Film Name: 年兽大作战 / Mr. Nian / Crazy Nian
Both are rooted in traditional culture—one featuring door gods, the other celebrating the Lunar New Year; both brim with rich ethnic symbols—one set in Jiangnan water towns, the other in Beijing hutongs; both depict the vibrant realm of Chinese immortals, where even deities run companies and face crises like layoffs or retirement. Both feature immortals descending to earth and encountering a young girl… Even a cursory comparison reveals numerous similarities, if not outright parallels, between “Little Door Gods” and “Mr. Nian.” This is precisely why these two films warrant a side-by-side examination—and why they deserve to be compared.
Let me state my personal view first: I believe “Mr. Nian” surpasses “Little Door Gods” by more than one notch in terms of plot, exceeding even my expectations. While the former is technically less refined than the latter, the Year Beast was the one that got the theater buzzing. It was the Year Beast that elicited more noises from the children, and it was the Year Beast that kept everyone in their seats.
Since we’re discussing the live viewing experience, let me elaborate further. Watching “Little Door Gods,” the audience felt unusually somber. Not only were there almost no laugh-out-loud moments, but Yulei’s inner psychological turmoil, coupled with recurring human conspiracies and kidnappings, left everyone feeling stifled. People were forced to grapple with the film’s seemingly profound themes, holding their breath throughout. But watching “Mr. Nian,” the audience’s mood was distinctly elevated. Laughter from parents and shouts from children were frequent. During scenes like Shaguo singing, the entire theater would hold its breath in unison, quietly appreciating the moment, completely immersed and carried along by the story. Though occasionally feeling contrived, overall it was an enjoyable journey through the protagonist’s adventure and psychological evolution.
Where exactly does this difference stem from?
First, it stems from the central themes. The Door God’s theme is about seeking—seeking the meaning of its existence in the modern era. The Year Beast’s theme, however, is about care—the genuine happiness built upon caring. That key doesn’t just unlock the door to the Spring Festival; it serves as a bridge connecting Sha Guo with her father and with the Year Beast. The door gods searched endlessly yet found something indefinable, whereas the Year Beast’s story clearly shows us that superficial joy is not happiness. Though the film stops short of offering a definitive answer to “what is true happiness?”, we already know: happiness is the moment Shaguo reunites with her father; happiness is the moment Grandma takes flight on her bicycle; happiness is the moment Pig Daddy risks everything to save his child. These countless moments let us feel genuine affection.
Secondly, it stems from the characters. Yu Lei has been selflessly committing an act of evil, fully aware that it will bring immense disaster to humanity, yet he still “endures humiliation and bears the burden” to play the villainous role. For a hero, this is truly unacceptable to the audience. Conversely, the Year Beast, initially perceived as a villain, is revealed to be a kind-hearted giant. Though it too sought to destroy the Spring Festival, this stemmed from its ignorance of what the festival meant to humanity. Unaware that its absence would rob countless people of happiness, that its absence would rob children of family reunions—once enlightened, it abandoned its “evil” ways. Crucially, the key was never destroyed by the Year Beast.
Thirdly, the main storyline suffers. The emotional connection between the door gods Shentu and Yulei and the little girl is underdeveloped, with minimal shared narrative. This renders their central plotline a hollow construct. The Year Beast, however, is unreservedly grounded. From the moment it descended to the mortal realm, it formed a connection with Shaguo—a connection that persisted and evolved: from attempts at theft, to groveling as a teacher, to frustration, to budding concern, to the emergence of an ambiguous father-daughter bond, to Shaguo voluntarily returning the key to the Beast, and finally to the ultimate rescue. so rich and full that it’s impossible not to believe a profound bond could form between them.
Fourth comes the dramatic conflict. The Door Gods’ conflict primarily stems from large-scale battles. While their clash with the Night Wanderer offers comic relief, it contributes little to the main plot. Though the ultimate suspense lies in the revelation that the “tree” sealed by the Door Gods is actually Nian, this largely remains confined to the spectacle created by visual effects. The Year Beast’s conflicts unfold in multiple dimensions: its confrontation with Shaguo, its clash with Pig Daddy, its battles against other deities, its struggle with the Fish, and the tension between Pig Daddy and the Fish. Beyond these, the film explores inherent conflicts within various familial and social roles—teacher and student, coworker and colleague, classmate and classmate, parent and child, school and student, friend and friend, father and daughter. Even the character of the Fish undergoes a role reversal, creating a dizzying array of dramatic threads.
