Tag: Cantonese

Little Red Sweet (紅豆, Vincent Chow, 2024)

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Towards the conclusion of Vincent Chow’s poignant drama Little Red Sweet (紅豆), the heroine says she thinks her family’s sweet soup shop is important because it helps people hang on to memories through food. Like many, May (Stephy Tang) seems to be displaced in a Hong Kong that’s changing all around her while other things stay frustratingly the same from her father’s (Simon Yam) refusal to teach her the family recipe because he wanted to pass the shop onto his son to her brother’s sexist assumptions that the housework is her responsibility while staying home playing games rather than helping in the shop.

Indeed, it’s not until matriarch Lin (Mimi Kung) suffers a stroke that everything she did for the family is thrown into stark relief. It’s clear she did most of the heavy lifting at the shop, especially when it comes to customer interactions which are not May’s father’s forte. He doesn’t speak English and has to fetch Lin when a pair of tourists want to pay. Unable to run the shop alone, he asks his son Boyo (Jeffrey Ngai) to help, but he refuses despite having no other obligations as a cram school student who mainly stays home and plays games. Boyo doesn’t help with the housework either, simply expecting that May will take care of it and him despite his ongoing obnoxiousness. 

Because of his refusal, May finds herself giving up her dream job as an air stewardess to help out in the shop though her father won’t let her near the kitchen and seems as if he’d still ideally like to hand the shop down to his son or perhaps close it for good to free both children from the burden of caring for its legacy. May’s job as an air stewardess may have symbolised her desire for escape but also reflects her rootlessness and sense of displacement. Before her mother was taken ill, she’d suggested using her staff discount to go on a family holiday which would have been their first because her father never wanted to close the shop though it was obviously not to be nor could she repair their familial bonds through her work. Both she and her tentative love interest (Kevin Chu) recall how low the planes seemed to fly when they were children and how distant they seem now reflecting not a broadening of their horizons but the impossibility of escape along with a loss of intimacy and the widening spaces between people.

But as Canadian-Hong Kong travel writer Soar says, it’s the people not the place and it’s the sense of community that May values in the old-fashioned shopping arcade that is inevitably targeted for redevelopment threatening the future of the shop. First trying to resist the march of progress, May eventually starts looking at new spaces but the ones she sees are slick, modern, and devoid of both warmth and character. A journalist who comes to interview May asks her why she wants to carry on a shop selling traditional desserts that might not be so popular among the younger generation but May says that it’s important as they help people hang on to their memories as if she were also talking about an older Hong Kong that is fast disappearing the soul of which lies in the sense of comfort this sweet bean soup provides. Eventually she’s presented with a choice, like many of her generation wondering whether to take her memories somewhere else or stay and try to salvage something from rapidly receding past. 

Her father’s eventual capitulation in agreeing to teach her how to make the family’s iconic sweet red bean soup is akin to a baton being passed, but also a sign of progress in accepting her as his heir rather than insisting on the feckless Boyo whom he also takes to task for his reluctance to look after himself and assumption that it’s his sister’s job to cook and clean for him. Though perhaps bittersweet, there is indeed something poignant in May’s determination to remake a home in a shrinking Hong Kong where community matters and kindnesses are repaid with interest years after they’d seemingly been forgotten. As Soar had said, it’s the people not the place or in another sense perhaps it amounts to the same thing and the taste of home you only find in the warming sweetness of red bean soup.

Little Red Sweet screens Nov. 8/11 as part of this year’s San Diego Asian Film Festival.

Original trailer (no subtitles)

The Eighth Happiness (八星報喜, Johnnie To, 1988)

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A literal series of crossed wires provoke romantic intrigue for three eccentric brothers in Johnnie To’s smash hit Cinema City Lunar New Year comedy, The Eighth Happiness (八星報喜). As so often in To’s subsequent films, a random instance of fatalistic chance changes each of brothers’ lives though not perhaps permanently as the surprisingly ironic coda makes plain. Even so, their parallel quests for love of one kind or another perhaps tell us something about the changing Hong Kong society in the midst of rising economic prosperity and looming Handover anxiety. 

Seemingly without parents, the three Fong brothers live together in a well-appointed multi-level home owned by oldest sibling Fai (Raymond Wong Pak-ming) who hosts a daytime television program titled Mainly Housewives which includes a cookery/agony aunt segment in which he attempts to solve someone’s relationship problems through food. As in many of Raymond Wong’s other roles in Cinema City comedies, Fai is feminised throughout not only in acting as the “mother” of the family preparing all the meals at home but also in his single status and the focus of his television show which nevertheless intros him with the James Bond theme. 

