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Struggles to capture the soul of snowboarding

Lately, Ski into Love (嘘，国王在冬眠) has been circulating in the snowboarding community, so I decided to give it a shot. Snowboarding is my life, and no matter how flawed the content, I will consume it because action sports are so rarely depicted in media - and when they are, it’s often with a misunderstanding that borders on mischaracterization.

My approach to this drama was twofold: to assess it both as a story and from a technical and cultural perspective, offering insight into the culture and history of the sport. Initially, I came in with a lot of skepticism, worried about its authenticity. However, as the series progressed, I found myself praying it wouldn’t completely fuck up its depiction of snowboarding. Whether it succeeded or not, I’m still on the fence. While I didn’t learn anything new - and I have plenty of factual errors to nitpick - I had fun identifying the snowboard models, shooting locations, and analyzing tricks.

The Spirit of Snowboarding

Snowboarding, like its action sports counterparts, is more than just a sport; it’s a way of life. It’s a culture deeply rooted in music, fashion, and community - a group bonded by their passion for riding. Fun comes first; talent is secondary. The irony of this drama is that the entire plot feels like it was written by Wei Zhi herself - someone with little understanding of snowboarding but trying her best.

I can overlook the title mistranslation ("Ski into Love", even though the show is about snowboarding). The issue of calling them “ski slopes” and “ski resorts” when snowboarders share the terrain hasn’t been resolved in real life either. In Chinese, both skiing and snowboarding fall under 滑雪 (huáxuě), with the only differentiator being 单板 (single board, snowboarding) and 双板 (dual boards, skiing). Riding into Love might’ve been a more fitting title, but I digress.

Where the drama falls short is in its portrayal of snowboarding’s essence. It offers a mainstream, sanitized version that feels disconnected from the sport’s rebellious roots. Snowboarding emerged from counter-culture, a space for outcasts carving their own path. Every rider, no matter how successful, shares this spirit. But in Ski into Love, the characters feel too clean-cut, too polished. Shan Chong’s personal style, for example, is far removed from how freestyle snowboarders actually dress. Sure, designer clothing at his wealth level makes sense, but not in the way it’s presented here. Snowboarders have a distinct style - baggy hip-hop-inspired outfits, a chill, laid-back demeanor. The characters here feel stiff, missing that effortless cool.

Technical and Cultural Inaccuracies

A major oversight is how the series lumps all snowboarding disciplines together. Shan Chong, a Big Air/Slopestyle specialist, is challenged to a slalom race by his teammate Dai Duo. There is little to no crossover between alpine racing and freestyle; they require vastly different skills and equipment. No elite freestyle snowboarder would suddenly be competent on a racing board. It makes as much sense as a figure skater excelling at speed skating.

Another glaring issue is the depiction of the snowboarding community. This sport thrives on camaraderie - it was built by outcasts creating their own space. Even in professional competition, snowboarders form one of the most close-knit communities in all of sports. Yet by episode 5, factions have formed, going against the sport’s very ethos. While rivalries exist, true snowboarders know the real enemy is always the skiers. (Kidding - kind of.)

China’s snow sports scene is rapidly developing, but its cultural etiquette hasn’t fully caught up with global standards. If this drama wanted to be idealistic, it could have done better research into this aspect.

Duelling it out over a game of In Your Face but with completely made up rules was disappointing. The actual rules are: rock-paper-scissors for first caller. First caller calls a trick for the opponent. If opponent lands, they move on, if they fall, loser gets sprayed in the face. Calling the tricks for the opponent would have been a great opportunity to help casual viewers understand what’s happening, which they missed the mark on.

Shan Chong’s friend Beici insists that you can’t let fate decide in competitive sports. While Beici isn’t wrong, Shan Chong’s agreement to his statement feels out of place. Snowboarding has never been about pure competition - it’s about fun. But as commercialization grows, this ethos is being overshadowed. More athletes now prioritize rigorous training over joy. If the series valued snowboarding’s integrity, it should have acknowledged that while progression matters, fun and camaraderie matter more.

Although the series captures the amateur snowboarders quite accurately, elite athletes are depicted more like athletes of other sports. It’s disconcerting to see traditional, sterile bootcamp-style training gyms that strip away the essence of snowboarding. China has Woodward facilities designed for action sports, yet they’re absent from the drama. Instead of advocating for snowboarding, the series uses it as a plot device.

