Sixth Generation Filmmaker Jia Zhangke Frowns Upon Cookie-Cutter Films

Internationally renowned film maestro Jia Zhangke’s recent statements on China’s film industry resonated with many Chinese movie enthusiasts: The monopoly of leitmotif films in the Chinese entertainment industry, as has been the case in the past few years, is less than ideal.


A Q&A-style interview with the filmmaker, published on July 7, has been widely circulated on WeChat and garnered more than 10,000 reads (a high threshold for most WeChat articles).


In the article, Jia shares his observation of the Chinese film market since the start of the pandemic. While he acknowledges the pandemic’s harmful effects on the shrinking film industry, its diversity of titles, and international cultural exchanges, he also believes that some problems will persist long after the pandemic.


“Underneath the pandemic are other crises that the Chinese film [market] faces,” reads one of his answers to the interviewer.


Jia Zhangke

Jia Zhangke in 2008


Not only has the film industry been plagued by a monotonous prototype of successful films over the past years, but it also faces much uncertainty concerning the future of avant-garde, experimental, and arthouse films.


“To put it bluntly, nobody knows how long it takes for those [avant-garde] films to get a license,” explained the filmmaker. “This kind of certainty brings tremendous anxiety to the industry.”


On the contrary, the certainty of leitmotif films being greenlighted makes them get the lion’s share of investment.


“So we can’t make the Chinese film market the one-product sale store for leitmotif films. It’s an irresponsible practice for not only Chinese cinema but also our offspring and Chinese culture,” he says.


Although Jia’s observations are nothing new, they have resonated with many netizens. Some top-liked comments beneath the article include, “Finally, a big name has said it as it is,” and “It (the topic) is hard to vocalize, as many are playing dumb.”


Since winning numerous awards at Europe’s top three film festivals (Venice Film Festival, Cannes Film Festival, and Berlin International Film Festival), Jia has become a household name in Chinese arthouse cinema and successfully entered the ‘mainstream.’


Nevertheless, the filmmaker heavily promotes arthouse films and supports the growth of young filmmakers through efforts such as establishing the Pingyao International Film Festival in 2017. And who better to cast an eye on China’s filmmaking ecosystem than the established figure?


“When we talk about the problem that films have, it all boils down to the economy. The economic downturn has been a blow to the industry,” said the creative.


Earlier in May, Chinese authorities listed the country’s cultural sector — which encompasses film, television, radio, arts, and entertainment — as an “extremely difficult” one to revive. The government even decreed a holdover of social security payments for companies in the aforementioned industries, which have been “hit hard by Covid and with operation difficulties.”


Since July, however, the market has gradually been getting out of the woods. In addition to the reopening of cinemas, several new films, such as Lighting Up the Stars, have become immediate blockbuster hits.


That being said, what Jia wants is stability. “I’m yearning for Chinese cinema to return to an era of certainty so that we can all contribute to the film industry,” concluded the filmmaker.


Cover image via Depositphotos

Martial Arts Heroine Is the Star of Immortal Studios’ New Wuxia Comic

A potent mix of martial arts, badass female fighters, and Romeo and Juliet-esque romance, the new wuxia comic Assassin G by Immortal Studios will begin its fundraising stage on Kickstarter on August 16.


An adaptation of iconic Chinese-American author Shiao Yi’s popular wuxia novel Gan the Nineteenth Sister (甘十九妹), the comic series follows the story of Margot Gan, an orphaned girl raised by a martial arts master simply known as ‘Assassin G.’


Margot’s mission is to avenge her stepmother, who was betrayed by a powerful congregation of martial arts families. When the heroine meets JP Yin, the leading heir of one of the families, the two develop a mutual admiration for one another that blossoms into a potential romance.


The series is brimming with action, family feuds, martial arts, and bloody revenge and is the fourth addition to The Immortal Storyverse (TIS), an interconnected universe populated with characters from the studio’s previous series (The Adept, Fa Sheng: Origins, and Chronicles of the Immortal Swordsmen).


Gan the Nineteenth Sister has seen numerous television adaptations, including two Mandarin-language dramas in 2008 and 2015. However, Assassin G will introduce English-speaking audiences to a time-honored classic for the first time, thanks to writer Jen Troy and illustrator Tao He.


While Assassin G stays true to traditional elements of the wuxia genre, it will be based in the pop-fueled 1980s — an exciting twist characteristic of Immortal Studios.