Second brother Long (Chow Yun-fat), meanwhile, actively camps it up claiming that he pretends to be gay in order to get girls after lulling them into a false sense of security. Despite being engaged to air hostess Piu Hung (Carol Cheng Yu Ling), he has a side mission going to sleep with a woman from each of Hong Kong’s 19 districts and is a relentless Casanova striking up an affair with unexpectedly chaotic department store assistant “Beautiful” (Cherie Chung Chor-hung). Youngest brother Sang (Jacky Cheung Hok-yau), meanwhile, is a painfully shy aspiring cartoonist who becomes an accidental white knight to a young woman caught up in a bizarre flashing incident in the local park only to be mistaken for the culprit himself. 

Each of the brothers is offered a new romantic possibility because of a telephone malfunction caused by an elderly lady driver forgetting her glasses and ploughing through local works mangling the lines. Sang is reunited with Ying Ying (and her martial arts champion swordsman mother) after overhearing a suicide attempt but ending up at her apartment by mistake, thereafter finding himself facing a challenge of masculinity on discovering that she already has a very buff and macho boyfriend who in his own way also seems jealous and insecure. Meanwhile, Long overhears a conversation between Beautiful and a colleague at the store about their ideal men, entering into passive aggressive courtship while discovering that her boyfriend is fabulously wealthy (or, at least, his father is) leading to a standoff in which he ends up proving his masculinity by burning money he doesn’t really have, smashing his own cheapo watch to intimidate the other guy into destroying his diamond Rolex, and then trashing the car he borrowed from Fai to expose the fact the other guy isn’t really wealthy or man enough to do the same because at the end of the day it’s his father’s money and he’s not so rich that these very expensive status symbols mean little to him. 

Fai meanwhile has a much more normal romance which is disrupted, mostly, by his brothers’ chaos and then near destroyed rather than forged through a misdirected phone call. After Long trashes his car, he asks Sang for the number for a repair guy but instead gets through to Fong (Fung Bo Bo) whose musician husband has just walked out on her seconds before which is why she’s quite rude to him on the phone, slamming the receiver down the second time he rings. Annoyed on a personal level Fai asks Long to troll her by ringing up at 3am every night causing her to injure her ankle and later fall on stage during a Cantonese opera performance. Then he ends up meeting her by chance in real life when she ends up buying the last of his favourite biscuits at a local cafe, only to discover she’s his interview for that day’s show where she’s supposed to talk about her art but finds his face so funny she can’t stop laughing. Had it not been for business with the telephone harassment they might have had a conventional romance, but the further machinations of the chaotic brothers soon convince her that Fai is not a reliable life partner. 

To convince her he’s really a good guy, Fai undertakes a grand gesture making himself the focus of his culinary/agony item by cooking up the spiciest soup imaginable and drinking it on live TV to atone but such a meaningless feat does nothing for Fong who doubtless is over romantic stunts and looking for something more concrete. Long’s grand gesture, by contrast, fares much better as he chases Piu Hung to a fancy hotel and makes a scene from the other side of the glass before falling in the pool while trying desperately to save an engagement ring while suddenly on the back foot after she learns about his philandering. Fai is only able to redeem himself through artifice, he and Fong signing through their romantic drama while performing Cantonese opera surrounded by the brothers and their girls trying at least to support him in his own romantic endeavour which their chaos has largely undermined. 

It’s another cosmic irony therefore that whereas the chaos of the misdirected telephone calls earns both Sang and Long everything they wanted in both career and romantic success, Fai who generally does the right thing ultimately loses out through another chaotic development while even Beautiful apparently achieves her dreams. Despite his earlier protestations during get phone call that Hong Kong was beautiful and there was no need to leave, Song and Ying Ying decide to travel the world perhaps expressing a degree of anxiety in pre-Handover Hong Kong, while Long is left with internalised anxiety over his new role as husband and father, and Fai is back pretty much where he started. A typical Lunar New Year nonsense comedy, there’s no disputing that much of the humour in The Eighth Happiness is of its time, but there is something of To’s later obsessions with comic fate and romantic farce that transcends Raymond Wong & Philip Cheng’s Cinema City silliness. 

Trailer (no subtitles)

The Way We Talk (看我今天怎麼說, Adam Wong Sau-Ping, 2024)

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In the opening scenes of Adam Wong’s The Way We Talk (看我今天怎麼說), deaf children are being taught in a specialist school but are prohibited from using sign language to communicate with each other. The teacher, who does not sign, reprimands them severely insisting that they must speak to her. Her harsh and authoritarian approach is akin to that taken by colonialising authorities insisting that children must speak their language in an attempt to wipe out that which is spoken in their homes and among their families in a concerted attempt to weaken the bonds of their communities. The teacher claims she’s doing this for their own good, as do some of the children’s parents, because they believe that they will not be able to live “normal” lives if they cannot speak and that signing weakens their ability to do so. 

Of course, this is also motivated by internalised ableism and the stigma surrounding disability. Bella lost her hearing following a childhood illness and received a cochlear implant at an early age. Her mother did not want her to learn sign language because she believed doing so would set her back but instead forced her to listen to lines from television dramas multiple times, beating her with a coat hanger when she failed to repeat them with perfect pronunciation. Her prejudice is later exposed when she discovers that Bella has begun learning to sign as an adult, asking her if she wants to be like “one of those deaf people”. 

