This document provides an in-depth analysis of Wong Kar-wai's films and his unique portrayal of female characters. It discusses how Wong subverts Western cinematic norms by not portraying women solely as objects for the male gaze or as femme fatales. Across his films, Wong shows women experiencing love and heartbreak in complex, humanizing ways. The document also analyzes specific female characters from films like Days of Being Wild, In the Mood for Love, and Chungking Express, showing how Wong liberates both male and female characters from symbols and tropes.

1. Eve who wasn’t there
Observations on the female presence in the cinema of Wong Kar-wai
By Ioanna Papageorgiou
(translated from Greek)
It is said that when one writes about cinema one needs to be critically as objective as
possible. To observe with a calm gaze and distance oneself from the emotion derived from
the screen. To seek not the personal, but the universal truths breathed out by the celluloid.
To discover the workings of the grammar (script, direction, performance, photography,
music…) and the syntax (editing) underlying the cinematic language, so that it can be
translated with accuracy and rendered comprehensible to the “uneducated” wide public.
When the screens hosts a Wong Kar-wai film, however, each of the above attempts at
logical dissection is doomed to fail (unless you are someone who considers his work nothing
more than a stylized exercise on surface beauty; please remember though that according to
Oscar Wilde only shallow people believe appearance to be unimportant). Wong’s cinema –
abstractive, unique and eluding categorisation in one or more of the pre-existing cinematic
types – cannot be interpreted by the mind, when it ignores structures of time and
conventional narrative; as it captures silences, lending substance and meaning with music,
colours and the rhythmic motion of its scenes to all that remains unsaid or not acted upon;
when it refuses to rest on a final, irreversible finale and fill in the blanks; allowing the heroes
and their stories to continue to evolve after the credits roll, instead. Thus, like a poem,
Wong’s cinema is a feeling: it is raised to our awareness solely by emotion, translating into a
personal experience of different value and meaning for each one of its viewers.
“Wong penetrates the emotional centres of the fantasies and desires of his lonely heroes (at
the exact point found in most people, which rarely comes into contact with the outside
world) and positions his camera there”, writes cinematographer, cinephile and editor of
“Film West” magazine, Maximilian Le Cain. “The charm of his characters (like that of Maggie
Cheung and Tony Leung) addresses our own inherent tendencies and our most basic
instincts”, adds cinema theorist Stephen Tao. “I think that we directors shouldn’t think too
much. That’s why instinct exists. It is the only thing we should trust”, admits Wong himself,

2. confessing his inability to create using reason alone as a compass. The heroines of such a
director cannot help but live completely in tune with the “deafening whispers” of their own
hearts.
Adam and Eve
Ochre. Of the earth. The sand. The desert. The skin. “For me, what is of utmost importance
is to discover the setting, the environment, the location. There, I can later introduce the
people, shape their character, their moods and their stories”, Wong explains. In a land
untouched and primitive, a handful of human beings leave behind trails like elements of
nature. “The flags are still. No wind blows. It is the heart of man that is in tumult”,
ruminates the Buddhist quote which heralds their arrival in Ashes of Time (1994).
At first glance, it is hard to separate the females from the males, woman from man. Their
clothes are identical and their long hair a common feature. In due course, however, their
differences begin to take on a more conscious form. The men answer to threatening names
– “Nasty Westerner” or “Evil Easterner” –, carry deadly swords, drink the wine of oblivion,
and find themselves in a constant quest for new adventures, moving in the dry earth of the
desert which disintegrates into dust. The women, conversely, answer to sweet names
reminiscent of Spring (“Peach Blossom”), cradle life (represented by a tree, a basket of eggs,
a horse, a camel and a child) with their hands and stand still. They stand in, over, under and
opposing the life-giving water of a river (woman and horse), a lake (“Loner who seeks
Defeat”), the rain (the girl with the eggs and the faithful wife with the camel) or the sea
(Maggie Cheung in the role of a scarlet-clothed, abandoned mother). The former persists.
The latter endures. The first want to forget the tender embraces they left behind, to
become glorious warriors and legendary heroes. The second refuse to forget. Relics of a
now forgotten Eden, they tirelessly reminisce of their loved ones who have departed,
hoping for their return, melancholic because of their unrequited feelings, but sans the
unbearable burden of Eve’s guilt. Because, contrary to the heroines of the West,
“stigmatised” by both Jewish and Christian religious traditions, these “protoplast” Wong
women are not responsible for Adam’s exclusion from Paradise. The apple of temptation
which he bit into was not proffered to him by them, but obtained by his own nature,
restless like the wind. And while man chooses the freedom promised by flight, woman

