Review and analysis of Fallen Angels

Fallen Angels: a film which emphatically proves Wong Kar Wai’s mastery of cinematic technique, and how he integrates this with an artistic vision.

Yet Fallen Angels is also a film that constantly challenges the viewer to reject it, its vision and execution frequently being at odds with, not just convention, but the limits of narrative and character extremes. Its technique creates a unique connection, yet the film uses this in a variety of bizarre, extreme situations, playing against an audience’s gut instinct to prejudge. The result is an incredible tapestry of feeling utterly out of kilter with the constraints of basic narrative.

The underlying structure of the film consists of two stories, combined thematically and geographically, though separated by tone and markedly independent by plot. However, unlike Chungking Express’s consecutive structuring of the stories, here WKW allows the plots to interweave, to start and stop, hang and jump. The story which starts first consists of Leon Lai in the role of a hired killer, who works (though seldom meets) with agent Michelle Reis. This narrative is heavy in moody contemplation and contrasts with the second story to start, which has Takeshi Kaneshiro playing a mute street urchin who indulges in petty crime whilst blundering around night time Hong Kong meeting and antagonising all manner of characters.

The first story provides the film’s defining, powerful opening shot, relating to a scene late in the narrative, where we have Michelle, shot in close up, black and white, in the film’s characteristic, claustrophobic wide-angle lens, asking Leon, ‘are we still partners’, an apparently simple question. But, already we can see how the question is emotionally loaded, and attempting an answer even at the end of the story is difficult. What the shot sets up is the tension of defining, and perhaps resolving Leon and Michelle’s connection, yet dealing with the confines of audience expectations and cinematic conventions as to how relationships are formed and where they lead. Deliberately, WKW provides us with facts through the medium of Leon’s voice-over - ‘I’ve been working with her for 155 weeks... this is the first time we’ve sat together’ - presented as objective fact but signalling the connection between both characters as being more important than the mundane words suggest. This gives us the suggestion that the emotional relationship is the core of the story, despite the unlikeliness of it in the face of such facts. The facts themselves are also the beginning of a penchant in Fallen Angels for extreme premises that create an inherent disparity in normality and expectation.

Yet the basic focus of the story seems simple: Leon wants out from his profession. For most films this would be enough of a premise to drive an entire narrative, but WKW decides to delve deeper. The classic existentialist dilemma is presented as Leon tells us he ‘must make a decision’. This occurs after he closely survives an ambush, suggesting that the danger of his profession is his reason for wanting to leave (‘I hate digging bullets out of myself’). Yet this obvious reasoning doesn’t tally with his start of film monologue where he expounds on how partners mustn’t become close - the real dilemma is his connection with Michelle. Michelle pines for him in an obvious manner, despite his absence, yet she maintains a limit on her intimacy (‘Get close to someone and they become boring’). We have no direct indication of exactly what Leon feels, but his non-moving relationship with Michelle is contrasted with his fast starting hook-up with Karen Mok (beginning in, of all places, McD’s). The dilemma of choice is pre-empted by the first scene, and so the audience spend most of the film trying to guess Leon’s decision.

However, in the end WKW abandons two likely outcomes (i.e., choosing either woman) in favour of a third, seemingly illogical solution of rejecting both for another fate. This ‘third way’ is not unique to Fallen Angels, as WKW does something similar in the outcome of In The Mood For Love: the protagonists don’t unite, but neither do they retract to their old relationships. The effect of the choice in both films is both refreshing and tragic - by throwing off the manacles of a constricting (often genre-dictated) choice, the characters attain an independence of existence (Leon says, ‘At least the decision is my own’). Yet in neither film is there any glossing over the substance of the outcome: both choices result in tragedy and sadness - this is why the decisions seem so illogical. What WKW appears to be showing is that the freedom of the choice is an uplift in itself, especially given that his characters are often stuck in existential paralysis dwelling on their pasts. The actual consequences are tragic and sad, which forces us to recognise that the uplift is not from the result of the choice but from the act of choosing itself.

