“Music is very important in my films. Yet I rarely have music composed for my films because I find it very hard to communicate with musicians. They have a musical language; I have a visual one… I use music during all stages of the film process. Of course, I use it when I’m editing. And one thing I particularly like to do is use period music in contemporary films. Because music is like a colour. It is a filter that tints everything in a different shade. And I find that using music from another time than the one in which the image is set makes everything a little more ambiguous, a little more complex.”
- Wong Kar-wai
One of the most noteworthy, yet often disregarded, practices seen in Wong Kar-wai’s work is his tendency to appropriate music from various films, including a wide range of sources such as pre-revolutionary Chinese melodramas and Fassbinder’s productions. The aforementioned approach can be seen as indicative of the prevailing working procedures in the television and film industries of Hong Kong throughout the director’s period of apprenticeship. During the 1970s and 1980s, tight deadlines and even tighter funds made pastiche, parody, and even plagiarism commonplace. The increased accessibility of global commodities, such as films and music, further accentuated this phenomenon. The significance of this was not overlooked by the group of writers and assistant directors, including Wong Kar-wai, who would later establish themselves as independent directors throughout the late 1980s and 1990s. One notable characteristic that sets Wong’s movie apart from that of his contemporaries is his inclination towards utilizing pre-existing music from other films, as opposed to the conventional practice of commissioning a composer to create an original score based on an existing template.
This observation could potentially be attributed to the relatively ample funding that his projects currently receive. The process of obtaining rights for intellectual property can often incur significant costs, which may even pose a barrier to access. However, it is worth noting that Wong has consistently demonstrated a commitment to providing proper attribution to the composers and films from which he lifted music. Biancorosso argues, Wong’s utilization of pre-existing soundtracks can be seen as a transformation of a unique aspect of Hong Kong’s renowned re-export economy into an artistic methodology, wherein imported items are repackaged as if they were original creations. Biancrosso says that Wong has taken full advantage of how easily a piece of music, no matter what movie it was written for, fits into a new place and becomes its representative, leaving no sign of its previous life. The nomadic nature of cinema music can be examined by employing it as a temporary soundtrack throughout the primary filming phase. Wong’s decision to rely on the effectiveness of music used in another filmmaker’s work not only led him to incorporate it in post-production but also spared him the effort of extensively evaluating its suitability.
Incorporation of a song within the narrative of a film, as opposed to an instrumental cue, poses a unique set of challenges. Wong typically formulates a comprehensive sequence in accordance with the duration, emotional impact, and pace of the music he chooses. Some examples are Jungle Drums (Days of Being Wild) by Xavier Cugat and California Dreamin’ (Chunking Express) The songs that hold the most significance in his “catalogue’’ are those that either motivate the main character to take action or foster a condition of contemplative reflection. In instances this happens, it can be observed that the imagery appears to be a direct result of the auditory stimuli perceived by the character. Consequently, the sequence becomes saturated with the rhythmic patterns, melodic suggestions, and visual representations offered by the music and its accompanying lyrics. This has commonly resulted in the criticism that at this point, Wong surrenders stylistic authority, depending instead on a collection of clichés derived from the language of music videos. In addition to its disregard for the music video as a sophisticated artistic medium, this argument lacks substance when subjected to critical examination. Wong’s song sequences, characterized by a narrative framework and a consistent presence of action, exhibit not only a captivating boldness and originality, but also serve as a noteworthy and innovative embodiment of the contemporary trend towards self-representation in both the realm of visual arts and social media (Biancorosso, 2013).
Giorgio Biancorosso has made substantial contributions to the scholarly discourse around the music of Wong Kar-wai’s films. His extensive body of work encompasses an ample range of content and has been published in many book chapters. This is exemplified in the analysis conducted by Biancorosso in the article titled “Songs of Delusion: Popular Music and the Aesthetics of the Self in Wong Kar-wai’s Cinema”. Subjectivity is discussed in Biancorosso’s reading, wherein he states, “Whether used as source or score, the music does not merely project subjectivity; rather, it is an element of image-in-the-making whose roots are traceable to the world of cinema”. Biancorosso puts this subjectivity within the framework of postmodernism, asserting that the songs are not merely perceived or merely embraced: They are physically incorporated into the characters’ attire as an indispensable component. The fundamental focus of Wong’s characterizations is in the conversion of musical sounds into elements of iconography, followed by the subsequent merging of these elements back into the musical realm. This process alludes to a much-needed reevaluation of portraiture as a multimedia construct that has been delayed for an extended period of time.
