China Arts & Entertainment
The Wong Kar-wai Scandal Explained: The Dark Side of ‘Blossoms Shanghai’
Whenever reports surfaced about the harsh conditions on Wong Kar-wai’s sets, mainstream media and fans often brushed off his tyrannical habits as the quirks of a genius. This time, it feels different.
Even if you don’t recognize him by face, you most likely know him by name: Wong Kar-wai (王家卫, 1958), the internationally acclaimed Hong Kong movie director.
Director Wong Kar-wai, characteristically in sunglasses. (Image via Iazimao).
In late 2023, Wong Kar-wai released his first television series, Blossoms Shanghai (繁花), which was referred to a being the third part of an informal Wong Kar-wai trilogy that started with his films In the Mood for Love and 2046. Thanks to its superior production quality, star-studded cast, and Wong Kar-wai’s signature visual style, it became one of the most talked-about Chinese TV dramas of the time.
Scenes from Shanghai Blossom.
Adapted from Jin Yucheng’s award-winning novel, Blossoms Shanghai is set in 1990s Shanghai and tells the story of a young man, A Bao (played by Hu Ge 胡歌), who aspires to become a successful businessman and self-made millionaire during China’s booming reform era. The series contrasts the protagonist’s troubled past with the city’s vibrant present—and even sparked a wave of visitors to Shanghai landmarks featured in the show.
“Overnight, the headline “Wong Kar-wai Suspected of Exploiting Employees” became the biggest story in Chinese entertainment news”
However, in September, screenwriter Gu Er (古二，real name Cheng Junnian 程骏年) stirred controversy when he published a post on his WeChat official account, @GuErNewWords (古二新语), accusing Wong Kar-wai and lead writer Qin Wen (秦雯) of serious exploitation during the production of Blossoms Shanghai.
Qin Wen, image via Tencent News.
Overnight, the headline “Wong Kar-wai Suspected of Exploiting Employees” (王家卫《繁花》被爆疑似压榨员工) became the biggest story in Chinese entertainment news.
Gu Er is an experienced young screenwriter. After earning a master’s degree from the New York Film Academy, he returned to China, where he worked in theater and dabbled in online films. Though he never became a household name, he had carved out a modest presence in the entertainment industry.
According to a series of diaries he began sharing on WeChat in 2022, Gu Er first joined the Blossoms production team in 2019.
Example of Gu Er’s writings, where he talked about the difficult conditions of working on the Blossoms production.
He described the experience as “powered purely by love” (用爱发电)—in other words, long hours, meager pay, and sheer passion keeping him afloat. These early posts detailed many interactions with Wong Kar-wai and lead scriptwriter Qin Wen, but since the drama had not yet aired, his satirical, lightly veiled critiques attracted little attention.
“When the credits rolled, Gu Er’s name was nowhere to be found under the screenwriting slot”
In 2023, upon the premiere of the series, Gu Er published an article titled “The Truth Behind the Writing of Blossoms” (《繁花》剧本的创作真相). In it, he claimed to have written substantial portions of the storyline and character arcs—work that, he said, had been personally approved by Wong.
He also shared chat screenshots and presented several key concepts he had pitched, many of which viewers later recognized in the broadcast series.
Yet when the credits rolled, his name was nowhere to be found under the screenwriting slot. Instead, he was listed only as “preliminary editor” (前期责编), buried at the very end of the credits in a position so minor it was almost negligible.
For Gu Er, this was humiliating. He believed that his field research, character development, and story-building should have earned him recognition as at least one of the principal writers. The post sparked some discussion, but once again, the controversy quickly faded.
Cheng Junnian is Gu Er’s real name, and in the later recordings he posted, Wong Kar-wai also called him by his real name.
It wasn’t until September 16, 2025—nearly two years later—that Gu Er released another definitive essay, “My Experience as a Screenwriter for Blossoms: A Summary” (《我给〈繁花〉做编剧的经历——小结》).
This time, he laid bare every painstaking detail of his creative process for the main female character’s storyline. He claimed that the production refused to reimburse any of his research and interview expenses—not even for meals or books. He recalled one particular moment: “Once I spent 100 yuan [$7], and the Hong Kong producer immediately scolded me in public: ‘How does writing cost any money?’”
“It’s just a few thousand yuan; he is an assistant and can also write the script—it’s a bargain”
Besides writing duties, Gu Er said he also had to cook meals and run endless errands for Wong Kar-wai. In fact, Gu Er suffers from Kennedy’s disease, a motor neuron illness similar to ALS but slower in progression. Like ALS patients, he is gradually losing strength in his limbs. The intense, high-pressure work environment on set made his condition much worse. When he first told Wong Kar-wai about his health, Wong allegedly responded with nothing but suspicion: “What do you want from me?”
Gu Er, image from the time he was a guest chef at Dee Hsu’s reality show.
