Chasing the Dragon: Not Even a Last Flicker

Chasing the Dragon: Not Even a Last Flicker

The decline of Hong Kong gangster films is, presumably, closely tied to the fact that Hong Kong’s triads are no longer as rampant as they once were. Whether writers or directors, what they are ultimately best at is telling stories and portraying environments they themselves know well. In a sense, Infernal Affairs can basically be seen as the dying flash of vitality from Hong Kong cinema in this genre. As for Chasing the Dragon, which Wong Jing himself described as a painstakingly crafted serious work years in the making, its performance in every respect is only mediocre and conventional. Ironically, Wong Jing at his most earnest is actually less effective than he was in his earlier, more irreverent and freewheeling films. Lau Chi-leung is similar in this regard: no matter what, he can no longer make something as effortlessly brilliant as Eagle Shooting Heroes. This is not necessarily because these directors lack ability as individuals. It is simply that heroes are made by their times. When Hong Kong cinema as a whole is in steep decline, what crab could possibly survive alone on the shore?

From the standpoint of storytelling, Chasing the Dragon makes what it seems to think is a clever choice, but in fact it is not clever at all: it adopts the perspective that the British are the common enemy of both the underworld and the authorities in Chinese society. From a nationalist angle, this approach is workable. When there are no stories about internal national conflicts, our only remaining kind of war narrative becomes the familiar route of fighting foreign invaders with exaggerated patriotic fervor; the logic is the same. From Fearless onward, and throughout the films of generations of kung fu stars such as Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan, and Jet Li, conflict between Chinese and Westerners is a recurring theme. But those stories are mostly set in the late Qing or Republican eras, when the Chinese nation was genuinely humiliated and oppressed. Resisting foreign aggression was then a natural moral imperative for every Chinese person. In 1970s Hong Kong, however, this perspective simply cannot inspire the same resonance. It is a fact that Chinese police inspectors were under the command of the British, and the film’s Lee Rock (Lui Lok) repeatedly emphasizes this. No matter how much the director tries to soften it, the film’s confrontations with the British are thin and powerless, contributing almost nothing to character development in terms of motivation, execution, or conclusion.

It is not that gangster stories cannot be made, nor that characters who are not morally or legally upright cannot serve as protagonists. Classics such as God of Gamblers and Young and Dangerous are entirely about Hong Kong’s criminal underworld, from protagonist to plot, and yet they still became iconic works. Sometimes the moral meaning of a story and its setting can be softened by the radiance of human nature. We may not be able to choose what role in life we occupy, but no matter what kind of life it is, the light of human nature can still illuminate the corners of the heart. Whether Ko Chun or Chan Ho-nam, what ultimately moves us is still personal charisma, the glow of humanity. But the two protagonists in Chasing the Dragon never stir the audience in the slightest from beginning to end. I think, in the final analysis, this is not a question of Wong Jing’s directing skills or the acting abilities of Andy Lau and Donnie Yen. Rather, it lies in the fact that the characters behind the story simply do not possess anything that allows for genuine emotional resonance. Some say that all stories are ultimately about the weak overcoming the strong, because only that kind of struggle can truly move people. But for these two figures, who at the time held overwhelming power and acted with impunity, no chosen angle could have made them easy to interpret more effectively.

In terms of technique, Wong Jing conservatively reheats a number of familiar old devices in an attempt to move the audience: the tragedy of Ng Sek-ho’s wife and son while trying to sneak across the border, the humiliation and death of his younger brother, the final scene in which Siu Fa is gunned down, and the so-called brotherhood between Lee Rock and Ng Sek-ho. All of these are standard cinematic methods for evoking emotional identification. But in Chasing the Dragon, every one of these moments feels stiff and pale, lacking buildup and character construction. The emotional manipulation is too forceful, and the result can only be counterproductive.

This may partly be related to the thinness of the script, but more directly, I think it reflects the director’s own limitations. After all, no matter how serious Wong Jing becomes, he is still Wong Jing. He simply is not especially good at telling this kind of solemn, straight-faced story, so failing to tell it well is hardly surprising. Within limited running time, the film stuffs in too many subplots it wants to include, weakening the main narrative in the process. Andy Lau and Donnie Yen both act with too much strain, making the audience momentarily disengage again and again. Even viewers who did not go in with especially high expectations will probably still let out a sigh after finishing the film: the era of Hong Kong cinema has truly passed.