Qing Lang says “Yunhu Mountain” into his phone using voice input. The navigation system answers in Chang Yang’s voice:
“Yunhu Mountain is a lovely place. ‘Now that I have seen my beloved, how could I not rejoice?’ And have you seen your beloved today?”
Earlier, Qing Lang had recorded Chang Yang’s voice for the navigation system.
The line “Now that I have seen my beloved, how could I not rejoice?” comes from the ancient Chinese Book of Songs:
“The wind and rain turn the sky dark. The rooster crows without cease. Now that I have seen my beloved, how could I not rejoice?”
The name Yunhu Mountain hides the sound of the poem’s own words inside it: yun hu, a classical expression meaning “how could.”
The original poem unfolds in stormy darkness, with a rooster crowing without cease. Then, in the middle of it all, the person the speaker has been longing for appears. Everything before this moment builds the strain of waiting against the harshness of the weather. Then this line turns the poem, catching all that unease at once.
The line is now often used at weddings or in declarations of love. It carries the feeling: At last, you are here. I cannot hide my joy.
When Qing Lang uses the navigation system on his way to the city detention center, Chang Yang’s voice says:
“Where to, my god?”
“Buckle up. Even gods need protecting.”
To Chang Yang, Qing Lang is something close to a god.
And what did Qing Lang record?
Qing Lang: “Welcome back, my boy. Where to next?”
Chang Yang: “Home.”
Qing Lang: “Stick with me. No wrong turns. See you.”
I followed your voice through years of solitude. To hear you was almost to see you, and that was enough to carry me across every mountain, every river, every mile.
This BL isn’t a masterpiece. But Bay’s mind. The way it works. It sits with me. A few steps away he hears the threat. Seconds later the calculation’s done. Third grade, maybe. Schoolbag still bigger than him. He decides hate can keep someone. It works. Sun stays. Same schools the whole way. Hate clean. No one lost. That kind of protection has no stop. You make him misread you and you stay the one he misreads. Sun never knows. Bay has no name for it then. Only that he can’t lose him. Years later Sun drops out on his own. Bay sees it then. Whatever it was. It had a name the whole time.
Every episode of the Little Theater series ends on the same still image.
It feels like the back cover of a book.
Against a black background, three enormous Chinese characters appear in deep green brushwork: 春山境.
Below them is an English line:
A winter sun wakes the wind in spring hill’s dream.
It is not a direct translation of the Chinese title. It feels more like a second title. Something placed quietly beneath the first.
Nearby, the director’s name appears in red: Zelia Wang.
Further down is another name, written in Chinese: 王疏棠, Wang Shutang.
At first, I wondered whether this was Zelia’s Chinese name. Perhaps it was a pen name.
I searched for Wang Shutang and found a passage about the creator of Chun Shan Jing. It placed Zelia, Lizzy, Wang Shutang, and several other nicknames in one long string. They all referred to the same woman.
One phrase stayed with me. It described her as someone who took a different name for every production.
That made Wang Shutang feel less like an ordinary credit. It may not be a name she uses outside this work. It may be the name she chose for this particular world. An authorial self made to live inside Chun Shan Jing.
At the bottom of the image is one final sentence:
“Pure love deserves the highest praise of mankind.”
It is followed by the title Mo Shuo Yan Yang Tian (莫說豔陽天), translated on screen as Of the Sunlit Sky.
I later learned that the title is drawn from Chinese poetry. It is also the name of the book about the two male leads in a previous life.
So the sentence is not simply a beautiful quotation placed at the end. It comes from the story before this one.
A line from their previous life has been carried into the final frame of their present life.
The image reads differently now. Zelia Wang stands outside the work as its director. Wang Shutang seems to remain somewhere inside it. Below them is a sentence from another lifetime.
All of it is held on one black page.
I do not think I will forget this BL drama anytime soon. I will keep following the names and searching for whatever else remains.
I think we can safely say that grandma stole the show this episode. WHAT and actress, WHAT a series, WHAT a story!…
Exactly 💯 Now I need the advanced Thai BL course: how to cry freely like these actors without the red nose and puffy eyes. They look heartbreakingly beautiful. I look like I’m allergic to the entire plot 😭
Episode 16 makes it hard to read any other way. Director Zelia appears as Director Li, the director we never see on screen.
Qinglang’s costume while filming Snow Drum Gatha (Xue Gu Ji) was criticized by public opinion as a man dressing as a woman, and the project even lost its funding. On screen appears the following untranslated Chinese text:
酈ZELIA Director Li, Zelia
花木蘭女扮男裝替父從軍。 Hua Mulan dressed as a man and joined the army in her father’s place.
