The label “industry favorite” or “privileged actor” almost always carries an assumption of original sin. Once applied, it casts doubt over every performance: would this actor still be here without those resources? Yet the entertainment industry has never functioned as a level playing field. Roles, platforms, and exposure are inherently concentrated. What audiences can ultimately do is far simpler—decide whether a work is worth watching.
The so-called “Sanlitun Trio”—Li Gengxi, Xiang Hanzhi, and Zhuang Dafei—are often grouped together precisely because they entered the industry without traditional credentials and under visible mentorship. In recent years, Li Gengxi and Xiang Hanzhi have, in different ways, achieved a kind of critical turnaround, while Zhuang remains in a more ambiguous, observational phase.
Li Gengxi’s association with Xu Jinglei is central to how she is perceived. There is a familiar pattern in the industry: established actresses often mentor younger women who resemble them in temperament. Xu Jinglei herself was never defined by conventional beauty among the “Four Dan and Two Bing,” but by a composed, understated presence. Li Gengxi inherits that restraint, even pushing it further. Her appearance exists in an in-between state—no longer a child, not fully formed as an adult—which allows her to inhabit roles shaped by hardship and emotional complexity.
This quality made her performances in The Long Season and A Life on the Brink particularly convincing. These characters are quiet, hardened, and shaped by violence. Rather than overpowering the narrative, Li Gengxi blends into it, adding texture rather than spectacle. Compared to peers like Zhao Jinmai, whose brighter and more youthful appearance can clash with adult roles, Li’s strength lies in her narrow but effective range.
Xiang Hanzhi’s trajectory is almost the opposite. She reclaimed attention through scale and presence. In The Great Businessman, her dynamic with Zhu Yawen—nearly two decades her senior—unexpectedly worked, revealing a maturity that exceeded expectations. Earlier roles painted her as an ordinary urban girl, but experience has gradually expanded her screen authority.
Zhuang Dafei, reportedly supported by Yao Chen, is still searching for a defining moment. What unites all three is a willingness to test different genres rather than clinging to idol dramas and short-term traffic. That alone suggests an intention to be actors, not just celebrities.
Similar conversations surround Lu Yuxiao, another actress labeled as “privileged.” Yet her performances, particularly in West Out of the Jade Gate and My Journey to You, demonstrate versatility. Her personal image is understated, but she can convincingly portray intensity and seduction on screen. The gap between her public persona and her roles indicates technique rather than self-replication.
Zhou Yiran’s case further complicates the narrative. Initial skepticism about her opportunities faded after To the Wonder, where strong source material, careful adaptation, and cohesive performances aligned. She was not carrying the project alone, but she fit it. Elsewhere, typecasting has limited her, underscoring again that no performance exists in isolation.
Ultimately, access to a role may be the starting point of the “privilege” debate, but it should not be its conclusion. The entertainment industry thrives on inequality, but it also depends on audience choice. When actors with resources are still required to prove themselves through performance, it suggests that selection is still happening, however imperfectly.
Industries evolve, audiences adapt, and new tensions emerge. Like society itself, the system remains organic—constantly adjusting, never static, always in motion.
