On February 8, 2026, Cui Jingge 崔菁格, a non–top-tier actress who once appeared in the television drama Twenty Your Life On 《二十不惑》, unexpectedly rose to the number one trending topic after announcing her withdrawal from the entertainment industry. In a follow-up video, she disclosed that she had been paid a total of 40,000 yuan for eight days of filming on the show, about 5,000 yuan per day. After deductions for agency commissions, team expenses, and taxes, her actual take-home pay was less than 15,000 yuan. She urged the public not to view today’s entertainment industry through a “filter from ten years ago”, a remark that quickly ignited widespread debate about the current state of the industry.
Cui explained that her pay for the role of “Liliya”, a minor supporting character filmed in 2020, was shared among her entire team. With management commissions that can range from 40 to 70%, along with various service fees and personal income tax, the final income was a far cry from the public’s long-standing image of actors earning exorbitant salaries. She also pointed out that after completing such a short-term role, an actor may face a year or more without work, making income highly unstable. Her comments directly challenged the stereotype that anyone who appears on screen lives a life of financial abundance.
It seems that resources and opportunities are overwhelmingly concentrated among top-tier stars, while the vast majority of actors struggle to survive. Industry insiders estimate that more than 80% of actors earn less than 100,000 yuan annually, a stark contrast to leading celebrities who can command millions per episode. This “inverted pyramid” income structure has become increasingly pronounced amid an industry downturn.
Some netizens argued that Cui benefited in the past from audience goodwill tied to her role, often described as an “older sister filter”, and accused her of trading on that lingering affection to gain attention after leaving the industry. Others countered that such criticism misses the point, noting that her statement helped expose information asymmetry and forced a conversation about the real conditions faced by ordinary actors in entertainment.
There was also the paradox of visibility itself. Cui’s rise to the top of the trending list only after announcing her exit highlighted what many see as a distorted ecosystem, where steady professional work rarely attracts attention, but extreme gestures do. Critics of the “any publicity is good publicity” mindset argued that this phenomenon underscores how blocked traditional career paths have become, pushing actors toward drastic actions just to be seen.
Some even drew parallels to the heavy use of visual filters in film and television, particularly the tendency to digitally soften aging actors to fit youthful ideals. They argued that an overreliance on such techniques mirrors the industry’s refusal to confront reality, whether in aesthetics or in labor conditions, and called for greater acceptance of natural aging and authenticity.
While revealing income realities can dismantle outdated myths, it may also weaken the sense of distance and idealization that traditionally underpins audience immersion in fictional roles. The challenge facing the industry, as some analysts observed, lies in balancing transparency with the preservation of professional dignity and narrative credibility.
