The backlash to OPPO’s Mother’s Day ad came from multiple directions, from grassroots netizens to official organizations. Here’s a closer look at the controversy, along with 7 other cases that show how gender-related marketing has become a recurring minefield for brands in China.

Mother’s Day is over, but OPPO is still recovering. The Chinese smartphone brand went viral over the weekend for a Mother’s Day marketing campaign that failed spectacularly. In the campaign, OPPO used the slogan: “My mom has two ‘husbands.’”

The accompanying text read:

“My mom has two ‘husbands.’ One is my dad, and the other one she sees twice a year. She barely dresses up for dates with my dad, but when she sees the other one, she’d wear a wedding dress if she could.” (“我妈有两个‘老公’，一个是我爸，另一个一年见两回。跟我爸约会基本不打扮，见另一个，她恨不得穿婚纱。”)

The OPPO ad was published online on May 8, 2026.

With this ad, OPPO was likely trying to tap into digital culture and resonate with younger consumers by using online slang.

In Chinese fandom subcultures, female fans sometimes refer to their idols as their “husband” (老公, lǎogōng) to express their devotion. It is part of a broader online joke, with some fans even incorporating life-size cardboard cutouts of their favorite celebrities into their weddings.

The phrase “real husband” (真老公) gained wider mainstream attention in late 2025 after a young Chinese bride unexpectedly ran into rapper and singer Jackson Wang on her wedding day and posted:

💬 “Who understands this? I met my real husband on my wedding day!” (“谁懂啊！婚礼当天遇到了真老公!!”)

The ‘real husband’ post that went viral in late 2025 and early 2026.

Although some commenters found it funny, the bride was heavily criticized for publicly calling a celebrity her “real husband” on her wedding day, using the same word (老公) that refers to her literal spouse, as if she were placing her idol above her actual groom.

💬 “This makes it seem as though she does not truly regard the man she is legally marrying as her husband at all,” one among many commenters wrote.

While OPPO was probably aiming for a tongue-in-cheek campaign featuring an energetic and youthful mother who adores her idol, the company appears to have badly misread the room.

After the ad was posted on Weibo and other social media channels ahead of Mother’s Day, backlash quickly followed.

Many netizens were confused and did not understand the reference to fan culture. Some said they were simply “baffled” by what they saw as an inappropriate message suggesting that mom was cheating—and on Mother’s Day, no less!

💬 “Without reading the comments, I thought the ad was saying the mother was cheating and didn’t love her husband, but had a side lover she was crazy about,” one Xiaohongshu commenter wrote.

Others asked whether the creators would have been willing to run a similar Father’s Day campaign with the line: “My dad has two wives.”

Fan culture remains far removed from the everyday experience of many ordinary Chinese netizens, creating not just a gender divide but also a generational and social one.

Even when people understand that an “idol husband” is purely fictional, the term 老公 (lǎogōng) still carries the literal meaning of “husband” and implies emotional devotion to someone outside the marriage. For some, that feels disrespectful.

Many also questioned the contrast at the heart of the campaign: why does mum barely dress up for dates with her husband, yet would supposedly wear a wedding dress to see a celebrity?

Others believe celebrity fandom in China has already gone too far, and felt that using this language in a mainstream advertising campaign was especially misplaced.

As one marketing commentator on Xiaohongshu Cathy聊品牌热点) put it, OPPO had managed to offend almost every relevant audience: male consumers who saw the ad as disrespectful to husbands, fandom communities who did not want their inside jokes dragged into mainstream advertising, women who support gender equality, and many others who hold strong views about traditional family values.

Emotional Infidelity as a Form of Female Self-Expression

The brand quickly took the campaign offline and apologized. But in their initial apology post, OPPO explained that it had merely intended to challenge gender stereotypes and present a “more diverse and multi-dimensional image of today’s mothers,” women who can enjoy celebrity fandoms and pursue hobbies beyond their roles as wives and mothers.

