Fake Stars, Fake Widows: China's Online Impersonation Boom

In China’s short-video economy, fame is a commodity that can be borrowed, copied and sometimes outright stolen. Recent weeks have brought a wave of reports about online impersonation schemes in which ordinary people pose as celebrities or their relatives to cash in on sympathy, merchandise and paid appearances. The trend has become brazen enough that state-linked media outlets have begun weighing in, warning viewers to be skeptical of tearful livestreams and too-good-to-be-true family melodramas.

One of the most elaborate cases involves the singer Dao Lang, a folk-rock artist with a fiercely loyal following. According to entertainment reports, a family group allegedly built a small business around pretending to be Dao Lang and his relatives, appearing at commercial events and running livestreams that mixed sob stories with sales pitches. The accounts reportedly divided the roles among themselves, with some playing the star and others playing managers or family members. The story spread quickly because it read like a scripted drama — except the audience was real and the money was too.

The pattern repeated after the death of the veteran musician Liu Huan in late September. Within days, short-video accounts began posting clips of his old performances paired with a voiceover imitating his widow, tearfully announcing his passing and thanking supporters. Some accounts used names that closely echoed the real family’s, and at least one well-known actress, Wu Yue, said she had been targeted by similar fake-family content. The reports noted that official media eventually intervened, calling out the accounts and reminding platforms of their responsibility to verify identities.

The mechanics are simple. Short-video platforms reward emotional engagement, and few emotions engage faster than grief, outrage or nostalgia. A convincing impersonation can attract followers within hours, and those followers can be funneled toward livestream shopping, paid fan groups or offline bookings. Enforcement is patchy because accounts can be recreated quickly, and because audiences often want to believe what they are watching.

Celebrities are not the only victims. Several veteran performers have found themselves the subject of bizarre death rumors and fabricated romantic histories. The 75-year-old actress Liu Xiaoqing, a household name since the 1980s, has reportedly been forced to deny online claims that she had died in Beijing and that she had a string of boyfriends. She has reportedly moved beyond verbal denials and taken legal steps, a sign of how costly these rumors can be for a public figure’s brand and family.

The impersonation economy also feeds on the closeness between stars and fans. When a beloved singer withdraws from public view, as Dao Lang did for years, the appetite for any trace of him grows. Impersonators step into that gap. When a star dies, the appetite shifts to mourning, and fake relatives supply the tears. In both cases, the product being sold is intimacy, and the cost is borne by the real family and by fans who are manipulated.

Platforms and regulators have responded with periodic crackdowns, but the underlying incentives remain. For now, the best defense may be the oldest one: skepticism. If a livestream feels like a soap opera, it probably is. And if a newly created account claims to be a celebrity’s wife, son or manager, the odds are good that the only real thing on screen is the payment link.