Fifth, the focus on ordinary characters. While Door Gods also features numerous minor figures, they pass by like a revolving lantern, leaving little lasting impression. Though many deities appear, their roles largely amount to the clamor of a training session, with the heavily promoted Night Tour Deity serving only as a comic relief and scene-transitioning device. In contrast, the ordinary characters in The Year Beast are both abundant and carry significant weight. The grandmother, sketched with simple strokes, embodies both love and courage, delivering a tremendous surprise when no one dared hope for it. The “retired” deities—Chang’e, the Kitchen God, the Thunder God and Lightning Goddess, the Tower-bearing Heavenly King, and others—unite their forces, delivering a grand spectacle of ordinary heroes reminiscent of American blockbusters, captivating audiences thoroughly. Father Pig and Son Pig evolve from detestable to endearing, completing a transformative arc from negativity to positivity. Even the ultimate antagonist, the Fish, avoids a blunt-force demise, instead finding a whimsical, “tofu-making” resolution uniquely his own.
Sixth, the film excels in its details and emotional depth. While Door Gods focuses more heavily on surface-level combat and grand spectacles, its portrayal of characters’ inner emotions often feels rigid and unnatural. While Year Beast also has its flaws in this regard, it generally builds a sincere and credible emotional foundation. One scene I particularly cherish is when Year Beast discovers Shaguo’s music box and key in the classroom. When Shaguo enters, he hides it, but seeing her distress, he ultimately retrieves it and returns it to her. This moment reveals the Year Beast’s kindness and selflessness—he willingly sacrifices something precious to Shaguo. Understanding the music box is a vital token between Shaguo and her father, he makes a heartwarming choice when faced with this dilemma.
Moreover, from a worldview perspective, the animal-centric universe framed by the Year Beast is undeniably more lighthearted than the human-centered one established by the Door Gods. Furthermore, the monstrous form of the Year Beast possesses a more endearing appearance and greater expressive versatility compared to the two Door God figures, making it a far more marketable image. Especially after Yu Lei transforms into gold, his appearance becomes somewhat terrifying, whereas the Year Beast consistently retains its chubby, cuddly look. In the animated world, characters with this kind of superficial “villain identity” who are actually good are quite common—think the vampire in “Hotel Transylvania,” for instance. Audiences consume the tension between their inherently good nature and their villainous persona. “Shrek” follows the same formula. The Little Door Gods, however, lack this inherent tension; instead, they turn a “good identity” into a villain.
Of course, “Mr. Nian” itself has its issues.
First, it remains saturated with numerous dangerous elements. Coming from a team with an adult film background, this isn’t surprising. For instance, there’s the dangerous scene of the Nian beast in the middle of the road, the grandmother frantically cycling through alleys, and the Nian beast choking someone’s neck. Shaguo repeatedly calling the Nian beast “stupid” isn’t a great gag either. Although her tone shifts from insult to concern, the word itself is clearly a form of verbal abuse prone to imitation.
Additionally, I strongly disagree with the pervasive materialism in the film. The celestial realm collecting human happiness is fundamentally a noble endeavor—what China calls “social benefits.” Yet what do they do with this happiness? They establish corporations, implying they’ll monetize it for “economic gains.” Observe that colossal money tree-like entity: human happiness has become its foliage. Suddenly, there’s no trace of “social benefits” left. The recurring imagery of the “Heavenly Corporation” in both “Little Door Gods” and “Mr. Nian” serves as a metaphor for the broader corporatization, capitalization, and materialism permeating Chinese society. Crucially, it reveals that this corporate mindset has infiltrated even the celestial realm—the very “superstructure” of society.
This materialism permeates education too. The crazed principal’s ultimate goal in hiring a music teacher? Not the children’s growth, but his ability to “raise tuition next semester.” Though he probed candidates about their ideals and educational philosophies during interviews, his parting monologue ruthlessly dismantles those aspirations. The film treats this money-driven educational direction as an amusing gimmick, but to me, it represents an existence more “malicious” than the ultimate villain, as it subtly shapes the audience’s mindset.
The film meticulously portrays the spoiled rich kid son of the company boss, yet offers no criticism. His privileged behavior at school faces no condemnation; instead, it becomes the object of collective admiration among classmates. Although the film positions this father-son duo as rare pig figures in the rabbit world—carrying a certain pejorative connotation—and ultimately has them experience a moral awakening, the son’s constant flaunting of his wealthy father and the school administrators’ reluctance to offend a rich student’s parent remain unaddressed without a more positive interpretation.
Furthermore, the film fails to clearly depict the motivation behind Pig Son’s shift from hostility to friendship toward Shaguo. Could a single song by Shaguo really prompt such a change? As a fellow singer, shouldn’t the pig son feel jealous of Shaguo’s superior singing and the applause he receives, thereby fueling greater hostility? What exactly about Shaguo touched the pig son—and indeed the entire pig family—to bring about this transformation of their humanity and ultimately find true happiness? This is a crucial point that the film unfortunately fails to articulate clearly.
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