Bella had internalised a degree of this stigma herself, receiving financial aid as a kind of poster girl for an organisation promoting cochlear implants for whom she gives what is an incredibly insensitive speech in which she remarks that she believes that thanks to technology like this there will one day be no more deaf people in the world. Later she tries to use the sign language she’s learned in one of their videos but is quickly told off. The way the videos are framed presents the use of cochlear implants as a path towards a “normal” life, the point being that wearers could communicate in a way they describe as “normal”. If they were also signing it would imply that implants didn’t work and people wouldn’t buy them. In a later and even more insensitive ad, Bella is pictured with a caption that says the implants restore “joy and colour” to the wearer’s world as if the lives of deaf people were somehow colourless or devoid of joy.

It’s being called out for these unexamined views that gives Bella pause for thought on encountering Wolf, a tempestuous young man who refused a cochlear implant and is determined to preserve the existence of sign language which is after all his mother tongue. Wolf is frustrated by the march of technology. At Bella’s conference, he’s annoyed by the organisers who tell him they’ve cancelled the sign language interpreter because the captioning machine is good enough while appearing indifferent to his objection that they’ve removed the ability for a deaf person to ask a question. He isn’t against the use of cochlear implants for those who want them, like his friend Alan, but is also determined to preserve deaf culture through the preservation of sign language. 

Alan, meanwhile, has swung in the opposite direction and agrees that speech is essential for integration into mainstream society without really considering that it’s the society that should change to become more inclusive rather than forcing everyone to conform with it. Having been repeatedly turned down for employment, ironically in one case at least because she didn’t know sign language, Bella begins to feel that her dream of becoming an actuary is eternally out of reach. Though she’s secured a job at a high profile company, she feels as if she’s a diversity hire, essentially exploited while the company uses her to improve their image as a caring employer but only ever has her doing busy work as if they don’t trust her with anything important. Her mother had always pushed her to be “normal”, as if her deafness were something shameful to be concealed but it becomes clear that living this way places her under a lot of pressure while she may be more comfortable with communicating through sign language which affords her the freedom to express herself without constraint.

Crucially, the point is that Bella should have the choice to use whichever communication style she likes or all of them together rather than being pushed towards that which best suits a hearing society. Those in charge of decision making often claim they’re acting in the interests of inclusivity, but more often than not their decisions are influenced by a desire to cut costs such as relying on AI captions rather than paying an interpreter. Wolf’s dream of becoming a diving instructor is dealt a blow when the Hong Kong diving agency refuses to allow him to take the exam without a qualified deaf diver to interpret, only there obviously aren’t any because they’d all have been in the same position. With a gentle empathy, Wong exposes the petty prejudices of the hearing society but equally reveals the path towards the claiming of an identity among a strong and vibrant community.

The Way We Talk screened as part of this year’s BFI London Film Festival.

Original trailer (English subtitles)

Stuntman (武替道, Herbert Leung & Albert Leung, 2024)

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No matter how good a film is, it’s never worth risking someone’s life. Intellectually, “heartless” action choreographer Sam knows that, but once the camera’s rolling all he seems to see is the take and it’s win at all costs. An homage to the glory days of Hong Kong cinema when no one had ever heard the words health and safety, Herbert Leung & Albert Leung’s Stuntman (武替道) is in its way a paean for those who risked their lives for our entertainment but also for a fading Hong Kong which has the film seems to argue lost it’s bite and become rather defeatist if not docile. 

Those around Sam, played by real life action choreographer Tung Wai, seem to be convinced that “Hong Kong cinema is dead,” largely because, for very good reason, it’s no longer possible to make the kind of films they did back then with crazy, death-defying stunts and visceral action sequences. The opening scenes of the film, set in the mid-1990s, find Sam filming what appears to be a Police Story-style chase through a shopping mall that is supposed to end with a stuntman stand-in jumping from a bridge onto a moving car to catch the bad guy. The stuntman, Wai, is young and experienced so he doesn’t make the jump at which point Sam yells at him and asks his assistant, Kam, to to do it instead. But everything that could go wrong does and Kam is seriously injured because of Sam’s singleminded stubbornness in refusing to film the sequence with a cut which would obviously make it safer even if he argues less exciting. 

Sam evidently does feel a degree of guilt for this, especially as it later has other consequences for his personal life, and retreats from the film industry to run a bone setting clinic with posters for classic Hong Kong films on the wall. It’s a reverence for this bygone era that enables him to bond with Long (Terrance Lau Chun-him), a younger and more modern kind of stuntman who isn’t necessarily afraid of taking risks but understands the importance of on-set safety. Long can’t catch a break with demand for stuntmen falling rapidly precisely because of the concurrent decline of action cinema while his brother keeps pressuring him to give up his dreams and join his logistics company instead. It’s Kit’s delivery firm that becomes an accidental villain representing a Hong Kong that’s lost it’s nerve and is determined to play it safe while Sam’s recklessness perhaps represents the opposite, a dangerous desire to risk it all without considering the consequences for those around him.

