PREMIUM NEWSLETTER | ISSUE #47

Dear Reader,

These days, everybody is talking about Ne Zha 2 (哪吒2:魔童闹海), the recent hit film about one of China’s most legendary mythological heroes. With its spectacular visuals, epic battles, funny characters, dragons and deities, and moving scenes, the Chinese blockbuster animation is breaking all kinds of records and has gone from the major hit of this year’s Spring Festival film season to the 7th highest-grossing movie of all time and, with its 13.8 billion yuan ($1.90 billion USD) box office success, now also holds the title of the most successful animated film ever worldwide.

But there is so much more behind this movie than box office numbers alone. There is a collective online celebration surrounding the film, involving state media, brands, and netizens. On Weibo, a hashtag about the movie crossing the 10 billion yuan ($1.38 billion) milestone (#哪吒2破100亿#) has been viewed over a billion times. Social media timelines are filled with fan art, memes, industry discussions, and box office predictions.

The success of Ne Zha 2 is not just a win for China’s animation industry but for “Made in China” productions as a whole. Some argue that Ne Zha‘s triumph is not just cultural but also political, reinforcing China’s influence on the global stage and tying it to the ongoing US-China rivalry: after growing its power in military strength, technology, and AI, China is now making strides in cultural influence as well.

In a recent Weibo post, state broadcaster CCTV also suggested that Hollywood has lost its monopoly over the film industry and should no longer count on the Chinese market—the world’s second-largest movie market—for its box office dominance.

Various images from “Ne Zha 2” 哪吒2:魔童闹海

The success of Ne Zha 2 mainly resonates so deeply because of the past failures and struggles of Chinese animation (donghua 动画). For years, China’s animation industry struggled to compete with American animation studios and Japanese anime, while calls grew louder to find a uniquely Chinese recipe for success—to make donghua great again.

 
🔹 The Chinese Animation Dream
 

A year ago, another animated film was released in China—and you probably never heard of it. That film was Ba Jie (八戒之天蓬下界), a production that embraced Chinese mythology through the story of Zhu Bajie, the half-human, half-pig figure from the 16th-century classic Journey to the West (西游记). Ba Jie was a blend of traditional Chinese cultural elements with modern animation techniques, and was seen as a potential success for the 2024 Spring Festival box office race. It took eight years to go from script to screen.

But it flopped.

The film faced numerous setbacks, including significant production delays in the Covid years, limited showtime slots in cinemas, and, most importantly, a very cold reception from the public. On Douban, China’s biggest film review platform, many top comments criticized the movie’s unpolished animation and special effects, and complained that this film—like many before it—was yet another Chinese animation retelling a repetitive story from Journey to the West, one of the most popular works of fiction in China.

“Another mythological character, the same old story,” some wrote. “We’re not falling for low-quality films like this anymore.”

The frustration wasn’t just about Ba Jie—it was about China’s animation industry as a whole. Over the past decade, the quality of Chinese animation films has become a much-discussed topic on social media in China—sometimes sparked by flops, and other times by hits.

Besides Ba Jie, one of those flops was the 2018 The King of Football (足球王者), which took approximately 60 million yuan ($8.8 million) to make, but only made 1.8 million yuan ($267,000) at the box office.

Both Ba Jie, which took years to reach the screen, and King of Football, a high-budget animation, ended up as flops.

One of those successes was the 2019 first Ne Zha film (哪吒之魔童降世), which became China’s highest grossing animated film, or, of the same year, the fantasy animation White Snake (白蛇:缘起), a co-production between Warner Bros and Beijing-based Light Chaser Animation (also the company behind the Ne Zha films). These hits
showed the capabilities and appeal of made-in-China donghua, and sparked conversations about how big changes might be on the horizon for China’s animation industry.

“The only reason Chinese people don’t know we can do this kind of quality film is because we haven’t made any good stories or good films yet,” White Snake filmmaker Zhao Ji (赵霁) said at the time: “We have the power to make this kind of quality film, but we need more opportunities.”

More than just entertainment, China’s animated films—whether successes or failures—have come to symbolize the country’s creative capability. Over the years, and especially since the widespread propagation of the Chinese Dream (中国梦)—which emphasizes national rejuvenation and collective success—China’s ability to produce high-quality donghua with a strong cultural and artistic identity has become increasingly tied to narratives of national pride and soft power. A Chinese animation dream took shape.

