Yau Ching, Wet Dreams in Paradise (天堂春夢 二十世紀香港電影史論). Taipei: Linking, 2024. ISBN: 978-957-08-7296-5. NT$600 

As recent film and media studies have shifted focus away from texts, authors, production to technologies, environments and posthuman infrastructures – drawing inspiration from archaeological and ecological approaches – one might ask why we might read Yau Ching’s recent book Wet Dreams in Paradise that re-centers genre, history and authors in Hong Kong film history. To address this question, we need to contextualize the issue. 

Following the Anti-Extradition Law Movement (2019) and the establishment of the national security law (2020) in Hong Kong, Chief Executive John Lee suggested in his 2022 Policy Address that people in Hong Kong need to “tell good stories of Hong Kong.” By this, he meant attracting more global capital and investors to Hong Kong to ensure stability and prosperity while affirming faith in the “One Country, Two Systems,” a constitutional principle that has allowed Hong Kong to maintain connections with markets in Mainland China and the Association of Southeast Asian Nations. Since then, the phrase “telling good stories of Hong Kong” (shuo hao xiang gang gushi 說好香港故事) has become prevalent in everyday discourse. 

However, telling stories – particularly stories about Hong Kong – is difficult. As cultural critic Leung Ping-Kwan suggested, “These stories do not necessarily tell us anything about Hong Kong, they just reveal something about the ones who tell the stories. The stories tell us what side someone stands on when they speak.” The question, “Why is the story of Hong Kong so difficult to tell?” was also explored by film scholar Ng Ho in the mid-1990s; Ng describes Hong Kong film as “historically retarded” (lishi chidai zheng 歷史痴呆症), often ignoring historical accuracy in favor of exalting and participating in global postmodern culture. Yau’s book serves as a reminder that to tell good stories, we must draw on the resources we have. As Yau comments in an interview, “It is about how we learn from historical resources, and consistently open paths to alternative knowledge production.” She emphasizes the importance of understanding our origins and exploring future possibilities. To tell good stories, she says, we need to move beyond the “position” people take and consider the diversity of resources available or hidden.

Yau’s book is not purely a film survey. It revolves around three main intersecting themes: Chinese leftism, gender and sexuality, and Hong Kong identity. Her methodology is primarily genre analysis, searching for ironies in various historical encounters, and correcting and rethinking stereotypes associated with certain hackneyed concepts and figures. But why genre analysis? Genre films – such as martial arts, costume dramas, crime, horror and thrillers – remain representative of Hong Kong film culture. Consider the global and mainland Chinese perception of Hong Kong films. The fact that Hong Kong filmmakers, whose expertise lies in genre filmmaking, went to the mainland for co-productions – including Andrew Lau and Tsui Hark, known for their work in gangster and action films, and who collaborated with the Chinese government and investors to remake revolutionary model plays and Communist propaganda like The Taking of Tiger Mountain (2014) and The Founding of the Army (2017) –  demonstrates that genre analysis also serves as a form of historical, socio-cultural and ideological analysis.

Unlike many Hong Kong film scholars who begin the history of Hong Kong cinema by discussing its origin or the first distributors and exhibitors, Yau does not start with a rigid late nineteenth century beginning but rather examines the metaphor of “twin sisters” between Hong Kong and Shanghai film industries in the 1930s. The metaphor refers to the characters in Chinese melodramas, the Hong Kong and Shanghai film industries, and the binary position between Chinese Communist Party and the Kuomintang of that decade. In her film analysis, the “twin sisters” share the same umbilical cord, which Yau identifies as the irony of leftism. She pays attention to the evolving meaning of the term “left” or “left-leaning” and unpacks the articulation between leftism and gender in 1930s Shanghai, noting how Hong Kong films participate in a similar ambiguity. Akin to Pang Lai Kwan’s concern in Building a New China in Cinema, Yau argues that the irony of leftism lies in its social critique of capitalism, which often involves the erasure of sex, desire and bodies (52). While left-leaning filmmakers in Shanghai sought to promote women’s independence in films, the portrayal of women – such as those in Cai Chusheng’s New Women (1934) – had to navigate the complex intersections of party-state ideology, Confucianism, American religious influence, nationalism, and progressive ideas (44). The gender issue, Yau suggests, serves as a façade for male filmmakers to express their anxieties about a dying nation. These filmmakers critiqued material desire by suppressing women as objects of desire, while simultaneously spectacularizing their bodies. In short, this form of leftism, which purported to promote women’s independence, ended up suppressing sexual desire, aligning itself more closely with Protestant asceticism and the spirit of capitalism. 

