In the Mood for Love: Nostalgia, Memory, and Cinema
“He remembers those vanished years. As though looking through a dusty window pane, the past is something he could see, but not touch. And everything he sees is blurred and indistinct.” These translated lines appear in the intertitle that succeeds the final sequence of Wong Kar Wai’s In the Mood for Love, a film that beautifully exemplifies the unique relationship between cinema and nostalgic memory through its setting, editing, and framing. In the Mood for Love is a memory itself, recalled after time has rendered it subjective and susceptible to the blurring effect of nostalgia.
Nostalgia, as defined by Pam Cook in Screening the Past: Memory and Nostalgia in Cinema, is the state of “longing for something that is known to be irretrievable, but is sought anyway.” Nostalgia is associated with fantasy, in that it involves both a longing for the past and the acknowledgement that what has been lost cannot be “retrieved in actuality” (Cook), only revisited through images and our unreliable memories. Loss triggers nostalgia, as it is the loss and subsequent irrecoverability of the desired that generates feelings of pain and yearning. The fantasy of nostalgia includes a recreation of what once existed in an attempt to overcome the bitterness of longing and move forward. Representations of the past through film have created a distinctive relationship between cinema and nostalgic memory, as these representations exist in both the “present and past tenses” (Chapple). As a medium, film presents a reality that once existed in front of the camera but has long since vanished to audiences, thus linking itself to nostalgia as audiences are tasked with overcoming and accepting the gap between two realities. Cinema allows memories to play out in images, as “time and space cohere in a very present tense experience of the past” (Chapple). In the Mood for Love is every bit a film about memory as it is a film of memory. It takes place in Hong Kong in 1962, a place and time accessible for director Wong Kar-Wai through recollections of his childhood. Wong and his family moved to Hong Kong from Shanghai when he was five years old, joining thousands of other immigrants fleeing Communist China. The wave of newcomers affected Hong Kong’s already shaky sense of identity caused by British colonization as the sophisticated Shanghainese largely avoided interaction with the local Cantonese and attempted to build a new version of their home by recreating the fashions, objects, and rituals they knew from the 30s and 40s, the glory days of the mainland. Shanghainese neighborhoods were small and close-knit due to their refusal to treat Hong Kong as anything more than a temporary home, which created a constricted environment and a general lack of privacy. Wong’s childhood experiences of Hong Kong were informed by nostalgic attempts of the Shanghainese immigrants to return to the inaccessible through recreation. The lens of nostalgia placed over the historical perspective of the film can be seen through details such as the cheongsams worn by Chan, the radio program broadcast of the 40s Mandarin pop song ‘Hua Yang de Nian Hua’ by Zhou Xuan, and Chow’s martial arts stories. As the city has experienced rapid change since the 60s, the version of Hong Kong that Wong once knew is long gone and exists only as a memory, thus giving the film two layers of nostalgia through the setting alone. The deeply entrenched themes of memory and nostalgia in In the Mood for Love cause the film to feel like a dream or fantasy of a time that is as inaccessible to viewers as it is to the characters themselves.
In the film, neighbors Su Li-zhen/Mrs. Chang and Chow Mo-wan/Mr. Chow discover their partners are cheating on them with each other and find themselves play-acting in a fantasy constructed by their own unwillingness to confront the reality of their failed marriages and their deep desire for companionship. Instead of taking action against their spouses, they decide to reconstruct the situation in an effort to accept and understand it. By participating in this performance, they delay the moment in which they have to see things as they really are, shielding them from fully feeling the crushing weight of betrayal. In their fantasy, the two coach each other as they act out possible scenarios between their spouses. Su tries to play the role of the woman her husband loves, which makes her appear like the woman Chow loves, and vice versa. Their fantasy allows both characters to exist in the role of being loved by their loved ones. It also serves as a way for them to come to terms with their spouses’ infidelity, as their reenactments of possible situations assist in bridging the gap of absence created by their removal from their spouses’ relationship. Although they tell themselves they “won’t be like them,” the lines between the characters themselves and the roles they play within their perverse fantasy are blurred to the audience from the beginning, leading to several instances of misdirection and causing confusion over whether Chow and Su are acting as themselves or simply playing their part. Audiences aren’t granted the ability to know anything for sure, as they cannot distinguish between what is genuine and what isn’t in the interactions between Chow and Su. This uncertainty contributes to the feeling that the film is a memory being recalled through a distance of time.
