Niu Lai:From Zero to Hero: The Unlikely Tale of China’s ‘Worst’ Film

In a summer dominated by big-budget spectacles, the most talked-about film in China right now is one that almost nobody planned to see. Niu Lai (literally “Bull Comes”) – a crudely animated feature made by a mother-and-son team over five years – has become the country’s most unlikely box-office phenomenon.

Its production company, Dalian Jingyuan Culture Film and Television Media Co., was until July 2021 a decoration engineering firm. The company, registered with a mere 100,000 yuan (US$14,000) in capital and just a single employee, pivoted to film production in 2021. Its legal representative is the film’s director, Xin Yumeng. Alongside his mother, Sun Lifang – a retired 60-year-old who taught herself screenwriting, voiced characters, and even wrote and performed the end-credit song – they formed the entire creative team.

Released on 5 August with zero promotion, Niu Lai opened to a disastrous 342 yuan (about US$48) on its first day. Over its first nine days, it scraped together just 7,169 yuan (US$1,000) from 236 viewers – making it the lowest-grossing animated film of 2026. Nationwide screenings dwindled to single digits.

Then something extraordinary happened. Audiences who had endured its “disaster-level” graphics – janky 3D modelling, frequent visual glitches, nonsensical plotting, and a stark contrast between its exquisite ink-wash poster and the rough reality – took to social media to mock it. That ridicule went viral. Curiosity exploded. By 15 August, daily box office had rocketed to 717,000 yuan; by 16 August, it exceeded 4 million yuan in a single day. As of 17 August, cumulative box office surpassed 11.17 million yuan (US$1.53 million) , with projections reaching 89.2 million yuan (US$12.2 million). Screenings surged from as few as 5 to over 14,000. It has entered the top 10 of 2026’s domestic animated films by box office.

The audience reaction to the end credits has become one of the film’s most talked-about moments. As the final scene fades, the credits roll with just two names: Xin Yumeng and Sun Lifang. In theaters across China, this stark, almost absurd contrast to the hundreds of names in a conventional film has caused audiences to burst into laughter and spontaneous applause.

Sun Lifang is credited with composing the lyrics and music for the end-credit track, titled “雨後清風有香” (Fragrant Breeze After the Rain), and performing it herself. In an age where AI can generate content in seconds, the fact that a 60-year-old mother learned animation from scratch to support her son’s dream and ultimately sang the film’s closing song has become a powerful and emotional symbol of the film’s handmade, human spirit.

The film has split opinion like few others. Some praise it as a “grassroots masterpiece” – a testament to ordinary people chasing dreams. Others call it an embarrassment: one cinema chain manager confessed feeling torn between “morality and laughter” over whether to screen it. In the director’s home city of Dalian, cinemas quietly pulled the film, reportedly fearing it would damage the city’s image.

It inevitably makes me draw a parallel in pop art history. The double standard when it is done by an artist: Andy Warhol.

The Niu Lai phenomenon finds a fascinating echo in the cultural shockwaves once generated by Warhol’s Blue Movie (or Fxxk 1969). Warhol shot the film in a single session, asking Viva and Louis Waldon to have sex while the camera simply rolled. It provoked outrage, police raids, and obscenity trials – yet it recouped its US$3,000 budget in its first week.

Warhol’s other films provoked similar reactions. His 1964 film Empire – an eight-hour static shot of the Empire State Building – caused a “near riot” at its premiere, with audiences demanding refunds. Critics lambasted his non-narrative works like Eat, Sleep and Kiss; one even compared watching them to “watching paint dry”. Even his more accessible 1966 film The Chelsea Girls provoked a polarised response – mirroring the critical disdain that ultimately fuelled Niu Lai’s rise.

The Niu Lai saga echoes this pattern: a work dismissed as worthless becomes a phenomenon, not despite its perceived failures, but because of them. Warhol once said that watching his films – whether audiences reacted with anger, boredom or laughter – was itself the point. The same could be said of Niu Lai. In both cases, the public’s reaction became the artwork. Whether Niu Lai will follow that trajectory remains to be seen, but its journey has already proven one of pop culture’s oldest rules: there is no such thing as bad publicity.

For overseas readers, a baffling question remains: how did such a technically deficient film get a theatrical release? The answer lies in China’s film censorship system. It is a binary, administrative process focused on content compliance and technical viability – not artistic quality. The “Dragon Label” (Film Public Release Permit) requires passing content review (no political “red lines”) and technical review (no corrupted frames, severe audio-visual desynchronisation, or playback errors). It does not judge storytelling or production values. Niu Lai completed its script filing in 2021, passed both reviews in 2024, and obtained permit number Dian Shen Dong Zi [2024] No. 33. As one insider put it, the review “does not judge whether the production is good or not”. The發行方 even tried to persuade the director not to release it, but he insisted: “We finally made it, so let’s help him get it into cinemas”.

All evidence suggests the rebound was genuinely organic. The director spent five years in near-seclusion with his mother, with no external investment, no team, and virtually no budget. This was a passion project that accidentally became a cultural event.

With production costs estimated between a few thousand and 160,000 yuan, the potential return on investment could reach hundreds or even thousands of times. More than 100 films released in China this year have grossed less. In a nation of 1.4 billion people, even a tiny fraction supporting an ultra-low-budget film can generate life-changing profits.

Niu Lai may be a terrible film – but its journey from construction firm to box-office sensation is a phenomenon only China’s vast, meme-hungry market could produce.

Elven Ho