But as he’s fond of saying, there’s always a way. It doesn’t have to be either or. The film seems to say, Hong Kong cinema isn’t dead, but now it belongs to those like Long to lead in new directions, modernising rather than fading away and taking the best of the past with it while leaving the more problematic elements behind. Originally swayed by Sam’s charisma, Long is somewhat horrified when he’s confronted with the consequences of his old school approach to filmmaking which includes going guerrilla style in the street without paying for permits with the consequence not only of police with real guns getting involved but innocent civilians trying to go about their day getting caught up in their fake robbery, becoming frightened and even injured in the ensuing panic. 

Meanwhile, he teaches old dog Sam a few new tricks in that being deliberately unpleasant is no longer the way to exert authority on set while ordering takeaway for everyone is a nice gesture that reminds them you’re all part of a team. As much as Long is a kind of surrogate son for Sam, he’s also reminded that there are some relationships that can’t ever really be fully repaired even if it’s not too late to try to remake them. His pain on seeing his soon-to-be-married daughter’s (Cecilia Choi Sze-wan) step-father taking pride of place at the wedding is palpable, but in the end he realises he’ll never really change because he’s a relic of an older Hong Kong unable to move forward into this new era. “No matter how strong the wind, keep the flame alive,” he tells Long talking both about the Spirit of Hong Kong and its cinema while in a flashback sequence reminding his young daughter that the fireworks will forever glow in her heart. Lent a degree of pathos by Tung Wai’s impassioned performance, the film is a true homage to classic Hong Kong action while also insisting that there’s always a way and it’s never too late to reclaim something of what’s been lost.

Stuntman opens in UK cinemas 11th October courtesy of CineAsia

UK trailer (English subtitles)

The Big Heat (城巿特警, Andrew Kam & Johnnie To, 1988)

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A Hong Kong cop struggles with his sense of responsibility when faced with the fatalistic existential threat of the imminent Handover in Johnnie To’s first foray into the genre with which he would later become most closely associated outside of Hong Kong, the action crime drama. After a handful of Cinema City comedies, To is credited as a co-director along with Andrew Kam Yeung Wah though the production of The Big Heat (城巿特警), loosely inspired by the Fritz Lang film of the same name, was notoriously complicated passing through several hands over its unusually long gestation of almost two years, according to an interview with screenwriter Gordon Chan Kar-Seung, with producer Tsui Hark also heavily involved in the shooting. 

Tsui’s involvement is apparently responsible for the unusual level of explicit violence more usually found in horror exploitation rather than gangster noir, though there is perhaps something in the constant bodily destruction that aligns with the pre-Handover setting in which the “big heat” hanging over the city is an increasing existential panic which has created the maddening environment in which this surreal violence can occur as revealed in the opening dream sequence which features a drill piercing a man’s hand with small pieces of flesh speeding off it. The dream will turn out to be a prophecy foreshadowing the final shootout in which Inspector Wong (Waise Lee Chi-Hung) is shot thought the hand though at this point it signals both a psychological and physical fracturing. Owing to a neurological condition, Wong has lost full control over his right hand which leads him to question his ability to protect his city if he is unable to pull the trigger when needed which might also explain why he is frequently seen practicing his marksmanship at the firing range. 

Because of this anxiety, Wong had planned to resign but changes his mind on learning that his former partner who sustained an injury that Wong felt himself responsible for has been brutally murdered by Hong Kong gangsters in Malaysia after coming across a secret folder “by chance” containing photos used to blackmail a shipping magnate over his his homosexuality and an incriminating invoice. To do the right thing, Wong also temporarily breaks up with his forensic scientist girlfriend Maggie (Betty Mak Chui-Han) whom he was due to marry in a fortnight’s time suggesting that they not see each other until he’s solved his friend’s murder and then presumably plans to retire from law enforcement. 

Essentially, he deprioritises his personal, romantic relationships in favour of the homosocial brotherhood of the police both avenging his friend and dedicating himself to protecting Hong Kong from an oncoming threat represented by gangster Han (Paul Chu Kong) who is later revealed to be in cahoots with Russian mafia who ironically have a large portrait of Lenin on their boat and hammer and sickle flags everywhere while vowing to continue “selling drugs and capitalism” in the seemingly lawless environment of pre-Handover Hong Kong where everyone apparently wants to make enough money to be able to leave if the situation declines, “communist” Russians perhaps standing in for looming Mainland authoritarianism. Han even offers to sell “everything including Hong Kong” passing a list of names of “important people in the government” he apparently has access to in vast network of corruption. “Cheers to 1997” they ironically toast for their burgeoning business opportunity. 

