Chu Zhi was the kind of person who valued method. So when things moved too slowly, he sought change. After thinking for a while, he came up with two ways to help.
First, he called Director Oozu Etsuji to ask for a half-day off in the morning.
In Japan, a "kantoku" refers to the director, not the producer. The Japanese term for producer is either "eiga seisakusha" or "seisaku shunin."
Oozu Etsuji immediately replied, "Chu-san, if you're tired, just take the whole day off. Half a day isn't enough."
"I've been slowing down filming with too many NGs. I don't really have the right to say I'm tired. I'm asking for time off to observe and learn at a local high school," Chu Zhi explained.
With that, how could Oozu Etsuji say no? He even arranged a guide. After hanging up, Oozu Etsuji rubbed the corners of his eyes as he continued editing the storyboard.
Everyone knew that the "shooting script, screenplay, and storyboard" were the backbone of a production. Though everything was finalized pre-filming, on-site shoots always sparked new ideas.
Even though Chu Zhi was just an idol and singer, his professional attitude was better than most. No wonder he had such big success, Oozu Etsuji thought. He wasn't just talented—he worked hard.
It was all about managing expectations. The unknown actor Kuubu was serious on set, always helping out. But because he was chosen by himself, Oozu Etsuji saw that as normal.
In contrast, Chu Zhi was invited multiple times like a treasured guest. So any extra effort he made stood out all the more.
"The storyboard for the library scene still doesn't capture the mood I want."
"The location should reflect the vibe of both the Showa and Heisei eras."
"Damn it, is there really nowhere that fits what I want?"
Oozu Etsuji was known for directing both horror and romance. Maybe it had something to do with his rapid emotional shifts—one moment blaming actors for lack of passion, the next blaming the location.
As the director called the location team to voice his frustrations, Chu Zhi made his own call. Not to complain, but to politely invite help.
He called Liao Dachong and invited him to Otaru for a short trip, asking him to offer acting guidance for two days.
Of course, he planned to pay him. Relationships or not, Chu Zhi didn't want to owe such a big favor.
"What money? Are we that formal now?" Liao Dachong replied. "If you insist on paying, I'm not coming. Too troublesome." He even sounded a little angry.
"I'd never be formal with you, Brother Liao," Chu Zhi said. "But paying isn't about formality. It's because I respect the value of your knowledge. Your acting guidance is priceless. I honestly think none of the professors from BFA or CSTC can match your practical skills."
That was a huge compliment. Even though Liao Dachong felt he deserved it, hearing it aloud still made him a little embarrassed.
"It's nothing much. Just a bit of experience," Liao Dachong replied with fake modesty.
"Not true." Chu Zhi suddenly sounded serious. "Brother Liao, you don't realize how precious your skills are. This level of professional ability is rare in the entertainment industry. It deserves respect."
"So here's the deal. I'll cover all the travel and accommodations as a friend. But the money for acting guidance, you have to accept. Knowledge deserves fair compensation, especially rare knowledge."
Liao Dachong understood. In short: Chu Zhi was impressive. He still didn't quite agree with taking money from a friend, but... Chu Zhi was impressive. So, reluctantly, he agreed.
"You're not the type to care about ceremony," Liao said. "You decide how much to pay, but not too much. I'll fly in tomorrow afternoon—need the morning to pack."
"Any preference for the airline?" Chu Zhi asked.
"Anything's fine, as long as it's not giving money to the Japanese," Liao joked. "Domestic airline if possible."
They ended the call without any more small talk.
Liao was honestly in a good mood. Hard to say why exactly, but he was.
The next day, Chu Zhi followed a local guide to Otaru Sakura High School. The crew stayed behind to continue filming at the glass studio.
"Kuubu-san, your acting shames the name of actor. Ten minutes to fix your state!" Director Oozu Etsuji lashed out.
Kuubu Tomonao played Akiha Mori, best friend of the protagonist Tengeiki. In the story, he marries Tengeiki's fiancée three years after Tengeiki's death.
Kuubu had been a child star, winning Best Actor at the Blue Ribbon Awards at just eleven. The youngest ever. But fate is fair—he had no childhood, always filming, and now his adult life was like a constant slide downhill.
