
When the Cameras Stop: China’s Micro-Drama Stars Confront an AI Future
From a viral actor selling vegetables to a presenter’s cancelled tour, technology and public mood are redrawing the boundaries of fame and livelihood across Asia.
In a rural market in Shandong province, a 30-year-old man unloads bundles of home-grown vegetables from his family’s electric cart. Until March, Xu Peng was a rising star of China’s micro-drama industry, known for playing domineering chief executives in bite-sized series that once commanded millions of views. Now, after his last project wrapped, the offers stopped. He returned to his grandfather’s farm, joining the ranks of performers displaced by an industry-wide shift to artificial intelligence.
The numbers are stark. Of the roughly 128,000 short dramas released in China in the first quarter of 2026, more than 95 per cent were produced using AI, according to industry reports. Scriptwriting, editing, and even performance can now be generated in days at a fraction of the cost of human-led production. The result, analysts in Singapore note, is that nearly two million jobs in the sector are under threat. Top actors who once earned 20,000 yuan (about £2,200) a day now scramble for work at 1,200 yuan. Xu Peng’s pivot to selling vegetables, captured in viral social-media posts, has drawn admiration from netizens who see in his pragmatism a quiet dignity. “Acting was just a job,” he told local media. “If there are no roles, I’ll find another way to earn an honest living.”
The unease over celebrity and economic fairness has also erupted in less sympathetic forms. In Beijing, a national concert tour by television host Xie Na was abruptly cancelled after a wave of online mockery and a rare public rebuke from state media. Xie, a household name from the long-running variety show Happy Camp, had announced the tour following two concerts in Chengdu. But netizens questioned her vocal ability and accused her of exploiting her fame for profit. An article published by the Zhejiang provincial committee of the Communist Party warned that “superficial popularity” would not yield sustainable returns and risked “the loss of cultural refinement.” The People’s Daily followed with an opinion piece targeting a “popular celebrity whose main job is hosting but who lacks well-known musical works.” The promoter offered full refunds; Xie has not commented.
While some Chinese citizens express frustration with domestic celebrity culture, others are channelling their purchasing power abroad. In Seoul, a weaker Korean won has turned tourist trips into shopping expeditions. Chinese visitors like Chelsea Wang, who travelled from China in late April, bypassed palaces and museums to hunt for luxury bargains. A friend bought a Chaumet wedding ring at Lotte Duty Free for about 37,000 yuan—11,000 yuan less than the price in China, once exchange rates and tax refunds were factored in. One yuan now buys around 226 won, up from 209 in January, making Korean beauty products and high-end goods markedly cheaper. South Korean retailers are reporting a surge in Chinese spending, a reminder that consumer sentiment can shift quickly across borders.
Beyond China’s borders, similar forces are at play. Indonesia, seeking to attract South Korean visitors with its natural landscapes, is simultaneously tightening digital security: from July 2026, all new SIM cards will require biometric facial recognition, a measure officials say is needed to combat fraud. In the automotive sector, Toyota’s decision to stop making the GR Supra has sent sales of the sports car up 72 per cent, as enthusiasts rush to own a piece of motoring history. And the tech entrepreneur He Xiaopeng, who sold his internet firm UCWeb in one of China’s largest tech deals, is now navigating the unforgiving physics of car manufacturing with his electric-vehicle company XPENG—a reminder that the leap from software to hardware is rarely smooth. Even in the realm of global celebrity, the dynamics of wealth and scrutiny are shifting: Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce’s $26 million donation to US charities ahead of their wedding offers a counterpoint to the backlash against Xie Na, suggesting that public generosity can still command respect. Yet for Xu Peng, the immediate concern is simpler. His electric cart, piled with vegetables, has become an unlikely stage. Fans visit not to buy produce but to offer encouragement. He plans to start an acting school and keep making live-action short dramas, refusing to let the algorithms entirely script his future.
| Southeast Asian press | −0.60 | critical |
|---|---|---|
| Continental European press | −0.10 | neutral |
| Chinese press | +0.30 | aligned |
The story of a Chinese actor who once played dominant CEOs and now sells vegetables highlights the brutal impact of AI on creative workers. Without cameras rolling, these micro-drama stars face an uncertain future, replaced by algorithms. The piece evokes sympathy for those left behind by technological progress.
As AI reshapes the entertainment industry, China's micro-drama actors are among the first to feel the effects, with many forced to abandon their craft. The report examines the structural shift, noting that few workers are aware of how quickly their jobs could become obsolete. It calls for a pragmatic discussion on adaptation and the future of work.
China's micro-drama performers are adapting to the AI era by exploring new roles in the digital economy, with some turning to entrepreneurship. The state supports this transformation, viewing AI as a driver of industrial upgrading rather than a threat. The story underscores the importance of embracing change and the nation's commitment to high-quality development.
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