Huayu: This director is pretty strong.

Chapter 145 Mud and Haute Couture: An Eastern Assassin on the Red Carpet

"I don't want to see a single second of this movie on television."

Harvey's voice was forced out through clenched teeth; he didn't even turn to look at his assistant, who had already taken out his phone and was dialing.

The following afternoon at 5 p.m., outside the Palais des Festivals in Cannes.

A 60-meter-long red carpet was laid on the steps, with its edges secured by brass strips.

Thirty security guards in black stood along the guardrail, their hands behind their backs.

The broadcast van was parked on the side road of the main street, with the broadcaster's logo printed on the outside of the van.

Inside the vehicle, twelve monitor screens glowed blue, and the director, wearing a communication headset, rested his fingers on the switcher.

"Switch to camera number two and give a close-up of the L'Oréal GG logo."

The director gave the order into the microphone.

He pressed the red toggle button.

On the main screen, the image of Chen Yan and the other three just stepping onto the starting line of the red carpet was instantly cut off.

The jib arm of the main camera spun heavily, like an arrogant beast turning its head, fixing the lens firmly on the gold sponsor logo, magnifying those English letters to fill the entire screen.

Photographers from various countries crowded behind the barriers on both sides of the red carpet.

A French actress, wearing a long, trailing gown adorned with silver sequins, stopped in front of the camera, lifted the hem of her dress, turned around, and struck a pose she had practiced hundreds of times.

She stayed in that spot for three minutes, but the number of camera shutters that came with it was sparse.

Chen Yan, dressed in a black suit, walked at the front of the group, his leather shoes stepping steadily on the red carpet.

Lin Qingqiu followed on his right.

She was not wearing a haute couture gown or any jewelry.

She wore only a single-breasted black men's suit, made of the most ordinary matte fabric, but the cut was extremely close to her body lines, with all three black resin buttons fastened, exuding an air of asceticism and austerity.

His hair was buzz cut, and his bluish scalp was clearly visible.

What was most striking was her right sleeve, which was rolled up, with the fabric piled up above her elbow, revealing a forearm that was as pale as paper.

A dark red scar ran across the outside of his forearm, with black scabs around the edges of the wound, and the rolled-up flesh looked as if it had been there just yesterday.

With her hands in her suit trouser pockets and her black leather shoes clicking on the carpet, her steps were perfectly synchronized with Chen Yan's, without pausing or waving, like an assassin on her way to carry out a mission.

A print photographer for Le Figaro was the first to put down his telephoto lens.

He looked at Lin Qingqiu, then at the female celebrities around him, all with red lipstick, diamond necklaces, and standard smiles.

He unscrewed the telephoto lens, replaced it with a more impactful 35mm wide-angle lens, and raised the camera again.

The camera is focused on Lin Qingqiu.

The shutter is pressed.

The flash went off, the white light hitting Lin Qingqiu's profile and illuminating the hideous scar on her arm.

The bright light was like a signal.

The reporter from Cahiers du Cinéma next to him suddenly turned his head, his gaze fixed on Lin Qingqiu's right arm.

He didn't ask "who she is," but instead raised the camera, rotated the focus ring, and aimed the crosshairs at the scar.

The shutter fired continuously, and the mechanical sound of the film reel spinning rapidly filled the air.

One, two, a dozen or so...

Almost instantly, all the independent photographers turned their lenses away from the European actresses still posing in the center of the red carpet.

In their struggle to get the best angle, several photographers bumped shoulders together, causing the safety barriers to shake violently.

Hundreds of camera flashes went off simultaneously, creating a white band of light that stretched across the area behind the barriers, illuminating it as if it were daytime.

Lin Qingqiu did not close her eyes; her pupils contracted to a point under the bright light.

She turned her head, her gaze sweeping over the frenzied scenes, her eyes showing no panic, only indifference.

Her steps remained in sync with Chen Yan's.

Photographers jostled and pushed their way to the end of the red carpet in an attempt to capture her profile, the barriers clanging against each other.

Security personnel blew whistles in an attempt to maintain order, but were drowned out by a flood of camera shutters.

"Maintain your cadence."

Chen Yan walked ahead without looking back.

"clear."

Lin Qingqiu answered.

