On the surface, Love Story in the 1970s is a simple tale: Fei Ni is hell-bent on attending college, and Mu Yang is ready to support the love of his life through every detour. Set in China beginning in 1975, the series follows these two protagonists as they navigate their early twenties in a country undergoing immense transformation.
The story is bolstered by a rich ensemble: Fei Ni’s family—her parents, her brother Fei Ting, and his fiancée Lin Mei—as well as Mu Yang’s sister, Mu Jing, and her husband, Qu Hua. They are contrasted by a cast of antagonists, including Fei Ni’s prickly co-worker Feng Lin, the opportunistic social climber Ling Yi, and the meddlesome Lin Song.
If the cast list seems daunting, it is only because the series—spanning 29 episodes and two years of narrative time—is a sweeping commentary on life in Communist China. It offers an unhurried look at the rigid social systems of the era, exploring the agency people possess (or lack) within the severely restricted boundaries drawn by society and the government. Throw in a natural disaster, and the series becomes a profound study of human nature.
This show holds up a mirror to the audience. It asks who we are when we love unabashedly, who we are when we are consumed by the pursuit of excellence, and who we are when we stumble upon a windfall with no one to hold us accountable but ourselves.
Fei Ni (Sun Qian) and Mu Yang (Arthur Chen) are perfectly cast as the factory worker and the artist, respectively. However, the pair that truly stole my heart are Mu Jing (Cristy Guo) and Qu Hua (Wang Tian Chen). Mu Jing plays a researcher who is rational to a fault, while Qu Hua is a neurosurgeon often defeated by his own heart. Their chemistry is a masterclass in subtlety; their micro-expressions and body language exist in a realm of their own.
What makes this show timeless is the impeccable production design. The attention to detail is mind-boggling—down to the Chairman Mao pins worn even while performing household chores. The factory and home settings, the integration of archival footage, and the authentic writing all contribute to a deeply immersive experience.
The camerawork is equally impressive. I have many favorite scenes, but one stands out: the sequence where the family waits for the grandmother to wake up after surgery. The camera adopts the grandmother’s perspective—starting hazy before coming into sharp, clear focus. However, what truly takes the cake is the raw expression on Qu Hua’s face. It was a spectacular moment of television.
Ultimately, every supporting character is well-written, with fully realized arcs and perfect casting. If my gushing isn’t proof enough, let me be clear: if you enjoy well-crafted storytelling, magnetic performances, atmospheric direction, and a satisfying ending with no loose ends, this show is for you. I rarely award a perfect score, but this series earns every bit of its 10/10 rating.
Have you ever watched a show that felt like a perfect 10/10, or do you have a favorite period drama that stays with you? Let me know in the comments—I’m looking for my next binge-watch!
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