This is not to say that Leon’s profession is relegated to the background in the film. Far from it, his assassinations feature prominently, and form some of the most atmospheric parts of the film - a heady mixture of trip hop and incredible cinematography. Into each scene steps Leon, suddenly under a mask of apparent coolness, as genre would expect. Yet he also appears vaguely silly in his shades, vest and jacket, strolling towards unsuspecting victims. When it comes down to it, there is nothing balletic (i.e. John Woo-like) about the gunplay: Leon finds somewhere to un-holster his pistols (twin pistols, of course), and then proceeds to perforate a group of people. Unlike the genre of heroic bloodshed typified by John Woo, there is no attempt to explain why his victims are marked for death, and furthermore, Leon’s expression is completely blank as he carries out his acts. The settings draw upon WKW’s own As Tears Go By: a film immersed in the extremes of underground criminality, but this time we don’t concentrate on the complexities of the gangster underworld: our perspective is with Leon, the outsider. Yet the technique employed by WKW is so staggeringly evocative that the acts are like fulcrums of cool which typify the movie’s style. The editing, cross-cuts, blurred stop-motion, all exemplify a kinetic camera in contrast to Leon’s blankness. Whilst he doesn’t move in any manner to betray emotion, his victims are writhing in spurts of blood, which the camera gleefully chronicles. In short, the audience receives excitement, as they would expect from a scene of gunplay.

Yet there is also an uncomfortable acknowledgement that we are shorn from the moral justifications which usually attend heroic bloodshed - Leon is more emotionally detached from his actions than we are, thanks to technique - and so we experience the violence free from any moral point, without being shielded behind a character’s justifications. What WKW does is to subtly draw the viewer into the actions of violence which are so inevitable: somehow the leering victims-to-be of the very first hit are genre-marked for death. But in the end we know not why they are dead - we can’t assume a moral reasoning. This amoral approach is developed in that there is even less attempt to justify later hits. WKW therefore avoids the moral issue near completely, which is actually a strength: his films generate drama by distilled emotion that is not based on a layer of morality masquerading as objective values - the emotion generated in his films seems to have a deeper source in the experience of existence itself. In the end, his characters’ dilemmas are based around very personal experiences which seldom result in attempts to look for objectively ‘right’ decisions. It is in his final monologue that Leon tells us that he doesn’t know if his decision is right or wrong, it is his decision.

Despite the physical separation of Michelle and Leon, the connection which the film makes between them is so powerful that one might never notice how they barely ever meet. Their scenes share technical characteristics, themes and moods. Most prominently, they frequent the same places: something which the film plays on, for example, in the scene when she scouts out the location of his next hit, the editing mixing shots of him actually carrying out the hit as if they were present contemporaneously. In contrast, Karen Mok’s bleach blonde ‘Baby’ - a forever active, and energetic, crazed pixie-like character - appears little more than an appendage to Leon’s scenes. Her zany energy cannot be requited by Leon, and in the end she is tragically out of joint in the scene when Leon actually meets Michelle. The much vaunted meeting is largely kept off camera as we instead see Karen whooping and dancing, apparently in joy, but ultimately alone. Finally, when we see the meeting between Leon and Michelle, little more happens than at the start of the film - the setting is somehow more real and in context, but the result negative and more painful given how tantalisingly close the film has managed to depict both. This is surprising when one considers just how unlikely the premise is, and how self-consciously WKW puts this right at the beginning of the film, challenging viewers to reject involvement altogether. But in the end he manages to create an emotional tapestry irrespective of factual context: and this powerful empathy connects with the viewer.

The second story to start has Takeshi Kaneshiro playing a mute who spends the nights frequenting the streets of Hong Kong, breaking into people’s businesses, not to steal from them, but to assail passers-by with compulsory commerce. As one can probably tell, Takeshi’s story is funny. Some found the humour too much for their ‘art’ sensitivities, but those who maintain an open mind as to how a movie can entertain and move, without the need for constantly locking the mind into an artificial ‘art’ mind-set, will find Takeshi’s story not only fun, but also, ultimately, moving in a manner which is simply undeniable.

