In 1962, somewhere in the ramshackle neighbourhoods of an adolescent Hong Kong, two couples move into the same block of flats. Chow Mo-wan (Tony Leung), a journalist, arrives with his unseen wife. Su Li-zhen (Maggie Cheung), a receptionist for a shipping company, is accompanied by her husband—also a shadowy figure somewhere off screen. The couples don’t know each other, but straight away it’s clear that Chow and Su are different to their live-in landlords—their generations operate with different nocturnal habits. While the older folks play Mahjong in the communal living space, Chow works late into the evening and Su replenishes her thermos of noodles from the local night market, sashaying with grace but seemingly no purpose. Su, like the city she wanders alone in, seems semi-autonomous and restless at night.

Chow and Su quickly develop a tenuous friendship through quiet encounters in tight corridors and on the rain-soaked staircases. With missed calls and vague stories coming from their partners overseas, the friends start suspecting they are being betrayed. As months pass, their connection blooms into something more intimate, and dangerous in such conservative times. In their cluttered block of flats, they visit each other secretly, attempting to hide their emotional infidelities from the gaze of their landlady Mrs. Suen (Rebecca Pan).

Wong Kar-wai (born in Shanghai, 1958) was raised in Hong Kong during the 60s and 70s, an era when the harbour city was developing into a leading power in manufacturing and finance, both because of its geographical location (set on a deep harbour) and its ties with Britain. The colonial rule also meant more exposure to Western films for a young Wong Kar-wai, who frequently visited the cinema with his mother. After studying graphic design, his passion for aesthetics and emotive storytelling coalesced and he went on to use Hong Kong as his cinematic muse. The city became the living, breathing central character in many of his films, including Days of Being Wild (1990) and Chungking Express (1994). His stylised cinematography and penchant for telling dramatic, human stories, set him apart from the action-focussed directors of Hong Kong.

From the opening titles of In the Mood for Love, there’s a feeling you’ve wandered to an unfamiliar cultural crossroads. This is less to do with stark Chinese characters (typography) and more the soundtrack. The score doesn’t swell in anticipation from the opening; you are not told to expect a car chase or a grand musical number. Instead, you’re flung into a ghostly void in which all you hear is your own crunch of popcorn or a low hum of traffic outside the living room. The unease of this initial silence sets the tone for that sinking sense of uncertainty.

When the titles finish, you’re pushed into a cluttered space where the women are wrapped in ravishing silk dresses and floral prints cling to every surface. The lighting somehow captures the building’s humidity by soaking the characters in yellowy lamplight, against earthy background tones. It gives the impression that this is an urban jungle. In Chow’s office, cigarette smoke lingers, creating a steam-like haze. Shades of this “jungle” are still visible in modern-day Hong Kong, albeit with more air-conditioning and fewer cigarettes.

As with most of Wong Kar-wai’s films, the score—and intermittent silence—of  In the Mood for Love dances with his soulful cinematography and frenetic editing style to create a dizzying portrait of the central characters and of the city in which the story (predominately) takes place. This version of Hong Kong appears mostly indoors or in tightly packed streetscapes. You get a sense that the characters feel restricted and have inner lives that are close to erupting on the surface—much like the city would have felt as it rushed toward modernisation. But with this sense of repression within the characters, there’s a spark of energy and possibility signposted by Wong Kar-wai’s slyly knowing dialogue: “Feeling can creep up just like that,” says Chow, “I thought I was in control.” Chow and Su mightn’t be liberated, but they still have hope.

A familiar tune plays as the story winds toward an ending: Bobby Capó’s “Quizás, Quizás, Quizás” (or “Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps” as it’s known in English) teases the audience with its cheeky rejection of the opening titles’ ominous silence. The Hong Kong of yesteryear now seems distant, as Mrs. Suen and her generation of residents have moved out of the old block of flats, and Chow and Su have changed too—less restricted by what felt so crushing all those years ago. Rather than dwell on memories, Wong Kar-wai looks forward. “He remembers those vanished years,” a caption reads, “As though looking through a dusty window pane, the past is something he could see, but not touch.”

In the Mood for Love by Wong Kar-wai (2000), 97 minutes, Hong Kong