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In the vast river of Chinese-language comics, there is one creator whose every stroke lands exactly where it should—and whose every word hits the mark. He needs no buildup, no explanation: a single image and a single line suffice to elicit that knowing smile. He is Xiao Yanzhong (蕭言中)—one of Taiwan’s Four Talented Masters of comics, a singular genius who conquered his era with standalone panels and deconstructed reality through humor.

Unlike four-panel strips, the standalone cartoon can’t rely on sequential storytelling or character arcs. It demands the most potent impact in the briefest space—and Xiao Yanzhong is the undisputed master of this art form. Dubbed “the first name in single-panel comics,” this praise is far from empty: it honors decades of his wit, distilled through brush and wisdom.

Since debuting in 1984, Xiao has steadfastly conveyed his keenest observations in the simplest terms. Series like Fairy-Tale Short-Circuits (童話短路), Bizarre Animal Tales (動物畸談), and Blundering Thieves Galore (笨賊一籮筐) may seem absurd, but they are firmly rooted in social reality. Though occasionally nonsensical, each strip’s final beat always lands with emotional resonance. His drawing style is spare and agile—not fussed over, yet unfailingly sharp in hitting both the reader’s funny bone and nerve. As a keen observer prowling city streets and human interactions, he plucks inspiration from life’s absurdities and contradictions, then exposes them with surgical precision in both text and composition.

Xiao’s humor is not an escape from reality but a weapon against it. He doesn’t just draw jokes; he inverts society’s logic so that, within his absurd scenarios, we glimpse the ridiculousness of real life. From subverted fairy tales to anthropomorphic creatures, from bumbling thieves to political allegory, his cartoons dismantle authority and flip perspectives—leaving laughter that echoes into thoughtful reflection. Each panel is a witty dialogue; each page, a dialectic of daily life.

But Xiao Yanzhong’s talent extends well beyond comics. He has written and even performed in stage plays, collaborating with Mask Theater Troupe to bring his comedic timing and theatrical flair to the stage. He’s hosted television shows, worked on commercials, and designed for brands—showing a nimble ability to move between art and pop culture. In every medium, his creations wear a layer of humor while bearing the weight of genuine truth.

He was the third Taiwanese cartoonist—after Tsai Chih-Chung and Zhu Deyong—to publish in Beijing, a distinction that speaks not just to honor but to the boundary-crossing power of his work. The language he speaks is humor; the language common to all humanity. He helped single-panel comics in Chinese find a firm foothold on the international stage and demonstrated how much force can reside in one image, how precise a single line can be.

Though Xiao has passed on, his spirit and creations continue circulating among readers. His cartoons are clipped, collected, and reshared, and many of his gags have achieved classic status—ready to caption any modern scenario. His keen edge and wit still shine through those solitary panels. No matter how much time passes, humor always needs a sharp boundary—and Xiao Yanzhong set that standard.

He proved that even “one panel” can linger long in the mind. His single-panel cartoons are social critiques without a word wasted—a light yet cutting cultural stance. He never relied on serialized epics or trending topics, yet with one image and one line, he left an indelible mark on his readers’ hearts.

In the landscape of Chinese-language comics, there is one creator who uses the simplest lines to portray the most complex social tableau. His work features no fantastical flight through the skies, no swordplay or epic battles—yet it makes us laugh at first glance, then fall silent, and in that silence feel the sting of its insight. He is Zhu Deyong (朱德庸), an observer who reflects the myriad facets of urban life in four-panel comics, and one of Taiwan’s “Four Talented Masters” of the 1980s and ’90s.

Zhu’s comics serve simultaneously as a mirror and a wall. The mirror reveals the anxieties and struggles of city dwellers; the wall lays bare uncomfortable truths for all to see. Drawing on a keen Asperger’s-like observational acuity, he captures the absurdities and tensions in everyday interactions. He doesn’t deliver grand moral lessons—just a few spare strokes and a line or two of dialogue, yet in the empty spaces of his panels we see ourselves reflected. The awkwardness, alienation, repression, and forced posturing between people become familiar faces in his cartoons.

Zhu Deyong is the helmsman of urban realism. He doesn’t depict the martial underworld—he draws the metropolis; he doesn’t preach loyalty—he chronicles daily life. His focus isn’t on society’s big issues, but on the desk at which you work, the bed in your marriage, the silence in an elevator, and the indifference of passersby in traffic. His breakout series, Double Barrel (雙響砲), zeroes in on the tensions between husband and wife, deconstructing familial anxiety through the dynamics of one man and one woman. Later, Sensual Girl (澀女郎) boldly portrays four women of distinct personalities, exploring the modern urban female experience through lenses of gender, desire, and contemporary values. These works became cultural touchstones, later adapted into television dramas and films, demonstrating his precise understanding of metropolitan psyches.

Beyond comics, Zhu has also dipped into public-image design. In 1993 he created the sibling duo “Xu Zeling/Xu Zelin” to promote anti-smoking, and later introduced “Mr. Copyright” to advocate for intellectual property awareness. By bringing his cartoonist’s sensibility to social causes, he added warmth and wit to public education campaigns, showing that an artist can shoulder civic responsibilities.

Although in recent years he has gradually retreated from the spotlight—making few public appearances or new releases—his early works continue to circulate online, frequently re­purposed as memes or social-media jokes. His characters are nameless, yet they stand in for millions of us: anxious, impatient, prone to misunderstanding, living silently—but still straining to find a voice in life’s small cracks. That is the resonance Zhu Deyong keeps alive for our society through his comics.

His drawn figures, with their exaggerated mouths and wide, bewildered eyes, sometimes frantic, sometimes numb, embody the “cry of laughter” that makes readers both laugh and wince. Their exaggeration is our daily life; their absurdity a portrait of ourselves. When comics become a form of social critique, Zhu is the unruffled comic whose sharpest blade is hidden in humor—so that when you laugh out loud, you also can’t help but ask, “Is this really all life can be?”

In an era when Chinese-language comics increasingly lean toward entertainment and fantasy, Zhu Deyong’s urban realism feels like swimming upstream. He doesn’t rely on dazzling color or adrenaline-charged layouts to please readers; instead, he sketches society’s complexity in stark black and white. He is both observer and recorder. What he gives us is not just a joke, but a mirror reflecting our shared humanity.

In the history of contemporary Chinese comics, if one were to seek an artist who wields his pen like a sword and uses ink like a meditation, Tsai Chih-Chung (蔡志忠) is a name you simply cannot overlook. He is the philosopher of the comic world, the sage who wittily bridges past and present, and the cultural wayfarer who uses comics as a vessel to carry ideas across the currents of time.

As one of Taiwan’s “Four Talented Masters” of comics, Tsai’s work goes far beyond mere entertainment. What he pursues is a transmission of spirit that transcends everyday storytelling. Unlike most cartoonists, who focus on character development or plot twists, Tsai employs the comic form to speak directly to the heart, imbuing each panel with philosophical inquiry and the light of wisdom. Since the publication of Zhuangzi Speaks (莊子說), he has transformed the dense teachings of China’s great philosophers into visual language, breaking down classical texts into clear, humorous chapters that welcome both students and the general public to approach the thoughts of ancient sages with ease.

He is not, in the traditional sense, a storyteller, yet he uses comics to convey ancient philosophy; he is not a Buddhist monk, yet he delves deeply into Zen, treating Buddhist thought as a vital pillar of life practice. His drawn figures are never overwrought; instead, they carry a profound sense of Zen and wisdom. Their eyes are clear, their gestures minimal, and each seemingly casual stroke is deliberate, laden with meaning. He not only illustrates Zhuangzi’s free-spirited wanderings and Laozi’s principle of non-action but also captures the emptiness of Zen, allowing readers to experience sudden insight in a smile and deep reflection in a single glance.