“As wuxia has been popularized and disseminated globally, it has a deep connection with Chinese youth culture,” said CEO Peter Shiao in a previous interview with RADII.



This article has been updated at 8 AM on July 15, 2022, to reflect a rescheduling of the new comic’s Kickstarter launch, which has been delayed from July 12 to August 16, 2022.


Cover image courtesy of Immortal Studios.

Ever Terrific, Contemporary Artist Tianzhuo Chen Lands Us in a ‘Trance’

From June 2 to 4, Chinese art director Tianzhuo Chen staged his latest show, Trance, at Kampnagel in Hamburg, Germany’s most prominent independent venue for performing arts. Over nine hours and six chapters, the durational performance installation lulled everyone — performers and audience members — into a trance.



The performance, which premiered at the M Woods art museum in Beijing in 2019, could only be brought to Europe three years later due to the Covid-19 pandemic. The team will hopefully perform the show again in Berlin in February 2023.


Since the global pandemic, performing arts have taken on new layers of meaning. In Trance, for example, the very act of congregating for a live performance is cause for celebration and a unique collective experience.


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A scene from Tianzhuo Chen’s performance installation ‘Trance’


The work’s titular meaning ties in with bardo, the intermediate stage between death and rebirth in some schools of Buddhism.


“I aim to form a shared state of consciousness in a space,” Chen tells RADII.


Born in Beijing in 1985, Chen is known for his post-internet mythologies. His works can be seen as a testament to both radical modernization and archaic relationality. In 2015, Chen, who is on a constant search for community, rounded up an entourage of artists and founded the label Asian Dope Boys (ADB).

The night of June 2 is when we finally experience Trance for ourselves.


Memorable from the start, Trance requires entering a heat-filled psychocosm. Performers linger in the nebulous atmosphere, and a crane-suspended guitarist slowly plucks his instrument next to an inflatable heart with a worm peeking out from it.


The scene is inspired by a series of Japanese paintings that portray a decaying female corpse. The visceral theme of corporeal putrefaction reflects human impermanence, a core tenet of Buddhism.


This introductory scene embodies a central characteristic of Chen’s artistic aim: To alter the spirit of the popular, to position it next to religious spirits, and to shift between the ideal and the material, the sacred and the profane.


He creates a new dynamic of encounters through the force of assertive subversion in Trance. It recalls an overarching sense of collective process fueled by associative powers and intuition.


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Fog permeates the theater in the opening scene of ‘Trance’


When we sit with Chen in his backstage dressing studio, performers keep wandering in. Chen asks the crew to don flashy T-shirts designed by Bali-based artist Ican Harem, one of Trance’s many highly skilled collaborators.


The realm of performance sees a culmination of ADB’s experimental practices, which unify painting, sculpture, installation, video, music, and fashion. They engage the scripted anarchy of Chen’s artistic approach with a skilled affinity for transgression and endurance.


In a larger sense, the performance’s cyclical narrative wavers between the mythological and the religious. Chen’s creatures inhabit a liminal state with undefined boundaries while signaling a deep understanding of relatedness. They remain in constant transition between different physical and spiritual states, vibrating with heaven and hell through fluidly changing scenic patterns.

Besides Buddhism, the dramaturgical process incorporates the psychoanalytic writings of C.G. Jung (particularly in The Red Book), surrealist Réne Daumal, and K Allado-McDowell. A disembodied narrator informs the audience that the performers’ journey represents a search for something vague, an imaginary mountain that “locates the inferior heaven at its foot.”


One scene is a perfect example: In an analogy to Daumal’s allegorical novel Mount Analogue, performer Omid Tabari, aka Shadow Licker, pushes an immense boulder through the space.



Chen’s experiments and efforts to represent the realities of inner experience are embedded in the poetic cosmology of a self-created artistic ‘religion’ called Adaha.


Adaha is the god, idol, and superstar that appears in his works as a figure representing an all-encompassing witness, an ‘all-seeing eye.’ The eye of Adaha is reminiscent of the Eye of Horus, the Egyptian symbol of the door to the soul, an embodiment of state power and divine benevolence that watches over human civilization.


“I would like to see each performance as something like a ceremony. So maybe, in that way, the mode of storytelling itself does approach the way religions are constructed,” said Chen during a previous interview.