Wong Kar-wai wasn’t the only person Gu Er accused of exploitation. He also named lead screenwriter Qin Wen, one of the most prominent figures in Chinese television, known for hit dramas such as The First Half of My Life (我的前半生) and My Heroic Husband (赘婿). Qin is also credited as the screenwriter of Blossoms. According to Gu Er, once his draft script was handed to Qin Wen, she “made a few revisions,” and it was then presented as her work.
He further alleged that Qin tried to push him out of the production team, but Wong Kar-wai intervened, saying: “It’s just a few thousand yuan; he is an assistant and can also write the script—it’s a bargain.”
This post finally drew widespread attention. While the public was shocked by the alleged misconduct of a beloved director, many also questioned Gu Er’s credibility.
The Blossoms production team quickly issued a statement, asserting that more than 2,000 crew members had all been properly credited, and later clarified that Gu Er had only been part of the early-stage research team.
“The very type of boss you’d be too afraid to confront in your own workplace”
However, netizens began combing through Gu Er’s WeChat account and discovered that, in recent months, he had uploaded a series of audio recordings of conversations among the production staff—including Wong and Qin.
These recordings became crucial evidence in Gu Er’s defense. In one recording, a producer admitted that Qin had used ghostwriters and that several major plotlines had, in fact, been written by Gu Er. She also acknowledged that it would be difficult for him to receive proper credit.
Other tapes revealed the director’s harsh treatment of crew members; in one instance, Gu Er himself was publicly humiliated and accused of being “a dog using its master’s power” (狗仗人势).
On September 22, Gu Er released another recording. This time, it featured Wong Kar-wai and Qin Wen gossiping about several well-known actors; when the conversation ended, they asked Gu Er to serve them their food.
Having studied at Le Cordon Bleu in San Francisco, Gu Er had apparently been cooking for Wong without pay. Netizens were particularly angered by how arrogant and condescending Wong sounded in the recording, which many said reminded them of the very type of boss they had been too afraid to confront in their own workplaces.
At the same time, netizens dug up a 2024 report from Hong Kong’s Ming Pao (明报), which detailed how a female screenwriter’s script for Blossoms had also allegedly been exploited by Wong Kar-wai. That writer, too, reportedly suffered from depression as a result.
“The Gu Er incident is a snapshot of class solidification”
On September 23, Gu Er’s WeChat account was taken down, rendering all of his articles and audio recordings inaccessible.
Since both WeChat and the parent company of Blossoms’ production house, Tencent Pictures, are owned by Tencent, netizens immediately speculated that the platform had silenced Gu Er to contain the scandal. The move only fueled public suspicion that Wong had indeed exploited young writers—and calls grew louder for an official response from Wong Kar-wai.
As the controversy spread, screenwriter Qin Wen posted a denial on Weibo, insisting that she had been slandered.
Oscar-winning cinematographer Peter Pau (鲍德熹), who worked on Blossoms, also weighed in, saying that all responsibilities had been clearly outlined in the contracts and accusing Gu Er of deliberately stirring trouble. Hong Kong director Wong Jing (王晶) likewise voiced his support for Wong Kar-wai.
However, the broader public—the majority of netizens as well as many within the industry—stood by Gu Er.
The film news account Qiangbaoshan (@誓要抢包山) commented that regardless of the exact truth of Gu Er’s claims, it was already alarming and unjust that major figures in the film industry had banded together to discredit him while his own platform was banned.
Commenters on Xiaohongshu wrote thousands of posts in defense of Gu Er, calling the incident “a snapshot of class solidification,” or writing: “I also stand with Gu Er. Either you hire a proper chef, or you clearly define the work. If someone contributes ideas and creativity, then give them the pay and credit they deserve.”
Gu Er’s friend Ma Nong (玛侬) also published an article on her WeChat official account in his defense, sharing new photos of Gu Er at work and on set to prove that he had indeed played an important role in the Blossoms production.
Yet through it all, to this day, Wong Kar-wai himself has not uttered a single word in response.
“Because of his cinematic achievements, the media and fans often laughed off his tyrannical behavior as the eccentric quirks of a genius”
Some netizens, after learning the details, were puzzled by Gu Er’s behavior. They criticized him as weak and overly servile, suggesting that what he faced now was partly the result of his own personality flaws.
Yet this very dynamic may be why the public’s anger toward Wong Kar-wai ran so deep. Wong is arguably one of the most influential directors in Chinese cinema. Works such as In the Mood for Love, Chungking Express, and Happy Together have left an indelible mark on world cinema and inspired generations of filmmakers. For a relative ‘nobody’ like Gu Er, Wong Kar-wai would have seemed an idol—a god-like figure (Gu Er also expressed his love and admiration for Wong in his previous articles). And it may have been precisely this sense of awe and worship that left Gu Er vulnerable to workplace bullying and manipulation.
Wong Kar-wai’s harsh treatment of his actors and crew has actually never been a secret. Famous actors who previously worked with him, such as Leslie Cheung and Tony Leung, have spoken openly about his extreme working methods. After filming Happy Together, Leslie Cheung announced that he would never work with Wong again, later revealing that he felt the director had exploited his sexuality. During the shoot of Ashes of Time (东邪西毒), Cheung nearly died from poisoning in the desert. Even in their earlier collaborations, he was often tormented by Wong’s constant changes and endless demands.
