The opportunities will eventually come to those who are prepared.
Across China, a centuries-old operatic tradition is finding new breath through an unlikely vessel: a primetime television drama. The show Zhu Jue, executive produced by Zhang Yimou, traced the life of a fictional Qinqiang performer across five turbulent decades, and in doing so reminded millions of viewers that an art form is not merely a relic but a living inheritance. What was once fading in aging theaters across China's northwest has now drawn young audiences to sold-out stages in Shanghai, Guangzhou, and Beijing — a reminder that culture does not die quietly when someone chooses to tell its story well.
- A 48-episode drama achieved CCTV's highest primetime ratings in three years, pulling over four percent of the national audience and igniting sudden, widespread demand for a 600-year-old opera form.
- The Shaanxi Opera Research Institute, long accustomed to regional audiences and aging crowds, suddenly found itself fielding invitations from southern cities it had never toured — and selling out within minutes.
- Young audience members who came for the television series stayed for the live performances, telling performers the real opera surpassed what they had seen on screen.
- Veteran performers speak of decades of anonymity, physical hardship, and near-abandonment before this moment of recognition — their endurance now suddenly visible to a national audience.
- Opera leaders warn that viral attention is fragile, and are racing to refine productions, encourage repeat visits, and systematically archive over twenty local opera genres before the momentum fades.
On a Sunday evening in June, a television drama finished its run on China Central Television and accomplished what the ancient art it celebrated had struggled to do for decades: it made millions of people want to watch Qinqiang Opera.
Zhu Jue, a 48-episode adaptation of a prize-winning novel executive produced by Zhang Yimou, follows a fictional Qinqiang performer named Yi Qin'e across nearly five decades — from the Cultural Revolution, when traditional opera was banned entirely, to the present day. It became CCTV's highest-rated primetime program in three years, drawing more than four percent of the national audience.
Qinqiang is six centuries old, known for its piercing vocals, rhythmic percussion, and emotionally raw storytelling. For much of its history it thrived in China's northwest, but it had been fading — aging audiences, shrinking venues, a tradition slowly losing its grip on the present. The drama changed that. Within weeks, the Shaanxi Opera Research Institute was fielding invitations from Shanghai, Guangzhou, and Shenzhen. A Shanghai performance featuring rare fire-blowing techniques sold out in minutes. Young audience members who had bought tickets because of the show told performers afterward that the live opera was even better than the screen.
Li Mei, president of the institute and chief opera consultant for the drama, noticed the shift immediately. Crowds that had once been mostly elderly now filled with young faces. But she is cautious. "Short-term buzz is hard to sustain," she said. "We need to refine our productions and encourage repeat visits."
The performers carry the weight of what the drama depicts — sometimes literally. Fu Xinyao, with 24 years of experience, described how the traditional headgear is so heavy that it takes years to learn how to act beneath it. Chen Li, now 36, spent her first decade in the troupe playing nameless extras and nearly quit. Twenty-six years into her career, she now performs leading roles. "Yi Qin'e's journey," she said, "is a shared portrait of every Qinqiang actor."
The institute itself was founded in 1938 and had long been performing internationally — including a stripped-down production in Paris in 2019 that drew a long standing ovation. Now Li is leading an effort to archive more than twenty local opera genres in Shaanxi, preserving scripts, scores, recordings, and the oral histories of veteran artists. "Theater practitioners need to work like cultural relic restorers," she said. The question that remains is whether this rare moment of mainstream attention can be shaped into something that endures.
On a Sunday evening in June, a television drama concluded its run on China Central Television, and in doing so, it accomplished something the ancient art form it celebrated had struggled to do for decades: it made millions of people want to watch Qinqiang Opera.
The show is called Zhu Jue, or Leading Role. It is a 48-episode adaptation of a prize-winning novel, executive produced by the legendary filmmaker Zhang Yimou. When it ended, it held the highest primetime ratings CCTV had recorded in three years. More than four percent of the national television audience tuned in within days of its premiere. On its final broadcast, it remained the network's top program.
