"Lee Seok-joon, Jung Min-an, Lee Soo-hyun—three Korean stars in a row. Have you considered how this might affect the show's reputation? The whole 'worshipping foreign culture' discourse?" Pei Louguo tapped his fingers on the table.
Here we go again. The production team of Red: Dream of the Red Chamber knew exactly what this meant. When the executive producer spoke like this, he had already made up his mind after weighing all factors. The "question" was just a formality—he only wanted to hear opinions that aligned with his decision. In short, he was fishing for validation.
Glasses Guy was the first to speak: "Our Mango TV audience skews young—the core demographic for idol culture. Many are fans of the 'Princess Squad' and have a favorable impression of Korean stars. When we flew to Korea to film Jung Wook-young last time, views increased by 58%, and we hit the second-highest viewer retention rate in the show's history."
Exactly what he wanted to hear. Pei Louguo asked, "What's this 'Princess Squad'?"
"It's what domestic fans call the lightweight group GZ," Glasses Guy explained smoothly. "Originally, GZ stood for Goodyear Zeppelin, but the Korean pronunciation of 'lightweight' (gyeongjeon) sounds like 'Gyeongjeong'—so fans just abbreviated it to 'Gyeongjeong Princess Squad.'"
He added, "Princess Gyeongjeong was a fairly famous historical figure in Korea. Even now, a district in Seoul called Gyeongjeong-dong is named after her."
That's a bit much. Pei Louguo was skeptical. Most idol fans couldn't even name their own country's historical royalty, let alone some obscure princess from a tiny foreign nation.
"Not all fans know this, of course. Newer fans just think 'Princess Squad' is a translation of GZ. But the hardcore fans? They know every detail." Glasses Guy smiled wryly. "I only know because my ex-girlfriend was one of them."
A different kind of cultural invasion. Pei Louguo sensed the gravity of the situation.
"Producer Pei, isn't that exaggerating a bit?" Glasses Guy and the other staff chuckled. To them, the executive producer was worrying over nothing. As long as they booked Korean stars and avoided drama, they could wrap this meeting up and go home. Cultural invasion sounded like something far beyond their pay grade.
"Up till now, the Korean Wave has invaded twice," Pei Louguo said, his expression growing stern. "The first was in the late '90s to early 2000s, with Korean dramas. Those melodramas flooded our screens, popularizing Korean fashion, makeup, and even changing eating habits across Asia. Otherwise, who'd be obsessed with Korean BBQ and army stew?"
He continued, "The second wave hit around 2010—K-pop boy and girl groups. Korean fashion brands like SJYP, BNX, SZ, and Hazzys rode that wave to success. They even carved out a chunk of China's cosmetics market, which had been dominated by Western and Japanese brands."
"You're right in a way—the Korean Wave isn't just cultural invasion. It's also about economics and trade." Pei Louguo wasn't some K-pop fanboy. He'd graduated from Nankai University with a degree in International Economics and Trade, and his thesis had analyzed the economic impact of the Korean Wave. Even now, he was a guest professor in the same field.
Common sense can be deceiving. Most people wouldn't expect a TV producer to also be a guest professor—but Pei Louguo was. Just like how, back on Earth, no one would've guessed that Zheng Yuan (of "Ten Thousand Reasons" fame) was a guest professor at Beijing Vocational College of Opera and Arts, or that Pang Long ("Two Butterflies") was a lifetime professor at Shenyang Conservatory of Music.
The gravity in Pei's voice made the room take this seriously. No one wanted a cultural invasion. And with the 2020s approaching, it almost felt like a third Korean Wave was brewing...
"Should we reconsider inviting Lee Seok-joon, Jung Min-an, and Lee Soo-hyun, then?" a staffer asked.
"We have to book them. The GZ group is huge—if we don't, another network will. It makes no difference." Pei Louguo's tone sharpened. "But three straight episodes with Korean stars is too much. Slot a domestic artist in the middle."
"Now, your task is to figure out which domestic artist to invite. Open discussion." Pei's tone was collaborative at first—then he dropped the hammer: "Between Chu Zhi and Wu Tang, who's the better choice?"
Whoa. Going straight for the "Wu & Chu" duo? When a show was this popular and well-funded, it could afford to be picky. And with Mango TV's clout, they had the leverage to court top-tier stars—money wasn't the issue.
Earlier, the staff had no idea how to approach this. But now that the options were narrowed, they relaxed. Controlled freedom was the only kind of freedom corporate drones got.
"Even though Chu Zhi's cleared his name and his popularity's rebounding, Wu Tang still has more active support."
"I feel like Chu Zhi's comeback has actually made him more popular than before. Check his Weibo supertopic—it's hotter than Wu Tang's, Li Xingwei's, and Shen Yun's right now."
"Popularity isn't the same as influence. How do you not get that? Wu Tang's about to drop a new album—that's guaranteed buzz. If we play our cards right and 'accidentally' leak a snippet, we might even create a viral moment."
"Wu Tang's fee would definitely be higher. Chu Zhi's written two hits already—we could film him composing, ride the current hype. Cost-performance-wise, I'm all for Chu Zhi."
The debate raged on. Pei Louguo listened for over ten minutes before making his decision.
"Let's go with Chu Zhi. He's worked with us on two shows already. Director Wang even mentioned he's easy to work with."
Live variety shows had countless moving parts, and Pei needed someone cooperative. The Korean stars would handle the ratings—the domestic artist just had to not screw up.
Next came salary negotiations. Pei was generous, offering 3 million RMB per episode—a tier-one star's rate. Compared to his I'm a Singer days (a flat 200,000 RMB for three episodes, or less than 70,000 per episode), this was a massive jump.
But don't be fooled—this wasn't that high. Wu Tang would've demanded 10-20 million. Red: Dream of the Red Chamber filmed for days per episode, often taking a full week. A top-tier star's rate for an entire season ranged from 50 to 100 million RMB, with 4.5 million per episode as the baseline (usually for two days of work).
To be fair, Chu Zhi used to command fees on par with Wu Tang—even higher. This meant his hype was back, but the industry hadn't fully regained confidence in his staying power.
With a 4 million RMB budget, the 3 million RMB offer was settled. The staffer in the frog hat (one of the show's writers) smiled. Easy going stars make scripting way smoother.
Wait, you didn't actually think "unscripted live variety" was really unscripted, did you?
As the meeting wrapped up, Pei Louguo stared at the spreadsheet and muttered to himself—as if convincing his own doubts:
"Probably not. There won't be a third Korean Wave. Our own groups and singers aren't that far behind now. And our dramas? They can hold their own against K-dramas too."