Honoring Hong Kong’s Leslie Cheung

My brief time in Hong Kong was extremely impactful. I think I first fell in love with Wong Kar-wai’s movies last summer because I found myself gravitating towards his work for a better understanding of a place I will likely never get to see in the same light again. His “In the Mood For Love” absolutely sent me flying (I’m honestly still reeling)! My interpretation of the film, with its leaps in time and disorienting framing of what it means to be in love, reminded me of my own experiences. We’re all trying to make sense of moments that seem all too fleeting, and sometimes the greatest love is that which never fully bloomed.

My admiration for Kar-wai’s work only grew stronger as I found myself introduced to “Happy Together” and one of its beautiful actors, Leslie Cheung. Cheung’s own real-life story is sad, one I think that mirrors those of other famous people, but also those that seem to live beyond the boundaries of so-called “normativity.” Interestingly, it was purely happenstance that I discovered the work of Leslie Cheung this past weekend. Even as I began to write out this piece, I had no idea the anniversary of his death was this Friday, April 1st. These words are a tribute to him and his artistry, and hopefully a reminder to us all that we are not alone. 

Someone will always love you.

I think everyone struggles to find love and feel love in this world; that’s not lost on me. 

Yet, there is something particularly harrowing about such a journey when you’ve spent the majority of your life simply trying to nail down what you are, and what the parts of you are that can even be loved. When you spend your childhood consuming media that seems to either demonize or mock the pieces of you that you find the most meaningful, it’s hard to feel worthy of anything, let alone worthy of people that might finally appreciate those pieces. Needless to say, representation is crucial in this world that only seeks to erase. 

Both “Happy Together” and “Farewell, My Concubine,” provide such representation while taking on the histories of Hong Kong and China, as well as navigating how love can at once make us feel whole and incomplete–at war and at peace. Surprisingly, though the characters and cinematography of these films provide some of the most exquisitely natural displays of homoerotic affection, homosexuality is not the centerpiece of what the films aim to discuss. Perhaps such a statement could also be applied to the way so many yearn to be perceived today. To have their sexual identity not be the mainstay of what their love means. To have that love be seen as simultaneously simply just love, but also something far more complex and texturally-rich. 

For better or for worse, in these films, there still is a lack of specificity about what exactly is occurring in these relationships. Are they together now? What even are they? 

One could argue there’s a reason why we attach extra words to things nowadays. Such explicitness is quite new, newer than I think a lot of us even realize. Generations of queer people have subsisted on the use of implicit, nonverbal signs of similarity to exist and find love. Thanks to Grindr and other apps, previous signals, like color-coded bandanas, lingering glances, and hugs that last just a little longer than they are supposed to (a particularly gut-wrenching scene in “Happy Together”), no longer carry the same weight. Resoundingly, we have terminology today in our lexicon that is front and center for all to see; queer culture is culture. 

I’m thankful to have language at my disposal today, but I still see a hesitancy in others to utilize it and the ever-present sense that, for some, I am just a stop or detour before they land safely “elsewhere.”

I see this struggle specifically in the eyes of Cheng Dieyi. I see how easily connections, without language, can fall to the wayside. How such pain is often only one-sided, and how finding meaning between the lines can become the railroad tracks we lose our lives on. 

This is all by design of course. We’re sold the idea that we could never be loved, so we will take a sliver, even if it was never enough; will never be enough. 

Interestingly in both these films, I see Leslie Cheung’s characters as distinctly alone. They exist, and love, in isolation. In “Happy Together,” Ho Po-Wing literally spends half the film alone in a room recovering from his injuries, and his venturing out only spells disaster for the couple’s future. Meanwhile, in “Farewell, My Concubine,” Cheng Dieyi only seems to find the comfort of others when on the stage performing. 

You know, we don’t have to feel alone. 

It pleases me beyond belief to know we live in a world where we are finally wrapping our heads around the importance of our friends, and those friends that are more than friends, but not lovers (or maybe they even are). Like poison, society’s conceptualization of love, Disney’s staples of a Prince Charming and a damsel in distress, have only served as a means to alienate us from the love we are already surrounded by. 

I’m afraid so many queer people fight to release themselves from the binary of gender only to be blindsided by a black and white view of what love is or can be. With so much imagination in respect to the marriage of masculinity and femininity within oneself, we need that same creativity and determination to demand more of the love that we receive and accept. I also wonder how many of us truly do love ourselves, and if the attention we seek from others is simply a distraction from the pain we carry within. 

I’ll be the first to admit that reclaiming one’s narrative is no easy feat, but still, it’s something we all should be striving for. I’m world-building, even if it only reaches out as far as my fingertips. Mayhaps, it is greedy of me to think so boldly, but I want a world where I don’t have to schedule calls with the people I love. A world where our words can reach mountain peaks and the depths of valleys without feeling or being misunderstood. A place where we can give without seeking in return because we know we simply have enough already. 

I pray for a love that liberates and liberation for everyone. 

I know love can be freedom, but I also know it can be a special kind of hell. For some, as in the ending of “Farewell, My Concubine,” it’s the sword we draw upon ourselves. 

We don’t deserve that kind of love; no one does.