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No hay suficiente espacio para estar solo: In the Mood for Love de Wong Kar-Wai
Lya de la Cruz Pérez
Programa de Estudios Interdisciplinarios
Facultad de Humanidades, UPR RP
Recibido: 21/02/2025; Revisado: 3/05/2025; Aceptado: 12/05/2025
Abstract
Is love destined? Or is it purely circumstantial? How does the pressure of society around us play a hand in the degradation of marriage and the blooming of a new affair? In the Mood for Love (2000) is Wong Kar-Wai’s exploration of the relationship between love and space. The film lacks a distinct amount of physical and personal space, which causes the infidelity we see on screen. How does the film use the visual language of claustrophobia and voyeurism to carry its themes? This work explores this subject as a visual metaphor and its repercussions on the film and its characters.
Keywords: film theory, Wong Kar-Wai, infidelity, spatial relations
Resumen
¿El amor es destinado o es coincidencia? ¿Cuál es el rol de las presiones de la sociedad en la muerte del matrimonio y en el comienzo de un amorío? In the Mood for Love (2000) es la exploración de Wong Kar-Wai de la relación entre el amor y el espacio. El filme acentúa su falta de espacio físico y personal, el cual causa la infidelidad que vemos en pantalla. ¿Cómo el filme usa el lenguaje visual de claustrofobia y voyerismo para emplear sus temas? Este trabajo explora la metáfora visual usada y sus repercusiones sobre el filme y sus personajes.
Palabras claves: teoría de cine, Wong Kar-Wai, infidelidad, relaciones de espacio
Introduction
In the Mood for Love (2000) is a film ruled by small spaces. In Wong Kar-Wai’s masterpiece, there is rarely a time when our characters are not forced into a confined yet shared space. The two couples, the Chans and the Chows, have each moved into an available room in two different apartments, housed by two families. In this environment, they are closed in by both the physical barriers around them and the eyes surrounding them. As such, they are forced to find solace in the hearts of others that have been trapped as well. In the film, Wong Kar-Wai uses the visual language of claustrophobia to communicate its themes of infidelity and societal pressures. The director uses a variety of techniques to achieve this feat. This work explores this metaphor and how it reflects on different technical aspects of the film, such as the mise-en-scène, music, and acting. Later, it will examine the metaphor’s ramifications over the narrative elements in the film, such as its characters and plot.
Technical Aspects: Sound and Performance
One scene that foreshadows the affairs to come is the first scene to have everyone who lives in the two apartments present, playing mahjong in the Suen flat. Everyone is talking and laughing. The scene is slowed down and features non-diegetic music, which happens only in very particular instances of the film. Despite the contentment we see on screen, the music is quite foreboding. Eisenstein et al. (1949) state, “Only a contrapuntal use of sound in relation to the visual montage piece will afford a new potentiality of montage development and perfection” (p. 258). The serious yet plucky music tells us that this happiness, this unity in marriage, will not last long. Wong purposely manipulates the staging of the scene in tandem with the music, like the techniques Eisenstein et al. (1949) described: “Work with sound must be directed along the line of its distinct non-synchronization with the visual images” (p. 259). The scene shows Mrs. Chan (Maggie Cheung), who is currently draped over her husband, and she must move away from him to make way for Mrs. Chow (voiced by Paulyn Sun) and then Mr. Chow (Tony Leung) to change places with each other at the mahjong table. The small, enclosed space they find themselves in forces the Chows to physically squeeze themselves between the Chan’s marriage. The scene even shows Mrs. Chow face Mr. Chan (voiced by Roy Cheung Yiu-Yeung) when passing, and Mr. Chow facing Mrs. Chan, establishing the first of many instances of physical contact between the two characters. These seemingly insignificant interactions in the foreground of a cheery scene, paired with slow music of a troubling timbre, inform the audience that happiness will unravel.
