In the early stages of filming, I mostly used an observational approach. We shot for a long time, with minimal direction, framing things simply, trying to lower the presence of both myself and the camera. I wanted the camera to feel less like a witness, and more like a quiet companion.
Outside of the “games,” we revisited the rural villages where they had once been sent during the Cultural Revolution as “educated youth”. We documented ordinary moments of their naps, meals, and casual conversations. We filmed my nephew coming out to them. We also filmed as they tried, from their own experiences, to define what a “good man” for me might look like.
It became more and more clear to me that they were not just participants or subjects; they were creators with their own unique talents. How can I create space for their talents to land, and eventually invite them to become collaborators of the film?
As part of an experiment, I gave each of them a “character profile”, which has been usually used to invent fictional roles, and asked them to fill it out with real information about themselves. In the section on “personal achievements”, most of them wrote that they’d accomplished nothing. In the section about “what had blocked their dreams”, almost all of them mentioned the Cultural Revolution.
The "character profiles" they filled in for themselves
From the profiles, we began to imagine what might happen if they could rewrite their stories or step into completely new roles. What would they change? What long-buried desires or unspoken dreams might they recall? These conversations slowly turned into a kind of shared screenwriting process.
I wrote a biography for every one of them based on our interviews, and then checked the facts with them.
I also transcribed our two “script writing” meetings, and reshaped those conversations into stories for their imagined characters:
Liu Yazhuo, born in 1951, is the third among eight siblings and the eldest sister. When the Cultural Revolution began, she was 15 and, together with her classmates, became a Red Guard. She spent nearly three years as an “educated youth” working in the countryside. Later, she worked as a factory worker at the Sichuan Tobacco Factory for almost 30 years before retiring.
She used to cut pictures out of magazines and keep them under the glass on her factory desk as a collection. She has always had a love for beauty; even though her family was poor and she often wore clothes with patches, she would refuse to wear anything that was patched imperfectly. After the reforms, she had more opportunities to engage with fashion, and it became her greatest hobby.
She also enjoyed interior design and oversaw the renovations of each of her sisters’ homes. She even took on freelance work, designing and supervising renovations for others. However, she never turned this passion into a career.
She met her husband during the Culture Revolution, and they later worked at the same factory. Together, they raised one son.
Her personality is both gentle and strong, and she is a perfectionist.
Liu Defang owns a home renovation company in Ziyang called Zhuoya Decoration. She’s also the head of the local chamber of commerce. Since she was little, she’s had a great eye for color and could tell measurements just by looking.
She did really well in middle school, but the Cultural Revolution happened and she never got to attend university.
She started out just reading books on home design. Then she helped some friends renovate their homes, and everyone loved it. That’s how she got into the business. Now her company is pretty big—with 30 to 50 employees—and construction crews line up outside her office every day waiting for jobs. She mainly supervises while others do the hands-on work.
Her specialty is mixing different styles—like a thatched cottage on the outside with a European interior. Back during the early days of the economic reform, she was quick to catch on. She joined a tour group and visited 13 countries in Europe. She even bought a fancy Japanese camera and took pictures everywhere she went. Back home, she’d show those photos to clients to help them choose styles.
Her husband, Su Cheng, is a deputy editor at the local newspaper. He’s tall, plays volleyball, and has beautiful handwriting. They’re a loving couple—Su Cheng often gifts his calligraphy to her clients after a renovation. Everyone sees them as a model couple, but only she knows—she doesn’t really love him.
Liu Defang treats her workers well. In summer, she gives out bottled water. Once, a college student from Chongqing came to intern and couldn’t afford treatment for a sick family member. She helped right away, no questions asked. The student was so touched that after graduating, he insisted on staying with her company, even when she encouraged him to find better opportunities.
She has great taste in clothes and can make street market finds look like designer pieces. Still, she feels like no outfit is ever truly perfect. She has a red-and-black plaid jacket and an old, holey sweater that she’s worn for years and refuses to throw out. Her office walls are covered with magazine cutouts—pictures of a girl herding sheep, a woman lighting a candle, and a leather jacket ad. She thinks they’re all beautiful.