 
🔹 The “Revival” of China’s Animation Industry
 

A key part of China’s animation dream is to create a 2.0 version of the “golden age” of Chinese animation.

This high-performing era, which took place between 1956 and 1965, was led by the Shanghai Animation Film Studio. While China’s leading animators were originally inspired by American animation (including Disney’s 1937 Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs), as well as German and Russian styles, they were committed to developing a distinctly Chinese animation style—one that incorporated classical Chinese literature, ink painting, symbolism, folk art, and even Peking opera.

Some of the most iconic films from this era include The Conceited General (骄傲的将军, 1956), Why Crows Are Black (乌鸦为什么是黑的, 1956), and most notably, Havoc in Heaven (大闹天宫, 1961 & 1964). Focusing on the legendary Monkey King, Sun Wukong (孙悟空), Havoc in Heaven remains one of China’s most celebrated animated films. On Douban, users have hailed it as “the pride of our domestic animation.”

One of China’s most renowned animation masters, Te Wei (特伟), once explained that the flourishing of China’s animation industry during this golden era was made possible by state support, a free creative atmosphere, a thriving production system, and multiple generations of animators working together at the studio.

Still from Havoc in Heaven 大闹天宫 via The Paper.

➡️ So what happened to the golden days of Chinese animation?

The decline of this golden era was partly due to the political turmoil of the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976). While there was a second wave of successful productions in the late 1970s and 1980s, the industry lost much of its ‘magic touch’ in the 1990s and 2000s. During this period, Chinese animation studios were pressured to prioritize commercial value, adhere to strict content guidelines, and speed up production to serve the rising domestic TV market—while also taking on outsourcing work for overseas productions.

As the quality and originality of domestic productions lagged behind, the market came to be dominated by imported (often pirated) foreign animations. Japanese series like Astro Boy, Doraemon, and Chibi Maruko-chan became hugely influential among Chinese youth in the 1990s. The strong reaction in China to the 2024 death of Japanese manga artist Akira Toriyama, creator of Dragon Ball, also highlighted the profound impact of Japanese animation on the Chinese market.

This foreign influence also changed viewers’ preferences and aesthetic standards, and many Chinese animations adopted more Japanese or American styles in their creations.

However, this foreign ‘cultural invasion’ was not welcomed by Chinese authorities. As early as 1995, President Jiang Zemin reminded the Shanghai Animation Film Studio of the ideological importance of animation, emphasizing that China needed its “own animated heroes” to serve as “friends and examples” for Chinese youth.

By the early 2010s, the revitalization and protection of China’s animation industry became a national priority. This was implemented through various policies and incentives, including government funding, tax reductions and exemptions for Chinese animation companies, national animation awards, stipulations for the number of broadcasted animations that must be China-made. Additionally, there was an increased emphasis on animation as a tool for cultural diplomacy, focusing on how Chinese animation should reflect national values and history while maintaining global appeal.

It’s important to note that the so-called ‘rejuvenation’ of Chinese animation is not just a cultural and ideological project, there are economic motives at stake too: China’s animation industry is a multi-billion dollar industry.

 
🔹 “Are We Ne Zha or the Groundhogs?”
 

The huge success of Ne Zha 2 is seen as a new milestone for Chinese animation and as inspiration for audiences. The film took about five years to complete, reportedly involving 140 animation studios and over 4,000 staff members. The film was written and overseen by director Yang Yu (杨宇), better known as Jiaozi (饺子).

The story is all based on Chinese mythology, following the tumultuous journey of legendary figures Nezha (哪吒) and Ao Bing (敖丙), both characters from the 16th-century classic Chinese novel Investiture of the Gods (Fengshen Yanyi, 封神演义). Unlike Ba Jie or other similar films, the narrative is not considered repetitive or cliché, as Ne Zha 2 incorporates various original interpretations and detailed character designs, even showcasing multiple Chinese dialects, including Sichuan, Tianjin, and Shandong dialects.

One of the film’s unexpected highlights is its clan of comical groundhogs. In this particularly popular scene, Nezha engages in battle against a group of groundhogs (土拨鼠), led by their chief marmot (voiced by director Jiaozi himself). Amid the fierce conflict, most of the groundhogs are hilariously indifferent to the fight itself; instead, they are focused on protecting their soup bowls and continuing to eat—until they are ultimately hunted down and captured.

Nezha and the clan of groundhogs.