Wong’s obsessive pursuit of his own has repeatedly come at the expense of those around him. While filming The Grandmaster, he reportedly withheld actress Song Hye-kyo’s passport and kept her on set for months, only to use a handful of shots in the final cut.
Yet, because of his cinematic achievements, the media and fans often laughed off his tyrannical behavior as the eccentric quirks of a genius.
After the Gu Er controversy, however, many began to re-examine the man behind the perpetual sunglasses—not as an untouchable auteur, but as an employer accountable for his power. Wong Kar-wai has long been known for procrastination, perfectionism, and “torturing actors,” but the stakes of this reputation now feel different.
Meanwhile, Gu Er’s WeChat account remains banned. It is difficult to imagine why a man already battling a degenerative illness would continue to fight so publicly for recognition, unless he felt he had nothing left to lose.
Writer Shuimuding (水木丁) raised deeper concerns about Gu Er’s desperate, all-or-nothing stance, reminding readers of the darker history of the Chinese film industry, where young talent has been pushed to despair—and sometimes even to death—by powerful figures. The most haunting example is Hu Bo (胡波), the brilliant director of An Elephant Sitting Still (大象席地而坐), who took his own life after facing similar pressures.
This is why the Wong Kar-wai scandal matters. No matter how talented the director, actual exploitation can never be justified for the sake of the project. Perhaps it is time to stop using exceptional artistic talent as an excuse for unacceptable workplace dynamics.
By Ruixin Zhang
Independently covering digital China for over a decade. Like what we do? Support us and get the story behind the hashtag by subscribing:
edited for clarity by Manya Koetse
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Chapter Dive
When an Entertainment Scandal Gets Political: How Wong Kar-wai Survived a Nationalist Storm
The 2025 scandal surrounding Wong Kar-wai shows that public outrage only produces consequences when it aligns with official interests.
It’s safe to say that 2025 wasn’t the best year for Wong Kar-wai (王家卫, 1958), one of the most famous Chinese-language film directors in the world. The Hong Kong movie director is known for classic works like Chungking Express and In the Mood for Love. Besides his work, his iconic sunglasses are also famous – he rarely goes without them and is even nicknamed ‘Sunglasses’ (墨镜) or ‘Sunglass King’ (墨镜王) on Chinese social media.
But this year, discussions about Wong Kar-wai have gone well beyond his talent and looks. He became embroiled in what would turn into one of China’s biggest entertainment scandals of the year after a former staff member set out to expose him for exploitation and misconduct. Once the controversy spilled from entertainment into political territory, however, the dynamics of the story changed entirely.
A Fight for Credit
This story begins with the young Chinese screenwriter Gu Er (古二, real name Cheng Junnian 程骏年). He is the one who publicly accused Wong of exploitation and unethical work standards on social media (a story which we previously covered here).
Gu Er, a New York Film Academy graduate, returned to China after his studies and began building a career. In 2019, he joined the production team of Wong’s popular TV series Blossoms Shanghai, working long hours for meager pay, despite suffering from Kennedy’s disease, a motor neuron illness similar to ALS.
Cheng Junnian 程骏年, better known as Gu Er
In 2023, after the show premiered, Gu posted an article on Chinese social media titled “The Truth Behind the Writing of Blossoms” (《繁花》剧本的创作真相). He argued that he should have been credited as one of the principal writers but was instead listed only as a “preliminary editor,” buried at the end of the credits. The post sparked some discussion, but the controversy quickly faded.
It was not until last September that Gu Er released another essay titled “My Experience as a Screenwriter for Blossoms: A Summary” (我给《繁花》做编剧的经历——小结), which drew widespread attention. In the piece, he accused Wong Kar-wai of exploitation and detailed his creative work on the series, while also claiming that he was required to cook meals and run personal errands for Wong.
At one point, Gu Er describes how lead screenwriter Qin Wen (秦雯) allegedly tried to remove him from the production team after presenting his draft script as her own. According to Gu, Wong Kar-wai responded dismissively: “It’s just a few thousand yuan; he’s an assistant and can also write the script, it’s a bargain!”
Throughout 2025, Gu Er used his WeChat account to document his experiences and to upload audio recordings of conversations with members of the production team, including Wong Kar-wai and Qin Wen. These recordings were presented as evidence supporting his claims of exploitation, verbal abuse, and the denial of screenwriting credit.
In response to the controversy, the official account of the Blossoms Shanghai television series issued multiple statements denying that Gu Er deserved screenwriting credit and accusing him of abusing his position to secretly record private conversations among staff. The production team vowed to take legal action, and Gu Er’s entire WeChat account was soon shut down.