Even though her business is a success, she’s a perfectionist—down to how bowls are arranged and how tables are set. She lives in a self-designed three-story villa with a basement. The first floor has the kitchen, bathroom, and living room; the second is her studio and computer room; the third is her bedroom; and the basement is a garage. The decoration is super simple: white walls, round ball lights, even the desk lamps are painted metal pipes. It all looks nice, but she always thinks it could be better. She doesn’t even like going back into the finished space.
This perfectionism gave her anxiety. She often gets irritated for no reason. Not only does she feel unhappy—people around her feel the pressure too. Her coworkers complain sometimes.
Her daughter, Shushu, is a Chinese teacher at Nanmen Normal School. She’s a homebody who loves foreign literature like The Thorn Birds, and has a projector at home to watch movies. The two are close and talk about everything. Shushu often brings back street-style photos to show her mom, but they argue all the time about haircuts and outfits. In the end, it’s always Liu Defang who gives in. She’s strict, but never interferes with her daughter’s love life.
From the outside, it looks like she has everything. But she often feels lonely—like the girl in her favorite painting, standing in the middle of a flock of sheep, looking completely alone.
Liu Li, born in 1958, is the older of a pair of twin sisters. She had good academic performance growing up and, at 18, responded to the Cultural Revolution’s call by going to the countryside as a “sent-down youth.” After the college entrance exam was reinstated, she failed to gain admission three years in a row. Not wanting to burden her family any further, she joined the Construction Bureau and started working as a bricklayer on construction sites.
She met her future husband at work. As the bureau was a mobile unit, the couple lived and worked across several provinces—Shandong, Shaanxi, Guangdong, before eventually settling in Shanghai.
Due to family responsibilities and the restructuring of the bureau, she had to change careers nearly every decade. Over the years, she worked as a bricklayer, a youth league coordinator, a teacher, and later, to pursue a job in project budgeting, she studied for and earned a certification at the age of 42.
Influenced by her father, she developed a love for the violin in her childhood, though the instrument was later sold by her mother. After retirement, she inherited a friend’s unused piano when they emigrated, and began learning to play at a community senior college.
She and her husband raised one son.
She and her husband raised one son.
She is sensitive by nature, prone to anxiety and long-term insomnia. 虚构版本:
Liu Dechun is a senior cardiology professor at West China Hospital in Chengdu. She usually drives to work, dresses simply but neatly. She’s a naturally anxious person—but strangely, that all goes away when she’s with patients. That’s her comfort zone. Before every surgery, she quietly prays in the locker room (she’s Christian). It helps her stay calm.
There are two big reasons why she became a doctor: one, when she was little, her mom was sick and in pain, and she couldn’t do anything about it. Two, she was once treated by a truly kind and ethical doctor—that left a deep mark on her.
She always studied hard, but her education was disrupted by the Cultural Revolution. She often thinks, if she were born into a better-off family, maybe she could’ve focused more on her studies. Thankfully, her mother was forward-thinking and encouraged the sisters to work hard in school.
Her husband, An Zi, was also a doctor at the same hospital, then switched to admin and became head of logistics. They met at a medical conference—he was the one who pursued her. He’s a decent guy, runs the household well, but smokes and drinks a lot. They often argue over academic stuff, but managed to get through life together. That said, here’s the truth: even though people think they’re a model couple, deep down, Dr. Liu has always wished for a different husband.
Her real soulmate is Wang Jing, an anesthetist at the hospital. He often brought her meals—chicken noodle soup, turtle stew, that kind of thing. His wife works at the nurse’s station and is actually Dr. Liu’s best friend, so on the surface, everything looked normal. But Liu and Wang really admired each other. Wrong timing, wrong situation. They both had families, so they buried the feelings deep. Lots of people liked Dr. Liu, but she turned them all down.
Their daughter, An Yi, is graceful and elegant. After college, she started a law firm called “Anquan Law” with classmates. Because her mom was always working, she was closer to her dad. She sometimes complains about her mom but also understands her. Dr. Liu’s biggest wish for her daughter is just “a simple, happy life.” They used to argue when she thought her daughter wasn’t ambitious enough, but later she let it go.
Her daily schedule is packed: breakfast is usually just milk, eggs, and a steamed bun before rushing to work. At noon, she’s often too busy to eat properly, just rests a bit in her office. Because of this, she developed serious stomach problems and now often has to stick to porridge.