It’s this corruption that is the source of Wong’s anxiety, fearing he doesn’t have the strength to stop it while his compromised hand is a symbol of both fate and an impotence that is later exorcised when he receives the corresponding physical injury yet is saved by a crucifix necklace that previously belonged to his girlfriend while in another instance of foreshadowing the corrupt policeman is eventually taken out by his own malfunctioning gun backfiring just like that which ruined an assailant’s hand in the drug bust in which Wong’s partner was injured. Having regained mastery over his hand, Wong is therefore more assured in his ability to protect Hong Kong from whatever it is that’s coming remaining within the police force while those who pay the heaviest price are an idealistic young rookie unable to adapt to the morally compromised world of pre-Handover Hong Kong, and Wong’s fiancée who becomes a symbol of that which he could not protect having prioritised his role as a police officer. Though somewhat disjointed having passed through so many hands, there are some typically To flourishes in the fluidity of the camerawork in the early stretches along with a gloomy romanticism in the fatalistic noir of the pre-Handover society even as he continues to find his feet as a purveyor of moody policier. 

Trailer (no subtitles)

Snow in Midsummer (五月雪, Chong Keat-Aun, 2023)

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How should you deal with the traumatic past? In Chong Keat-Aun’s Snow in Midsummer (五月雪) it becomes clear that this past has not been dealt with and that its heroine has been living in a kind of limbo unable to move fully forward with her life in the constant search to discover what happened to her father and brother during the 513 Incident in 1969. The first act devotes itself to the slowly unfolding horror of the massacre which erupted shortly after a general election during which a number of smaller parties affiliated with the Chinese community had begun to gain ground from the Malay-dominated Alliance Party. 

Bullied by her classmates as a Chinese student in a Malay school, Ah Eng spends the night of the massacre hiding in the backstage area of a Cantonese opera troupe as if in a literal act of taking refuge in fantasy. The film’s title alludes to the famous Cantonese opera Snow in Midsummer, actually “Snow in June” here retitled as “Snow in May”. The play’s theme is injustice as its heroine is condemned to die for a crime she didn’t commit, someone remarking that the gods must be outraged to provoke such an aberration of the natural order as snow in the height of summer. The ageing leader of the opera troupe ventures out during the incident in search her friends and relatives who had gone to the local cinema. Unable to open the door, she climbs onto the roof and sings a lament decrying the bloodshed and her own cruel fate as she watches the city burn beneath her. 

A similar lament is sung 49 years later in a graveyard we’re told is set to be “redeveloped”. The opera troupe had performed here for the dead during the intervening years, but in an event echoing that of 1969 are challenged by authorities asking if they have permits. That was in the past, they’re told, this is now and their performance causes a disturbance to a mosque which has recently been built close to the site. In a touch of irony, the taxi driver who brings the middle-aged Ah Eng to the cemetery asks her if she’s going to the leprosy hospital remarking that the Chinese community usually refuse to go anywhere near it. Each of the headstones, many of which read simply “unknown Chinese”, is marked “courtesy of the Malaysian government”, but it’s clear that this site was chosen because of its remoteness for similar reasons to the leper colony because they did not really want to address what had happened in any meaningful way.

That Ah Eng returns 49 years later hints at spiritual echoes of cycles of rebirth, but Ah Eng has lives her whole life in limbo haunted by the impossibility of discovering the resting place of her father and brother. Her father had refused to take her to the cinema, leaving her and her mother to watch the opera alone in echoes of the patriarchal oppression she continues to face as a middle-aged woman whose husband reacts with violence and anger simply because he suspects she intends to return to Kuala Lumpur to mourn her loss. Her sister-in-law gives her a lift to the station, but insists on being called by her Chinese name revealing that’s divorced her Muslim husband and intends to move to Australia with her child. On her arrival in the city, Ah Eng passes by the former sit of the Majestic Theatre which is now a fancy hotel with the same name in a very changed city. Her former Malay school is now Chinese but has a stand outside it selling Islamic food where the Cantonese opera troupe discuss their visit to the cemetery. 

“The past is dream,” the old woman sings to the grave echoing the surreality that runs through Chong Keat-Aun’s vision of the past as a man rides his elephant through the streets and lives the tale of a king forced to drink the Sultan’s foot water as a symbol of his subjugation, while others at the theatre are sold of a tale of a king with a quite literal bloodlust sustaining himself on the suffering of his subjects. A melancholy contemplation on lingering trauma, loss, and memory Chong Keat-Aun ends with a poignant image of comfort and catharsis but one is which is forever haunted by an intangible past and the wandering, unseen ghosts of buried injustice. 

Snow in Midsummer screens as part of this year’s Taiwan Film Festival in Australia.

