Fans Clash Over New Remakes of China’s Four Great Classical Novels

Romance of the Three Kingdoms (《三国演义》) is a sprawling historical novel that dramatizes the chaotic twilight of the Han dynasty and the ensuing tripartite struggle for supremacy among the states of Shu, Wei and Wu. Central figures such as Liu Bei, the idealistic founder of Shu; Cao Cao, the ruthless architect of Wei; and Sun Quan, the pragmatic ruler of Wu, clash in a tapestry of battles, alliances and betrayals that has become a textbook for strategic thinking. The novel’s famed strategist Zhuge Liang, whose cleverness borders on legend, and the sworn‑brother warriors Guan Yu and Zhang Fei, have entered everyday speech as shorthand for loyalty, wisdom and martial virtue. The work’s emphasis on tactical acumen and moral complexity has turned it into something of an unofficial manual for politicians, business leaders and military theorists alike, both in China and, increasingly, among Western readers drawn to its game‑theory allure.

Journey to the West (《西游记》) follows the 7th‑century monk Xuanzang—known in the story as Tang Sanzang—as he treks from the Tang capital to the distant Buddhist heartland of India to retrieve sacred sutras. Accompanying him are three formidable disciples who guard the pilgrim against a cavalcade of demons and otherworldly hazards: the indomitable Monkey King Sun Wukong, whose mischief and martial prowess make him a timeless anti‑hero; the gluttonous, good‑natured Pigsy (Zhu Bajie); and the stoic, river‑sweeping Sandy (Sha Wujing). The novel marries myth, satire and spiritual quest, and its allegorical layers have made it a fertile ground for everything from animated cartoons to high‑budget cinema. The Monkey King, in particular, has become an icon of rebellion and ingenuity, inspiring everything from video game avatars to political memes.

Water Margin (《水浒传》), also known as Outlaws of the Marsh, brings together 108 rebels who, driven by personal grievances and a broader sense of injustice, take refuge on the mist‑shrouded Mount Liang. Their leader, the charismatic Song Jiang, gathers a motley band that includes the ferocious fighter Wu Song and the monk‑like Lu Zhishen, each endowed with a signature skill. At its core, the narrative is a celebration of brotherhood and resistance against corrupt authority, a theme that has resonated deeply in Chinese folklore and popular culture. The novel’s vivid depictions of camaraderie, loyalty and the moral ambiguity of outlawry have ensured its place as a touchstone for discussions of justice and governance.

Dream of the Red Chamber (《红楼梦》) stands apart as a psychological masterpiece, chronicling the rise and decline of four aristocratic families—the Jias, Shis, Wangs and Xues—through the eyes of the sensitive young heir Jia Baoyu. His tangled romances with the melancholic Lin Daiyu and the poised Xue Baochai unfold against a backdrop of opulent banquets, intricate poetry and the inexorable decay of feudal splendor. The novel’s attention to detail offers scholars a rare window into 18th‑century Chinese society, from etiquette and fashion to the subtleties of court intrigue. Its lyrical depth and tragic elegance have secured its reputation as perhaps the most literary of the four, a work that continues to inspire academic conferences, theatrical adaptations, and a steady stream of translations that bring its haunting beauty to non‑Chinese readers.

Beyond their literary merits, the Four Great Classical Novels have woven themselves into the everyday consciousness of China. Idioms derived from Romance of the Three Kingdoms—such as “borrowing a sword to kill a man” or “sleeve of a tiger” (allusions to strategic cunning)—appear in boardrooms and classrooms alike. The Monkey King’s chant, “I am the great sage, equal to heaven,” is still invoked in sports stadiums and internet memes. The ethos of brotherhood championed in Water Margin underpins community narratives across rural and urban settings, while the delicate social commentary of Dream of the Red Chamber informs discussions of gender roles and class structures in modern scholarship.

In recent months, however, the novels have resurfaced in a new arena: the battle over remakes and re‑filming. Chinese entertainment companies, ranging from state‑backed studios to private production houses, have floated ambitious plans to reinterpret these classics with cutting‑edge technology, high‑budget special effects and fresh star power. The buzz has been especially intense on platforms like Weibo, where the hashtag #四大名著翻拍# (“Four Great Classical Novels re‑filming”) has ignited a chorus of dissent. Users—many of whom grew up with the 1980s and 1990s television adaptations that are now regarded as cultural touchstones—argue that new versions risk diluting the depth and nuance of the originals. They lament that contemporary production standards may turn the “One Hundred and Eight Heroes” of Water Margin into a superficial romance, or reduce the complex moral calculus of Romance of the Three Kingdoms to a simplistic good‑versus‑evil spectacle.

The sentiment is palpable: some commenters call the proposed remakes “self‑inflicted suffering,” insisting that the classic adaptations should instead be digitally restored in high definition, preserving their nostalgic charm while improving picture quality. Others fear that modern reinterpretations could trivialize the rich philosophical layers of Journey to the West, turning the arduous pilgrimage into a light‑hearted cartoon adventure. A recurring thread of sarcasm underscores the resistance—tweets humorously predict “the Monkey King with a CGI glitter beard” or “Guan Yu wielding a laser sword”—highlighting a collective anxiety that the reverence owed to these narratives will be compromised for commercial gain.

Not all the buzz centers on fan frustration. Industry insiders point to concrete projects already in development. Veteran screenwriter Zheng Xiaolong, famed for his meticulous period dramas, is reportedly attached to a new adaptation of Dream of the Red Chamber, while the emerging production company Liulianzi has signaled interest in a high‑budget Water Margin series. Yet despite these announcements, the public mood remains largely skeptical, with many preferring the familiar cadence of the old TV series that first introduced them to the stories. The call for restoration, rather than reinvention, suggests a desire to honor the original artistic vision while adapting it to modern viewing formats—a balance that the entertainment sector is only beginning to explore.

The broader cultural implications of this debate are telling. As China’s creative industries expand and the nation’s output increasingly competes on a global stage, the stewardship of its literary heritage becomes a litmus test for the values embedded in contemporary storytelling. The Four Great Classical Novels, after all, do more than entertain; they serve as moral compasses, historical reference points and repositories of collective memory. Their continued relevance—whether through faithful preservation or thoughtful reinterpretation—will shape how future generations understand concepts of loyalty, ambition, destiny and love.

For Western audiences, the resurgence of these stories offers a window into a living tradition that bridges ancient philosophy and modern media. Whether you discover the cunning stratagems of Cao Cao, the mischievous bravado of Sun Wukong, the brotherly oath of the Liangshan heroes, or the fragile beauty of Baoyu’s love triangle, you are engaging with narratives that have endured because they speak to universal human experiences. As the conversation about remakes unfolds, it underscores an essential lesson: great literature is not a static relic, but a dynamic dialogue between past and present. The future of the Four Great Classical Novels will likely be decided not by the flash of new cameras alone, but by the reverence of audiences who, even in the age of streaming, still clutch the worn‑out DVDs of their childhoods and remember the stories that first taught them about honor, yearning and the bittersweet passage of time.