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Trivisa

(Frank Hui, Vicky Wong and Jevons Au, Hong Kong, 2016)


 


Three Kings

 

1. The Face and the Image

The opening scene of Trivisa – functioning as a prologue set in 1988 – offers us a brief flurry of actions in only 13 shots, covering almost exactly one minute of screen time.

 

The first shot pans down from a clear sky into an ordinary street; the same shot zooms in to isolate a man walking casually, wearing a dark coat and cap. He can be seen only from the back, with no face recognition. It would seem to be a very typical and conventional establishing image to “ease in” a narrative; it is by far the longest shot of the scene in its relatively leisurely duration of 22 seconds.

 

Shot 2, however, immediately introduces us (in what is a minor, elliptical shock cut) to more urgent action: three cops in plain-clothes (pointedly not seen in shot 1) instantly stop the man glimpsed in the previous shot. Shot 3, closer in and taken from behind the cops, at last gives us a brief look at the man’s face, but he immediately uses his cap to obscure his features from both the cops and us. Now changing to a side-on angle for shot 4, the man fishes out his ID as requested – but still keeps his face more or less hidden from view. The background of this shot stresses, again, the unphotogenic ordinariness of the surroundings: cars passing by on a bridge, a few out-of-focus trees.

 

Back to the same angle as shot 2, but with a difference created by movement: the female cop moves away to contact headquarters on her walkie-talkie and check the ID; while the man under suspicion casts a checking-out look down the street – in search, no doubt, of a handy escape route. The film keeps wheeling through its already established camera set-ups, with dynamising variations: next, we are in a continuation of the angle of shot 3, but with only the chief cop (soon joined by his male colleague) demanding to see the contents of the man’s bag.

 

Cut to a totally new image: the ID card and the hand holding it are the only elements in focus, with the grey ground and the woman’s profile both rendered in a blur. Another zoom, in the context of this more minimal image, takes us closer to the black and white photo of the man – clear face recognition this time, but displaced from the reality of the scene to a posed, processed image – as well as creating an aura of suspense, an anticipation of impending violence.

 

For shot 8, we return again to the camera set-up of shot 3, as the man still subtly shields his face. Shot 9, insert detail: the man’s hand fishes around inside (at what, we cannot see), and suddenly a bullet fires through the black fabric. Shot 10 is from the same set-up as shot 4: the two male cops are shot. Shot 11 gives us a new angle, and an unforeseen element: in the right-of-screen foreground, a bystander (turned away from us) witnesses the third murder, but does not react or intervene. Shot 12 happens in slow motion: the man picks up his ID card. In shot 13, he runs down his previously scoped-out escape path, as sound from the following scene, a TV broadcast, is overlaid. As the man, now safely indoors, watches TV, he burns his ID.

 

The opening scene is certainly brisk and economical: adding it up, 9 camera set-ups are used to generate 13 different shots in editing. The scene takes us from a casual, apparently non-action-based opening to the near-immediate eruption of violence in an everyday street situation. But is there more going on here? This action film sets up, in its opening minute, a certain circulation of elements: bodies, faces, identities, places, media representations (such as still photography). The face of a central character – soon to be identified within the plot as the criminal Kwai Ching-hung (Gordon Lam) – is withheld from clear, decisive recognition in the face-to-face situation with police, but is “caught” on the all-important (and, moreover, fake) ID card.

 

The same theme – with the same stylistic configuration – is then reprised in the very next scene, situated nine years later in 1997. Yip Kwok-foon (Richie Jen) and his men also watch a television broadcast (this one is about themselves, and the footage will return much later in the film, being fast-forwarded on video by another gangster – and it will be given another twist near the very end when Kwai reveals his hidden role in these proceedings), while their various wounds are patched up and tended to. Yip is strikingly characterised (unlike Kwai) by a strong, brooding close-up – but this image is immediately juxtaposed with his representation on the TV news, where is identified as “Most Wanted” and pictured in a more youthful, black and white mug shot. Trivisa is thereby planting and foreshadowing a specific dynamic, which involves a back-and-forth between the states of visibility and non-visibility, concealment and recognition, public view and flight.

