When Zhou Xun dons historical costumes, audiences hold their breath—this petite woman from Jiangnan watertowns carries half of China's epic history in her bones. As the soul-devouring fox spirit in Painted Skin, she laid bare human fragility beneath ethereal beauty; in Ruyi's Royal Love, her restrained sighs as an embattled empress turned palace intrigue into visceral poetry.
From her deliberate whisper-pauses to the way her eyes flicker between vulnerability and cunning, we unpack how this actress bends time itself through roles that resonate across generations.
Palace of Desire 大明宫词
Palace of Desire 大明宫词
- Aired: 2000
- Period Background: Tang Dynasty (618–907 AD), focusing on imperial intrigue.
- Genres: Historical, Romance, Political Drama
- Main Roles: Zhou Xun as Young Taiping Princess, Chen Hong as Adult Taiping, Gua Lunshu as Emperor Gaozong.
- Adapted From: Original screenplay by Wang Anyi.
Palace of Desire traces the life of Taiping Princess, portrayed by Zhou Xun in her youth. The series begins with Taiping as a sheltered yet rebellious teenager, her curiosity clashing with the rigid imperial hierarchy. Her early escapades—sneaking into bustling markets, questioning court rituals—highlight her defiance against the suffocating palace life. However, her innocence shatters as she witnesses the ruthless political maneuvers of her mother, Empress Wu Zetian, particularly in orchestrating Taiping's marriage to Xue Shao, a scholar whose idealism mirrors her own.
The ill-fated romance with Xue Shao becomes the series' emotional core. Their relationship, initially marked by youthful idealism, is poisoned by Wu Zetian's manipulation—she secretly executes Xue's first wife to secure the marriage49. Taiping's gradual realization of this betrayal, coupled with Xue's internal conflict between duty and love, drives her transformation from a romantic dreamer to a politically astute figure. The series meticulously chronicles her loss of innocence, symbolized by recurring motifs like the Kunlun slave mask from their first encounter and the puppet shadow plays that mirror her manipulated fate. As Taiping ascends to power, her strategic ruthlessness contrasts hauntingly with her lingering grief for the girl she once was.
Unlike conventional historical dramas that glorify imperial splendor, Palace of Desire dissects the psychological toll of power. The Tang Dynasty's glittering façade is stripped away to reveal a world where love and loyalty are transactional. Taiping's arc is not merely about personal growth but a searing critique of systemic oppression. The narrative structure, blending Shakespearean soliloquies with stark political clashes, amplifies the tension between idealism and decay6. For instance, Taiping's poetic monologues about freedom juxtapose sharply with scenes of her mother coldly executing rivals, underscoring the cost of survival in a patriarchal empire.
The series also subverts historical tropes by centering female agency. While Wu Zetian embodies ruthless pragmatism, Taiping's struggle to reconcile her emotional desires with political necessity offers a nuanced portrayal of women navigating power. Her eventual embrace of authority—mirroring her mother's path—is framed not as triumph but tragedy, questioning whether empowerment in a corrupt system requires self-erasure.
Zhou Xun's portrayal of young Taiping remains a benchmark for historical drama acting. Her performance balances fragility and ferocity, capturing Taiping's transition from wide-eyed curiosity to hardened resolve. In early scenes, Zhou's infectious spontaneity—whether marveling at lantern festivals or playfully challenging tutors—radiates youthful vitality. Yet she layers this brightness with subtle foreshadowing: a flicker of fear in her eyes as she overhears courtiers discussing her marriage, or a slight stiffening of posture when confronting her mother's manipulations.
Her chemistry with Zhao Wenxuan's Xue Shao is equally compelling. In their moonlight confession scene, Zhou's trembling voice and hesitant touch convey both infatuation and dread, embodying Taiping's collision of hope and doom34. What elevates Zhou's performance is her refusal to depict Taiping as a passive victim. Even in moments of coercion, such as negotiating political alliances, Zhou ensures Taiping's agency glimmers through—a defiant glare at Wu Zetian or a calculated smile during diplomatic exchanges. This complexity makes her eventual moral compromises devastatingly relatable.
Palace of Desire endures as a masterpiece because it transcends historical pageantry to explore universal themes of power and identity. Zhou Xun's Taiping is not a relic of the past but a timeless figure grappling with existential questions: How much authenticity must one sacrifice to survive? Can love and power coexist? The series' answer is bleak yet resonant—Taiping's journey mirrors the cost of ambition in any era.
