Andrew Clark saw in his conversation with him the same thing he saw in Jia Zhangke—a pure and sincere love for film.

"Director, where did you find these clothes?" Andrew Clark asked with a bitter face.

"Borrowed from a fellow villager's home. Don't ruin them, we have to return them," Samuel Reed said, trying not to laugh.

It was an oversized suit. Andrew Clark was very thin and tall, and wearing this suit that was at least two sizes too big, he swayed as he walked, looking like a bamboo pole carrying a piece of clothing, even the way he walked made a whooshing sound.

Before shooting began, Samuel Reed had Andrew Clark shave his beard, put on a pair of black-rimmed glasses with no prescription, and his hair still looked like a bird's nest.

This look made him seem like he was in a very peculiar stage of life—he looked young, but it was hard to tell exactly what age he was.

"Everyone, take your positions!" Steven Grant shouted at the top of his lungs.

Samuel Reed wasn't sitting behind the monitor, because he didn't even know what a monitor was. He just stood with his arms crossed in a spot out of the camera's view.

"Camera OK!" said Richard Morgan.

"Action!"

Steven Grant, who was also working as the clapper loader, excitedly clapped the board, the "clap" echoing in the air.

He felt the same as everyone else present—Damn! I'm finally making a movie too!

The camera swept over the dirty, messy alley, then cut to a close-up of a plate of tea eggs on the table.

Andrew Clark looked at the plate of "rich man's eggs" and felt a strange mix of emotions. He silently counted: 1, 2, 3...

Six eggs—these could probably get you two big houses with yards in the future!

He reached out a slender hand, picked up an egg, and tapped it on the table.

"Cut!"

Not even a minute into shooting, Samuel Reed called cut.

"Qingzi, come here for a second," he called out.

Andrew Clark ran over and asked, "What's up, Director?"

"Hold out your hands," said Samuel Reed.

Andrew Clark didn't know what was going on, so he raised both hands high, like a Japanese soldier surrendering in an anti-Japanese drama.

Three black lines appeared on Samuel Reed's forehead. He said, "I didn't mean for you to hold them up like that—lower, lower!"

Weren't you the one who told me to hold out my hands?

Andrew Clark thought to himself, but lowered his hands a bit.

Samuel Reed looked at those hands for a while before saying, "Tell me, as a grown man, why do you have such good-looking hands?"

Andrew Clark rolled his eyes, thinking, I can't help it, I didn't ask for this, I don't even know why the hell I look like this.

His hands really were beautiful. Although they looked rough from years of picking up trash, the bones and flesh were well-proportioned, the lines smooth, the fingers long but not thin—like finely carved works of art, full of aesthetic appeal.

The moment he stretched out his hand, Samuel Reed felt something was off. He looked around and spotted a place, saying, "Go over there and rub some mud on your hands. Your nails shouldn't be this clean—they need to be dirty."

Andrew Clark tilted his head and glanced over. Not far away, there was a small depression in the road, filled with water mixed with sand and dirt, exuding a "come and get me" kind of annoying vibe.

He twitched at the corner of his eye, but didn't say anything. If that's what they wanted, fine. He walked over, picked up a lump of black stuff, and rubbed it all over his hands until his nails were full of grime.

Then he wiped them dry with a towel. Now his hands were patchy black and yellow, looking like they hadn't been washed in a year.

There was no other way—the crew didn't even have a makeup artist. Even the female lead, Emily Foster, did her own makeup, so of course no one could do this kind of hand makeup.

"Um, Director, do I actually have to eat the egg later?" Andrew Clark asked cautiously.

Samuel Reed replied, "Eat it, of course you have to eat it!"

"Action!"

Andrew Clark peeled an egg, pinched it with those blackened hands, his face calm but hesitating inside.

Then he steeled himself, opened his mouth, and stuffed the whole egg in, chewing a few times before swallowing it.

"Cut! Good!" Samuel Reed called out.

He didn't say anything else, just patted Andrew Clark on the shoulder.

Andrew Clark didn't say anything either. This was just acting, just eating an egg, nothing worth mentioning. Saying anything would just make him seem pretentious.

...

There weren't many shots in "Xiao Wu," filled with long stretches of empty frames and long takes. Samuel Reed divided the shots into twelve groups in total—funds were tight, and time was short.

Andrew Clark didn't know how to act, and Old Jia never gave him any direction, just told him to remember he was playing a thief.

What kind of lousy director is that!

Andrew Clark had no choice but to figure it out himself—how should a thief be played?

He remembered the big farmers' market in his small county town, where he often hung out. There were lots of thieves in the market. Of course, with his skills, he was never stolen from, and even caught a few thieves himself.

Eventually, whenever he showed up, the whole market was peaceful.

He recalled what those thieves looked like and found they all had something in common: they hunched their shoulders, never let their hands hang straight down, and their eyes darted around restlessly.

The flickering of the eyes wasn't about looking left and right—that's moving your head, not your eyes.

He also remembered sparring with his grandfather—his body wouldn't move, but his eyes had to stay locked on the old man's movements, wherever the hands went, the eyes had to follow, or he'd get smacked if he wasn't careful.

Andrew Clark tried to recapture that feeling, his eyeballs rolling around in their sockets, looking quite unsettling.