Essentially, Takeshi’s role is the flip-side of his Chungking character, starting with the same monologue (‘We rub shoulders with people everyday... perhaps one day we could be friends...’), but this time he is a law-breaker, a denizen of Hong Kong’s dispossessed, surviving by petty crime. But WKW doesn’t concentrate on the sadness of his society, in the same way that he doesn’t concentrate on the morality of Leon’s profession. This trait is essential WKW, frustrating for some, but for others, like myself, it is what is refreshing about his films. Instead, his escapades are presented on the surface by the vehicle of the slapstick comedy genre. ‘Vehicle’ is perhaps too distant a way of putting things when the comedy is very much prominent, like when Takeshi’s ‘favourite’ customer returns for a snack, and ends up begging not to be the first person in Hong Kong to ‘die by ice cream’: a hilarious sequence. But again, WKW never allows us to relax into prejudging tone by reference to what we know of genre and convention - every so often he provides a little aside or snippet which hints at something darker, going beyond making us laugh to reminding us of how a tone is malleable and never to be taken for granted. For example, at the end of the ice cream scene, just after expressing his belief that the family he has abducted are having the ‘most fun they’ve had for a long time’, Takeshi gives a throwaway remark that his mother was killed by an ice cream van. To WKW’s credit, he never expands on this fact, and the narrative never mentions it again - it isn’t of real importance in terms of narrative - in fact we are left unsure if it is even true. The reason we are unsure is because we, as viewers, are accustomed to being shown what is supposed to be important, what is significant for the narrative and the characters, and this is something which WKW plays against by making the remark so insignificant and minimal. Yet we take the words on board because they are so instantly tragic and ironic. And so, by the mere addition of the remark we find that our recollection of Takeshi’s ice cream escapade is flipped over from being pure hilarity to possessing a tinge of sadness. Once again, we see that by pure technique WKW has controlled the mood of the film independent of what is actually occurring on the narrative level.

By using a light-hearted surface for Takeshi’s story, WKW manages to insert material without explanation, in a manner which doesn’t feel alien. This is because much of the happenings chronicled in Takeshi’s story are presented in a manner which is surreal and, apparently barely coherent at times. Compared to the careful crafting of Leon’s situation, Takeshi’s is playful to the point of what seems like irresponsibility. But in context, the intricate emotional contrivances of Leon’s story are well balanced by the gleefully perverse tragi-comedy of Takeshi’s existence. Somewhere along the line, he meets a manic Charlie Young on the rebound from another relationship. Developing from being her shoulder to cry on, he attains something like the ‘appendage’ status that Karen Mok has with Leon. Together, their escapades reach levels of illogicality that many critics found unpalatable. However, there is an undeniable joy in seeing a manic playfulness building up to Takeshi’s belief that he has found love. But continually in this, we are shown that Charlie’s mind is elsewhere: there is an entire sequence where they hunt the ‘Blondie’ who has taken her lover (or so we’re told by Charlie: we never see Blondie). On a metaphorical level, there is a point blank (though deliberately unserious) parallel to the political realities Hong Kong faced - explicitly recalled in the cafe scene where Charlie tries to draft a contract for Blondie to give up, and ‘handover’ her lover. The irony in that scene is that everyone ends up trying to hunt ‘Blondie’ - all accusing each other of being the much sought after figure. Like the preceding scene, where a blow-up doll is the vent for frustration and violence, the cafe scene ends in a brawl: which WKW handles in a playful tone rather than melodramatically.

