Leung Ping-kwan (Yasi) traces representations of Hong Kong through film, art, and theatre to examine its seemingly elusive identity. 

 

Many people have told the story of Hong Kong. Some say it’s about a fishing port, some say it’s about a sailboat. Some say it’s about high-rise buildings, some say it's the bright lights at night. Some people tell its story with the fog in Lei Yue Mun, others with the bars in Lan Kwai Fong. This story seems to become simpler as it is told; it becomes more complicated as it is told. This story leads to other stories; this story ends and begins, begins and ends again. Every time a story about Hong Kong is told, it always turns into a story about other places; every time a story of another place is told, it always turns into a story about Hong Kong. As a story of Hong Kong is told, it gets longer and more chaotic. How should we tell a story of Hong Kong? Everyone is telling a different story. In the end, the only thing we can be sure of is that those different stories do not necessarily tell us about Hong Kong, instead, they tell us about the people who tell the stories, and where they speak from.

 

1. A Small City Without a Story?—From Days of Being Wild

When Wong Kar-wai’s Days of Being Wild (1990) was released, City Entertainment Magazine published a special interview of several Hong Kong directors on their response to the film. In particular, all of them mentioned something about its “story.” Tsui Hark said it was a good film, but since it gave people the sense that there was no story, and had structural issues, its reception was not very good. Stanley Kwan said the film was outstanding because it was not confined by a story. John Woo said that if the story and intensity of its dramatic scenes were strengthened, the film’s appeal would be stronger.¹

Banality is never considered a characteristic of Hong Kong. Most Hong Kong films have convoluted plots. The plots of Hong Kong stories told by foreigners are especially convoluted. Stories in The World of Suzie Wong, Tai-Pan, and Noble House are all capable of extremely bizarre plot twists. The last even features a typhoon, landslide, stock market crash, bank run, fight between Chinese and Soviet spies, assassination, trade war, and sex in just a week’s time. The Japanese film Shadow of China, despite being considered absurd and nonsensical, still unabashedly uses Hong Kong as its backdrop. It seems everyone thinks Hong Kong is a fitting backdrop for the most absurd of stories. There are always people who are unfamiliar with Hong Kong vying to tell its story—even more so these days. A female Taiwanese writer would visit Hong Kong to shop, and upon her return, would announce she was writing a lovelorn tale basked in a colonial afterglow. The Mainland also sent writers to Hong Kong for stays of varying lengths to produce literary reportage or multi-volume novels, exposing the dark side of capitalism while affirming the superiority of socialism.

They vie to tell the story of Hong Kong, but at the same time declare in unison: Hong Kong has no story anyway. Hong Kong is a barren piece of land that has become a battleground for various ideologies, an empty box for them to fill, a floating signifier that they think are the only ones with the right to interpret and ossify. Hong Kong is almost like June in Henry and June (1990): written about by Henry, written about by Anaïs, she is depicted as either excessively vulgar or overly elegant, neither of which feel like herself. Her story is told on her behalf, stripping her of a voice to tell her own story. Every outsider thinks they are more eligible than the people of Hong Kong to tell Hong Kong’s story. Writers from Taiwan and the Mainland unanimously agree that Hong Kong is a cultural desert, where literature is nowhere to be seen. Otherwise, they seek a type of literature in Hong Kong that resembles their own. Joseph Lau Shiu-ming said frankly that Hong Kong’s literature is weak and can only pander to the north or east for opportunities. Taiwan and the Mainland will occasionally favour certain acceptable writers regardless of the broader context of literary development. When Mainland scholars visited Hong Kong, they would declare at academic conferences that southbound writers were the mainstream of Hong Kong literature and would inevitably lead Hong Kong’s literary scene. A book fair organised by the Hong Kong government even featured Han Suyin to talk about the publishing industry in Asia! Han Suyin has visited Hong Kong multiple times in recent years. According to Rey Chow, when Han inquired about Hong Kong literature at one of her talks, local foreigners who attended the talk claimed Hong Kong did not have its own literary tradition. It seems many are eager to prove that Hong Kong is incapable of narrating its own story, and that it must be told by others. Everyone fights for the right to tell this story.

Over the years, Hong Kongers have seemed to accept this as it is. Even when outsiders point their fingers telling outrageous stories, there is often little resistance. The reasons behind this are complex—it could be a matter of maintaining civility or indifference; it could be ignorance, could be abandonment.

Not only do tourists tell bizarre, novelty-seeking stories, Hong Kong has also grown accustomed to and internalised these stories. When it is their turn to tell the story, they may as well tell such stories. In 1991, the Hong Kong Tourist Association and a group of professional photographers organised an exhibition at the Hong Kong Cultural Centre to showcase Hong Kong through the lens of local photographers. Yet even among these exhibitions, one could still find many clichés—sailboats against a sunset backdrop, towering skyscrapers, cultural diversity, and quaint alleyways. Even Hong Kongers themselves may struggle to tell a different story. Because they have already been inundated with these clichés, they can only re-tell such narratives. Here, a tale of a rose garden. There, a story that remains unchanged for fifty years. Here, a story of the Casablanca of the East. There, a story of Shanghai. Here, a revolutionary tale of a love worth laying down one’s life for. There, a financial love story in which you break my heart today and I kill you tomorrow. Here, a story of a conscientious national capitalist. There, a story of an English gentleman who trains a flower girl to become a fair lady. Within the crevices of such grand narratives, Hong Kong’s dispirited storytellers bite their tongues. When strong party-minded critics from Mainland China visit Hong Kong, they often reiterate that Hong Kong literature lacks epochal masterpieces or bold works that reflect reality. These tourists, in turn, roll up their sleeves, pick their ingredients, and pull out secret recipes from their pockets, ready to cook up great stories.