Leaked Recordings and Growing Backlash
Although his WeChat presence was erased, Gu Er refused to stay silent. In early November of 2025, he opened a new Weibo account (@古二新语) and, seemingly burning all of his bridges, continued releasing recordings involving Wong Kar-wai and members of the Blossoms Shanghai production team, triggering an unexpected shockwave over the past few weeks.
Gu Er released a series of audio recordings featuring Wong Kar-wai and others, including screenwriter Qin Wen and her assistant Xu Siyao (许思窈). In some of these recordings, they are heard mocking Gu Er; Qin appears to struggle to recall plot details she allegedly wrote herself; and Xu Siyao openly admits that an important storyline in Blossoms Shanghai originated from Gu Er’s writing.
Visuals from Blossoms Shanghai.
Wong Kar-wai and Qin Wen also spend a surprising amount of time ridiculing figures across the Chinese film and television industry, from respected senior veterans to obscure streaming-film directors, dismissively labeling them as “fake.”
What stunned the public even more were Wong Kar-wai’s crude remarks about actresses. In one recording, he comments on actress Jin Jing’s breasts and jokes, “I must get her” (“我一定要搞金靖”). Jin is not a major star, and in the final cut of Blossoms Shanghai, all of her scenes were removed. In another clip, Wong addresses screenwriter Qin Wen in a sexually suggestive and harassing tone, saying that if she had a body like Jin’s, she would not have “survived” her early years in the industry as a writer, because “I would definitely have taken you” (“我一定收你”).
Qin Wen
After this wave of leaks, the recordings—together with Gu Er’s earlier accusations—spread widely across major Chinese social media platforms. Many netizens expressed disapproval of the misogyny, gossip, and backbiting revealed in the recordings and began reevaluating Wong Kar-wai as a person, as well as his past works. Others questioned the legitimacy of Gu Er’s methods, particularly the recordings and leaks. Legal experts noted that secretly recording conversations could violate privacy laws, and that selectively edited clips might even constitute defamation.
Crossing the Red Line
Then, on November 8, Gu Er released a new recording that fundamentally altered the nature of the incident. The audio features a conversation among Wong Kar-wai, Blossoms Shanghai co-director Li Shuang (李爽), and producer Peng Qihua (彭绮华), in which they discuss COVID controls, Japan, and China’s political system.
In the recording, Wong says that the Communist Party only wants “chives” (jiǔcài, 韭菜) to harvest and describes China as a “greedy one-party state.” In Chinese internet slang, jiǔcài refers to ordinary people who are repeatedly exploited, compared to chives that are cut and grow back, only to be harvested again. When Li mentions his collection of Japanese katanas and samurai outfits, Wong jokes that, given China’s current tensions with Japan, if the collection were discovered, Li would be publicly denounced and paraded, much like during the Cultural Revolution.
Wong even suggested: “If they find [the samurai swords], just put a Chinese flag on them and say you really hate those Japanese devils.”
The Weibo post was deleted within minutes, but the recordings spread quickly.
Nationalist netizens flooded Wong’s comment section, calling him a hànjiān (汉奸, traitor to the Chinese nation), and demanding that he “get out of China.” Some conspiracy-minded users even claimed that the title of Wong’s famous TV series Blossoms (繁花 fánhuā) was intentionally chosen because it sounds like “anti-China” (反华 fǎnhuá), alleging that Wong had embedded a subversive message in the title.
Suddenly, many who had previously viewed the scandal as mere entertainment began taking sides—calling for the show to be taken down and for investigations into Wong, Li, and others involved.
Unusual Twist in a Familiar Script
In China’s public sphere, once criticism touches on the state or the Party, everything becomes more complicated. Many began questioning whether Gu Er had gone too far in leaking these conversations, and whether this was a political terror tactic disguised as personal justice.
Weaponizing nationalism to ruin a public figure is actually nothing new.
Ten years ago, CCTV host Bi Fujian (毕福剑) was recorded at a private dinner mocking Mao Zedong and was immediately fired, vanishing from public life. In 2021, actor Zhang Zhehan (张哲瀚) was canceled after taking photos near the controversial Yasukuni Shrine in Tokyo—a site that honors Japan’s war dead, including convicted war criminals. In 2022, writer Yan Geling (严歌苓) was erased from the Chinese internet almost overnight after calling Xi Jinping a “human trafficker” in commentary about a trafficking case.
Given this history, and the fact that Wong has remained silent since the leaks began, mainland audiences now fear that Wong Kar-wai could join China’s celebrity “blacklist.” Some even worry they might never see In the Mood for Love again, others fear a broadcast ban for Blossoms.
Will Wong Kar-wai become the Next Bi Fujian? All past punishment-for-speech cases have followed a familiar script: a leak emerges, nationalists erupt, official mouthpieces like Xinhua step in to shape the narrative, and punishment follows swiftly. In Bi Fujian’s case, for example, the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection issued a public condemnation within a week.
