Qiu Fu, Qiu Jiongjiong, a renowned Sichuan opera performer, meets his end with defiant curiosity rather than surrender, as Ox-Head and Horse-Face escort him toward the netherworld to perform for Yanluo Wang. He resists the fate laid before him, asking how a lifetime spent on stage—having begun his opera journey at seven, even earlier in life than some teachers expected—could be reduced to a final exit. The moment of transition becomes a meditation on memory, craft, and the stubborn flame of art that shaped his world.
Set against the backdrop of the Warlord Era, a passionate operatic devotee named Pocky ascends the ranks to command, using his power to form a traveling troupe, the New-New Theatre School. In this changing landscape, Qiu Fu, a foundling connected to a famous actor who died onstage, is sent to the troupe by a mother who abandons him to start a new life. Under the guidance of the troupe’s seasoned mentors, Qiu learns to sing and stage his craft, though his early performances lack polish. Fate intervenes when he meets Pocky, who takes him under his wing as an apprentice, and, after patient training, Qiu earns his stage debut. The looming threat of war soon casts a longer shadow: as World War II erupts, the troupe begins charity tours to raise funds against Japan’s invasion. One fateful night, after a bowl of mushroom soup, Qiu’s intoxicated dream carries him across the city on a leaf—only to be jolted awake by the brutal randomness of war, as a Japanese fighter jet bombs the night sky.
In the netherworld, Qiu follows the envoys to the Naihe Bridge, where he encounters Crooky, a loyal servant of the troupe who vanished decades earlier. The envoys confess they never received orders to bring Crooky, yet the stubborn spirit keeps returning to this liminal space, building an inn at the Naihe Bridge to welcome both the living’s shades and demons. Drawn to the place, Qiu chooses to stay beside Crooky, watching his young apprentices perform rituals in the living world while he reflects on his own once-bright career and the art that defined him.
By 1945, Qiu has carved out a formidable reputation as an opera actor. Yet Pocky, now a warlord, worries about his own precarious fate under Chiang Kai-shek and withdraws from the world of performance to protect his troupe and their households. The troupe dissolves for a time, and when the People’s Republic of China reshapes the landscape, the ensemble is reimagined as the People’s Sichuan Opera Troupe. Tragedy strikes when Qiu’s daughter dies during the Great Chinese Famine, and his son Hei survives to carry the memory of a family shaped by art and endurance. One day, Qiu rescues an abandoned infant girl, taking her into their humble home; his wife, though wary, eventually joins him in caring for the child, and the family endures by improvising—feeding maggots from the feed to sustain life, even as cadres accuse them of stealing state property. The baby’s mother returns, explaining her previous desertion, and, though reluctant, the wife relinquishes the girl back to her, choosing duty over despair.
During the Cultural Revolution, the New-New troupe is labeled feudal and comes under intense scrutiny from Red Guards. Hei, grown from a child into a teenager, longs to join the Big Link-up in Beijing but finds himself trapped at home. He escapes, flying through the city on a leaf, and years later reemerges as a high-ranking Red Guard who discovers that Qiu has been released from labor and relegated to minor parts in plays. Through memory and performance, Qiu revisits the arc of his life, tracing how art sustained him through hardship after hardship, even as political tides shifted around him.
In the end, after a final drink with Crooky and the envoys, Qiu fears how he will remember all his lines once Meng-po soup is consumed. The envoys reassure him that his artistic intuition will carry him across the threshold. He boards the boat, steps toward the other side, and queues for the Meng-po soup before drinking it all. The camera lingers on each character drinking in turn, then returns to an empty seat where the modern director, dressed in contemporary clothes, sits down to savor a bowl of Meng-po soup, signaling that art’s memory endures beyond the living world.