Outside of work, she loves playing piano and violin. But she’s really not good at chores.
There’s one surgery she’ll never forget: a late-night emergency for a 25-year-old grad student named Li Ming. It started at 1 a.m.—a tough congenital heart case. She feared the worst, but the surgery went incredibly well. After it ended, she collapsed on the floor, crying. The patient’s family knelt in thanks. Later, Li Ming called her his godmother and became her final student.
After retiring, she kept giving lectures around the country and was rehired by the hospital.
She’s always kind to family, especially her younger sister. Even though she finds it annoying when her sister’s friends ask for favors, she still helps out patiently. Most of her real friendships come from her patients—like one rural patient she not only saved but also helped financially. They’ve been close ever since.
Li Liu, born in 1958, is the younger of the twin sisters. Due to her health, she didn't join the educated youth movement to the countryside, staying home to help her mother with household chores. She had the least formal education among the sisters, but was always known for having the highest “emotional intelligence.”
She started out as a waitress at a state-owned restaurant service company. She represented Ziyang in competitions for skills like "serving bowls" and "making dumplings," winning first place.
Later, she became a kindergarten teacher and stayed in that role until retirement. She was warm but firm, known for her strict yet caring teaching style. Both students and parents adored her.
Her husband worked as a driver, and they raised one son together.
She is outspoken and never shies away from standing up for herself when facing unfairness in public. Yet with her own sisters, she is often more patient, quietly caring for and supporting them. 虚构版本:
Liu Delan is always cheerful, but whenever she watches something touching on TV, she can’t help but tear up.
She’s short and chubby, but couldn’t care less—she wears whatever’s trendy, without any body anxiety.
She studied “early childhood education” at Sichuan Normal University and now teaches preschool math. She’s patient, bubbly, and gets along great with her coworkers. She’s won a bunch of teaching awards and published several papers, but she’s pretty content with where she is.
Her husband, Datong, is the older brother of one of her student’s parents. They met when he came to pick up the kid. At the time, Ms. Liu had night shifts, so he often came to walk her home. Later, when the school needed volunteers for a performance, he came to help—and that’s how they fell for each other. Datong is very, very handsome—around 1.7 meters tall, with big eyes, a high nose bridge, and fair skin. He works as a deputy chief at the police bureau, and used to be an officer in the army.
But he has a bad habit: stashing away secret money. He also loves drinking and playing mahjong. Once, when their son was preparing for high school exams, Ms. Liu asked him to stay home and help. He said he had to work late—but he was actually out playing mahjong. When Ms. Liu found out from another teacher’s spouse, she stormed into the mahjong parlor and flipped the whole table.
The most thrilling story has to do with a drug manufacturing case. A group of outsiders had rented a farmhouse to make meth, and their electricity use was off the charts. Datong led the stakeout and discovered they worked at night and dumped toxic waste into nearby farmland. During that time, he was never home and didn’t answer calls. Ms. Liu thought he was gambling again and even went to his boss to complain. She only found out later that he was on a secret mission. The case turned out to be a major bust—they received a collective first-class merit, and Datong got promoted to head of the anti-drug unit.
They’re a loving couple. On Valentine’s Day, Datong brings flowers and wine, and often helps decorate her classroom. They both love hiking and have all the gear—tents, trekking poles, everything. Datong has fatty liver, so hiking is part of his health routine. They often go camping, singing and dancing around the fire.
Ms. Liu also loves playing matchmaker. She’s successfully paired up several couples. But she’s made mistakes too—when one couple she introduced wasn’t doing well, she even stepped in to help patch things up. She even wanted to introduce someone to her son—a colleague from the kindergarten—but he wasn’t interested.
Her son is doing a combined bachelor’s and master’s at UESTC and now works as a programmer. They’re super close—he calls her “Fatty.” His wife works in HR and knows exactly how to take care of people. When Ms. Liu was sick, her daughter-in-law looked after her so well.
She used to have a toy poodle named Zhuzhu, a gift from her sister. One day, the dog crossed the street off-leash and was hit by a car. The whole family cried their hearts out. Since then, she’s never had another dog. The pain of losing one was just too much.
Her best friend, Li Xiaomei, is into photography. They became close after Ms. Liu introduced her to a doctor who helped her overcome infertility. Li is a bit timid, so the two balance each other out perfectly.