But WKW is careful not to allow metaphor to shift the story into a political sphere: there is a context, but a meaning is not foisted on to it, and WKW avoids making the film a vehicle for any political opinion he may have. The same is true for the digs WKW makes about Hong Kong’s consumerist nature (for example, the many comparisons Takeshi makes between relationships and commerce). It is simply WKW’s way that his movies hold observation rather than being opinionated - a partisan view would result in his films losing their unique viewer connection. So what WKW does with the idea of Blondie, is to make him or it an amorphous concept which bleeds into Takeshi’s narrative. They hunt Blondie, the people in the cafe hunt (or are) Blondie, there is a blonde blow up doll, Takeshi’s own hair starts to ‘turn’ blond (or at least he turns it blonde). The concept ends up being the connection between him and Charlie - ironic, given that it connects her to her former lover. In the end, the blonde idea proves purely cosmetic as he realises that Charlie doesn’t requite his feelings. This actually comes as an epiphany, and Takeshi, now shorn of his blonde streaks, resolves to change his life.

Then there is the true heart of the film, namely Takeshi’s relationship with his father, which shifts the film from being merely technically astounding to having the power to move at a profound level. Like the ice cream escapade, Takeshi is initially presented as the perennial comic protagonist, inflicting himself in various ways on his ‘ordinary’ father. The bond is latent, and all too easily do we end up taking it for granted. It is unlike the connection between Leon and Michelle, as we only see Takeshi’s point of view, but slowly we understand the importance of Takeshi and his father’s relationship. The most outstanding sequence is the camcorder escapade, where Takeshi tries to emulate the emotion and love encapsulated when his boss, Saito-san, sends a video home to his family in Japan (Takeshi has taken to working as an employee, conventionally, since his ‘epiphany’). So Takeshi takes the camcorder and proceeds to film his father, incessantly, and at all hours, to his father’s annoyance. The tape encapsulates their connection, and his father is aware of this as he later sneaks a peek at the footage.

Of course, WKW isn’t the only filmmaker to look at a father-son relationship, but most filmmakers fall by the wayside, because the concept so easily becomes self-consciously sentimental and trite, and there is often little to add. But WKW’s genius is to be unconventional, and the camcorder sequence does this, capturing and encapsulating a whole field of emotion and saying more about the relationship than many other films put together. The reason why WKW doesn’t get bogged down here is because the sequence attempts to capture Takashi and his father’s relationship, which it does in a natural manner and without contrivance (after all, it is the character who shoots and edits the video, and the character who watches it). What WKW doesn’t do is to try to present an idealised analysis of an idealised relationship. In the end, just like the ice cream escapade, there is a sudden and unexpected move in mood which takes the viewer’s emotions by surprise. The father’s death makes the camcorder sequence suddenly tinged with sadness and bittersweet emotion. But there is also the characteristic WKW sense of hope: the video is the embodiment of Takeshi’s memories of his father (‘I’ll never taste his steaks again... but I’ll never forget how they tasted’), and it is the perfect medium to make an audience understand the memories too. And what is moving is the naturalness of what the video has captured: its improvised anarchy perfectly depicts the relationship without laying claim to any meaning or message.

Despite the emotional content of what we have gone through with Takeshi: his epiphanies, his joys and his sorrows, he still must continue his life. But after his father’s death, the factual narrative seems unimportant, more like a series of epilogues than a coherent story. And again, WKW plays with the factual narrative as though it were merely a canvas: since the audience has witnessed Takeshi’s epiphany, they are expecting a life-affirming change in his existence. Yet now Takeshi is more alone than ever, and WKW carefully slips in the fact that he is back to his old life of crime (with hints of darker violence). Now, for all his zaniness and energy, like ‘Baby’, he is simply alone. But on initial viewing, audiences are fooled into riding the wave of the uplift generated by Takeshi’s hope, and may miss the narrative’s true direction. His ‘first love’, Charlie, ignores him, his crimes appear to take on a more violent form, and the risks of his way of life are more apparent than before.