For modern audiences, the drama's relevance lies in its unflinching portrayal of systemic corruption and gendered oppression. Its lush visuals—courtesy of costume designer Ye Jintian and composer Lin Hai—complement rather than overshadow its emotional depth36. While the Tang Dynasty's grandeur is meticulously recreated, it is Zhou Xun's performance that breathes life into this world, ensuring Taiping's tragedy lingers long after the final curtain falls. A must-watch for those seeking historical drama with psychological heft and artistic daring.
The Legend of the Condor Heroes 射雕英雄传
The Legend of the Condor Heroes 射雕英雄传
- Aired: 2003
- Period Background: Southern Song Dynasty (1127–1279 AD), martial arts-dominated era.
- Genres: Wuxia, Adventure
- Main Roles: Zhou Xun as Huang Rong), Li Yapeng as Guo Jing.
- Adapted From: Jin Yong's classic novel.
The series follows Huang Rong—a brilliant but lonely martial arts prodigy—who disguises herself as a beggar to escape the weight of her lineage as the daughter of the reclusive Huang Yaoshi. Her chance encounter with Guo Jing, a kind but socially awkward warrior, sparks a partnership that redefines both their lives. Together, they navigate the treacherous jianghu—a world of rival sects, ancient grudges, and moral ambiguity—while seeking the legendary Nine Yin Manual.
The plot thrives on Huang Rong's tactical genius: she outsmarts venomous adversaries like Ouyang Feng, negotiates alliances with cunning clan leaders, and repeatedly saves Guo Jing from his own naivety. Yet, beneath her mischievous facade lies vulnerability. Abandoned by her mother and emotionally distant from her father, Huang Rong's loyalty to Guo Jing becomes her anchor in a world where trust is scarce. Key arcs, like her tense reconciliation with Huang Yaoshi or her sacrifice to protect Guo Jing from poisoned blades, reveal layers of emotional depth rarely explored in earlier adaptations.
This version distinguishes itself by refusing to let Huang Rong devolve into a mere "manic pixie dream girl" trope. While prior adaptations often framed her as Guo Jing's whimsical sidekick, the 2003 series positions her as the narrative's driving force. Her intellect isn't just for comic relief—it's survival. Whether deciphering cryptic martial arts manuals or exposing political betrayals, Huang Rong's strategies directly shape the story's trajectory. The series also doesn't shy from her flaws: her pride leads to costly miscalculations, and her fear of abandonment makes her fiercely possessive of Guo Jing. This complexity transforms the character from a plot device into a fully realized protagonist.
The jianghu here feels visceral, not romanticized. Fight scenes emphasize brutality over balletic elegance, and alliances fracture over pragmatic survival rather than honor. This grounded approach amplifies Huang Rong's relevance—her adaptability and moral flexibility mirror the chaos of the world she inhabits.
Zhou Xun's Huang Rong is a revelation because she embraces contradiction. Her Huang Rong isn't just clever; she's unpredictable. In one scene, she's gleefully swindling a tavern owner with absurd riddles; in the next, she's silently grieving her mother's absence, her voice trembling as she confides in Guo Jing. Zhou's physicality—loose, almost feral movements in her beggar disguise versus regal poise when revealing her true identity—visually underscores the character's duality.
What sets Zhou apart is her mastery of tonal shifts. Watch her in the Peach Blossom Island sequence: when Huang Yaoshi dismisses Guo Jing, Zhou's Huang Rong switches from playful defiance ("I'll starve myself if you don't accept him!") to raw desperation in milliseconds, her eyes welling with tears that never spill. She avoids overplaying Huang Rong's "quirkiness," instead grounding her humor in sharp, observational wit. A standout moment occurs when she mocks Ouyang Feng's arrogance by comparing him to a "toad basking in moonlight"—Zhou delivers the line with a smirk, but her tightened grip on Guo Jing's arm betrays underlying fear.
Her chemistry with Li Yapeng's Guo Jing is equally nuanced. While Li portrays Guo Jing as stoic and earnest, Zhou reacts to his rigidity with exasperated affection. In quieter moments, like their campfire conversations, Zhou lets Huang Rong's guard down, her voice softening as she shares childhood memories. This dynamic avoids saccharine romance, instead highlighting mutual growth: Huang Rong teaches Guo Jing to think critically, while he stabilizes her chaotic energy.
In a genre often criticized for relegating women to passive roles, Zhou's portrayal reclaims Huang Rong as a multifaceted leader: flawed, funny, and unapologetically strategic. The series doesn't merely adapt Jin Yong's novel; it interrogates what it means to be a heroine in a fractured world. Zhou's performance—bursting with spontaneity yet meticulously detailed—ensures Huang Rong resonates not as a relic of wuxia nostalgia, but as a timeless emblem of resilience.