However, while everyone scrambles to tell the grand narrative of Hong Kong, it seems that some literary and arts practitioners in Hong Kong cannot find the energy to even participate in this competition.

Works that do not foreground narrativity are not unprecedented in Hong Kong. For example, we can look at Allen Fong’s lyrical prose works, Yim Ho’s Homecoming (1984), Stanley Kwan’s Full Moon in New York (1990), and Ann Hui’s Song of the Exile (1990). Although these films have both diverse merits and shortcomings, they share a common approach of focusing on the description of details, interpersonal relationships, and insights brought about by experience, rather than emphasising storytelling and drama. In the realm of literature, since the mid-1970s, there have been novels that highlight atmosphere and imagery rather than plot. As for the theatre, groups like Zuni Icosahedron have prioritised minimalist changes in structure and cohesive stage elements over plot, narrative, and character-building.

In fact, Days of Being Wild is not entirely devoid of narrative. It’s just that the film downplays storytelling in the first half, paying close attention instead to composition, visuals, details, and mood. It transforms a linear narrative into scattered lyricism and opts for psychological time over sequential time, thereby minimising drama. Given its production costs of over twenty million HKD, a cast of six prominent stars, and budget for a sequel—all these sharpened the film’s banality and further disappointed the audience.

Wong Kar-wai has attributed Days of Being Wild to a special sensibility he has for 1960s Hong Kong. However, because the film was a high-budget production featuring a well-known cast, many viewers could not help but expect an epic on the scale of War and Peace or Doctor Zhivago. After watching the film, they realised it was nothing like that. Some film critics expressed their disappointment. If this disappointment stemmed from what was missing, it is worth considering what is absent from the film. As an emblem of a 1960s sensibility, the film does not include depictions of the everyday lives and streetscapes that defined that era. Familiar cultural symbols of Hong Kong, such as the Star Ferry Pier, The Peak, Central, Tsim Sha Tsui, Aberdeen, and Lok Ma Chau are nowhere to be found. Nor does it feature the typical filmic tropes such as hooligans, speeding cars, weapon battles, fights over girls, or romantic melodrama like that of West Side Story (1961). The film also does not incorporate major historical events that happened in the 1960s and 70s, like the desolation of political turmoil or the “brilliance” of protests. Instead, it focuses solely on trivial personal matters. Days of Being Wild is likely not the only cultural text that evaded grand narratives and opted for “no story” or a "minor story,” as this was connected to a broader trend in Hong Kong’s cinema, literature, and theatre traditions as mentioned earlier. Based on recent attempts by Hong Kong filmmakers and writers, do we not also see their skepticism towards epic storytelling and carefully managed “scripts” in politics, culture, and economics?

How do we tell a story of Hong Kong? This story remains stuck in the throat, close to the mouth, but is unpredictable and changes as it is spoken. Even if one consciously removes a grand narrative and eliminates the exceedingly stable and rigid meaning of certain “signifiers,” how do you put it into words after? It seems many are still either grappling with this difficulty, giving up, or arbitrarily telling various narratives within the crevices and interstices, between past and present, between local and foreign, between commerce and art, and between grand and humble stories.

In Days of Being Wild, the quest in search of one’s biological mother can easily become an allegory, but at the same time it’s not that straightforward. Protagonist Yuddy’s adoptive mother is from Shanghai, yet he travels to the Philippines in search of his biological mother—surely you can’t make a direct correlation there. Similarly, the metaphor of the single-legged bird that cannot but fly could serve as a readily available, romantic metaphor for the protagonist. But this metaphor is later sarcastically dismissed by another character on the train. Our protagonist also loses his life on the train for no reason. Even the introduction of a new character without any explanation, played by Tony Leung in the film’s final moments, further undermines the possibility of establishing simple signifiers. The story becomes even less like a story.

No story exists in isolation; any story can become a battleground for various forces. Days of Being Wild is, of course, also a product of Hong Kong’s commercial system, with its gun fights, murders, and romantic entanglements. However, the film also attempts to reject a commercial story. While it features superstars, their superstar qualities are minimised (Andy Lau is turned into an ordinary policeman). Days of Being Wild could have been a purely nostalgic story about real life. Yet, amidst the imagery of Queen’s Café, old cigarette boxes, soda bottles, football matches, nostalgic music, and the adoptive mother from Shanghai, the film also refuses to be fully recognised as an easily digestible story.

I think it is in Days of Being Wild that we are able to glimpse the heterogeneity of Hong Kong art. Many say that Days of Being Wild is a thoroughly reckless piece of art, but I do not think so. If we try to understand this film within the cultural context of Hong Kong, we may appreciate its achievements more. Wong Kar-wai, like the rest of us, navigates the gaps between past and present, local and foreign, business and art, grand and trivial, in an attempt to tell a (his) Hong Kong story. We win some, we lose some. We have moments of joy, but also regret.

By not having a story, the film’s strength lies in its downplaying of plot, portrayal of the characters’ psyche, challenge to linear narrative development, and resistance to a clichéd grand narrative. But the second half of the film, set in the Philippines, undoubtedly diminishes these achievements. It is possible that commercial considerations led to the inclusion of gun fight scenes, despite how abrupt these scenes appear to be. Perhaps some aspects, such as the editing, may have been rushed in order to meet a Christmas release timeline, compromising a meticulous and calm execution. Like many other Hong Kong films, its overall execution in terms of directing, photography, and art design is often stronger than its screenwriting. The script often lacks overall organic development and structure, as well as a far-reaching vision.

Recognising the limits of Days of Being Wild does not hinder us from appreciating it. In fact, it comes off as more sincere, since it is a Hong Kong story told exactly within those very constraints.