OPPO’s first apology: “Our original intention was to break stereotypes and present a more diverse and multi-dimensional image of today’s mothers.”

That explanation sparked another wave of criticism, with many arguing that OPPO had completely missed the point. Few people objected to the idea that mothers can have celebrity idols or personal passions. What many found problematic was the suggestion of romantic involvement outside the marriage.

One Weibo commenter (@甲申鬼友), who called the entire episode a “PR disaster”, suggested that the problem was that OPPO framed emotional infidelity as a form of female self-expression.

They wrote:

💬 “The controversial slogan “My mom has two husbands” was not about challenging stereotypes about mothers. Instead, it glorified the tacky behavior of a married woman calling a celebrity “husband” and wanting to wear a wedding dress to see him, presenting it as a form of female self-expression. Implicitly, it suggested that a real husband should unconditionally accept his wife’s “emotional infidelity.” (…). The message conveyed by the campaign was clear enough: it alienated men and mothers who still value loyalty and commitment in relationships.”

It soon became clear that OPPO’s handling of the issue was turning into a bigger problem than the ad itself.

As netizens continued to criticize the campaign, the controversy was amplified by blogs, mainstream media, and state-affiliated organizations.

The China Advertising Association (CAA), the country’s leading advertising body operating under state supervision, weighed in, along with the All-China Women’s Federation (ACWF), China’s main state-linked women’s organization.

Both organizations echoed familiar Party messaging, criticizing marketing that crosses the boundaries of public morality, deviates from core socialist values, violates traditional family ethics, or “misleads the public, especially young people, about social values.”

As the controversy escalated, attention also turned to OPPO’s China region brand strategy director, Yu Siyue (余思月), a graduate of Wuhan University’s School of Chinese Language and Literature.

The university itself then entered the discussion by posting a statement on Weibo saying it was “shocked” by the campaign. It said it “strongly disagrees with the content (..) and the values conveyed,” distancing itself from both the campaign and its alumna. (In a detail I found unintentionally amusing, the statement also noted that Yu had once been praised for helping an elderly passenger on a bus.)

Wuhan University itself was also criticized for inserting itself into a controversy that had little to do with the university. Chinese media outlet Yicai asked: “Who forced Wuhan University into this disastrous move?” Even political commentator Hu Xijin called the statement an overreaction and a sign of “public opinion anxiety syndrome” (舆情焦虑症).

In the end, OPPO apologizedc a second time on Monday, this time stating that both the campaign and its initial response reflected serious shortcomings in the company’s values and judgment. The company said it had lost sight of “upholding the boundaries of China’s core socialist values.”

OPPO said the incident had led to disciplinary measures against those responsible, and the company promised it would ensure that future campaigns better align with “mainstream values.”

Lessons to Be Learned

There are a few things to be learned from OPPO’s PR nightmare:

🔍 1. Marketing fails are often about the response

Once a marketing controversy breaks out, the company’s response often matters more than the original mistake. If the response fails to address the actual criticism, the fallout can become much worse than the initial problem.

🔍 2. In China, PR controversies quickly become political issues

In China, public relations is inherently political. What begins as criticism from netizens can quickly be amplified by state media and official organizations. In the process, a relatively minor marketing controversy can be reframed as a broader debate about morality and family values. Once that happens, the issue is no longer just about a poorly judged advertisement but becomes a tool for boosting official narratives and reinforcing broader Party priorities.

🔍 3. In China’s cancel culture, everyone rushes to distance themselves

Chinese online backlash can be intense and unforgiving. Once a controversy takes off, everyone rushes to distance themselves from it. The fact that OPPO’s brand director became a target, and that even Wuhan University felt compelled to issue a public statement, illustrates this dynamic. At the same time, such overreactions can backfire, especially when an organization emphasizes that it is “not involved” by publicly engaging in the controversy. Sometimes, silence really is golden.