Before his rise to fame, Tsai Chih-Chung also had a hand in the early days of Taiwan’s animation industry. He worked on the animated adaptation of Old Master Q (老夫子), honing his sense of storyboarding, pacing, and frame rhythm, which sharpened his instinct for visual narrative. Yet, unlike the prevailing comic styles of the time, he ultimately chose depth over spectacle, entering the quiet paths of history and the forested trails of philosophy.

Perhaps most moving of all is that this humor-renowned cartoonist made the most unexpected decision in his later years: in 2020, he traveled to Shaolin Monastery on Mount Song to ordain as a Buddhist monk. For many readers, this news felt like a farewell to an era. He relinquished his secular name—perhaps signaling his willingness to walk the final mile where thought and faith merge as a Zen practitioner. Some see this as the end of his creative journey; perhaps, though, it is simply the beginning of another form of expression. After all, Buddhist doctrine transcends words, and Tsai’s lines and blank spaces have long served as footnotes to the Heart Sutra.

Tsai’s insistence that “images themselves are ideas” has allowed him to cross linguistic borders. His works have been translated into English, Japanese, Korean, French, German, and more—resonating not only within the Chinese-speaking world but also earning academic and cultural recognition internationally. This philosophical illustrator from Taiwan has shown the world that comics can be more than mere entertainment; they can serve as a medium for thought and a gentle revolution of the spirit.

Last year, I stepped into the theater and emerged from the animated feature The Wild Robot deeply stirred. It wasn’t just the best animation I saw all year—it felt like a quiet yet profound baptism, prompting me to rethink topics like “humanity,” “belonging,” and the “boundary between technology and nature”—issues we’ve heard a million times but have never felt so close to our hearts.

Months before, I had joined a book club discussion of the original novel. Even then, I was struck by its rich themes and emotional depth. Now, witnessing the on-screen adaptation, I can’t help but marvel: DreamWorks is truly back.

We all know that DreamWorks Animation long carried the reputation of being a Pixar imitator. In its early days, with satire and parody like in Shrek, the studio seemed fixated on deconstructing the Disney mythos. But starting with How to Train Your Dragon, DreamWorks began to shed that image, moving toward more honest, introspective emotional storytelling. The Wild Robot stands as the crowning achievement of that metamorphosis.

Much of the credit goes to director Chris Sanders. From Lilo & Stitch to How to Train Your Dragon, he has consistently explored “connections across difference.” Here, he once again proves his mastery at forging genuine bonds between non-human characters. Sanders makes us believe that robots and animals, children and monsters, beasts and humans are not inherently opposed, but can discover a sincere kinship that society often refuses to acknowledge.

At the story’s core are three characters: Roz, a robot cast ashore onto a deserted island by a shipwreck; a sly, self-interested fox who gradually softens; and a fragile, outcast baby bird yearning for community. Together, they form something like a makeshift family. They share no blood ties and belong to entirely different forms of life, yet through companionship, adjustment, and sacrifice, they heal one another and grow together.

Roz begins as a passive, by-the-book automaton. Bit by bit, she learns to judge, to express emotion, even to defy her programming. The fox, once a lone survivor concerned only with itself, learns trust and protection. And the little bird, raised in the shadows of rejection, finally takes flight—an emotional apex for the audience.

Equally remarkable is the film’s unvarnished depiction of the natural ecosystem. Sanders presents a world of survival of the fittest, where animals exclude outsiders and a robot’s foreignness initially breeds tension. It is this very friction that renders the eventual friendship between machine and wildlife so precious.

There is no grand world-saving heroics here, nor a black-and-white morality tale. Instead, the film asks a deceptively simple yet deeply philosophical question: “What makes a robot into a ‘living being’?” That question belongs not only to Roz, but to all of us who have ever felt out of place in the modern world.

I urge viewers to experience this movie in theaters. Its deliberate pace and rich emotional palette do not rely on explosions or slapstick laughs, but on delicate performances and natural soundscapes that gently usher character growth and environmental shifts. The interplay of visuals, light, and sound makes you feel as if you’re in the forest with Roz—learning to listen, to wait, to understand, and to be understood.

Let us also celebrate that Taiwanese talent contributed to this global release, adding a point of pride for us local viewers. That connection makes the film all the more personal, and I hope Taiwan’s own creators will one day produce works of equal weight.

In short, The Wild Robot is not only DreamWorks’ new high-water mark, but also a refreshing stream in an age of information overload, ethical ambiguity, and emotional distance. In this symphony of technology and nature, we witness not just an animation, but a lesson in how humans and all other beings can learn to reconnect—whether you’re flesh and blood, metal and circuits, or a little fox long misunderstood by the world.

Zootopia became an instant hit not merely because it brought anthropomorphic animals to life with vivid realism, but because it cleverly wrapped complex, real-world issues—prejudice, class, systemic discrimination—inside a humorous, adorable fairy-tale shell. Now, with the sequel on the horizon, audience expectations—and anxieties—are rising in tandem. We all want to know: how will the story of this city continue?

Originally, the concept was even darker—a shock-collar to curb predators’ instincts, essentially a dystopian allegory. Yet, after gauging test-audience reactions, Disney opted for a subtler but still incisive approach, allowing us to see the roots of group-based fear amid a rabbit-fox chase and prompting us to ask ourselves, “Am I the kind of person who jumps to conclusions?”

Now, in the new trailer, a wanted snake appears. This is no small matter. Reptiles have long been cast as outliers and “villain archetypes” in nature. If this snake is ultimately portrayed as the cunning, treacherous villain once more, Zootopia’s own worldview will contradict itself—offending reptile enthusiasts in reality and undermining the very allegory we’ve pinned our hopes on. But if the snake emerges as a “misunderstood sage” or a victim of social injustice, it could deliver a sharp critique of how “second-class citizens” are excluded by the system.

In truth, Zootopia has never been a “villain-gets-what-they-deserve” fairy tale; it’s always asked, “Who gets to define evil?” In this framework, if the snake’s character can challenge us—“Why are we always branding us as evil, dangerous?”—then the sequel will stay true to the allegorical path. Moreover, such a storyline would inspire viewers to reflect on whether we, out of ignorance or fear, have ever passed unfair judgments on others.

But the issue isn’t confined to the snake. Entire groups have yet to appear—birds and reptiles are only now preparing to step into Zootopia. That’s not just a visual expansion; it’s a test of the city’s social fabric. Will birds, who can fly, enjoy “aerial privileges” when it comes to urban space allocation? Will snakes and lizards be forced to live underground, in dark, damp corners, and be barred from participating in mainstream city life?

These design choices are more than spectacles; they mirror our societal realities. Marginalized groups—whether due to skin color, language, religion, or sexual orientation—are often forced to live within invisible boundaries. They may be portrayed as symbols in mainstream media, yet they’re rarely truly heard.

Going further, this world quietly allows certain groups to have no voice at all. Fish and insects, we saw in the first film, lack language and rights; they exist merely as prey for predators. This presents an ethical landmine. When fish can’t speak, no one petitions on their behalf. Similarly, in our society, certain laborers, immigrants, and those not classified as “true citizens” remain at the bottom of resource distribution, silently bearing the burden.

If the sequel dares to tackle this theme—even if it merely cracks the door open—it will transcend mere continuation and become a true masterpiece of allegory.