Moments that also feature the slowed action-instrumental combination follow a particular fashion. This is due to music’s ability to separate itself from the tangible reality of the film. Music is the only aspect of sound-film that can exist separately from its notion of reality (Chion, 1987). It exists outside the confines of linear time, like all other audiovisual aspects do. The motif of slow music defies reality and therefore can signal to us the thematic link between the scenes shown while still staying within the confines of film. The music can repeat, start, and stop as it likes. In the first act, these musical montages feature the accidental meetings between Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan: their quick glances and stifled nods in the back alleys of Hong Kong. These moments were when both sought refuge from the peering eyes at home. This is their first true point of convergence. After the affair begins, these scenes either capture them together or separately, but always in a moment of pondering. Here, we see these characters’ mindsets come to life. In the scene where they presumably consummate the affair, the frame has both characters leaning against the hotel room window, with Mrs. Chan looking outward and Mr. Chow in the background, just out of focus, but clearly looking directly at her. They are squeezed into the same frame, so close but not touching yet. The music, paired with Maggie Cheung’s incredible acting ability, says a lot about what will transpire. An actor’s performance adds invaluable meaning to a scene in film, in a way no other medium can replicate. “The film has brought us the silent soliloquy, in which a face can speak with the subtlest shades of meaning without appearing unnatural and arousing the distaste of spectators” (Balázs, 1985, p. 259). The extreme close-up in this scene means we can perceive her every intimate expression. Her character spends most of the film being perfectly polite, but Chan looks away from Chow. Her face is stoic, but it portrays a confidence never seen before. She turns her head to him, looks him up and down, and then moves past him, leaving the camera to focus on him. As she continues moving out of focus, reaching up to untie the knots on her dress, we see Chow’s eyes, which were once watching every tiny movement of hers with an undeniable intensity, now look at nothing with an equal severity. It drains out of Tony Leung’s eyes with a blink. He gives the slightest, basically invisible shudder, seemingly shocked out of his trance to consider his actions one last time, before turning towards her. Like Balázs (1985) stated, “In the isolated close-up of the film we can see to the bottom of a soul by means of such tiny movements of facial muscles which even the most observant partner would never perceive” (p. 260). In that moment, we see all his doubts, desires, fears, and even hate. It is a type of sight only possible through the lens of a camera. We see all of him through that hotel window.
Identification and Voyeurism: the Camera as a Mirror
Films tend to feature the male figure as their ‘action figure’, as Laura Mulvey (1985) explains, “The man controls the film phantasy and also emerges as the representative of power …. The active male figure … demands a three-dimensional space …. Here the function of film is to reproduce as accurately as possible the so-called natural conditions of human perception” (p. 810). The male figure becomes the point-of-view character for the audience, which is reflected in the direction. The camera follows his eyesight and his body; the film does whatever is possible to get the audience to project themselves or mirror onto the male figure. Yet, In the Mood for Love is uninterested in using camera techniques to get the audience to project onto Mr. Chow or the “male gaze”; not even Mrs. Chan. The film follows ‘natural conditions of human perception’ in the sense that the audience looks on with a very particular framing, meant to emulate not a sense of identification to satisfy a fantasy, but rather a spectatorship: that of a third party. Unlike many other films, the audience is not meant to identify with Mr. Chow: this is not his story we are watching. Mr. Chow is not a larger-than-life figure of fantasy and admiration. As such, he has no demand over what the audience sees. After all, we do not see through his eyes.
