Two recent WeChat posts express concern about mounting official interference in 相声 xiàngsheng, the traditional northern-Chinese form of fast-paced stage comedy known in English as crosstalk. These anxieties are acute, but not new. David Moser wrote in 2009, for example, that, "The Chinese government has systematically stifled crosstalk by bowdlerizing its tradition, restricting its natural growth and evolution, and reducing the form to a sycophantic, unsatisfying — and unfunny — shadow of its former self." This process, he wrote, began as soon as the CCP took power, with sexual humor and mockery of authority figures and the peasantry proscribed, and praise mandated in place of parody. As a point of comparison, Moser offered descriptions of some earlier, edgier material featuring a breast-feeding father-in-law, infant suffocation, and a songless, featherless one-eyed bird.

Crosstalk is still widely regarded with a mix of affection and reverence, and there is fierce public resistance to further erosion. This indignation was clear in a post this week by "Wharfwater Ghost," responding to the reported scolding of modern crosstalk master Guo Degang:

Yeesh! Guo Degang was summoned for a talk. After this, all we’ll be left with is CCTV News!

You didn’t mishear: Guo Degang was summoned for a talk, by the Beijing Xicheng District Bureau of Culture and Tourism. The topic of discussion was his crosstalk routine "Great Skill, Little Courage," which they say contains vulgar content and snide allusions to state-owned stage troupes, which must be immediately rectified.

Man, now they’re even rectifying crosstalk. So, where can crosstalk go from here? Straight-faced crosstalk? Politically correct crosstalk? Grand narrative crosstalk? Bootlicking crosstalk? Looks like another piece of our cultural heritage is on the brink of ruin.

I still remember Jia Xuming and Zhang Kang’s crosstalk a few years back. Extremely scathing and funny, and it got them banned. Everyone knows what’s going on, we just don’t talk openly about it. In the world of crosstalk, Guo Degang and Yu Qian are the gold standard; there’s pretty much no one better. In the current miserable and stifling atmosphere, we can at least listen to a crosstalk routine to lighten the mood a bit. But if things carry on like this, I’m afraid even that will be gone.

You can’t speak the truth, satire is off-limits, swearing gets you banned, and even vulgarity crosses the line. At this rate, they might as well turn crosstalk into "Story Time." Of course, "Story Time" might also get banned. Just look at what happened to Lao Liang [Liang Hongda, a longstanding target of online nationalists who has suffered numerous account and content deletions]. So what’s left to watch? Are we really just down to CCTV News and the weather report? I reckon if Zhou Libo was still doing the "Mr. Zhou Live Show," he’d be hauled in for picking quarrels and provoking trouble.

And who was it who reported Guo Degang, anyway? An audience member? Someone from inside Deyunshe [a crosstalk group founded by Guo and others in 1995]? Whoever this informant was, they’re a real mother-forking weasel. I have a feeling Masters Guo and Yu will be forced to step back and leave performing to their younger disciples. And how can crosstalk throw shade at a state-owned theater troupe? Have state-owned theater troupes got any new tricks up their sleeves? Their ideas dried up long ago, and they’re no better than court eunuchs now. How can they still make a living? Most are just zombies, and even the few that have "reinvented" themselves are just old wine in new bottles. The informant was probably just jealous that others were making more money than him.

The Beijing Xicheng District Bureau of Culture and Tourism is something else, too, summoning someone over a piffling matter like this just to remind people that they exist. Really, Guo Degang’s had enough bad luck for eight lifetimes. He should write a routine about it—"Eight Lifetimes of Bad Luck," or "I Was Summoned for a Chat"—and satirize himself a bit. Is that still allowed, Xicheng Culture Bureau? Though I’m afraid that even making fun of yourself might cross some political red line. In the end, crosstalk performers will be reduced to mimes, or just stand there silently grinning like in Kawabata Yasunari, leaving the audience to guess. [Chinese]

Last month, WeChat account "Banner-plumes and Battle-axes" reacted with similar ire to rumors of tightened rules about strict adherence to pre-registered scripts. The post notes that it is unclear how accurate the details of recent rumors about regulation are, but more stringent preapproval was listed as an action item in the Dongcheng District Bureau of Culture and Tourism’s 2025 Work Report, issued in March.

More than 30 years ago, my classmates and I were living props in a well-rehearsed production. We were in our first year of university, and one of our classes was to be a public demonstration. Before we took to the stage, the teachers and students in the "cast" rehearsed it over and over: who would raise their hand for which question, the phrasing of the answers, even who should get worked up during the debate, each beat timed as precisely as Peking Opera’s gongs and drums in pursuit of absolute "correctness."

When it came to the debate section of the final performance, one student forgot the sequence and stood up early. Perhaps it was stage fright. Immediately, the rest of the "cast" blurted out "That’s wrong! That’s wrong!" We didn’t mean the view he was expressing, but rather his derailment of our meticulous choreography. At the final curtain, the officials in the audience applauded vigorously, and praised the debate section’s authenticity. They said they could see from how heated it had gotten how actively engaged our minds had been.

At this, the room grew hushed. We’d used what was actually a mistake to pull off a flawless performance of fake authenticity. The preposterousness of this has stuck in my mind like a splinter for thirty years, painless but unforgettable.

Now we hear that crosstalk will be the same. I wonder if these new rules are real or fake?

Every word and movement on the stage must follow the script, word for word. What they call "xiangua"—improvised banter between performers and audience, impromptu quips that capture the fleeting moment—will be regarded as impurities to be removed.

Crosstalk is like a live fish in a marketplace. The rippling of the water and the hisses or cheers of the audience are the oxygen it needs to survive. Improvisation is the flash of light on its scales when it leaps out of the water unexpectedly. Once, when a sparrow flew down from a stage light, Master Hou Baolin responded with a whole string of improvised jokes, turning what could have been a mishap into a legend. This wasn’t just a matter of his own skill, but of the sense of communion between performer and audience. Now, they want to turn this live fish into a stuffed exhibit, pinned in a glass archival case for the sake of "regulation." This is like forbidding chefs from watching the heat while stir-frying, and telling that from now on, they are only allowed to silently recite the recipe.

The fake interaction in the classroom and the improvisation-free crosstalk are both rooted in a kind of fear: fear of vitality, fear of any departure from the script. So the safest thing is to turn any form of liveliness, whether it’s a clash of ideas or a creative spark, into a lifeless display specimen. Such specimens are safe and eternal. Too bad they’re dead.

In the staged classroom, we rehearsed thought; in the crosstalk theater, they’re vetting laughter. When all uncontrollable authenticity has been eradicated, all that remains will be that perfectly staged classroom display; a grand, silent performance in which everyone knows their part.

Maybe one day, when a performer brings the house down with some brilliant ad-lib, I’ll whisper to my grandkid in the audience, "Look, that’s wrong! That’s wrong, just like my old classmate." [Chinese]