Nomad

A captivatingly dynamic postmodern pastiche of a city and its cinema; just as fun and wild as it is sophisticated…

Who is Patrick Tam? Nothing more than one of the most talented figures in Hong Kong cinema of his generation, and that much less arguably among the most important contributors to one of the most important movements in it. That is indeed made to sound like and be remembered for so little, because more often than not he’s essentially just left with unduly diminishing labels such as, “The man who mentored Wong Kar-Wai,” or worse yet, “Known for editing Wong Kar-Wai films” (not that he’s not a great editor too). While this habit is all too common in cinema discourse — for example when any respected Asian movie from Lady Snowblood to Executioners of Shaolin was just deemed “that movie that inspired Tarantino” often to the irritation of Asian film fans — ironically for Tam’s case the practice is sometimes indulged in by Asian film fans and critics themselves. Tam has in fact always been acclaimed by a large portion of the relative few who pay attention to him; it just never reached much of an international or outsider base.

With a new restoration of the signature early work of a filmmaker whose oeuvre seldom ever had major or respectable Western releases, there are positive signs that may change a least a little now.

Fashion design major Louis (Leslie Cheung) lingers at his seafront home somewhere ambiguously between silver spoon-fed boredom and a profound empty void within him. Whichever it is more of, he papers it over with the mind-easing recordings of his late mother, a classical music presenter. One night at the cafe, he (literally) stumbles across Tomato (Cicilia Yip) as she’s hysterically quarrelling with her boyfriend[s]. Feeling distraught but finding that the man before her seems like a nice fellow, Tomato offers Louis to buy her a drink. Being the bored gentleman that he is, Louis not only sort of obliges, but offers to take Tomato back “home” to her boyfriend. Things don’t turn out exactly as planned — as if they ever have or will with the charming but capricious Tomato — which leaves Louis to ponder why he ends up in a room alone with her…

Just as Louis is making half-hearted efforts to find himself, his companion Kathy (Pat Ha) is wholeheartedly immersed in her push to lose herself. She chooses none other than lifeguard Pong (Kent Tong) as her object of disconnection, aggressively tormenting him with her roguish ruses, teases and snares. It’s not as if Pong doesn’t have enough to worry about with his all-around annoying little brother’s pranks, premature dalliances and triad troubles, or come to think of it also-annoying father in their cramped home conditions as he wanders odd jobs; yet Kathy feels like an increasingly irresistible worry. Though once Kathy’s mind is set upon something or someone she’s known to go all-out with it even including playing ping-Pong, Louis is considerably more reluctant about planting tomatoes.

By coincidence or maybe much more, The Land of the Rising Sun figures heavily in all of their lives: Louis is studying the fashion; Tomato is studying the language; Pong is neither ready nor willing to shake off his deep-seated resentment towards the place and people; and Kathy is an all-around Japanophile immersed in the culture, language, and most of all her long-absent former (?) lover, Japanese radical Shinsuke (“Japanese” character actor Stuart Ong). If it’s not Japan that will see to it that these five urban nomadic souls — who see little distinction in class, background or borders between them even for as strong as they are — intertwine in ways no one could imagine or be prepared for, it must be fate.

With the Shaw Brothers/Golden Harvest-dominated Martial Arts Era all but officially coming to an end with the transition into the 1980s, Tam would in fact start his career with a germanely exquisite bridge out of the period with much promise as to what would be on the other side with The Sword (1980). But it was with this third effort that Tam would not so much introduce his presence and place in a new film movement (that would probably be Love Massacre [1982]) as proclaim it, with no less dazzling a level of genre-fluidity and redesign than Godard or Oshima would inject into the French and Japanese New Waves, respectively. As such, the plot means little while the narrative means everything; the somewhat but calculatedly vague, meandering, fragmentary elements of the story are sprinkled about the moving picture (of the classical Chinese art tradition) with few clues as to how they may coalesce.

Nomad is the emergence of modern (non-fantastical) Hong Kong cinema — in nature as well as in setting — compressed, packaged and bejeweled for universal consumption. One may go further to argue the film embodies the emergence of modern Hong Kong altogether just as it was getting rapidly and unquestionably onto the path of global economic prominence. But heralding in the new globalised reality of interconnected business and liberalisation of values also came with all of the anxieties and insecurities of entering onto a world stage. With the newfound unbridled joys of affluence and uninhibited freedom came all of their most intense excesses, side effects and backlash: urban alienation; deterioration, trivialisation or commodification of human relationships; and organized crime and terrorism all loom vaguely but forebodingly beneath the surface.

