







































 Humanities and Social Science Research; Vol. 8, No. 2; 2025 

ISSN 2576-3024   E-ISSN 2576-3032 

https://doi.org/10.30560/hssr.v8n2p82 

 82 Published by IDEAS SPREAD 

 

"Silence in 'Blossoms” — An Analysis of the Chinese Aesthetics of 

Blank-Leaving in the TV Adaptation Blossoms Shanghai 

Ni Kailan1 

1 Shanghai Film Academy, Shanghai University, China 

Correspondence: Ni Kailan, Shanghai Film Academy, Shanghai University, Shanghai, China. 

 

Received: April 5, 2025; Accepted: April 16, 2025; Published: April 18, 2025 

 

Abstract 

The term"不响" (Buxiang, "not speaking"/"silence") appears over 1,300 times in the novel Blossoms, making it 

an indisputable keyword. Director Wong Kar-wai interprets"不响" as a form of blank-leaving (留白), describing 

it as both the creative cipher of author Jin Yucheng and the key to his own adaptation. It is precisely by embedding"

不响" into every facet of the series that the TV adaptation Blossoms Shanghai has garnered widespread acclaim 

among audiences in Shanghai and across China. This paper examines the manifestations of"不响" in the TV series 

from the perspective of blank-leaving aesthetics. 

Keywords: Blossoms, WongKar-wai, Buxiang ("not speaking"/silence), aesthetics of blank-leaving 

1. Introduction 

The TV adaptation Blossoms Shanghai is based on Jin Yucheng’s eponymous novel. The 

literary Blossoms explores the existential helplessness of ordinary individuals adrift under macro-historical 

currents, reconstructing the lives of Shanghai’s common folk and their quotidian desires. Through portraying civic 

communities across three distinct eras, it unveils the collective psyche of Shanghainese while critiquing the 

interplay between historical memory and contemporary reality, ultimately revealing the symbiotic essence of “city 

and its inhabitants” in urban life. Thus, the novel serves as both a spiritual chronicle of Shanghai’s citizens and a 

Bildungsroman of the city itself. 

To better depict Shanghai’s transformative narrative under China’s Reform and Opening-Up policy, the TV 

adaptation seeks to transcend the novel’s pervasive "Buxiang" (silence) atmosphere, instead foregrounding a 

clamorous era of reform, opportunity, and collective striving. Yet it simultaneously inherits the original’s 

contemplative core—its stable yet profound "Buxiang" ethos. The novel employs a "storyteller" framework, 

weaving dual timelines (the 1960s-70s and 1990s) through protagonists Hunsheng, Ah Bao, and Xiao Mao, who 

traverse between "upper corners" (Shangzhijiao) and "lower corners" (Xiazhijiao)—urban zones demarcating 

socioeconomic divides. This structure, devoid of conventional narrative propulsion, earned the 9th Mao Dun 

Literature Prize’s acclaim: "A vivid raconteur endows the world with a unique timbre, immersing readers into the 

interstices and folds of modern metropolitan life." 

In contrast, the TV series streamlines this complexity by excising the 1960s-70s timeline, sharpening narrative 

focus. Centering on Ah Bao’s trajectory, it microscopically examines how ordinary individuals script urban 

legends amidst epochal shifts, sparking fervent debates between literary purists and adaptation advocates. The 

former critique its perceived divergence from the source material, while the latter defend its necessity for cinematic 

reinterpretation. 

Despite narrative divergences, the adaptation’s production philosophy reveals a symbiotic relationship with the 

novel. It not only visually resurrects the novel’s urban texture but also spiritually perpetuates its "Buxiang" essence. 

This aesthetics of silence is reimagined through blank-leaving techniques—manifest in chiaroscuro lighting, 

deliberate compositions, and diegetic music—to craft a distinctly Shanghainese chronicle of time. 

2. The "Buxiang" Flavor of Shanghai 

In the variety show Round Table Party, Jin Yucheng, author of the novel Blossoms, explained the meaning of "不
响" (Buxiang): "When narrating an event through Shanghainese logic, the phrase '不响' inevitably emerges. These 

two characters encapsulate an omission. For instance, if everyone is already aware of a situation, and I approach a 

leader who remains silent—'the leader does not speak' (领导不响)—the silence itself conveys the atmosphere. 