🔍 4. Gender-related marketing in China is a minefield

This episode is another reminder of how difficult it can be for brands to engage with gender-related themes in China. Companies eager to appear youthful and relatable may underestimate just how sensitive these issues are, and how quickly a seemingly playful campaign can turn into a major controversy.

Not Just OPPO: When Gender-Related Marketing Goes Wrong

OPPO is far from alone.

In recent years, language, jokes, and messaging related to gender, feminism, and male-female relationships have become some of the most sensitive issues in Chinese advertising.

In a rapidly changing China, gender roles are evolving, identities are shifting, and ideas about what is considered feminine or masculine are increasingly contested.

Expectations around what female consumers want and what male consumers value are also in flux. Younger and older generations, and especially male and female netizens, often disagree about what is socially acceptable amid women’s growing assertiveness, persistent patriarchal attitudes, and changing global trends.

For advertisers and creative directors, this creates a particularly difficult environment. Brands are trying to tap into consumers’ purchasing power and keep up with shifting social norms, while also staying within the bounds of official values and political priorities. As a result, it is easy to misread the mood and miss the mark.

Campaigns can inadvertently reinforce traditional gender hierarchies, sexualize women, portray men in ways that spark backlash, or rely on outdated stereotypes.

And, as the OPPO case shows, even campaigns that genuinely aim to challenge stereotypes can end up provoking criticism instead.

Below are seven other examples of brand campaigns in China that backfired over the past decade.

💥 #1 Blue Moon: Mother’s Day Marketing Backfires

Marketing campaign (2024): “Let Mom Do the Laundry More Easily”
Main problem: Reinforcing outdated gender stereotypes

China’s household cleaning giant Blue Moon (蓝月亮) also found itself at the center of a marketing controversy after a 2024 Mother’s Day elevator ad campaign promoting its premium laundry detergent with the slogans “Let mom do the laundry more easily” (“让妈妈洗衣更轻松”) and “Mom, you use it first” (“妈妈您先用”).

Many users objected to the message, arguing that it portrayed doing laundry as something that naturally belongs to mothers and reinforced traditional gender stereotypes. As part of a Mother’s Day campaign, critics said the messaging was particularly inappropriate.

As in OPPO’s case, Blue Moon’s crisis management made matters worse. The company’s initial response suggested the controversy was merely a “misunderstanding” and said the campaign was intended to express gratitude to mothers. Many netizens disagreed, arguing that Mother’s Day and mothers doing the laundry had nothing to do with each other.

💥 #2 Fuyanjie: “Too Dark and Stinky”

Marketing campaign (2022): “83% of men are unwilling to go down on their partner because it’s too dark and stinky”
Main problem: Straightforwardly sexist

In 2022, the well-known Chinese feminine hygiene brand Fuyanjie (妇炎洁) promoted a pink-colored intimate wash by claiming that “surveys show that 83% of men from South Korea, Japan, and China are unwilling to go down on their partner because it’s too dark and stinky” (“中日韩三国社会调查显示：83%的男性不愿意给伴侣口爱的原因竟然是太黑太难闻下不去嘴”).

Besides promising to make the genital area pinker, the campaign also suggested that hyperpigmentation could be caused by wearing tight pants and having too much sex.

The brand drew widespread criticism for being vulgar, insulting to women, and completely unscientific. Some netizens suggested that the ad makers should focus on turning their own penises pink instead.

Fuyanjie apologized and took both the campaign and the product offline.

(Remarkably, this was the brand’s second major controversy. In 2016, one of its intimate wash products carried the slogan: “I can’t wash away your past, but I can wash your future clean” (“我不能洗掉你的过去，但我能洗干净你的未来”), a line widely criticized as slut-shaming.)

💥 #3 Coconut Palm: Big Boobs, Short Skirts, and a Marketing Strategy Built on Controversy

Marketing campaign (2022): Busty women in tight tops and shorts dancing on livestream
Main problem: Objectification of women & crossing official lines

During China’s National Day holiday in the 2022 Covid & livestream year, Chinese coconut drink brand Coconut Palm (椰树椰汁) found itself at the center of controversy over a series of promotional streams on Douyin.

