Zhang Yimou at 76: Two Veteran Directors and the Cost of Never Stopping
A Chinese entertainment essay that went viral this week paired two directors whose names rarely appear in the same sentence: Zhang Yimou, 76, and Zhang Jizhong, 75. The piece, circulating widely on social platforms, asked a simple and uncomfortable question — after decades of money and acclaim, why are both men still working, and what has that work cost them?
The article opens on October 6 at the Busan International Film Festival, where Zhang Yimou was seen walking slowly down a flight of steps, his hands shaking, steadying himself with a staff member’s help. Around the same time, in a livestream studio, Zhang Jizhong sat hunched in a chair while his wife, 44, mentioned preparing for a fifth child. He said nothing for the rest of the segment. The essay used those two images to argue that China’s most decorated directors are still grinding well past retirement age.
Zhang Yimou is the better known of the two to global audiences. He directed the 2008 Beijing Olympics opening ceremony and films ranging from the 1987 drama Red Sorghum to the 2002 martial-arts blockbuster Hero. His latest film, a spy thriller titled Silent Awakening, was released during the 2026 Spring Festival and earned more than 1.3 billion yuan at the box office, placing second for the holiday period. Reviews were mixed: on Douban, China’s largest film-rating site, it settled at 6.2 out of 10. For a director with his record, that is a middling score, and the essay treats it as evidence that even the giants are caught in a cycle of constant output.
Zhang Jizhong built his reputation on television. He produced and directed lavish adaptations of classic Chinese novels, including Journey to the West and The Return of the Condor Heroes, and for years was one of the most commercially successful producers in the country. In recent years he has shifted toward livestreaming and social media, where his personal life — including his marriage to a much younger wife — has drawn far more attention than his work.
The article’s core claim is not that either man is struggling financially. Both are wealthy. Rather, it suggests that the Chinese entertainment industry offers no graceful exit. Directors who stop working lose relevance, and relevance is the currency that keeps financing, endorsements and audiences within reach. For older creators, slowing down can look like disappearing.
That idea resonated with readers. The essay was shared across Toutiao and other platforms, where commenters debated whether the two men are victims of an unforgiving industry or simply unwilling to let go. Some pointed out that Zhang Yimou has never hidden his appetite for new genres — his move into spy thrillers at 76 is unusual by any standard. Others focused on Zhang Jizhong, arguing that the livestream circuit trades dignity for attention.
What the piece avoids is any tidy conclusion. It notes that one has box-office records and the other has a family still growing, and that neither outcome looks like the quiet retirement Chinese audiences traditionally imagine for their elders. The two directors keep working because they can, because they are asked to, and perhaps because stopping is harder than continuing.
The essay ends on an open note, asking readers what money and fame are actually for once the applause fades. It is a question that applies far beyond film, and it is why a story about two aging directors traveled so far beyond the entertainment pages.