 

The opening of every film poses for us – quietly or loudly, explicitly or implicitly – a certain drama or dilemma of recognition: who are these people, these places, what are these actions that interrelate people (in this case, violently)? (For more on the process of narrative exposition and opening scenes in cinema, see Martin 2008.) We are at the opening gateway of the film, its threshold as Alain Masson (1994) calls it. At this initiating stage, the film can clarify some relations between elements, while letting others “float” in undecidability. Let us recall Masson’s earlier formulation (1981: 48) of structure, style and form in the medium of cinema:

 

What is form in a film? In order to remain faithful to the cinematic art, we must include at least three elements in this determination of form. These elements can be rightly characterised by their various kinds of mobility within a mode of representation where movement constitutes the principal authority. The first of these domains, which provides repose, is the décor, the ensemble of objects defined as habitation or simply place, on which the camera angle confers a particular configuration. The second domain, open to specification by the possibility of spontaneous action, is roughly that of the characters (human or not), who only become intelligible through being followed. Third, camera movements, apprehended in their continuity or discovered across the intervals that separate successive shots, which are dependent on either the inevitable presence of a world (as implied by décor), or the free exercise of a subject (as implied by the action of characters). Form results from the changing relations between places, gestures, and camera viewpoints.

 

Masson’s description (inspired by Martin Scorsese’s Raging Bull, 1980) is not specifically about the action genre, but it proves useful for my analytical purpose here. I would like to make clear what my essay is not: it is not a symbolic or metaphoric reading of Trivisa; nor does it address the socio-political and historical context (i.e., the handover of Hong Kong to mainland China) which is so evidently an important level of the film, and has been handled very perceptively and comprehensively by Tom Cunliffe (2018). (For an even broader perspective on Milkyway Image’s cultural role and intervention in the post-handover production landscape, see Sun Yi, 2018.)

 

My aim is to stay inside the genre – to respect its dictate for, precisely, action – but, at the same time, open up its mechanisms so as to appreciate the properly formal and figural dimensions of their working, not to leave this action film within a simplistic plot-and-character framework. In this goal, I am inspired by the pioneering mid 1990s work of the Admiranda collective in France, as well as building on my own previous work in relation to both the Australian Mad Max series (2003), and Hong Kong films directed by Johnnie To, Tsui Hark and others (2005).

 

Ultimately, the overarching shape of Trivisa is structured by a scene that we will see three times over – our three main criminal characters at a restaurant – but, until the end, we are not handed the necessary perceptual or narrative cues to construe these three versions as occurring precisely at the same place and at the same time, as constituting the one, unitary scene. The film announces, at the outset, that it is about the simultaneous building and erasure of identities: faces, names, photos, cards, media reports. We not need to think of this as a supposedly deep-and-meaningful theme in order to grasp its efficacy and interest as a dynamic system of filmic representation that is partly reflexive (as many fine action films are), unostentatiously turning the ways and means of storytelling inside out.

 

2. The Singer and the Song

As a Milkway Image production, Trivisa is naturally enough in the school or house style of Johnnie To. Three young directors – Frank Hui, Vicky Wong and Jevons Au – were given the opportunity to direct the separate strands of the film, as their advanced training ground. That they have successfully worked within the limits of the project is evident: it is quite impossible to discern three different directorial styles or signatures; the film is a successfully blended whole. Certain motifs – such as the ubiquitous presence of cash bundled into plain brown envelopes – help unify the three major strands of the plot. Recurring stylistic devices such as deft widescreen compositions and handheld, slightly shaky shot/reverse shot dialogue exchanges do their standard generic work of keeping scenes nervy and on the move. Striking overhead images (such as when Yip theatrically empties his bag of gold bars onto a table, or Kwai stabs his accomplices), low-angle circular tracks around characters facing-off, and choreographies of mise en scène (Yip’s men gathering into a mass behind him to back up his power) punctuate and amplify otherwise dialogue-driven scenes. Shared gestures between characters, such as the lighting of someone else’s cigarette, recall the mythos of Jean-Pierre Melville’s crime films – a legacy already well utilised by John Woo in his career.

 

Trivisa is in the School of To in other ways, as well. As in the Election films (2005 & 2006), the monetary flows of crime must be submitted to endless, intricate market negotiations: nothing is ever simply taken or given, it must be laundered, substituted, invested, traded, fenced. Yip is told that, in the modern world, “stocks and real estate” are safer terrain for crime than stealing gold bars or money. A striking nocturnal scene juxtaposes Yip, suspicious of strangers and standing on his boat ready to wage old-fashioned battle with his machine gun, with the motorboats that simply sail by him serenely, off to sell extravagantly marked-up electrical appliances on the mainland. “Cash keeps rolling in!” Yip is breezily told, as he stares at his (in this instance) useless, anachronistic weapon.