3. prefers the completion which may be achieved by remaining. Both continue to be bound to
their memories; these accumulate like dust and turn into ashes in the passage of time.
More fortunate than all who immerse themselves into the ochre of the film is Hong Qi: the
swordsman who dislikes both wearing shoes and the fact that his wife follows him
everywhere and always. He quickly, however, comes to understand that her comfortingly
stoic presence does not hinder him from showcasing his abilities and manhood. Once he
decides that “nothing is impossible” he takes her with him as a fellow traveller, the source
of stability and peace on his tumultuous, heroic journey. On the other end of the spectrum,
unluckier than all is “Loner who seeks Defeat”: a woman with a natural duality, with two
names (Mu-rong Yin and Mu-rong Yang) and two different, opposing inner characters who
play tug of war with her reason and emotions. As Yang, “Loner” is a formidable swordsman,
who seeks the ideal mate for his sister, Yin. As Yin she is the melancholy daughter who waits
in hope for the arrival of the prince she has been promised. Her dual existence and the
combination of her two names alludes to the Yin and Yang symbol which marries, in perfect
circle and absolute equilibrium, the fiery intensity of masculinity with the tranquil power of
femininity. One energy completes the other and only thus can the circle exist. Being
concurrently Yin and Yang, “Loner who seeks Defeat” ends up duelling with her own
reflection (mirrored in the water of a lake), struggling to defeat one half of herself in order
to lend the other the chance to seek an extraneous counterpart-supplement to completion.
As such as feat is an act of impossibility, she will remain undefeated, but utterly and
completely alone…
Cherchez l’ homme
Wong studied cinema by watching cinema. He grew up, as he says, in a darkened theatre
room. “I have loved film since childhood. When I was very young and had just arrived (in
Hong Kong) from Shanghai, there was the opportunity to watch many Hollywood films. Our
heroes, in those days, were John Wayne and Charlton Heston in epics like Ben Hur. Later
Japanese and European films descended to our parts. Thus, we had different preferences for
different times.” Even as Western cinema left a mark on his memory, it left his directing eye
unscathed; where women are concerned, at least. Spearheaded by Hollywood, the “Seventh
Art” birthed in Europe and the States glossed over woman for more than half its lifetime,
shaping her into an irresistible but unapproachable object for the gaze. As Laura Mulvey,

4. writer, director and lecturer of London University notes repeatedly in her lectures and
essays: from the era of Busby Berkeley until Hitchcock and noir “woman is isolated,
glamorous, exposed, sexual”. She clarifies: “For example, both Only Angels have Wings
(Howard Hawks, 1939) and To Have and to Have Not (Howard Hawks, 1944) open with the
woman as an object of both the viewer’s and the male protagonists’ gaze, so that she
provokes at the same time as she welcomes their voyeurism… The female presence in
classical narrative film is a necessary element of the spectacle but, as Budd Boeticher
supports, her importance is centred on what she provokes, inspires or represents for the
hero. She herself is of absolutely no importance”. The notable pinnacle of this tendency was
the creation of the “femme fatale”, one of the most archetypal characters in the cinematic
universe. From Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwick) in Double Indemnity (Billy Wilder,
1944) to Catherine Tramell (Sharon Stone) of Basic Instinct (Paul Verhoeven, 1992), the
femme fatale is characterised by imposing beauty, a vertiginously high IQ, extraordinary
ability of prediction and calculation of every known possibility, insincere motives and
criminal instincts. The more attractive and intelligent a creature, the more dangerous for
the mental or physical integrity of the male who falls into the trap set by her charms. Not
without due reason have the French always proclaimed: “Cherchez la femme”.
Wong disagrees. In his cinematic world, women are not more glamorous or attractive than
men. The motivating force underlying their every breath is only love: the impulsive need for
coexistence and exchange of tenderness, which often pushes them into the bittersweet
loneliness of the unfulfilled. And if in the equation of relationships between the two sexes
there is a fatal factor, this is not introduced by women, but by man: the restless male who
refuses commitment, with a different pretext each time. Starting from Days of Being Wild
(1991), with the exception of Ashes of Time (where the heroes are more emblematic than
substantially human), the director of the Far East has shown his intention to subvert the
norms Western cinema was created from and which it has consequently raised its audience
on. Set in Hong Kong of the 1960s, Su Li-zhen (Maggie Cheung) and Mimi (Carina Lau) are
both in love with Yuddy (Leslie Cheung). The film begins with the gorgeous Li-zhen, isolated
behind the bench of a bar, exposed to Yuddy’s flirtations. The situation, however, will soon
reverse. It is now Yuddy who reverently tends to his appearance, smoking indulgently and
seducing the gaze of Li-zhen, Mimi, his adoptive mother and – as a result – that of the
viewer. The girls muss up their appearance: they wear loose garments or unflattering