But one of the best parts? The absolute chaos of the national team. As they should be. These are the elite, yet they all act like overgrown kids - just like real-life snowboarders. Their coach, at least, gives sound advice: Shan Chong shouldn’t expect to return to form immediately. His frustration watching younger riders outperform him is understandable. The new generation has better facilities, training, and role models. The older generation had to figure things out through trial and error; the younger ones have the blueprint handed to them.

The drama focuses heavily on Big Air but omits Slopestyle, even though Olympic-level athletes compete in both. Worse, it downplays the technical difficulty of tricks. When Dai Duo lands a backside 1440 triple cork, his teammates claim no one else on the national team can do it. This is absurd - Su Yiming, China’s big air gold medalist pulled off a 1980 in 2022 at the age of just 17. A full 3 years before the events of this series. Every year, the bar gets raised higher, and since events took place during the 2025-2026 season, every olympic calibre athlete should be able to pull off at least 1800s. At the 2022 Olympics, seven riders landed it cleanly in the finals. At the 2025 X Games, 2160s and 2340s have started to make an appearance.

Characters

Wei Zhi is endearing but utterly hopeless at snowboarding. Even under professional guidance, she makes no progress. She gets flustered when Shan Chong teaches others, yet she has no resilience for a sport that demands patience and suffering. Her best friend Nanfeng was right - paying for lessons just to spend time with him isn't the solution to staying in this relationship long-term.

Shan Chong retired after his sister Shan Shan’s skiing accident resulted in a bilateral transtibial amputation. Coupled with his own near-death experience, he couldn’t justify putting his family through more distress. His actions were noble - saving up to fit his sister with prosthetic legs - but the drama falters in depicting her recovery. This part of the story feels rushed - it acutely oversimplifies the complexities of fitting for prosthetics - no casting, no check socket, no rehab... just straight up delivered to their door, ready to put on and get up and walk. But the prostheses themselves are real. Great CGI on Shan Shan too. They missed a big chance to potentially have her aim for the paralympics as well, I thought the story was developing in that direction when she remarked she was on the national junior team during the arcade scene, and later joining the group on their next adventure.

Wei Zhi’s parents’ judgmental attitude toward Shan Chong stems from class prejudice. They see snowboarding as
不务正业 (not a serious profession), even though he’s a nationally recognized athlete. The irony? He’s more responsible for Wei Zhi than they’ll ever be. Rich people sure have the audacity to look down on those more accomplished than them. If anything, they don’t deserve him. For this reason, it felt like forgiveness felt deeply unsatisfying.

Thematic Direction

Episode 8 captures the contrast between snowboarding’s free-spirited nature and the rigidity of high society. At first, I thought the drama was about breaking free - Wei Zhi from her conservative upbringing, Shan Chong from his guilt. This would have been perfect, given how snowboarding is all about freedom - the feeling of flying as you catch air. But in the end, the theme turned out to be about reconciliation. Reconciliation with family, with the past. A solid theme, but a missed opportunity to showcase snowboarding’s true philosophy.

Final Thoughts

Despite its flaws, Ski into Love grew on me. It may not fully understand snowboarding, but it tries. It’s a surface-level depiction of the sport, but for mainstream audiences, it’s a start. And for someone like me, starved for action sports representation, I’ll take what I can get.

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Carefully treading the line between being a show for skaters and casual viewers

The show isn’t without its flaws, but the research that went into it and the involvement of the the skateboarding community makes it redeemable, carefully treading the line between being a show for skaters as well as for casual viewers.

One More Try is teeming with homages to classic skateboarding challenges and activities like Game of SKATE, King of the Road and the Dime Glory-style pyramid drop-in. Even the English title of the show is a phrase you’d often hear chanted in skateparks. Almost every big name to have graced China’s skateboarding scene is given screen time so it’s like a big skater career fair while giving exposure to the young up-and-coming pro skaters from China.

Although some may view the involvement of celebrities as desecrating on the sanctity of skateboarding culture, there is no denying that this show has been life-changing for all parties involved. Throughout the three months of skating, traveling, and living together, they’ve all become one family. Nobody looking at Wang Yibo today would say he’s an amateur, having taken a serious passion in the sport and ingraining himself in the skate community in the years since the show’s airing. In addition, with Wang Luodan’s longboarding background and Cheng Xiao’s fearlessness and headstrong nature, it at least feels like the calibre of celebrities chosen and their compatibility for skateboarding were somewhat thought out. In other words, they don’t suck.

The show intended to respect skateboarding culture at heart, with the producers being receptive to feedback and changing the show format mid-airing to discard eliminations and altering the challenges as the show goes.