He hadn't had a gig in over two weeks before this shoot.
Chu Zhi's school visit wasn't fruitless, but the real help came when Liao Dachong arrived in the afternoon.
If Chu Zhi hadn't sent someone to pick him up, people might've thought a yakuza was returning. He looked scarier than the Gokudo guys who'd come for protection money the other week.
"Hahaha, bro, your look is just like my son's," Liao said the moment he saw Chu Zhi's costume.
Chu Zhi blinked. "You see me as your son now?"
Liao Dachong quickly explained, "I mean you look like my high school kid. The Japanese makeup artists really nailed it. Fringe over the forehead, long lashes, and a natural orange-red lip tone—no one would think you're a college student. I hereby crown you King of Playing Younger Roles."
He was 22, playing a 17-year-old. A 4-5 year age gap wasn't too unusual, and Chu Zhi took it as a compliment.
During the commute, Liao Dachong had already read the script (translated into Chinese) and familiarized himself with the role.
Chu Zhi had Little Zhu record clips of his NG takes. Now it was time to put them to use.
"Your eyes are lifeless. Why's your expression so stiff walking into the classroom?" Liao Dachong asked. "Tengeiki isn't an introvert. He's shy, sure, but he's not dull."
"I wanted to act casual, like a relaxed stroll," Chu Zhi explained.
"You're different from those domestic 'little fresh meat' stars. They're lifeless even off-screen. You're not like that. Your problem is you don't know what to do—you lack continuity."
Chu Zhi stayed quiet and waited for more.
"Take this classroom scene. If Tengeiki is casual and carefree, what was he doing right before walking in?"
"Leaving home?" Chu Zhi responded instinctively. Then he realized—Liao was talking about continuity.
"What's his mood before class? What's his mood entering the room? What's happening today? You need a whole chain of logic. Your blank stare comes from a lack of intention."
Professional. Truly professional. It hit Chu Zhi like a lightning bolt.
"Now, second point—your acting feels too 'performed.'"
Having acting presence isn't bad. Many method actors have it but know how to make it feel natural. For a beginner with no training, though, it's a disaster.
Like always glaring, gritting teeth to show anger, sadness, or even confusion. Same face for every emotion.
But Liao Dachong didn't just criticize. He gave fixes too.
In one scene, Tengeiki bikes past his crush and tosses a paper cover onto her head. It's a prank to get her attention—but subtle, not over-the-top.
"Think about your face when checking your college entrance exam results," Liao Dachong said.
That expression? The tension between hope and fear? Turns out, it did work.
"You should teach a class. Our industry's full of terrible 'actors' who need saving," Chu Zhi said with full admiration.
With expert guidance, filming became a lot smoother.
Time passed quickly on set. Even Chu Zhi didn't realize how many things he was juggling in Japan. The island nation was full of opportunities.
His poetry collection Little Fruits was selling well. A rep from Rounin Publishing emailed asking if he had new work.
Chu Zhi thought for a moment and sent this poem:
"The Origin of Stars and Moon"
Branches tried to tear the sky, But only poked a few tiny holes. From them shone distant light, Which people named Moon and Stars.
—Winter, 2020
This was a poem by Gu Cheng. Chu Zhi translated it into Japanese. Unsure if hazy-style poetry would work there, he asked the editor first.
The reply came that same night: absolutely fine. A brilliant piece.
"So I get it now. As long as my second poetry collection isn't terrible, it'll get published," Chu Zhi thought, and gave them a submission date.
One more event: on November 15th, Sony Music held its Unity Conference, streamed on the official website.
It lasted over three hours. At the end, top artists were interviewed:
Nagabuchi Takuro: "The fuse to stop humanity's despair—Chu Zhi-san. His EP Slight Hope for the World is on sale today."
Tanimura Hajime: "Remember when I said 'I once thought of ending it all'? That song is here."
Mori Haruo: "An excellent Chinese singer's first Japanese album—I'm excited."
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"星月的由来" (The Origin of Stars and Moon) by 顾城 (Gu Cheng)
Read as: Xīng Yuè de Yóulái — "The Origin of Stars and Moon"