Besides fueling the social media meme machine, the groundhog scene actually also sparked discussions about social class and struggle. Some commentators began asking, “Are we Ne Zha or the groundhogs?”

Several blogs, including this one, argued that while many Chinese netizens like to identify with Nezha, they are actually more like the groundhogs; they don’t have powerful connections nor super talents. Instead, they are hardworking, ordinary beings, struggling to survive as background figures, positioned at the bottom of the hierarchy.

One comment from a film review captured this sentiment: “At first, I thought I was Nezha—turns out, I’m just a groundhog” (“开局我以为自己是哪咤，结果我是土拨鼠”).

The critical comparisons between Nezha and the groundhogs became politically sensitive when a now-censored article by the WeChat account Fifth Two-Six District (第五二六区) suggested that many Chinese people are so caught in their own information bubbles and mental frameworks that they fail to grasp how the rest of the world operates. The article said: “The greatest irony is that many people think they are Nezha—when in reality, they’re not even the groundhogs.”

While some see a parallel between Nezha’s struggles and their own hardships, others interpret the film’s success as a symbol of China’s rise on the global stage—particularly because the story is so deeply rooted in Chinese culture, literature, and mythology. This has led to an alternative perspective: rather than remaining powerless like the groundhogs, perhaps China—and its people—are transforming into the strong and rebellious Nezha, taking control of their destiny and rising as a global force.

Far-fetched or not, it’s an idea that continues to surface online, along with many other detailed analyses of the film. The nationalist Chinese social media blogger “A Bad Potato” (@一个坏土豆) recently wrote in a Weibo post:
“We were once the groundhog, but today, nobody can make us kneel!” (“我们曾经是土拨鼠，但是今天，没有任何人可以让我们跪下！”)

In another post, the blogger even dragged the Russia-Ukraine war into the discussion, arguing that caring too much about the powerless “groundhogs,” those struggling to survive, does not serve China’s interest. He wrote:

“(..) whether Russia is righteous or evil does not concern me at all. I only care about whether it benefits our great rejuvenation—whoever serves our interests, I support. Only the “traitors” speak hypocritically about love and justice. Speaking about freedom and democracy that we don’t even understand, they wish Russia collapses tomorrow but don’t care if that would lead to us being surrounded by NATO. So, in the end—are we Ne Zha, or are we the groundhog?”

One line from the film that has gained widespread popularity is: “If there is no path ahead, I will carve one out myself!” (“若前方无路，我就踏出一条路!”). Unlike the more controversial groundhog symbolism, this phrase resonates with many as a reflection not only of Nezha’s resilience but also of the determination that has been driving China’s animation industry forward.

The story of Ne Zha 2 goes beyond box office numbers—it represents the global success of Chinese animation, a revival of its golden era, and China’s growing cultural influence. Yet, paradoxically, it’s also all about the numbers. While the vast majority of its earnings come from the domestic market, Ne Zha 2 is still officially a global number-one hit. More than its actual reach worldwide, what truly matters in the eyes of many is that a Chinese animation has managed to surpass the US and Japan at the box office.

While the industry still has room to grow and many markets to conquer, this milestone proves that part of the Chinese animation dream has already come true. And with Ne Zha 3 set for release in 2028, the journey is far from over.

Best,
Manya
(@manyapan)

Some of the research referenced in this text can also be found in an article I published in 2019: The Chinese Animation Dream: Making Made-in-China ‘Donghua’ Great Again. For further reading, see:
►Du, Daisy Yan. 2019. Animated Encounters: Transnational Movements of Chinese Animation, 1940s-1970s. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.
►Lent, John A. and Xu Ying. 2013. “Chinese Animation: A Historical and Contemporary Analysis.” Journal of Asian Pacific Communication 23(1): 19-40.
►Saito, Asako P. 2017. “Moe and Internet Memes: The Resistance and Accommodation of Japanese Popular Culture in China.” Cultural Studies Review 23(1), 136-150.

What’s on Weibo Chapters

🚀 In 2025, international media are more focused on Chinese social media apps than ever, especially after January’s “TikTok refugee” phenomenon, where waves of American TikTok users migrated to China’s Xiaohongshu app. This foreign focus on China’s online landscape also highlights some lingering misconceptions, with major media outlets still trying to label Chinese apps as “the Chinese Instagram,” “the Chinese Facebook,” and so on.