Right at the end, we encounter a scene which appears to be one of Michelle’s, again in the ‘wilderness’ of another shabby locale - an eatery complete with its own ‘human backdrop’ - typical of the places we see her. Then, without any warning, the ‘human backdrop’ erupts into a fight, shot with brutal simplicity. As the rest of the combatants clear, we see a figure stir from where he has been beaten. To our surprise, it is Takeshi. But again, WKW moves our attention from the raw fact of the narrative, and we hear Takeshi’s voice-over expounding in a more philosophical direction, once more highlighting his hope. This is entirely out of kilter from what we have just seen, and it is easy to disengage from the narrative altogether, seeing it instead as a surreal backdrop to the ‘real’ emotional existence of the characters. But WKW is clearly challenging the viewer to rationalise what has just been seen, by deliberately placing events in such an unexpected, unexplained context. This allows the viewer to take an instinctive explanation from a variety of possibilities, and it is interesting that many won’t realise that Takeshi (together with an unidentified accomplice) are actually the assailants who start the fight, such is the oblique manner of portrayal. This narrative disregard is the culmination of the extremes which the facts of the story have reached, together with being the paradigm of how WKW has divorced our, and the characters’ emotions from their actual physical and social existence.

The very final scene sees Michelle and Takeshi bringing the narrative threads together - yet not quite. The possibility of pairing various characters off is always an obvious one, but WKW knows better than to expect such neat, conclusive ‘fit’ (as proved by his obsessively disjunctive Days of Being Wild). Instead, each character makes clear to us the purely limited nature of their outlook. In fact, the key here is that there is no potential for anything lasting, and each settle for something purely transitory (as Michelle says ‘I know the road is a short one... but for now I’m feeling such warmth’). This, together with the final ants-eye view shot of the Hong Kong skyline, also serves as a reference to the purely transitory nature of Hong Kong, both politically and, inherently culturally, and what WKW appears to be showing is that such transience is the now, and that the future is not something to be taken for granted.

On the technical side of things, this film has acting performances which vary from outstanding to merely workmanlike. Michelle’s is startling and complex, switching between nonchalant street chic and wracked emotional anticipation with a sureness that is impressive. Though she isn’t called upon to say a lot, WKW perfectly magnifies her motifs and mannerisms to cement a memorable performance. Takeshi, too, is impressive with his hyperactive energy providing a charisma which the camera eats up. Whereas his Chungking role was subdued nearing flaccidity, here his presence, like his hair, has taken on a new lease of life. Leon, though, is as blank as can be, his only interesting point being his connection to Michelle. This leaves his role rather inarticulate - and a performance which doesn’t really shine. Karen and Charlie both tackle roles which are difficult, and it is hard to imagine how actors can get ‘in’ to such characters - Karen’s portrayal works, to a degree, such that we feel some curiosity towards her, Charlie, though, is less impressive, and more artificial.

Production-wise, the sets are more carefully crafted than Chungking’s, trading spontaneity for a hyper-reality of texture and feel. William Chang’s designs mix motifs and cultures, flavour and taste to create a stylised montage of clashed worlds in the present: cheongsams and fishnet stockings, iconic neons texturing the living space with the flow of modernity. Sound and cinematography are predictably excellent. Chris Doyle’s active camera has a strength of expression which ensures interest, and brings the viewer into active contact with the tale. This results in a film which, for even those who dislike WKW agree, is spectacular to experience, second to none. The sound, too, is excellent, merging ‘ordinary’ trendiness (trip hop and quirky pop) with daffy and touching moments (the end rendition of Only You and local opera), and clever snippets along a range of media within Hong Kong (television and radio, local news and international history). WKW weaves all this into a fabric which utilises his technical mastery, albeit not just for technical ends but to further the ability which a film has to connect to emotions; to actively re-imagine the portrayal of conscious existence, rather than to merely scratch the aesthetic surface.

And those who experienced Chungking Express can enjoy, too, the connection to that film. References abound, re-spinning and inverting concepts espoused in Chungking - often directly, such as in Takeshi’s ‘philosophy’ speeches, though also indirectly, such as in ideas of impermanence and change. There are clever contrasts (between the ‘0.01 cm’ proximity concept in Chungking, and the physical separation of Leon and Michelle) and comparisons too (like between the screwball play of Faye Wong, and the exotic darkness of Michelle Reis, both performing lone domestic chores). WKW plays with technical contrasts: wide angle here compared to Chungking’s telephoto; the way the stories are juxtaposed. In the end, these amount to more than self-reflection: there exists a neatness of expression which allows WKW to play on Chungking whilst acknowledging what possibilities lie beyond that film. Each reference summarises a symmetry which stretches concepts beyond their original expression - and the result is that Fallen Angels, whilst being a film which stands on its own, can also be appreciated as an expansion of the concepts which made up Chungking, into territories which that film didn’t cover.