女人扮成男人，叫英武颯踏。 When a woman portrays a man, she is praised as heroic and dashing.
男人扮成女人，被說是娘炮文化。 When a man portrays a woman, he is labeled part of “sissy culture.”
究竟是文化仇視女人， Is it that our culture despises women,
還是社會對文化不自信。 or that society is insecure about its culture?
說到底，還是人類進入父系社會， Ultimately, it was humanity’s shift into a patriarchal society
才陷入男性崇拜的社會認同裡。 that trapped us in a social mindset that worships men.
男何妨，女又何妨。 What does it matter if one is a man or a woman?
都是一具皮囊裹著一個靈魂。 We are each a skin wrapped around a soul.
有人靈還在，有人魂丟了。 Some still have their spirit; others have lost their soul.
有人心明眼亮，有人不分青紅。 Some see clearly; others cannot tell one color from another.
什麼時候人類能放下性別偏見， Only when humanity can let go of gender prejudice
才是真正意義上的進步。 can we call it progress in the truest sense.
Some winds pass through the winter sun. Only afterward do we realize the spring hills were there all along.
In Snow Drum Verse, the drum is not there to summon applause. Qinglang once called it “an instrument of torture that can speak with spirits.” When it is struck, the sound moves through flesh, through memory, through the eyes of the crowd, and brings into the light lives that never asked to be understood.
Qinglang appears in women’s clothing and the reaction is immediate. People hurry to name him, to judge him, to turn a role into a statement. But he is playing a fox spirit. A being neither human nor answerable to humans. The fox walks the borderlands. It knows that changing form is not a lie. It is simply how one stays alive.
He is not trying to become someone else. For a moment he lets us see that a person was never limited to a single form.
Then comes Dwelling in the Mountains.
Changyang and Qinglang’s secret place comes into the frame: paths dissolving into mist, unfinished sentences, light resting briefly on a shoulder. It feels like a mountain that asks for nothing. Living there is not a way of leaving the world. It is the decision, finally, to stay with yourself.
Qinglang wins again. On stage he does not reach for polished words. He comes out and says he is leaving the industry.
The applause goes on. He is already walking into the forest.
The forest wedding has no elaborate backdrop. The trees stand as witnesses. The wind turns the pages. Light and shadow pause on each face and then move on. Life and death. Meeting and waiting. Staying and going. All of it seems to settle into the same afternoon.
Buddhism teaches that everything arises through conditions and fades when those conditions change. Not every love needs to be kept forever in order to have been real. Not every farewell is a loss.
Sometimes true hope is not waiting for someone to return. It is finding that after they have gone, you can still live gently.
The finale is called Beholding.
Not someone fixed inside a definition. Not a story offered up for conversation. Just this: somewhere between light and shadow, the willingness at last to see each other as we actually are.
What makes a classic a classic is not the blindness of a moth drawn to a flame, but a certain lucidity.--- this…
Those lyrics are lovely, and they push back on my line in a way I like. The candle and the moth are old images in Urdu and Persian poetry, where the moth's burning is usually the highest form of love rather than a failure of sight. So your song and my sentence are arguing.
I think both can be true here. Chang Yang has some of that moth in him. He wanted Hunter School badly enough to accept the danger. But he also keeps choosing with his eyes open, which is the part that gets me.
Thank you for the kind words about the Buddhist terms. I learn as much as I share, and this page has been a good place to do it.
And yes, let's find each other somewhere else when this ends. I share your worry that something at this level will not come around soon.
In Episode 3, Fei Foon and Leuk To talk about the Hong Kong classic Comrades: Almost a Love Story (1996). Their different views on love seem to foreshadow what lies ahead.
I was just thinking it's a shame that there is no such recognition for these dramas in China, it is one best portrayed…
You’re right, and it’s a strange thing to sit with. A show this carefully made can’t be discussed openly in the place it was made and set.
So the appreciation ends up scattered. Fans overseas on pages like this one, Chinese-speaking viewers watching through whatever route they can find, people writing about it in small corners. No awards, no reviews in the papers, no retrospective in ten years.
It does make me think about how much of the craft here was done with no expectation of being credited for it. Zelia’s camera work, the writing, the way the Buddhist material is handled. Someone made all those choices knowing the show would mostly travel by word of mouth.
Which is maybe why this page feels like it matters more than a comment section should.
This BL feels much like the Chinese language itself. Chinese says much with few words. Much of its meaning lies in what is not said.
Zelia’s cinematography, the Buddhist philosophy woven into the dialogue, and the tension between life and death leave me humbled and in awe.