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Though the leader utters nothing, the possibilities are implicit, suggesting unresolved tensions or potential 

consequences. Shanghainese unconsciously repeat '不响' countless times daily; it is an ingrained linguistic habit."  

"Buxiang" is a phrase deeply embedded in the upbringing of Shanghainese."Buxiang" (不响), a common term in 

Shanghainese dialect, signifies "not speaking"—a deliberate silence, refusal to respond, or a punctuated pause in 

speech. It can also function as a resonant blank-leaving (留白) in dialogue, imbuing discourse with unspoken depth. 

Elders admonish with phrases like "侬先勿响" (You stay silent first) or "He’s competent, but seldom speaks up" 

(他做事可以，但平时不太响的 ). This reflects how "Buxiang" epitomizes a quintessential Shanghainese 

temperament, rooted in local cultural codes. Literary critic Xu Zidong posits that "Buxiang" serves as "a single 

phrase that speaks volumes" for Shanghainese—a linguistic efficiency unique to their identity. The novel Blossoms 

opens with the epigraph: "God does not speak, as if all is decided by me…" This line also appears in the trailer for 

the TV adaptation, foreshadowing the series’ commitment to inheriting and reinterpreting "Buxiang". Director 

Wong Kar-wai elaborates in the documentary From Blossoms to Blossoms: The Silence Chapter: "When I choose 

not to speak—whether to avoid self-contradiction or interpersonal conflict—that is 'Buxiang'." In Blossoms, 

"Buxiang" functions as a deliberate blank-leaving technique. Superficially, it manifests as calm reticence; beneath 

lies a torrent of unspoken tensions between characters. Through masterful audiovisual storytelling, Wong 

externalizes intricate inner worlds, replacing dialogue with atmospheric silence to achieve the effect of "soundless 

profundity" (此时无声胜有声). 

The TV adaptation Blossoms Shanghai interprets the city’s culture through an aesthetic of blank-leaving that 

prioritizes essence over form. By disembedding regional symbols from their material contexts and transforming 

them into floating semiotic fragments, the director abstracts the "Shanghainese ethos" into a collective memory 

demanding active decoding. Food emerges as an intimate chronicle of its era—Bao’s ritualistic breakfast of rice 

porridge with six side dishes (fermented tofu, pickled radish, etc.) is magnified through close-ups that linger on 

the crimson hue of bean curd or the crisp sound of biting into preserved vegetables.Conversely, the unresolved 

emotional tension between Miss Wang and Ah Bao crystallizes in the remnants of their unfinished pork chop rice 

cake rendezvous: a half-eaten 排骨 with visible bite marks, raindrops snaking down fogged windows—a sensory 

monument to petit-bourgeois romance’s quiet tragedies. 

The cadence of the Shanghainese dialect itself becomes an auditory blank-leaving. When Uncle Ye admonishes 

Ah Bao in 沪语—“A suit should wear the man, not the man the suit”—the camera dwells not on his face but glides 

across the sartorial details: impeccably stitched cuffs, collar interfacing. The dialect’s rhythmic pauses and 

elongated vowels (“yī” in “yīfu”) intertwine with visual scrutiny of tailoring craftsmanship, encoding 

the laokel (old-School Shanghainese connoisseurs)’s worldly wisdom into an audiovisual riddle. Spatial politics 

lurk within partial symbols: the oppressive low-angle shots of exposed beams in Shikumen attic rooms viscerally 

evoke proletarian constraints, while the geometric shadows cast by Peace Hotel’s Venetian blinds map invisible 

hierarchies of power. The iconic Bund Customs House clock materializes seven times yet never fully—its face 

obscured by neon billboards or blurred in rain-mist, its chimes lingering as acoustic metaphors for clashing 

temporal orders. 

Even sartorial details whisper unspoken identity narratives. Lingzi’s evolving earrings—from Japanese pearl studs 

to Lao Fengxiang jade-in-gold designs—trace her metamorphosis from repatriated émigré to local entrepreneur 

without expository dialogue. Such blank-leaving strips cultural symbols of utilitarian functions, rendering the 

steam rising from a bowl of rice porridge, the tonal lilt of a Shanghainese phrase, or the slatted light through blinds 

into free-floating signifiers. Audiences must assemble the city’s essence like cryptographers piecing together 

Morse code fragments. As the ambient hum of alleyway life (scissor-sharpeners’ scrapes, popcorn machines’ roars) 

fades beneath Huanghe Road’s neon cacophony, the director refrains from didactic critiques of urbanization. 

