Chapter 346: Gift from a Kid
Chapter 346: Gift from a Kid
Translator: Min_Lee Editor: Tennesh
During the entire shoot, the cameraman was holed up in his corner, cradling the gaming helmet. He used his bracelet to adjust the angle of the camera.
Fang Zhao just sat there writing. Initially, the cameraman had thought that Fang Zhao was posing. No wonder he starred in "Founding Era." That's some serious acting chops.
But eventually, the cameraman realized that Fang Zhao was actually writing. He was curious what Fang Zhao was writing, but he was hesitant to zoom in. Most artists didn't like voyeurs when they were immersed in the creative process.
The curly-haired dog stuck out its neck and glanced over at its owner.
The notebook spread open on Fang Zhao's desk was filled with words and all sorts of symbols and lines, but the cameraman couldn't understand a thing.
Not a single word.
After a few embarrassed chuckles, the cameraman reluctantly parted with the gaming helmet and packed his gear.
On the way back to the TV station, the cameraman shared his thoughts about the shoot with his colleagues.
"Fang Zhao's dog is vicious!"
"Doesn't he have a small dog?" one of his colleagues asked.
"It is a small dog, but now I know—the smaller the dog, the meaner it is!"
"Maybe it's leery of outsiders. Did it bite you?"
"No, but there's a saying from the Old Era that makes a lot of sense: 'Biting dogs don't bark.' It didn't bark, so it's definitely the biting kind. It kept staring at me. What a scary gaze. I'm thinking if Fang Zhao hadn't been around, it would have attacked me."
"Hahaha, so were you scared shitless during the entire shoot?"
"Yeah, but thank God there was a limited-edition gaming helmet to keep me company, hehehe."
While the cameraman was discussing the limited-edition gaming helmet with his colleagues, Curly Hair was already dragging the helmet back into the cabinet.
A puzzled Nanfeng looked on and asked Fang Zhao, "Boss, so Curly Hair likes gaming helmets?"
"Yep." Fang Zhao slammed his notebook shut, but he didn't put it away. It remained on his desk so he could edit his score in the evening. He had been inspired by the footage the documentary crew had shown him today.
Seeing as Fang Zhao had no intention of elaborating, Nanfeng moved on, asking about preparations for the awards ceremony.
"Boss, are you really going to wear that outfit on the red carpet?"
As far as Nanfeng was concerned, the outfit Fang Zhao had picked was too plain. It didn't stand out. Nanfeng had attended many awards ceremonies. Some celebrities were dressed unremarkably at first glance, but on closer scrutiny, there was a certain extravagance to their outfits. It was stealth posturing, to put it bluntly.
The celebrities attending the presentation ceremony weren't going to dress plainly. What a great opportunity for exposure it was. There would be so many people attending. How would they boost their popularity if they didn't wear something special that became a topic of discussion?
But the presentation ceremony Fang Zhao was going to attend this time wasn't of the pure entertainment variety. It was very high class. Nanfeng didn't have much in the way of precedents to work with. He didn't feel confident about this judgment and wanted to confer with Fang Zhao.
"There is no red carpet at the presentation ceremony for the Galaxy Awards," Fang Zhao responded.
As an elder in the arts world once put it: "They didn't need a red carpet to shine."
Serious artists didn't care about things like that. They also weren't into ostentatious displays, which they considered too crass.
"No... no red carpet?" Nanfeng was disappointed, but he quickly found his composure. His job posed many new challenges, and he intended to take them seriously.
Yan Biao and Zuo Yu were still taking their bodyguard classes. Nanfeng hadn't signed up. He had rented a room on campus close to his boss's room so he could be at Fang Zhao's beck and call. That way he could do his job efficiently and minimize intrusions to his boss's personal life.
After dinner, Fang Zhao started editing the song he had composed in the afternoon.
There had been a large element of luck in the four chapters of the "100-Year Period of Destruction" series becoming the key to curing the Hull virus, but there had been a certain inevitability to that luck too.
Fate worked in magical ways. Even Fang Zhao, who had endured the 100-year Period of Destruction, hadn't expected this added bonus.
The reason the Galaxy Awards selection panel had decided to make an exception and name Fang Zhao a Supernova winner was to send the message that music wasn't just a form of recreation or entertainment. It could also save lives.
At 11 p.m., Fang Zhao sent the edited piece to the director of the documentary about the Hull virus.
After the interview, the director had a brief chat with Fang Zhao. It was also the director who had showed him the footage of the Hull virus patients his team had compiled.
On the spur of the moment, the director had jokingly asked Fang Zhao, "Wanna compose a new piece? I'll stick it in the documentary."
"Sure," Fang Zhao had responded.
While Fang Zhao was sending the director his score, the director was on a videoconference call with an old collaborator.
"What the station chief means is that they want to promote this documentary heavily. Curing the Hull virus is something beneficial to all of mankind. It's a rare topic to come by, so of course we need to make the most out of it. The production values must be meticulous. As for the score, we're counting on you, Old Jo."
Anyone in the business knew that an excellent score that meshed well with the film had a big impact on viewers. It would enhance the appeal of the documentary significantly.