This time, Adaha’s eye appears on a gigantic T-shirt sculpture that hangs above the dance floor and continuously cries throughout the show. The liquid drips into a little pond below, evoking the scenic surrealism of a fairy tale park.


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Performer Yiva Falk wearing fire-red braids


Chen also employs spiritual traditions to interpret contemporary Chinese society’s capital-driven developments. Iconography such as religious totems, commercial logos, and pop culture icons convey a sense of endless incorporation, absorption, and ejection.


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A scene from Tianzhuo Chen’s performance installation ‘Trance’


As the performers march onto the main stage, they remove their streetwear hoodies while carrying out folk dances — a gesture of unlearning their imposed socio-cultural conditions. Chen then invites the audience to enter a state of possession, visit the performance’s various hells, and witness an in-between state of traveling.


In a series of solos, performer Yiva Falk, wearing long fire-red braids, strikes us as a stage presence inspired by Barong, Bali’s panther-like king of the spirits.


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Siko Setyanto’s performance combines classical ballet movements with Javanese dance


Indonesian artist Siko Setyanto also presents an eye-catching performance that merges classical ballet and Javanese dance.


Drawing inspiration from 12th-century Japanese paintings of the Buddhist Hells, also known as Jigoku-Zoshi, their solos strike me as haunted biographies of bodily reincarnation — or raw and bloody spiritual lessons to aid the audience’s understanding of sin.


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Siko Setyanto performing a solo


One of Trance’s most drawn-out segments takes place on a circular grass floor with stage elements and projection screens on one side. An inflatable frog stands guard; the poisonous creature sits upon the roof of a Southeast Asian bamboo hut — a symbiotic arena that blurs the relationship between the human, the non-human, and the spiritual in ways that exceed categorical value judgments.


In the style of 19th-century panoramas, the side screens depict Chen’s earlier works, namely some films recorded in Tibet. These showcase Tibetan Cham rituals, which highlight dance as a skillful spiritual tool and monastic practice employed since time immemorial.


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As the evening progresses, the scenic ritualistic setting dissolves into a rave-like immersive experience.


The cathartic finale has a heated vibe and unfolds amid a club-like atmosphere. Heavy vibrations spread across the space. Bodies allow their exhaustion to be seen in a shared yearning to return, dance, and inhabit a sphere of consciousness between all present at this moment in the space.


Perhaps the notion of Trance can be best understood as a claim for artistic freedom, articulated on a transcultural and collective level, wrapped in the terminology of the archaic, mystical, and magical. The attempt to abandon what we imagine as ourselves is an unspoken invitation to experience diverse modes of ‘othering’ in exchange for liberation.


This sensuous, intimate, and contemplative experience of the performance leaves us with an afterglow that lasts for days.


All images courtesy of Kampnagel

Beijing-style Wrestling: A Fusion of Ethnic Heritage and History

For many, the mere mention of China renders mental images of martial arts: From kung fu to wuxia comics, films, and novels to tai chi-practicing elderly folks and the iconic Shaolin Temple. Modern martial arts fans will also drop names like rising UFC star Song Yadong and former UFC Women’s Strawweight Champion Zhang Weili.


Even so, only a few of China’s martial art forms are known internationally. Tai chi and the famous kung fu style of wing chun are widely represented in acclaimed cinematic hits, but the majority of Chinese folk martial arts remain unexposed to Western audiences.


China has 56 legally recognized ethnic groups, many of which have martial arts traditions stemming from their respective religions, cultures, and military history. These martial arts represent China’s diverse ethnic landscape, long history of tumult and conflict, and a shared human desire for peace.


Of these combat traditions, Beijing-style wrestling is a perfect example of a martial art that has benefited from the skills and practices of multiple Chinese ethnic groups.

On Origin

Every Sunday morning, Beijing’s Ditan Park (地坛, ‘Temple of Earth’) sees the same scene: Located a five-minute walk south of the park’s North Gate, the Ditan Jiaochang (地坛跤场) always attracts a lively crowd.


It’s the city’s oldest Beijing-style wrestling pickup event, where wrestling enthusiasts gather weekly from every corner of the capital. They test their grappling skills on and catch up with wrestling buddies. Few other social conventions allow friends to rough each other up.


All action takes place on a large, blue foam mat, in full view of an excited crowd of spectators, commentators, and coaches. 


Beijing-style wrestling


For some minutes, the mat is like a separate world. After saluting each other and the audience, the wrestlers reach straight for their opponents — locking arms, hooking legs, and using every part of the body to take each other down.