Such expansion could encompass an even broader scope—oceanic creatures, for instance. Dolphins, whales, and other aquatic mammals appear in the film’s background art, yet have never played a leading role. Do they have the right to city residency, or are they forever relegated to tattoos and decorative motifs on the cultural periphery? If one day they do take center stage, will they appear as entertainers, intellectual elites, or marginalized activists? The answer will reveal whether Zootopia’s universe truly upholds inclusivity.

Then how should we view our protagonists, Judy and Nick, amid this expansion? In the first film, they were pioneers challenging prejudice. Now, when faced with unfamiliar birds, amphibians, and reptiles, might they repeat old biases? Could they inadvertently become enforcers of the status quo rather than agents of reform? Perhaps this is the sequel’s challenge for them—to grow from challengers into attentive listeners and allies, rather than one-dimensional saviors.

If Zootopia 2 can achieve this, it will be more than entertainment; it will be a cross-generational social parable. We will be reminded again: what does true diversity and inclusion look like? What is structural oppression cloaked in benevolence? And are we prepared to set aside our habitual categories to listen to the voices that have never been named or seen?

In the memories of childhood, the Smurfs are a vibrant, rhythm-filled fantasy world. A community of little blue folk—in white caps and trousers—live joyously in mushroom houses deep in the forest. Every day they sing and dance, each striving to play the role they feel suits them best. Yet behind their carefree lives lies a tale rooted in the golden age of European comics—a cultural marvel born in Belgium.

From a Slip of “Schtroumpf” to Stardom

The birth of The Smurfs was a delightful accident. Peyo (real name Pierre Culliford), a Brussels animator, first introduced a group of blue elves as minor characters in his 1958 comic Johan and Peewit. Unexpectedly, readers fell in love with them, and the little creatures quickly vaulted into leading roles—thus launching one of European comics’ most legendary sagas.

Their name “Schtroumpf” sprang from a dinner conversation in which Peyo, momentarily forgetful, substituted “salt” with “Schtroumpf.” Amused, he christened his forest dwellers with the whimsical term. Their blue skin, Peyo’s wife decided, simply looked best against the forest’s green—a purely aesthetic choice that proved fateful.

A Utopian Blue Village

The Smurf village is a fairy-tale utopia: every member has a unique personality and role—Brainy Smurf, Lazy Smurf, Jokey Smurf, Smurfette, Greedy Smurf, Hefty Smurf, and so on. Despite their differences, they live in harmony—no money, no private property—guided by Papa Smurf’s wise leadership.

But, as in all fairy tales, their bliss faces threats. The evil wizard Gargamel and his cat, Azrael, constantly scheme to capture the Smurfs—sometimes for gold, sometimes simply to eat them. Each adventure chronicles the Smurfs’ struggle against these forces: with gentleness, cunning, and solidarity, they always overcome greed, malice, and ignorance.

From Belgium to the World Stage

The first black-and-white animation arrived in 1965 but made little impact beyond comic fans. It wasn’t until 1981, when Hanna-Barbera adapted the Smurfs for American television, that the blue village truly conquered the globe. Their new series, airing on NBC for ten seasons and drawing over 42% of the audience, became a smash hit in the United States—and quickly spread through Asia, South America, and even Africa.

Subsequent live-action/CGI films met with mixed reviews but underscored the Smurfs’ commercial appeal. Each year’s “Smurf Day” sees thousands of fans paint themselves blue and don white caps in European city celebrations—proof that these characters have transcended pages to become emblems of collective childhood.

Reality Reflections and Over-Interpretations

With fame came critique and over-analysis. Some scholars see a hidden communist structure—collectivism, moneyless economy, a single red-capped leader (Papa Smurf)—even likening Brainy Smurf to Trotsky. Others point out that early “Black Smurf” stories carry undertones of racial stereotyping.

Yet setting aside these theoretical projections, the Smurfs fundamentally embody innocence and communal spirit. Their laughter, fears, squabbles, blunders, and growth mirror our own journeys. Those little grumbles, mischievous troublemakers, sturdy strongmen, and vain mirror-toting Smurfs—we all carry them within our hearts.

Cherish the Blue, Protect Childhood

We may have grown up, left mushroom homes, stopped battling Gargamel, and ceased raiding Papa Smurf’s potions. Yet amid modern chaos, that free, carefree blue realm endures in our memories.

Taoism speaks of “returning to the uncarved block,” and The Smurfs may well symbolize the rare “governance through non-action” in today’s world. Let go of greed and ambition, return to your true self, appreciate beauty, honor nature, and cherish life—these are the messages the little blue folk silently impart.

Have you ever, on some quiet afternoon, flipped open a comic book and spotted a little dog perched atop a red doghouse, deep in thought, his eyes like black beans harboring millions of dreams? That’s Snoopy—a dog who isn’t quite like other dogs, a philosopher who daydreams, dons costumes, writes novels, and escapes reality. He never speaks, yet he expresses every bittersweet flavor of life; he’s forever the WWI flying ace on his doghouse roof, yet he stands at the threshold of our childhoods, ready to carry us off on journeys of imagination.

A Cartoonist and His Dog

Snoopy’s creator was Charles M. Schulz, an outwardly reserved yet slyly humorous cartoonist from Minnesota. With simple lines and plainspoken words, he spoke to the deepest human emotions. Peanuts debuted in 1950 as a successor to Schulz’s Li’l Folks, only to be christened “Peanuts” by marketing folks—a name Schulz himself never much liked. Yet it went on to become one of the longest-running and most influential comic strips in history.

Peanuts is no mere children’s fare. It surveys the adult world through a child’s eyes, and envelops reality’s absurdities and tenderness in the dreamscape of a dog. In its panels we see the confusion of growing up, the ubiquity of failure, the fragility of love, the stark truth of loneliness—and yet, beneath it all, a stubborn glimmer of hope.

Snoopy’s Multiverse

Snoopy’s universe is a realm of freedom and escape. He isn’t Hachikō, nor a mascot-style anthropomorphized pooch. He feels more like the dreamer within each of us: the child who shrinks from reality but transforms into the “World War I flying ace.” He is Joe Cool, the mysterious detective, the boy who refuses to grow up and becomes a novelist whose rejection letters never get mailed—but whose spirit remains undefeated.

His friends are more than adorable characters: Charlie Brown embodies our self-doubts; Linus represents the dialogue between wisdom and vulnerability; Lucy is the sharp, unvarnished facet of human nature; Schroeder seeks order in his music; Sally personifies our small rebellions against life’s monotony; and Woodstock—the tiny, chattering bird—reminds us that even the smallest among us can possess friendship and courage.

Their stories mirror life itself, making us laugh one moment and choke up the next. Charlie Brown never quite kicks that football Lucy holds, yet he never gives up hope—a belief that now seems almost extinct in today’s world.

A Purity Unmatched by Time

What moves us in Peanuts is its honesty. Schulz never piled on sensational twists or manufactured drama. He relied on quiet observations and everyday moments to touch the heart’s deepest chords. In his world, happiness isn’t a mansion, a six-figure salary, or a whirlwind romance; it’s like “a warm puppy” tumbling onto your lap—silent but wholly understanding.

Does such work still exist today? In an era of big plot twists, heavy conflict, and overt branding, Schulz’s subtle touch feels all the more precious. In a time of instant consumption, how long has it been since we sat still to read a comic without a grand finale yet brimming with life’s truths?

What Remains Is Our Hearts

In 2000, Schulz passed on—and in his own hand wrote the strip’s farewell. He refused any ghostwriter to continue Peanuts, giving it a definitive ending and cementing its status as an irreplaceable classic.