This ambiguity of leftism is also evident in Hong Kong’s leftist film industry. From the 1930s onwards, Cantonese films were often considered backward and superstitious. To improve their reputation, some progressive, left-leaning, and patriotic filmmakers founded the Union Enterprises in 1952. Their successful works included film adaptations of May Fourth classics. However, Lee Sun-fung’s Cold Nights (1955) disappointed the leftist Chinese author Ba Jin because he believed the original female character was more radical than the one in the film adaptation. Yau points out that given Hong Kong’s diverse target audience, many progressive filmmakers in Hong Kong had to incorporate feudalistic elements. Hong Kong viewers, for instance, may not have accepted women who engaged in extramarital affairs or displayed radical behaviors (172-3). The irony Yau highlights in her book serves as a reminder that binary opposition, especially those constructed during the Cold War, should be avoided. The grand narrative imposed by Cold War powers – between China and Taiwan, and the U.S. and the Soviet Union – positioned Hong Kong as a cultural battlefield. These binary oppositions often obscure the significant collaboration and shared ambiguities between leftist and rightist filmmakers and studios, thus suppressing the visibility of some filmmakers and encounters.

In historicizing her genre analysis, Yau provides a compelling exploration of pre-modern feminist movements. For example, in her analysis of Go Lee-han’s The Light of Woman (1937), she highlights the history of “comb sisters” (zi shu nû 自梳女), who were considered revolutionary in the late Qing dynasty for their decision to remain single for life. These women were targeted by the Qing government as part of the Heaven and Earth Society. Yau also offers a brief history of waitress or server (nü zhaodai 女招待) labor strikes from the 1920s to 1940s in Guangzhou, illustrating how public discourse transformed the image of waitresses from threats to male employment to victims of a decadent modern society (124-6). Yau argues that the public discourse and filmic representations of women’s independence remained feudalistic in the 1950s, as it was assumed that women lacked the ability to think independently and were easily manipulated (125). 

On the other side of this victimization and asceticism in female representation is the concept of “damaged” masculinity (zhesun yanggang 折損陽剛), which Yau believes persisted from 1950s leftist films to the 1980s comedies in Hong Kong. Male characters are often depicted as physically and emotionally traumatized, appearing weaker than their female counterparts. Even filmmakers such as Chang Cheh and Bruce Lee, whose action films are often regarded as ultra-masculine (yanggang 陽剛), had to confront this “damaged” masculinity complex. Chang Cheh shows the decimated male bodies full of blood and torture in premodern China while Bruce Lee demonstrates his naked chest and agility of body in front of a western prostitute. Bruce Lee attempted to overcome the “damaged” masculinity by adopting a model of foreign masculinity inspired by Tarzan – a white man’s privileged body embodying mobility, unbridled individualism, purity, openness, and freedom. These kungfu films and their portrayal of male bodies helped colonial subjects internalize colonial models and the American dream (328).

Yau is not entirely pessimistic about commercial cinema. She offers a revisionist perspective on Li Han-Hsiang’s Wind Moon film series (or soft pornography) in the 1970s and seeks to liberate the perception of sex and sexuality in Li’s oeuvre. She questions the separation between pornography and erotica (347) and refutes the claim that Li produced the Wind Moon film series out of desperation during his low point in the 1970s. On the contrary, Yau argues, Li presents a variety of marginalized, non-heterosexual relationships that challenge dominant perceptions of sexual desire. Li’s sluts are empowered and confident, articulating a vision of sex imagery that remains untamed and unauthorized by modern standards.