 

The old world of criminals and power – such as we know it from the classic gangster films of the 1930s – has now had to make room for a cumbersome layer of middle management: accountants, brokers, paid informants, tax specialists, and so on. (For a reflection on these and related issues of crime/gangster cinema in both Hollywood and Hong Kong contexts, see Martin 2018/2020.) And, inevitably, the greater the number of connections there must be involved any given deal, the higher the risk of betrayal or double-dealing. In this new milieu of omnipresent negotiation, moments of waiting and tense decision-making that we are permitted to share via POV editing – such as Yip’s “fence” contemplating the hidden gun in his drawer, before opting to simply pick up his bunch of keys instead – also return us to the type of terse cinematic universe that To has branded as his own terrain.

 

The style of the film does not alter between its major strands, but the production design moulds itself to the diverse milieux of the central characters. Around eight minutes in, we are introduced to Trivisa’s third major criminal player, Cheuk Tze-Keung (Jordan Chan). The colours and props surrounding him are as extravagant and garish as the man himself: loud, histrionic, even effeminate (a somewhat surprising detail in this masculinist genre), self-absorbed in his own sense of privilege. His sadistic streak – expressed in gestures such as twisting his opponents’ ears – aligns him with Dennis Hopper’s menacing madman in David Lynch’s Blue Velvet (1986). A large team of financial workers arranged comically in a hierarchy along the space of an office can hardly pull Cheuk’s attention away from his favourite karaoke entertainment. When Cheuk, in his bright orange jacket, sings along to the karaoke image (yet another variation on the ubiquitous TV screen), sunlight from the window fills the frame and colour flares cascade across the camera lens. But when Cheuk at last settles down to puff on his cigar and do a deal, he knows perfectly well what his price is, and how to secure it.

 

The figure of Cheuk offers a lively new variation on the film’s matrixial elements as listed above. He does not need to flee the scene of his violence, burn his fake exposed ID card, or hide out on a boat at night. (Even his more private torture, later on, of an official, takes place on open cliff rocks above the sea, in broad daylight!) On the contrary, he flaunts his visibility – and the visibility of others, whom he forces to strip (in a sequence mid-way through) before he pays them for information. Cheuk even blurts out his crime of kidnapping in front of the cop who is tailing him, before forcing “Mr Tycoon” to withdraw any accusation of guilt.

 

The scene introducing Cheuk is an excellent illustration of Masson’s contention that cinematic “form results from the changing relations between places, gestures, and camera viewpoints”. His actions not only announce the type of character he is, and add further details to the ongoing portrait of a complex criminal world; they also alter and complicate the mapping and unfolding of the structures of visibility and audibility, concealment and revelation, in Trivisa. The scene concludes with a lively montage of Cheuk laughing gleefully at the wheel of his equally brightly coloured yellow car, burning down the highway with all his criminal gains wrapped in red, white and blue bags and bundled, for all to see, on top of the vehicle!

 

3. The Giver and the Gift

New scene, new passport (from Canada), and a new photographic image, this time in colour, of Kwai seen in close-up – and we are not yet even 15 minutes into the film. Interviewed at the Customs clearance desk of the airport, we notice a different Kwai: clean, casual, seemingly innocent. The precise date – 26 May 1997 – is literally stamped onto the film, as afforded by this setting. A clever transition takes us into Kwai at his hotel room in Guangzhou – where, on a tabletop, we spy, sprayed out, his many ID cards, passports and fake personalities. His dexterity with switching the circuitry in mobile telephones is also noted.

 

Yet Kwai still has an old-fashioned gangster aura: he physically counts out his money, and sticks (as we will soon learn) to plans of grand heists. A crucial contrast is developed: the intense air of solitude and privacy around Kwai (another nod to Melville’s 1960s-era Samourai) is immediately compared to the public show involved in Yip’s complex negotiation with Chief Chen (Yuen Fu-wah) – a sloppy, gregarious character complete with an actress-mistress in a bright red dress by his side – at a restaurant meeting. Here, everything is manners, gifts, display, rituals (such as group drinking) to which all present must conform.