What makes a classic a classic is not the blindness of a moth drawn to a flame, but a certain lucidity. I find that same lucidity in the singular perspectives of the commenters on this MDL page, and it makes me treasure this space all the more.
Wow I never read the subs about the fish. Thank you! They were eating raw termite mushrooms in the forest though.…
You're right, and I'd forgotten Qing Tian eating one straight off the table. So it was termite mushroom after all, and Chang Yang was telling him it's the one you can get away with.
Which makes the soup even funnier. He knows exactly where the line is and warns him the second they cross it.
And I'm with you on the past lives. If they've been finding each other and losing each other over and over, then breaking the pattern is the only ending that means anything. Let this be the life they get to keep.
Wow I never read the subs about the fish. Thank you! They were eating raw termite mushrooms in the forest though.…
Actually, thinking about it again, I’m not sure what they were eating raw in the forest was a mushroom at all. It may well have been bamboo worms, which do get eaten fresh out there.
The soup is a different matter. Some wild mushroom varieties carry toxins that heat breaks down, which is exactly why undercooking them is what sends you to hospital, and why the hallucination talk comes up in that scene and not earlier.
Worth noting too that 雞樅 (jī zōng, termite mushroom) is on Yunnan’s official edible list, but even the safe varieties come with standing advice to cook them through and never eat them raw or cold-dressed.
Thank you. I didn't know about the little people story.Although when CY talked about the red carp, I imagined…
You got there without needing the little people at all. The red carp reads as him even if you know nothing about mushroom season in Yunnan, which says something about how well it's built. ❤️
After the bear, they kiss. Then they’re sitting awkwardly in the hills boiling mushroom soup, and Chang Yang warns Qing Lang it isn’t cooked through yet, eat it now and you’re going to hospital.
Qing Lang says he wants to see the little people. Chang Yang says he already has.
A note for anyone puzzled by that. In Yunnan, where wild mushroom poisoning is practically a seasonal event, 見小人 (jiàn xiǎo rén, seeing little people) is the classic hallucination. It’s so standard that it’s become shorthand for mushroom poisoning altogether. Every season there are jokes online along the lines of “seen your little people yet?” So Qing Lang saying he wants to see them is him half joking about wanting to get poisoned, and Chang Yang saying he already has is an admission he’s been there.
Which makes what follows stranger. Chang Yang didn’t see little people. He says he saw a red carp in a pond that was drying up, and he tried desperately to scoop it out.
The standard hallucination is little people. His was a red fish about to die, and himself trying to save it.
Red carp sends me straight to the red pyjamas. And the image of Chang Yang lifting a red fish out of the water sends me to the Little Theatre in episode 1, where he changes Qing Lang into those pyjamas. Two hands handling someone who can’t help himself. Scooping the fish and dressing the man are the same gesture in two forms.
The timing is what I keep turning over. He’d met Qing Lang once, two years earlier, in that hotel room. Drunk, violent, kicking and biting. Nothing like a man in red pyjamas, and nothing like something small and helpless you could carry in your hands.
So the hallucination isn’t remembering anything. It’s showing him a version of Qing Lang he hadn’t met yet and wouldn’t meet for two more years.
32 
38 
3 
1 
6 
3 
1 
8 
1 
4 
3 
1 
4 
23 
“Yunhu Mountain is a lovely place. ‘Now that I have seen my beloved, how could I not rejoice?’ And have you seen your beloved today?”
Earlier, Qing Lang had recorded Chang Yang’s voice for the navigation system.
The line “Now that I have seen my beloved, how could I not rejoice?” comes from the ancient Chinese Book of Songs:
“The wind and rain turn the sky dark.
The rooster crows without cease.
Now that I have seen my beloved,
how could I not rejoice?”
The name Yunhu Mountain hides the sound of the poem’s own words inside it: yun hu, a classical expression meaning “how could.”
The original poem unfolds in stormy darkness, with a rooster crowing without cease. Then, in the middle of it all, the person the speaker has been longing for appears. Everything before this moment builds the strain of waiting against the harshness of the weather. Then this line turns the poem, catching all that unease at once.
The line is now often used at weddings or in declarations of love. It carries the feeling: At last, you are here. I cannot hide my joy.
When Qing Lang uses the navigation system on his way to the city detention center, Chang Yang’s voice says:
“Where to, my god?”
“Buckle up. Even gods need protecting.”
To Chang Yang, Qing Lang is something close to a god.
And what did Qing Lang record?
Qing Lang: “Welcome back, my boy. Where to next?”
Chang Yang: “Home.”
Qing Lang: “Stick with me. No wrong turns. See you.”
I followed your voice through years of solitude.
To hear you was almost to see you,
and that was enough to carry me
across every mountain, every river, every mile.
