The premiere of To Live by Borrowing (借命而生) on iQiyi's "Misty Theater" on April 18 has sparked intense discussion, not only for its gripping crime-thriller plot but for its unflinching dissection of systemic power imbalances. Directed by Lu Chuan and starring Qin Hao, the series adapts Shi Yifeng's novel into a narrative that transcends its genre, embedding societal critique into every frame. While its surface story revolves around a prison guard's pursuit of truth, the show's true strength lies in how it weaponizes the concept of an "imagined enemy"—a metaphor for entrenched power structures—to mirror contemporary struggles.
Power as a Faceless Antagonist
In Victor Hugo's Les Misérables, the clash between human dignity and oppressive systems unfolds against the backdrop of 19th-century France. Fast-forward to modern-day China, and a similar battle rages not in the shadow of cathedrals, but within the rusted gates of a state-owned factory and the cold bars of a rural prison. To Live by Borrowing—dubbed by critics as "China's Les Misérables"—replaces Hugo's Jean Valjean with two factory workers accused of murder and a jaded prison guard, Du Xiangdong. Here, the "misérables" aren't starving revolutionaries but laborers crushed under the wheel of generational power—a system where factory directors reign as feudal lords, and justice is a currency only the connected can afford.
The first three episodes establish a world where authority figures operate with impunity. The protagonists, Yao Binbin (Shi Pengyuan) and Xu Wenge (Han Geng), are accused of murdering a factory director's relative. Their alleged weapon, a homemade gun missing a firing pin, becomes a symbolic flaw in the case—a literal and metaphorical misfire.
Small but telling scenes amplify this dynamic. When Du Xiangdong (Qin Hao), the disillusioned prison guard, attends a reunion with his politically connected classmates, a restaurant owner hastily apologizes for a server's request to split the bill. The unspoken tension—the server's fear of offending power—resonates with viewers familiar with class disparities. Similarly, a colleague's plea for Du to secure a school placement for his child highlights how mundane injustices perpetuate systemic inequities.
A Subversion of Tropes
The series avoids reducing its accused to mere victims or villains. Yao Binbin and Xu Wenge's backstory—their mother's exploitation by the factory director—adds layers of moral ambiguity. Yao's eventual execution, framed by his mangled hands (a result of factory brutality), underscores how systemic abuse dehumanizes both perpetrator and victim. In one pivotal scene, Du adjusts Yao's leg restraints before his execution—a quiet act of dignity that echoes Victor Hugo's humanist ethos. Like Jean Valjean in Les Misérables, Du's gesture transcends legalistic morality, prioritizing compassion over punitive justice.
This "Hugo-esque" sensibility permeates the narrative. The factory's corruption mirrors the oppressive institutions in The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, where authority figures like Claude Frollo weaponize religion to mask their depravity. Similarly, the factory director's family embodies unchecked power, reducing individuals like Yao's mother to disposable objects. By drawing parallels to Hugo's critiques of institutional rot, To Live by Borrowing elevates its crime drama into a broader commentary on cyclical injustice.
A Reluctant Hero, A Balancing Grit and Grace
Qin Hao's performance anchors the series. Du isn't a stereotypical crusader; he's a man corroded by systemic neglect. Stuck in a rural prison, denied transfers, and mocked by successful peers, his initial apathy reflects the toll of institutional inertia. Yet, his investigation into Yao and Xu's case reignites a latent idealism. Unlike typical procedural leads, Du's motivation isn't glory but a visceral need to reclaim agency—a theme Lu Chuan underscores by juxtaposing Du's prison routine with flashbacks of his fractured romance. The latter isn't filler; it humanizes his resolve, showing how personal disillusionment fuels his pursuit of justice.
Lu Chuan, often criticized for overindulging in stylistic flourishes (The Nine-Tailed Fox, 749 Bureau), adopts a restrained approach here. The factory's grimy interiors and prison's bleak corridors are shot with documentary-like starkness, avoiding the melodrama that plagued his earlier works. However, subtle visual metaphors—like Yao's shackles symbolizing societal bondage—hint at his signature lyricism. The decision to delay revealing his directorial role until the credits (to avoid preconceived biases) speaks to his self-awareness and commitment to the story.
The show's deliberate pacing and narrative gaps demand active viewer engagement. Early episodes omit explicit explanations for Yao and Xu's actions, inviting audiences to piece together motives from fragmented clues—the factory's whispered rumors, a mother's averted gaze6. This trust in the audience's interpretive ability transforms passive consumption into collaborative storytelling, a rarity in fast-paced streaming fare.
A Mirror to Modern Discontent
To Live by Borrowing succeeds not by offering solutions but by holding a mirror to the faceless adversaries shaping modern life—corporate greed, bureaucratic apathy, and the commodification of human dignity. Its power lies in specificity: the factory isn't just a setting but a character, its rusted machinery echoing the grinding weight of inequality. By episode five, as Du's quest inches closer to truth, the series poses a Hugo-inspired question: Can individual compassion dismantle systemic rot? The answer remains uncertain, but the act of asking—of refusing to look away—is its own rebellion.
The factory gates and prison bars—twin symbols of institutional suffocation—remain intact by episode five. Yet in Du Xiangdong's relentless pursuit of truth, and in Yao Binbin's shattered hands clutching dignity until his last breath, the series plants a flag of resistance. This adaptation rephrases that hope in starkly contemporary terms: sunlight, here, isn't guaranteed. But as long as stories like this dare to hammer at the gates—exposing how power corrodes and compassion redeems—the fight itself becomes a kind of dawn.