While coaches scream at their students, the commentator breaks down the match, highlights the ongoing tension, and eggs on the crowd to cheer for both athletes — the winners for their strength and the losers for their spirit.


“This is Beijing-style wrestling,” says Master Huimin Zhang, an 80-year-old Beijing-style wrestling veteran and the commentator at the Sunday morning event we visited. “The uniform they wear is called the ‘Badman’s skin.’ If you wear it, you become a badman, and nobody is responsible if you die on the mat.”


The roots of Beijing-style wrestling can be traced to when the city was the capital of the Manchurian Qing Dynasty. The multiethnic martial art incorporates elements from Han, Manchu, and Mongol wrestling.


While the Manchu reign ended in 1912, its wrestling traditions have endured in the country’s old capital. According to Zhang, Beijing-style wrestling used to be how youngsters settled disputes.


Zhang recalls, “When I was a teenager living in the city’s center, if two young men wanted to fight, they wouldn’t be like today’s youth, who’d grab a knife or smash a brick onto someone’s head. Instead, they’d wrestle traditional Beijing style, and the winner would walk away triumphant. Not satisfied? Go home, hone your skills, and challenge that dude the next time.”


Beijing’s traditional martial arts used to help maintain order and peace among youngsters. In other regions, martial arts have served as a tool to keep the community safe.


The Dai people of today’s Yunnan province, for example, developed the Dai martial art out of a need to survive. Living in the mountainous forests of Southwest China, the Dai battled against not only neighboring tribes but also wild animals.


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Xishuangbanna Dai Autonomous Prefecture in Southwest China is home to the Dai ethnic group, one of the PRC’s 55 officially recognized ethnic minorities. Image via Wikimedia


With such an abundance of physical threats, the Dai people were so proficient in combat that Marco Polo wrote in his travel journals, “All (Dai) men are warriors. They do nothing but fight and hunt.”


These mountain dwellers learned from their opponents — both human and beast — to develop their unique fighting system, which includes imitating the fighting postures of animals like tigers, elephants, and snakes.


Sun Tzu, the author of the legendary combat manual The Art of War, might have applauded the Dai strategy. After all, one of his famous quotes goes, “Know yourself and your enemy; you will win a hundred battles without a single loss.”


Whether in China’s metropolitan capital or its sprawling Southwest mountains, martial arts were not simply artistic forms but also served a practical purpose.

Beyond Combat

In mixed martial arts matches, like those carried out under the UFC or One Championship, fighters secure wins through knockouts or accumulating points. But this is not always true for Chinese martial arts, given their rich history and connection to religion and philosophy.


In Beijing-style wrestling, for example, the bout ends when one wrestler touches the ground with a body part other than his feet (thereby losing). In technical terms, as long as a fall is observed, the fight will end, and the winning wrestler need not force their opponent into submission, as with Brazilian jiu-jitsu.


“Traditional Chinese wrestling is the most civilized form of martial arts,” says Master Wannian Hu, a Beijing-style wrestling coach with 58 years of experience under his belt. “If you can win by throwing your opponents to the ground, you don’t have to go as far as to choke them.


Hu points out a connection between this rule and China’s cultural heritage: “This is Confucianism,” he says, “Dian Dao Wei Zhi (点到为止), meaning ‘don’t overdo anything,’ keep everything moderate. If you’ve only done a little, and your opponent has understood your message, that’s enough.”


Wrestling event in Beijing


Miao martial arts, on the other hand, carries the collective memories of the Miao people, which includes the Hmong subgroup. The Hmong’s totem is the ox, and their self-identified ancestor is Chiyou, an ancient tribal leader and a mythical god of war with an ox’s head.


As a result, many weapons and movements in Miao martial arts are named after the ox and Chiyou. For example, a common winning movement in Miao fighting matches is called ‘Ox swinging its tail,’ and one specific type of Miao martial art is called ‘Chiyou boxing.’


Whether drawing on the wisdom of Confucius or Chiyou, most Chinese martial arts share one common feature: respect for morality.


Wu (武), the Chinese character for the word ‘martial,’ can be broken down into two radicals: Zhi (止) and Ge (戈), which together mean ‘to end the war.’


