A Conversation With The Prisoner of Beauty's Producer and Screenwriter

The Prisoner of Beauty (折腰), which had been quietly in the works for two years, exploded onto Tencent Video with remarkable speed.

Its overnight success wasn't just a lucky break. What exactly makes it stand out in a fiercely competitive market full of period dramas?

Starring Song Zuer and Liu Yuning, The Prisoner of Beauty is adapted from a beloved novel by Peng Laike, a top-tier author on Jinjiang Literature City, one of China's largest online fiction platforms. Adapting such a well-known IP (intellectual property) is always a high-stakes gamble, especially when it comes to Chinese historical romances with huge fanbases.

On one hand, you have to honor the emotional core of the original. On the other, you must reshape it to fit the structure and logic of screen storytelling. How do you stay true to the source material without alienating fans—or turning off new viewers unfamiliar with it? It's a delicate balancing act. In fact, many major IP dramas have flopped due to what fans call mogai (魔改)—"demonic revisions" that deviate too far from the original plot or tone.

So how did The Prisoner of Beauty manage to pull off a successful adaptation?

Turning Conflict into Narrative Power-Ups

According to screenwriter Nan Zhen, the key is to capture the soul of the story. "When adapting a novel into a TV drama, you usually end up with one of two results: either it resembles the soul but not the form, or the form but not the soul. I aim for the soul," she said. "It's important to retain the spirit of a great work, but enrich it with fresh ideas and develop the characters in a way that resonates on screen."

Nan Zhen, who personally recommended the novel for adaptation, said it struck a deep chord with her as a reader. "It moved me, and that emotional reaction became my compass during the writing process. I'm glad viewers are feeling that same connection."

Love vs. Vengeance: The Heart of the Story

One of The Prisoner of Beauty's most gripping tensions lies in its dramatic premise: the clash between generational hatred and romantic love. The male lead, Wei Shao, carries the trauma of a massacre that wiped out three generations of his family. The female lead, Xiao Qiao, is the daughter of the enemy clan—born into guilt she can never erase. When these two are forced into a political marriage, the emotional stakes couldn't be higher. How can love bloom in the shadow of such bloodshed?

Producer Fang Fangfang (方仿妨) cut to the heart of the matter: "The feud isn't just a plot device—it's what makes the romance irresistible. It raises the emotional stakes and draws the audience in."

In romance storytelling, the most compelling element is often the couple's journey from conflict to connection. As Fang explains, "Whether it's a modern or historical love story, what audiences crave is the tension—the obstacles, the misunderstandings, the eventual breakthroughs. The bigger the challenge, the more satisfying the payoff. A shallow love story wouldn't be able to sustain such epic emotional weight. But with such a powerful backstory, The Prisoner of Beauty delivers a long-form narrative full of intensity and heartbreak."

A Forced Marriage, and Love That Follows

The Prisoner of Beauty also leans into another fan-favorite trope: "marriage before love." Raised in comfort in the city of Yanzhou, Xiao Qiao is witty, clever, and just a touch spoiled—but when her family needs her, she steps up. In a bold move, she agrees to take her sister's place in a political marriage to save her household's honor.

What follows is a series of tense, humorous, and often tender interactions as Xiao Qiao and Wei Shao learn to coexist—and eventually trust one another. As Fang Fangfang put it, "Their marriage sets the stage for constant tests and shifting emotional defenses. That 'married first, love later' arc gave us so much room to explore relationship dynamics."

But beyond the romance, the show also resonates with modern viewers—especially women. "Take Xiao Qiao's attitude, for instance," said Fang. "She tells Wei Shao, 'I don't owe you anything, but I'm not dependent on you either.' That's a sentiment a lot of modern women can relate to. In today's marriages, should a woman give 100% of herself? Or should she leave space for independence and self-preservation? Those are questions that deserve exploration."

Craftsmanship in Every Detail

When a production works with a limited budget but still delivers a rich visual and emotional experience, that's where true craftsmanship shines. In The Prisoner of Beauty, from costume design to set decoration, the creative team's ingenuity is evident in every frame.

Executive Producer Fang Fangfang shared a behind-the-scenes insight: "The costume team paid special attention to the characters' overall aura. They boldly chose to feature quju (曲裾), a style of Hanfu [traditional Han Chinese clothing] rarely used in recent historical dramas. The slightly restrictive structure of quju naturally shortens a character's stride, subtly enhancing Xiao Qiao's graceful and demure charm."

The use of weighty, historically accurate fabrics layered with airy, floating gauze wasn't just for aesthetics—it stemmed from meticulous research. This contrast between "heavy and light," or "firm and flowing," not only restored a sense of historical texture but also served as a visual metaphor: the complexity of femininity under pressure in a patriarchal era.

In this way, costume becomes more than set dressing—it becomes a moving commentary on the characters themselves. The designers turned historical tailoring into emotional storytelling, letting clothing speak where words might not.

Visual Storytelling Through Architecture and Space

The drama also excels in its visual language—the way the camera moves, the way the spaces are arranged—all of which enhance character relationships and emotional cues.