In recent decades, nostalgia for the 1980s has led many to view that era’s films as the definitive representative of Hong Kong identity. Yau offers a radical re-reading. She argues that the 1950s should be considered the golden era of Hong Kong cinema (156). This decade saw a flourishing of different productions, filmmakers, diverse themes, and opportunities within the film industry. During the 1950s, Hong Kong films, especially those with left-leaning perspectives, provided critical insights into Hong Kong society and engaged seriously with social issues. Various manifestos, film studios, companies, and distributions networks emerged during this time. Yau writes, “To destroy Hong Kong culture, the most efficient way is to eliminate the leftists in Hong Kong” (231). It follows for her that the depoliticized Hong Kong identity of the 1980s was due to the suppression of leftist culture following the 1967 riots. While the colonial government tightened control over leftist organizations and unions, radical Red Guards from the mainland imposed strict demands on Hong Kong leftist newspapers, films, and publications. Yau continues, “The left-leaning culture was marginalized and destroyed. This led to the failure of Hong Kong people to return to the motherland with their hearts (ren xin huigui 人心回歸) in the next forty to fifty years” (232). That is, for Yau, the making of local identity involved reinforcing colonial and Cold War powers, along with Euro-American ideologies (408). 

Yau also challenges the colonial government’s benign façade in her discussion of the Hong Kong New Wave in the late 1970s. The welfare infrastructure, free education, mass transportation, and other developments during the tenure of Hong Kong Governor MacLehose are often credited with founding a specifically Hong Kong identity in the 1970s. However, Yau argues that this affective identification with British colonial power was a strategic tool for the British government in its negotiation with Beijing. Fear and anxiety toward Communist China went hand in hand with the narrative of Hong Kong stability and prosperity under the colonial regime. Ann Hui’s critically acclaimed Vietnam trilogy – Below the Lion Rock: The Boy from Vietnam (1978); The Story of Woo Viet (1981); Boat People (1982) – Yau suggests, reinforced these fears, allowing Hong Kong viewers to affirm their future by identifying with Vietnamese refugees (425). 

For the people of Hong Kong, the transition from 1984 to 1997, from when the Basic Law was signed to the handover, was marked by many ups and downs. Some Hong Kong people found opportunities in South China, while others migrated to the UK, the US or Canada. Some discussed returning to the mainland, while others hoped to exchange Hong Kong sovereignty for the right to govern. Disillusionment reached its peak after the 1989 Tiananmen Massacre. As Yau says, dreams often turned into nightmares, and vice versa. This roller-coaster experience was not only political but deeply socio-cultural, best manifested in Hong Kong comedy and slapstick films of the time. 

Yau concludes her book by discussing Stephen Chow’s nonsensical comedy. Chow’s plots and acting highlight the dislocation of reaction or the absence of reaction. This dislocated reaction, or lack thereof, rejects conversation because the nonsensical aspect, known as mo-lei-tau (無厘頭), is a form of speechlessness and an inability to express care or love (486). Mo-lei-tau rejects the subject position in the grand narrative. For Yau, under this speechlessness, there is a silver lining of collectivity in Chow’s CJ7 (2008). While Chow’s films often feature ugly women and masculine sidekicks engaging in transvestism or cross-dressing for comedic effect, yet, in CJ7 (2008), Yau argues that the child actors, who cross-dress without the viewers knowing it, are not playing for comedic relief. Instead, the main character, who cross-dresses, comes from a working-class family. These disregarded subjects gather together, finding temporary “empowerment,” allowing them the pleasure of feeling “a bit normal now” (493). Yau questions whether this temporary alliance – the oppressed in terms of class and gender – can reveal the legacy and resources that Hong Kong cinema accumulates in the twentieth century.

Nostalgia for the past is part of the neoliberal drive in Hong Kong and around the world. Fear and anxiety persist. Local mom-and-pop shops are demolished and replaced by chain stores and real estate’s development. However, nostalgia for the past can be critical. There are different origins and resources to learn from. How far can popular culture take us? Without understanding the diversity in its own legacy, such nostalgia can only become a burden. Yau’s book helps us understand these issues with reference to Hong Kong cinema.