Qinqiang Opera is six centuries old. It is known for its piercing vocals, its rhythmic percussion, its emotionally raw storytelling. For much of its history, it thrived in the northwest provinces of China. But it had been fading—aging audiences, shrinking venues, the slow erosion that comes when a living tradition loses its grip on the present. The drama follows a fictional Qinqiang performer named Yi Qin'e across nearly five decades, beginning in the final years of the Cultural Revolution, when traditional opera was banned entirely and only revolutionary performances were permitted. It ends in the present day.
Viewers responded to the show's gritty realism and strong performances. But something else happened too. Within weeks, the Shaanxi Opera Research Institute—the organization that preserves and performs Qinqiang—found itself fielding invitations from cities it had never toured before. Shanghai wanted them. Guangzhou wanted them. Shenzhen wanted them. A performance in Shanghai featuring rare fire-blowing techniques sold out in minutes. After a Beijing show, young audience members who had bought tickets because of the television series told performers that the live opera was even better than what they had seen on screen.
Li Mei, president of the Shaanxi Opera Research Institute and chief opera consultant for the drama, noticed the shift immediately. "Our theater is now packed for every performance," she said. The audiences looked different too. A decade ago, the crowds were mostly elderly. Now, young people filled the seats. The institute's touring performances were selling out across the country.
But Li is cautious. "Short-term buzz is hard to sustain," she said. "We need to take advantage of the current attention to refine our productions and encourage repeat visits." The performers themselves understand the weight of what the drama depicts. Chen Li, now 36 and a leading actress at the institute, began learning Qinqiang at age ten. For her first decade in the troupe, she played nameless extras and palace maids. She nearly quit. "The opportunities will eventually come to those who are prepared," her mentor told her. Now, 26 years into her career, she performs leading roles. "Yi Qin'e does not represent any single performer," Chen said. "Her career journey is a shared portrait of every Qinqiang actor." Fu Xinyao, with 24 years of experience, spoke of the physical toll. The traditional headgear is heavy. During rehearsals without the full costume, her performance is solid. But once she puts on the headpieces, the weight is distracting. It takes years to learn how to act beneath it.
The Shaanxi Opera Research Institute was founded in 1938. Long before the television drama brought national attention, it had been touring internationally—performing in the Netherlands, Belgium, and dozens of other countries. In 2019, in Paris, the troupe performed a stripped-down version of Yang Guifei, a tragic love story about a legendary imperial concubine from the Tang Dynasty, with no elaborate sets. The French audience stood and applauded for a long time. Now, Li is leading a project to systematically archive more than twenty local opera genres in Shaanxi, preserving scripts, scores, stage recordings, and oral histories of veteran artists. "Theater practitioners need to work like cultural relic restorers," she said, "repairing and protecting traditional opera resources." The question now is whether this moment of mainstream attention can be transformed into something that lasts.
Notable Quotes
Short-term buzz is hard to sustain. We need to take advantage of the current attention to refine our productions and encourage repeat visits.— Li Mei, president of the Shaanxi Opera Research Institute
Yi Qin'e does not represent any single performer. Her career journey is a shared portrait of every Qinqiang actor.— Chen Li, Qinqiang performer
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does a television drama about opera matter so much right now?
Because Qinqiang Opera was disappearing. It had audiences, but they were aging. The form was becoming a museum piece. This show made it urgent and alive again.
But isn't that just hype? Won't people forget about it in six months?
That's exactly what Li Mei is worried about. She's not celebrating the ratings. She's thinking about how to turn a moment into a movement—how to make people want to come back, not just once, but repeatedly.
What's the actual barrier? Why is it so hard to sustain interest in traditional opera?
Partly it's the physical and emotional toll. These performers spend decades learning their craft, often playing invisible roles for years before they get anywhere. The headgear alone is punishing. You have to love the art itself, not the fame.
So the drama is honest about that struggle?
Painfully honest. The heroine spends decades clawing her way from obscurity to stardom. For the performers themselves, watching that on screen is like seeing their own lives reflected back.
What's different about the audiences now?
They're young. They're from the south, not just the northwest. They're buying tickets because of television, but then they're telling performers the live experience is better. That's the opening.
What happens if the institute can't sustain this?
They go back to aging audiences and regional tours. But they're not waiting to find out. They're archiving everything—scripts, recordings, oral histories. They're treating this like cultural preservation, not just entertainment.