On a summer evening in northeast Beijing, the city’s wealthy and beautiful queue for hours inside an upscale aesthetic clinic. Some have even camped overnight in sleeping bags to secure an appointment with a star surgeon flown in from Taiwan. Yang Mingming, a saleswoman who left a secure post at the People’s Daily seven years ago, works past midnight ferrying tea and fruit to clients waiting for Botox, fillers, and stem-cell therapies. “A few years ago, these women might have bought an expensive handbag,” she says. “Now they buy eternal youth.” The scene, reported by the Neue Zürcher Zeitung, captures a mood that has settled over China’s urban elite: a shift from the giddy accumulation of the boom decades to an anxious impulse to preserve what remains.

That same impulse helps explain the colossal commercial draw and deeply fractured reception of Stephen Chow’s latest film, Kung Fu Soccer. Released in mainland China on 11 July, the spiritual sequel to his 2001 cult classic Shaolin Soccer earned more than 660 million yuan ($100 million) in its first four days, making it the best-attended summer debut in five years. Yet on Douban, the country’s leading review platform, it holds a moderate 6.6 out of 10, with early audiences split between those who cherish the return of Chow’s absurdist mo lei tau humour and those who dismiss the film as a lazy, visually jarring retread. Where the original followed an all-male band of Shaolin disciples turned footballers, the new version centres on the Emei women’s team, blending martial-arts choreography with a story of overlooked female athletes fighting for recognition.

Chow’s film arrives at a moment when a generation that built its careers during China’s economic ascent is redefining retirement. In Beijing, the club Tai Youqu organises murder-mystery parties and African drumming classes for members in their sixties; in Guangdong, Sparkly Lady charges up to 3,000 yuan for professionally filmed catwalk shows. Hou, a 64-year-old former civil engineer, now models qipao dresses under spotlights, takes salsa lessons, and appears in advertisements. “We don’t want to spend our days just drinking tea and taking care of grandchildren,” she told Sixth Tone. “We want our lives to be more exciting.” This is the audience that grew up with Chow’s anarchic comedies, and for many, Kung Fu Soccer promised a direct line to youthful memories.

What they found on screen, however, often felt out of step. Viewers complained of outdated gags, abrupt character shifts, and visual effects—players morphing into tigers and dragons, glowing pitches—that seemed more disorienting than magical. Some noted that female players repeatedly use sexually suggestive moves to distract male referees, a device that struck younger audiences as tone-deaf. “Chow’s fascination with social outsiders is still present,” read one highly upvoted Douban comment, “but these moments are all too brief. Just as they begin to rekindle your expectations, they are quickly interrupted by an outdated meme or an overly sentimental scene.” Bu Xiting, a researcher at the Communication University of China, told the Global Times that the divided response reflects a fundamental shift in audience expectations: in an era saturated with AI-generated imagery, nostalgia alone can no longer carry a film.

Yet the box office tells a different story. On its opening day, Kung Fu Soccer commanded 48.2 percent of national screening slots, and some fans declared they would buy a second ticket out of loyalty, regardless of the reviews. The film’s hold on the public imagination is perhaps best understood not in the multiplex but in that Beijing clinic waiting room, where women camp out to freeze time, and in the community halls where retirees step onto makeshift runways, determined to script a more exciting final act. As one of Chow’s returning actors, Wong Yat-fei, says in a promotional clip that layers dialogue from the 2001 original over new footage: “The eldest senior brother has returned. I feel like everything has come back.”