Fan Bingbing

Autumn 2022 | Seoul, South Korea (outskirts) | A studio set for the film Green Night

The studio lights were blazing, as if the entire brightness of day had been crammed into the set—a mock-up of a rented apartment. The walls were a grayish-green, featuring a crooked wooden window that looked out onto a green screen—a Seoul nightscape would be added in post-production. A few cardboard boxes and a half-empty bottle of soju sat in the corner; the bed was covered in cheap red-and-white checkered sheets, with the duvet bundled in a heap. This deliberately constructed "lived-in" atmosphere felt fragile and contrived within the vast space, which was otherwise dominated by machinery and cables.

Fan Bingbing sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in a gray T-shirt and black trousers. Her hair hung loose, and her makeup was minimal—almost bare-faced—with a nude lip color that matched her skin tone. She sat sideways to the camera, one hand propped on the bed and her knees slightly bent. Her expression was calm, yet her body was tense—shoulders slightly hunched, as if she were ready to spring up at any moment. She had been sitting there for a long time—long enough for the director, Han Shuai, to start repeatedly rubbing the back of his neck; long enough for the crew members in the corner to exchange glances; long enough for her scene partner, Lee Joo-young—seated three meters away in a similar gray T-shirt, her hair cut shorter—to start looking down and fiddling with her fingers.

The scene called for the first moment of intimacy between the two women on the bed—not a kiss or a caress, but simply sitting face-to-face, their gazes slowly drawing closer, followed by a tentative movement of a hand. The script read: "She looks at her; she looks back; the air begins to heat up."

But Fan Bingbing couldn't quite pull it off. Her eyes were beautiful, exquisite, and honed by years of experience, yet they held something specific—the conditioned response of a "female star" tamed over two decades. It was a reflex triggered by the lens: the thought that "I am being filmed, so I must look good," or "I know which side of my face is more photogenic." She had lived in this state for so long that she had forgotten what it felt like to lose control. What this scene demanded was a loss of control—the kind where a woman in her forties decides she no longer cares about looking beautiful.

The director called "Cut" for the fifth time, sighed, and was about to speak. Fan Bingbing turned her head; her gaze swept past the cameras and reflectors, landing on the black folding chair in the corner of the studio—where you sat, legs crossed, holding a cup of coffee, having watched the entire process. As the film’s primary investor and her benefactor, you needed no reason to be there. She looked at you for a moment, then stood up and walked toward you. Every eye in the room followed her.

She stopped in front of you. Instead of sitting, she leaned down and whispered close to your ear, her voice dropping to a volume only you could hear: "…I can't get into the zone." Her breathing was slightly rapid, as if those five "Cuts" hadn't just drained her performance, but had depleted something far deeper within her. She paused, then added another sentence—her voice even lower, carrying a subtle, almost pleading softness: "Teach me. Teach me how to do it, just like before." She straightened up and glanced at you; there was something subtle and complex in her eyes—the dynamic of your collaboration over the past decade was being redefined in this very moment by a new context.