Cover The story of ’Dear You’ is built on ‘qiaopi’, letters sent with money, that Chinese emigrants sent home between the 1820s and 1980s (Photo: Movie still)
The story of ’Dear You’ is built on ‘qiaopi’, letters sent with money, that Chinese emigrants sent home between the 1820s and 1980s (Photo: Movie still)
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A low-budget film with amateur actors, shot entirely in a regional dialect, has grossed 1.9 billion yuan in China. Here's why—and what I thought.
I’ll be honest: I didn’t expect much from Dear You. A film about postal money orders from the 1950s, starring a finance student and an illustrator, shot in a dialect most of the audience needs subtitles to follow? It sounded like homework. The kind of film that gets made for festival glory and quietly expires in a handful of cinemas. I’ve sat through enough of those to know the signs.
I was wrong. So were the industry analysts who gave it a 3.6 per cent screening share on opening day (April 30). Thankfully, Chinese audiences have a habit of forming their own opinions.
By mid-2026, this modest production had grossed 1.9 billion yuan in mainland China and another 10 million Hong Kong dollars in its first ten days in Hong Kong. It holds a 9.1 rating on Douban, China’s most influential film platform. For context, that places it alongside The Dark Knight and Pulp Fiction—both of which also hold 9.1 ratings. According to Hong Kong news sources, it is now the highest-rated mainland Chinese film of the 21st century.
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So what is it about Dear You that has moved millions to tears? The answer is deceptively simple: it tells the truth.
Above Two people in love, unaware that their story would span decades and letters (Photo: Movie still)
Two people in love, unaware that their story would span decades and letters (Photo: Movie still)
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The setting is the 1950s, when economic hardship drove vast numbers of men from the Chaoshan region to seek work in Southeast Asia. This journey was known as “going to Nanyang”. The crossing was brutal. Overcrowded boats, disease, storms and the very real chance of never arriving. Those who survived had one thread connecting them to home: the qiaopi, letters sent back with money, delivered through an informal network of couriers that operated for over a century. The film doesn’t lecture you about this. It simply shows you the weight of each envelope.
The plot is straightforward. Shurou, a young woman in Chaozhou, marries Musheng, a man who dreams of a better life abroad. When he leaves for Thailand, she waits, faithfully keeping his family together. Musheng is a quiet, determined man who takes whatever work he can find, sending money home each month. Another woman, Nanzhi, enters the picture. She is the innkeeper’s daughter in Bangkok who, illiterate at first, helps Musheng compose his letters and gradually learns to read and write alongside him. She is kind, resourceful and carries a quiet devotion that will shape the lives of everyone around her. What follows is a story of loyalty, sacrifice and a misunderstanding that takes decades to resolve. The film never lunges for your emotions. It knows everyone will find their own moment. A letter here. A photograph there. A family waiting for someone who won't return. It simply tells the story and trusts you to find your way in.
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Above For decades, Shurou waited. When the truth finally arrived, it came with a photograph and a new understanding (Photo: Movie still)
For decades, Shurou waited. When the truth finally arrived, it came with a photograph and a new understanding (Photo: Movie still)
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The director, Lan Hongchun, cast non-professionals deliberately. He used MBTI (Myers-Briggs Type Indicator) tests during auditions, looking for INF types, which represent Introversion (I), Intuition (N) and Feeling (F), that he believed would have natural empathy. The two leads: Li Sitong, a former finance student, and Wang Xiaohui, an illustrator, had no previous training. It shows, but not in the way you’d expect. The performances are unpolished, but instead of detracting, it adds something—a rawness, a lack of artifice. It is the opposite of star-driven cinema, and it is better for it.
Director Lan Hongchun spent three years researching this film, interviewing nearly 300 overseas Chinese families across Southeast Asia, the Americas and Europe. Over 90 per cent of the plot is rooted in real-life accounts. That commitment to truth shows in every frame. The wooden bicycles, street food stalls and rituals of family life are all drawn from those oral histories.
Above Musheng sends money and letters home that would sustain his family across the ocean (Photo: Movie still)
Musheng sends money and letters home that would sustain his family across the ocean (Photo: Movie still)
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Hong Kong’s position is also acknowledged in the movie. The remittances are sent in Hong Kong dollars because, after 1949, the renminbi could not be freely exchanged overseas. All foreign currency had to be converted in Hong Kong before being forwarded to the mainland, a mechanism that kept the whole system running.
And then there is the history the film carries. The qiaopi were not sentimental documents. They were economic lifelines. The money they contained built schools, hospitals and roads in villages that would otherwise have been left behind. In the postwar years, they helped rebuild a shattered economy. The scale is difficult to grasp: the qiaopi trade operated for 150 years, from the 1820s to the 1970s, and played an indispensable role in China’s economic modernisation. Scholars have argued that it was key to China’s survival as an independent nation-state. Nearly 160,000 of these letters have been preserved, and in 2013, UNESCO added them to its Memory of the World Register. The film acknowledges this in its closing credits.
Above Nanzhi learns to read and write alongside a homesick stranger (Photo: Movie still)
Nanzhi learns to read and write alongside a homesick stranger (Photo: Movie still)
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Dear You leaves you with an ache—not the sharp pain of tragedy, but something deeper: a recognition of all the love given and never acknowledged, all the sacrifices made in silence. There is heartbreak here, yes, but also the quiet, unshakeable knowledge that none of these people are alone. The women who wait. The men who leave. The strangers who become family. They are all connected, bound by something larger than blood.
It is a distinctly Chiuchow quality, this sense of shared fate. There is a saying among the Chiuchow people: ka ki nang (家己人) “one of us” or “our own people.” It is never spoken aloud in the film, but it feels like the thing that holds everything together.
I went in expecting a modest film. I left moved—not by sentiment, but by the quiet ferocity with which these characters refused to abandon each other. That kind of community is rare. In this film, it feels like the only thing that matters.
Above The crowded lanes of Bangkok’s Chinatown, recreated from oral histories (Photo: Movie still)
The crowded lanes of Bangkok’s Chinatown, recreated from oral histories (Photo: Movie still)
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A storyteller by day and a first-class food devourer by night, Fontaine is the Regional Dining Editor at Tatler Asia, overseeing dining content across all regions and shaping the brand’s editorial voice on food, chefs and culinary culture.
She is also Content Lead for Tatler Best and Co-jury Head for Tatler Best Hong Kong and Macau, guiding the awards’ editorial direction and evaluation process. With over a decade in the lifestyle and media industry spanning London and Hong Kong, she brings a cross-regional perspective to the table.
Follow her on Instagram at @fontimes.