In the Mood for Love shows how films are able to recognize the hazy subjectivity of memory by depicting the influence of emotion on our recollections of events. We obstruct our own views of full stories by placing the most impactful details at the forefront, no matter how small or insignificant they may be. The texture of affect triumphs the truth of fact. The film’s focus on these subtle details adds to the overarching theme of nostalgic desire as it gives the impression of trying to backtrack through the events unfolding between Chow and Su to actualize their romance as solid fact. The intimate subtleties of Chow and Su’s coincidental meetings, stolen glances, and whispers of touch undertake significant meaning, which places them at the forefront of the story and thus creates a disjointed sense of time. It is as though the film is being recounted by a storyteller skipping from one event to another as they see fit, leaving out certain information to make room for important details. The audience is given a perspective of the film that is “colored by distance and obstructed vision,” (Cook) never granting us access to the entire story. Throughout In the Mood for Love, the audience is only given fragments of the full picture. We often look at Chow and Su through door frames, windows, and mirrors, creating frames-within-frames that give the audience a distanced, blocked view of the story that emphasizes our inability to fully return to the past and the subjectivity of nostalgia. The frames we see the characters through become both a representation of the barrier of time that grants us only visual access to the past through memories and the feelings of constraint keeping Chow and Su from escaping their lives and relationships.
Their first rehearsal demonstrates both the ambiguity of their fantasy and how the film’s framing acts as a visual metaphor for how nostalgia only provides parts of the true reality. Chow and Su are shown walking along a decaying street, exchanging words charged with suggestion. For a second, audiences are led to believe Chow and Su are sparking their own affair, as this scene immediately follows their conversation at the diner during which they confirmed their suspicions about their spouses. Chow softly touches Su’s hand and asks, “Shall we stay out tonight?” which causes Su to break character. Turning away from their performance, Su numbly says, “My husband would never say that.” They try again, repeating the same scenario in a way that feels almost like an obsessive pursuit to understand how the illicit affair began. On their second run-through of the imaged scenario, the barred window first seen when Su pulls herself out of her role acts as an obstruction, trapping the audience behind it. Viewers are confined by the bars on the window, and as the camera tracks Chow and Su’s movements down the street, our limited viewpoint grants us only pieces of their conversation. We’re given fragments of the larger image as they resume play-acting, this time with Su in the role of the initiator. Parts of the scene are quite literally blacked out, lost behind the barrier of the wall, similar to how sections of our memories can vanish from view in our recollections of the past. Our view of the characters is repeatedly blocked by objects, walls, or the bodies of others, which draws our attention to the framing of each shot and the presence or absence of various elements within them. The issue of presence and absence or the visible and hidden throughout the film prevents audiences from achieving a full view of their reality. What isn’t shown is forgotten in the memory of their time together, signifying the difficulty of recalling more than just emotionally significant details when revisiting memories. In the Mood for Love is composed of scattered, almost episodic scenes that are suspended in abstraction and linked by the unreliable subjectivity of nostalgia. The scenes are stitched together in a way that makes it difficult to determine whether the events the audience is seeing are playing out over the course of days, weeks, or months. We aren’t given enough to understand how much time has passed in the broader context of the film, as nostalgia gives little attention to the correct order of events. Clocks are shown several times, though they tell us nothing. The sudden cuts between scenes and Chow and Su’s seamless transitions between acting as themselves and as their spouses complicate the audience’s perception of time in the film. In an interview with IndieWire, Wong said he intentionally repeated settings, angles, and music several times throughout the film to show that “nothing changes except the emotions of these two persons.” The mundanity of their routines allows them to recognize one another as someone who shares their feelings of domestic and emotional isolation. Through their fantasy, they find a companion with whom they can share their frustrations about the idleness of their lives. Eventually, their relationship brings the two out of their monotonous patterns, giving them the warmth of companionship they both desperately crave.
