The Makeup General: Foundation Cream on the Battlefield and the Forgotten History of Male Beauty in China

In early 2026, China's period drama 'Zhuyu' sparked a viral debate after actor Zhang Linghe appeared as a general with a smooth, foundation-cream complexion, painted lips and immaculately styled hair. Netizens mocked the character as the 'foundation-cream general', yet the ridicule hides a question China's own history can answer — was beauty really absent from the battlefield? I have spent many nights leaning on the rail of Khulna's indoor stadium, where no fighter applies cosmetics before entering the ring; they flare their nostrils, breathe, and their cornerman whispers three words — footwork, breath, patience. In 2026, at the Khulna divisional rounds, I hand-counted every round of 47 bouts in a spiral notebook: jabs, clinch time, referee warnings. Those numbers taught me that a fighter's true portrait is never written on the sheen of a face — it is written in sweat. The debate is not about one drama or one actor. Over the past decade, Chinese period productions have increasingly prioritised 'liuliang' or traffic stars whose looks sell better than their craft, and an entire market economy now underwrites this. A Beijing Evening News analysis titled 'Why do generals wear foundation?' by Cai Hui traced the roots of this trend and discovered that history itself once embraced such an aesthetic. That discovery is what interests me, because in a handful of Chinese centuries, martial power and delicate beauty lived in the same body — and the outcome of battle was decided by something else entirely. The most discussed chapter of male beauty in Chinese history is the Wei-Jin and Six Dynasties period, roughly 222 to 589 AD: Eastern Wu, Eastern Jin, Liu Song, Southern Qi, Liang and Chen, all of which based their capitals at Jiankang, today's Nanjing. It was also an unusually unstable era, and amid invasions, political upheaval and philosophical uncertainty, the aristocracy sought an aesthetic refuge. They believed that personal beauty, free conduct and artistic sensibility were the true marks of greatness — a philosophy called 'fengliu'. Under its shadow, a soft, slender physique and a taste for adornment took hold. Research by Zhang Haisa and Xu Shidong, published in the journal Wen Yi Yan Jiu in 2026, found that during the Six Dynasties a neutral, even feminine, ideal of male beauty emerged. Its two chief expressions were a soft, slender body and the habits of powdering the face, shaving, and burning incense. Strikingly, generals of this era also tended to wear excessively colourful clothing when going to war. Here the first contradiction becomes clear: the general's garment, meant to symbolise courage, becomes an exhibition of vanity. This culture feels strangely familiar to me, because adornment can become a medium of social communication — people signal their class and their circle through the sheen of a face. I have seen that language outside the Khulna ring too, but once a fighter steps inside, the language changes: there only breath and punches speak. The brightest example is He Yan, who held enormous power under Cao Wei. In the collection Shishuo Xinyu, the 'Rong Zhi' chapter records that Emperor Ming of Wei suspected he wore powder because his face was so white, and so gave him a bowl of food cooked in hot water in the height of summer. He Yan sweated and wiped his face with a cloth, yet his face grew even more luminous. The episode is a metaphor for a general's beauty, where a lack of proof only deepens suspicion — beauty is never self-evident; it must be proven through sweat. By the early sixth century, under the Liang dynasty, this culture of adornment was so entrenched that it drew written condemnation. In the 'Encouraging Learning' chapter of his Family Instructions, Yan Zhitui describes the sons of noble houses: they scent their clothes, fix their faces, apply powder and rouge, wear high clogs, sit on silk cushions and surround themselves with treasures, looking like immortals. This is not merely a portrait of beauty but of an entire class's way of life, in which adornment becomes a vehicle of social status. In the 'Handling Affairs' chapter he adds that scholar-officials were used to travelling by carriage, were helped indoors, and rarely rode horses — so when the Hou Jing rebellion broke out, many were too weak to walk or to endure heat, cold or chaos. The criticism is not metaphorical but real: the luxury of a class rendered it immobile at the moment of crisis. A near-comic example is the official Wang Fu, said to have been so frightened by a horse's neigh that he leapt up and asked, 'This is a tiger — why is it called a horse?' Among the generals, the most discussed figure is Wang Gong of the Eastern Jin. The Jin Shu records that he held the post of Pingbei General, managed military affairs across several regions and was stationed at Jingkou. The Shi Dian Gu Ji compares his appearance to a tender spring willow, and when he walked through snowfall in a long crane-feather cloak he was praised as an immortal. In battle he wore a robe some two zhang long — roughly four and a half metres — embroidered in gold with dragons and phoenixes, turning the battlefield into a stage for display. Yet the same history judges him ruthlessly: Wang Gong was