The company had already been fined twice by authorities for advertisements and packaging suggesting that drinking Coconut Palm could promote breast enlargement.

The 2022 livestreams featured several attractive, busty women in tight tops and short shorts dancing in front of the camera. The broadcasts drew even more attention when they were repeatedly interrupted and cut off by the platform.

There was little new about the campaign. Coconut Palm’s marketing has revolved around voluptuous women and sexually suggestive slogans for more than 25 years.

One of the company’s most famous slogans was “I’ve been drinking it since I was little” (“我从小喝到大”). While literally meaning “I’ve been drinking it since childhood,” the phrase can also be interpreted as “I grew big [breasts] by drinking it.”

The livestreams reignited debate on Chinese social media about the objectification of women in advertising and online culture. Coconut Palm is the only example on this list where controversy appears to be a core part of the brand’s marketing strategy. And while regulators have repeatedly taken issue with its approach, many consumers seem to appreciate the brand precisely for its refusal to change.

💥 #4 Ubras: “Underwear That Helps Women Win in the Workplace”

&nbsp

Marketing campaign (2021): Underwear so comfortable that it can “help women lie down and win in the workplace”
Main problem: Sexist and offensive

Popular talk show host and comedian Li Dan (李诞) sparked controversy on Chinese social media in 2021 over a promotional slogan for the Chinese women’s underwear brand Ubras. Their slogan (“让女性轻松躺赢职场”) can be loosely translated as “make it easy for women to win in the workplace lying down.”

The phrase was widely interpreted as suggesting that women could use their bodies or sexuality to gain an advantage at work. According to the brand, the intended message was simply that Ubras bras are so comfortable that women could “lie down and win.” The full slogan was: “一个让女性躺赢职场的装备” — “equipment that helps women lie down and win in the workplace.”

Many people felt it was inappropriate not only for a male celebrity to promote women’s underwear, but also for the campaign to draw a connection between lingerie and workplace success.

Ubras and Li Dan both apologized for the “inappropriate wording,” and all related promotional content was removed.

💥 #5 Intel: When a Brand Ambassador Becomes the Controversy

&nbsp

Marketing campaign (2021): “Intel’s standards are even higher than mine when choosing a partner”
Main problem: Caught in China’s gender wars

Tech company Intel sparked controversy in 2021 by appointing Chinese comedian Yang Li (杨笠) as a brand ambassador in China. Yang Li had become a polarizing figure because of her jokes about men, including her famous line: “Men are adorable, but mysterious. After all, they can look so average and yet be so full of confidence.”

In Intel’s campaign, Yang said: “Intel’s standards are so high — even higher than mine when choosing a partner.” (“英特尔的眼光太高了，比我挑对象的眼光都高。”)

The line itself was relatively harmless. What triggered the backlash was Yang’s public persona.

Some male netizens accused Yang of being sexist and argued that Intel, a company selling laptops and computer chips, should not be represented by a comedian known for mocking men — especially when men were seen as a key target audience.

Intel subsequently deleted the advertisement from its social media channels and ended its collaboration with Yang Li.

That decision, however, sparked a second wave of criticism. Many female netizens accused Intel of caving to online pressure and asked what had happened to the company’s commitment to diversity and inclusion. Others mocked Intel for changing its marketing strategy to appease China’s “ordinary yet confident” men.

💥 #6 Juewei Duck Neck: “Tender, Juicy — Want Some?”

&nbsp

Marketing campaign (2017): Sexually suggestive Singles’ Day poster
Main problem: Vulgar and objectifying

Ahead of the 2017 Singles’ Day shopping festival, Chinese snack chain Juewei Duck Neck (绝味鸭脖), one of China’s largest duck neck and marinated meat brands, published a promotional poster on its Tmall store showing a cartoon woman in short shorts lying on a bed with chains around her ankles and her legs spread apart, with one of the company’s products placed in front of her.