5. combinations (usually in bright colours, such as green), allow their hair to fall freely, yell,
argue and sobbingly weep, fallen on the road in front of a car’s headlights, indifferent to the
rain lashing down on them mercilessly and smudging their appearance. He, on the other
hand, is always impeccable. Cool. Even as he rests in the confines of his home, everything
about his presence is immaculate: his neatly-combed, shiny hair, the wisely coordinated –
usually cold and white – clothes, the cigarette, like a jewel between his fingers, and the
indolent, imperceptibly rhythmic, affected movement of his body, which challenges one to
look, but not approach. Yuddy exists to charge the emotional tensions which give the film
life: such as the forlorn numbness of Li-zhen (who struggles to get over him), the anger and
jealousy of Mimi (who feels she cannot hold onto him) and the disappointment of his
adoptive mother (who feels inadequate and unjustly treated). Traditionally, he, as the
“homme fatale” should carry absolutely no importance besides what he represents for the
three heroines (the unrequited love, the unapproachable partner and the ungrateful son,
respectively). His director however refuses to treat him solely as a spectacular narrative
trick, by affording him tangible, human motives. Yuddy, neglected as a child by his biological
mother, avoids commitment because he is afraid of the abandonment that may follow. And
while in noir the ladies steamroll over men’s lives and crush them, Yuddy’s passage through
the lives of the women surrounding him is painful, but triggers a new, perhaps more
mature, and possibly more carefree new life for them. Li-zhen, for example, finally braves
making the telephone call she has been promising…
Nine years letter, the screen rollicks to the addictive, ritual rhythms of In the Mood for Love
(2000). Wong returns to Hong Kong of the 1960s, where only Su Li-Zhen remains, fleshed
out once more by Maggie Cheung. She is now married. Her husband, however, has been
cheating on her with the wife of a neighbour, Chow Mo-wan (Tony Leung Chiu-wai). Su and
Chow, the deceived parties, meet up. In the beginning, it is by chance; later, as if by
unspoken agreement. They exchange silences of mutual understanding and consolation. She
camouflages the fragile state of her emotions by wearing neatly-pressed, lustrous dresses
and sculpted, perfect hairstyles, while he never abandons his suit, tie and the finesse of his
shiny, well-groomed hair. The camera approaches them reverently and isolates them. They
are, one almost believes, the last people on Earth, more beautiful and stylised than ever.
Their unblemished appearance however is non-threatening: it does not function as a trap or
diversion hiding a dangerous, fatal nature underneath. Anything but. It becomes more of a