Ms. Liu is open-hearted and carefree. She can’t stand to see others suffer and has deep sympathy for people in tough situations. She’s always laughing—her giggle goes “hehehe”—and it’s totally infectious.
Liu Yulan, born in 1962, is the youngest of the four sisters. Because of her age, she was less affected by the Cultural Revolution and was able to go to university, where she studied physical education. After graduation, she taught at a middle school and later worked at the Ziyang Education Bureau as a curriculum researcher. Although she was capable at work, she wasn’t interested in politics and only wanted to focus on being a mother. She never sought promotions.
She met her husband, a military officer, through a matchmaker, and gave birth to the only daughter among the four sisters, me, at the age of 28. Since her husband was stationed elsewhere, she raised me on her own while working full-time. He only transferred back to be with us when I was twelve.
In a society that values harmony, she is known for being blunt, strong-willed, and unwilling to bend. Her greatest regret is never having the chance to build a life in a bigger city.
Liu Dehui was the youngest daughter in the family, loved and spoiled since childhood. She studied physical education in university and became a PE teacher after graduating. At that time, most PE teachers were men, but she was sharp and capable, quickly earning respect from her male colleagues. Her superiors saw leadership potential in her.
She started out living in school housing. Thanks to her strong performance, she was soon promoted to the provincial education department, and eventually became deputy director of the education bureau. She was fast-talking, efficient, and decisive—what she said went. Among her four sisters, she had the highest salary and lived the most glamorous life.
Her husband, Gao Yang, was head of logistics at the Chengdu Garrison Command. They met through work. He came from a military family, graduated from a military academy, and was good at navigating the system. But both were busy and barely saw each other, and their relationship faded over time.
As her position rose, people constantly came to her for favors—school admissions, promotions, etc. Even her sisters often visited her villa bringing gifts. She would stay seated reading documents, letting the housekeeper open the door. Sometimes she was too busy to meet them at all.
She lived lavishly—Chanel leather coats, multiple LV bags, Prada shoes. She owned a big three-story villa in Chengdu with a basement. Later, it was discovered that she had hidden gold and jewelry under the floor of another house—her husband had no idea.
Her son, Gao Xing, was a typical privileged kid. He studied abroad in New Zealand but didn’t graduate. He played around—billiards, motorcycles, showing off. He used his parents’ influence to get into real estate, started a construction company and a shady bathhouse. The bathhouse was involved in illegal activity; the construction company was under someone else’s name.
At the gym, Liu Dehui met a young personal trainer named Deng Cong. He was good-looking, fit, and they started a relationship. She spoiled him—bought him a sports car, motorcycle, designer clothes, and even opened a gym for him. They often stayed in luxury hotel suites. But Deng Cong was only after her money.
Eventually, things fell apart. To keep up with Deng’s demands, she started embezzling public funds—even disaster relief money. When she sensed she’d been exposed, she turned herself in, confessed, and returned the money. Authorities found yet another house of hers, also hiding treasures. Again, her husband knew nothing.
She was dismissed from her position and sentenced to 12 years in prison. All her luxury goods were confiscated.
Ironically, her husband never blamed her. He comforted her and helped repay the stolen money. Her son also turned his life around—closed the bathhouse and focused on the construction business. He even got help from a powerful couple—people Liu Dehui had once helped get into the education department.
Twelve years later, Liu Dehui returned to Ziyang.
They emboied their characters and started acting.
Building on the characters they imagined for themselves, I invited them to embody those roles by styling themselves to match the characters. And then, I created different scenes or situations for them to enter. However, I deliberately left the dialogue unscripted, giving them the freedom to interpret, react, and improvise:
Fiction gave them a safe space to speak for themselves, about the unspoken desire, joy or anger, about making some choices for the first time.
Both the scriptwriting and acting process become a reenactment of their sisterhood, a space where they speak up or compromise, filled with joy and pain. Most importantly, they support each other, both on set and in real life.
This way of working gave their individuality and creativity space. It became an organic, collaborative process, in which the characters they made up started talking to each other, like they’d always lived in the same world. Soon it wasn’t clear where the performance ended and the real person began. In that blurry space between non-fiction and fiction, they claimed their own agency of their own story. Imagination wasn’t just escape; it was empowerment.