Painted Skin 画皮
Painted Skin 画皮
- Aired: 2008
- Period Background: Mythological ancient China.
- Genres: Fantasy, Romance, Horror
- Main Roles: Zhou Xun as Xiao Wei, Chen Kun as Wang Sheng, Zhao Wei as Peirong.
- Adapted From: Pu Songling's Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio (聊斋志异).
The film centers on Xiao Wei, a thousand-year-old fox spirit who sheds her animal form to infiltrate human society. Disguised as a fragile, beautiful woman, she attaches herself to General Wang Sheng, a noble warrior haunted by battlefield trauma. Xiao Wei's arrival destabilizes Wang's marriage to Peirong, a loyal but increasingly isolated wife who senses the otherworldly threat beneath Xiao Wei's delicate and pitiable facade.
The plot unfolds as a psychological tug-of-war. Xiao Wei, driven by a desperate yearning to experience human love, uses her supernatural allure to manipulate Wang Sheng's emotions, blurring the lines between seduction and genuine connection. Meanwhile, Peirong—aware of Xiao Wei's true nature but powerless to expose her—descends into paranoia, sacrificing her dignity to protect her husband. The tension escalates when Xiao Wei's survival demands human hearts, forcing her to choose between her monstrous instincts and her fragile emulation of humanity. The climax, a confrontation drenched in sorrow rather than spectacle, sees Peirong offering her own heart to save Wang Sheng, while Xiao Wei faces the futility of her quest: love, for a creature like her, is a poison as much as a salvation.
Painted Skin transcends typical supernatural horror by prioritizing emotional corrosion over jump scares. The film's horror lies not in Xiao Wei's monstrous acts but in her tragic self-awareness—she mimics human tenderness so convincingly that even she begins to believe it. Director Chen Jiashang avoids CGI spectacle, instead using stark visuals: Xiao Wei's peeling "skin" is shown sparingly, emphasizing the grotesque contrast between her pristine beauty and rotting true form. The muted color palette—ash-gray battlefields, cold palace interiors—mirrors the characters' emotional desolation.
The love triangle subverts genre expectations. Peirong is no passive victim; her quiet resilience and willingness to self-destruct for Wang Sheng's sake make her as complex as Xiao Wei. Similarly, Wang Sheng's struggle isn't between two women but between duty and desire, honor and weakness. The film's core appeal lies in its refusal to vilify any character. Xiao Wei's monstrosity is tempered by childlike vulnerability, Peirong's virtue by possessiveness, and Wang Sheng's heroism by moral ambiguity.
Zhou Xun's Xiao Wei is a masterclass in controlled contradiction. Her physicality—every tilt of the head, flutter of eyelashes, and deliberate step—crafts a being both alien and achingly human. In early scenes, she plays the damsel in distress with calculated precision: her voice softens to a whisper, her movements slow and hesitant, as if imitating human frailty from a textbook. Yet Zhou injects subtle cracks in this facade. When Xiao Wei watches Wang Sheng from afar, her head cocks slightly, predator-like, and her eyes narrow with feline intensity, betraying the predator beneath.
Two scenes define her performance. In the first, Xiao Wei practices human expressions in a mirror, cycling through exaggerated smiles and frowns. Zhou's portrayal here is chilling—not because of the grotesque makeup revealed in the reflection, but because her mechanical repetition mirrors the character's desperation to belong. The second is her final confrontation with Peirong. As Peirong begs her to spare Wang Sheng, Xiao Wei's face hardens with defiance, but her voice quivers: "Why can't I be loved?" Zhou delivers the line not as a villain's lament but as a raw, childlike plea, dissolving the boundary between monster and victim.
Zhou's chemistry with Zhao Wei electrifies their rivalry. In their shared scenes, Xiao Wei's calculated poise contrasts with Peirong's fraying composure. When Peirong accuses her of monstrosity, Zhou's Xiao Wei responds with a serene smile, but her fingers dig into her palms—a tiny, telling gesture of insecurity. This interplay elevates the film from melodrama to a nuanced duel between two women trapped by societal and supernatural constraints.
Painted Skin endures not as a horror story but as a haunting meditation on the masks we wear to be loved. Zhou Xun's Xiao Wei is the film's shattered soul—a creature oscillating between predatory instinct and aching humanity, rendered unforgettable through Zhou's meticulous physicality and emotional transparency. The film's power lies in its ambiguity: it asks whether love is a force of salvation or self-destruction, and whether humanity is defined by compassion or capacity for cruelty.
