BEIJING — It was May of last year, backstage at the Laughing Fruit Culture Factory, stand-up comedian Chen Chu* and his cohorts shared beers and laughter before the 10:30 pm. Unlike at other venues outside of Beijing, where they could fully relax, the conversation frequently shifted to what material they would perform and how the audience might react. They were tense, knowing that each show required not only excellent jokes, but careful navigation of increasingly restrictive boundaries.
This was Beijing’s first regular commercial stand-up show, and both the performers and management took it very seriously. Before launching, Laughing Fruit Culture even sent seasoned show business veterans like Maodou and the popular Zhou Qimo to explore the ground in Beijing. The company formed a “politically correct” team to perform trial shows aimed at government leaders and officials. The strategy was to establish a foothold in the capital for real comedy, while keeping things under control.
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But then suddenly, the backstage cheer was interrupted. Just before Chen Chu could finish his beer, a sweaty staff member burst in with alarming news: Law enforcement officers from various government departments were on their way to monitor the show. Everyone was going to have to be extremely cautious on stage.
Laughing fruit
The trouble had begun two hours earlier, during a performance by “House” (Li Haoshi), a contracted comedian with Laughing Fruit Culture. House joked about adopting two stray dogs, whose squirrel-chasing antics reminded him of the phrase, “good style, capable of winning wars.” This phrase came from a 2013 speech by Xi Jinping, in which he praised the People’s Liberation Army for being “obedient to the Party, capable of winning wars, and possessing an excellent work ethic.” The slogans have since been associated with the Chinese military.
At 9:54 pm, about an hour after House’s performance, a post appeared on Sina Weibo denouncing his act as an insult to the People’s Liberation Army. The very next day, May 14, 2023, the Laughing Fruit Factory venue in Beijing was inspected by various government departments, followed by an official investigation of Laughing Fruit Culture by the Beijing Municipal Bureau of Culture and Tourism. That same day, the company issued a statement apologizing and said it had already reprimanded House.
Comedians were a precarious situation: official approval no longer guaranteed safety.
By May 16, House’s personal social media accounts were banned, and on May 17, the Chaoyang Branch of the Beijing Municipal Public Security Bureau announced that it had opened a criminal investigation into House for “serious insult to the People’s Armed Forces.”
Thus, Laughing Fruit Culture’s ambitions to expand into Beijing and reach a national audience were cut short before they even had a chance to take root. “It felt like the beginning was also the end,” Chen Chu reflected somberly about the aborted debut.
As the backlash unfolded online, most people overlooked the fact that House’s material had been pre-approved. In accordance with regulations, Laughing Fruit had submitted both a video of House reading his script and a printed copy of the performance to the Beijing Municipal Bureau of Culture and Tourism. The same routine approval process that allowed the show to proceed was now under scrutiny, leaving stand-up comedians in a precarious situation: Official approval no longer guaranteed safety.
State censorship
The realization hit hard. Beyond state censorship, comedians now had to contend with public opinion, and the potential for legal consequences if a joke was reported. A complaint could easily trigger a backlash that felt like a sword of Damocles hanging over every performance.
After the House incident, Chen Chu became increasingly anxious before each show, fearing that a report could come at any time. He grew pessimistic about the future of stand-up comedy in China, lamenting, “After the pandemic, it feels like a bigger epidemic started, one that affects people’s brains.”
As a result of this environment, online stand-up comedy in China essentially went dark. Yet amid the bleak social atmosphere caused by an economic downturn, “laughter” became a commodity, and the commercial potential of comedy drove investors to take risks.
The “bottom line” of socialist core values must guide all content.
After a year of silence, stand-up competition shows returned online. On August 16, 2024, Aiki Art’s King of Comedy Stand-Up Season premiered, followed by Tencent Video’s Stand-Up Show and TA’s Friends on August 20. Both shows closely resembled Talk Show Club, which had been produced by Laughing Fruit Culture. The programs featured big names like Stephen Chow, Kirin Kuo, Wu Zhenyu, and Xu Jian, as well as former Laughing Fruit comedians such as Yang Kasa, Pang Bo, Wang Jianguo, and Zhou Qimo.