The slogan read: “Tender, juicy — want some?” (“鲜嫩多汁，想要吗”). The sexually suggestive image triggered immediate controversy and widespread criticism.

Juewei Duck Neck later issued a nationwide apology, and both the company and the advertising agency responsible for the campaign were fined 600,000 yuan (approximately US$88,000) each.

💥 #7 IKEA: “If You Don’t Bring Back a Boyfriend, Don’t Call Me Mom”

Marketing campaign (2017): Turning parental pressure to marry into a lifestyle ad Main problem: Reinforcing social pressure on unmarried women

A 30-second IKEA commercial sparked controversy in China in 2017 for portraying parental pressure on an unmarried daughter to find a boyfriend.

In the ad, a mother tells her daughter at the dinner table: “If you don’t bring back a boyfriend next time, then don’t call me Mom.” (“再不带男朋友回来，就别叫我妈,”)

The doorbell then rings, and a young man holding flowers appears. The parents immediately brighten, make the living room more welcoming, and set out IKEA tableware for a celebratory meal. The tagline reads: “Celebrate everyday life easily” (“轻松庆祝每一天”).

The ad drew widespread criticism, especially because it aired at a time when many women in China were pushing back against intense social pressure to marry by a certain age. Critics argued that IKEA was trivializing this while reinforcing outdated expectations about marriage and filial duty.

IKEA apologized and removed the commercial.\

Eye on Digital China, by Manya Koetse, is co-published on Substack and What’s on Weibo. Both feature the same new content — so you can read and subscribe wherever you prefer. Substack offers community features, while What’s on Weibo provides full archive access. 

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? In the fast-growing world of China’s AI microdramas, even virtual actors can’t escape reality. As production companies turn them into idols, audiences are voicing discomfort, while the future for human actors looks increasingly uncertain.

– By Ruixin Zhang and Manya Koetse

For Chinese audiences, AI in film and television is nothing new. In the fall of 2023, the first fully AI digital performer in a Chinese domestic drama, the character Erzhuang (二壮) in I Am Nobody (异人之下) sparked debate on Chinese social media.

Some fans, due to Erzhuang’s convincing northeastern Chinese dialect and natural expressions, almost couldn’t believe she wasn’t a real actress.

Erzhuang in I Am Nobody (异人之下) in 2023.

But Erzhuang was just the beginning.

In 2024, China Mythology (中国神话) was promoted by state media as China’s first fully AI-produced short drama series.

A year later, In My Heart, You Are One of a Kind (在我心中，你是独一无二) premiered as Hong Kong’s very first AI-generated short drama, a youth campus romance that sparked further discussion about whether AI actors could actually replace human actors.

From the two AI dramas from 2024 and 2025: China Mythology and In My Heart, You Are One of a Kind.

Those discussions were reignited in late March of this year when Shanghai-based production company Yaoke Media (耀客传媒) introduced two newly signed AI actors, Qin Lingyue (秦凌岳) and Lin Xiyan (林汐颜), who’ll be starring in the fantasy short drama Qinling (秦岭).

Qin Lingyue (秦凌岳) and Lin Xiyan (林汐颜)

Unlike earlier AI figures in microdramas, this high-profile ‘signing’ marks a shift: the company plans to develop these characters as independent IPs, much like human actors. In other words, they are to attract fans both through their on-screen performances and their off-screen ‘personalities.’

Soon after, the two AI actors created their own social media accounts on Douyin and Xiaohongshu, and began cultivating a sense of authenticity and ‘liveness’ (活人感).

A real-looking social media profile.

But as these digital performers and real actors become harder to distinguish, audience discomfort is growing, too.

In China’s microdrama market, AI is already playing a dominant role, with “AI dramas” (AI剧 or AI短剧) standing out as a distinct creative category within the broader industry.