unskilled in war, considered himself lofty and kept his subordinates at a distance. When he was defeated in a power struggle and fled on horseback, his thighs ached because he had not ridden for so long; he could not continue, and after boarding a boat to escape he was captured. Here the lesson becomes clear to me: a beautiful cloak and a fearsome face can coexist, but on the battlefield only the body that knows how to ride survives. I learned this on a different stage — the loudest man outside the ring is often the first to gasp in round one. Now comes the figure many regard as the true archetype of today's 'foundation-cream general': Xie Xuan, the celebrated general of the Eastern Jin. According to the Jin Shu, his uncle Xie An was displeased by his aristocratic, luxurious conduct and repeatedly tried to suppress him. Yet Xie Xuan never changed his habits; he often carried a silk scarf and wore colourful, flashy clothes, which makes him resemble the soft general of the modern screen. But history does not judge him unfairly. Xie Xuan was an extraordinary commander who held the post of Jianwu General and helped the Eastern Jin defeat the Former Qin forces many times, most famously at the Battle of the Fei River, where he routed a vast army with few troops. He is assessed as a strategist, closer to a military adviser than a field commander — meaning his adornment did not diminish his strategy. This duality is the most instructive thing of all: a face and a mind are never each other's enemy. Finally, Han Zigao, another celebrated 'foundation-cream general' of the Chen dynasty. The Chen Shu describes his beauty as so striking that he resembled a woman. Yet the same history records that he learned to ride and to shoot a bow, was ruthless and decisive in battle, once charged alone into an army, and was wounded in the neck in one engagement. Emperor Wen of Chen favoured him especially and made him Youwei General. After Emperor Wen, however, Han Zigao lost favour; when Chen Xu took the throne, he later ordered Zigao's death. That is what has led later historians to wonder whether Zigao's feats were real, or were recorded only because he was Emperor Wen's favourite. This doubt is the most valuable thing here, because it shows that the relationship between beauty and valour is never a straight line — sometimes beauty is a route to power, sometimes the source of suspicion. Now to the part where the story turns against the common understanding. The simple explanation runs: the generals dressed up, therefore they were weak, and today's dramas present that weakness as heroism. But history does not follow such a straight line. Xie Xuan dressed up, yet he was a great general; Han Zigao looked like a woman, yet he charged alone into enemy troops. Wang Gong, who looked like an immortal in the snow, could not survive a battle. External beauty and military skill are two separate axes. The error of history is that we place them on the same straight line — beautiful means weak, rugged means strong. That error also occurs in my own profession. In the Khulna ring, spectators often decide who will win by who looks fitter, yet the bout ends in someone else's hands, recorded in my spiral notebook. The true measure of war is never a face — it is preparation, strategy and the decision of the moment. And we forget one more thing in this debate: the 'foundation-cream general' of today's screen is not the adorned general of history. Historical adornment was the habit of a social class, backed by philosophy, power and even controversy. Cinematic adornment is often commercial calculation — a handsome face to draw audiences, with the battlefield turned into a beauty salon. To conflate the two wrongs both history and modern cinema. Here one reality must be kept in mind: the casting tendency in Chinese period dramas is not the fault of cinema alone; it reflects market demand. As long as audiences buy tickets for beautiful faces, producers will supply those faces, whether or not the history is correct. So the question is not only 'Why does the general wear foundation?' but 'Why do we want to see that general?' That is the real question for me, because it is not only about Chinese cinema — every country imagines its warrior according to its own needs, sometimes for heroism, sometimes for beauty. Let me return to that sweat-soaked question. At the Khulna divisional rounds I learned that a fighter's true identity lies in his sweat, his breath, his patience — not in the sheen of his face. The history of China's Six Dynasties teaches the same lesson: adornment and beauty return in every age, but the outcome of battle changes for other reasons. Who a warrior is is never written in the colour of his skin. So the next time I see a 'foundation-cream general' on screen, I will not blame him. I will instead ask: who wrote the history behind him, and why? Because today's debate is not really China's — it is everyone's. Every country imagines its warrior for its own purposes, sometimes for heroism, sometimes for beauty. The question is which we choose — and what that choice reveals about ourselves. One truth remains, proven by both history and the ring: on the battlefield the colour of a face never wins the fight; preparation does. And that reckoning, like my spiral notebook, can only be arrived at by hand.