6. reflection of their crystal-clear honesty. Su and Chow choose to keep their bodies at a
distance and to bond with invisible, psychic ties; not so much in effort to maintain a clear
reputation in the social environment they live in (which, absent though it is from the film’s
scenes, embraces and comes between them in the same suffocating manner that the
characters are both surrounded and separated by clothes, furniture, objects and the spaces
in which they move), but because, as Su says, (referring to their spouses) “we will never be
like them!” Delivering the most resonant and nuanced film of his career, Wong equates
both sexes completely loading them with the relevant weight of responsibility (it is not just
man or just woman who is guilty, but both together), and altruistic vigour: faced with the
selfishness of their partners, Su and Chow do not seek revenge. They endure their defeat. So
that nobody else is hurt as they have been. Full stop.
Return to Eden
Return to the future. To the reality of the contemporary Hong Kong of Fallen Angels (1995)
and Chungking Express (1994). A palette of colours belonging to the city, its noise, motion,
and immeasurable possibilities. Wong has journeyed from the simplicity of the desert in
Ashes of Time to the complexity of the urban jungle in order to liberate his heroes, male and
female, from philosophical, religious, cinematic and other symbolisms, labels and clichés.
Here, in the crowded present, the masks fall and images are shattered to reveal the people:
everyday, familiar, immediate. Women now wear trousers, cut their hair short and work,
securing for themselves the luxury of independence. Some still cave into the charm of an
“homme fatale”. Like the accomplice of a professional hit man (Michele Reis), who in a
desperate attempt to become intimate with him, sifts through the contents of his rubbish
and (subverting every previous taboo, which renders the female an exclusive object of
fantasy) masturbates in his bed while he is out (Fallen Angels). Other women continue,
wearily, to wear the outfit of the “femme fatale”. Like the “Woman in blonde wig” (Brigitte
Lin), who wears dark sunglasses and a cape, carries a gun and smokes with ritual-like
expressions (Chungking Express). Both the former and the latter are finally liberated. The hit
man’s accomplice quits and surrenders herself to the unknown promised by the sweet
twilight of the dawning of a new day, as she accepts a ride on a motorbike offered by mute
He Zhiwu (Takeshi Kaneshiro). On the other hand, the “Woman in blonde wig” kills. Not for
power or money, but to permanently and irrevocably sever the ties with her former lover

7. and current employer, who imposed the wig and all it represents on her. When he is killed,
she takes off and throws away the wig, rejecting at last – and on behalf of women in film
everywhere – an archetypal female identity, which was and still is completely false.
Just as Wong said. First he finds the place, and then the people who will wander in it. This is
why the most unfortunate of those who immerse themselves into the – so familiarly frantic
– rhythms of Hong Kong at the end of the 20th
century are “Babe” (Karen Mok), the on-again
off-again lover of the hitman, and half-mad Charlie (Charlie Yeung) who in vain awaits a
phone call from her former lover (Fallen Angels). These are two women who do not
comprehend the variety of choices offered to them to vanquish their loneliness; who,
spurred on by the desire to be loved by the men they love, dress the part and adopt the
image that the men – consciously or not – impose on them (the cute, foolish, blonde
“Barbie” and the docile “Princess”, who waits for her Knight to return, respectively). At the
other end of the spectrum, the luckiest of all is Faye (Faye Wong). She who has
acknowledged that her other half, the yin and yang that completes her circle, may not be
the man who has departed, but the one who unexpectedly turns up to eat in the canteen
where she works (Chungking Express). In love with her customer, the – disappointed lover –
beat cop 633 (Tony Leung Chiu-wai), Faye is not content with fantasy. She acts. She
expresses her desires: to make him a part of her everyday life, and subsequently becomes a
part of his, renovating his house in his ignorance. When he realises what is going on, Faye
does not nestle happily in his arms. She leaves to fulfil her dream of becoming a flight
attendant. Now it is the woman who travels, and the man who stays behind to await her
return. She, however, like Hong Qi in Ashes of Time, invites her beloved to follow her.
Initially, he hesitates, but finally gives in. For these daring heroes Wong does not reserve a
final “happy ending”. He distances the camera and pulls it away before they reach it (if they
ever do). He leaves the final choice to the viewer. You. Maybe because, like the women who
were born and gave life to his cinema know very well, the only way to fulfil and understand
the puzzle of one’s existence is to surrender oneself to the whims of another: to share care
and pain, to persist and endure, to discover what you are willing to give and what to receive,
to explore the limits of your compromises and demands, to learn when you should leave
and when to stay, to stop thinking and start feeling. Because true freedom is not
somewhere out there, but within...

8. Athens, September 2003