Some of these comparisons actually made sense around 2010, when Chinese companies were indeed building domestic versions of Twitter or Pinterest. But since then, these apps have evolved into something far bigger.

China’s online ecosystem is constantly shifting, and some of its biggest social apps are already 15, 20, or even 25 (!) years old. Their secret? It’s not about copying Western platforms anymore—it’s about rejecting a one-size-fits-all approach and embracing change. As Xiaohongshu’s Charlwin Mao (毛文超) puts it:

🗣️”We don’t ask ourselves if we’re a social or commerce company—we ask, what does the consumer want?”

📌 Xiaohongshu is not the “Chinese Instagram.” It also didn’t start as a shopping site that added reviews—it was a review site that added shopping, flipping the traditional e-commerce model on its head.

📌 One of China’s leading livestreaming platforms, Kuaishou, didn’t even begin as a livestreaming app. It started as a GIF-making tool, built its user base through other platforms, then evolved into a short-video app before skyrocketing during the livestreaming boom. Today, Kuaishou is a major player in generative AI, with its Sora competitor, Kling, emerging from this same adaptability.

💡 Chinese social media apps have grown into superapps by thinking outside the box, breaking free from labels, and evolving like chameleons—constantly adapting to user needs.

📱 In such a rapidly changing digital landscape, it’s high time for a short guide to understanding Chinese social media (especially since some subscribers have been requesting one for a while). This overview breaks down the top 10 Chinese social media platforms, their key functions, and what makes them unique. Whether you’re navigating China’s digital space for the first time or keeping up with its evolution, this list should offer a useful snapshot:

PREMIUM NEWSLETTER | ISSUE #46

Dear Reader,

Just a shorter newsletter this time (which I’ll explain), but I couldn’t overlook the death of Barbie Hsu (徐熙媛), which has sent shockwaves across Chinese social media. Her unexpected passing, along with the circumstances surrounding it, has quickly become the most talked-about topic of the week.

For those less familiar with Barbie Hsu (1976), she is generally known as “Big S” (大S) in China. The Taiwanese actress, singer, and TV host is one of those people who just always seemed to be around. She wasn’t just frequently a trending topic on Chinese social media but was also a household name, together with her sister, in the world of China’s pop culture and entertainment.

Most people will know Hsu because of the famous 2001 Taiwanese series Meteor Garden (流星花园), in which she played the award-winning role of female protagonist Shan Cai (杉菜). That role also made her famous outside of China, as the series became popular in South Korea, Singapore, the Philippines, Malaysia, and beyond.

But her career had taken off years before that success. Together with her sister Dee Hsu (徐熙娣, “Little S” 小S), she formed the pop duo SOS (later “ASOS”) in the 1990s. The name stood for Sisters Of Shu (alternative spelling of Hsu), and was the source of their “Big S” and “Little S” nicknames.

She later made a switch to movies and was a TV host and a singer. While her sister Dee Shu gained recognition as the humorous host of the long-running talk show Kangxi Coming (康熙來了), Barbie Hsu also served as a stand-in host or guest on that show, as well as many others.

Besides her professional life, it was often Hsu’s private life that brought her to the top of Weibo’s trending charts. Her marriage to mainland Chinese businessman Wang Xiaofei (汪小菲)—with whom she had a daughter and a son in 2014 and 2016—frequently made headlines. The couple even participated in a reality show, and Hsu’s private life began to take on Kardashian-like proportions. The two were rumored to bicker over money issues after Wang opened S Hotel, a boutique hotel in Taipei designed by Philippe Starck and named after his wife.

Following their separation in 2021, much of the messy divorce drama between the two played out on Weibo and became the biggest celebrity topic of 2022. The ongoing drama started when Hsu accused her ex-husband of failing to pay alimony, with the accumulated amount allegedly exceeding NT$5 million (US$160,000). Wang Xiaofei then publicly and angrily responded to Hsu’s accusations with multiple emotional posts on his Weibo account, where he had over seven million followers. Everyone and everything got dragged into the drama, from Wang’s mother Zhang Lan (张兰) to Hsu’s new partner, South Korean musician DJ Koo Jun-Yup.

Hsu’s health and frail body also made headlines at times. In 2018, she was hospitalized after a epileptic fit brought on by a cold. Besides epilepsy, Hsu suffered from a chronic heart condition (mitral valve prolapse). In late January of this year, she traveled to Japan for the Chinese New Year and caught influenza during her trip. Her health deteriorated rapidly within just five days, and she passed away on February 2nd from influenza-induced pneumonia. She was only 48 years old.