But this time, although nationalists are already outraged on social media and calling for Wong’s “anti-China” remarks to be punished, not a single major central media outlet has echoed their anger. In fact, shortly after Gu released the new recordings, the Blossoms team issued a statement accusing him of fabrication and malicious slander—and The Paper, a state-affiliated Shanghai outlet, amplified it. That was the first signal of how authorities might lean.
Too Valuable to Cancel?
Does this all mean China has become more tolerant of political criticism? Is the red line for what can and can’t be said shifting? Some believe the only reason Wong escaped harsher consequences is that he didn’t mention specific leaders by name, which is the quickest way to get into serious trouble. While that’s plausible, another reason may carry more weight: Wong Kar-wai is useful to the state’s cultural agenda.
Despite the comments in the recordings, Wong’s stance toward the authorities is not overtly hostile. In recent years, he has cooperated with state-backed projects. Blossoms, in particular, is part of Shanghai’s cultural branding campaign, with full support from Party-led propaganda departments. It received major state funding and was included as a central project on CCTV’s 2024 slate.
Wong is also a globally recognized auteur with real prestige in the West, making him valuable to China’s propaganda strategy of “telling China’s story well” (讲好中国故事).
Dropping such a cultural asset over a scandal stirred up by a disgruntled writer would be politically and culturally costly. This might explain why the official response has been unusually mild.
Many observers mistakenly assume that in China, once public outrage reaches a certain level, authorities will respond accordingly. But that’s only true when popular opinion and official interests are aligned. When they’re not—when the Party-state sees strategic value in protecting someone—public outcry changes nothing. If the Party believes Wong is worth keeping, then some of his comments will simply be forgiven.
The Cost of Speaking Out
At the center of this entire story is Gu Er. Was he wrong to weaponize nationalist outrage? Were his methods excessive or dangerous? Reactions are mixed. Some argue that leaking private recordings (especially political ones) is troubling and contributes to a climate of fear and self-censorship. Others sympathize, believing that Gu Er, who has suffered so much both physically and emotionally, shouldn’t be judged too harshly.
In the well-known Fanpai Yingping (反派影评) podcast, film journalist Bomi argued that Gu didn’t intentionally politicize the conflict; rather, he was responding within a system that had already politicized his case. Wong’s team never approached the issue as a civil labor dispute. They had enough opportunities to negotiate or settle, but instead, but chose not to . Perhaps it was arrogance. Or perhaps a confidence that the show, backed as a state-supported “main melody” (主旋律) production tied to enormous interests, would never be abandoned.
There seems to have been a clear mission to silence Gu Er. After shutting down his WeChat account, members of staff allegedly tried to intimidate him by visiting the house of his 90-year-old grandmother to deliver legal letters.
In the November 8 statement by the team, they accused him of “inciting social division” (“煽动社会对立”) and “manipulating negative emotions” (“诱导负面情绪”) and claimed he was “evading domestic legal investigation” (“逃避国内司法调查和认定”) by staying overseas—all language that is reminiscent of official state announcements. Some netizens even suggested it evoked the tone of old-school ideological and political denunciation—strong on rhetoric but lacking in substantive legal action. They frame this entire story into the context of a powerful production crew violating labor law treating a powerless writer like a political criminal.
The repercussions of this controversy are far from over, and to what extent it will have consequences for both Wong Kar-wai and Gu Er remains to be seen. Will Wong ever speak out? Will Gu Er be silenced forever?
Regardless, it is clear that Wong’s reputation has suffered. Long regarded as a “hero” of Chinese cinema, this incident has changed how many in mainland China now perceive the famous “Sunglasses.” Some call him a misogynist; others denounce him for exploiting staff. Still others see him as a hypocrite, suggesting that although he criticizes authoritarianism in the leaked recordings, he operates and thrives within that very system. One Weibo commenter wrote that the “Sunglasses King turned out to be the villain of the story.”
Although Gu Er has also received criticism for his actions, he has encouraged others through his insistence on standing up to those in power who bullied and discredited him. Recently, another screenwriter posted on Xiaohongshu about a similar experience: after independently completing the full script for a Chinese drama, he discovered that the boss had listed themself as Head Screenwriter in the end credits. The post was tagged “Gu Er” and received hundreds of comments, with many users sharing their own stories of being exploited as scriptwriters.
Even turning the dispute into a political issue failed to bring Gu Er any justice or revenge on his exploitative former employer. Still, he has gained something else: recognition from others, for whom his resistance has become a source of inspiration. Even if it was not the kind of recognition he originally sought, Gu Er still gets his credit in the end.
By Ruixin Zhang edited for clarity by Manya Koetse
Independently covering digital China for over a decade. Like what we do? Support us and get the story behind the hashtag by subscribing:
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China Celebs
Quiet Nationalism, Loud Statements, and Nanjing Memorial Day
From war memory to viral eggs, salty cakes, an unfortunate dinner party and farewell to an iconic actress.
🔥 China Trend Watch — Week 50 (2025)
Part of Eye on Digital China. This edition was sent to paid subscribers — subscribe to receive the next issue in your inbox.