 

This negotiation scene is further compared with two others, in fairly rapid succession, all of which take place during shared meals: Cheuk’s planning session with his associates; and Kwai’s rigorous selection of accomplices for his heist job (where one can even detect a reflexive joke concerning Milkyway Image’s own appointment of three young directors!). The mood, style and staging of these three scenes is subtly differentiated – here, within the overall formal unity of the Trivisa project, the varying tones allowed to each of the directors are permitted to work into the unfolding texture. Yet the overall montage resists what must have been the facile temptation to rapidly intercut between these three restaurant-room vignettes (as many an American crime movie or TV episode would surely have done); it works better for the overall form and structure of Trivisa to maintain the possibility of a total separation in time and space between these scenes, as we shall soon see.

 

Many details in this complex and central concatenation of three restaurant meeting scenes return to the matrixial elements identified above, particularly that of real and fake identity. Yip has both a new businessman look and a new name; Kwai, likewise, has re-emerged as “Big Bro Chiu” – a name that his associates begin to suspect immediately, raging about a “sly old fox who changes his identities”. He is said to resemble Kwai – but, on the other hand, Kwai has always been “the invisible King of Thieves in Hong Kong” (my emphasis). His status as a character is thus paradoxical: Kwai disguises himself insufficiently but then, again, does an invisible King even need to manipulate his outward appearance? The core question or dramatic problem here will be, exactly, for how long (and to what extent) his invisibility can be maintained – and that will never be forever in a crime/gangster picture! (Compare, for instance, the depiction of Christopher Walken’s master-criminal character of Frank White as both vampirically hidden in the shadows and socially hyper-visible in Abel Ferrara’s masterpiece King of New York [1990]).

 

It is almost 20 minutes in that Trivisa begins to weave its central, structural conceit, which will only be fully revealed at its ending: the simultaneous presence of the various key criminal players (Kwai, Yip and Cheuk, plus their assorted associates) all at the same Fengman Restaurant. The three dining-meeting scenes play out across an almost ten-minute span and, as noted, no cross-cutting gives away the strict relationship between them. The fact that we are not allowed to initially grasp this simultaneity puts a new spin on Masson’s triad of places, gestures, and camera viewpoints. The film has worked an ingenious disarticulation of its elements of space, time, narration and bodily presence. In this, it can be related to many films since the 1990s (by Quentin Tarantino, Bryan Singer, Brian De Palma and others) that play with chronology – frequently within a multi-strand or network/mosaic narrative – in order to at first conceal and later unveil certain key links and causal connections between the various pieces of the plot.

 

In Trivisa, the simultaneous connection of the characters is less central to narrative logic – beyond the plot function of initiating the widespread rumour in the criminal underworld of a likely “Three Kings” combined operation that was launched at Fengman Restaurant, something that is taken as outlandish gossip by all three of them (in a sequence that, wittily, does use the intercutting device deliberately suppressed earlier). Rather, the coincidence functions more as an elaborating surplus comment on the paths of crossover destinies – a somewhat melancholic, grace-note way of underlining the film’s comparison between these different criminal styles in their specific historical and social context.

 

4. The Dreamer and the Dream

It is always interesting to look at the large-scale structure of a narrative film. After its approximately 25 minute opening movement, Trivisa takes us in a new and hitherto unexpected direction. Kwai visits his old pal Fai (Philip Keung), and quickly moves in with this family of three. While the spectator is allowed to grasp Kwai’s ulterior motive – to have the best vantage point from which to study the Gold Shop opposite – his hosts are, at first, none the wiser. Their innocence offers, in fact, a general semantic value in the overall scheme of the film, and adds a layer of (again melancholic) ambiguity to Kwai’s temporary integration into a family unit. For everything on the level of the social manners that we have so far witnessed in the film – the posing, gamesmanship, rituals of courtesy, hiding – is turned upside down in this modest, working-class milieu. Respect is given freely, jokes abound, playfulness between the little girl and the adults is paramount.

 

As distinct from what Raymond Durgnat and Scott Simmon (1980) once called the “fantastic invincibility” of action genre heroes, pointed reference is made in this part of the film to Fai’s health problems (he is “on dialysis”) and his position as a “house husband” – everyday matters far removed from the usual glamour of movies (especially in the action genres). Moreover, small-time theft is a thing of the past for Fai: “Our life was insecure … We didn’t earn that much”. And, although Kwai’s secret plan aims higher than that youthful level of criminal achievement, the comparison the film makes between him and Fai underlines, once more, the almost nostalgic, backward-looking nature of his ambitions in the context of a rapidly changing, high-finance world.