Today, Snoopy lives on through merchandise, themed cafés, amusement-park attractions, 3D animation, and simulation games. But the pure warmth endures only within those comic‐strip panels, where he neither ages nor changes. There he forever waits, ready for the Red Baron’s attack, for another rejection letter, for Charlie Brown to come home.

Snoopy teaches us how to face setbacks, embrace solitude, and believe in imagination. Above all, he shows us that even a dog can dream—and that even an ordinary Charlie Brown deserves to be loved.

Epilogue: Let Us Keep Dreaming

Life may not be as simple as a comic, but we can still be like Snoopy. In every difficult moment, turn to the world and declare, “I’m going to be a World War I flying ace today,” then soar again on the wings of imagination.

If there’s any cat in the world who embodies laziness, a razor-sharp tongue, insatiable appetite, and unapologetic self-absorption—and yet remains utterly irresistible—it must be Garfield.

Since his debut on June 19, 1978, this broad-shouldered, world-weary orange feline has appeared in countless newspapers, cartoons, films, merchandise, and the tapestry of our daily memories. He can’t be bothered to move or to care about you. He loathes Mondays more than anything and worships lasagna above all else. He is a connoisseur of unfiltered emotion, a detached aesthete of human absurdities, and a “surreal cat” onto whom we project our own desires and ennui.

He is not the hero of some storybook, but the part of ourselves that doesn’t want to work, doesn’t want to wake early, and only craves good food and a long nap.

A Farm Boy and His Cat

Garfield’s creator is Jim Davis, a cartoonist born amid the animals of rural Indiana. After years advancing from anonymous assistant to syndicated cartoonist, Davis’s first starring character was an insect—only, as publishers ruefully admitted, “nobody wants to read about bugs.” So Davis turned to cats and gave us Garfield: a cat who isn’t catlike, a cat who feels more human than most humans.

He isn’t anthropomorphized, yet he is more human than humans. He ignores his owner’s commands, observes human vanity and failure with cool detachment, and loves nothing more than lasagna—an honesty of love that is as sweet as it is simple.

Characters as Mirrors of Life

In Garfield’s world there are three principal figures: Garfield himself, Jon Arbuckle, and Odie. Their dynamic perfectly mirrors our modern family’s tensions between repression and freedom, reason and instinct, docility and rebellion.

Garfield is the observer who understands everything yet never spells it out. In his world, humility and compromise don’t exist—only “This is who I am.” His unabashed laziness and arrogance feel more genuine than many manufactured displays of humility.

Odie is the naïve, loyal foil—like a child who never quite grows up. He endures Garfield’s pranks and taunts, yet his tail wags on, embodying that part of us eager to please and fit in.

Jon Arbuckle stands in for the average person: earnest, often failing, constantly hopeful. Despite romantic mishaps and career flops, he still believes tomorrow might be better.

And then there are the supporting cast—Arlene, Nermal, Pooky, the mailman, Dr. Liz Wilson—each adding facets of relationships, competition, conflict, care, and redemption. Their presence gives direction to Garfield’s barbs and roots the humor in human nature.

Not a Pet Show but a Farce of Everyday Life

What truly draws us to Garfield isn’t plot twists or epic climaxes, but his cold-eyed commentary on life’s frustrations and our shared capacity for self-mockery. He tells us there’s no need to pretend you love Mondays, enjoy working out, or relish helping others. Maybe you just want to lounge on the couch, ignore your phone, eat until you’re full, and then move as little as possible.

Garfield stands for the “I’m done pretending” ethos.

Because of his profound hatred of Mondays, his willful ignorance of mice, his endless pranks on Nermal, and his unrelenting devotion to lasagna, we find ourselves smiling in the midst of our busy lives. We realize we aren’t alone in wanting to be that carefree, indifferent cat.

From Comics to Screens: The Rise and Lulls of the Garfield Empire

Garfield’s leap to animation began with the 1982 special Here Comes Garfield, and in the ’90s he starred in the beloved series Garfield and Friends. In that era, his humor carried a kernel of life wisdom—whether mourning Christmas, mining farmyard gags, or exploring the artistic tension in Garfield: His 9 Lives shorts, audiences were charmed.

Unfortunately, as 3D animation and market tastes shifted, Garfield endured a slump. The live-action films—though earnest—watered down his edge by turning Odie into a real dog and pandering to family-friendly tropes. Computer-animated sequels drew criticism for feeling hollow and kid-centric—“Garfield in name only,” lamented long-time fans.

The 2024 release The Garfield, rendered in 3D, attempted to recapture the classic expressions and spirit—and many fans flocked to see it. Yet reviews were mixed; some praised its nostalgia, while others decried its reliance on old jokes and lack of fresh storytelling.

More Than Cat Comedy—A Catharsis for the Human Heart

Why do we love Garfield so much? Perhaps because he says out loud everything we only dare whisper—and does so with swagger. He embodies our rebellion against daily pressures, the courage of “I don’t care what you think.” He turns humor into a quiet critique, using laughter to illuminate life’s absurdities.

He stands alongside Snoopy as a pinnacle of life’s aesthetics: Snoopy represents romance and imagination; Garfield represents reality and biting wit. One is pure light, one pure shadow; each reflects a different outlook on life.

Epilogue: Sovereign of the Self—The Allure of Unapologetic Freedom

As one of the most beloved newspaper comic strips ever, Garfield has never cared what you think. He doesn’t need to be a hero or save the world. He just wants to eat, sleep, mock the world—and live more joyfully than any of us.

In an age obsessed with “positive vibes” and “peak performance,” Garfield is a countercurrent: he teaches us how to slack off, how to shirk responsibility, how to live our truths with a grin. His “me, myself, and I” isn’t arrogance—it’s a fearless serenity in the face of the world’s gaze.

What comes to mind when you think of a classic comic? A blood-pumping adventure of youthful heroes, or a tender slice-of-life tale? For me, there’s only one answer—he’s the middle-aged man with the bowl haircut and the yellow robe, sporting an eight-character mustache. His name has echoed through the Chinese-speaking world for over half a century: Old Master Q (老夫子).

From the comic books at our school desks, to the convenience-store shelves, to the animated DVDs, Old Master Q has been more than just a comic strip; it’s a cultural landmark spanning eras. It carries not only laughter and imagination, but also the humor, satire, and reflections of Hong Kong and Chinese society over decades.

Sketching the Contours of an Era

Old Master Q was born in 1960s Hong Kong—a time of social upheaval and economic struggle, when many families lived hand-to-mouth and entertainment was scarce. Comic strips became the common person’s outlet for emotion, and Old Master Q’s exaggerated yet approachable figure perfectly served as both a mockery of absurdity and a balm for the soul.

His creator, Alfonso Wong (王澤), originally from Tianjin, China, transplanted to Hong Kong—and transformed his own life experiences and keen observations of daily life into bold, humorous stories imbued with genuine human warmth. Whether lining up for water, getting a traffic ticket from the police, or bungling a courtship, readers saw themselves reflected in every laugh.

This earthy authenticity propelled Old Master Q to instant fame across the Chinese world, becoming a shared language for generations of readers.

Three Buddies and a Lost Childhood

Within Old Master Q’s comic universe, three inseparable friends always stand in the spotlight: Big Potato (大番薯) and Mr. Chin (秦先生). One fat, one thin; one clumsy, one cunning—their trio formed the most familiar ensemble in the minds of countless readers. They championed the underdog, meddled in others’ affairs, and often fell for foolish traps, yet always managed to end in some surprising twist. This blend of satire and goodwill is Old Master Q’s greatest charm.