Fang added, "The art and set design took over a year of preparation. One striking feature is the brass map positioned in the center of the official residence. It reflects Wei Shao's grand ambitions and his sense of duty toward the entire realm."

Another thoughtful design lies in the layout of Wei Shao's chambers, where overlapping round rooms and looping corridors allow for layered movement and lingering glances. "We wanted even a simple look across the hall to be charged with emotion," Fang said. This created a romantic tension where every glance was a story.

Even a fleeting shot through an intricately carved window frame carries emotional weight—what's left unsaid flows through the space itself. This "architecture of feeling" turns every hallway and threshold into a participant in the narrative.

From the angle of a quju sleeve to the curve of a corridor, The Prisoner of Beauty goes beyond visual beauty. It fuses rigorous historical research with emotional expressiveness, transforming space and costume into what the team calls "scenic love letters": every stitch, every beam quietly articulates what the characters themselves cannot say aloud.

Everyone Holds the Pen of Their Fate

In a great drama, every character—no matter how minor—has their own destiny, values, and unique journey. The Prisoner of Beauty won viewers' hearts not just through its leads, but through a rich, multidimensional cast of characters.

That's exactly what Fang Fangfang has always advocated: "We want to tell a story that people can understand, and more importantly, fall in love with."

Another standout is the Wei family's matriarch, portrayed by veteran actress Liu Xiaoqing. This grandmother character possesses the wisdom and emotional breadth of someone who has seen it all. Her quiet strength proves transformative.

It is she, not the younger generation, who first chooses to forgive the past. In her eyes, it was the Qiao family that brought tragedy upon her descendants. But instead of clinging to vengeance, she chooses reconciliation and accepts Xiao Qiao into the family. This decision ultimately frees her grandson Wei Shao from the chains of hatred and opens the path to love.

Nan Zhen added: "We intentionally made Xiaotao, the maid, a humorous character. She jokes about 'knowing all of the lady's tricks,' but when it matters most, she steps up to protect Xiao Qiao. This portrayal of a woman who's not perfect but very real is our way of telling the audience: Every woman shines in her own way—regardless of her position."

As the conversation with executive producer Fang Fangfang and screenwriter Nan Zhen deepened, so too did the reflection on The Prisoner of Beauty's three central female storylines—and their resonance with contemporary emotional and societal themes.

Xiao Qiao, with her resolute stance—"I'll leave no escape for myself so my family may survive"—embodies a woman's grand moral choice in times of chaos. Nan Zhen highlighted the couple's emotional appeal: "They love each other without forcing each other to abandon their principles. Their feelings never compromise their personal convictions."

This portrayal of a relationship based on mutual respect and emotional equality, rather than dependence, is profoundly modern—echoing the ideals many women strive for today.

Elder sister Da Qiao, despite her delicate and gentle exterior, harbors a quietly unshakable strength. She believes in self-sacrifice—but never at the expense of her loved ones. Choosing to protect Biji with the limited power of a cloistered noblewoman, she reflects the quiet bravery of countless ordinary women.

Fang Fangfang reflected: "Not every woman needs to be a national heroine. Those who defend what they hold dear within their own limited reach are equally admirable."

One especially poignant scene showcases this beautifully: Xiao Qiao pleads for military aid, and Da Qiao refuses. Their conflict isn't about a man, but a fundamental value clash—family versus nation. "This kind of ideological debate is far richer than typical female rivalry tropes," said Fang. "It shows that women's choices in difficult times aren't about right or wrong—they're about perspective."

Su Ehuang's tragedy adds a darker layer to this exploration of women's fate.

"She was born with a 'peony fate'—believed to be cursed to bring misfortune to her clan. Her mutilation—cutting off her nose—was not just personal, but a violent imprint of patriarchal dominance," Fang explained.

"Su Ehuang's story forces us to acknowledge the countless women trapped in the belief that they are 'unworthy of love.' Her suicide wasn't weakness—it was her final rebellion."

"For Xiao Qiao," the creators said, "her battlefield is the inner chambers. Her 'opponent' is Wei Shao himself. She dares to speak, knows how to speak, and learns to speak beautifully. Through gentle persistence—water dripping through stone—she gradually reclaims space, power, and agency."

These three contrasting female emotional arcs ultimately ask a crucial question relevant to all women today: Is it too much to expect a woman to protect her loved ones while also carrying the world on her back?

And yet, the creators offer an empowering answer: Whether at home or in the workplace, a woman's standards should be set by no one but herself. As long as she begins with a clear heart, aligns her actions with her beliefs, and stands firm—she already holds the measure of her worth in her own hands.

Staying in Sync: The Casting Philosophy

"Song Zuer's versatility truly impressed us," Fang Fangfang said with a smile.

"When casting Xiao Qiao, 'beauty' was just the starting point. The real challenge lay in capturing her complexity. In The Bond, Song Zuer's portrayal of Qiao Simei wasn't just about growing from a girl into a woman—it was about evoking the full emotional spectrum of love, betrayal, self-doubt, and resilience. She made viewers both love and grieve with her."