The circular sense of time created by this seemingly never-ending loop acts as a background for Chow and Su as their relationship quietly grows and evolves through unspoken exchanges and restricted action. This repetition also creates a sense of a futile effort to cling to the past and secure it as the present amid the fear of forgetting that accompanies memory. Our only clear markers of the passage of time are found in the characters themselves, especially in the cheongsams worn by Su, which act as symbols of nostalgia themselves. Cheongsams are traditional garments that were transformed into symbols of urban lifestyle and gender equality in the 30s and later became the national dress of China. By the 50s, cheongsams adopted a form-fitting, hourglass shape and patterned versions of the dresses, like the ones worn by Su, were seen as signs of prosperity due to the expensive and meticulous process behind their creation. Su’s cheongsams hold social and historical significance that render them nostalgic representations of a lost generation from mainland China that has been affected by Westernization and their displacement to Hong Kong. At once, cheongsams are viewed as traditional and modern, restricted and erotic, and as an encapsulation of “past, present and future in a single image” (Cook). Through her wardrobe, Su is depicted as both sexual and repressed, reflecting the tension felt in her relationship with Chow. The cheongsams Su wears provide viewers with markers of continuity and the linear progression of the narrative as she dons 22 different versions, half of which she only wears once. Different cheongsams in distinct colors and patterns indicate the connection between scenes and the passage of time that barely exists.
The slippery sense of time in the film adds to its heartbreaking temporality as it shows that Su and Chow’s love exists in moments that cannot be found in the spectrum of time that we experience as viewers. The fleeting nature of their relationship renders it impossible to catch. The usage of slow motion also affects our perception of time in the film, as they stand separate from other scenes and cause a rift in continuity. Feelings of nostalgia are prevalent in these slow motion scenes, as they attempt to cling to the ephemeral moments of romance and connection between Chow and Su. One of the most compelling examples of this technique is the sequence in which Chow and Su are working together on Chow’s martial arts serial in the hotel room. The effect of their languid movements and the unhurried panning of the camera is heightened and emphasized by the framing of each shot through mirrors and windows and the beautiful melancholy of ‘Yumeji’s Theme’ by Shigeru Umebayashi. In a particular shot, Su looks at Chow through the mirror and smiles before she casts her eyes down at her paper again. Then, as the camera slowly moves closer to Chow, we see him mimic her actions as he softly gazes at Su through the mirror. The languorous nature of their movements produced by the higher frame rate gives them time to soak up the moment, to indirectly look at each other for a second longer than they should. The mirrors act as symbols of memory again, as they reflect the past. It feels as though the two characters are trying to take in as many small details as they possibly can to store away in their memories of each other.
The framing of In the Mood for Love also generates feelings of closeness and entrapment, reflecting the claustrophobic living conditions of the characters and the self-imposed emotional prisons they’ve locked themselves in as they suffer under the power of their own restraint. The audience acts as one of their nosy, gossiping neighbors, always keeping a watchful eye on them from a short distance as they attempt to hide their feelings from others and from themselves. A lack of privacy endemic to the Shanghainese community they live in makes keeping a secret a difficult task. The physical space they occupy in the rooms and hallways of their apartment building, the noodle stall, the hotel room, and the surrounding streets becomes a crucial part of their memories, tying their nostalgic feelings to these settings. These locations are more than just backdrops for the story. They’re monuments to inaccessible eras, nearly forgotten by the passage of time. For example, the wall close to the steps leading down to the noodle stall is littered with posters pasted over each other, torn up and dirtied by natural elements over time. Whatever era those pieces of paper belonged to has vanished, leaving them as the only evidence of that time. That era might be long gone and barely acknowledged by the busy confusion of Hong Kong, but it existed. The time Chow and Su spent together has passed and become irretrievable, but the narrow corridors and cramped rooms in which their romance unfolded still stand, marking their existence together. The physical space they occupy in the tenement building becomes a crucial part of their memories, causing them both to eventually return to their old rooms to once again exist in the same space, separated only by time. When Su visits Mrs. Suen and discovers their plans to move and the absence of the Koos next door, her former landlady asks, “It was so nice then, wasn’t it?” Su fights back the tears that threaten to spill out of her eyes and responds with a short, trembling, “Yes.” Chow and Su both return to find the loss of a city that once was, a romance that once was, and the closure of a chapter to which they can never truly return.
