The time he spent memorizing a text was two to three times that of others, but no one remembered it as thoroughly as he did. Even after several years, pieces like "Yueyang Tower" and "Red Cliffs Rhapsody"—he could recite them at will.

The script wasn’t long. After a few days, he had more or less memorized it, and then began to understand it line by line.

There was no dictionary, no study guide—he could only rely on his own understanding.

Then, to his surprise, he found that he could understand the meaning of all the lines in the script.

Thinking about it, it made sense. The textbook contained only the finest works, passed down through the ages. A script written by a droopy-browed student was clearly not up to that standard.

But what happened next was strange again. As he read on, he suddenly found himself unable to understand.

For example, this passage:

"Gengsheng: Xiaoyong is doing really well these days, I even saw him on TV yesterday!

Xiaowu: Mm!

Gengsheng: I heard he even went to Korea!

Xiaowu: What Korea, North Korea.

Gengsheng: Mm, anyway, I heard he went abroad."

The lines are simple—just saying that Xiaoyong went abroad. This, Andrew Clark could understand. But when he placed this passage in the context of the whole script, he was lost. He vaguely felt there was some other meaning, but couldn’t figure it out.

And it wasn’t just this spot—many places were like this.

Andrew Clark scratched his head in frustration. The less he understood, the more he thought about it, which made him feel all the more unsettled, and his progress memorizing lines was not encouraging.

His stubbornness kicked in. He summoned the spirit of reading comprehension from Chinese class and tried his hardest to grasp the author’s meaning—or rather, the test-maker’s meaning.

Not just his own lines, but also the use of camera shots, scene descriptions, live sound, lighting, music—he read all these descriptions several times. He didn’t know what “live sound” meant, or “long shot,” or “long take”—he could only guess from the literal meaning.

Later, he started doodling on paper, following the script’s descriptions, drawing little stick figures and the camera angles as he understood them, one after another, page after page, thoroughly enjoying himself.

If Jia Zhangke saw this scene, he’d definitely think it was some kind of supernatural event—a total rookie who didn’t know a thing, somehow cobbling together a set of knockoff storyboards.

Andrew Clark drew more than a dozen pages, and then, to his delight, discovered that when he connected these drawings, they formed a series of complete stories, like a picture book.

This discovery thrilled him.

Because back in school, whenever they studied prose, that mystical teacher would always have the students close their eyes and try to feel the atmosphere described by the author.

Especially with Zhu Ziqing’s “Moonlight Over the Lotus Pond,” the teacher would say, “You should have this scene in your mind: moonlight flowing like water, quietly pouring over the leaves and flowers. A thin blue mist rises from the pond. The leaves and flowers look as if they’ve been washed in milk; or like a dream shrouded in light gauze…”

Maybe he was a bit slow, but he never once managed to imagine the scene the teacher wanted. He could sing a few lines of a song, though: “I’m like a fish in your lotus pond, just waiting with you for that bright white moonlight…”

But now, these images seemed to open a window in Andrew Clark’s mind, revealing a world he’d never seen before.

He felt these images, felt the story in the script, felt the joys and sorrows of this thief called Little William.

He didn’t know how much time had passed. Andrew Clark rubbed his sore eyes and lay back on the bed.

He’d never been to that small county town called Fenyang, but at this moment, it felt incredibly real.

A battered bus rolling up dust on a dirt road, a blaring speaker on the street playing pop songs, crooked utility poles held up by steel cables, with Little William handcuffed to one, squatting on the ground.

A crowd gathered around, watching the spectacle. They looked at Little William with indifference, and Little William looked back at them the same way.

It all felt like something he’d experienced himself. Andrew Clark felt an indescribable sadness.

Suddenly, he wanted to cry—for this Little William.

There’s a saying about acting that many people admire: “The highest level for an actor is to turn their own face into a mask.”

Countless actors have followed this path—the classic example being the so-called “man of a thousand faces,” Hong Kong’s most versatile actor, Tony Leung Ka-fai.

But on the mainland, Chen Daoming once commented: “I think an actor who can play a thousand faces is not a good actor, because whatever he plays, it’s only thirty percent convincing.”

Of course, Tony Leung Ka-fai is more than thirty percent convincing. Every role he plays can reach eighty percent, but rarely does any role reach a full hundred.

So what is the highest realm of acting?

Chen Daoming’s own answer: speechless.

It’s a mysterious concept, but to put it simply, it’s just “natural.”

Acting isn’t about showing intense dramatic tension to be a top actor. What’s harder is being able to relax, to be at ease, to handle things with effortless grace.

Take Ge You, for example—his natural sense of ease is unmatched in the industry.

Or Jiang Wen—on the surface, he seems imposing, but he also possesses an extraordinary sense of relaxation. In “Hibiscus Town,” playing Qin Shutian, there’s that scene where he sweeps the street with a broom, waltzing as he goes—returning to simplicity, and thus, perfection.

Many people with too much time on their hands have tried to categorize levels of acting. The descriptions differ, but the essence is the same.