 

2. Two Types of Stories

Many outsiders have told the story of Hong Kong. A story of an international city with postmodern multinational corporations, a tale of prosperity and stability. Some attribute Hong Kong’s commercial prosperity to its lack of democracy, while others suggest it is precisely because of democracy that Hong Kong has to put up with its problems stemming from colonialism.² The importance of English is repeatedly mentioned. Parents even protested against Cantonese mother-tongue education, and retired English professors from abroad came to Hong Kong to promote the significance of English for resistance. However, there are also those who stress its importance in “benefiting China.”

In his lecture “A Tale of Two Cities” at the University of Hong Kong, Lee Kuan Yew suggests that both Hong Kong and Singapore play a catalytic role in the economic development of their neighbouring regions. To prevent Hong Kong from losing its importance to China, he believes it is best for Hong Kong to remain globally connected, “because the more globally connected Hong Kong is, the more it benefits China.” The use of English enables Hong Kong to achieve this purpose.³

Whoever tells this story has their stance. It is very clear that Lee Kuan Yew’s description of Hong Kongers, as tirelessly diligent without benefits like healthcare, is enough to evoke a sense of Singaporean pride. He compares Singapore with Hong Kong in terms of their important economic statuses and comprehensive legal systems. But when it comes to political and cultural identities, he immediately highlights the differences between the two places:

        Singapore has been nation-building to develop a separate and distinct identity. Hong Kong has not. Singapore’s geographic distance plus its demographic has led to a Singaporean identity which is separate from the Chinese in China. Hong Kong did not attempt, indeed was not permitted, to develop one.⁴

He even uses the reaction of Hong Kong people towards the June Fourth Incident to prove that Hong Kongers identify with the Chinese; while in Singapore, only around thirty university students protested moderately, he says. For those familiar with the reality in Singapore, they may have different views on this. The contemplation on Hong Kong’s identity can also be more complex. But I think it is more important to understand the standpoint of the storyteller. Lee Kuan Yew has his unique stance, evident in his past political measures. The goal of his story is to emphasise Singapore’s independent identity, the targeted use of English as an international language, and its historical significance and practical utility. In this story, Hong Kong is just another borrowed example.

In contrast with this international story, another type of story is the national story. The former focuses on maintaining the status quo, while the latter often criticises the status quo and proposes a return to ideals. Since the May Fourth Movement, this type of story is often seen in the works of Chinese writers, such as Wen Yiduo’s “Hong Kong” in Song of the Seven Sons, in which he likens Hong Kong to a “yellow leopard” who has lost its mother:

            Now the ferocious sea lion throws itself on my body,

            Tasting my flesh, swallowing my fats;⁵

In stories about Hong Kong thereafter, quite a few compare Hong Kong to a “weak woman,” “orphan,” and “feral child,” or even describe it as being insulted, ignorant, or vulgar.

The most common is to ridicule its language, impure Chinese, and incoherent street signs, regarding them as the “backward ugliness of colonial culture” (Wang Lixi).⁶ The term “cultural desert” has also persisted. Yang Yanqi mentioned in “Hong Kong Half Year” that Hong Kongers “do not even eat pork, only char siu.”⁷ One’s perspective and conclusion often reveal the scope of their knowledge. It is strange that on one hand, they claim Hong Kong to have no culture, but on the other, they boast about the movies they see in Hong Kong to their friends in Shanghai. This kind of narrow-mindedness and contradiction can still be seen in travel literature written by some Mainland Chinese writers about Hong Kong today. It seems nothing has changed with the passage of time.

In “Love in Sham Shui Po” written by Hu Chunbing in 1941, Hong Kong transforms into a girl who worships a visitor from Mainland China. She holds his hands with both her hands and listens to him admiringly as he talks about all kinds of things related to the motherland. As she tightens her grip, she constantly “bounces up and down or makes sounds of ‘ah’ and ‘oh.’”⁸

Here, of course, English becomes a symbol of ridicule, no longer the tool “useful for China” in keeping contact with the world, as suggested in Lee Kuan Yew’s story. But likewise, in these two seemingly antithetical stories, Hong Kong becomes a foil, a marginal existence that only serves to illustrate the storyteller’s ambiguous desires and fantasies.

 

3. The Image of Lindzay Chan

In television shows and films of the 1990s, Lindzay Chan represents a new image often associated with the thought-provoking question of Hong Kong’s identity. She first drew attention with her role in Allen Fong’s Dancing Bull (1990), portraying a dancer who shuttles between Hong Kong and countries abroad after a failed relationship, eventually settling in a cottage house as a pregnant wife. Chan’s character watches the events of the June Fourth Incident unfold on TV, as she holds her husband’s hand, saying: “We must do something!” In the film’s most memorable segment, she sails past protesters on the pier, conveying a touch of everyday sentiment to the film’s passion triggered by June Fourth.

In Evans Chan’s To Liv(e) (1992), she plays the leading protagonist who sends letters to Liv Ullmann, explaining the challenges faced by Hong Kongers due to the influx of Vietnamese refugees. While the film is a semi-independent production executed with sincerity, Lindzay Chan’s poise and fluent English is employed more as a means to cater to people outside of Hong Kong and less as a manifestation of Hong Kong’s diverse identities. It is precisely because Lindzay Chan’s image fits into the “outward-looking” identity too well that it seems awkward to consider her within the context of Hong Kong (as Fung Kin-chung’s lover, as her father’s daughter). The film is unable to fully explore the half of her identity as a Chinese/Hong Konger.