Kresting discusses two distinct aspects of Wong Kar-wai’s films, namely their capacity to evoke emotions and their association with the subjectivity of characters, particularly female subjectivity, as per his analysis. Wong’s works frequently employ music as a means to subvert the established context of a scene, so altering its significance throughout the narrative progression. This deliberate manipulation of music, as described by Wong, effectively imbues the entire cinematic experience with a distinct and varied tonal quality. In Wong’s works, (especially Chungking Express and Fallen Angels) there is a notable contrast in the narrative subjectivity between his male and female protagonists. The male characters are frequently accompanied by voice-overs that signify their subjectivity, the female characters, on the other hand, tend to employ music as a means to amplify their voice or reflect their emotions. This extension enables the characters to engage in communication with both other characters inside the narrative and the audience. The utilization of music to overwrite the film finally conveys feminine yearning in a manner that surpasses conventional cinematic language, hence enhancing the depth of Wong’s characters.
The female characters interact intimately with jukeboxes (and, in the case of Faye Wong’s character, a boombox) in both Chungking Express and Fallen Angels. This particular interaction necessitates additional examination, as it represents a subjective investigation of the characters, which is heightened by the music playing on the jukebox. In many instances, this relationship even extends to encompass physically intimate moments. Moreover, the jukebox serves as an intermediary between the characters within the narrative and the audience. This is evident when the diegetic music emanating from the jukebox extends beyond the diegesis, lingering even after the scene transition.
Both films devote a considerable amount of screen time highlighting the presence of jukeboxes. This is achieved through visually stunning shots that capture the spinning CDs, showcase the intricate mechanisms of the jukeboxes, and emphasize their physicality. In the film Chungking Express, there is a scene where the drug dealer’s lover engages in an unusual intimacy with a jukebox, accompanied by Dennis Brown’s song Things in Life. Similarly, in Fallen Angels, Michelle Reis’s character (henceforth addressed as Agent) also dances with a jukebox in an American style cocktail lounge in an intimate manner, this time to Laurie Anderson’s Speak My Language. The scene’s sexual undertones become apparent as the shot transitions to the character engaging in self-stimulation in Ming’s apartment, while the song continues to play in the background. It would be difficult to come across a more effective depiction of the profound isolation and feeling of detachment experienced by a generation who were raised in an ever so uncertain Hong Kong, should be able to rightfully consider it their place of belonging. Seraph called these characters “Wong’s exterminating angels”. The majority of scenes in both Fallen Angels and the aforementioned sequence in Chungking Expresswere filmed at night-time. In this context, Wong utilizes the jukebox as a means to create a personalized anthem that pays homage to the enduring nights of Hong Kong, as well as the dryly exaggerated frenzy expressed by its inhabitants.
In relation to the use of the song Speak My Language in the film, Nochimson observes the song effectively communicates a departure from a bygone, structured cultural background, the absence of which continues to be experienced in the frenzied contemporary context. This sentiment is encapsulated in the lyrics, “Daddy, daddy, it’s just like you said, now that the living outnumber the dead.” In the “love scene” that unites the Agent with the jukebox, the sole source of human voice that resonates with her emerges from a machine, hence lacking any tangible human embodiment. The message escapes into the ethereal realm, available to be received by any anyone who happens to be in proximity. The reason for her being in this specific cocktail lounge because she is aware that Ming frequents it, but she is certain that he is not there at the moment. Put differently, “now that the living outnumber the dead.” she prefers being there with him on her mind rather than physically being there with him. In addition to Ming’s absence in this particular scene, Agent’s behaviour suggests a disregard for any societal norm.