Microdramas, also simply known as short dramas, have been around in China for at least a decade, but have become especially popular in recent years due to their vertical, ultra-short formats, designed for quick mobile viewing and easy ‘binge watching.’ Microdramas typically run for 60 to 100 episodes, but with each episode lasting just one to three minutes, an entire season can be watched in an hour or two.

That format also makes the industry particularly well-suited to AI. It is large, fast-moving, and often operates on limited budgets, with productions turning around quickly. In this environment, using AI-generated effects and AI actors simply makes sense. This is very different from traditional drama production, which typically involves longer timelines, higher budgets, well-known actors, and less room for experimentation.

“AI is no longer just an add-on in China’s drama sector—it is an integral part of the production process”

As a result, AI is no longer just an add-on in China’s short drama sector—it is becoming an integral part of the production process, with digital actors helping to improve efficiency and reduce costs. With the launch of Bytedance’s Seedance 2.0, production costs for AI-generated videos have dropped significantly, further boosting the growth of AI microdramas.

The scale of this shift is already clear: AI microdramas are now often outpacing live-action productions on trending charts. In 2025 alone, one Zhejiang-based production company (刚刚好影视) released 229 AI micro-dramas, generating over 513 million views.

According to Sixth Tone, short dramas featuring AI actors already represented approximately 40% of the top 100 animated short dramas in January 2026.

With AI and microdramas entering a kind of symbiosis, virtual actors are no longer disposable, one-off creations. They are evolving into continuous, persona-driven figures, often designed to resemble real celebrities—much like “fandom-driven actors” (流量演员), whose core function is to monetize fan attachment and sell fantasies rather than just act.

According to Yaoke Media, their plans for Qin Lingyue and Lin Xiyan are similar to those of idol models: they are expected to interact with fans, appear in multiple productions, and eventually become monetizable assets through brand endorsements and image licensing.

This also means they will likely take on the full spectrum of idol labor, including promotional events, fan service, and carefully manufactured on-screen chemistry—sometimes even “queerbaiting” (卖腐). (There’s no perfect English equivalent, but the term refers to deliberately staging romantic interactions between two male characters aimed in particular at a female “danmei” fans or “rotten girls” audiences who like indulging in such fantasies.)

In one AI costume drama, behind-the-scenes clips showed the lead actor and actress “live-streaming” together, answering fan questions, and deliberately hyping up their on-screen chemistry.

“Behind the scenes” livestream screenshots by AI actors.

Such human-coded content is now increasingly becoming an important part of the AI microdrama industry.

Some of these online videos also show the supposed perspective of “fans” and “staff” watching the actors walk around or interacting with them, creating a simulated world that some netizens feel is pushing a sense of “realness,” with comments like: “Please don’t force AI to act so human-like.”

“AI actors featuring in AI dramas that are watched by AI audiences, it’s the perfect closed loop”

For the same AI costume drama, some clips even mimic the perspective of ‘fansite admins’ (站姐)—dedicated fan photographers who typically capture and share candid, off-stage footage of real stars.

In one vlog by a supposed prop assistant, she appears as an overworked but witty crew member, taking viewers around the set, chatting with the leads, buying them coffee, and even stepping in as an extra.

“Behind the scenes” of an AI microdrama.

These glimpses of everyday, behind-the-scenes life all feel oddly real, but everything is AI-generated: the actors, the sets, the audience interactions, the staff, even the paparazzi (see example videos here and here).

For ordinary audiences, it is striking how deeply AI has already penetrated the film & television industry. Beyond criticisms of stiff expressions and rigid aesthetics, many netizens describe the new phenomenon as “uncanny” or “just too real😨.”

With AI actors now realistic enough to pass as human at a glance, but with small details like emotional expression still being off, that gap between being almost human but not quite creates a sense of discomfort among viewers, who dub these AI actors ‘stuffed monsters’ (缝合怪) or ‘stitched-together corpses’ (尸块).