Minor drawbacks include inconsistent editing, missing captions and chronological errors, however this only affects the tiniest demography of viewers.

Also major props go to MC Jason Zhang (章兢) who wasn’t given much credit, but his charisma shone in the arena. Even Cheng Xiao couldn’t help imitating his body language. It’s rare to find a skater that can be so proficient in Mandarin and English and announcing, it’s like this show was actually made for him. I wish he was given more screen time.

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My Altay – A Lyrical Ode to the Altay Frontier

The miniseries To the Wonder (我的阿勒泰), adapted from Li Juan’s eponymous essay, captures the vast expanse of the Altay region and the solitude of pastoral life. It tells the story of a young woman who leaves behind the city for the open landscapes of Xinjiang, where she encounters a Kazakh herder. Their tentative relationship unfolds against the backdrop of changing seasons, shaped by unspoken emotions, fleeting moments, and the tension between tradition and modernity.

The series vividly portrays the lives of Kazakh herders, their bond with the land, and the challenges they face. Unlike many portrayals of pastoral life that exoticize or overly romanticize it, To the Wonder presents an authentic yet deeply emotional narrative. It does not merely depict life on the steppes but immerses the viewer in its rhythms, crafting a story rich with quiet intensity. The use of real locations and natural lighting enhances the immersion, making the shifting landscapes feel like characters of their own.

Beneath the beauty of this world lies an unspoken anxiety—the erosion of traditions, the pull of urbanization, and the question of what is left behind. The deeper message of the series is one of adaptation—minorities navigating the pressures of a changing world and reconciling the need to preserve identity with the inevitability of progress. Once deeply rooted customs, like the tradition of never selling live sheep as products—insisting instead on slaughtering them as a gesture of goodwill and hospitality—have gradually faded, mirroring the broader cultural shifts within these communities.

This theme of adaptation is most apparent in Sulitan’s arc. He is forced to relinquish symbols of his heritage—his guns are confiscated, he gives up falconry, and ultimately, he accepts his son’s relationship outside of their religion. These moments, though painful, reflect the broader struggle of holding onto the past while acknowledging the inevitability of change. His loss of falconry, once an integral part of Kazakh identity, is not just personal but emblematic of a wider reality where government regulations and modernization steadily erode long-standing ways of life.

The series stands out for its commitment to linguistic and cultural authenticity. Native Kazakh speakers play key roles, lending the dialogue a natural cadence and emotional weight rarely seen in mainstream Chinese dramas. The lead actor, Yu Shi’s decision to learn Kazakh for the role, rather than relying on dubbing, is a rare and commendable effort that adds to the depth of his performance. These details ground the story, making it feel lived-in rather than performed.

The romance at the heart of To the Wonder is one of restraint and longing. The connection between the protagonist and the herder unfolds through glances, shared silences, and the weight of unspoken words. There are no grand declarations, only the slow burn of emotions that mirror the vastness of the land itself. Their story is shaped by circumstances as much as personal choice, reinforcing the themes of transience and the fleeting nature of human connection.

The cinematography is breathtaking, capturing the Altay region in all its seasonal splendor. Wide-angle shots emphasize the isolation of the characters against the endless horizon, while golden hour lighting bathes scenes in a soft glow, enhancing their dreamlike quality. The interplay of light and shadow adds an almost hypnotic atmosphere, drawing viewers into the stillness of the landscape. Each frame feels intentional, as if preserving a moment before it vanishes.

Perhaps the most magical moment in the series is one that was never planned. It came not during filming, but at the airing of its finale. A geomagnetic storm swept over Xinjiang, bathing the region in a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence of the aurora borealis. The timing was uncanny—the crimson skies mirrored the most emotional scenes during the climax, making the experience feel almost supernatural. This coincidence only deepened the series’ themes of fate, wonder, and the unexplainable beauty of the world.

To the Wonder is not a conventional drama filled with high-stakes conflicts or fast-moving plots. Instead, it is a slow-burn—a deeply felt, exquisitely shot exploration of place, identity, and the tenuous connections we forge. It demands patience but rewards viewers with a deeply immersive and emotionally resonant experience. For those willing to surrender to its unhurried pace, the series offers something rare: a chance to truly feel a landscape, to inhabit the silences between words, and to find wonder in the everyday.

A masterpiece of mood and atmosphere, To the Wonder is a love letter to the Altay region, its people, and the quiet yearning that exists within us all.