These characters didn’t stay confined to paper; they leapt onto the screen in animation and live-action film. From the early “Old Master Cute (七彩卡通老夫子)” to Tsai Chih-chung’s directorial version, to the 2001 movie produced by Tsui Hark starring Nicholas Tse and Cecilia Cheung, each adaptation sought to bring Old Master Q into a new era. Yet regardless of the medium, audiences still longed for the simple, unabashed humor and biting social critique of the original comic panels.

Laughter’s Shadow Side

However, this comic legend is not without controversy. Old Master Q’s origins have been accused of plagiarizing the work of mainland cartoonist Peng Di (朋弟)—the character designs and styles bear an uncanny resemblance. For many longtime fans, this chapter remains an unavoidable question mark.

Viewed in its historical context, though, the truth becomes clearer: Peng Di was silenced by political turmoil in an authoritarian regime, while Alfonso Wong found creative freedom in Hong Kong. Rather than point fingers, perhaps the ideal resolution is a belated reconciliation and joint attribution—

A Mirror of Society and Cultural Value

Old Master Q’s true value lies not only in the laughter it brought, but also in how it mirrored society’s contradictions and transformations. From water shortages to lottery fever, from East-West cultural clashes to the anxieties of Hong Kong’s handover, Old Master Q’s four-panel strips chronicled the city’s journey from colony to reunification.

The comic never shied away from sensitive topics—homosexuality, transvestites, punk culture, religious belief… It mocked outdated trends and yet honored traditional virtues. It was no paragon of political correctness, but it was undeniably the era’s most honest portrait.

Where Is It Now?

Sadly, after 2003, Old Master Q gradually lost its edge. The new strips felt overly conservative or repetitive; the animated adaptations became too juvenile and didactic, stripping away the original’s populist spirit and social critique. This decline reflects not just Old Master Q’s fading star, but a broader malaise in Chinese-language comics.

Markets chasing short-term gains have standardized creativity into formulas; punchlines no longer spring from life, but are manufactured by production teams. Classic characters have been turned into cartoon mascots, yet their lines ring hollow, devoid of deeper meaning.

Still, I keep returning to those yellowing volumes, rereading familiar lines, and rediscovering the wit and wisdom of that bygone era.

Final Thoughts: A Timeless Memory of Chinese Comics

Old Master Q was neither deity nor perfect man. He was the uncle, the neighbor, or the self within us that loves a wry joke. He represented a golden age of comics that favored “powerful humor, simple fun, critical warmth.”

In an age obsessed with instant success, trending topics, and clicks, can we still wait patiently for a comic that, like Old Master Q, will forever lodge itself in our hearts? May future creators remember this history, and may future audiences, in their rapid-fire scrolling, still glimpse the faint smile beneath that bowl hat—simple, honest, a little foolish, but never bowed.

When I think back to my first impressions of Taiwanese film, honestly, they weren’t particularly good—especially during that era dominated by military‐educational pictures and rural comedies. It was precisely the time when I, as a child, first encountered television and VHS tapes.

The decade’s most famous child stars had to be Shi Xiaolong (釋小龍) and Hao Shaowen (郝劭文): one a martial‐arts prodigy, the other an adorably chubby kid. Their countless co-star vehicles became box-office guarantees for Taiwan–Hong Kong co-productions throughout the ’90s. These films sold themselves on “bittersweet laughs” and “kids running the show,” but today many of their scenes and values feel highly questionable.

I still recall one scene where two boys urinate on someone. At the time, I was too naive to understand, but my parents—sitting beside me—turned pale, shut off the tape immediately, and solemnly declared, “You’re never watching this again.” I couldn’t grasp their strong reaction then; looking back now, I have to admit—they were absolutely right.

It wasn’t that the plots were bad or the child actors unskilled. Rather, these movies exploited kids as gimmicks, glorifying pranks and boundary-crossing behavior as “cute” or “funny.” Some sequences even had the children participating in inappropriate dialogue and situations—urinating in public, peeking at underwear, hurling insults, or enacting violence. If such content surfaced today, child‐welfare groups would surely file lawsuits. From one perspective, these films weren’t just commodifying the actors—they posed real harm to their young audiences.

Beyond their creative emptiness, these projects were often entangled with gangster financing, rushed production, and shoddy craftsmanship. Like certain Hong Kong trends of that era, the pursuit of quick profit and shock value—“fast cash,” “blunt thrills,” “relying on child stars or mild nudity”—became the norm. Entertainment served as a fig leaf; genuine storytelling was relegated to second tier. Because of this, I could never cultivate a positive view of early Taiwanese cinema.

Yet over time, things began to change.

The films that truly moved me as “Taiwanese cinema” were Grandma and Her Ghosts (魔法阿媽) and Double Vision (雙瞳). The former used Taiwanese dialect and folk beliefs to explore family bonds and mortality; the latter pushed technical and psychological boundaries through its suspenseful horror. These works opened my eyes to the fact that Taiwan was fully capable of producing films with depth, skill, and emotional resonance.

In recent years, I’ve made a point of supporting domestic releases: Dead Talents Society (鬼才之道), Till We Meet Again (月老), and Marry My Dead Body (關於我和鬼變成家人的那件事). While each varies in narrative and execution, one thing is undeniable: Taiwanese films have finally begun to break free from the reputation of “melodrama, cheap thrills, and nostalgia-peddling.” They’re striving to reclaim audience trust and genuine connection.

Take Marry My Dead Body, for example. It attempts not only to balance commercial appeal with LGBT themes but also to demonstrate Taiwan’s narrative potential in blending humor, folklore, and modern sensibilities—a feat rare in earlier Taiwanese works.

Even so, despite strides in technique and subject matter, the general perception of Taiwanese cinema at home hasn’t fully shifted. On YouTube or international streaming platforms, foreign viewers often lavish praise in the comments, whereas local audiences remain reserved, sometimes even indifferent. This “cold at home, hot abroad” dynamic reflects not just a marketing gap but the deep‐rooted impressions that can’t be overturned overnight.

In truth, we can’t blame younger generations for not supporting Taiwanese film. From childhood they’ve been exposed to polished Korean dramas, mature Japanese animation, and big-budget American blockbusters. Winning their affection with a single local film—or nostalgia alone—is virtually impossible.

Yet I still believe in Taiwan’s cinematic future. As long as filmmakers earnestly respect their audiences, stop exploiting child stars and shock value, and draw on authentic local life—regaining a distinctive narrative voice—those once-derided words “Taiwanese film” may one day become a source of pride again.

In the 2000s, Hong Kong and Taiwanese film were quietly undergoing a “civilizational transformation.” Looking across the Chinese‐language screen landscape of that era, you saw beams of light piercing the familiar shadows of crime thrillers and comedies: the romance and loneliness of Turn Left, Turn Right (向左走·向右走), the terror and critique of Double Vision (雙瞳), the everyday grit and healing balm of My Life as McDull (麥兜故事). Each of these films illuminated audiences’ unnamed yearnings.

Before then, we’d grown accustomed to explosive gunfire and lowbrow gags. Rarely did the screen dare treat loneliness, childhood innocence, or trauma with sincerity. Turn Left, Turn Right—built on Jimmy Liao’s storybook aesthetic—used the temperaments of Gigi Leung and Takeshi Kaneshiro to enact an urban fable, while Schubert’s “Serenade” cleansed the audience’s nerves, every camera move feeling like a heartbeat. Double Vision strode boldly amid religion, detective work, and psychological horror; Anthony Wong and Ge You’s performances ignited a probe into society’s darker side—less a movie than a stare into human obsession. And though wrapped in animation, My Life as McDull never shied from everyday struggles or Hong Kong’s collective wounds. Its low‐budget creativity forged the most earnest resonance.