More than the actors, it’s the entire ecosystem around them that makes us believe we’re watching “candid moments” of something that is not even alive. Screenwriter Wang Hailin (汪海林) was sarcastically commented on Weibo: “AI actors featuring in AI dramas that are watched by AI audiences 👍, it’s a perfect closed loop.”

Besides the simulated “aliveness” of digital performers, another controversial issue surrounding the recent rise of China’s AI actors is whether these creations infringe on portrait rights. Since the debut of Qin Lingyue and Lin Xiyan, these AI figures have been criticized for appearing to use facial features from multiple real actors.

As online discussions intensify, more AI actors in microdramas have been found to resemble real celebrities. Fans of beloved Chinese celebrities such as Dilraba Dilmurat (迪丽热巴) and Xiao Zhan (肖战) have taken to Weibo to protest this kind of “face swapping” (AI换脸) and demand protection of their idols’ likenesses.

An “AI face swap” (AI换脸): an AI actor on the left, Xiao Zhan on the right.

Yaoke responded that these images were “derived from massive datasets on the internet” and did not replicate any specific individual’s features.

This only fueled further backlash. To many, the use of “massive data” suggests that anyone, celebrity or ordinary person, could potentially have their image appropriated.

“The vlogger discovered the face swap infringement after a friend recognized his face while watching the AI drama”

In related recent trending news, a Chinese content creator (白菜汉服妆造), who typically wears traditional Chinese clothing in his videos, accused Hongguo (红果短剧), ByteDance’s short drama platform, of using his likeness without authorization to create a greedy villain in the AI-generated drama Taohua Zan (桃花簪).

On the left: greedy villain in the AI-generated drama Taohua Zan. On the right: Chinese content creator (白菜汉服妆造).

The vlogger discovered the face swap infringement after a friend recognized his face while watching the drama. The series was later taken offline.

One problem is that legal frameworks around AI lag behind technological development: by the time victims try to fight back legally, the technology has already moved on, making enforcement almost impossible.

Despite the backlash against the AI-fication of China’s short drama industry, some netizens are more optimistic about its development.

One blogger recently noted that as many people have already formed near friendship-like emotional dependencies on chatbots like ChatGPT—initially seen as cold technological tools—it is entirely possible that audiences will also develop genuine attachment to AI actors.

Current limitations that still make AI actors feel stiff, such as robotic voices or unnatural expressions, will likely diminish as the technology continues to improve.

Some call binging on AI short dramas their “guilty pleasure,” just to watch the AI actors perform. As one Weibo user wrote: “The female characters are just so beautiful—seriously, unbelievably beautiful. And they’re becoming more and more realistic: their facial expressions, especially the way their mouths move, are incredibly precise. Even the makeup looks stylish, and the hair feels very real. I honestly find myself wondering what eyeshadow and mascara they’re using.”

But support for AI performers in China’s drama industry is not limited to guilty pleasures and tech enthusiasts. For some, it also reflects a broader weariness with the perceived lack of quality among human actors.

“If the performances of real actors are already no better than AI, why not use AI actors instead?”

China’s film and television industry’s strong focus on fandom culture and good-looking idols, combined with limited budgets and a lack of formal training, has produced a wave of actors who are widely criticized for poor acting and a lack of professionalism. They are also frequently caught up in controversies, from refusing to memorize lines to relying heavily on green-screen acting.

These criticisms intensified during the 2021 major scandal involving former drama actress Zheng Shuang (郑爽), who had long faced criticism over her acting. A leaked recording at the time revealed she was earning a staggering 2.08 million RMB per day (roughly $320,000 then). Since then, “2.08 million” (208万) has become a derogatory label for fandom-driven actors who get high pays despite low-quality performances.

Amid weak acting and a distorted pay structure, many viewers have been calling for change. A common sentiment is: if their performances are already no better than AI, why not use AI actors, and give real actors a sense of crisis?

But will the use of AI actors actually push the industry to improve human actors, or simply replace them?