Instead, the erasure of sound sources and the silencing of acoustic landscapes compel viewers to palpitate the scars 

of urban transformation through absence. The soul of Shanghainese ethos, much like the bespoke suits Uncle Ye 

wears—devoid of brand logos—resides in the blank spaces between stitches, awaiting the discerning gaze of those 

who understand silence as the ultimate vernacular. 

While the novel never explicitly defines "Buxiang", the TV adaptation demystifies it through a dialogue where the 

protagonist Ah Bao mentors Miss Wang in business strategy: "To succeed in business, first master two words: 

'Buxiang'. Refrain from speaking when it is unnecessary, unclear, unplanned, or detrimental to oneself or others. 

Always leave room for maneuver." This philosophy permeates Blossoms: "acting decisively without fanfare" (闷
声干大事) in commerce, "tacit understanding" (心照不宣) in relationships, and "wordless 默契无言) in daily life. 

It is embodied in Mr. Bao’s calculated restraint during negotiations, withholding his trump card until the final 

moment; in the unspoken rivalry between Li Li and Bao, who share no direct confrontations; and in the veiled 

truths Lingzi and Bao exchange at Night Tokyo. These artful blanks between relationships distill 



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the "Buxiang" essence of Shanghai as portrayed in the novel. Through "Buxiang", Wong Kar-wai reconstructs his 

vision of Shanghai—a city glittering within its golden age. It is precisely this inheritance and reinterpretation of 

cultural nuance that has earned Blossoms Shanghai acclaim and resonance nationwide. 

3. The Art of Blank-Leaving in Audiovisual Language 

Blank-leaving (留白) is a quintessential technique in Chinese artistic creation, deeply rooted in the nation’s 

aesthetic traditions. Originating from classical Chinese painting—where the omission of trivial details evokes 

profound artistic conception—it was later adopted in literary works through the deliberate exclusion of redundant 

dialogues, exhaustive character biographies, and explicit environmental descriptions, thereby granting readers 

expansive interpretative space. 

Director Wong Kar-wai masterfully employs blank-leaving to articulate emotional subtexts, a strategy abundantly 

evident in Blossoms Shanghai. Through layered superimpositions or obstructions of scenery and lighting, he subtly 

amplifies atmosphere and foreshadows narrative trajectories. Visual blank-leaving often relies on wide shots. 

In Blossoms, windows and blinds frequently dominate the foreground, framing characters positioned mid-to-

background to accentuate spatial depth. This frame-within-frame composition epitomizes Wong’s signature 

aesthetic of stratified elegance, while simultaneously externalizing the emotional tensions between characters. A 

prime example occurs in the reunion scene between Ah Bao and Xue Zhi. In over-the-shoulder reverse shots, Ah 

Bao’s entrances are persistently shadowed by Xue Zhi’s silhouette, metaphorically reflecting her lingering 

presence in his psyche and his vulnerable position—a visual metaphor for their imbalanced relationship and power 

dynamics. When Ah Bao occupies the focal point, the camera maintains a seemingly static position but trembles 

with imperceptible vibrations, mimicking human breath to evoke unease, thereby mirroring his inner turmoil (Fig. 

1).  

 

Figure 1. Close-up of Mr. Bao 

 

The frosted glass patterns and Xue Zhi’s figure form a nested frame, while rising steam inside and outside the 

glass further obscures her features, enhancing mystique (Figure 2). As the camera glides, Ah Bao gradually 

emerges, his presence now counterbalancing Xue Zhi’s dominance. This compositional equilibrium signals his 

psychological metamorphosis—a resolve to conquer his world. Diagonal lines intersecting the frame intensify 

visual tension, foreshadowing their impending divergence (Figure 3). Wong’s use of architectural frames 

(windows, doorways) as voyeuristic lenses not only enhances visual allure and natural soft focus but also silently 

narrates subtext. 

 

Figure 2. Close-up of Xue Zhi 



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Figure 3. Confrontation between Mr. Bao and Xue Zh 

 

"Silence necessitates music"—as Hong Kong film critic Law Chun Fung observed of Wong’s cinema. When 

characters and narratives adhere to "Buxiang", the soundtrack becomes the vocal surrogate. All ineffable stories 

and emotions find expression through music. 