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A Bigger, Bolder Leap for Chinese Sci-Fi

When The Wandering Earth (2019) burst onto the scene as one of China's first major sci-fi blockbusters, it established itself as a landmark moment for Chinese cinema. Adapted from Liu Cixin’s short story of the same name, it took creative liberties to expand the premise into a full-fledged disaster epic. Now, The Wandering Earth 2 (2023) takes things a step further—not just as a prequel that deepens the world-building but as a film that refines and elevates the themes that made the first movie so impactful.

There is no doubt that The Wandering Earth 2 was made for the cinematic experience. Watching it in a theater is a must to truly appreciate its scale - I think my opinion of the film would’ve been different had I not watched it on a big screen first. The jaw-dropping VFX and booming sound effects (especially with the space elevator scene) amplified its impact in a way that simply cannot be matched by a home viewing.

When I first watched The Wandering Earth in Australian cinemas, the entire theatre was empty aside from my cohort. This time around, the entire theatre was packed, even with COVID restrictions still in place, even during the midnight screening when most people would prefer to be asleep. This giant contrast speaks to the immense cultural and cinematic impact the sequel has had, drawing larger audiences and cementing itself as a must-watch experience.

Unlike the first film, which had a more straightforward “save the Earth” disaster-movie plot, The Wandering Earth 2 delves deeper into the political and philosophical dilemmas of humanity’s response to planetary catastrophe. It explores the decision-making behind the “Moving Earth Project,” showing the desperate struggle between factions advocating for different survival strategies—whether to escape Earth entirely or to embark on the long and arduous journey of pushing it out of the solar system. This level of depth adds significant weight to the story, making it feel grander in both scale and stakes.

One of the film’s strengths is its ability to balance spectacle with heartfelt human drama. It touches on loss, sacrifice, and the persistence of hope, making it more than just a visual extravaganza. Wu Jing’s performance as Liu Peiqiang—who would later become an important figure in the first film—adds emotional depth, showing the cost of duty and responsibility in the face of global calamity.

A key element that sets The Wandering Earth 2 apart from Hollywood sci-fi is its emphasis on collective unity over individual heroism. While Western sci-fi films often focus on lone protagonists defying authority, this film underscores the idea that survival is a communal effort. This deeply ingrained collectivist philosophy—one that resonates strongly in Chinese culture—might not be immediately familiar to Western audiences, but it is precisely this perspective that gives The Wandering Earth series its distinctive edge.

This theme is also reinforced through the portrayal of international collaboration. While there are geopolitical tensions in the story, the narrative ultimately leans towards cooperation, reflecting an idealized vision of global unity in the face of existential threats.

For those familiar with Liu Cixin’s works, The Wandering Earth 2 contains several nods to his broader literary universe. The concept of artificial intelligence playing a major role in decision-making recalls elements from The Three-Body Problem, where AI and virtual reality shape humanity’s response to existential crises. Additionally, the film references real-life space projects, drawing inspiration from China’s advancements in space technology, such as the Tiangong space station and the Long March rockets.

The space elevator, a concept long discussed in theoretical physics and sci-fi literature, is one of the film’s most visually striking elements. While similar concepts have appeared in Western media (such as Arthur C. Clarke’s The Fountains of Paradise), The Wandering Earth 2 brings it to life in a way that feels both realistic and grounded in near-future science. The sequence involving its catastrophic collapse serves as a metaphor for humanity’s fragile grasp on technological ambition.

Another historical parallel can be drawn between the film’s depiction of global-scale engineering projects and China’s own history of massive infrastructural undertakings, such as the Three Gorges Dam and the South-North Water Diversion Project. These real-world projects share the same spirit of large-scale planning and collective effort seen in the film’s planetary migration project.

Final Thoughts

The Wandering Earth 2 surpasses its predecessor by adding layers of complexity, political intrigue, and character-driven drama to its already spectacular visual presentation. The prequel format allows it to expand on the universe in meaningful ways, making it more than just a disaster film—it becomes an observation on the choices humanity makes when facing the abyss. While the first film succeeded in its high-stakes action and grand premise, the second film excels in its worldbuilding and thematic richness.

For those who haven’t seen it yet, watching it on the biggest screen possible is highly recommended. The impact of its visuals, especially the space elevator sequence, is something that home viewing simply cannot replicate. The film's uniquely Chinese perspective on unity and survival gives it a refreshing take in the sci-fi genre, making it a standout among its peers.

Overall, The Wandering Earth 2 is a triumph—not just for Chinese cinema but for global sci-fi storytelling as a whole.