Some Chinese industry insiders remain optimistic, arguing that AI can never fully replicate the nuance of human emotion. Among those who have spoken out are A-list actors such as Zhang Ruoyun (张若昀) and Feng Yuanzheng (冯远征), president of the Beijing People’s Art Theatre.

Others, however, are less optimistic.

“China’s “cancel culture” will eventually make AI actors an increasingly attractive bet for industry investors”

Agan Jackie (阿甘Jackie), a streamer working in the film industry, pointed out in a recent podcast that China’s “cancel culture” will eventually make AI actors an increasingly attractive bet for industry investors.

Although there’s “cancel culture” in the Western entertainment industry as well, the moral bar for Chinese celebrities is exceptionally high: anything from tax evasion to littering, simply being rude to fans could destroy an actor’s commercial value. The superstar Fan Bingbing (范冰冰), for example, disappeared from public view after a tax evasion scandal. Even after repaying her debts, she is still effectively banned from mainland productions.

China’s cancel culture is also closely tied to political red lines. One remark or move – intended or not – could end a career overnight. Zhang Zhehan (张哲瀚), an actor who quickly rose to fame a few years ago, vanished from the industry after photos surfaced of him posing near the Japanese Yasukuni Shrine.

For production companies and streaming platforms, such unpredictability creates a high-investment, high-risk environment. “Scandal-proof” AI actors offer a low-risk substitute.

This perhaps also plays a major role in why major streaming platforms such as Tencent and iQiyi are now promoting or encouraging the use of AI actors through AI feature film experiments, with the first fully AI-generated commercial blockbusters expected to be released later this year.

At the recent China TV Drama Production Industry Conference, it became clear that the industry is undergoing something of an earthquake, with major changes ahead: while top actors will continue to function as traffic drivers, demand for human actors is expected to decline, and much of the mid- and lower-tier acting segment (such as extras and body doubles, but also voice actors) could largely disappear as it becomes replaceable by AI.

The microdrama industry, already heavily infiltrated by AI, offers a glimpse of the future of the broader TV and film industry when it comes to digital performers.

Microdrama actress Zhou Ye (周野) recently said that her pay has been slashed by 50% since AI-driven microdramas flooded the market, leaving many more actors jobless. For the 140,000 registered extras at Hengdian World Studios, China’s largest filming base, these developments could have far-reaching consequences.

Sometimes, these actors even sign away their fate—quite literally—as some companies now require “AI authorization” clauses as a condition of employment, effectively selling their digital likeness just to get a job. Companies can then create AI actors based on real individuals. Chinese talent management company Yuxiao Media (聿潇传媒) has introduced six such AI actors, directly modeled on real performers.

“The microdrama industry, already heavily infiltrated by AI, offers a glimpse of the future of the broader TV and film industry when it comes to digital performers”

One of these, influencer Han Anran (韩安冉), openly stated during a livestream that she had sold her likeness rights for AI creation. Playing into public criticism of her acting and heavily altered appearance, she said this was the best way to monetize her image. She even wondered that if her AI doppelganger were ever to win an award, whether she or the AI should go on stage to accept it.

Han Anran (韩安冉) on the left and the AI actress modeled after her on the right.

Perhaps nobody likes to see ordinary actors’ livelihoods being taken over by AI. But despite concerns about shrinking job opportunities, China is unlikely to see Hollywood-like strikes, as it lacks unions or organizations comparable to SAG-AFTRA or the AFL-CIO, which focus on labor representation beyond awards and industry guidelines.

For now, the only collective pushback against the full “AI-fication” of the industry comes from Chinese netizens themselves: boycotting platforms and production companies using AI actors, and voting with their views. Ultimately, only when public demand for realness becomes strong enough to threaten profits—or when laws finally catch up—will there be a sense of security for the people behind the screen—the real ones.

By Ruixin Zhang, with editing and additional context by Manya Koetse

©2026 Eye on Digital China/Whatsonweibo. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce our content without permission – you can contact us at info@whatsonweibo.com.