’an, considerably riled, gives a cold snort and sweeps away with a flick of his sleeves.
Chen Wanwan was at that blossom-fresh age, her complexion pampered to a dewy sheen; she needed no thick layering of powder to even out her skin tone, and a simple, clean makeup only accentuated a young girl’s translucent radiance all the more. She wore a boyish outfit of hemp short jacket and trousers, the cuffs and ankle hems cinched snug with piping, her long hair coiled into a rakishly off-center bun. The moment her makeup was done she struck a swaggering pose and delivered the heroine’s signature catchphrase with creditable flair—the very picture of a pert, dashing female constable.
Though Chen Wanwan had little warmth for Tuoba Yan, her acting was vivid and natural; she was no little princess good for nothing but star tantrums.
Chen Wanwan glimpsed that stunt double—the one she had disliked on sight—staring at her, transfixed, and felt her mood finally settle into comfort. Good. Let the girl see just how wide the gulf between them truly yawned; it might spare everyone her antics hereafter.
Xie Xian’s makeup was finished as well. That silver mask of his was, in truth, only spray-painted—no real metal—but the detail work was meticulous, delicate lotus patterns carved in beforehand, and it cut a convincing figure. In the drama it was green robes, green robes, green robes forever, and Fei Dong joked about it: “Old Xie has three outfits, period—one on his back, one in the wash, one on standby. Same cut, all three; he could change costume and the audience would never know the difference.”
Banter aside, the first scene was soon rolling.
The temple fair seethed with people. Wu Zhen’er, Huzi bundled in her arms, was squeezing cheerfully through the crush when the little actor playing Huzi piped up in his milky voice: “Auntie Zhen’er, I want a tanghulu1.”
Wu Zhen’er corrected him: “That’s Zhen’er-jiejie. Do I look that old to you?”
Huzi just beamed: “Thank you, Auntie Zhen’er.”
“Whatever you like.” Wu Zhen’er rolled her eyes, unfastened her purse—a pitiful few copper coins rattled inside—counted out three for Huzi. “Auntie’s too old to carry you now. Go and buy it yourself.”
On his stubby little legs, Huzi toddled off after the tanghulu, laying on the puppy eyes to haggle: “Uncle, I’ve only got two coppers—sell me one skewer, please…”
“I haven’t even found a wife yet—how does that make me an ‘uncle’? It’s Gege! Call me Gege!” protested the young tanghulu vendor.
While those two wrangled, Wu Zhen’er suddenly caught sight, not far off, of a furtive man slipping his hand toward an old fellow’s waist to lift his money pouch. She hurriedly told Huzi: “Huzi, play with the tanghulu uncle for a bit—I’ll be right back!”
And off she went, legs pumping, after the pickpocket.
“Hey, I say, miss—how come you’re calling me ‘uncle’ too?” The tanghulu vendor was on the verge of a breakdown.
“Pass!” said Fei Dong.
Everyone relaxed out of the take. Meng Meng, the little actor playing Huzi, said sweetly, “Director-gege, I want a tanghulu.”
The whole crowd promptly burst into gales of laughter—this kid knew exactly whom to butter up. Fei Dong waved a hand with imperious generosity. “Those tanghulu are dummy props. Xiao Xu, remember to give our little Mengmeng a red packet2 later—that was superb acting! Zhang-jie, go over the next set of moves with Xiao Chen, and everyone take a breather.”
Choreography diagrams in hand, Zhang Huaye taught Chen Wanwan the subduing maneuver—the joint-lock with the arms wrenched back and pinned. Seeing that her form fell short of standard, she had Chen Wanwan play the pickpocket and broke the movement down step by step.
The “pickpocket” brushed past the “Wu Zhen’er” pretending to stroll by. Signaling for Chen Wanwan to watch closely, Zhang Huaye slowed the motion, slid her arm beneath Chen Wanwan’s right arm at the armpit, then clamped her left hand hard around the girl’s right wrist; one stepping hook of the leg, and Chen Wanwan was swept to the ground, both arms pinned behind her back.
“Forgive the offense, Xiao Chen,” said Zhang Huaye, helping her up. “Got the feel of it this time?”
Chen Wanwan tried to repeat the sequence. “Still a touch short of the mark,” said Zhang Huaye.
That sweep just now had put Chen Wanwan on the floor for real—no acted fall—and her arm ached from a near-wrench. Her mood curdled on the spot. For all its martial banner, Female Constable Wu Zhen’er was at bottom a romance between its two leads; her strength lay in performance, not in genuinely scuffling hand to hand. “I don’t think this move really needs to be shot in such detail,” she said. “People watching a TV drama don’t much care whether it’s textbook-standard. One sweep of the camera and it’s covered. And besides, it’s too rough—it ruins the beauty of it.”
The remark was, frankly, a step too far. Zhang Huaye’s face cooled at once, and Fei Dong put a warning edge in his voice: “Xiao Chen, Zhang-jie is this show’s action director. In matters of her domain, the authority is naturally the expert’s—and she is the expert.”
Chen Wanwan said, with poor grace, “All right, Zhang-jie. I overstepped just now. Coach me through it again.”
Zhang Huaye had disliked Chen Wanwan from the moment the girl pulled faces at Tuoba Yan, but she swallowed her temper and demonstrated once more. Chen Wanwan only got worse—by the end, falling short even of her first attempts. At last Zhang Huaye said coldly, “Xiao Chen is tired, too. Let her rest a while before we start again.”
Chen Wanwan bit her lip, turned on her heel, and walked off.
A ripple of commotion stirred across the grounds. Fei Dong, cold-faced, ordered everyone to stop clustering—scatter, each of you, and get back to whatever you ought to be doing.
Tuoba Yan said to Zhang Huaye, “Don’t be angry, Zhang-jie. Chen-jiejie has never once shot a fight scene—no one masters it overnight.”
Zhang Huaye sighed. “That girl still wants tempering. Famous since childhood, proud to the marrow, looks down on the likes of us. And I suppose I did take my temper out on her just now. Ah well.”
After a few more words with Zhang Huaye, Tuoba Yan took her script off in search of a quiet stretch of covered walkway, meaning to seize the chance and begin studying it on her own.
She thought back to Chen Wanwan’s performance just now—that effortless command, that supple rightness—and tried one of Wu Zhen’er’s lines: “That’s Zhen’er-jiejie. Do I look that old to you…” A whimper of shame escaped her. It had come out stiff and forceless as a robot—even she could hear how embarrassing it was.
She switched intonations and tried the line again—and suddenly, from the walkway across the pond, came the sound of someone failing to smother a snort of laughter. Her face flamed scarlet.
Someone had been eavesdropping!
Mortified and flustered both, Tuoba Yan feigned composure. “Who’s over there?”
It was none other than Chen Wanwan. She stepped out of the tree-shaded end of the walkway, her face still damp at the edges, the tip of her nose red—she must have had herself a cry. Gone now was the dejection of botching the movement over and over; in its place sat a smug, wicked grin. “Line delivery like that, and you think you can survive in showbiz?”
Tuoba Yan shot back, “Funny—I wonder whose heart is made of glass, the one who got scolded to tears by Zhang-jie.”
Chen Wanwan’s cheeks flared crimson. Propping her dignity up by sheer will, she huffed: “I’m hardly going to bicker with a little girl like you.”
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