The film *Supermodel* relied purely on star power and lavish visuals to make its mark. In terms of substance, it was at most an inspirational story. But then, crafting a film that carries profound ideological weight isn’t an easy feat. Pursuing depth at the expense of entertainment often ends up being counterproductive.
The skill of a director lies in this exact balance—how the same script can yield vastly different results depending on who’s behind the camera. Iconic and representative works often boil down to love stories or tales of struggle. With Tang Rui’s talent, he turned this film into something resembling a high-fashion photoshoot.
A clear narrative was interwoven with stunning men and women, glamorous jewelry and clothing, grandiose runway stages, and cutthroat backstage drama. The film veered away from traditional domestic storytelling styles, leaning more toward a Western aesthetic.
Tang Rui wasn’t good at creating hype, pouring all his energy into his work. Yet with Luo Ding and Duan Xiubo attached, the film hardly needed any additional publicity.
—–
Su Shengbai leaned backstage, his clothes hanging loosely on his body as if they weren’t even touching his skin. His wrists and thighs were so thin they seemed like they could snap with a single squeeze.
His face was gaunt and hollowed, looking oddly more spirited on camera, though somewhat frightening in person. He hadn’t wanted to attend, but the entire cast and crew were present. With no work recently, skipping the event would have burned bridges—leaving him with no choice but to show up.
Once there, he avoided the cameras entirely, afraid of triggering Xu Zhen into some kind of meltdown. He hadn’t participated in public events for a while, and discussions about him in the media had dwindled to almost nothing. Earlier, a reporter from *Starlight Channel* had roamed around searching for Luo Ding and Duan Xiubo. When their gaze fell on Su Shengbai, they walked past him as if he didn’t exist.
Su Shengbai let out a breath of relief but also felt humiliated. He feared being asked awkward questions, yet being completely ignored stung like a harsh slap in the face.
Before taking the stage, he finally spotted Luo Ding and Duan Xiubo. Surrounded by assistants, the two were eating fish balls. Even the director, Tang Rui, and others in the crew had joined in on the joke, taking a piece to share. Su Shengbai, however, stood far away, not daring to step forward.
Just one glance from Duan Xiubo was enough to make him feel as though he’d been slashed by a knife.
He didn’t blame Luo Ding—there was nothing Luo Ding owed him. If anything, Su Shengbai had been the one to sever ties first. Luo Ding had sacrificed far more for him than he had ever given in return.
Still, part of him was bitter. Luo Ding’s success now… wasn’t it largely because of Duan Xiubo’s support? He just hadn’t been lucky enough to meet someone like Duan Xiubo. While Cao Dingkun had once provided him with resources, it had always come with advice about “taking it slow and starting small.” But men’s youth is valuable too—how many years can a twenty-something afford to waste in this industry? Su Shengbai had always wanted what Luo Ding achieved: overnight stardom and lifelong benefits.
Now, even approaching them for a conversation felt like self-humiliation. Being perceptive as he was, Su Shengbai knew better than to act foolishly.
—
On stage, predictably, he was left in the shadows. Perhaps it wasn’t deliberate, but the entire venue buzzed with fans shouting Luo Ding’s and Duan Xiubo’s names.
Straining his ears, Su Shengbai couldn’t detect his own name among the cheers. Resigned, he stopped listening. He was placed in a corner by the host—whether intentionally or not—standing beside a supporting actress with minimal screen time.
Luo Ding and Duan Xiubo stood side by side, effortlessly navigating the event. The poster for *Supermodel* was leagues ahead of its contemporaries in terms of refinement. A line of stunning male and female models in dramatic makeup and couture outfits strode confidently down the runway, their sharp gazes exuding grandeur.
Luo Ding and Duan Xiubo, as the undisputed leads, were featured prominently, their silhouettes standing back-to-back in the poster’s focal point. Though they weren’t looking directly at the camera, their presence was impossible to ignore.
Reporters surrounded them, firing questions—most about the film, with a few veering into personal territory. The pair handled them with ease, even sharing a lighthearted story about being swarmed by fans while buying snacks earlier. Fans in the audience squealed, their voices hoarse, as they watched the two’s shoulders bumping casually while they spoke.
Once the director and leads had their moment, the rest of the cast finally got their share of the spotlight.
While the others weren’t newcomers and answered smoothly, Su Shengbai, despite being the second male lead, was relegated to a corner. Everyone pretended not to notice, though it was clear he no longer offered any headlines worth chasing.
But then, Su Shengbai unexpectedly took a bold approach. Since he hadn’t worked recently and avoided private interviews, a press conference like this was a safe space where anything he said would likely be published.
Asked about his acting, he replied humbly, “There’s definitely room for improvement. Luo Ding and Brother Duan were very supportive on set and taught me a lot.”
Was this an attempt to mend fences? Hearing Su Shengbai so casually mention Luo Ding, the reporters exchanged glances and instinctively shifted their focus to him.
“Then, Luo Ding,” one reporter asked, “how would you evaluate Su Shengbai’s performance?”
Luo Ding was thoroughly annoyed by Su Shengbai’s habit of using him as a stepping stone. It wasn’t the first time, and he was done tolerating it. He smiled faintly and replied, “I’d say… it was a case of playing to type.”