Beijing-style martial arts event


As martial arts writer Hai Ren points out, in traditional Chinese values, martial arts “are used not to harm, but to defend.” A broad spectrum of Chinese martial arts reflect this attitude, emphasizing restraint in the use of violence and avoiding teaching martial arts to unfitting people.


In Mongolian wrestling, wrestlers are prohibited from attacking one another’s feet or performing other dangerous motions. Kyrgyz wrestlers, who battle on horseback, can only reach for their opponents’ hands and arms when trying to pull them off their horses.


Meanwhile, revered tai chi masters only accept new apprentices upon deeming them ‘peaceful, loyal, appreciative, stable, and authentic.’

To Fall, to Revive, to Evolve

Practitioners of a variety of Chinese martial arts share the sentiment that interest in traditional martial arts as a whole has been trending downhill in recent decades.


“Why do you think there are so many 70-year-olds wrestling on the mat today?” asks Master Hu after Sunday’s Ditan Jiaochang. “We old people are trying our best to save Chinese wrestling.”


Hu attributes the fall of Beijing-style wrestling to the Chinese government’s overemphasis on the Olympics. “China wanted to win medals,” he says, “and Chinese-style wrestling isn’t an Olympic sport. So, we lost governmental support for 20 years. That would’ve been an entire generation of wrestlers.”


Spectators watch Beijing-style wrestling


Master Daheng Wu, a practitioner of Miao martial arts, observes a more peaceful reason for the decline of China’s martial arts tradition. In a profile published by Sohu, Wu noted that given Miao martial arts’ roots in war and competition, it will become less and less useful in stable, warless contemporary China.


He observed that young people, attracted by burgeoning economic opportunities in China’s coastal cities, choose to depart their Miao hometown in the mountains and concurrently leave behind the chance to practice Miao martial arts.


Hing Chao, the co-founder of the Journal of Chinese Martial Studies, makes the same observations as Hu and Wu. Hing considers China’s modernization to be the leading cause of the decline in traditional martial arts, stating:


“Pop culture, film, and entertainment mystified martial arts so much that, combined with a non-combative approach, practitioners started to believe in their own fantasy.”


The result, he argues, is an inaccurate understanding of China’s martial arts tradition.


Modernization and pop culture are unlikely to change course as China continues to develop, but martial artists have been making organic changes to China’s martial arts landscape on a smaller scale.


Chinese-style wrestling, a slight variation of Beijing-style wrestling, has reentered China’s National Games. Meanwhile, Master Wu brought Miao martial arts back to some of Guizhou’s elementary schools, and some Guangxi policemen are even learning Zhuang boxing to improve their combat skills.


Chinese martial arts have also evolved to become more international and inclusive. Chinese-style wrestling and Miao martial arts are now established in the USA, while a combat discipline from Northwest China called Mashi Tongbei has had frequent engagements with the Italian martial art of HEMA. Practitioners of these two martial arts have been training together and incorporating each other’s fighting techniques into their own practice.


Beijing wreslting event


As for Beijing-style wrestling, a traditionally male-only sport, female wrestlers have now entered the mat.


“Inevitably, I’m not as powerful as some of the guys,” shrugs Fan Zhang, a female student of Master Hu who will represent Beijing in Chinese-style wrestling at the 2022 National Games. “But when it comes to technique, it all depends on how hard you practice.”


At the Ditan Jiaochang we visited, Zhang beat three of Hu’s male students. “The technique is definitely my favorite component,” says Zhang of Beijing-style wrestling.


As Ren writes, one crucial task for today’s Chinese martial artists is to “eliminate the ill in martial arts’ history, and to let the world know the brightness of Chinese martial arts tradition.”


China’s fighting scene has inevitably waned since the nation put centuries of conflict and bloodshed behind it — but that’s a positive change. Within traditional martial arts circles, the atmosphere has become more vibrant, more devoted, and more welcoming, and we look forward to seeing positive growth continue in the ever-changing community.


Keen to learn more about Chinese martial arts and China’s growing MMA scene? Then check out the first episode of our new documentary ‘Way of the Warrior.’ Click here to check out more great content on combat sports.


Unless otherwise stated, all images via Nate Williams

Hong Kong-based Artist Szabotage Goes From Street Art to Stenciled NFTs

Art enthusiasts, take note: Renowned Hong Kong-based street artist Gustav Szabo (aka Szabotage) is releasing a new NFT series titled ‘Stencil Tongue’ on Quidd, a marketplace for original digital collectibles and NFTs, on July 27. 


