Film Name: 日掛中天 / The Sun Rises on Us All
When it comes to Cai Shangjun’s new film “The Sun Rises on Us All,” the most prominent buzz has been around Xin Zhi Lei’s Best Actress award. Yet after its release, audience reactions have been quite divided… Having watched the film, I generally found it quite compelling. The characters are vivid and emotionally rich, with deeply layered entanglements of love and hate, complex inner turmoil, and a strong sense of real-life authenticity.
Yet I also understand why some dislike it. This is a film where characters far outweigh the story, leaning too heavily on individual inner worlds and interpersonal dynamics (often negative ones). This tendency causes the otherwise grounded narrative to feel jarringly unrealistic at times, including the ending—which feels like a departure from the film’s core tone. Consequently, its watchability isn’t particularly strong.
Let me briefly elaborate.
The core appeal and selling point of ” The Sun Rises on Us All” hinges on the intensely complex love-hate dynamic between protagonists Zeng Meiyun (played by Xin Zhi Lei) and Bao Shu (played by Zhang Song Wen). What begins as pure love and devotion gradually mutates into unfaceable hatred and fear, fermenting into a cycle of torment, fusion, and fragmentation. The narrative space is vast, allowing for multiple valid interpretations.
The pivotal turning point stems from a hit-and-run incident years prior, where Bao Shu took the blame for Zeng Meiyun, who had struck and killed someone. They believed this sacrifice would cement their love forever, only for Zeng Meiyun to flee in disarray just over a year later.
“The debt of gratitude outweighs the love” is the line that resonates most deeply with me. These four words powerfully encapsulate why Zeng Meiyun changed. Setting aside the age-old adage that “great kindness can become great enmity,” the relentless questioning from the victim’s family and the consolation from Baoshu’s mother alone were enough to shatter her defenses time and again.
As for Bao Shu, betrayed by her, his attitude toward Zeng Meiyun could be simply described as “love turned to hate.” Especially when Zeng Meiyun actively sought to repay her debt of gratitude, Bao Shu’s actions—like throwing flower pots and demanding money—were expressions of hatred. Yet, once they began living together, his subconscious gestures still revealed the indelible love lingering in his heart.
Yet amidst their tug-of-war, I see not just love and hate, but cowardice.
Take the elevator scene as an example: Baoshu forcefully pried open the doors to let Zeng Meiyun escape first (please do not attempt this dangerous act in real life), choosing to remain trapped himself. On the surface, it appears he habitually sacrifices himself for his beloved in crisis—yet isn’t this yet another form of avoidance?
Later, during a candid conversation with Zeng Meiyun, Baoshu admitted he was a “man without backbone.” He sought self-satisfaction by taking the blame, unable to face the truth or resolve his own emotional conflicts… For Baoshu, seeking death was easier than fighting for life.
Zeng Meiyun shares this same cowardice. When she was in that car accident years ago, she didn’t even have the courage to get out and check her injuries, let alone refuse or challenge Baoshu’s offer to take the blame.
It was precisely this shared cowardice and self-imposed isolation that, upon their reunion, inflicted ever greater and more profound wounds upon both Zeng Meiyun and Baoshu. They dared not confront their inner selves, trapped instead in an endless cycle of self-destructive conflict.
The difference lies in the fact that Zeng Meiyun genuinely wants to start anew, which brings us back to the “bias” issue I mentioned earlier in the film: she feels both authentic and inauthentic.
A woman like Zeng Meiyun, burdened by immense sorrow yet yearning for a fresh start, would be highly unlikely to become a submissive mistress who endures everything without complaint and lets the man take advantage of her (enduring miscarriages and never making demands). The ill-fated bond between her and Qifeng feels more like a symbolic tragedy—a forced endurance of suffering for the sake of suffering.
Another scene I particularly enjoyed: Zeng Meiyun takes Bao Shu to the garment factory to demand payment. Boss Shen has fled, leaving his pregnant wife—more resilient and capable of handling matters—to resolve the issue. Yet, due to an accidental fire caused by Bao Shu, the two women who had just shared a moment of mutual sympathy instantly turn petty and calculating over money. This sequence is incredibly grounded and authentic—pure, raw human behavior.
But when it came time for the climax, Zeng Meiyun chose to vent her rage by stuffing her face in silence. She should have been screaming curses and pounding her chest, yet to serve the characterization and relationships, the film stubbornly extinguished all other “natural” sparks of emotion.
Perhaps because The Sun Rises on Us All maintains this restrained approach throughout, when Zeng Meiyun suddenly erupts in the finale and stabs Bao Shu with a knife, I instinctively felt uneasy.
This could certainly be seen as an unexpected yet logical climactic moment, with various interpretations: clinging to life after losing a child, confronting hatred by attacking an enemy, or self-destruction born of despair. Yet it risks feeling like a contrived device for artistic elevation.
If you can fully immerse yourself in this tragic character’s story, then none of the above issues matter. Otherwise, “The Sun Rises on Us All” still feels a bit too one-sided.
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