It sounded like high praise at first glance, but the context was ambiguous. Su Shengbai froze for a moment before his heart sank. He turned his disbelieving gaze to Luo Ding, who still wore a calm smile.
The reporters didn’t quite catch the implication but dutifully noted it down: Luo Ding praised Su Shengbai for his “typecasting” performance.
*Typecasting for what exactly?*
They wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.
Sitting uneasily in the audience, Su Shengbai desperately wanted to confront Luo Ding and ask why he had humiliated him so blatantly. While the reporters packing up their equipment might not have thought much of the comment at first, anyone watching the film later would undoubtedly understand whether Luo Ding’s words were a compliment or an insult.
The last time Su Shengbai could still fool himself into believing that Luo Ding’s lack of support was due to Gu Yaxing’s insistence. But now, on a stage where no one posed a threat to Luo Ding, his unwillingness to say even one kind word for Su Shengbai felt like a slap in the face.
Duan Xiubo nudged Luo Ding gently and whispered, “You’ve got a sharp tongue.”
Luo Ding rolled his eyes at him and feigned getting up. “Fine, I’ll go apologize to him then.”
Duan Xiubo quickly grabbed his sleeve, panicking, “No, no, no, no!” After pulling him back, he added with a quiet laugh, “I like your sharp tongue.”
Luo Ding smirked knowingly.
—
This film had no major sponsorships. The high-end brands featured were the ones Luo Ding and Duan Xiubo endorsed, instantly elevating the movie’s sophistication. Tang Rui had invested heavily in the set design, and while the cast was predominantly male, the film had the feel of a luxurious, decadent journey through fashion week.
Even Luo Ding, who was accustomed to the glitz of the entertainment industry, found himself captivated. For audiences with little exposure to the fashion world, the visuals were utterly mesmerizing.
—
Against the backdrop of all this grandeur, Song Yuan entered the scene like an ugly duckling mistakenly believing it had become a swan. Despite his handsome features, standing next to professional models made him seem diminutive, a stark representation of how a lack of presence can equate to failure.
Song Yuan’s confidence was repeatedly shattered by everything he encountered. But with every setback, he grew stronger. The resilient boy occasionally contemplated giving up, but the appearance of Chi Yong heralded the start of a nightmare.
Song Yuan’s life was an endless series of misfortunes, compounded by Chi Yong’s relentless sarcasm.
Few noticed that Lu Yiyang, another character with considerable screen time, faded completely into the background when paired with Song Yuan. His presence was so negligible that viewers only remembered he was there when he spoke. This dynamic became even more pronounced with Chi Yong’s entrance. Almost all attention was drawn to the two protagonists.
In this looks-obsessed world, if someone is attractive enough, their flaws are easily forgiven.
—
A heartfelt bar scene where Chi Yong and Song Yuan connected completely redeemed Chi Yong’s cutting remarks. Song Yuan, though initially frustratingly passive, delivered a compelling final comeback that won over viewers.
The final grand fashion show symbolized unattainable dreams. Song Yuan’s struggle mirrored the aspirations of many young people fighting for their future and destiny. Chi Yong’s acerbic but honest remarks became a guiding light, while Lu Yiyang—seemingly harmless and close to Song Yuan—ultimately betrayed him for personal gain. Overcoming professional challenges wasn’t enough; Song Yuan also had to navigate the complexities of human relationships. After weathering these trials, the finale—the brilliant, dazzling stage—felt well-earned.
—
Unlike a melodramatic romance, an action-packed martial arts epic, or a visually overwhelming Hollywood blockbuster, *Supermodel* offered a fresh cinematic style rarely seen in domestic films. It struck a balance between style and substance, resonating deeply with viewers. The glamorous costumes, dazzling jewelry, and strikingly beautiful cast—combined with the classic underdog-to-victor arc—made the movie a standout in its debut. Its reception rivaled that of other New Year blockbusters.
Tang Rui, despite his years in the industry, was shocked by the overwhelming praise for *Supermodel*. The film’s first-week box office revenue exceeded the total earnings of his previous film throughout its entire run.
—
The film’s success spurred endless discussions online and in the press, from its behind-the-scenes anecdotes to red carpet interviews, audience reviews, and critiques of Luo Ding and Duan Xiubo’s performances. The hype extended beyond the movie itself, encompassing its fashion, props, and even mundane items like a frosted glass cup briefly shown or a foam-covered toothbrush.
—
Inevitably, the press zeroed in on the now-infamous interview from the Beijing premiere, where Luo Ding’s seemingly innocuous comment about Su Shengbai’s acting—“playing to type”—was revisited. Initially overlooked, the remark gained traction as the movie soared in popularity. Lu Yiyang’s character, revealed as a backstabbing villain, drew widespread ire, mirroring Su Shengbai’s perceived real-life persona.
Given Su Shengbai’s past conflicts with Luo Ding, the implication of Luo Ding’s words became painfully clear. For the public, this revelation was fresh gossip. But for Su Shengbai, it was devastating—a public reminder of his past betrayals.
The fallout was swift and brutal. Waves of scrutiny, criticism, and ridicule crashed over Su Shengbai. And it all stemmed from one brief, short sentence from Luo Ding.
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