There's something about Wong Kar-wai's nighttime Hong Kong that feels like magic in disguise. A secret dressed in human skin, gasoline-drenched dreams, and the most inscrutable human emotion, easily defined beneath neon lights and in cans of almost-expired pineapples. There are two aspects of this film that grab you by your collar and pull you into its hazy neon underworld— its blur of blues and yellows, reds and greens, swirling and slowing with each sin of the night— and the jarringly authentic eccentricity of its characters. Each person plays an irreplaceable role in the narrative, passing the metaphorical baton with artful finesse. The blonde woman intrigues us, with her shroud of loneliness and her almost-violent need to escape her own skin; He Zhiwu breaks our hearts, with his pretty face and his childlike optimism; Faye charms us, and with her never-ending loop of California Dreaming and the reckless way she loves; Cop 663 reminds us of ourselves— wary of change, so desperate for love we'd let a stranger break into our house, and always just a little bit too late. Visually enchanting and insanely quotable, The Chungking Express is not just a good movie—it's a beautiful one. To me, that always matters more.
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