 

Therefore, the second major movement of this compact narrative (between opening and closing credits, it runs for about 91 minutes) is driven by a new theme: the dream. Kwai’s low-level vision of theft – mocked even by the two street criminals he hires to help him execute his plan – is immediately compared with Cheuk’s extravagant dream of high-level kidnapping, something he broods on all night before announcing it to his cohort by the sea. These two instances are compared, in turn, with the implied pangs of nostalgia for violent action felt by Yip in his sedate, factory-like work setting – pangs that are heightened once he has to undergo a difficult and humiliating bargaining process with Customs officials to win back a confiscated load of goods. This process involves a comical reprise of the plot device of a vase gift introduced earlier in the film – a further sign of humiliation. This sequence of events is clinched when Yip finds himself lighting other people’s cigarettes like a lowly, grovelling servant. And all this turns out to be a slow burn, in terms of narrative suspense, for what becomes the film’s dramatic mid-point (I am making use here of Kristin Thompson’s model of mainstream narrative, 1999): the further hijacking of Yip’s goods, as he hopelessly runs down the road pursuing the truck.

 

In the final 30 minutes or so of the film, its action threads begin to pull together, as is typical of the action genre, and of classical narrative construction in general. The reflective and preparatory plot plateau opened up by Kwai’s staying with Fai and his family is forcibly closed off when Kwai is asked to pack up and leave. Likewise, Cheuk’s frustrated search for Kwai (in order to unite the Three Kings) comes to an impasse – not only when a cop declares that every call Cheuk receives is being monitored, but when, in one of the movie’s wittiest moments, Cheuk throws away the mobile phone on which, at that very moment, Kwai is trying to reach him. Yip, as I have noted, has also arrived at a dead end. A montage at the 64 minute mark – just before the aborted Gold Shop robbery – clinches this overall pause moment of impasse, intercutting (at several reprises) between the three central characters in their respective situations of waiting. Thus, the film is now ready for a new turning point that will launch its ultimate chain of interrelated actions.

 

5. The Caller and the Call

Trivisa is recognisably an action film. But how violent is it? It is a mistake to always associate action with violence – and this is among the lessons that Johnnie To’s illustrious work in the genre has taught us, especially in the Election series. There, action has more to do more tension, waiting, negotiations and decisions than with prolonged scenes of cataclysmic violence (see Álvarez López & Martin in Martin 2018).

 

Let us mark the graph of the film’s action structure. In its first minute, a gun is fired three times through a bag. Around ten minutes in, Cheuk bends a few ears but threatens rather than causing real physical damage to another person; the same pattern later applies to his treatment of his victim by the sea. At the 56-minute point, a suspense issue that has been brewing for most of the film – will Yip ever step out from behind his mask of petit-bourgeois pale civility and again express his rage? – explodes in a scene of physical beating in a restaurant.

 

Other moments of violence are either displaced (as when they are shown as distant TV footage), dissipated (Yip on the boat lowers his machine gun) or avoided altogether (a pistol is not taken from a drawer). Even the beating scene just mentioned happens mostly off-screen, rendered semi-comically – and this event, too, concludes with another gun that is pointedly not picked up or used by Yip.

 

The filmmakers have made the decision to reserve more conventional climaxes of violence mainly for the final movement of the narrative. And it is in this final section that, as well, intercutting between the three plot strands will become pervasive, and the dramatic, almost elegiac part of Nigel Chan’s musical score (reminiscent of the use and placement of music in Michael Mann’s mythically-proportioned crime movies) will come into full effect.

 

At its 67th-minute point, Yip is, in an explicit fashion, returned to his former self: like earlier, he is again on a boat, loading and examining his machine gun. He decides to call Cheuk. Meanwhile Kwai, waiting with his two accomplices on a pier, takes sudden, surprising and decisive action: he kills them both and drops them in the water – a more violent variation on Cheuk’s earlier taunting of a kidnapped and bound official. Then Kwai performs a hopeful act of reparation – giving money to Fai, who has by now twigged to the robbery plan – without realising that the bills carry the traces of murderous blood stains (Fai’s reaction to this sight is juxtaposed with images of the innocent daughter clutching her teddy bear). Yet, as Kwai sets about contacting Cheuk by phone, he also disturbingly clutches a penknife, and checks in several times on Fai (who is nervously pretending to sleep) – as if about to kill him and dispose of any evidence of his true self, motivation and plan.