It was these works that suddenly made us realize: Chinese‐language film could be aesthetic, profound, critical—even unafraid to leave some viewers perplexed. In that moment, we were like the protagonists of Turn Left, Turn Right, hovering between reality and fantasy—yearning to understand, yet afraid to miss something.

Yet after that transformation, the paths of Hong Kong and Taiwan diverged.

Hong Kong filmmakers faced ever‐greater market pressures: Mainland China had become the box‐office battleground, and censorship’s shadow crept in. More co‐productions were made, themes had to be “positively charged,” characters could not be too morally gray, and dialogue required cautious polishing. Directors once famed for their critical edge—Johnnie To, Ann Hui—were forced to balance capital and censorship, gradually retreating behind the camera or fading from view. That once‐edgy “Hong Kong flavor” dulled through cuts and compromises; even McDull’s sequels shaved off the first film’s sharpness, leaving only a tame “cuteness.”

In Taiwan, though the market was small and resources scarce, that very “pennilessness” emboldened creators not to fear censorship or bow to the mainstream. After 2010, government subsidies gradually took root, and Cape No. 7 (海角七號) astonished audiences, hauling Taiwanese film back into the spotlight. More directors began to reach out—using their cameras to tell stories of social issues, gender, historical scars, and personal emotion. In films like Dead Talents Society (鬼才之道), Till We Meet Again (月老), and Marry My Dead Body (關於我和鬼變成家人的那件事), you can sense that flame of “fearless truth‐telling”—not mass‐produced by an industrial assembly line, but unapologetically preserving the author’s soul.

Looking back on that “painful transformation,” we see both regions enduring similar pangs: external pressure on one side, the challenge of self‐reinvention on the other. Taiwanese filmmakers gritted their teeth and held fast to their ideals; their visions may remain cool and restrained, but they never lost the courage to shout. Hong Kong’s lens, meanwhile, grew weary—learning to contract, to compromise, to chase box office and distribution.

If Double Vision’s most chilling moment is Anthony Wong’s distorted expression as he stares at that mysterious symbol, in that second you glimpse the creator’s own doubt and unease—our heartbeat between censorship and self‐censorship. Today, when we revisit these films, it’s not just to commemorate the shock they once delivered, but to remind ourselves: dare to face the shadows, and never lose the passion to pursue freedom’s light. Perhaps the next film that truly “fears neither audience confusion nor government displeasure” won’t be a big‐budget spectacle—but it will burn bright at some niche festival, igniting and illuminating our most fragile yet longing hearts.

Who knows how many people spent their youth accompanied by Hong Kong films. It was an irreplaceable time—Jackie Chan scaling rooftops, Stephen Chow’s absurd ramblings, the wild fantasy brawls of Future Cops (超級學校霸王), and that seemingly simple yet world-weary little pig, McDull (麥兜)… These characters, these images, these lines still sparkle in the light and shadow of my memory.

Hong Kong cinema was once the territory’s most radiant cultural export, and for countless viewers beyond any border, a universal emblem of entertainment. From gangster dramas and ghost stories to martial-arts action and slapstick comedies, Hong Kong films were like a bustling, colorful night market—every flavor you could imagine, every taboo they dared to trample. Those movies weren’t yet shackled by political censorship or the scruples of hyper-moralistic times. Jokes now deemed “lowbrow” or scenes now too scandalous to utter were then household talk and laughter on every street corner.

Take The Untold Story (人肉叉燒包), adapted from a real-life crime, its chilling gore not only cemented Anthony Wong’s career but ignited a wave of human-flesh horror flicks. In an age when filmmakers could still dwell in darkness and confront harsh social realities, cinema was more than entertainment—it was a brutal yet truthful reflection of society.

Ironically and tragically, many of those legendary classics were made amid chaotic underworld financing and gangster coercion. Hong Kong’s film industry then was wild in its disorder, creative even in its violence—much like Taiwan’s cinema of the same era, fraught with contradictions yet bursting with unexpected brilliance.

But sadly, after 1997, everything began to change. The handover didn’t just rewrite national identity—it brought sweeping censorship, financial pressures, and creative restrictions. The glory of Hong Kong’s screen industry slowly crumbled; the stars who once shone brightly either migrated to the Mainland, turned to television, or faded into silence. Whenever you hear news of a “big-budget” Hong Kong production, you can’t help but feel uneasy—wondering if it’s merely an empty tribute, distilled nostalgia, or a hollow bid to please the market.

What truly moves me instead are films like Time Still Turns the Pages (年少日記)—quiet, understated works that probe the human heart without relying on big-name casts or special effects. They face Hong Kong’s wounds with gentle yet incisive language, speaking sorrow with honesty. Such films, to me, carry forward the spirit of “daring to make films, knowing how to make them.”

And amid all the clamors and laments, McDull remains a singular sight.

When I first watched My Life as McDull (麥兜故事), I expected merely a family-friendly animated comedy. What I discovered was an onion of emotion—vignettes of ordinary folks’ lives and childhood disappointments. Imagining a Thanksgiving turkey you can’t afford, circling Maldives on a map because you’ll never go—these small absurdities veil the true realities of Hong Kong’s working class. Compared to grandiose stories about dreams and success, McDull’s honest, earnest humor moves you to tears through laughter.

Later sequels—McDull, Prince de la Bun (麥兜菠蘿油王子); McDull, the Alumni (春田花花同學會); McDull: Me & My Mum (麥兜我和我媽媽)—continued to frame adult frustrations through absurdity and childlike play. Their pastel-crayon world feels light yet weighty with meaning. These rare family-friendly works transcend sleaze, violence, and vulgarity to become genuine popular art.

Yet as the Mainland market expanded and political storms swirled, later McDull films like McDull: Rise of the Rice Cooker (麥兜·飯寶奇兵) began to lose their essence—compromising for censorship and box-office appeal, the authentic “Hong Kong flavor” was diluted. Now, any hope for new McDull adventures feels like a distant dream.

In the end, the public’s impression of Hong Kong cinema remains stuck on zany comedies, violent gangsters, and chilling ghosts. Undeniably a part of history and the foundation of classic status—but these facets cannot obscure the era’s richer dimensions. Truly cross-generational, family-friendly Hong Kong films are few and far between—and McDull is among the precious few.

Looking back on the golden age of Hong Kong cinema, one can’t help but wonder: has that brilliance truly passed? And will Taiwan—once Hong Kong’s equal and itself hit by an industry winter—repeat the same cycle?

In recent years, Taiwanese film has seen fresh investment and resources, seemingly flourishing. But will it secure lasting creative freedom? Will it forge its own era’s classics? Can it avoid the trap of pandering so deeply that it loses its soul? These questions remain to be answered.

Still, I believe genuine classics aren’t measured by box office or ratings alone. They spring from the purest creative impulses—not market trends, political correctness, or platform algorithms, but a society’s wounds, a collective trauma, a heartfelt emotion.

That is what Hong Kong cinema once embodied. May the future of Chinese-language film find its way back to that path of honesty.

In the memory of my growing up, comics have always been the most relaxing and most anticipated splash of color in life. Yet, perhaps surprisingly, the works that impacted me most weren’t the sprawling epics of Japanese manga or American superheroes, but comic strips and gag-a-day cartoons—those little pocket-sized panels delivering wit with a light touch. These comics have neither fierce battles nor dramatic plot twists, yet in the instant you turn the page, they can make you burst into laughter or flash a knowing smile.