However, despite this seeming revival, the stand-up comedy landscape had changed. Long before these shows aired, the groundwork for stricter control had already been laid. On August 9, a seminar hosted by the China Network Audiovisual Association took place in Beijing to discuss the future of stand-up. Experts like Chen Zhen from the General Administration of Radio, Film, and Television emphasized that the “bottom line” of socialist core values must guide all content. There were heated discussions about how to balance humor with “positive propaganda” and ensure the “healthy” development of the industry.
Chen Chu summed up the situation by saying, “They may have the fame of stars, but they’ve lost the right to rebel.”
Rebellion v. PC
At its core, stand-up comedy is often seen as “the art of offense.” Chen Chu believes that its true essence is rebellion — an act of resisting societal norms. Whether a performance achieves this, he says, determines if it is “high class” or “low class” humor.
Stand-up must go beyond cheap jokes.
Li Xiangming*, another comedian, agrees. He argues that stand-up must go beyond cheap jokes. “If a performance doesn’t convey any deeper value, if it’s just there to make people laugh, then how is it different from a book of jokes? We’re regressing back to the days of simplistic comedy duos,” he said. “People just laugh and leave with nothing.”
But aiming for more thought-provoking material comes with risks. As a newcomer, Li once wrote a segment about middle-aged Chinese men obsessed with international politics, which he linked to local grassroots democracy. However, senior industry members warned him that despite its neutral tone, the topic was too sensitive, and suggested he delete it altogether. Even seemingly innocuous words like “central” had to be changed to “above” to avoid potential issues.
For Chen Chu, the experience was even more disheartening. Known for his talent, Chen Chu had managed to secure a contract with Laughing Fruit Culture, joining the biggest comedy group in China. But his identity as both Tibetan and a member of the LGBTQ+ community barred him from performing online, where “political correctness” and sensitivity to certain topics are closely monitored.
When asked why he didn’t simply avoid such sensitive topics to increase his chances of performing, fellow comedian and writer Wang Chen* explained that for stand-up to be authentic, sincerity is essential. “If a comedian isn’t sincere, their performance becomes distorted,” he said. “And sincerity, combined with self-deconstruction and a focus on societal issues, is what allows stand-up to resonate with the audience. It’s what makes people laugh.”
Chen Chu refused to compromise on “political correctness” and as a result, he was confined to performing offline in small, familiar venues. But even there, he couldn’t talk about Tibet, ethnic divisions, or the challenges faced by the LGBTQ+ community — instead, he settled for making jokes about stereotypes of Tibetans in big cities and the awkwardness of coming out to friends.
But he knew this level of expression barely scratched the surface. “There are still so many kids in Tibet who’ll never come out, and many of my gay friends live deeply conflicted lives,” Chen Chu said. “My Tibetan friends and I promised ourselves that we’d break free and see the world, but as adults, I realize many will never be able to leave. And I haven’t been able to open any doors for them.”
Navigating censorship
The situation is not limited to comics from minority groups. In contrast to comedians in other countries who enjoy the “freedom to rebel,” those in China must ensure their material is “clean,” devoid of sensitive topics, to even make it to the stage.
It’s like walking through a minefield
Former Laughing Fruit comedian Ji Zi, who was also banned from performing in mainland China, chose to move overseas to continue his craft. During one of his shows abroad, a member of the audience asked why he decided to leave China. Ji Zi replied seriously, “Because people are born with the right to express themselves.”
During his North American performances, Ji Zi often joked about censorship, quipping about how uncomfortable he was performing without having to submit his material for prior review.
In mainland China, comedians face constant censorship. Liu Chengdong, another comedian, explained that different cities have different rules, and each performance must be adjusted according to local standards. “From pedestrians not being allowed to jaywalk to sensitive topics like ethnic conflict or gender dynamics, every place has its own restrictions,” Liu said.
Yet what frustrates comedians the most is that censorship guidelines remain vague. “You never know exactly what might get you in trouble,” said Liu. “It’s like walking through a minefield — one wrong step and you’re done.”
*Some names were changed to avoid any possible reprisal from the government.