The physical closeness of the two characters as they live and interact in this tight space creates an undeniable tension between them, though they rarely dare to break it. Instances of physical touch are few and far between, though they hold momentous weight in their memories. The film places a particular focus on their hands and what they touch. The physical sensation they experienced when gliding their hands across a smooth wooden banister or grazing the wall of the noodle stall steps is now an inaccessible part of the past. The feeling now exists in their memories and can only be relived visually through the processes of affect. In the scene where Chow and Su rehearse the day they will have to part for good, the importance of touch is highlighted. Chow ends his goodbye by saying, “I won’t see you again. Keep a closer eye on your husband.” Although our full view is obstructed by Chow’s body, he reaches for Su’s hand and she lets him hold it for a few seconds. The feeling of her hand in his elicits a strong emotional reaction in Su as her eyes fill up with shiny tears. He removes his hand from her grasp, her hand stiff and unprepared to let go. As Chow walks away, the camera focuses on Su’s hand as it crawls up her arm, gripping at her own flesh until she reaches above her elbow. She holds onto herself as she’s no longer able to hold onto him. The feeling of his hand on hers becomes something she can only experience through memory, and even her detailed recollection of it can’t come close to the actual sensation. We hear Su crying as Chow tells her, “Please. Don’t be serious, it’s only a rehearsal. Don’t cry. This isn’t real.” They’re shown holding hands again, this time in full view of the camera. Their touch is slow and tender as they both tentatively stroke each other’s hands softly with their thumbs. The next shot shows Su and Chow embracing as Su sobs, his hands caressing her back to comfort her as hers grips his shoulder. In addition to depicting the impact of touch in their memories, this scene also shows how the fantasy they used to protect themselves from confronting the pain of their situation falls apart as they realize they are, in fact, like their spouses, meaning they are no longer objects of desire or love for them. Chow acknowledges how their fantasy has crumbled by saying, “I was only curious as to how it started. Now I know. Feelings can creep up just like that. I thought I was in control.” This exposes Chow and Su to the bitter, harsh reality of their failed marriages that they’ve been desperately avoiding. Chow admits that he wishes Su’s husband would never return and later asks her the haunting question, “If there’s another ticket, would you go with me?”, suggesting that while the initial version of their fantasy has collapsed, a new one has emerged in which they seize the opportunity in front of them and embark on a new life together. However, this never comes to fruition. The fantasy they created to gain a sense of control over their own betrayal becomes their nostalgic fantasy of missed opportunities, yearning, and regret that they carry with them as they attempt to move forward beyond their relationships.
In the final sequence of In the Mood for Love, Chow visits the ruins of Angkor Wat in Cambodia. He finds a hole in one of the crumbling stone walls and whispers his secret into it. His words are inaudible as the camera slowly moves around him, taking in the details of the decaying ruins. Chow walks through a hallway in the temple and then disappears from the frame. Viewers are left with slow, deliberate shots of the ruins and of the hole Chow whispered into, now sealed with mud and grass in an attempt to bury his secret away forever. The film takes its time showing the temple, the textures of the ancient walls, and the sunlight that streams in to light its vast openness. Similar to the posters covering the wall near the noodle stall, architecture in this sequence is used to show witnessed impermanence. The temple is empty, void of the life it once held. Nothing that belonged to that era truly exists anymore, just the structures that have survived the passage of time. Nothing that belonged to the time Chow and Chan spent together can be found when they return to their rented rooms except for the building itself. They rely on their memories of their transient and tragic romance to help them survive, as those memories are all they have left of those vanished years.
In the Mood for Love isn’t about love itself, but rather the memory of love and the nostalgic yearning to return to the inaccessible. It’s not about the chronological passage of time, but about time blurred by pain, how it wields the ability to separate you from your past indefinitely and render people, spaces, and experiences unreachable forever. Nostalgia is layered throughout every aspect of the film, transfixing it to an era of bygone history seen only through clouded windows and reflections of memory. Through the editing and composition of the film, viewers are given the perspective of someone looking back on their past, conjuring up hazy images burned into their minds forever. The impermanent romance between Chow and Su amounts to nothing more than an image that captures fleeting moments of the past in perfect stillness, a memory frozen in time and framed by their unspoken connection.
Works Cited
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Cover Photo courtesy of the Museum of Modern Art.
