He Shengming’s “White Moonlight” Drama Revives Nostalgia and Sparks Meme Frenzy in China

Born in Xiantao, a modest city in Hubei province, He Shengming moved to Beijing in pursuit of his artistic ambitions. After a string of successful releases with China Power, he enrolled in the prestigious Beijing Film Academy in 2004, where he refined his acting chops and positioned himself for a foray into television drama. It was there that he first encountered producer‑screenwriter Yu Zheng (于正), a powerhouse whose early productions were credited with reviving the ancient‑costume drama genre in China’s fast‑changing TV landscape.

From 2005 onward, He became a fixture in Yu’s creative orbit. The pair collaborated on a cascade of period dramas that soon became staples of prime‑time Chinese television: Rose of the Jianghu (玫瑰江湖), Beauty’s Heart (美人心计), Palace of the Heart (宫锁心玉), and the 2012 adaptation of The Smiling, Proud Wanderer (笑傲江湖). Their partnership, often described in industry circles as a “teacher‑student” relationship, seemed unassailable; Yu often praised He as the “essential fiber” of his ancient‑costume era, while He habitually referred to Yu as “Mother Yu,” a moniker that underscored both respect and affection.

Yet, as the television market shifted, the pair’s artistic visions began to diverge. By the time Yu and He were planning the 2012 version of The Smiling, Proud Wanderer, He advocated for a focus on “jianghu chivalry”—the moral codes of wandering swordsmen—while Yu favored a stricter adherence to Qing‑Dynasty historical framing. The disagreement, according to insiders, sparked the first fissure that would eventually widen into a professional and personal split after more than a dozen joint projects.

Fast forward to August 2025, and the lingering remnants of that split have resurfaced in a manner no one could have predicted. On August 22, He posted a short video to a Chinese video platform, pairing the clip with a handwritten piece of calligraphy titled “Golden Light Divine Incantation” (金光神咒). The caption read simply, “calm and composed” (气定神闲), a phrase that, in the language of Chinese netizens, signals both serenity and a tacit refusal to be drawn into drama. The artwork, a stylised Taoist incantation, was reportedly “gifted to his white moonlight,” a cryptic reference that sparked a wave of speculation about whom He might be addressing.

The very next day, actress Xu Lisha—who has earned the nickname “Devil Sister” (魔嫂) after an alleged breakup with popular actor Xu Kai—took to Weibo to allege that Xu Kai had mentioned Yu Zheng’s lingering affection for his “white moonlight” and that the “white moonlight” in question was none other than He Shengming. The claim ignited a flashback frenzy: old photographs of a young Yu Zheng and He holding hands resurfaced, quickly spreading across Weibo, Douyin and other platforms. Users began dissecting every smile, every gesture, assigning meanings that ranged from flirtatious to platonic.

The unfolding drama placed He at the centre of two starkly contrasting narratives. While Yu Zheng took to a live stream—intensely emotional to the point that viewers later reported he seemed to need an IV drip, a dramatization that quickly became meme material—He’s response was measured, almost monk‑like. In a subsequent live broadcast, He said, “Teacher Yu is very great and has contributed to many people,” a statement that seemed designed to sidestep any animosity while still acknowledging Yu’s influence on his career. The juxtaposition of Yu’s theatrical distress and He’s unflappable composure has become a fertile ground for netizen “second creations” (二创), where users remix footage, add subtitles, and spin satirical narratives about the “white moonlight” saga.

The phrase “white moonlight” itself has taken on a life of its own. In Chinese online slang, it refers to an unattainable or idealised lover from one’s past, a figure that haunts current relationships. The term, when applied to He, adds an extra layer of intrigue, suggesting that Yu Zheng might still harbour unspoken feelings for his former protégé. This speculation has prompted a wave of nostalgic commentary, with fans revisiting the duo’s collaborations, noting everything from the chemistry in The Smiling, Proud Wanderer to the souring of their partnership after He pushed for a more “jianghu”‑oriented storyline.

Beyond the personal drama, He’s recent artistic output has also attracted attention. Earlier this month, he released a new single titled “Twenty Years Later” (二十年后), accompanied by a melancholy music video that blends contemporary pop aesthetics with traditional Chinese motifs. The song, whose lyrics speak of time, memory, and the lingering ghosts of past choices, has been praised for its emotional depth and is seen by many as a subtle commentary on his long, winding career. The track has also contributed to the resurgence of He’s popularity; while the “white moonlight” controversy dominates headlines, the song has been trending independently, with streaming numbers indicating a robust listener base.

He’s renewed visibility has also been bolstered by a series of interviews and live streams where he openly discusses his past with Yu Zheng. In one candid conversation, He recounted the moment their collaboration fell apart: “We had made thirteen projects together. The “Swordsman” drama was supposed to be our next big step, but my idea to highlight chivalry clashed with Yu’s focus on strict historical fidelity. We both felt the other was compromising the art.” He also hinted at a “role involving discrimination,” a vague reference that many interpret as an allusion to the typecasting that often plagues actors who become synonymous with particular historical archetypes.

Even the lighter side of internet culture has not escaped He’s orbit. A short clip showing him teasingly imitating fellow actor Chen Feiyu, who himself has been embroiled in memes about “lively interviews,” quickly went viral. The clip, set against a backdrop of He’s own “活人” (authentic) interview style, further cemented his status as a beloved, if somewhat enigmatic, figure who can both command serious respect and inspire playful parody.

Taken together, the flare of activity surrounding He Shengming in August 2025 illustrates the complex interplay between celebrity, nostalgia, and digital culture in China today. On one hand, the “white moonlight” allegations revive a bygone era of production goodwill and romanticized partnerships within the TV industry, prompting fans to re‑examine the narratives that helped define a generation of viewers. On the other, the frenzied, meme‑driven response to Yu Zheng’s emotional livestream, juxtaposed with He’s serene calligraphy video, underscores how contemporary audiences consume celebrity drama not merely as tabloid fodder but as a participatory canvas for humor, satire and collective storytelling.

While the ultimate truth of any romantic entanglement between Yu Zheng and He Shengming remains elusive—perhaps forever locked within the private corridors of their shared past—the public discourse generated by these events serves a clear purpose: it reminds us that in the age of instant communication, the line between personal history and public spectacle is thinner than ever. For He Shengming, whose career has spanned the transformation of Chinese pop music, historical drama, and now the volatile world of internet virality, the latest chapter may be the most unpredictable yet. Whether through a lingering chant of “golden light,” a soulful ballad about two decades gone, or simply a calm calligraphy stroke, He continues to navigate the shifting tides of fame with a composure that, for many observers, seems as timeless as the ancient “jianghu” values he once championed.