Love Stories in the Countryside

The Long, Strange Joke of Xiangyashan

I’ve lost count of how many hours I’ve spent circling back to this made-up village in Northeast China. Eighteen seasons. More than eight hundred episodes. Zhao Benshan’s *Love Stories in the Countryside* (Xiangcun Aiqing) probably shouldn’t have become the cultural touchstone it has. It’s loud, melodramatic, and drenched in that harsh, early-2000s TV sheen. Yet somehow, in 2026, it’s still here, outlasting prestige dramas that took themselves twice as seriously.

It began in 2006 as a straightforward, almost earnest comedy about rural folks muddling through romance and petty rivalries. Zhao Benshan, a titan of Chinese comedy, nailed something important: the countryside isn’t just a place of quiet stoicism or crushing poverty. It’s absurd theater.



You can’t discuss the show without mentioning *miànzi* — face. The whole engine runs on people trying to keep it and failing spectacularly. Picture a mid-season dinner meant to grease a business deal, which dissolves into a cold war of passive aggression. The camera doesn’t do anything fancy; it just lingers on nervous chopstick tapping and men whose pride is way bigger than their finances. It’s a lesson in comedy built on tiny humiliations, with dialogue that circles the real issue so much it makes your head spin.

Then there’s Tang Jianjun as Xie Guangkun. He might be the most maddening character ever on TV, and I mean that as praise. Tang commits to the permanently puffed chest and balding dome that scream misplaced self-importance. He meddles, he schemes, he wrecks his son’s life again and again, all while strutting around like rural nobility. Every move is defensive — leaning in, invading space, demanding respect he somehow thinks he deserves. You want to grab him through the screen and shake some sense into him.



On the flip side, Liu Xiaoguang’s Zhao Si is what keeps the show’s heartbeat erratic and alive. Liu’s twitch and spontaneous, jerky dancing turned him into a meme long before the internet fully caught up. It’s a trip to see the show shift alongside its viewers. What started as a traditional sitcom gradually leaned harder into absurdity. Chinese youth didn’t reject the dated look; they embraced it with ironic fervor. It sparked a whole “corny cool” (土酷) scene. Dao Insights recently pointed out how the show’s modern brand tie-ins play up its “post-modern humour in line with the 'corny cool' and Northeastern aesthetics.” Think Balenciaga meets the cabbage patch.

Whether Zhao Benshan planned this arc or it happened by accident is beside the point. The show ends up as a chaotic mirror for a country sprinting into modernity, reflecting the anxieties of those stuck in the dirt, stubborn about being seen.



I’ll admit: it gets exhausting in big swaths. The pacing drags, the musical cues loop until they lose all meaning, and the plots recycle themselves shamelessly. But sometimes a quiet moment sneaks up on you — a shot of the frozen Northeastern ground, or a surprisingly tender exchange between characters who’ve just spent three episodes yelling. Those flashes of real humanity hold the kitsch together. They remind you that beneath the loud floral prints and screaming arguments, *Love Stories in the Countryside* is about people terrified of looking foolish, yet doing it anyway. It’s a long, strange joke, and the punchline always lands a little closer to home than you’d expect.