As audience members, we see in a very literal way: always peering from the end of a hallway, from a window, from above, from angles that feel undoubtedly human. One of the most famous aspects of In the Mood for Love is its use of shot composition and camera angles to make the audience feel like voyeurs. A feeling of trespass and discomfort is produced: a series of intrusions on intimate moments. For example, in the scene where Mrs. Chan is getting ready for work beside her husband at the film's beginning, we start with a view of her adjusting her stockings and Mr. Chan walking in front of her. The shot is a medium close-up, where they are only visible from the waist and below, like the view of someone tying their shoes right in front of them. The camera is too close to see the complete picture, but it feels awkward, in a human way. Then she stands up, and we cut to her talking to him through the doorway. She stands outside the doorway but right in front of it, continuing their conversation in this shared space. The camera is at level with her head, staged to feel like we were standing next to her, watching her conversation in the communal hall. That is the voyeuristic aspect at work: "The spectator is identified with the character assumed by the camera” (Pichel, 1985, p. 142). If the camera ‘assumes’ a character, here the camera is the audience, looking on with all the limitations and rules that come with it. Focusing on odd spots, peering into places, we are the voyeurs. Notably, the scene mentioned above is missing depth of focus, which Bazin (2011) tells us “That depth of focus brings the spectator into a relation with the image closer to that which he enjoys with reality. Therefore, it is correct to say that, independently of the contents of the image, its structure is more realistic” (p. 322). This, paired with the eyesight-like framing, makes it clear that the story told in In the Mood for Love is not necessarily objective, but subjective, as one-sided and biased as any person’s is. This is further supported by Bazin (2011), who states that an audience member must, “Let his attention follow along smoothly with that of the director who will choose what he should see” (p. 322). Wong is not interested in a realistic view of these people and their lives. We could add to this the fact that we never even see the faces of Mrs. Chow and Mr. Chan, the spouses of our leads and the catalysts of the plot. It becomes extremely clear that the film has no interest in objectivity or the ‘whole story’, but only in the relationship and experiences of Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan. Wong shows us only what he wants us to see; that is, only a part of the story. The audience never sees how our main characters’ spouses even come to be involved in their affair. What if their love story is as significant as the one we witness? We will never know because it does not matter. This is the story of Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan as experienced by them and their tragic love.
The voyeuristic style that permeates most of the film relates heavily to its theme. The cinematography always makes sure to let the audience know just how close to each other the characters are physically at any given time. Film is an often voyeuristic medium: the audience looks on in rapt fascination as characters experience their highest highs and lowest lows. Susan Sontag (2011) states, “Even if incompatible with intervention in a physical sense, using a camera is still a form of participation” (p. 12). Most films take special precautions not to make us feel like onlookers, but here the camera makes the audience active participants in the tightness of the space. Not only are we present, but we also take up space, which amplifies the sense of presence in this film. If the character with which the audience identifies is the camera frame itself, the audience exists as a third, unseen body in the scene: invisible but palpable. It makes the viewing more intimate but also more uncomfortable; it brings that distinct feeling of intrusion onto us.
Space in the Narrative
Our couples reside in a small place, so small that privacy is a hard-to-attain luxury. They are surrounded by eyes that see only fractions and judge the whole. Mrs. Suen (Rebecca Pan), Mrs. Chan’s landlady, scolds her for letting her husband travel so much, not knowing that Mrs. Chan has already discovered that her husband is participating in an affair. Mrs. Suen and her mother (Mama Hung) sit at a table, watching Mrs. Chan leave to buy noodles on the street, where Mrs. Suen loudly proclaims how sad it is to see her so lonely, with her husband never around. Her mother responds, questioning why she goes out so elegantly to buy noodles. An affair has already been implied, despite Mrs. Chan seemingly being truthful. The true affair remains unseen, unspotted, but the affair between Mrs. Chan and Mr. Chow was spoken into existence before it had even started. This is the ladies’ way of expressing disapproval, of trying to intervene in whatever acts they perceive to be happening, but gossip is not known for being effective. Gossip may be punitive, but it is rarely corrective; transgressors may not know that they have become the subject of gossip or see the negative outgrowth of gossip as a