The news of her death has had a massive impact on Chinese social media. On Weibo, the hashtag ‘Big S has Passed Away’ (#大S去世#) has garnered over 3.3 billion views within six days.

While the initial reaction was one of shock over her sudden passing, various other aspects of her life, legacy, and the circumstances surrounding her death have sparked broader discussions, turning it into a widely debated topic—one that many find particularly heartbreaking for various reasons.

➡️ As Barbie Hsu has been in the public eye for decades, many grew up watching her and following her for over 25 years. Even those who were not particularly fans of Hsu are now coming forward to express collective grief and nostalgia over her passing—like losing a piece of their younger self.

Similarly, the passing of the beloved pop star Coco Lee in 2023 also made people collectively reflect on a bygone era of Chinese pop culture that defined the youth of millions. Like Lee, Barbie Hsu was a big part of early 2000s Chinese pop culture. Some people admit that Hsu’s passing has left them crying for days.

Many netizens expressed grief not just for her death but also for the fading of a time when Taiwanese idol dramas and their own carefree youth were at their peak.

“I was in fifth grade when Meteor Garden aired, and I remember running home after school to watch it. I saved up 60 kuai ($8.6) to buy the DVD,” one Weibo user shared. “Such a lively and bold woman has suddenly disappeared, an entire generation’s youth and memories,” another person wrote.

➡️ The death of Barbie Hsu and the sudden, rapid progression of her illness—from influenza to fatal pneumonia—has raised awareness this week about the potential dangers of the flu. It has also triggered some public anxiety about the latest outbreak in Japan, which is experiencing its largest flu surge in 25 years, and how influenza is treated in the country.

Many are questioning why such a wealthy, well-known celebrity couldn’t receive effective treatment in Japan, a country generally perceived to have an advanced healthcare system. While it remains unclear how her condition deteriorated so quickly—especially since she allegedly appeared well and energetic at a January 25 banquet—it may not have helped that Hsu was in Hakone, an area without major hospitals like those in Kyoto or Tokyo. According to various media reports, Hsu sought medical assistance in the days leading up to her death but was not admitted to any hospital during that time.

In light of this incident, others also share their struggles with healthcare in Japan, claiming that costs and language barriers previously prevented them from receiving proper care while traveling there and falling ill.

➡️ Perhaps the strongest online response to Barbie Hsu’s death is related to gender dynamics, touching on topics such as feminism, misogyny, and patriarchy.

Many netizens argue that, despite always sacrificing herself for others, Hsu did not receive the love and care she deserved. The aftermath of her divorce from Wang Xiaofei left permanent scars on the superstar. Throughout her long career, Hsu consistently supported her family and became a family pillar and breadwinner. While navigating the harsh environment of the entertainment industry, she pushed herself and her body to the limits. Despite her efforts, she was always judged for her looks and body weight, and was later bullied and humiliated by her ex-husband.

A recurring sentiment among commenters, especially on Xiaohongshu, is that women, both in public and private life, are often overburdened while receiving little in return. Many pointed out that if someone as beautiful and successful as “Big S” could suffer under the burden of caregiving and the toxicity of the men around her, what hope is there for ordinary women?

At the same time, Hsu is also praised as an example of self-empowerment for all she accomplished, and as a reminder that taking good care of yourself is more important than seeking the validation of others.

➡️ On Weibo, the people expressing their grief over Hsu’s passing are also reflecting on the fragility of life. Notably, Hsu’s WeChat tag at the time of her death read, “Death is inevitable” (“死亡是必然的”).

In a past interview, she said: “Death is not scary. What’s scary is not being able to die. Aging is not scary. What’s scary is living forever.” (“死不可怕。可怕的是死不了。老不可怕。可怕的是长生不老。”)

📝 This is just a short newsletter for now. The shortness of this edition and the recent brief hiatus on the site is because I’ve been battling a bad case of influenza over the past twelve days. This flu has unfortunately progressed into pneumonia and it’s quite literally knocked me out for a bit🤒.

I’ll still need some time to fully recover, but I expect to be back in the saddle very soon. Please bear with me if I’m a little slower than usual, but rest assured, more content is coming your way very soon.

Best,
Manya Koetse
(@manyapan)

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