Trailer (Traditional Chinese / English subtitles)

All Shall Be Well (從今以後, Ray Yeung, 2024)

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There’s nothing that breaks a family apart as quickly as an inheritance. As a cynical lawyer points out, even mothers and sons fall out when it comes to money, so there’s nothing like it to to focus minds with an us and them mentality to clearly define who is and isn’t included under the umbrella of family. But why is it that meaningless pieces of paper hold so much sway over us when we ought to by be governed by the emotional truths that until a moment earlier ruled our lives?

Angie (Patra Au Ga Man) had been fond of saying “because we’re family.” She never doubted her place in that of her partner who all appear, at least outwardly, to love her and accept her relationship with Pat in the way they’d accept any other marriage. But when Pat (Maggie Li Lin Lin) suddenly passes away in her sleep after one last family celebration the situation changes. Well-meaning family members step in to help with the work that must be done when someone dies, but perhaps unwittingly begin to take over slowly erasing Angie from their lives as not really one of them after all.

Her problems are two-fold. The biggest being that Pat never got round to making a will, nor did she think to put Angie on the deeds to the apartment they shared together or leave her financially provided for seeing as she’d managed all the money they’d made when they owned a factory and ran it together. The secondary problem is that Hong Kong does not recognise same sex marriage and so their relationship was not legally recognised. Had Angie been legally married to Pat, she should have inherited everything anyway because she was her spouse even without a will but with things the way they are she’s at the mercy of Pat’s brother Shing (Tai Bo). She never thought this would be a problem, because they’re family, but slowly realises that perhaps they don’t actually see her that way and with Pat gone no longer feel the need to include her.

Her sister-in-law Mei (Hui So Ying) insists on using a feng shui expert to plan the funeral who quickly puts the kibosh on Angie’s desire to have Pat buried at sea as she’d requested. Leaving aside the possibility that the feng shui master is conning them and receiving financial incentives from the people who run the columbarium, the family quickly begin to ignore Angie’s concerns swayed by the claims that interring her ashes will be more beneficial for her descendants which are Mei and Shing’s children seeing as Angie and Pat had none of their own.

A little disappointed in her kids, Mei at one point insensitively remarks that Angie is lucky not to have any though we’re also told that she almost gave in to parental pressure to marry a man in order to become a mother. Daughter Fanny (Fish Liew) makes lowkey racist remarks about her Indian neighbours as a way of expressing her frustration with her moribund marriage and unsatisfying living arrangements, while son Vincent (Leung Chung Hang) struggled to find employment and now works as an Uber driver thanks to the gift of a car from Angie and Pat which allows him to earn a living. He’s originally upset with his family’s suggestion of kicking Angie out of the apartment, but is also in a difficult position himself when his girlfriend becomes pregnant and they can’t find anywhere habitable to live on the kind of salary an Uber driver can earn. Though in her 60s, Mei is still doing a physically strenuous job as a hotel maid while Shing has taken a position he finds degrading as a nightwatchman at a carpark following the closure of his restaurant some years previously. 

The implication is these socio-economic pressures encourage them the abandon their responsibility to Angie as the beloved aunt they’ve known all their lives. But then there’s also the mild homophobia that rears its head, introducing Angie as Pat’s “best friend” and not allowing her to stand in the front with family at Pat’s funeral as if their relationship wasn’t really real because they were both women. Of course they may have behaved the same way had Pat been a man, squeezing Angie out because she had no legal claim as a common-law spouse, but it certainly seems to make it easier for them to abandon her and take everything she worked so hard to build with Pat as if they were really entitled to it. Shing justifies himself that he has to look after “his” family, which doesn’t include Angie, while cruelly implying that it’s what Pat would have wanted. 

In the end, Angie is left with no other option than to sue for her “rightful” share as a ”dependent” in an effort to force the family to recognise the legitimacy of her relationship with Pat. Thankfully she has another family in her community, though her own still living parents only partially accepted her relationship with Pat again referring to her as a “best friend” and making cracks about how she never married. But her family was Pat, and Pat is gone. Yeung paints a touching picture of grief as Angie reacts all the things she did with Pat but now alone, accompanied only by a sense of absence and comforted by her memories while otherwise exiled from a world that had seemed until then filled with familial love.

All Shall Be Well screened as part of this year’s New York Asian Film Festival.

Trailer (English subtitles)

Love Lies (我談的那場戀愛, Ho Miu-ki, 2024)

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The heroine of Ho Miu-Kei’s cybercrime dramedy Love Lies (我談的那場戀愛) later rejects the idea that she has been deceived for she was only falling in love and love once believed is real which paradoxically hints at the idea of romantic love as fantasy or self-delusion. There is undoubtedly some truth in what she says, if only in the fact that the young man scamming her also begins to fall in love if not exactly with her but with the image of himself as reflected in her eyes. 