To Liv(e) attempts to create a subject that speaks on behalf of this city. But behind the fluent monologues, what ends up being emphasised is a knowledge of films from the West (without identifying the different depths of love expressed by the film and Bergman’s), and the assumption that both could share common culture and values. That’s why they borrowed George Bernard Shaw’s rhetoric and the imagery of van Gogh’s ear without hesitation, leaving no room to closely examine the differences between these two cultures. It never occurs to them that Hong Kongers are not a unified “whole,” nor is the “subject” of Hong Kongers fixed or consistent.

In the new episode of RTHK’s drama series Below the Lion Rock, called "Before the Variation," Lindzay Chan is cast as the mistress of an immigration officer and an admirer/ex-lover of an “artist” in Mainland China. Her identity in this series seems to be defined solely through her relationships with men. Although there are scenes of her writing and reading letters, as in To Liv(e), she does not have her own voice in the drama, let alone any reflection on her identity. She is portrayed as someone who identifies with and admires Mainland artists unconditionally. Unfortunately, as a Hong Konger and a woman, she is presented by the screenwriter as a character who is doubly colonised.

Great Expectations, a collaboration between Hong Kong Fringe Club and Sydney Theatre Company, is adapted from Charles Dickens’ novel of the same name. Once again, with Hong Kong as the background, the play casts Lindzay Chan to prompt a reflection on Hong Kong identity.

In this play, Lindzay Chan plays the multiracial Estella, who is raised by Miss Havisham, a woman living in an eerie old castle, to break the hearts of men all over the world. If To Liv(e)’s concealment of her multiracial identity causes unnecessary awkwardness, then the playwright and director of Great Expectations are quite clever in highlighting this multiracial identity so it becomes part of the relatively ambitious issues explored in the play.

The part about Pip first entering the house and being both attracted to and intimidated by Estella is well-written. The first half is faithful to the original but lacks experimentation; the latter half is more ambitious, which prompts great expectations, even though the end result is not entirely satisfactory.

In the play, Pip receives an anonymous donation that enables him to leave Fanling for Central. He gets involved in the colony’s upper class society and is educated to become a gentleman who speaks fluent English and has proper manners. Once he becomes such a gentleman, he begins to feel ashamed of his upbringing and his brother-in-law Joe, who was with him through thick and thin in the countryside. He wants to pursue the multiracial Estella, yet she ends up marrying beneath her to a foreigner with a dishonorable reputation. Pip and Estella, two Hong Kongers who reject themselves in pursuit of the standards of others, end up stranded and unable to find their own path. There are undoubtedly many stories to be told about psychological states like humiliation, hesitation, subalternity; how to change, and how to reflect.

But of course, to name these ambiguities, or to feel these indistinct emotions, is the most difficult. Therefore, the more thoroughly developed characters in Great Expectations, like Miss Havisham in her empty mansion, or the fugitive father figure of Magwitch played by Anthony Wong, who are more thoroughly Anglicised or Sinicised, are more likable and easier to portray. Even the half-Chinese, half-foreign Herbert Pocket, played by Keith Kwan, can evoke laughter with his superficial cultural differences between China and the West when he teaches Pip about Western table etiquette, making for a charming characterisation. However, though some dissatisfactions of the characters are mentioned, difficulties are quickly resolved before they can develop. Wemmick from the law firm is also caught between Chinese and Western attitudes, but he only wears a full Western business suit during work hours and changes back to Chinese attire to make tea at home. This is a bit superficial, as it fails to truly bring out the inner conflicts of the same person embodying these different roles.

The character of Wemmick could have been developed further. For example, is there a middle ground between the Westernised/commercialised world and the Chinese world of his ailing, elderly father at home that is not so starkly divided? Are there difficulties and lingering vestiges of the old as he transitions from one stage to another?

Similarly, when portraying the two protagonists, the play also overlooks these ambiguous and intermediary aspects. Pip did not seem to have much difficulty in transforming from a country boy to an English gentleman. This is not about technicalities like the time for development being too short or the process being unclear. Instead, the basic assumption seems to exclude the issue of culture. It supposes that a person can effortlessly don another cultural identity after adolescence and then awaken at a certain point to remove that cultural identity, just like Pip putting on and taking off his designer clothes in the play. But cultural identity is not simply like clothing that can be put on and taken off casually. It is more like skin, or something similar: even if you remove it, there are lingering scars, while new skin remains covered with scabs—flawed, unclear, persisting, unspoken.

In the play, Pip’s sense of shame towards Joe could have been a narrative thread worth developing further. But Joe’s lines are written with too much bitterness. After his departure, we no longer see Pip continuing to feel shame or reflecting on his own identity. Even after Estella says on the train that she would not fall in love with a local person, Pip does not show any further emotional or intellectual response along this thematic direction.

The character of Estella, played by Lindzay Chan, is not only emblematic of the intertextuality across recent films and television shows that explore Hong Kong identity, but also further emphasises her mixed-race background. This could have provided an opportunity for deeper reflection. However, the portrayal of this character, especially in the second half of the play, shows no sign of inner turmoil or conflict. In the first half, she superficially teases the local young men, but in the second half, she suddenly performs the role of a sensible and mature young wife. Scenes are given for her to showcase her dancing skills, but none with lines to express her internal hesitation or contradiction. Even the statement of her “colonised mindset” is only delivered by the coloniser, without Estella herself exhibiting any hesitation or ambivalence. Even by the end of the play, when she appears to reveal her true self, there is no indication of her having gained self-awareness. Then how could she have “transformed”? The screenwriter’s decision to have Estella express her desire to go to university in Shanghai at the play’s ending is particularly alarming. Is she not trading one form of cultural colonisation for another? How can she continue to explore her cultural identity in this way?