I love every navigation line in this drama.
A lover’s voice. Simple and steady.
But Bay’s mind. The way it works. It sits with me.
A few steps away he hears the threat. Seconds later the calculation’s done. Third grade, maybe. Schoolbag still bigger than him.
He decides hate can keep someone.
It works. Sun stays. Same schools the whole way. Hate clean. No one lost.
That kind of protection has no stop. You make him misread you and you stay the one he misreads.
Sun never knows.
Bay has no name for it then. Only that he can’t lose him.
Years later Sun drops out on his own.
Bay sees it then.
Whatever it was. It had a name the whole time.
There's no rush on it either. The show will still be there in a month when you want to go back and look at something.
Every episode of the Little Theater series ends on the same still image.
It feels like the back cover of a book.
Against a black background, three enormous Chinese characters appear in deep green brushwork: 春山境.
Below them is an English line:
A winter sun wakes the wind in spring hill’s dream.
It is not a direct translation of the Chinese title. It feels more like a second title. Something placed quietly beneath the first.
Nearby, the director’s name appears in red: Zelia Wang.
Further down is another name, written in Chinese: 王疏棠, Wang Shutang.
At first, I wondered whether this was Zelia’s Chinese name. Perhaps it was a pen name.
I searched for Wang Shutang and found a passage about the creator of Chun Shan Jing. It placed Zelia, Lizzy, Wang Shutang, and several other nicknames in one long string. They all referred to the same woman.
One phrase stayed with me. It described her as someone who took a different name for every production.
That made Wang Shutang feel less like an ordinary credit. It may not be a name she uses outside this work. It may be the name she chose for this particular world. An authorial self made to live inside Chun Shan Jing.
At the bottom of the image is one final sentence:
“Pure love deserves the highest praise of mankind.”
It is followed by the title Mo Shuo Yan Yang Tian (莫說豔陽天), translated on screen as Of the Sunlit Sky.
I later learned that the title is drawn from Chinese poetry. It is also the name of the book about the two male leads in a previous life.
So the sentence is not simply a beautiful quotation placed at the end. It comes from the story before this one.
A line from their previous life has been carried into the final frame of their present life.
The image reads differently now. Zelia Wang stands outside the work as its director. Wang Shutang seems to remain somewhere inside it. Below them is a sentence from another lifetime.
All of it is held on one black page.
I do not think I will forget this BL drama anytime soon. I will keep following the names and searching for whatever else remains.
There is still something in that final frame.
Now I need the advanced Thai BL course: how to cry freely like these actors without the red nose and puffy eyes. They look heartbreakingly beautiful. I look like I’m allergic to the entire plot 😭
Qinglang’s costume while filming Snow Drum Gatha (Xue Gu Ji) was criticized by public opinion as a man dressing as a woman, and the project even lost its funding. On screen appears the following untranslated Chinese text:
酈ZELIA
Director Li, Zelia
花木蘭女扮男裝替父從軍。
Hua Mulan dressed as a man and joined the army in her father’s place.
女人扮成男人，叫英武颯踏。
When a woman portrays a man, she is praised as heroic and dashing.
男人扮成女人，被說是娘炮文化。
When a man portrays a woman, he is labeled part of “sissy culture.”
究竟是文化仇視女人，
Is it that our culture despises women,
還是社會對文化不自信。
or that society is insecure about its culture?
說到底，還是人類進入父系社會，
Ultimately, it was humanity’s shift into a patriarchal society
才陷入男性崇拜的社會認同裡。
that trapped us in a social mindset that worships men.
男何妨，女又何妨。
What does it matter if one is a man or a woman?
都是一具皮囊裹著一個靈魂。
We are each a skin wrapped around a soul.
有人靈還在，有人魂丟了。
Some still have their spirit; others have lost their soul.
有人心明眼亮，有人不分青紅。
Some see clearly; others cannot tell one color from another.
什麼時候人類能放下性別偏見，
Only when humanity can let go of gender prejudice
才是真正意義上的進步。
can we call it progress in the truest sense.
Thank you for reading. It means something that the writing sent you back to the show rather than replacing it.
In Snow Drum Verse, the drum is not there to summon applause. Qinglang once called it “an instrument of torture that can speak with spirits.” When it is struck, the sound moves through flesh, through memory, through the eyes of the crowd, and brings into the light lives that never asked to be understood.
Qinglang appears in women’s clothing and the reaction is immediate. People hurry to name him, to judge him, to turn a role into a statement. But he is playing a fox spirit. A being neither human nor answerable to humans. The fox walks the borderlands. It knows that changing form is not a lie. It is simply how one stays alive.