I’ve rounded up my latest China trip that brought me from Chongqing to Nanjing, Wuhan, Zaozhuang and Beijing, for some of my research on Chinese remembrances of war. Along the way, I have met many friendly people and had interesting converations, from hanging out with a group of Wuhan teenagers to lively conversations with retired seniors in Shandong.
A small and short personal observation, if I may, regarding the current tensions between China and Japan.
I vividly remember the atmosphere on the streets during earlier moments when tensions ran sky-high—most notably in 2012, after a major diplomatic crisis erupted over Japan’s nationalization of several disputed Senkaku/Diaoyu Islands. That episode triggered large-scale anti-Japanese protests across China and spilled unmistakably into everyday life. In Beijing’s Sanlitun area, for instance, there was a street food vendor who put up a large sign proclaiming, “The Diaoyu Islands belong to China.” In the hutong neighborhoods, it seemed as though virtually every household had hung a Chinese flag by its door. Books about Japan that I purchased locally later turned out to have entire pages ripped out. My favorite sushi restaurant suddenly displayed a sign explaining that its brand was, in fact, very Chinese and had nothing to do with Japan. Nearby, in the clothing markets around the Beijing Zoo, T-shirts bearing nationalistic slogans related to the islands dispute were on sale at multiple stalls.
By contrast, during my most recent stay in Nanjing and beyond—despite the increasingly militant tone of state media and social media campaigns surrounding Japan, and despite the undeniable persistence of anti-Japanese sentiment—I noticed far fewer visible expressions of it in daily life. There were no slogan T-shirts, no banners, no overt street-level signaling. While news came out that a string of Japanese performances in China were canceled, I noticed hotel waitress fully dressed in a Japanese kimono at an in-house Japanese restaurant. Local bookstores are filled with works by Japanese authors, and Japanese popular culture appear to be thriving and coexisting comfortably with China’s own flourishing ACG (anime, comics, and games) industry.
Is there simply less anti-Japanese sentiment than over a decade ago? Or is it, perhaps, that in today’s highly digitalized Xi Jinping era, nationalist narratives are more tightly managed and increasingly channeled online—making people more cautious, more restrained, or simply less inclined to express political sentiments openly in public space?
A cab driver in Chongqing told me he believed there was “something wrong” with Japanese Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi and the influence she has had on bilateral relations since her rise to power. While supporting his government’s tough stance and expressing sadness over the scars left by war, he also mentioned that he had enjoyed a pleasant conversation earlier that same morning with a young Japanese man he had driven to the train station.
“We didn’t talk about the latest clash,” he said. “If find that too sensitive to mention. He spoke Chinese, he studied Chinese, like you. I don’t hate today’s Japanese people at all. In the end, we’re all just people. What’s happening now is something between the leadership.”
He spoke at length while driving me to the station, signaling that the topic clearly weighed on him. It left me with the sense that the absence of banners or T-shirts does not mean the issue has faded from everyday life, only that it is not expressed as a mass spectacle like it was in earlier years. It has become quieter, more online, and more filtered through official narratives, but it is still very much alive.
There is a lot more to say, but it is Sunday after all, and there is plenty more to read here, so let’s dive in.
- 🍓 Chinese consumers were pretty salty this week when discovering their pricey strawberry cake from Alibaba supermarket chain Hema (盒马) tasted all wrong. Hema acknowledged a production issue (they didn’t say it outright, but salt was allegedly used instead of sugar) and the incident triggered discussions about food safety & quality control in automated food production, especially when such a major mistake happens at high-profile companies.
- 🌡️ China’s announced ban on mercury thermometers (as of Jan 1st 2026) has sparked a buying frenzy, as many consumers, reluctant to switch to electronic alternatives, still prefer mercury models for their perceived accuracy and convenience. Despite nearly half of annual mercury poisoning cases being linked to broken thermometers, prices have now surged from around 4 yuan ($0.6) to over 30 yuan ($4.25), and stores have reported complete sellouts.
- ❄️ Beijing welcomed its first snowfall of winter 2025 this week, leading to lovely social media pics and the Beijing Palace Museum tickets selling out instantly. Experiencing and capturing that first snowfall at the Forbidden City has become somewhat of a holy grail on social media.
- 🕵️♂️ A local construction site in Shanghai unexpectedly became the scene of a modern-day treasure hunt after dozens of residents armed with shovels and metal detectors rushed to the area following online rumors that silver coins (including valuable older ones) had been found. Authorities had to intervene and, while not confirming the rumors, emphasized that any buried cultural relics belong to the state.
- 🇷🇺 Since this month, Chinese citizens can enter Russia visa-free for up to 30 days, a policy that led Chinese state media to claim that “Russia is replacing Japan as a new favorite among Chinese tourists.” On social media, however, the vibe is different, with travelers complaining about high prices, poor internet, lack of online payments, unreliable ATMs, and the need for thorough trip preparation — all reasons why Russia is unlikely to become the go-to destination for the Chinese New Year.