The director’s imposing visual style takes total command before the regular screen even comes on, with the English title. The (original release) film then opens with one of the defining shots of the era despite (and for) its simplicity, while that very same result comes out of the opposite effect from a bravura mirror shot nearer to the end. All the while, Nomad is organically and dynamically amorphous, thoughtfully recalibrating its own mood and genre to every new scene — not just throwing such changes out there at will as 80s HK cinema normally did “better” than anyone else. Any scene is also rivetingly vulnerable to sudden innovative intrusions. Striking and pivotal sights including the first glimpse of Kathy’s infatuation flash by in but a second or even less; still long enough to remind us to take nothing for granted, least of all the nature of the film itself. But whether wearing the clothing of comedy, drama, romance, exploitation (actually comprising two varieties), art film or more, it’s all tailored around the leads’ desires to live out, maintain and gradually expand their bohemian, cosmopolitan, borderline hedonist dream.

It’s a pansexual, pan-artistic utopian dream where David Bowie and Sonny Chiba are just as essential to maintaining the equilibrium as classical and kabuki; where philandering is practical means to separate categories of emotional needs; and where coming to blows or even the threat of death to settle inherited or unfinished ethnopolitical animosities is fully possible. They are all simply requisites of The Blazing Inferno of Youth whose continued existence is also unfortunately a conundrum in itself: is one to simply let it burn, make attempts to extinguish it, or pour petrol on it? Or to approach from the other half of the city’s cultural-linguistic identity that also co-defines her every movie, to reach nearest to the essence of life, is a Nomad to simply try to find his place in his physical homeland, keep searching for the unknown place he may truly belong to, or embrace wandering as the never-ending end in itself?

More incredible than the representative totality of thematic content Nomad manages — both abstractly to audience minds and directly to their faces and guts — is the degree of cohesiveness to it despite the characteristically frantic manner of its presentation. That accomplishment no doubt largely lies in the fact it had no less than 7 writers: a one-time-only team whose best/specialised work unsurprisingly covers the full spectrum of HK’s most renowned genres, styles and film movements. They include Chiu Kang-Chien (Intimate Confessions of a Chinese Courtesan; Centre Stage); Eddie Fong (Dangerous Encounter – 1st Kind; Autumn Moon); and Joyce Chan (Love Massacre; The Christ of Nanjing). The communal nature of the film’s creation — even with Tam as the unmistakable auteurist head — manifests in nearly every major department. That doesn’t even solely apply to the harmonious cooperation from different areas, but also within the same positions.

The soundtrack is already an internal tripartite into itself: the excellent original music from one of the industry’s best, Violet Lam; the popular music spanning form from rock to reggae so impeccably timed; and the classical that makes a particularly pensive motif out of Beethoven’s 5th — the second movement, not the one everyone else uses. And then there’s the star’s own highlight: Lam’s theme song specifically written for him and in another way, his character. Cheung would sing several far more famous themes for far more famous movies he starred in from later years including those for A Chinese Ghost Story (1987) and A Better Tomorrow II (1988); but for carrying the full burn of melancholy yet also passion without the pinch of parody in ACGS or melodrama in ABTII, Nomad’s theme stands as my personal favourite of his. Likewise, the work of three different exceptional cinematographers led by Bill Wong (The Story of Woo Viet; Zu: Warriors from Magic Mountain; Rouge) guaranteed exceptional results.

Just as unreasonably overshadowed among actresses as Tam is among directors is Pat Ha. While barely any actress could have asked to have a better debut role than that here, it worked out and figured that much more aptly for the image Ha would take. Stunningly yet also suspiciously vivacious, Kathy’s flaunted and apparently mercurial sexual power could be as much a sign of vulnerability as boldness. It would be the perfect start for a career marked by roles that were consistently transgressive but by no means created for that purpose as with actresses like Shirley Yu or all of the Category III maidens soon to come. Even with an oeuvre covering a short span (with the vast majority of her work in the 80s just like Tam), Ha brought us several of the most audaciously fascinating female leads of the time across genres; and there always turned out to be deeper layers to them, whether a survivalist prostitute on My Name Ain’t Suzie or the most chillingly cold-hearted bitch on On the Run (1988).

One person who obviously wouldn’t become or remain overshadowed in the years to come would be Leslie Cheung. But believe it or not, much like Chow Yun-Fat and Andy Lau only even worse, Cheung would have a quite hard struggle with his early years in the entertainment industry even by the time he had several high-profile opportunities. Then out of nowhere outright simultaneously in 1982, he started seeing major success on both fronts: commercial success with his 4th album and critical success including his first major award nomination with his 9th film role. Though the latter would remain distinctly separate from the kind of success that really mattered in the eyes of the ultra-competitive HK entertainment world, Louis with his repressed emotional tempest is reasonably considered by many as the breakthrough role for 哥哥 Big Brother as he’d be lovingly called by fans — even if he’s called Dear Sister here instead!