As its title implies, ‘Stencil Tongue’ will showcase Szabotage’s iconic aesthetic — think stencil-inspired shapes with bright colors and pop culture references (samples below).


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An invitation to create your own narrative, the artworks have different stencils that can be arranged to form unique combinations. As such, the same art might hold personal meaning for each collector.

Szabotage is a prolific contemporary urban artist and designer who grew up in the U.K. before relocating to Hong Kong. He became the first street art artist in Hong Kong to offer NFTs when he dropped his work on OpenSea in November 2020.


The artist, who has enjoyed an extensive career, has held countless sold-out exhibitions and worked with luxury brands like Prada and Louis Vuitton. He is also synonymous with the street art scene in Hong Kong, where he often leaves his mark in the form of a koi fish, a symbol of strength, adversity, and good fortune.

As a subsidiary of Hong Kong-based gaming giant Animoca Brands, Quidd has worked with some of the world’s biggest brands like Disney, HBO, and Funko. 


Arguably one of Asia’s biggest NFT hubs, Hong Kong is home to countless galleries and shopping malls with a penchant for digital and NFT art, creating opportunities for artists active both on and off the blockchain.


All images via Animoca Brands

Chinese Disney Fans Shocked Mickey Mouse Will Soon Be Public Domain

Disney’s copyright and exclusive rights to some of its most iconic characters — including Mickey Mouse — will expire in 2024. The news has triggered considerable attention worldwide, including in China, where netizens have expressed their surprise at the high-profile copyright expiration.


According to U.S. copyright law, exclusive rights to commissioned works expire 95 years after publication. For Mickey Mouse, the 95-year mark will fall on January 1, 2024.


Once the iconic cartoon character enters the public domain, anyone and everyone can begin using it as they please (in theory), which includes tweaking Mickey Mouse’s original look from the cartoon Steamboat Willy, which initially debuted in 1928.


However, as The Guardian noted, if the character is used in a way that reminds viewers of Disney, the company can claim a trademark violation. This is a genuine risk, considering how intimately connected Mickey Mouse is to the Disney brand.


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Mickey Mouse’s debut appearance in the black-and-white film ‘Steamboat Willy’ in 1928


While Disney has successfully extended its copyright twice, media and entertainment lawyer Daniel Mayeda told The Guardian, “I doubt that they’re going to be able to get additional extensions. I think this is going to be the end of the line.” 


Mickey’s release to global creatives won’t be the first time Disney has lost exclusive rights to a character: Winnie the Pooh entered the public domain in January this year. This change in copyright protections allowed filmmaker Rhys Waterfield to insert the character into an unsettling horror movie titled Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey. 


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Winnie the who? You’re not alone if you don’t recognize this version of the fictional anthropomorphic teddy bear


Mickey Mouse’s debut in Steam Boat Willy was revolutionary at the time for its synchronization of sound and film. Since its release, the iconic Mickey character has gone through several rounds of transformations and enjoyed massive popularity across the world.


A hashtag related to Disney’s expiring copyright has received 180 million views on the Chinese microblogging platform Weibo, prompting an outpouring of emotional posts.


“I remember watching Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck when I was little. I really miss my childhood — it was so fun,” reminisced one netizen.


Another echoed, “I like Mickey Mouse; Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck are my childhood memories! I don’t want to see weird-looking versions of Mickey Mouse.”


Others needlessly worried about not being able to catch Mickey and Minnie at Disney parks. One fan noted, “Oh no! I haven’t been to Disneyland yet. I still hope to see Disney’s most famous couple.”


“Disney without Mickey Mouse? That sounds like something that would only happen in a parallel universe,” another commented, clearly unaware that Disney and its properties will almost certainly continue to feature the iconic mouse prominently.


According to the Chinese financial news site Caijing, multiple domestic enterprises have registered trademarks for Mi Laoshu, Mickey Mouse’s name in Mandarin. Per Chinese law, trademarks can be renewed every 10 years.


Mickey Mouse aside, Disney characters like Linabell and Duffy the Disney Bear are also extremely popular in China — although it will be a little while before they are public domain. 2016 saw the grand opening of Shanghai Disneyland, the sixth Disney resort in the world but the first of its kind for its countless details tailored to the Chinese market.


In recent years, Disney has also increased its output of Chinese-themed films like Shang-Chi, Turning Red, and Mulan.


All images via IMDb