- 🫏 An investigation by Beijing Evening News revealed that many of the capital’s popular donkey meat sandwich shops are actually serving horse meat without informing customers. China’s donkey shortage — driven by declining domestic supply, rising demand for the traditional Chinese medicine Ejiao (which uses donkey hides), and an African export ban — has been a hot topic this year. Now that it’s directly affecting a beloved delicacy, the issue is drawing even more public attention.
1. Why This Year’s Nanjing Memorial Day Felt Different
Posters published by various Chinese state media outlets to commemorate the Nanjing Massacre.
December 13 marked the 88th anniversary of the fall of Nanjing, and this year’s Nanjing Memorial Day (南京大屠杀难者国家公祭日), although described as a low-key commemoration by foreign media, was trending all over Chinese social media.
During the Second Sino-Japanese War, on December 12, 1937, the Japanese army attacked Nanjing from various directions, and defending Chinese forces suffered heavy casualties. A day later, the city was captured. It marked the beginning of a six-week-long massacre filled with looting, arson, and rape, during which, according to China’s official data, at least 300,000 residents, including children, elderly, and women, were brutally murdered.
This year, the Nanjing Massacre Memorial Day, which was first officially held as a state-level event in 2014, carried extra weight. This dark chapter of history has continuously been a sensitive topic in Sino-Japanese relations, but with recent diplomatic tensions between the two countries reaching new heights, the Memorial Day was especially tied to current-day relations between China and Japan and to Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi, who has been described by Chinese media as an “ultranationalist” with tendencies to downplay Japan’s wartime aggression. Takaichi’s November 2025 parliamentary statement that a Chinese military action against Taiwan could be considered a “survival-threatening situation” for Japan, allowing for the deployment of its Self-Defense Forces, continues to fuel Chinese anger.
The link between history and current-day bilateral relations was visible not only on social media, but also during the commemoration itself, where Shi Taifeng (石泰峰), head of the ruling Communist Party’s Organization Department, said that any attempt to revive militarism and challenge the postwar international order is “doomed to fail.”
Besides the many online posters disseminated by Chinese official accounts on social media focusing on mourning, quiet commemoration, and honoring the lives of the 300,000 Chinese compatriots killed in Nanjing, one official online visual stood out for displaying a louder and more aggressive message—namely that posted by the official Weibo account of the Eastern Theater Command of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army (@东部战区).
The visual posted by the PLA Eastern Theater Command, titled: Rite of the Great Saber (大刀祭).
The visual showed a strong hand holding a giant blood-stained blade that is beheading a skeleton wearing a helmet marked “militarism,” with images related to the Nanjing Massacre visible on the blade and, behind it, a map of East Asia. The number “300000” appears in red, dripping like blood. At the top, the characters read “Rite of the Great Saber” or “The Great Saber Sacrifice” (大刀祭).
The official account explained the visual, writing: “(…) 88 years have passed and the blood of the heroic dead has not yet dried, [yet] the ghost of militarism is making a comeback. Each year, on National Memorial Day, a deafening alarm is sounded, reminding us that we must—at all times hold high the great saber offered in blood sacrifice, resolutely cut off filthy heads, never allow militarism to return, and never allow historical tragedy to be repeated.”
The text’s “cut off filthy heads” phrasing is similar to part of a now-deleted tweet sent out last month by the Chinese Consul General in Osaka, Xue Jian (薛剑), who responded to Takaichi’s controversial Taiwan remarks by writing (in Japanese): “If you come charging in on your own like that, there’s nothing to do but cut that filthy neck down without a moment’s hesitation. Are you prepared?” (“勝手に突っ込んできたその汚い首は一瞬の躊躇もなく斬ってやるしかない。覚悟が出来ているのか。”)
The recent visuals, social media approach, and shifts in texts reflect a clear change in tone in Chinese official discourse regarding Japan and the memory of war, moving the narrative from victimhood toward a more confrontational and militant tone.
2. He Qing, China’s “No. 1 Classical Beauty”, Passes Away at 61
He Qing. Images on the sides: the four famous roles in China’s most iconic tv dramas.
China’s “No. 1 Classical Beauty” (古典第一美女), He Qing (何晴), who starred in all four of China’s most beloved and canonical television dramas, passed away on Saturday at the age of 61. On December 14, news of the famous actress’s passing was trending across virtually all Chinese social media apps.
Born in 1964 into an artistic family in Jiangshan, Zhejiang Province, He Qing received traditional Chinese opera (Kunqu) training at the Zhejiang Kunqu Opera Troupe. Her debut in the entertainment industry may have come by chance, as she reportedly once met Chinese director Yang Jie (杨洁) on a train, which led to her joining the production of Journey to the West (西游记), where she played Lingji Bodhisattva (灵吉菩萨).