Louis instinctively pushes back against the traditionalist challenge to his masculinity, and is played with full conviction for it. But for Cheung himself this would be (to my knowledge) the first role of quite a few to come that heavily teased, suggested then finally cemented his LGBTQ persona and identity up to his “official” confirmation live in concert in 1997. (Lesbianism meanwhile, is a little more than “teased” here.) Kent Tong, however, was at the time the biggest screen star of the bunch as one of the “Five Tigers” (which also included Andy Lau and Tony Leung CW) of TVB in a few of its (and therefore, HK’s) biggest TV shows. With the cast contributing almost as much to the blending moods as the director, Cheung and Ha generally sway the film most towards drama territory while Yip and yet more so Tong carry a comedy aura. But it says something for he and Ha’s chemistry that they’re able to segue one of HK cinema’s most hilarious extended scenes also into one of its sexiest.

Yip was specifically discovered by Tam for this film (though it would be her 2nd release). Noting the borderline-exploitation nature of her first roles, it’s a retrospective surprise — until noting the actual performance — that she would get a Best New Performer nomination at the then (and now, but not always in between) conservative-minded HK Film Awards for this. Yip would already win Best Actress by her 4th film with more awards to come; then (more off the strength of TV) become one of the best-known actresses in the Sinophone world, but also not widely known internationally.

Last among debutantes is Ong, with a Japanese role considerably more balanced and nuanced (even if somewhat popular image-reliant) than HK was used to, portrayed with an unwavering solemnity found in no other lead. Nevertheless (or “therefore”?), he’d soon be rather often playing Japanese Devils for years on out, from Hong Kong 1941 (1984) to In the Line of Duty III (1988). His only regular time as a leading man would be a brief mid-90s Category III run (Sex Revenge [93]; Sexual Memoirs of a Playboy [94]; Seven Sexual Maniacs [94] etc.) before going back to character acting — only small-time big time in Hollywood at that point (Die Another Day [98]; Batman Begins [05] etc.) to cap a strange career indeed. For a film so loaded with life and activity, even many of the minor roles are memorable, from the lovely unwelcomely genial cafe maid to the trash-talking dai lo who opens the restored version.

The ultimate questions, however, remain as they were always intended to and will always prove contentious for viewers with more fixed or formal expectations: Do characters pay for their trivialisation of what they’ve all been raised to treat as the most sacred elements of life in different ways (sex, family, national identity and culture)? Or do they actually do right to simply dive into a pleasure-seeking paradise to wrest all they can out of an increasingly complicated and complicating world enveloping them? Or does it even matter regardless for a place and people historically at the mercy of whatever may come its way or seep into society that can bring disaster just as easily as prosperity — or even both at once?

Nomad is a kaleidoscopic swirl of transnational yet fundamentally local pop cinema imbued and belied with an artist’s touch. I wouldn’t and couldn’t call it a perfect film by any means; but Nomad is more invaluable than other films closer to perfect, as it redefined what Hong Kong cinema could do, mean and represent. No less importantly, it introduced a significant portion of the period’s key talent while marking or initiating the true emergence of several others as serious players in the industry. With modern mainstream HK cinema currently functioning arguably more “safely” than ever before, this is not only the ideal time to revisit Nomad for reevaluation, but to revise it for reevaluation all over again as the film that gave us a vivid cluster of everything.

“Next time [before tagging a girl], check how many dai lo she has.”

Nomad screened as part of Focus Hong Kong July 2023, and screens as part of the New York Asian Film Festival 2023.

Side note

The film’s internal and external three-pronged identity between Chinese, Western and Japanese also very much defined Cheung’s music career in its earlier stages in particular, often using Japanese songs with added Cantonese lyrical and singing styles in Western musical form.

Despite all the pushed-to-the-limit explicit/raunchy/rebellious content for a non-adult film (after a few cuts), the only part said to have proven contemporaneously controversial was the “double decker” scene — probably for stoking very “please don’t try this on your way home” fears.

We’re now given a whole new view…

About the restoration

Make no mistake, while Nomad was already a milestone upon its original release before this reviewer’s birth and is still also worth seeing for that, the Director’s Cut (now further bolstered by 4K restoration) gives an astonishingly different experience overall. Aside from the visual boost that becomes that much more advantageous for this film, there are a few minutes worth of added scenes. Additionally, the way (and order) we’re introduced to the characters, hear some of the music, and at some points, even the main impression we’re given by certain whole scenes is radically redesigned — or at least, returned to what audiences were intended but never got to see. There are also to my memory 3 little moments of censorship — one of a few seconds, the others no more than a second each (WARNING VERY MILD SPOILER) — restored here: One bit of nudity and two little “sprays” so to speak.

Altogether, new feature cuts this [welcomely] transformative very seldom occurred in HK cinema in the past, and is just enough to tip the scale as it ever-so-barely needed to make it into a 5-star film.

Even with the grand restoration, however, the same classic subtitles appear to be in place. Most of the issues are very mild or even likably cute like, “Your pants isn’t here” and, “It’s then who beat me up” (but now is nice). Nevertheless, I can’t help but think the movie could do better without the most disastrous typo (that wasn’t around before) that ends up asking how many Chinese were “laughtered” in Nanking. Sometimes one letter can make all the difference in the world.