Wong has long exploited music to fill emotional, behavioral, and atmospheric voids in his films, a prowess fully 

manifested in his debut TV series. When Lingzi returns to Jinxian Road from Tokyo, Wong employs Peking Opera 

excerpts to foreshadow destinies. The downstairs neighbor’s radio plays Mei School’s The Drunken 

Concubine (《贵妃醉酒》), whose tale of a woman awaiting her lover’s vow parallels Lingzi’s predicament. As 

Lingzi settles into her room, the radio shifts to The Locked Phoenix Casket (《锁麟囊》), its narrative of 

serendipitous kindness mirroring Ah Bao and Lingzi’s storyline—all conveyed through restrained implication, 

demanding audience interpretation. Beyond opera, Blossoms curates a tapestry of 1990s pop anthems and film 

soundtracks. These collective-memory-laden melodies instantly evoke temporal context, character psyches, and 

motivations, embodying "Buxiang" through cultural resonance. When Mr. Bao secures a life-threatening deal with 

counterfeit mogul Ma in a KTV scene, the Taiwanese anthem Strive to Win (《爱拼才会赢》 ) blares—a 

motivational anthem cherished by entrepreneurs of that era. When Miss Wang confesses her feelings to Ah Bao 

while eating pork cutlet rice cakes alone at her trading company, Faye Wong’s Obsession Without Regret (《执迷
不悔》) underscores her candid resolve and foreshadows their tragic romance. Characters remain silent ("Buxiang"), 

while the soundtrack clamors. Through this auditory alchemy, Wong subliminally maps emotional landscapes and 

fates, immersing audiences in the golden age’s nostalgic aura 

4. Emotional Entanglements Under Nonlinear Narration 

Nonlinear narrative stands in dialectical opposition to linear narrative. The latter, which aligns with human 

perception of chronological order and quest for structural coherence, has been canonized since Aristotle’s era. 

Characterized by story integrity and causality-driven progression through sequential time, linear narration 

dominates Chinese television dramas as creators prioritize audience comprehension and production efficiency, 

often conforming to collective memory frameworks. 

Blossoms Shanghai defies this convention. Here, time—like the lingering ambiguity of In the Mood for Love—

recedes into the background of a fervent era bathed in kaleidoscopic light. It morphs into the "rhythm of 

Shanghai" or "Shenzhen speed", silently observing characters’ fates amidst societal upheavals. Through 

interwoven recollections of Ah Bao’s (Mr. Bao) business conquests, the series deftly braids three timelines: 1978-

1987, November 1984-1988, and post-1992. These temporal threads unravel Ah Bao’s mentorship under Uncle 

Ye, his romantic entanglements with Miss Wang, Lingzi, and Xue Zhi, while chronicling the economic 

metamorphosis of Shanghai and Shenzhen. Wong Kar-wai’s innovative nonlinear approach employs analepses to 

rewind chronology, incrementally disclosing Ah Bao’s rags-to-riches backstory. This technique heightens 

dramatic tension without compromising artistic refinement, granting audiences interpretive latitude. 

Since its premiere, the emotional webs binding Ah Bao, Miss Wang, Li Li, and Lingzi have captivated viewers. 

Yet Blossoms delineates these relationships with surgical precision. Unlike most TV dramas that accelerate 

emotional evolution into high-intensity arcs (prioritizing "life-or-death" stakes, betrayals, or 

separations), Blossoms adopts a restrained blank-leaving narrative to portray individuals navigating historical tides. 

It minimizes overt conflicts, instead embedding emotional crescendos within quotidian interactions—a strategy 

that elevates the series’ epochal texture while achieving "thunderclaps from calm skies" dramatic potency. 

Romance in Blossoms is not articulated through grand vows but materializes in mundane symbols: pork chop rice 

cakes from a humble diner, fermented bean curd from Zhujiajiao, or an upturned coat collar. When Tao Tao—

introduced as Ah Bao’s childhood confidant—first appears, Wong deliberately omits exposition of their shared 



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past. Though their bond ("having grown up sharing trousers") could fuel melodramatic flashbacks, the director 

leaves it unspoken. A pivotal moment occurs when Tao Tao’s loose tongue embroils Ah Bao in peril. While Ah 

Bao shields him despite threats, contrasting sharply with Xiao Liu’s factional "brotherhood", their reconciliation 

requires no verbal catharsis. A mere gesture—Tao Tao adjusting his collar—epitomizes wordless camaraderie 

(Figs. 4, 5). 

