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一场与时光的深情对话 音乐剧《时间去哪儿了》首演_我的网站

A |           　　8月18日晚7:30，山东省会大剧院歌剧厅内座无虚席，灯光渐次亮起，大幕徐徐拉开。国家艺术基金2026年度大型舞台剧资助项目、济南市歌舞剧院原创音乐剧《时间去哪儿了》迎来首场正式演出。

B |     

    Chen Aijun works in an optical shop in Chengdu, southwest China's Sichuan Province, Aug. 14, 2026. (Xinhua/Lu Youyi)The video came with almost no instructions.
There was no narration explaining the mythology behind palaces rising above an ocean of clouds in the video, nor subtitles identifying the heavenly gates, cranes or tiny figures moving beneath them.
Yet viewers outside China quickly began naming the world for themselves.
Some called it "paradise." Others saw a "Celestial Palace" or an "Immortal Realm" familiar from Chinese fantasy games and television dramas. One user wrote, "Waiting on Wukong to show up," invoking the Monkey King from the Chinese literary classic "Journey to the West," or the hit game "Black Myth: Wukong."
The interpretations differed, but viewers did not seem to need the same cultural knowledge to enter the conversation.
Earlier this month, Chinese foreign ministry spokesperson Mao Ning shared the 33-second AI-generated video on social media with a question: "What does the Chinese heaven look like?"
It opened up a hermeneutic discussion, with responses overseas suggesting a cultural image does not necessarily need to elicit exactly the same interpretation for everyone in order for it to be viewed meaningfully.
"The right to interpret ultimately lies with the audience," said Zhang Zheng, deputy dean of Tsinghua University's School of Journalism and Communication.
People encountering unfamiliar cultures inevitably draw on what they already know, Zhang said. Rather than fully grasping every cultural reference, what matters is whether audiences can encounter the work, understand it and respond to it emotionally.
Before strangers abroad could interpret this particular world, however, it first had to get out of one man's head.
Chen Aijun, 34, is an optometrist in Chengdu, capital of southwest China's Sichuan Province.
By day, Chen leads a quiet, down-to-earth life in a neighborhood optical shop. Inside, he worked among eyeglass frames and optometry equipment. On his computer was another landscape entirely: cloud seas, immense palaces, flying cranes and figures in ancient robes.
Chen's heaven did not come from any single ancient text.
Growing up in the 1990s, he watched "Journey to the West" and later encountered "The Investiture of the Gods," xianxia (immortal heroes) novels and fantasy games. Those stories mixed over time with images of Chinese architecture and landscapes he saw online.
He has never visited nearby Mount Emei, and most of what he knows of Mount Huangshan's famous sea of clouds comes from videos.
What appeared on his screen was therefore not a reconstruction of one fixed mythological scene, but a world shaped by traditional stories already filtered through television, novels, games, the internet and his own memory.
For years, Chen had no way to make that world visible.
He never studied painting, design, photography or 3D modeling. After high school, he joined his parents' optical business and eventually took over the shop.
Generative AI changed the gap between imagining an image and possessing the technical skills to show it to someone else.
More than a year ago, Chen began teaching himself through free online tutorials. In September 2025, he started regularly posting AI videos, and a month later began experimenting with palaces floating above clouds. He has since published more than 200 videos.
The process, however, involves far more than entering a few prompts. The technology lowered the technical threshold, but it did not make the choices for him.
When creating Nantianmen, the mythical heavenly gate, Chen first defines the spatial rhythm and tonal hierarchy, pairing towering architecture and cloud seas with deliberately miniature figures to amplify the celestial realm's grand scale.
If the result does not match the picture in his mind, he tries again. He often generates over 1,000 images a day, revising a single scene repeatedly before moving on to animation, editing, color grading and music.
The machine can generate a thousand possible heavens. Chen still has to decide which one is his.
"AI-produced images can be soulless, and it takes human inspiration and aesthetic sensibility to endow works with warmth and vitality," he said.
Zhang believes Chen's experience reflects a broader shift brought about by generative AI. He said AI is giving people without conventional artistic training access to forms of expression that once required specialized skills. But what they create still depends on what they bring to the tool.
"A person's existing knowledge inevitably shapes how they use AI," Zhang said.
Chen brought his memories to the machine. Viewers abroad, in turn, brought theirs to the image.
"Everyone brings their own associations to these scenes," he said.
If his imagined world had to be reduced to three elements, he would keep clouds, architecture and people. The first two should feel immense, he said, while the last should remain small.
The details are culturally specific, but the visual effect is more immediate: tiny human figures dwarfed by vast clouds and monumental architecture. The responses suggest that viewers did not need to understand every cultural reference to find a way into the image.
Chen has no overseas social media accounts and learned that the video was attracting attention abroad only when friends sent him screenshots.
His life at the optical shop has changed little. He still checks eyesight and fits glasses when customers come in, then returns to his computer when the shop grows quiet.
He now hopes to make longer AI videos with fuller stories. He also wants to visit Mount Emei and, one day, Mount Huangshan.
For years, images of distant mountains and clouds reached Chen through screens. His imagined landscapes later traveled through screens to people he had never met.
Now he wants to see the real mountains and clouds for himself.
    Chen Aijun makes AI videos in an optical shop in Chengdu, southwest China's Sichuan Province, Aug. 14, 2026. (Xinhua/Lu Youyi)
。     　　以想象之眼      　　重新审视每一个平凡的日子      　　《时间去哪儿了》以一个极具寓言色彩的设定展开叙事——世间有一座银行，人们可以将“闲置的时间”存入其中，坐收利息。时间由此成为一种可以流通、计量、甚至增值的存在，而那些被我们漫不经心度过的日常，忽然都有了被重新审视的可能。     　　在这一精妙的叙事框架之下，人物的命运交织呈现：经营茶咖小店的秒秒、怀揣梦想在城市中跋涉的青年小喆、手艺精湛的理发师剪刀坦、奔波于厨灶间的蜗牛哥与蜗牛嫂、多年坚守小镇的扫地人老默，以及默默守护时间秩序的时间老人与发条。他们并非遥不可及的童话，而是我们身边每一个普通人的缩影——日复一日地忙碌、错过、追忆、释怀，在时间的洪流中寻找着属于自己的意义。     　　这部剧的独到之处在于：它没有给出关于“时间”的宏大论述，而是将目光投向那些最容易被忽略的细微瞬间——一杯茶的温度、一句未说出口的告别、一个被搁置的梦想、一次迟到的回望。当这些碎片在舞台上被重新拼合，每一位观众都能在其中辨认出自己的面孔。     　　以音乐为叙事主体      　　构建情感的多重纵深      　　全剧包含20首原创音乐作品，唱段总时长近100分钟，贯穿始终。有别于传统音乐剧以台词为主、以歌曲为辅的叙事模式，《时间去哪儿了》大胆地将音乐置于叙事引擎的位置——旋律不只是情感的渲染，更是故事推进的内在驱动力。     　　首演现场，音乐展现出极强的情绪穿透力。多处段落中，台上演员的歌声与台下观众的呼吸融为一体，给观众带来极强的沉浸感。尤其是全剧尾声，主题曲的旋律响起，整个剧场陷入深沉的静默——那是千言万语凝结成的一种共同感受。