Ruyi's Royal Love in the Palace 如懿传
Ruyi's Royal Love in the Palace 如懿传
- Aired: 2018
- Period Background: Qing Dynasty (18th century), Qianlong Emperor's reign.
- Genres: Palace Drama, Historical Tragedy
- Main Roles: Zhou Xun as Ula-Nara Ruyi, Wallace Huo as Emperor Qianlong.
- Adapted From: Liu Lianzi's novel Ruyi's Royal Love in the Palace.
Ruyi's Royal Love in the Palace traces the decades-spanning journey of Ula-Nara Ruyi, portrayed by Zhou Xun, as she navigates the brutal machinations of imperial power. Initially introduced as the idealistic consort of Emperor Qianlong, Ruyi enters the palace with a belief in mutual respect and emotional fidelity. Her early years are marked by quiet confidence—she refuses to engage in petty harem squabbles, trusting instead in her intellectual rapport with the emperor. However, the rigid hierarchies of the Qing court, where love is weaponized and loyalty is transactional, gradually erode her naivety.
The series meticulously maps Ruyi's disillusionment through a cascade of betrayals. A pivotal moment occurs when her childhood maid, Hai Lan, is framed for poisoning a rival consort's child—a crime orchestrated by the emperor's favored concubine. Ruyi's attempts to defend Hai Lan expose the emperor's willingness to sacrifice truth for political stability. Later, the death of her infant son, blamed on palace "ill omens," forces Ruyi to confront the emperor's emotional detachment. By the time she ascends to empress, her role is no longer one of influence but of ceremonial isolation.
The final blow comes when Qianlong, paranoid about rumors of her infidelity, publicly humiliates her during a royal tour. Ruyi's decision to sever her hair—a act symbolizing mourning for the living—is not just personal defiance but a rejection of the emperor's authority, as Manchu tradition forbids such a gesture except in widowhood.
Unlike conventional harem dramas that sensationalize rivalry, Ruyi's Royal Love dissects systemic oppression. The palace is not merely a setting but a character—a gilded cage enforcing conformity through rituals, gossip, and the emperor's capricious favor. Ruyi's downfall is not caused by a single villain but by the cumulative weight of a system designed to crush individuality. The series avoids romanticizing historical power structures; instead, it highlights how even the emperor is trapped by his role, reduced to a puppet of statecraft and dynastic expectations.
The narrative's strength lies in its psychological realism. Ruyi's transformation is not abrupt but a slow erosion—her once-lively debates with Qianlong give way to terse exchanges, and her vibrant costumes fade to somber hues. The series also subverts the "strong female lead" trope: Ruyi's intelligence becomes her vulnerability in a world that punishes women for outshining male authority. Her ultimate rebellion—cutting her hair—is a masterstroke of silent resistance, a gesture that weaponizes tradition against the emperor's tyranny.
Zhou Xun's portrayal of Ruyi is a study in minimalism, rejecting the exaggerated emotiveness typical of palace dramas. Her performance hinges on micro-expressions: a slight tightening of the jaw when hearing a veiled insult, a fleeting glance of disappointment as Qianlong prioritizes politics over their marriage. In one critical scene, Ruyi learns of her son's death offscreen; Zhou's reaction—a hollow stare, fingers trembling imperceptibly as she drops a teacup—conveys devastation without a single tear.
The hair-cutting scene epitomizes her nuanced approach. Instead of grand theatrics, Zhou plays Ruyi's defiance with eerie calm. As she slices her hair, her posture remains regal, but her eyes—wide and unblinking—betray a fracture between duty and despair. This duality mirrors historical accounts of imperial women who weaponized symbolism to resist erasure, such as Empress Dowager Cixi's political maneuvering. Zhou's restraint ensures Ruyi's humanity persists even in her marginalization, making her fate not just tragic but politically resonant.
Ruyi's Royal Love in the Palace transcends the confines of its genre by reframing historical drama as a critique of power's dehumanizing effects. Zhou Xun's performance elevates Ruyi from a biographical figure to an emblem of quiet resistance—a woman whose "failure" to survive the palace's cruelty becomes a triumph of integrity. The series resonates not for its opulence but for its unflinching honesty: in a world where love and loyalty are transactional, the most radical act is to refuse to play the game.
Zhou Xun's costume dramas aren't about ornate costumes or sweeping historical claims—they're about women who crackle with life, even when trapped by their eras. Whether she's a Tang princess or a Qing empress, Zhou grounds her characters in visceral humanity, making centuries-old stories feel urgently contemporary.