He is not trying to become someone else. For a moment he lets us see that a person was never limited to a single form.
Then comes Dwelling in the Mountains.
Changyang and Qinglang’s secret place comes into the frame: paths dissolving into mist, unfinished sentences, light resting briefly on a shoulder. It feels like a mountain that asks for nothing. Living there is not a way of leaving the world. It is the decision, finally, to stay with yourself.
Qinglang wins again. On stage he does not reach for polished words. He comes out and says he is leaving the industry.
The applause goes on. He is already walking into the forest.
The forest wedding has no elaborate backdrop. The trees stand as witnesses. The wind turns the pages. Light and shadow pause on each face and then move on. Life and death. Meeting and waiting. Staying and going. All of it seems to settle into the same afternoon.
Buddhism teaches that everything arises through conditions and fades when those conditions change. Not every love needs to be kept forever in order to have been real. Not every farewell is a loss.
Sometimes true hope is not waiting for someone to return.
It is finding that after they have gone, you can still live gently.
The finale is called Beholding.
Not someone fixed inside a definition. Not a story offered up for conversation.
Just this: somewhere between light and shadow, the willingness at last to see each other as we actually are.
I think both can be true here. Chang Yang has some of that moth in him. He wanted Hunter School badly enough to accept the danger. But he also keeps choosing with his eyes open, which is the part that gets me.
Thank you for the kind words about the Buddhist terms. I learn as much as I share, and this page has been a good place to do it.
And yes, let's find each other somewhere else when this ends. I share your worry that something at this level will not come around soon.
https://kisskh.at/5297-comrades-almost-a-love-story
So the appreciation ends up scattered. Fans overseas on pages like this one, Chinese-speaking viewers watching through whatever route they can find, people writing about it in small corners. No awards, no reviews in the papers, no retrospective in ten years.
It does make me think about how much of the craft here was done with no expectation of being credited for it. Zelia’s camera work, the writing, the way the Buddhist material is handled. Someone made all those choices knowing the show would mostly travel by word of mouth.
Which is maybe why this page feels like it matters more than a comment section should.
Honestly the show does most of it. I just try to keep up.
Zelia’s cinematography, the Buddhist philosophy woven into the dialogue, and the tension between life and death leave me humbled and in awe.
What makes a classic a classic is not the blindness of a moth drawn to a flame, but a certain lucidity. I find that same lucidity in the singular perspectives of the commenters on this MDL page, and it makes me treasure this space all the more.
Which makes the soup even funnier. He knows exactly where the line is and warns him the second they cross it.
And I'm with you on the past lives. If they've been finding each other and losing each other over and over, then breaking the pattern is the only ending that means anything. Let this be the life they get to keep.
So the hallucination isn't showing him a future Qing Lang at all. It's the one he already met, just in a form he could finally do something about.
(No shrooms. Your friend will have to make do.)
The soup is a different matter. Some wild mushroom varieties carry toxins that heat breaks down, which is exactly why undercooking them is what sends you to hospital, and why the hallucination talk comes up in that scene and not earlier.
Worth noting too that 雞樅 (jī zōng, termite mushroom) is on Yunnan’s official edible list, but even the safe varieties come with standing advice to cook them through and never eat them raw or cold-dressed.
Qing Lang says he wants to see the little people. Chang Yang says he already has.
A note for anyone puzzled by that. In Yunnan, where wild mushroom poisoning is practically a seasonal event, 見小人 (jiàn xiǎo rén, seeing little people) is the classic hallucination. It’s so standard that it’s become shorthand for mushroom poisoning altogether. Every season there are jokes online along the lines of “seen your little people yet?” So Qing Lang saying he wants to see them is him half joking about wanting to get poisoned, and Chang Yang saying he already has is an admission he’s been there.
Which makes what follows stranger. Chang Yang didn’t see little people. He says he saw a red carp in a pond that was drying up, and he tried desperately to scoop it out.
The standard hallucination is little people. His was a red fish about to die, and himself trying to save it.
Red carp sends me straight to the red pyjamas. And the image of Chang Yang lifting a red fish out of the water sends me to the Little Theatre in episode 1, where he changes Qing Lang into those pyjamas. Two hands handling someone who can’t help himself. Scooping the fish and dressing the man are the same gesture in two forms.
The timing is what I keep turning over. He’d met Qing Lang once, two years earlier, in that hotel room. Drunk, violent, kicking and biting. Nothing like a man in red pyjamas, and nothing like something small and helpless you could carry in your hands.
So the hallucination isn’t remembering anything. It’s showing him a version of Qing Lang he hadn’t met yet and wouldn’t meet for two more years.