The Old Jo the director had referred to was a famed musician and composer of film scores. He was in his 80s. In the New Era, when life expectancies had doubled, these were prime years, the pinnacle of one's career.
Old Jo had a special knack for interpreting images. He also knew how to help the director advance his or her story. He had his own team and took on projects independently.
Old Jo had been hired to write the score for the Hull virus documentary. He had a sufficient body of work and a team with a proven track record that justified the appointment.
The director's email notification went off during the chat.
The director had dispatched teams to all continents, which were in different time zones. It was early in the morning where he was, but it might be noontime on another continent, so he was keeping his eye on the ball, scrutinizing every single email he received.
When he got word of the encrypted email, the director clicked on it immediately.
"Huh?" The director was surprised when he read the name of the sender.
"What's wrong?" Old Jo asked.
"It's a scan of a handwritten score." The director didn't identify the sender. "But the score is a bit complex, unlike the ones I received earlier. It's incredibly detailed."
Old Jo's curiosity was piqued. "A score? Send me a copy."
Old Jo was an old collaborator, and the director knew he was trustworthy. He wouldn't sabotage another person's work. The director forwarded the score quickly after obscuring the name of the composer.
"There are quite a few symbols I don't understand. I'm not a music professional. Why don't you take a look and share your thoughts," the director said while secretly passing judgment. He's a young man, after all. Once he heard I could stick his song in the documentary, he got to work right away. A bit of a career climber.
Old Jo often vetted pieces for the director to prevent his team from being conned. Nowadays, many submissions were touted as the work of masters to fetch a high price, but in reality, they were often composed by those masters' students and then polished by the masters themselves. But veteran musicians could see through the act easily.
When he got the score, the first thing he looked for was the name of the composer, but it was blurred. He chuckled. "Why bother redacting the name of the composer? Not to brag, but at our level, we can identify the composer with one glance. Even if I can't give you a name, I can tell you who the composer trained under. That's why they don't demand confidentiality for music academy exams anymore."
The director served himself a slice of watermelon. He chewed away while Old Jo kept yapping away. But after a while, when he had nearly finished the slice, he realized Old Jo had stopped speaking. He lifted his head and his heart leaped.
Old Jo's smile was gone.
"Old Jo?" the director asked.
On the other end of the call, Old Jo arched his eyebrows and glared, his voice filled with anger. "We've been collaborators for 20-plus years, if not 30, no?"
The director was confused. "What's up?"
"You promised me this project and now you look for outside help?"
"I didn't!" The director was at a loss.
Old Jo's frown deepened. "Then what's this score all about? Don't tell me it isn't for the documentary!"
"You could tell from the score?" The director was blown away. He raised his arms in surrender. "OK, I confess, this is a piece a young kid composed for our documentary. It was a nice gesture. He doesn't count as outside help."
Old Jo wasn't appeased. He was still trembling in fury. Raising his voice, he demanded, "You're still lying! A kid? This type of quality and competence, this level of emotional impact... a kid? Go find me a kid who can produce something like this!"
As far as Old Jo was concerned, it would take a composer with at least decades of experience to produce the score before him. And that would be someone quite talented.
The director froze. He immediately clicked on the email from Fang Zhao and showed Old Jo the name of the sender and the original scan. He circled Fang Zhao's name on the score. "See, there it is. The composer is Fang Zhao, the guy I interviewed today. You must have heard of him."
Old Jo stared at the name on the score in silence.
If it were anyone else, Old Jo would have suspected a ghostwriter, but Fang Zhao?
Mo Lang, a national treasure, had personally invited Fang Zhao to collaborate on a piece. He had gotten into HuangArt's prestigious Twelve Tones programs before turning 30. And the four chapters of his "100-Year Period of Destruction" series had impressed the Galaxy Awards jury so much that they had made an exception and awarded him a Supernova Award this year. Did he need a ghostwriter?
Old Jo was still feeling embarrassed when the director asked, "Fang Zhao is only in his 20s. Compared to us, he's a young kid, no?"
Old Jo's cheeks were burning. "Fang Zhao... Fang Zhao is an exception. His talent has transcended his age."
It finally dawned on the director what Old Jo was getting at. "So you're saying this piece is quite exceptional?"
"Indeed! It's so good that it should cost you a hefty sum."
The director was delighted. "It's free. Fang Zhao said it's a gift. His only condition is that we don't change his score and that we record the song based on his score."
"You wanna change the score?" Old Jo glared into the camera. "Don't sabotage a good piece!"
"We won't, then! Not a single note. We'll stick to his handwritten score." The director realized he had lucked out big time. He had saved some major bucks. He couldn't afford to splurge on someone of Fang Zhao's market value. He had never thought that Fang Zhao had taken his joking comment seriously.
Let's give Fang Zhao more prominent play in the documentary, then.
Then it struck the director that he could publicize Fang Zhao's gift. Who knows, maybe other master composers would donate their work!
The director couldn't contain his joy. He was smiling like a fox that had just nicked a juicy chicken leg.
"This kid Fang Zhao, he's quite willing to lend a helping hand. He's a good kid."