If one still needs final confirmation of the ability of WKW to wed technical mastery to artistic vision, consider the scene when Leon hears the jukebox song, ‘Forget Him’, for the second time. The song is the highly contrived method he uses to reject Michelle, and it is this sense of contrivance which initially grabs the viewer. Yet, when we and Leon hear the song for the second time, the sense of haunting irony and emotional recollection is just right. Leon is in the Japanese restaurant (where Takeshi worked - their paths cross at this point, although without narrative significance), talking to the boss about his future plans. Then, with casualness, the boss or Takeshi puts the song on. Despite the different setting, and the fact hammered home to us that the song is insignificant for the others, to Leon and us we are instantly transported to the bar with the jukebox which links him and Michelle. The absolute inversion of mood and instant alienation from the present is so perfectly executed that, at first, it seems a fluke. However, on further viewing it becomes apparent how WKW’s scheme makes the scene so effective. It is not just the song which connects us, but further motifs, some which work at a subconscious level. Leon’s sideways glance suddenly puts the restaurant - the present - into the background, as we see his face in a distorted reflection. This recalls a theme of the bar scenes: the way they are shot - in a mirror, its refractions ingraining the character to the texture of the location. And so the mirror motif is an embodiment of Leon’s recollection, a resonance subconsciously representing him ‘seeing’ into his past. This marriage of technique to vision shows that WKW does not simply use artifice for its own sake, and it shows his advantage in that he dares use such innovations, risking accusations of technical obsession, but proving that the result is profoundly human.

So is the film any good then? As one can probably tell, this reviewer is fairly in awe of the way the film is expressed, but is it liked? As ever, this depends on whether one likes WKW. This movie actually proves to be divisive: many people see too much style, whilst others appreciate how WKW throws off the shackles of responsibility to craft a movie which is both off-the-wall and emotionally engaging. To some, this film typifies WKW, for good or bad, whilst others find it more of an exercise beyond his usual territory. My own opinion is that WKW isn’t prolific enough for Fallen Angels to typify him, but it clearly has an iconic quality. However, I also feel that the film is within WKW’s usual range, even if the expression is extreme. To conceptually bind his films, many have cited solitude, solipsism, alienation and unrequited love as being common factors. The last factor is perhaps erroneous in that WKW doesn’t seem to concentrate on the fact of love unrequited per se: he seems more interested in the expression of love unilaterally, from the individual viewpoint, irrespective of whether it is requited. Fallen Angels lends support to this, in that Saito-san’s love for his family may be requited, and we know that Takeshi’s connection to his father is bilateral. Even when we see both sides of the relationship - Leon and Michelle - WKW draws emotion from the disunity of their unilateral emotions, rather than allowing them to empathise together.

Fallen Angels also exhibits the characteristic WKW sense of hope. But, as has been acknowledged, he doesn’t contrive this out of the narrative: in fact, he deliberately challenges the viewer to see the narrative’s contradictory nature. This gives the viewer the option of seeing both the hope and the tragedy - neither can be taken for granted. In this sense, this is one of the most distinctive and accomplished WKW films. Add to this the fact that the film also carries a sense of enthrallment tied up with its emotional depth, combining uplifts and epiphanies with insight and feeling, and Fallen Angels is definitely WKW on form. As for liking the film, that’s a matter of taste: I treasure it, but I do acknowledge that the film isn’t made to be easily liked - there are factors that will turn some people off: the film challenges the viewer to ask why there should be any involvement at all. But if one sticks with the movie and retains an open mind, the experience is profound and memorable.