After finishing Footprints of Change (足迹), I found myself so engrossed that what began as a simple review quickly morphed into a detailed commentary. Three weeks later, I decided to pause and reframe my thoughts into a more condensed response to the series.
On the surface, Footprints of Change unfolds as a chronological triptych: three distinct stories, each centered on a woman from the same extended family across Shanghai’s turbulent 20th century—the 1930s, 1950s, and 1990s. It might seem like a familiar multi-generational family saga, replete with romantic entanglements and personal struggles. Yet beneath this seemingly conventional structure lies a far more ambitious and rewarding narrative. This is a quiet, reflective portrait of Shanghai told through its women, where individual lives intricately mirror the city's profound social and political shifts, and the subtle complexities of history itself.
The series connects these disparate eras less through direct lineage and more through evocative symbolic threads. A simple pocket watch becomes a powerful token of survival, memory, and enduring resilience. The family home, too, transforms, silently witnessing Shanghai's journey from tradition, to ideology, to burgeoning capitalism. Anchoring this intricate tapestry is Yi Yi (played superbly by Tong Yao), the compelling protagonist of the 1950s story, whose presence in all three narratives lends the entire series a reflective, almost memoir-like quality.
Truly appreciating Footprints of Change means being willing to look beyond the surface. While each chapter presents a woman's journey for success in life and love amidst her era's challenges, the series’ most meaningful themes are found in the subtext—in the poignant silences, the tough choices made, and the historical shadows that shape every character. Together, these panels form a cohesive, expansive picture of a society in flux, offering a nuanced reflection on Shanghai’s complicated relationship with its past, and by extension, the broader changes across China.
The Triptych of Change
1930s: Flawed Integrity
The 1930s romance follows a well-known pattern, but this surface-level story is just a frame. What’s far more interesting is how the era complicates moral judgment. Lin Siyun’s ambition to build a maternity hospital becomes a quiet act of resistance against patriarchal norms and political instability. As she navigates family betrayal, social exclusion, and institutional pushback, the men around her—gangsters, officials, and politicians—are portrayed with unexpected nuance. In a Shanghai fractured by political and social pressures and under the looming threat of invasion, even those seen as “bad” can act with integrity. Their choices, however flawed, are shaped by survival and a desire to protect what little stability remains. The story doesn’t glorify heroism—it shows how, in times of crisis, even flawed individuals can make choices that matter.
Where the 1930s reveal how individuals navigate fractured loyalties under foreign and domestic pressures, the 1950s present an even more suffocating test: survival under ideological scrutiny.
1950s: The Tragedy of Coded Resistance
The 1950s chapter shifts the lens. Yi Yi, the wife of a missing KMT officer, lives in Shanghai now under Communist rule. She is surrounded by well-meaning but fervent individuals, many of whom view her with suspicion. Her refined tastes, education, and quiet demeanor set her apart. She responds not with open defiance but with dignified detachment, an occasional undercurrent of stoic resignation—a protective shell built from years of suffering. Her bond with Minister Wen Pu offers fragile hope, but one overshadowed by ideological rigidity. Their story becomes a tense negotiation for survival, where innocence is no defense and the cost of quiet resistance is devastatingly high.
If the 1950s demanded endurance through silence and restraint, the 1990s shift the struggle inward, turning survival into a test of whether integrity can withstand the pull of pragmatism and blurred morals.
1990s: The Price of Pragmatism
The 1990s story explores a more modern and internal struggle. Set in a Shanghai remade by market forces and informal corruption, it follows Yi Yi’s granddaughter, Ye Xining, whose life is upended when she becomes entangled in a financial scandal. This catastrophe binds her to two very different men: the principled academic Xiang Beichuan, and the pragmatic, morally flexible businessman Yan Jun. The era becomes a test for Xining’s soul, forcing her to navigate a world where the lines between right and wrong are dangerously blurred. Her journey is a constant negotiation with her own ideals, testing whether integrity can survive without compromise and what parts of herself she must sacrifice to not just survive, but thrive.
Together, the three eras create more than a family saga—they are variations on a theme, each exploring how resilience, resolve, and survival take different forms under the shifting pressures of history.
Performance and Subtext: The Art of the Unsaid
This thematic weight, however, would be lost without the powerful performances that bring these subtle narratives to life. The 1950s segment, being the most politically sensitive, is wisely entrusted to the most experienced cast. It is an era defined by subtext, where small details in performance carry more weight than a line of dialogue. Tong Yao’s Yi Yi is, in many ways, the quiet heart and narrative spine of the series. While each era has its own protagonist, it is Yi Yi’s life that connects them all, and it is her memories that frame the entire narrative. Her performance is exquisitely restrained, holding a complex inner world in check—first a resilient hope, then a devastating emptiness, and finally, a quiet, unbreakable fortitude. She is perfectly matched by Li Yijun’s wonderfully subtle portrayal of Minister Wen Pu. Together, the slow buildup of their gentle romance, built on shared glances and unspoken understanding, feels incredibly tender—a perfect connection for two sensitive souls.
This shared restraint is the central key to the drama’s subtext. In fact, the most brilliant aspect of the 1950s narrative is how its very meaning is deliberately obscured, mirroring the survival tactics of its protagonist. In Yi Yi’s world, the truth is never spoken aloud; it must be actively assembled from a series of seemingly disconnected cues—an art reference, a specific gesture. These fragments are the text, but the story of a woman clinging to her identity remains elusive, made clear only by the sublime performance of Tong Yao, whose subtle expressions and quiet dignity give voice to the unspoken. There is a coded language here that I will explore in greater depth in my forthcoming commentary.
This nuanced approach extends to the supporting cast. The characters surrounding Yi Yi initially appear as fervent ideologues, yet this is a deliberate narrative choice that reflects a complex reality. The series humanizes them, showing they are not malicious, but humble folks simply trying to do their best. Many, having lived through the chaos of the KMT era and the trauma of war, genuinely believe these new changes are beneficial. Their outspokenness stems from sincere conviction and eagerness to show support, even if they lack the education to understand the full ideology.
At its core, the 1950s narrative is a profound study in the art of survival, where every character is armed with a shield. For Yi Yi, the shield is silence—a dignified retreat into art and memory. For the fervent characters around her, the shield is performance—a loud, visible enthusiasm that declares their loyalty and hope. The series’ genius lies in recognizing that these are not opposing moral choices, but two sides of the same coin: people simply trying to protect their inner selves and define their place in a world of massive historical change.
Closing
Across its three eras, Footprints of Change resists easy moral binaries. It doesn’t ask whether its characters are good or bad, but instead explores how people navigate flawed systems—whether colonial, ideological, or capitalist. The women at the center of each story are not merely witnesses to history; they are shaped and constrained by it—and, in their own unique ways, they quietly resist it.
A Deceptively Easy Watch
On the surface, Footprints of Change is an easy watch; it is polished and accessible. Production values are high, with measured pacing, lighting that has depth and texture, and set design that feels authentic and lived-in. The first story also offers a familiar, well-acted romance designed to welcome a broad audience. This is the entry point.
But what seems effortless is, in fact, a calculated risk. The narrative deliberately shifts its weight to the politically charged 1950s, a story that trusts its audience to find meaning in silence and subtext. It gambled on viewer engagement and patience, moving from the conventional appeal of the idol-led first chapter to the quiet power of seasoned character actors. This artistic choice appears to have resonated, earning a solid initial rating on Douban and validating the creators’ ambition.
Footprints of Change can certainly be enjoyed at face value, as an engaging and well-crafted family saga, as I certainly did. But its most profound rewards are reserved for those who are willing to look closer and listen to what remains unsaid.
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