From what we can see of Joe (Cheung Tin-fu), he doesn’t quite fit our image of romance scammer. He isn’t cruel or heartless and has more or less fallen into this kind of work, learning to see it as a kind of game which conveniently allows him to ignore the real human he’s exploiting in order to win. Awkwardly still living with his ex-girlfriend’s family, he’s bonded with her father and seems to be seeking something like familial love and acceptance along with the feeling that he’s wanted and valued by another person. Of course, being a romance scammer gives him what he needs as his targets are drawn into his trap and eventually become dependent on him though it’s obviously not “Joe” they’re dependent on but whoever he claimed to be online who is perhaps all the things he’s like be rather than who he is. 

In any case, he finds himself conflicted while trying to scam Veronica (Sandra Ng), a fantastically rich gynaecologist still struggling to deal with the death of her husband four years previously from whom she was about to get a divorce. Veronica is also not being entirely honest online, posing as a 25-year-old nurse named Linda and using a random photo from the internet while planning to have some idle fun chatting to a stranger in this case a heartbroken French widower named Alain. Like Joe, Veronica is also a little unhappy in herself, explaining that she’s a difficult person who blows off steam by rearranging the goods in convenience stores and has few friends. Being “Linda” also affords her another perspective on herself and a means of reassessing her thoughts about her husband and marriage. 

But this vulnerability is also what makes her vulnerable to the scammers as mastermind Joan (Stephy Tang), who used to be a TV screenwriter, points out in instructing Joe that he’ll really have cracked Veronica when she feels comfortable enough to tell him about her husband. Ho presents the scammers as an unusually well equipped yet old school bunch who have an actual art department to construct props to help Joe sell his fantasy though he’s pretty slow to cotton onto the idea of stalking Veronica’s social media profiles for information he later uses to create a bond with her. 

Though quirky and somewhat wholesome, the film does hint at the dangers of online interaction and the information we choose to share with strangers, perhaps unwisely. Intellectually, Veronica is aware of the potential of scamming but also sees herself as “better” than that, as if an educated, successful woman such as herself should be too smart to fall for something so obviously untrue and is later unwilling to accept that she’s sent large amounts of money to a conman despite the advice of her bank which of course only keeps her in the scam so she can prove to herself that she’s not being conned. 

But the conclusion she finally comes to is that if she fell in love with someone who didn’t really exist, then that doesn’t mean the love itself wasn’t real. In any case, it allowed her to re-engage with lost love and recover herself and her memories of romance while finally beginning to deal with her husband’s death and the end of her marriage which arrived more abruptly than expected. In much the same way, Joe begins to realise that he ended up scamming himself, half in love with the image he created as reflected back to him while more aware of his own needs and desires along with the emotional consequences of the scamming game. To that extent, maybe love itself is a long con or beautiful fantasy but there might also be truth in a lie and a genuine connection between lonely souls beyond all the wilful deception and misrepresentation.

Love Lies screened as part of this year’s New York Asian Film Festival.

Original trailer (English subtitles)

Fly Me to the Moon (但願人長久, Sasha Chuk Tsz-yin, 2023)

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A pair of sisters find themselves exiles in their own home in Sasha Chuk Tsz-yin’s poignant familial drama, Fly Me to the Moon (但願人長久). Burdened by a sense of rootlessness, they have only each other to cling to while their family otherwise disintegrates amid the pressures of making a life in an unfamiliar place and an unavoidable paternal failure that has a lasting legacy on the lives of each of the girls as they struggle to emerge from the shadow their father cast over their lives.

It’s telling that the film opens in 1997, though Yuen’s father Kok-man (Wu Kang-ren) has apparently smuggled himself into Hong Kong from Hunan, later sending for his wife and older daughter, Yuen, while leaving the younger behind. The first image we see is of Yuen being taken to see her father in prison by her mother, a meeting in which no words are exchanged that seems to leave the young Yuen conflicted and confused. Not long after arriving in Hong Kong, she discovers him using drugs and learns of the addiction that has ruined his life, turning him into a petty thief in and out of prison for the children’s entire lives.

Yet in his later years, Kok-man told his relatives that his best and only achievement was raising two wonderful daughters though of course he didn’t actually raise them at all. Nevertheless, he had a profound effect on their lives, Yuen also tempted to steal on witnessing her father’s bad example even while remaining contemptuous and resentful of him. Though he eventually becomes violent, so desperate for money he threatens his teenage daughters, Kok-man appears to have wanted to take of his family but was not able to do so while their mother is forced to work long hours supporting the family and living the life of a single mother even while her husband is home. 

This leaves the girls with no one else to rely on while otherwise removed from mainstream society which is often is hostile towards those who’ve arrived from the Mainland and most particularly at this strained political moment. Their otherness is signalled by their home dialect of Hunnanese which later mingles comfortably with their Cantonese, much as Yuen’s Mandarin later does, which is as good as anyone else’s though some might not them as real Hongkongers. Kuet’s schoolfriends, little knowing she also was not born in Hong Kong, shun another girl after spotting that the number on her ID card begins with an “R” which means she came to Hong Kong from somewhere else. Kuet eventually decides to befriend the girl herself, though it remains unclear whether or not she discloses that she was also born outside of Hong Kong. Years later after becoming a tour guide, a customer remarks that Yuen’s Cantonese and Mandarin are both so good he wonders where she’s from which is quite an ironic comment. 