C |      　　首演之夜      　　观众的反响是最真实的评价      　　“我原本以为是来看一个热闹的故事，没想到越看越往心里去。

D | ”一位观众在散场后表示，“舞台上演的好像就是我自己的生活，只是从来没有被这样讲出来过。”有年轻观众在留言中写下：“走出剧场以后，突然特别想给家人打个电话。”      　　这种跨越年龄、跨越阅历的情感共鸣，正是《时间去哪儿了》最可贵的艺术品质——它没有试图说教，只是把每个人都经历过却来不及细想的事情，郑重地摆在你面前，让你自己去感受、去思考。

E |      　　走出济南      　　将抛问带向远方      　　首演的成功只是一个开始。《时间去哪儿了》在完成本轮济南演出后，将随即开启全国巡演，并同步推进“高雅艺术进校园、进社区”系列活动，让这部作品走出剧场、走近更广泛的观众群体。     　　剧组在大剧院前厅特意设置了一座沉浸式的时光空间。一面“美好回忆之墙”静候着每一位到场的观众——一棵“时间之树”旁，跨越60年的日历铺满墙面。观众朋友们纷纷在墙前合影留念，在日历上郑重按下自己的手印，将生命中那些值得铭记的时刻留在了这棵树上。

F | 这座时间之墙也将跟随巡演去往更多地方，在每一座城市的剧场门前收集新的印记，长成一棵跨越时空的集体记忆之树。     　　导演李大海在谢幕后表示：“我们希望《时间去哪儿了》不仅是一场演出，更是一次与观众共同完成的关于时间的对话。当灯光暗下、旋律远去，如果每位观众都能在心里多停留一刻，想一想自己的时间该如何度过——那就是这部作品最大的意义。

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Published on:13:23:42