Estella’s Portuguese mother only makes a fleeting appearance in the play, failing to generate much significance. On the other hand, Herbert Pocket’s mother—the woman who works in the mansion—could have had more room for development. When she first appears in the old mansion, she is silent and resentful, truly an impactful image of the colonised. Every time she speaks in Chinese, Miss Havisham orders her to speak in English, because the colonisers are afraid of the language they do not understand!

In films and television shows of the 1990s, one can see a strong anxiety to create an image of an urban environment and a Hong Konger identity. As Sino-British negotiations made it clear that Hong Kong’s handover to Mainland China in 1997 would be inevitable, there seemed to be a sense that the existing lived experiences, economy, and cultural status quo would soon disappear. This led to more contemplation on Hong Kong’s cultural identity, such as the nostalgic impulse to preserve old photographs and creative writing of new fables. Examples include theatre performances like I Am Hong Kong (1985), On the Hong Kong Stage, Zuni Icosahedron’s Journey to the East, Four Letters to Deng Xiaoping (1984), and the more recent Deep Structure of Chinese (Hong Kong) Culture (1990–91), Yuen Lap-fun and others’ Evacuation Order trilogy (1984–86), or in films like Tsui Hark’s, and his use of martial arts and technology to express his Chinese roots and create passionate and romantic fables.

The 1984 production I Am Hong Kong by Chung Ying Theatre Company already encompasses in its title the two themes—self-subjectivity and spatial territory. The attitude is as straightforward as the title: an affirmation of one’s relationship with this city and an unwavering sense of belonging. When the play debuted in the mid-1980s, its accessible and fresh form seemed to fit well. Under the direction of Bernard Goss, the play approaches questions yet widely discussed using a questionnaire format and fragmented scenes—a method that was not overly profound but refreshing nonetheless. Some successful segments in the play indeed vividly capture the awkwardness of Hong Konger identity. In a scene depicting Hong Kong students studying in the UK, when students from each country sing their own national anthem at a party in turns, the Hong Kong students do not know what to sing to represent Hong Kong and end up singing In That Faraway Place. While it could have been indeed an opportunity to reflect on the issue of subjectivity, it is a pity that as the plot develops, the resolution happens too soon and eliminates any potential contemplation on the ambiguous identity of Hong Kongers. The play ultimately concludes by encouraging people to participate in district council elections, offering a simple solution to a complex problem.

Compared to this optimistic but somewhat oversimplified approach, the productions of Zuni Icosahedron certainly appear more sophisticated and mature. By breaking up simple narratives, eliminating characters and dialogue, or emphasising action, sound, and visuals, these traits are indeed more representative of postmodern theatre. But as allegories, Zuni’s works tend towards a minimalist aesthetic and are not good at conveying political reflections that are too complicated. This is why sometimes the emphasis on formal openness and diversity means the political message comes across as too one-sided and monotonous. When successful, it reinvigorates the audience’s scope of understanding and prompts their reflection; however, when unsuccessful, the depth of political and cultural reflection does not go beyond the theatrical form. Zuni’s more abstract and minimalist treatment of Chronicle of Women (1991) in the 1990s, for example, contains more political implications and is less concerned about gender issues than earlier versions of the same work.

The topic of Hong Kong’s subjectivity looms like a phantom in works of art, which, of course, has historical, social, and cultural factors behind it. Local education and cultural policies have actually never encouraged reflection on the complexity of Hong Kong’s identity. Hong Kong’s education policies advocate reading English literature by itself, lauding these texts as canonical. If not, it suggests reading Chinese literature—even Chinese culture—in a decontextualised manner, without providing the cultural context and comparative analysis to connect these distant or abstruse texts. Like the students in King of the Children (1988), students in Hong Kong are just encouraged to copy textbooks or memorise answers provided by teachers. In cultural policies, apart from emphasising or subsidising the development of performing arts for entertainment, there is no effort to systemise the fields of Hong Kong literature or art. The lack of focus on history or research has resulted in the performing arts become more technically accomplished, but lacking real substance. The literary and art circles establish their territories of influences and seek their limelight deprived of a comprehensive vision, while the media casually reports distorted facts. If this is called prosperity, it is merely just an illusion.

Even though since the 1980s, more people have started reflecting on the nature of Hong Kong’s subjectivity, but it still seems difficult to articulate it clearly. Of course, this difficulty in articulation is also a product of the historical, cultural, and social factors mentioned above.

Great Expectations was originally a rare attempt to adapt the Dickens novel (one of the colony’s most quintessential and popular texts), to the early twentieth-century setting of Hong Kong. But unlike Zuni’s self-contained adaptation, this adapted text does not fully aim to generate more dialogue with the original work. Instead, it is rather vague in addressing the issue of Hong Kong’s subjectivity. The characters Pip and Estella both represent people in Hong Kong who have abandoned their own cultural backgrounds in an attempt to unconditionally identify with the culture of the colonisers. The nature of such marginality, which struggles to appeal to either side, could have been explored further, but is dismissed without having been given a chance. After it is mentioned in reference to Estella’s “colonised mindset,” the play does not address this issue further. Instead, the problem is conveniently resolved by having Estella decide to attend a university in Shanghai. The contemplation of Hong Kong’s subjectivity is once again deferred and postponed.

This play was a collaboration between the foreign Sydney Theatre Company and the local Fringe Club. It is said that there were some differences between the locally conceived script and the directorial approach brought in by the foreign director. Did the director’s interpretation end up burying some of the potential objections that the locals might have raised? Were some reflections by Hong Kongers suppressed in order to prioritise fidelity to the original English text and a polished Western theatrical aesthetic? Did the form reveal colonial issues that the play originally wanted to address? I would want to know specific details of how this production came together to identify the problems in the cultural context of Hong Kong beyond the play.