Song Zuer's nuanced performance—especially in emotional breakdown scenes—deeply aligned with Xiao Qiao's character: "She cries not just out of sorrow, but from a place of bitter self-awareness and confusion about love and the future. Her command of emotional layers, her delicate strength—it all fits Xiao Qiao perfectly."

As for the male lead Liu Yuning, he embodies both the imposing charisma of a military commander and the youthful passion of a noble young man. "The Wei Shao we imagined on paper was exactly like Liu Yuning," said Fang and Nan.

"Wei Shao is a strong, commanding figure, and Liu needed to physically project that presence. His work in The Long Ballad was already impressive—he had the potential to be this complex character. Underneath the tough exterior, we saw that he had a soft, vulnerable core. And in real life, his live interactions with fans show warmth and humor."

Fang added with admiration: "Success doesn't come from luck alone. Liu Yuning works incredibly hard. He brings full emotional engagement to every scene. That's the kind of effort that earns our trust—and our choice."

He joined the production with a foot injury. Wearing a brace, he pushed through the pain without ever showing it—some even forgot he was hurt at all. Every day, he eagerly discussed the script with the director and crew. The night before each shoot, he memorized all his lines—and even those of his scene partners.

Returning to Love in Its Purest

In today's drama market, high-concept fantasies and flashy gimmicks dominate. Against that backdrop, The Prisoner of Beauty stands out as a rarity—a grounded historical romance rooted in classic storytelling. Executive producer Fang Fangfang explains,

"We deliberately stripped away fantastical elements. We wanted to go back to basics, to offer viewers a return to their original belief in the beauty of love."

But how does love bloom on scorched earth, watered by blood and vengeance?

Wei Shao is the kind of man with a hardened exterior—clashing head-on with him only leads to mutual destruction. That's why Xiao Qiao enters his world with a distinctly feminine resilience. What truly disarms Wei Shao isn't grand speeches about loyalty or patriotic ideals—it's a single tear sliding silently down her neck.

"In that moment," says Fang, "Wei Shao suddenly realizes: She's just a girl."

That tear carries all the weight Xiao Qiao has been hiding behind her show of strength—her vulnerability, her burdens—and it pierces Wei Shao's armor of hatred. For the first time, he sees the girl behind the enemy's face, in all her softness and humanity.

"We wanted to show what a real, unmarried girl might be like," says Fang. "She enjoys life. She's a little spoiled, nourished by love. She's sweet, tender—but she's also clear-eyed and morally grounded.

A woman's softness isn't a flaw. In the right moment, that softness becomes a kind of power."

That power finds its most striking expression in Episode 4's dramatic "Rain of Arrows" sequence. From Wei Shao's terse command—"Come"—to the iconic 30cm height difference as he lifts her in his arms, the moment brims with tension. Xiao Qiao, still reeling from the chaos, slaps Wei Shao for orchestrating the ambush. Yet he silently kneels to carry her on his back. When that tear falls down her neck—no declarations are needed.

There's no coy blushing or sweet promises, just a sudden, undeniable spark: he truly sees her. He finally understands her.

Wei Shao's cold heart begins to thaw. Actor Liu Yuning delivers this with a subtle shift in his gaze, revealing a tenderness never seen before. The contrast between this softness and his battlefield ferocity makes his performance deeply compelling. Strength and sensitivity collide—captivating viewers with an intense emotional charge.

Screenwriter Nan Zhen unpacks this further:

"Wei Shao falls for her first, but he doesn't realize it. Xiao Qiao begins with wariness—probing, pitying—but after a journey of teasing, struggling, and finally being pushed to the brink, she lets go of her hatred and sees him for who he is."

Nan carefully laid out multiple emotional high points throughout the script. One standout:
In the city of Panyi, Xiao Qiao is forced to choose between two men. In tears, she tells Liu Yan, her childhood friend, "You treasure me like a jewel, but treat all others like ants," before running headlong toward Wei Shao—the storm, not the shelter.

"That was one of my favorite scenes," Nan shares. "Xiao Qiao could have chosen safety and sentimentality, but she chooses alliance and responsibility. That moment is when Wei Shao begins to admire her courage—and starts to truly accept her not as a 'Qiao woman,' but as his own."

What follows is a rapid succession of powerful moments, charting their journey from opposition to mutual understanding.

Wei Shao's internal question—"What does it mean to love someone above all else?"—lingers. When you're willing to show someone your weakest, messiest self, something changes.

Later, when Xiao Qiao is falsely accused of endangering civilians, Wei Shao responds without hesitation:

"If you told me this woman wanted to poison my entire family, I might believe it. But I'd never believe she'd harm the people."

For Xiao Qiao, this is more than a defense—it's being seen, believed, and understood.

Eventually, in the climactic scene inside the secret passage, both characters shed their final defenses. Nan describes it this way:

"Only then do they truly understand: Among all the people in the world, this is the one. The only one with the ability—and the will—to walk through danger with you, side by side."

What gives The Prisoner of Beauty its emotional depth is that it never flinches from the sharp edges of hatred. Instead, it uses that hatred as a measure of love's courage and humanity's resilience.

The story of Xiao Qiao and Wei Shao is, at its core, a daring exploration of how far one can go to turn vengeance into love—and what it takes to emerge whole from that journey.