The Updated Dictionary of TV Drama Roasting

But in the battle between fans and detractors over the merits of realism versus entertainment, a host of new terms is emerging to describe the often unrealistic characters, unreasonable plots, and “toxic values” purportedly promoted by some C-dramas.

One of the earliest examples, “big heroine (大女主 dà nǚzhǔ),” arose in the early 2010s in the wake of the phenomenal success of Empresses in the Palace. Dramas with strong female leads saw a boom, and productions began to publicize “big heroines” in their advertising materials. While it was mostly historical dramas or biopics that initially carried this label, over time, the term became so overused that any show where the heroine was chased by several suitors or received a magical shortcut to revenge would claim the “big heroine” title. To mock this mismatch, viewers went on to create the term “fake big heroine (伪大女主 wěi dà nǚzhǔ)”:

Then came the term “tool person (工具人 gōngjùrén).” Originally, the term referred to someone in real life who is used, unappreciated, and taken for granted. In TV dramas, a “tool character” has no personality or character arc, existing only to highlight the protagonist’s glory or push the plot forward. They may provide clues to a detective, serve as a love rival, or act as a convenient source of muscle, brains, or money whenever the protagonist needs them. “Tool character” thus became a popular term for criticizing lazy character writing:

But sometimes, even a tool character can break free. In the 2023 fantasy drama Till the End of the Moon, the villainous supporting female, Ye Bingchang, was clearly written to be a tool. Still, thanks to the actress’s compelling performance and the audience’s growing fatigue with formulaic storytelling, Ye sparked heated discussion and even surpassed the protagonist in popularity. Netizens coined a new term to describe such a situation: “supporting role flipping the table (配角掀桌 pèijué xiān zhuō),” describing how supporting characters in today’s TV drama industry are often sidelined and “don’t even have a seat at the table.” Therefore, when a supporting role manages to steal the lead’s thunder, viewers rejoice at them having “flipped the table,” with the culprit dubbed a “table-flipper (掀桌咖 xiān zhuō kā).” Audiences often cheer for these moments:

The portrayal of romantic relationships has also become a major target for mockery. In romantic dramas, the development of the leads’ love is usually the biggest draw. On social media, fans who enjoy “shipping,” or 嗑CP (kè CP)—obsessing over couple pairing—call sweet, natural interactions “sugar (糖 táng).” But in many low-quality shows, the romance often feels forced, lacking necessary buildup and reduced to embarrassing hugs, kisses, and physical contact. Viewers have sarcastically dubbed such unconvincing romantic chemistry “industrial saccharin (工业糖精 gōngyè tángjīng).”

Thus, when they want to complain that the couple is too artificial to “ship,” they will say:

The criticism doesn’t stop at character writing and plot logic. Outdated and even harmful values also draw viewers’ ire. One element is the overuse of the “di-shu (嫡庶)” hierarchy in costume dramas. Under the ancient Chinese patriarchal system, di refers to children born to the legal wife, while shu refers to children born to concubines. As palace dramas like Empresses in the Palace became popular, this distinction entered mainstream discourse. However, many shows have exaggerated this hierarchy into a rule that overrides morality, talent, and character, with some hardcore viewers also putting di-shu above all else. Such enthusiasts became mockingly called the “orthodox-concubine cult (嫡庶神教 dí shù shénjiào).”

In the world of this cult, a shu daughter deserves only to be a concubine; a shu son, only a servant. Some have argued that Prince Jing in Nirvana in Fire is unworthy of the throne because he was born shu; and the empress in Empresses in the Palace failed because she was not di. Some have even criticized Gao E’s (高鹗) continuation of Dream of the Red Chamber (《红楼梦》) for making the concubine Ping’er a legal wife, which they see as violating social norms—but Gao was a proper Qing dynasty (1616 – 1911) writer.

Some web novels have gone even further, depicting the di branch as having the right to “sell off (发卖 fāmài)” shu members like slaves. Netizens mock this absurd logic as “sell-off literature (发卖文学 fāmài wénxué)” and use parody to defuse it. For example:

Another disputed term is “dual purity (双洁 shuāng jié),” describing how both the male and female leads remain “pure” in body and mind. Originating in online fan fiction as a tag for readers to filter stories, the term has since spread to TV dramas, with audiences who insist on the value of dual purity and often view any past romantic experience as a stain, sarcastically dubbed as the “Dual Purity Party (双洁党 shuāng jié dǎng).”

The most controversial example is the 2022 drama A Dream of Splendor, adapted from the 13th-century playwright Guan Hanqing’s (关汉卿) play “Zhao Pan’er Rescuing a Courtesan (《赵盼儿救风尘》).” In the original, the heroine Zhao is a prostitute who uses her wiles to save her friend. But the TV adaptation alters her background, stressing through dialogue that she was “pure and never sold her body”—an obvious attempt to cater to dual-purity tastes. Though supporters of the concept of dual purity see it as a celebration of pure love, opponents call the Dual-Purity Party “moral police” who reinforces traditional virginity standards and shows a narrow-minded worldview.

Another, more serious critique targets “female abuse (虐女 nüènǚ)” narratives. This refers to plots where female characters suffer egregious violence, sexual assault, torture, or even death. Such scenes are not rare, but netizens use the term specifically for those that are unnecessary and merely sensational, in which a woman’s suffering is exaggerated and repeatedly displayed, contributing nothing to her character development.

The critique also draws on advanced theoretical terms, including spectacularization (景观化 jǐngguānhuà) and objectification (客体化 kètǐhuà). Spectacularization refers to when the abuse of women is turned into a spectacle. The film Full River Red, for example, has been criticized for the scene in which the female character Yaoqin is repeatedly tortured and humiliated, with the camera framing it through the male gaze. Meanwhile, objectification refers to using a woman’s suffering as a tool to enhance the male characters. In fantasy drama Lost You Forever, the heroine Xiaoyao is killed cruelly in a plum forest—not to illuminate her own struggle, but to allow the three male leads to show their sorrow, devotion, and redemption.

And while not every depiction of female suffering qualifies as female abuse, the line between necessary portrayal and excessive sensationalism remains up for debate. Nevertheless, the reflection itself is progress.

From “foundation general” to “tool character,” from “industrial saccharin” to the “orthodox-concubine cult,” viewers continue to invent one internet phrase after another to voice their dissatisfaction and hopes for the C-drama realm. While these terms may fade, the problems they point to deserve the creators’ reflection. After all, audiences only bother to roast them because they care.