I still remember the first time I spotted “Henry” and “Dennis the Menace” tucked in the corner of a newspaper. Those mischievous little boys, with equal parts innocence and cunning, skewered adult conventions in the most playful ways. Their humor didn’t rely on exaggeration or violence to thrill the audience; it sprang from the simplest, most easily overlooked moments of everyday life—moments that, when delicately exaggerated or inverted, touch the softest chords of our sense of humor. These strips won’t force a belly laugh, but they’ll leave you carrying a smile all day long.

Later, I rediscovered “Little Lulu” and “The Smurfs” at the library, and it felt like reuniting with old friends. Lulu’s cleverness and courage, the Smurfs’ unity—and delightful chaos—in their forest home drew me into a warm, uncomplicated world. Their stories lacked intricate world-building or grand narratives; they relied on the simplest character interactions to reveal the earthy sincerity and absurdity of human emotion.

When I revisited “Peanuts” and “Garfield” as an adult, I understood that humor isn’t just about making people laugh—it can also prompt reflection. Charlie Brown’s resolute optimism in the face of repeated failures, Snoopy’s vivid fantasy life, Garfield’s world-weary laziness—each is a mirror of some facet of adult life. What seems absurd on the surface often conceals profound truths: a few spare lines of dialogue or a silent pause can resonate deeply. We’ve all been Charlie Brown, and we’ve all lived like Garfield. That feeling of being truly understood transforms humor from mere entertainment into a form of empathy.

The charm of these Western comics lies in their distilled narrative aesthetics. Within a handful of panels, a line or two of dialogue, a single gesture, even a pregnant pause, is enough to convey a complete story and emotion. It’s the ultimate creative challenge—and the art in which short-form cartoonists excel. Think of Dilbert’s office satire or The Far Side’s absurdist jabs at society and animal behavior: these seemingly frivolous vignettes reveal the world’s truths in their silence.

Yet as time marches on, audiences crave ever more sensational entertainment, and this understated, inward-looking humor seems to be fading. In Taiwan’s market today, Western comics are increasingly invisible, even ignored by younger generations. Perhaps because they lack flashiness, drama, or the “binge-worthy” serial format, they’re often overlooked—and I find this deeply regrettable. I’ve turned instead to works by Chinese-language masters like Old Master Q (老夫子), Zhu Deyong (朱德庸), and Xiao Yanzhong (蕭言中), hoping to rediscover that same concise yet profound comic language.

Those small-scale comics may now show the wear of years, but precisely because they created without pandering to trends, they feel timeless when reread today. In an era of increasingly repetitive, formulaic storytelling, those strips that once made us “smile for three seconds” stand out as precious.

Humor need not shout to be heard; emotion need not span volumes to move. These Western comics, in their smallest frames, told the truest stories; in their gentlest tones, they conveyed the subtlest joys. They are the whispered voices of the comics world—a simple ray of light beneath the clamor. They may have long since departed from the mainstream, but for those of us whom they once inspired and comforted, they have become private classics, treasures unspoken.

When we talk about “sexiness,” most people imagine overt physical allure—sensual poses and provocative words. Yet there’s one character who needs no dialogue, no revealing attire, and has never uttered a single word, and still, with an almost regal confidence and silent wit, becomes the most impossible-to-ignore presence in the world of cartoons. He is the Pink Panther—the poised, comical, and slightly noble pink gentleman.

The Panther’s charm is never ostentatious. He glides into your screen with a gentle shoulder shimmy or an elegant step, making you laugh before you even realize it—and compelling you to watch just a moment longer. His humor needs no explanation, because he never speaks. His stories are told through a series of deceptively simple yet masterfully arranged gestures. This purity of performance elevates him beyond language, culture, and age: from kindergarteners to silver-haired seniors, everyone understands—and laughs.

His sexiness is a silent rhythm—calculated yet effortless. His walk is dancer-light, chest lifted with a gentleman’s poise; with one hand on his hip and the other flicking a flourish, you see an artist perched between whimsy and vanity, reveling in the spotlight the world shines on him. Whether he’s sitting and reading, puffing a pipe, or blowing a sultry saxophone riff, each moment feels like a climactic note in a jazz concert. In this way, he turns the mundane into performance and life into a showcase of charm.

And that pink—once coded as feminine, delicate, even childish—on the Panther becomes a tension between cool and fiery. It’s not the cutesy pink, nor the romantic pink, but a confident, slightly provocative hue: the pink of city neon at night, of wine swirling beside piano keys. It’s the pink of maturity, humor, and pure sex appeal.

The Panther possesses an elusive quality—he’s no traditional hero, never a savior. He’s more like a roguish drifter, teasing you one moment, being teased the next; exiting with grace and then slipping back in to stir the pot. His narratives are simple, yet utterly addictive. This “subtle depths beneath understatement” is his true allure.

Years may pass, and animation techniques may evolve, but on YouTube, a search for “Pink Panther” still yields millions of views, comments in every language, and fans across generations professing their fondness. This isn’t happenstance—it’s proof that one character, with minimal means, can achieve maximum resonance.

The Panther may not storm the stage at first sight, but once you’ve seen him, you never forget him. He redefines “sexiness”: it’s not about exposure, but suggestion; not about noise, but confidence in silence; not about pandering, but unwavering style.

He is a jazz melody, an aged wine, a character who, without a single word, makes you want to dance.

When we speak of animation’s history, when we recall the humor and whimsy flickering on the screen, there sits a little black cat in the corner of our memories, grinning all the while. He needs no fancy special effects, no thunderous soundtracks. With just a few strokes of black-and-white lines, a playful stride, and an incomparable comic charm, he conquered audiences for an entire century. He is Felix the Cat, the very first cartoon star, a black cat who bore witness to humanity’s laughter and sorrow through the ages.

Felix was born in the silent, black-and-white film era of the 1920s—a time of rapid human progress. When he first appeared on the silver screen, Charles Lindbergh had yet to cross the Atlantic, the shadow of World War I still lingered, and television had not yet entered the homes of ordinary families. In that fresh, pioneering era, Felix’s astonishing humor and nimble antics quickly propelled him to the pinnacle of popular entertainment. He appeared not only in movie theaters but also on stationery, toys, and even in early television commercials, becoming a household name. He was more than a cartoon cat; he was a symbol of his age, the forerunner of animation’s rise into mass culture.

Yet Felix was never merely a charming mascot. He possessed a singular personality: free-spirited and sly yet innocent, at times irreverent, and always ready to show cleverness and courage when it mattered most. He never spoke, but his body language was infinitely expressive; he had no dialogue, yet he could make viewers laugh out loud. This was pure performance art—the soul painstakingly drawn by the early animators. Felix wasn’t just sketched on film—he was “performed” into life.

To me, Felix embodies a chapter of my own childhood. Those afternoons laughing ourselves silly in front of the television, those secret doodles of his silhouette in the margins of my notebooks—all taught me that humor needs neither elaborate setup nor flowery language. Felix showed us that with creativity and character, even the simplest figure can shine. He reminded us that a mere black shape with big eyes can make the world smile.

As eras passed, countless cartoon characters have come and gone, styles have evolved and technologies advanced, yet Felix still stands quietly at the starting line of animation’s history. He witnessed the rise of Mickey Mouse, the end of World War II, the spread of television, the birth of Pixar, and now today’s streaming age. Though he may no longer be a mainstream icon, he has never been forgotten. He is the “star” behind those cartoon stars—had he not blazed the trail, our modern, kaleidoscopic world of animation might never have blossomed so brightly.

