Sad! The producer of "The Lion Boy" is rumored to have gone bankrupt. Back then, they clashed with netizens, and now they're starving themselves to death.

A film company that had once produced breakout domestic animated series suddenly shut down. It should have been heartbreaking, but netizens were applauding instead.

What industry story lies behind this? How should domestic animation creators balance artistic expression with the public’s emotions?

Recently, a piece of news has come from the film and television industry: Beijing Jingcai Shijian Culture Media Co., Ltd. has been reported to have effectively stopped operations. Its office space is now empty, with the core management team leaving one after another.

This once highly watched film company has exited the market quietly and without a sound.

As is typical in the industry, when a film company collapses, it means projects stall, employees lose their jobs, and many families’ livelihoods are affected. Netizens usually respond with sympathy.

But this time, the public discourse is unusually different. There is no lamenting in the comment sections—only calm discussion. Some people even bluntly said, “This is the answer the market has given.”

This atypical attitude is not because netizens are indifferent. It’s because everyone knows that the outcome of this company is deeply tied to one of the controversial works it previously released.

The company in question is the core producer of the animated film “Lion Boy” (雄狮少年). From the first film’s release, which sparked major controversy, to the second film’s disastrous box office, it has inched its way to today’s situation—long before, the groundwork for this was already laid.

The film and television industry is inherently extremely risky; a project’s success or failure directly determines a company’s survival.

Some people bet on short-form dramas encountering industry shifts, while others poured in huge amounts of money but couldn’t move audiences. Beijing Jingcai’s exit is just one case among countless in the industry—yet because of a particularly controversial incident, it has drawn far more attention.

At the end of 2021, when “Lion Boy” was officially announced, it was regarded as a hopeful work for domestic animation.

A full in-house team, lion-dance cultural heritage as the theme, and a story focusing on ordinary people’s growth—whether in terms of creative direction or cultural core, it hit the high-quality track in domestic animation. Audiences originally had very high expectations.

But after the film released, the visual style took a sharp turn for the worse. The character design of the film’s protagonists sparked an uproar. Aside from the supporting cast, the eyes of the three core protagonists were highly similar: the wide eye spacing and the upturned inner/outer corners—features that are far from the popular understanding of Eastern aesthetics.

The film’s producer claimed the design inspiration came from field research and observation in Guangdong, but it triggered widespread confusion among Guangdong audiences. People found it hard to accept that these features truly represent local people’s real appearance.

What further escalated the controversy is that this kind of eye design has long been used internationally as a symbol of stereotypes about Asians.

From the Western “Yellow Peril” narrative of modern times, to malicious depictions like “Fu Manchu,” and to multiple recent aesthetic controversy incidents, this symbol has long been bound up with cultural offense.

Even if the film’s technology was mature and the storytelling smooth, it still couldn’t offset the negative emotions caused by the character depiction.

Under huge public pressure, the producer company never directly addressed the core concerns of audiences. It stuck to the original design philosophy. Ultimately, the first film’s box office ended at 249 million yuan, barely covering costs. It failed to achieve both strong box office performance and good word of mouth as expected.

Many thought that the controversy from the first film would prompt the creative team to adjust their direction. But three years later, “Lion Boy 2” quietly premiered.

The film didn’t do large-scale promotion. The protagonists’ appearances were tweaked slightly, but they still didn’t fundamentally change the controversial character look. Meanwhile, the newly added characters all used normal aesthetic designs. This inconsistency made it even harder for audiences to accept.

The market performance of the second film was even worse. In the end, the box office was only 84 million yuan. Revenue from the revenue-sharing scheme was far less than the production costs, and the massive loss immediately crushed the company’s cash flow, becoming the direct trigger for the company’s closure.

Many people couldn’t understand it. Domestic animation has never been short of characters with plain looks, and even ones that some might describe as “ugly.” Why did “Lion Boy” spark such strong resistance in particular?

Actually, audiences have never rejected characters with ordinary appearances. What they truly disliked was the deliberate design that crosses cultural taboos.

In the same realm of domestic animation, in “Ne Zha: The Devil Child” (哪吒之魔童降世), Ne Zha has a garlic-head nose and a wide, flat face. The image doesn’t really come across as refined, and when he first appeared, some people also thought he didn’t look good. But no one accused the design of being offensive.

Because that depiction fits the character’s personality—it is an artistic creation based on the story, with no attached negative cultural meanings.

In the film and television world, Huang Bo has become a favorite among audiences through solid acting skills. His looks aren’t the traditional handsome type, but he earned recognition through ability.

That alone shows that mainstream aesthetics are never just “big eyes” and “high nose bridges.” We accept what’s real, we accept what’s plain, and we even accept “imperfection” that serves the character.

The problem with “Lion Boy” has never been that “the characters don’t look good.” The real issue is that it used a design with historical offense connotations.

Since modern times, Eastern people have long been belittled and portrayed as ugly through stereotyped Western imagery. This historical memory is embedded in people’s minds, and it can’t be reduced to something as simple as “aesthetic fixation.”

Creativity can pursue individuality and focus on ordinary people, but it shouldn’t make an offensive symbol into a signature feature. And it shouldn’t double down on itself even after audiences clearly express discomfort, let alone try to face criticism with the attitude of “educating the audience.”

Art can be niche, but it cannot detach from public emotion. Creativity can be unique, but it cannot ignore cultural bottom lines.

Beijing Jingcai’s exit serves as a warning to the entire domestic film and television industry—especially the field of animation creation.

Over the years, domestic animation has developed rapidly. From “Big Fish & Begonia” (大圣归来) to “Ne Zha” (哪吒), and then to “Chang’an” (长安三万里), successful works share a common point: they are rooted in local culture, respect mainstream audience aesthetics, and stay close to audiences’ feelings.

If domestic animation wants to go further, it needs not only technology upgrades but also cultural confidence. True cultural export is not accommodating external stereotypes; it is presenting our real lives, plain emotions, and excellent traditional culture in ways that audiences will actually like.

In recent years, domestic animation has increasingly focused on building local imagery. Whether it’s mythological characters or real-life figures, everything is moving back toward Eastern aesthetics. This is a sign of progress in the industry.

As for those creations that insist on deviating from public emotions and touching cultural taboos—even if the technology is ever so mature—it is still hard to win market recognition.

From the standpoint of industry rules, audiences vote with their box office, and that is the most direct standard of judgment.

A film and television company’s survival has never depended on stubborn self-expression. It depends on understanding audiences and respecting the market. If you violate this core logic, then no matter how much you invest or how bright the early expectations are, you will ultimately be eliminated by the market.

Conclusion

Beijing Jingcai’s shutdown is the market’s response to creation that deviates from public emotions, and it also sounds an alarm bell for the domestic animation industry.

Creativity can have personality, but it can’t abandon cultural bottom lines or empathy with audiences. In the future, domestic animation can only truly move steadily and go far if it remains rooted in local culture and respects mainstream audiences.