 

The meeting of the Three Kings happens only in an ironic fashion, and even then partially and indirectly – both Yip and Kwai ring Cheuk simultaneously, and engage in different conversations with him. It is simultaneity in time, but (to refer again to Masson’s schema) a non-coincidence of place: they cannot easily bridge distances and unite, so the conversations end with a banal “call you later” sign-off. Cheuk now has his own situation to face, escaping in a truck (carrying dynamite) from the gang that hoped to corner him in a ruse. However, in an echo of Henri Georges-Clouzot’s classic The Wages of Fear (1953), this nocturnal path is fraught with obstacles and delays – including, finally, the military police who arrest Cheuk, preventing any violent ending to his story thread.

 

At the same time as Cheuk’s story plays out, Yip confronts a tricky moment with police on the street, recalling Kwai and his ID from the opening minute. Responding to a racist slur against “mainlanders”, Yip’s blood boils and he recklessly kills the cops, triggering a shootout between his henchmen and a police team. He brings about his own death as he cries, “I’m Yip Kwok-foon!” (an echo of Tony Montana facing the limit of his own “fantastic invincibility” in De Palma’s Scarface, 1983 – see Martin 2018/2020), and crawls uselessly on the ground toward his weapon.

 

Kwai’s tale has an unexpected but fitting conclusion. For this character who has hidden, waited and paused for so long (probably too long), it is an everyday moment of rest – dozing on Fai’s couch – that allows a troop of police (presumably alerted by Fai) to surround and ambush him. The film has introduced – or rather, re-introduced – another motif to cohere this interweaving of gangster destinies: the TV signal, broadcasting a test pattern or (in the very final image) static snow, another variation on visibility and invisibility, as well as private and public spheres. Kwai realises that the family has (in a clever ellipse on the film’s part) fled, and left the “dirty money” behind. But what Kwai can see and understand in a split second can no longer save him.

 

It is at this precise point that Trivisa cuts away from its expected bloody finale and reveals the three-in-one flashback of perfect coincidence in time and space: Yip, Kwai and Cheuk crossing paths, in close proximity, at the Fengman Restaurant. The very last move of the film is away from the characters altogether: another TV news clip documenting the historic handover, and a cut to static expressing the abrupt, rude end of an era.

 

This essay was originally commissioned for the 2nd issue of the Hong Kong Academy of the Performing Arts (HKAPA) Film and TV Journal, which may yet appear in 2022 after a 5-year wait following the 1st issue in 2017!

 

 

REFERENCES

Collective. Admiranda, no. 11/12, 1996.

 

Cunliffe, Tom. “Money Makes the World Go Round: Trivisa” (2018). Unpublished.

 

Durgnat, Raymond and Simmon, Scott. “Six Creeds that Won the Western”. Film Comment, Vol. 16 No. 5, October 1980, pp. 61-70.

 

Martin, Adrian. The Mad Max Movies. Sydney: Currency Press, 2003.

 

Martin, Adrian. “At the Edge of the Cut: An Encounter with the Hong Kong Style in Contemporary Action Cinema” (2005). Available as part of Level 6 bonus PDF, The Place of the Spectator, at the author’s Patreon campaign: www.patreon.com/adrianmartin.

 

Martin, Adrian. “What’s Happening? Story, Scene and Sound in Hou Hsiao-hsien” (2008). Forthcoming in Martin, Certain Dark Corners of Modern Cinema (Contra Mundum Books, 2022).

 

Martin, Adrian. Mysteries of Cinema: Reflections on Film Theory, History and Culture 1982-2016. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2018 (hardcover), Perth: University of Western Australia Publishing, 2020 (paperback).

 

Masson, Alain. “Le boxeur transfiguré (Raging Bull)”. Positif, no. 241, April 1981, pp. 48-51.

 

Masson, Alain. Le récit au cinéma. Paris: Cahiers du cinéma, 1994.

 

Sun Yi. “Renationalisation and Resistance of Hong Kong Cinema: Milkyway Image’s Journey to Mainland China”. Inter-Asia Cultural Studies, Vol. 19 No. 2, 2018, pp. 220-233.

 

Thompson, Kristin. Storytelling in the New Hollywood: Understanding Classical Narrative Technique. New York: Harvard University Press, 1999.

© Adrian Martin August 2018


Film Critic: Adrian Martin
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