Wong’s visual fragmentation of the montage serves to underscore the extent to which Agent is disconnected from both the surrounding setting and other people In this context, our perception is limited to fragmented glimpses of objects and individuals, which are imbued with a sensual allure through the melodious sounds of a saxophone coming from the recording. Furthermore, the vibrant orange hues that surround everything add to an elevated visual experience. The shots are immersed in a vibrant blend of orange and gold light emitted by the jukebox, revealing glimpses of the Agent’s head, hands, and the wavy lines of her outfit. Various elements within the setting are subject to fetishization, including the jukebox, the physique of Agent, and the lounge as a whole.
Nochimson argues that the absence of an effective grammar of connection in Fallen Angels, which is impressionistically evoked in Anderson’s Speak My Language, an unanswered request for a common mode of communication, casts a shadow over the entire film.
When Ming desires to terminate his partnership with the Agent, he creates his absences, one after another, with the intention of enabling her to independently detect his decision to step away from “the business.” Initially, he schedules a meeting with her but doesn’t go. Subsequently, he goes to the cocktail lounge and gives the bartender a coin to give to “the woman” who will be looking for him in a few days. The bartender is also instructed to inform the woman that the his lucky number is 1818, which corresponds to the song titled “Forget Him” available on their jukebox. When the Agent shows up, she takes the coin and plays the song.
The message of forget him (sung by Shirley Kwan) implies a connection between The Agent and a society that recognizes her circumstances, reflecting the fragmented nature of the film. However, it fails to offer a viable means for Ming and The Agent to effectively address their separation in a significant or gratifying manner. (Nochimson) Ming and The Agent each engage in meaningless intercourse in response to this message, but not with one another. The Agent has comprehended the situation and is going through a profound sense of anguish. Ming is picked up by Blondie (Karen Mok), a slender young woman with dyed blonde hair and a tall stature, from a McDonald’s establishment. The Agent engages in self-stimulation, within the confines of the apartment that previously served as the communication hub between her and Ming. Ming engages in intense and aggressive encounter with Blondie. The two sequences are juxtaposed, with forget him still playing in the background drawing a parallel between the Agent’s detached self-pleasure and Ming’s comedic one night stand, implying that neither of them has a deeper emotional connection with self or with a partner.
Chungking Express is divided into two distinct segments. Takeshi Kaneshiro plays the grieving police officer He Qiwu in the first part, while Bridgitte Lin plays a drug smuggler donning a blonde wig. Promptly, Chungking Express revisits the depiction of the jukebox. (Chungking Express was released one year prior to Fallen Angels; nonetheless, for the purpose of maintaining the essay’s structural coherence, we are reverting back to the concept of the jukebox) During an initial sequence, Bridgitte Lin’s character engages in the negotiation of a drug trafficking transaction with her Western boss in the Wally Matt Lounge. Notably, the jukebox within the facility plays the melodious sounds of Dennis Brown’s Jamaican reggae composition, Things in Life. The sequence places emphasis on the character’s ability to select music and the tangible manifestation of the diegetic music with a shot depicting a woman inserting a penny into the jukebox. Wong deliberately places emphasis on the musical device once more prior to moving between scenes.
Once again, Wong seeks to underscore to the audience the tangible presence of the music they are perceiving within the diegetic realm of the picture. Krestin contends that Wong deviates from his typical approach to incorporating music in his films, which involves providing insight into the emotional condition of the main characters and serving as a means of expression for them. However, in the case of Things in Life, functions as a musical portrayal of the Wally Matt Lounge, as it is prominently appears in all scenes that take place in that particular setting. The song promotes a comparable philosophical perspective on the concept of change as shown by Bridgitte Lin’s character, although eventually opts to embrace change rather than resist it. Lin’s character reflects on her cautious nature in an internal soliloquy, expressing uncertainty regarding the origin of this behavior. She mentions a tendency to wear sunglasses in addition to a raincoat as an example of her cautiousness. The uncertainty of weather conditions, specifically the occurrence of rain or sunshine, remains unpredictable. In a similar vein, Dennis Brown vocalizes in his song Things in Life that it is not a constant occurrence for individuals to remain in a static state, as change is inevitable. He acknowledges the existence of both unfavorable and favorable circumstances. “Today you’re up, tomorrow you’re down.” The statement suggests a cyclical pattern where one’s circumstances or fortunes fluctuate between positive and negative states throughout time. Both Lin’s character and Brown demonstrate an awareness of the inevitability of change in the future. However, the song has a laid-back reggae sound that serves as a stark juxtaposition to the inner turmoil experienced by Lin’s character, who grapples with anxiety stemming from her participation in drug trafficking. As the narrative unfolds, her increasingly hostile demeanor culminates in her resorting to acts of abduction and homicide.