consequence of their misconduct. Particularly, inaccurate or false gossip, disguised as warnings, can unduly harm reputations (Vaidyanathan, 2016), as we see with these women and Mrs. Chan. The new rumors sour the image of Mrs. Chan in her neighbors’ eyes. The burden of the affair ultimately falls on her. On marriage in literature, Roulston (2008) observes, “We can see the sentimental ideal at work in the way the couple is being imagined; the wife internalizes the desires of the husband as her own, and shoulders his guilt” (p. 33). The wife is to blame if her husband seeks another woman. Despite both spouses being workers now, the emotional and romantic duties of the relationship are still placed on the woman. This vision of marriage and intimacy is being pushed onto Mrs. Chan by her well-meaning, albeit nosy, neighbors. The dynamic of neighborhood gossip is only heightened by the extremely close quarters held in the film. The two couples live within their neighbors' homes in the ever-growing city of Hong Kong; they are crowded and have nowhere to go. Yet, they live in one of the most global cities in the world, and they all have their toes dipped in the city's international business. “[Mrs. Chan]'s husband … often travels to Japan on business. … [Mrs. Chan] is a secretary in a shipping company from which she can buy inexpensive ship tickets for her neighbors. Chow works for a transnational newspaper … and his wife works as a receptionist in a hotel” (Lei, 2024, p. 471). This setting is no coincidence: Hong Kong is presented as a city of contradictions. “Hong Kong remains a ‘floating city’ defined by mobility and spatial others” (Lei, 2024, p. 469). People migrate to and from there as a cultural tradition, as all our characters do towards the end, but it is also a city of crushing stillness. The city is expanding and growing while feeling smaller than ever; there is no refuge.
The audience has a view as skewed as the gossip our couple seeks to escape. We see these characters through our human lenses, heavily biased to the point that the other spouses are entirely ignored. We are looking on, just like the ladies. Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan spend so much of the film fleeing from those peering eyes that they usually meet in the alley next to their building or the street leading to the noodle place. They converge while escaping from those eyes, bringing them together, the pressure of it all. The peering, judging eyes ultimately encourage the behavior they must discourage. The alley beside their building is one of the only spacious places in the film, where they mostly meet. Despite being a wide road, it also boxes them in at moments, with rain pouring down and pushing them closer. They seek freedom, yet it is ultimately futile; rain can quickly force them back into their cramped state, and no matter what, we can still see it all, the most invasive of all voyeurs.
In this cramped world that Wong Kar-Wai has constructed, infidelity runs rampant. There’s so little space, even your heart must share it. Mrs. Chan’s boss is cheating on his wife; Mrs. Suen seems to speak from experience when lecturing her on controlling her husband. In a place where privacy is close to none, where space shrinks constantly, is infidelity almost an inevitability? Or is love, due to a lack of privacy, always doomed? Despite never truly being alone, this world features the notable absence of spouses in daily life. Referencing a study on the perceived causes of infidelity, Rokach (2023) explains, “When people feel emotional shortfalls, in their primary relationships, they may search for a deeper quality of romantic connection which includes more intimacy in their affairs to compensate for the insufficient intimacy experienced with primary partners” (section 4.9 para. 2). The fast-paced city life has pushed these marriages apart; both couples need both spouses to work even to be able to afford what are just singular spare bedrooms. Mrs. Chow works nights while Mr. Chan works abroad. These couples never have time for each other. Is that not loneliness at its worst? Your spouse resembles a mirage in the desert more closely than a person in your life. It all lacks intimacy, so you begin to seek it elsewhere.
Conclusion
After one of their hotel stays, Mrs. Chan tells Mr. Chow, “We won’t be like them”, referring to their cheating spouses, but how is that so? In a society that leaves so little space for the self, are we destined to look for space and privacy in others? How would this story transpire if our characters were not forced onto one another and into a singular space, a metaphor for their enclosed, surveilled, and suspect love? Wong used the feeling of claustrophobia and cramped spaces to illustrate this world of societal pressures, failed marriages, and love, using the visual language of the room to comment on physical spaces and intimacy. In the end, is this a cautionary tale? Were our protagonists too quick to let someone into their space? Or should we all be open to share? Truthfully, we as humans open ourselves to both the moments of thrill and joy and the moments of insecurity and pain. And we can never truly close ourselves off. There will always be eyes watching and hearts waiting for you.
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