The image of Lindzay Chan seemed to be borrowed to represent Hong Kong’s ambiguous subjectivity at one point. But at times, the portrayal by the screenwriter and director oversimplifies her Westernised side or simply reverts to a Chinese conclusion. An apt character image requires an appropriate narrative. Is the phantom of subjectivity looking for a story, or are there countless stories looking for subjectivity’s phantom?

 

4. The Schema of "Hong Kong" at the Turn of the Century for Mainland Chinese Artists

The handscroll format oil painting Butterflies and Flowers by Liu Dahong that took Hong Kong as its subject, was unveiled at Art Asia Hong Kong in 1993. In 1994, it was featured on the cover of a monthly magazine, and was even referred to as the “ideal representation of Hong Kong at the turn of the century” in an article by a Mainland Chinese art critic. The article mentions that the painting captured the ethos of Hong Kong culture, condensing historical scenes of Hong Kong, and compared it to both traditional Chinese art and Western postmodernism. This painting and its surrounding discourse once again present “a story of Hong Kong” from the perspective of its author.

Despite being a contemporary avant-garde artist from Mainland China, Liu Dahong did not describe Hong Kong metaphorically as an “orphan,” “lass,” “feral child,” or even more disparagingly as “prostitute,” as his previous contemporaries had done. The work is painted in warm hues of reds and yellows, and includes many narrative scenes. Even the Mainland Chinese art critic commented on the sweetness and resplendence of the painting, noting that it did not contain any overt praise or criticism. They even went as far as to describe the painting as postmodern.

Was Liu Dahong’s image of Hong Kong a postmodern, polyphonic juxtaposition of multiple images without judgements of value? At first glance, it does seem to be the case. From Mao Zedong to Chris Patten, from the Queen of England and Prince Charles to Hong Kong celebrities, entertainers, and porn stars, figures are all integrated as if there is no distinction between them. But upon closer inspection, we realise it is not a simple postmodern technique of a transformation and dissolution of everything. Rather, the composition reveals a very strict system of order underlying the work, governed by a particular ideology.

Butterflies and Flowers tells a story of marriage. Right from the start, it features a clichéd image of Hong Kong—a sailboat, but with a red heart instead of a sail. Inside the heart, a couple is shown leaning on each other, their faces covered by a white silk fan with “sweetheart” written on it in English. Every character and scene that appears thereafter in the paintings are all related to this marriage narrative.

In the paintings, China is always represented by the male figure or the groom, while Hong Kong is always depicted as the female—as entertainers, porn stars, or objects of desire. The image of Mao Zedong still appears as a patriarchal figure. Although contemporary avant-garde artists often add a hint of satire to representations of Mao, they do not fundamentally subvert the order of power. Mao’s figure still occupies the dominant, central position in these avant-garde paintings, being served by others and worshipped by foreigners. For example, in the third painting, Mao sits cross-legged like Buddha, while Prince Charles of England is dressed like the Pope, offering wine and tea before him. What’s interesting is that, behind the façade of this postmodern style, the relative size and proportions of the characters, as well as their apparent pecking order, are still constrained within a rigid ideological framework—daring not to cross the line of this predetermined order.

Art critic Lau Kin-wai once pointed out that Liu Dahong’s earlier works were successful in their exploration of collective memory based on Liu’s thirty years of absurd experiences. These advantages, however, were lost when applied to the work’s subject matter. An inability to understand the cultural models of Hong Kong and societies outside his own exposes the rigidity and superficiality of Liu’s own cultural understanding. This is not only a problem for Liu Dahong, but also for the majority of contemporary Chinese avant-garde cultural workers.

Perhaps we can make a brief comparison in terms of how the painting imitates the composition of The Night Revels of Han Xizai. Of course, some may argue that both the Five Dynasties period and today’s Hong Kong are times of transition. But perspectives on how to interpret these transitions vary depending on different standpoints. It is said that because the last ruler of Southern Tang Li Yu felt that Han Xizai’s lifestyle was too debauched, he ordered painters like Gu Hongzhong and others to depict the Han family’s night banquets, perhaps with the intention of admonishment. Regardless of his original motive, when we look at reproductions of the painting today, we can still see the painters’ meticulous and sensitive observations in their depiction. In the case of Liu Dahong’s Butterflies and Flowers, though the Mainland Chinese art critic gave an oversimplified read of the work as realist, it undoubtedly borrows the prevailing postmodern aesthetic instead, without any genuine interest, observation, or concern for the depicted subject. It is just a cartoonish pastiche. But postmodernism is no longer exhortative, rather attempting at an inclusive openness, but fails at this because it lacks real-world observation. All that is left is simply the image of Hong Kong shaped by the media and government, essentially presenting a Hong Kong that is consistent with the official narrative. This is a new aesthetic that can be called “socialist postmodernism.”

Because this is a story about marriage, a happy, blissful, and sweet story, even if there is sometimes ridicule, it is akin to harmless wedding pranks. The basic narrative arc conforms to the party message: it starts with the sailboat, moves to the arranged marriage, the mouse bride folktale, everyone gathering harmoniously together, and finally ends with childbirth as the conclusion. An alternate, suppressed narrative could be: this is a forced marriage with many setbacks, and the marriage metaphor should not have been used at all. However, the marriage metaphor used in these paintings is in fact very fixed and rigid. Behind the seemingly postmodern disguise of excitement, vibrancy, and absurdity, this Chinese avant-garde artist actually holds a rather old-fashioned perspective.

Liu Dahong’s example is not an isolated one. At the end of 1994, Liu Yuyi, another Mainland Chinese painter living in Hong Kong, attracted media attention when his work Song of the Goddess Nüwa was sold at a high price.