The remaining characters in the initial segment of the film likewise appear to establish a connection between the song and Lin’s persona. In the one instance at the Wally Matt Lounge while Lin’s character is absent, the Boss selects the song Things in Life to be played on the jukebox. As he returns to the lounge, his lover summons him from the kitchen area, waving a blonde hairpiece reminiscent of Lin’s. The man adorns his lover with the wig, leading to a passionate hug, while Wong’s cinematography returns to the jukebox, so highlighting its significance. Therefore, despite Lin’s absence in the physical setting of this scenario, her presence is evoked in the mind of her boss and his paramour, as the song plays. The following morning it rains, prompting Lin’s monologue regarding the importance of constant preparedness. While the Boss’s lover engages in a passionate dance to the tune of Things in Life with the jukebox, dressed in her wig, the boss proceeds towards a nearby alley, where he stumble across a group of kittens. While he is on his knees watching them, Lin’s character sneaks up behind him, fires a shot, and then leaves, dropping her blonde wig behind. The importance of this particular scene is underscored by Brunette’s observation that during the initial portion of the film, Lin discards her wig in the foreground of the shot after killing the drug dealer. This action can be construed as a culminating and significant gesture, representing the amalgamation of Lin’s persona with her alter ego and their shared emancipation from the exploitative behaviors of the drug dealer. From an emotional standpoint, the song Things in Life displays a notable transformation in Lin’s character, shifting from a state of anxiety to one of acceptance. The instrumental arrangement and melody of the song effectively convey this change to the audience without the need for explicit speech. To emphasize the significance of this specific moment, Wong used the artistic methods of step-printing and overcranking at the scene where Lin’s character eliminates the Boss and departs, thus effectively portraying a deliberate manipulation of time perception. However, in this instance, it is the boss’s time that has reached its end.
In conclusion, Wong Kar-wai’s unconventional approach to incorporating music into his films reveals a profound and innovative artistic methodology. By appropriating pre-existing music from various sources, he not only creates a unique sonic landscape but also transforms imported musical elements into integral components of his narratives. Wong’s use of music as a filter, a colour, and a language to convey emotions and enhance storytelling demonstrates his mastery of the cinematic craft. His ability to synchronize music with visuals is extraordinary. Additionally, the sequences where characters interact with jukeboxes, adds a layer of complexity to his characters and their relationship with the screen space. The jukebox motif seems also reflective of Wong’s practice of utilising pre-existing music. Through the use of music, Wong captures the essence of change, uncertainty, and human connection in a visually and emotionally striking manner. In doing so, he transcends traditional cinematic language and paves the way for a new form of self-representation in the world of film practice Wong Kar-wai’s films stand as a testament to the power of music to shape and enrich cinematic storytelling, leaving a lasting impact on both the medium and its audience.
References
Biancorosso, G. (2016) The Value of Re-exports: Wong Kar-wai’s Use of Pre-existing Soundtracks in A Companion to Wong Kar-wai John Wiley & Sons, Inc
Nochimson, M.P. (2016) We Can’t Go On Not Meeting Like This : Fallen Angels and Wong’s Intertextuality in A Companion to Wong Kar-wai John Wiley & Sons, Inc
Kersting, E. (2018) East, west, and gendered subjectivity : the music of Wong Kar-Wai Northern Illinois University
Clemens, J., & Pettman, D. (2004). The Floating Life of Fallen Angels: Unsettled Communities and Hong Kong Cinema. In Avoiding the Subject: Media, Culture and the Object (pp. 129–144). Amsterdam University Press.
Brunette, P. (2005) Wong Kar-wai. U of Illinois P