 
Figure 4. Mr. Bao adjusting his collar 

 

    Figure 5. Tao Tao adjusting his collar 

 

5. Conclusion 

Li Jingsheng, vice president of the China Federation of Radio and Television Associations, likened Blossoms* to 

"a bomb detonating industry inertia," a statement that acutely captures the revolutionary significance of the series’ 

blank-leaving aesthetics. When Li asserted that "this ingeniously crafted, intensely distinctive ‘bomb’ has upended 

the normalized mediocrity of creative practices,"he essentially pinpointed how Blossoms employs "Buxiang" (不
响, silence) as a methodological scalpel to dismantle and rebuild the industrialized production logic of Chinese 

television dramas. This deconstruction manifests not only in its dissolution of conventional narrative density but 

also in its reconstruction of dialogic dimensions between image and audience, history and present, through a 

"poetics of silence" in audiovisual language.  

The subversion of "Buxiang" aesthetics first emerges as a rebellion against the "information overload"syndrome 

plaguing contemporary television. Amid the industry-wide anxiety over "three-second viewer retention" in the 

streaming era, Blossoms defiantly channels the Shanghainese linguistic logic of "勿响" (refraining from speech) 

into the respiratory rhythm of its imagery. In the 47-second wordless reunion scene between Mr. Bao and Xue Zhi, 

the fogged glass window, the subtle tremor of a Adam’s apple, and the Huangpu River wind tousling a suit jacket 

collectively orchestrate a silent hurricane. Such blank-leaving is not narrative absence but a restitution of 

interpretive agency to the audience. As Li Jingsheng noted, what it "detonates" is not merely the safety net of linear 

storytelling but also creators’ arrogant presumption of viewers’ cognitive limitations.  

A deeper subversion lies in its reconstitution of television’s aesthetic hierarchy. When Wong Kar-wai deconstructs 

the "fast-food visual grammar" of TV traditions with cinematic lighting techniques—geometric shadows sliced by 

Venetian blinds, multiplied reflections in elevator mirrors — "Buxiang" becomes a cross-media lingua franca. The 

corporate duel between Mr. Bao and Li Li unfolds without verbal sparring; instead, neon lights ripple across 

tailored suit fabrics like liquid semaphores. This "speaking through light" approach reduces television from 

"storytelling lectern" to "sensory immersion," epitomizing what Li Jingsheng termed "intense distinctiveness": it 

redefines the medium’s aesthetic altitude through cinematic visual rigor.  

The "bomb effect" Li emphasized also ruptures collective creative complacency. Blossoms’ blank-leaving 

aesthetics reject industrialized TV’s assembly-line production of "emotional canned goods," instead weaponizing 

material details as mnemonic triggers: the crackling grease of Miss Wang’s pork chop rice cakes, the fading chime 

of Lingzi’s Japanese windbell, the steam spiraling from Mr. Bao’s daily rice porridge ritual…These moments—

often dismissed as "Transitional Shot" in mainstream productions—become silent epics in Blossoms. As Li 



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observed, this creative stance "detonates" not just narrative clichés but the industry’s systemic underestimation of 

audience discernment, forcing practitioners to confront a fundamental question: Should television be a force-fed 

didacticism or an encrypted narrative co-authored with its viewers?  

The "thunderclap" achieved through "Buxiang" ultimately constitutes an enlightenment movement on creative 

ethics. When Li Jingsheng metaphorized it as an industry bomb, the subtext resounding beneath the explosion 

demands attention: in an algorithmic winter gripping film and television, only reverence for "blank-leaving" can 

blast open fissures toward artistic dignity. Within these cracks glimmers not merely the golden afterglow of 1990s 

Shanghai but the chrysalis of Chinese television’s metamorphic rebirth. 

References 

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Li, W. J. (2015). Fan Hua lun [On Blossoms] (Master’s thesis). East China Normal University. 

Liu, M. (2024). From “Buxiang” to “thunderclap”: On the cultural tension and cinematic adaptation 

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Ran, H. (2019). Extremization and formulaic tendencies: Issues in emotional representation in Chinese TV 

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Wen, X. (2023). Avant-garde and mainstream: On the nonlinear narrative shift in domestic films. Film Literature, 

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