Now, Felix’s image may no longer grace prime time, but his spirit still lingers at the roots of every creative spark. He is a piece of history, the genesis of a collective memory, the witness to an art form’s journey from infancy to maturity. Whenever we leaf through those century-old animation sketches, whenever someone sets out to tell a new Felix story, we feel that spark from a hundred years ago—a charm that transcends all language and needs no explanation.

After talking about Cartoon Network, I want to reflect on another channel that shaped me deeply—Disney Channel. We all know that “Disney” is synonymous with a global entertainment empire: an animation studio turned media conglomerate spanning movies, TV, theme parks, and streaming platforms. For many viewers, Disney represents a fairy­tale kingdom. But for someone like me—who grew up “living in front of the TV”—Disney Channel wasn’t just fantasy; it was real time spent after school, the center of my daily routine, and my first window on the wider world.

I learned about friendship trials through Recess, experienced teenage drama in Pepper Ann, and embarked on daring adventures with Kim Possible and her friends. Back when the internet barely existed and social media was still decades away, these shows didn’t merely keep me entertained; they were like miniature civics lessons, guiding kids on how to navigate social dynamics and build core values.

Yet, in its early days, Disney Channel was actually quite conservative. Many series followed the classic Hollywood formula, emphasizing clear moral lessons and family­friendly outcomes. Shows like Recess centered around school dramas, and American Dragon: Jake Long framed everything as a straightforward good­versus­evil hero story. Warm and funny, yes—but they rarely ventured into deeper conflicts or creative risks.

That changed when shows like Phineas and Ferb, Gravity Falls, Star vs. the Forces of Evil, and Wander Over Yonder arrived. Suddenly, Disney Channel was pushing its boundaries. These programs didn’t just teach “Do the right thing” or “Be a good person”—they tackled more abstract themes: creativity, freedom, identity, fear, loneliness, and choice.

Phineas and Ferb might seem like zany summer adventures, but beneath the whimsy lies a profound celebration of childhood imagination and limitless possibility.

Gravity Falls wrapped teenage anxieties and family tension inside supernatural mysteries that kept viewers guessing.

Star vs. the Forces of Evil turned the princess narrative on its head, emphasizing self­reliance and breaking free from predetermined fate.

Unlike the earlier lineup, these shows grew with their audience. They trusted kids to handle nuance, and they trusted parents to appreciate layered storytelling.

But that golden era didn’t last.

As Disney rapidly expanded into an entertainment powerhouse, Disney Channel lost its strategic importance. Its original programming was quietly absorbed into Disney’s own streaming hub, Disney+.

This might sound like a simple case of shifting distribution channels, but to someone who “lived by the TV schedule,” it felt like a cultural fracture. We went from flipping on a channel at a set time to scrolling through menus, searching for titles, choosing which package to subscribe to, and typing in passwords. That shift—once we realized it—made us feel a whole era had truly ended.

Sure, some will say, “This is just progress. Embrace new technology; don’t be stuck in the past.” And they’re right—nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake is empty. But what I really want to talk about is our attachment to “content quality.”

In an age when American animation output has declined and studios focus on blockbuster movies and massive franchises, Disney Channel still managed to deliver sincere, high­quality work right up until the end. Those final series taught me that Western cartoons aren’t dead; they’ve chosen the “quality over quantity” route. Compared to today’s formulaic, never­ending franchises, Disney Channel’s closing shows felt like a pledge: “We may not produce the most content, but we will produce our best.”

Nowadays, cartoons that genuinely resonate with both kids and adults are rare. Many either skew too childish, go too dark, or cater so heavily to current social trends that they lose both fun and depth. Disney Channel once occupied that sweet spot where both could coexist: childhood laughter and unintended parent tears.

When I look back at those shows, I realize they weren’t fairy tales—they were a documentary of my own childhood growth.

Today, the channel is gone, its characters scattered. We’ve moved on to a new stage of life. Streaming has supplanted cable, and smartphones have replaced remote controls. The era of TV kids is officially history.

And yet, precisely for that reason, I want to say: Go ahead and feel nostalgic, but remember to keep moving forward. Find strength in remembering, and seek new hope in change. Those animated characters and TV moments that once accompanied us may fade from the next generation’s memory. But for us, they remain a gentle, unspoiled corner of our hearts.

Turn on the TV these days and you’ll almost always see SpongeBob SquarePants—though not the sponge we once knew. Now it’s the version with bulging eyes, a constantly contorted face, and over-the-top delivery. To me, that’s no longer the SpongeBob I grew up with.

No exaggeration: today’s SpongeBob is genuinely “eye-scorching.” It’s either a nonstop parade of exaggerated expressions or juvenile plotlines that feel insultingly dumbed-down. They’ve even made a spin-off movie starring Sandy Cheeks, and its animation quality and pacing look like a low-budget internet parody. If you have fond memories of the original, do yourself a favor—don’t click play. You’ll only be disappointed.

Online nostalgia for SpongeBob still runs strong, but virtually every meme or tribute you see comes from the classic episodes—lines like “Boring! I want to see some body parts!” 、“Why don't you ask... the Magic Conch, Squidward?” or “I’m a Goofy Goober!” Those crazy, absurd moments were built on sharp social observations and genuine wit. They weren’t just silly gags; they were satirical bits grounded in character dynamics and real-life humor.

So what happened? A YouTube video titled “The Day SpongeBob SquarePants Died” nails the problem: a wholesale shake-up of the original creative team. Series creator Stephen Hillenburg stepped away after making the first SpongeBob movie—he’d said that would be the perfect ending, a full-circle farewell to a beloved character. But Nickelodeon didn’t want to let the world’s most famous yellow sponge retire. They treated Hillenburg’s departure as a launchpad rather than a goodbye.

After he left, Nickelodeon reorganized the writers’ room. The newcomers focused single-mindedly on keeping ratings high, selling merchandise, and churning out content—at the cost of depth. Now, the show’s become formulaic, performance-driven, and, frankly, juvenile. The SpongeBob on your screen today is a hollow echo of his former self.

Consider Mr. Krabs as an example of character deterioration. In the original run, he was greedy, yes, but he also had limits. He still managed the Krusty Krab capably, showed genuine love for his daughter Pearl, and even wrestled with ethical dilemmas. In the new episodes, he’s basically a one-note caricature: every action is driven solely by profit and exploitation. That flattening of complexity has all but erased the humanity he once had.

And the networks are behaving just like Mr. Krabs. They cling to a single superstar IP, pumping out cheaply produced spin-offs and revivals instead of taking risks on new talent. We end up watching a beloved character being squeezed for every last drop—while the show’s original charm, black humor, and social insights get compressed into random, nonsensical set pieces and nonstop product plugs.

It begs the question: Why not let SpongeBob end on a high note? Why not honor Hillenburg’s desire to conclude with the first movie and preserve a complete childhood memory?

It’s not that we can’t handle new stories. Viewers are eager for the next Adventure Time, the next Regular Show, even the next Rick and Morty. What’s tiring is the studios’ refusal to trust our tastes—they only care about merchandise sales and Nielsen numbers.

SpongeBob was never just a “kids’ cartoon.” It once had biting black comedy, subtle interpersonal dynamics, and spot-on satire about work and life. Early Bikini Bottom was quirky without being nonsensical, over-the-top without being mindless. Today, all that’s left is noise and absurdity, and the characters get flattened, objectified, and turned into marketing tools by the end of every episode.

Stephen Hillenburg passed away in 2018, but I firmly believe the “true” SpongeBob waved goodbye at the end of that first film. That was a perfect, heartfelt, and funny conclusion to a childhood icon.