Yet in other ways, the girls can’t escape their roots. Despite her enmity towards him, Yuen’s first boyfriend is a carbon copy of her father. A brusque boy with blond hair who shoplifts to impress her, but then runs off and leaves her behind when he almost gets caught. Her romantic relationships seem fraught and difficult and the men largely no good, while her sister similarly has troubles with the law leading her mother to lament that there was little point in going to university if she was just going to end up like her father. When Yuen eventually returns to Hunan, she’s that girl from Hong Kong, even while in Hong Kong she’s that girl from the Mainland. For the girls, Hunan has a kind of mythical quality bound up with their memos of happier times for their family, but Yuen is quickly disillusioned. The lily fields her father mentioned are long since gone, destroyed in a fire, and her family home is empty as a result of her grandmother’s illness. All that remains are photographs that present a kind of evidence of the relationship Yuen once had with the father she struggled to accept in adulthood, reuniting her with her childhood self and perhaps restoring the roots she’s been looking for even she herself remains a floating presence guiding tourists around foreign countries while otherwise marooned in the family flat now shared only with the sister who equally is heading in another direction. 

Fly Me to the Moon screens July 21 as part of this year’s New York Asian Film Festival.

Original trailer (Traditional Chinese /.English subtitles)

For Alice (給愛麗絲, Chow Kam Wing, 2024)

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“I don’t know if I’m really lucky or really unlucky,” a young woman wonders after a series of narrow escapes amid the otherwise dismal circumstances of her life in Chow Kam Wing’s debut feature, For Alice (給愛麗絲). A lament for failed fatherhood, Chow plays with noir tropes and the legacy of classic Hong Kong cinema in his neon vistas of despair but eventually discovers a kind of catharsis even as the absent patriarch can redeem himself only in his absence.

Shuang has spent his life in and out of prison and evidently chose to not to maintain contact with his wife and daughter during his latest stretch. The titular Alice is like her namesake lost in the wonderland of contemporary Hong Kong though she named herself for the song and is doing her best to overcome the many problems in her life many of which stem from her relationship with her often absent mother and her string of problematic boyfriends including the latest one, a tailor, who is sexually abusing her. When her mother disappears yet again on a gambling trip to Macau she decides to run away, intending to stay with a friend and sleeping rough when it doesn’t pan out. She meets Shuang, she thinks, by chance sensibly wary but also grateful for the kindness of a stranger. 

As it turns out, her mother may have had a reason for all those gambling trips and it isn’t all that different from Shuang’s for his life of crime in that they are both doing it for Alice while constantly frustrated by the socio-economic realities of contemporary Hong Kong. Now in his 60s, Shuang wants to make amends and live a more law-abiding kind of life while redeeming himself as a father but struggles to find a foothold while slowly but anonymously building a paternal relationship with Alice who is facing similar problems to those he faced as a young man. Longing to escape her circumstances she sets her sights on independence and is tempted by criminality, ironically suggesting she will become a smuggler or deal drugs to support herself even as Shuang counsels her against it, encouraging her to pursue her education so she doesn’t end up like him. He didn’t have a choice, he explains, but she does and could make a better life for herself. 

But she’s still constrained by an overly patriarchal social system as she finds herself scrambling when her teacher wants to talk to her parents to discuss her smoking on school premises. Who could she possibly ask with her mother absent and the man in the position of a step-father actively harmful and in no position to help? Unbeknownst to her, Shuang accepts his paternal role and offers a genuine apology for his failed fatherhood, his irresponsible absence and its effects on the life of his daughter who was then left unprotected, vulnerable to life’s vagaries and the impossibilities of a stratified society. Yet in the end the only way he can help her is to damn himself, accept his choices and his absence and do what he can for Alice from afar. 

Chow’s Hong Kong is place of constant danger and ever present futility filled with dank corridors, rundown buildings, and neon-lit streets. Yet there is something resonant about Alice’s resilience and desire for freedom while accepting the friendship, help and support of a friendly neighbour adopting a less oppressive paternal role that aims, like the bird in bottle, to set his daughter free both of his own destructive legacy and the constraints of the situation she finds herself in. A parallel is seen in the life of Shuang’s friend, Jiu, again fixing his sights on one last job to provide a better future for his family but at the same time risking it knowing that it may mean forfeiting it entirely. Nevertheless, Shuang redeems his paternity in its denial, an act both of self-sacrifice and revelation in which he restores to Alice a more positive paternal legacy along with a sense of love and support otherwise absent from her life as a young woman largely alone in an often hostile environment.

For Alice screened as part of this year’s New York Asian Film Festival.