In China, He Qing is remembered as a veteran actress in much the same way that some famous Hong Kong actresses became renowned for their beauty, iconic roles, and for essentially becoming household names. More than just glitter and glamour, He Qing was especially a symbol of classical Chinese beauty and literary culture. She was the only actress to star in screen adaptations of all four of China’s “Four Great Classical Novels” (演遍四大名著): besides Journey to the West (西游记, 1986), she also appeared in Dream of the Red Chamber (红楼梦, 1987), Romance of the Three Kingdoms (三国演义, 1994), and Water Margin (水浒传, 1998).
She was married to fellow actor Xu Yajun (许亚军), with whom she had a son, Xu He (许何). Although the two later divorced, she remained close to her ex-husband and even befriended his new (and fourth) wife, Zhang Shu (张澍).
In 2015, He Qing was diagnosed with a brain tumor. After her diagnosis, she withdrew from the entertainment industry to focus on her recovery and lived a low-key life in her later years.
Her passing has prompted an outpouring of tributes from Chinese netizens and colleagues in the entertainment industry. Mourning her loss comes with a sense of nostalgia for the past, and many have praised He Qing for her timeless beauty and authenticity, which will be remembered long after her passing.
3. And Then There Were None: Dinner Party of Ten Leaves One Man with the Bill
Ten dine together, nine slip away..one left for the bill, who he refused to pay…
Do you know that nursery rhyme where ten little soldiers disappear one by one until none remain at the end? That is more or less what happened earlier this month in Chongqing, when ten people dined together at a restaurant, but—once it came time to pay—nine people left one by one.
One had to answer a phone call, another had to use the restroom, and in the end, just before midnight, only Mr. Zhang was left, facing a bill of 1,262 yuan ($180), which he refused to pay. He argued that he could not afford it and that the dinner party hadn’t been initiated by him at all; as merely a participant, the bill shouldn’t have been his responsibility.
After the restaurant called the police, the organizer of the dinner was contacted. But he, too, said he couldn’t pay. Through police mediation, Mr. Zhang then wrote a written commitment promising to pay the bill the following day and left his ID as collateral, but he still failed to make the payment.
By now, the restaurant is planning to sue and has also contacted the Chinese media. According to Zhang, who apparently has been unable to contact his “friends” to collect the money: “I did make the promise, but if I pay the money, wouldn’t that make me a sucker?” (“我的确承诺了，但你说我把钱付了，我是不是冤大头啊”)
As the story went completely viral (by now, even Hu Xijin has weighed in) comment sections filled with broader social reflections on alcohol-fueled group gatherings and unclear payment rules, where one person sometimes ends up paying for everything despite feeling it wasn’t their role to do so. In this era of digital payments, many argue it should be easy enough to go Dutch and settle the bill immediately via a group payment app.
Although Zhang is seen by some as a victim, others argue that he is still a “sucker” for not paying after having promised to do so. As one commenter put it: “Out of the ten of them, not a single one is a good person.”
Real Person Vibes [活人感 (huóréngǎn)
Every December, the ten most popular buzzwords, key terms, or expressions of the year are listed by the Chinese linguistics magazine Yǎowén Jiáozì (咬文嚼字), selecting words that reflect present-day society and changing times. Each year, the list goes trending and is widely disseminated by Chinese media.
This week, the 2025 list was released, including terms such as Digital Nomads 数字游民 (shù zì yóu mín), Sū Chāo (苏超), referring to the hugely popular amateur Jiangsu Super League football competition, and “Pre-made ××” (预制, yù zhì), following a year filled with discussions about pre-fab and pre-made food (see article).
My favorite word on the list is “Real-Person Vibes” (活人感 huó rén gǎn). The term literally consists of three characters meaning “living – human – feeling,” and it describes people, stories, or things that feel unpolished, spontaneous, and unfiltered—something that has become increasingly relevant in a year dominated by AI-generated content and visuals.
Amid over-curated feeds and AI-produced text, we crave huóréngǎn: authenticity, small imperfections, and liveliness as an antidote to a digital, artificial world.
The 9:12 Boiled Egg That Took Over Douyin
How do you get a perfect boiled egg? A Douyin user known as “Loves Eating Eggs” (爱吃蛋) has become all the rage after leaving a precise comment on how to boil eggs. His advice: First boil the water, then add the eggs, boil for exactly 9 minutes and 12 seconds, remove, and immediately run under cold water.
That simple tip catapulted his follower count from around 200 to over 3.5 million in a single week (I just checked—he’s up to 4.2 million now).
The new viral hit is a 24-year-old self-proclaimed egg expert (of course, his English nickname should be the Eggxpert). He claims to have eaten 40 eggs a day for the past five years and knows exactly how every second of boiling, frying, or stirring affects an egg. He regularly posts videos showing eggs cooked for different lengths of time.
It has earned him the nicknames “Egg God” (蛋神) and “Boiled Egg Immortal” (煮蛋仙人), and has sent boiled eggs (9 minutes and 12 seconds exactly) all over social media feeds.
Thanks for reading this Eye on Digital China China Trend Watch. For slower-moving trends and deeper structural analysis, keep an eye on the upcoming newsletters.
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Many thanks to Miranda Barnes for helping curate some of the topics in this edition.
— Manya
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