Song of the Goddess Nüwa is also said to be related to Hong Kong. In the upper left corner of the painting, an ammolite emits a gemstone’s light. The entire painting is imbued with auspicious and joyful red tones. Behind the stone, the light-reflecting auspicious clouds seem to have golden edges, while both humans and animals are relegated to the lower corners of the painting. In the centre is a naked Nüwa, carried by a muscular man.

The Nüwa in this painting is not particularly reminiscent of the Nüwa who smelted stones to patch the sky, but a Nüwa of the new era, whose image may have evolved from something in a magazine like Playboy, Tony Wong’s comics, or early Hollywood palace movies. In the painting, Nüwa’s curves are accentuated and she is held and gazed upon by a primitive and sturdy man. She becomes a desirable object instead of a subject with the agency to mend the Heavens.

Previously, Liu Yuyi painted Festive Evening, which took the early days of the founding of the People’s Republic of China as a background. That painting was also full of celebratory auspiciousness and peaceful joy. This time, in Song of the Goddess Nüwa, it’s suggested that the stone in Nüwa’s hand later becomes Hong Kong. Beneath the auspicious imagery, Liu Yuyi seems to align Hong Kong with women and desirable objects, much like Liu Dahong’s approach. This type of political kitsch seems likely to continue appearing in the days to come.

 

5. A Laser Sailboat Customised for Hong Kong by a Western Artist

The opening performance for the unveiling of the Hong Kong Stadium on 11 March 1994 drew a lot of criticism. Some felt that the performance was quite mediocre and did not live up to its high-profile publicity. Others said that the local audience did not understand the craftsmanship of the French electronic music master, and that Jean-Michel Jarre’s performance was “tailor-made” for the Hong Kong audience, so the huge cost was “worth it.” After the stadium’s opening, issues with noise and management continued to cause controversies. What problems do these controversies reveal about Hong Kong culture?

Costing a hefty sum, the stadium was transformed into a venue that accommodates 40,000 spectators and is can now host large concerts. For the opening performance, a laser light and music show by the French Jean-Michel Jarre was specially arranged to advertise an international standard, modern (postmodern) technology, progress, civilisation, and diversity. But despite this, it is said to be “tailor-made” for Hong Kong. How do we understand Hong Kong, and what does it mean for Hong Kong to be “understood” and “tailored for”?

That night, the song that was most closely related to Hong Kong was probably “The Fisherman’s Song at Dusk,” which not only featured the Hong Kong Chinese Orchestra as accompaniment (apparently an exception as Jean-Michel Jarre’s contract stipulated that no local artists were allowed to perform with him. This accompaniment was “allowed” as an exception!), but also projected the image of a sailboat on the giant screen! This shows that even with all the colourful laser imagery hinting at the future, Jean-Michel Jarre’s understanding of Hong Kong was still stuck at the stage of the “sailboat.”

Using the “sailboat” as a symbol to represent Hong Kong is certainly not unique to Jean-Michel Jarre. Many old Hong Kong photographs, paintings, and postcards were filled with this motif. Veteran photographer Yau Leung featured and image of a sailboat on the first page of his photography collection of Hong Kong in the 1960s and 70s, Lu Feng Stories (Hong Kong: Photoart Publishing Company, 1992). The sailboat became the Hong Kong Tourism Association’s logo and has since appeared in many promotional materials about Hong Kong. While intriguing for foreign visitors, these representations may have been internalised by local artists as well. There were even traces of the sailboat in exhibitions from the past. In the Hong Kong Museum of Art’s second exhibition (the inaugural exhibition was on French art, titled “Too French!”), titled “City Vibrance: Recent Works in Western Media by Hong Kong Artists,” we still see the sailboat motif in Jackson Yu’s paintings.

The imagery of the sailboat not only feels anachronistic, as if we have turned back the clock. Even though we occasionally see sailboats today, they no longer play an important role in our lives, nor can they represent a certain part of the Hong Kong experience. This may be a limitation of the metaphor, symbol, or sign itself. Every time we try to represent Hong Kong with “one image,” we always see what it lacks instead, as well as the absurdity within (we may think of what Slavoj Zizek mentions in his new book, where after the fall of Nicolae Ceausescu, Romanian opposition soldiers cut off the “red star” on the flag, not to treat the star as a symbol, but rather to use the “hole” in the flag to signify the openness of a changing historical context). The problem with using just a sailboat to represent Hong Kong is not that it lags behind the present, but that the emergence of such a symbol hinders, rather than helps us understand Hong Kong. Such a familiar yet unoriginal image acclimates people to it without considering different possibilities.

Because this symbol is too easily associated with various clichés about Hong Kong, it is difficult for people to break the habit and come up with new interpretations. Placing the sailboat in front of high-rise buildings in the harbour resonates with the clichés of Hong Kong being a “melting pot of Western and Eastern cultures” and a “fusion of tradition and modernity.” Jean-Michel Jarre’s laser show at the stadium’s opening ceremony was a sixteen-million-dollar reiteration of these clichés. For example, the Scottish pipe band and the Brazilian Samba dancer seem to represent the West and modernity, while the dragon dance represents Chinese tradition. But does putting the two together constitute Hong Kong culture? What is missing is a reflection on Hong Kong culture itself.