Su Wan walked to Lin Qingqiu's left, looking at the flashing lights on both sides.

"The official broadcast cut off the signal."

"It's okay," Chen Yan said, stepping onto the stairs. "Print media spreads slowly, but the physical impact of images lasts longer."

The four walked across the red carpet and entered the glass doors of the cinema palace.

Inside the broadcast van, the director watched the chaotic group of photographers on the monitor, all with their backs to the main camera, frantically snapping photos of the entrance to the cinema.

"What the hell are they filming?"

The director yelled into the walkie-talkie.

All I could hear in the headphones was the hissing sound of electricity.

……

The cinema complex has two underground floors.

The wooden door of the dual-track cinema was open, and the incandescent lights in the corridor emitted a buzzing electrical sound. Peeling soundproofing foam lay on the waterlogged floor, and the air was filled with the smell of musty dust.

Chen Yan stood in front of the mixing console, put on his monitoring headphones, and flicked the knobs on the equalizer to cut off the mid-range frequencies and boost the low-range frequencies.

The whistling of the wind blowing through the quarry came through my headphones, so real it was almost jarring.

He took off his headphones, hung them around his neck, and glanced at the French publishers sitting in the first three rows.

These people control 40 percent of the independent cinemas in France.

Su Wan stood at the entrance, checking a printed list.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor, leather shoes splashing through puddles.

A man in a gray trench coat walked into the screening room and looked around.

"Mr. Jean-Pierre".

Su Wan stepped forward and greeted him in fluent French.

"Miss Su," Pierre grasped Su Wan's hand, "Harvey's men are keeping watch at the main venue, so I could only come through the freight passage."

He is the distribution director of Gaumont Cinemas.

"My seat is in the third row."

Su Wan handed over a number plate.

Footsteps sounded one after another, and a dozen men in suits walked into the screening room. They were all representatives of independent distributors in France.

Soon, all two hundred worn-out red seats in the screening room were filled.

Pierre sat in the creaking chair and took off his trench coat.

"Harvey controls eighty cinemas in Paris," Pierre turned to Su Wan, "and we can't get our films in the running. When will the agreement for the promised screenings in northern China cinemas be signed?"

"After watching the movie."

Su Wan patted the black leather bag in her hand, and the contract paper inside made a muffled sound. "As long as you buy the French rights to 'Broken Bridge,' Yanying Culture will take over your backlog of twelve art films."

"We need a specific screening schedule!"

Another publisher chimed in.

"It's clearly stated in the contract."

Su Wan's answer left no room for negotiation.

Pierre nodded, leaned back in his chair, but then frowned.

"The equipment here is too old," one distributor complained in French, looking at the exposed ventilation ducts in the ceiling. "Without surround sound, it will completely ruin the sound quality of the film."

The distributors began to whisper among themselves, and skepticism echoed throughout the screening room.

Chen Yan glanced at his watch.

It was exactly 8 p.m.

He turned to look at the glass window of the projection room, raised his right hand to Zhang Yuan inside, and lightly pressed his index finger downwards.

Zhang Yuan immediately hung the film reel on the spindle, pulled out the film, passed it through the gear, and inserted it into the film gate.

He rotated the lens, adjusted the focus, and finally pushed down the red switch on the wall.

The incandescent lights in the passageway went out.

The screening room fell into absolute darkness and deathly silence.

The mechanical roar of the projector began, and the intense light from the carbon lamp pierced through the glass window, with countless dust particles floating in the beam.

The screen lights up.

The four black Song typeface characters “Yanying Culture” appear on a white background.

There is no background music.

Chen Yan pressed his fingers on the main fader of the mixing console, pushing it inch by inch along the slide rail, resolutely pushing it to the top.

Screen switch.

An abandoned quarry, with gray granite dominating the entire frame.

Lin Qingqiu raised an eight-pound iron hammer and smashed it against the granite.

--boom!

A dull, rough, and savage loud noise, completely out of place in a movie theater, exploded from the old analog speakers on both sides!

That wasn't processed sound effects; it was pure physical vibration.

The seat beneath Pierre vibrated violently, and dust fell from the ceiling.

He sat bolt upright, his eyes filled with horror.

That sound... it was as if the quarry had been brought directly into his mind!