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Haunting, raw and unforgiving

Kekexili: Mountain Patrol (2004), directed by Lu Chuan, is a gripping and unflinching exploration of humanity’s struggle against the forces of nature and greed. Inspired by the true story of Sonam Dargye, a Tibetan ranger killed in 1994 while confronting poachers, the film follows a group of volunteer rangers—the Mountain Patrol—as they risk their lives to protect the endangered Tibetan antelope in one of the most inhospitable terrains on earth.

The documentary-style filmmaking is one of the film’s most prominent features, lending an unparalleled authenticity to the story. There is no elaborate camerawork, no smooth tracking shots, no aerial footage—just the unrefined, often shaky hand-held cinematography that immerses the audience in the grittiness of the experience. The film was made in the early 2000s, well before the widespread use of drones, high-end stabilization or ultra-HD imaging, and this lack of technical refinement only enhances its visceral impact. The erratic movements of the camera mirror the instability of the environment, making the viewer feel as though they are right there with the patrol, enduring the bitter cold, suffocating dust, and unforgiving terrain.

The pacing of the film is deliberately slow, reflecting the grueling nature of the patrol’s journey. There are no grand heroics or manufactured moments of triumph—only exhaustion, futility, and the ever-present specter of death. It’s this patience in storytelling that makes Kekexili so evocative. The quiet moments, whether a long stretch of road with no sign of life or the silent, knowing exchanges between characters, resonate just as deeply as the film’s most harrowing scenes.

Adding to its power are the sweeping landscapes of the Kekexili region, which serve not just as a backdrop but as an active force within the film. The vast, empty plains and towering, snow-covered peaks embody both the staggering beauty and mercilessness of this remote land. The cinematography captures the sheer scale of the environment, reinforcing the insignificance of human beings within it. Each frame tells a story of isolation, endurance, and an unspoken reverence for the land.

At its core, Kekexili: Mountain Patrol is a powerful plea for conservation. The struggle of the rangers against poachers is not just about saving a species but about maintaining the delicate balance between human survival and environmental stewardship. Kekexili is a land where survival is brutal, and the lines between right and wrong blur in the face of desperation.

The film’s authenticity is further bolstered by its cast, which primarily consists of local Tibetan actors. Their performances are understated yet deeply moving, conveying a quiet resilience and determination that feels genuine. The film’s sparse dialogue allows the actors’ expressions and body language to speak volumes, further emphasizing the weight of their mission.

The soundtrack complements the film’s stark visuals with a minimal yet evocative score. Its atmospheric melodies underscore the film’s somber tone and heightens the emotional weight of the story without ever feeling intrusive. The ambient sound design—howling winds, distant gunshots, the crunch of boots on frozen ground—adds another layer of immersion, pulling the audience deeper into the bleak yet beautiful world of Kekexili.

The film closes with a simple yet powerful on-screen tribute, ensuring that Sonam Dargye’s legacy is not forgotten—his sacrifice became a turning point for conservation efforts in the region, galvanizing the creation of the Kekexili National Nature Reserve in 1995. Today, a martyr’s monument stands at the foot of the Kunlun Mountains, a solemn reminder of the price paid to protect this land and its wildlife.

Kekexili: Mountain Patrol is not an easy film to watch, but it is an unforgettable one. Its raw and unfiltered approach strips away the romanticism often associated with survival stories, leaving behind something far more affecting: a stark and poetic introspection on sacrifice, loss, and the thin line between heroism and futility. It’s a film that lingers long after the credits roll, much like the desolate landscapes it so beautifully captures.

Footnote:
Western journalism often conflates the entire Tibetan Plateau with the Tibetan Autonomous Region (TAR), frequently framing any film set in Tibetan cultural areas within the broader geopolitical discourse of Tibet and China. Kekexili: Mountain Patrol is sometimes interpreted through this lens, with some commentators questioning whether the film carries a political subtext. However, Kekexili (Hoh Xil) is geographically located in Qinghai province, not TAR, and the film itself remains strictly focused on conservation and survival. Director Lu Chuan has emphasized that Kekexili is a non-political work, dramatizing real events concerning volunteer rangers combating poaching in the 1990s. Rather than serving as a political allegory, the film explores the harsh realities of environmental protection, the ethical dilemmas of law enforcement in remote areas, and the fragility of human existence against an unforgiving landscape.

In the end, Kekexili: Mountain Patrol transcends politics by addressing a far more urgent and universal issue—the survival of our planet’s ecosystems. It is a film that deserves to be seen and understood on its own terms, free from the weight of geopolitical speculation.

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