Jean-Michel Jarre’s laser show, said to be “tailored for” Hong Kong, fails to see Hong Kong. His laser show is not difficult to appreciate at all, but it can be seen as overly superficial. Generally speaking, the elements of the show can be divided into two categories: one is “global,” emphasising urban rhythms, gymnastics movements, love, and concern for children; another is “Sinicised,” featuring traditional Chinese music like “The Fisherman’s Song at Dusk,” his impression of China (through the typical eyes of a tourist, with broken and incomprehensible Mandarin, sounds of bicycles, etc.), He Zhizhang’s poem “My accent has not changed, but my temple hair has grayed,” and all kinds of Chinese signboards (even though they were inverted and incorrect). In both types of imagery, Hong Kong seems to exist but in fact does not. In the former, Hong Kong is regarded as being like any other modern city in the world; in the latter, Hong Kong is regarded as (in the curious eyes of a tourist) identical with China, ignoring their subtle differences in lifestyle, social customs, culture, and even language that may exist under the same cultural heritage.

These differences are important for understanding Hong Kong culture and society. The stadium was built following the Australian model, without taking into account Hong Kong’s spatial characteristics, leading to unresolved noise problems. The various problems arising from foreign management systems not adapting to Hong Kong’s reality continue to have repercussions. In the days to come, the same will happen in other aspects—the neglect or suppression of the unique characteristics of Hong Kong culture will inevitably lead to more severe social issues. Sixteen million HKD can buy technological grandeur, but it may not buy cultural understanding. Can the incident of Jean-Michel Jarre serve as a lesson?

 

6. Keep Telling the Story

Am I only being pessimistic, as if it is impossible to tell a story about Hong Kong? No, that’s not my point. I simply want to discuss why it is so difficult and to point out how easy it is for our ideas and narratives to be appropriated by other perspectives and voices. But there are still many people trying to tell the story of Hong Kong in their own way. The curriculum department of the Hong Kong Arts Centre has been encouraging students to explore Hong Kong through visual and textual means. Photographers are capturing Hong Kong in their own ways. In class, I see more new writings about Hong Kong. The RTHK City Fax programme is also concerned with this issue and came to film our lessons. I was just talking about the cliché of the sailboat in class, when in the next lesson, I took Joy Shan Lam-Kung and the others to visit my friend Alfred Ko’s studio to see his incredible photos of Sham Shui Po. Lam-Kung interviewed Ko, discussing the photos one by one. Suddenly, Lam-Kung smiled at me mischievously: “Isn’t this the sailboat you were talking about?” It turns out Ko also took pictures of a sailboat! He explained that on that day, he felt extremely depressed due to current political issues, and when he walked to the harbour, he saw a sailboat going past a giant ship in the distance. He felt inspired, as if it reflected the current situation, and pressed the shutter immediately!

Looking at the photo, I vaguely felt what the photographer wanted to express. It turns out the sailboat can be brought back to life after all! The photographer, with his talent and boldness, endowed new life to the clichéd image. Of course I’m also happy to revise what I said. As long as we do not stick to conventions, if we are able to project new feelings and emotions, maybe even clichéd images can be revived to once again express our current feelings and experiences? Even if we might not be able to tell a completely new story, we can rewrite and reorganise, infusing old stories with new meanings, right?

 

Leung Ping-kwan, "香港的故事：爲什麽這麽難説?" [A Hong Kong Story: Why Is it So Difficult to Tell?], in Hong Kong Culture (Hong Kong: Hong Kong Arts Centre, 1995). Republished by permission of the copyright holder.

Translated from the original Chinese by Koel Chu. 

Leung Ping-kwan (1949-2013), writing under the pen name 也斯 (Yasi), was a Hong Kong poet, novelist, translator, and scholar who defined a generation of Hong Kong literary voices. Known for his contributions in poetry, prose, novels, drama, and cultural criticism, Leung's achievements spanned various literary genres, and he played a pivotal role in introducing foreign literature to Hong Kong. He is the author of academic anthologies Hong Kong Culture (1995), Cultural Space and Literature of Hong Kong (1996), and artist book The Language of Fruits and Vegetables (2004); and was the recipient of the Artist of the Year Award by the Hong Kong Artists’ Guild (1992) and was named Author of the Year by the Hong Kong Book Fair (2012). He received a Medal of Honour in 2006 for his contributions to Hong Kong's literary landscape. 

Koel Chu is a bilingual writer from Hong Kong. Her work has appeared in MUBI Notebook, M+ Magazine, p-articles, MingPao, SAMPLE, fleurs des lettres, and more. She edited the full-length comic NIGHT NIGHT, which was shortlisted for the D&AD Awards in 2023 and received a special mention at the BolognaRagazzi Awards. 

 

Notes

^{1. “Days of Being Wild—You Like It or Not?,” City Entertainment Magazine, no. 308 (January 17–30, 1991), 40–43.}

^{2. Lau Siu-kai, Society and Politics in Hong Kong (Hong Kong: The Chinese University Press, 1982).}

^{3. Lee Kuan Yew, “A Tale of Two Cities—Twenty Years On,” Li Ka Shing Lecture, HKU, December 14, 1992.}

^{4. Ibid, 3.}

^{5. Regarding Mainland Chinese writers’ descriptions of Hong Kong, please see: Renditions, No. 29 and 30 (1988); 香港的憂鬱 [The Sorrows of Hong Kong], edited by Lo Wai-luen (Hong Kong: Wah Fung, 1983); Wen Yiduo, “七子之歌 [Song of the Seven Sons]”, in 香港的憂鬱 [The Sorrows of Hong Kong], p. 1–2.}

^{6. Wang Lixi, “香港竹枝詞 [Hong Kong Bamboo-Twig Poetry],” in The Sorrows of Hong Kong, edited by Lo Wai-luen, p.161–62.}

^{7. Yang Yanqi, “香港半年 [Hong Kong Half Year],” in The Sorrows of Hong Kong, p. 207–11.}

^{8. Hu Chunbing, “深水埗之戀 [Love in Sham Shui Po],” in The Sorrows of Hong Kong, p. 213–15.}