Hong Kong’s film industry has been in a cyclical pattern for years: proclaimed dead, only to be momentarily revived by a surprise local hit. This fleeting optimism typically lasts about six months before the industry is declared moribund once more, a cycle that repeats itself. In the latter half of 2024, The Last Dance emerged as this unexpected savior. This pure drama has garnered significant attention, poised to potentially become the highest-grossing Chinese-language film for the fourth time in just three years. Intrigued by the widespread buzz and its near-simultaneous global release, I decided to investigate what The Last Dance is truly about.
But is this it? Is this the film being lauded as Hong Kong cinema’s best offering in recent years? Having recently watched Almodóvar’s The Room Next Door in the same theater as The Last Dance, I found it a curious coincidence that both films explore the rituals surrounding death. However, the approaches diverge sharply. While Almodóvar, the Spanish master of melodrama, adopts a low-key and contemplative stance, the Hong Kong film embraces a ceremonial and eventful depiction. Neither approach is inherently superior, but Almodóvar’s Golden Lion win highlights a key difference. The Last Dance is overloaded with plot developments and dramatic shifts, leaving little space for character development and authentic moments. In contrast to Almodóvar’s ability to find life in subtle details, The Last Dance feels lifeless and overly controlled, much like its subject matter. Every directorial choice, from panning shots to family photographs to the unnatural repetition of the protagonist’s name (道生, Dào Shēng), feels excessively deliberate and unnatural.
While melodrama itself isn’t inherently flawed, and earnestness is commendable, The Last Dance‘s execution falls short. Although sincere melodrama may be out of favor in Western cinema for decades (even films like May December incorporate irony), its appeal remains strong in Asian cultures – evident in the popularity of ballad-heavy pop music compared to the beat-driven Anglosphere. However, The Last Dance exemplifies a misguided approach, prioritizing emotional manipulation over coherent storytelling. Initially, I considered praising the film’s script for its leanness, but soon realized this economy was detrimental. Both main characters undergo significant transformations that challenge their core beliefs, yet these pivotal moments are reduced to single scenes or simplistic “lightbulb moments.” Any potential for nuanced scenes, such as a touching Taoist song performed for a boy, is undermined by its transparently manipulative dramatic function.
Consequently, The Last Dance devolves into the familiar tropes of “loudness wars” seen in Hong Kong indie dramas of the past decade – a barrage of downtrodden individuals, often families, engaged in relentless bickering. The Last Dance feels particularly disappointing because its first half offered a unique glimpse into Hong Kong’s funeral industry, raising intriguing questions about commodification versus religion, and respecting the wishes of both the living and the deceased. However, the latter half abandons this premise entirely. Every scene becomes another loud argument, underscored by an overbearing orchestral score. The relentless misogynistic abuse directed at the lead actress becomes so extreme that it ironically embodies the very misogyny it attempts to critique. It’s a textbook example of “suffering porn,” a genre I find particularly distasteful.
In film, didactic lecturing is arguably worse than fighting, and with Dayo Wong’s involvement, these lectures become unavoidable. Dayo Wong, once considered “box office poison,” has remarkably reinvented himself as a major movie star – headlining three of the last few years’ five box office successes. Yet, his stand-up comedy roots are ever-present. In The Last Dance, viewers are forced to brace themselves whenever he adopts a deliberate cadence, signaling an impending catchphrase or, worse, a lengthy monologue or lecture on life and death. His initial portrayal of a slick funeral salesman was promising, suggesting a potential departure towards more naturalistic acting. However, old habits resurface, enabled by Anselm Chan’s script and direction.
What is director Chan attempting to convey? One of my personal favorites is Ang Lee’s The Wedding Banquet, a film criticized for subtly reinforcing patriarchy while appearing to modernize it. While I acknowledge this critique, I forgive it given the film’s 30-year vintage. However, The Last Dance perpetuates similar issues in 2024. The film’s supposed emotional climax and resolution center around patriarchy, delivered through extremely subtle – and dramaturgically weak – voiceovers. Any progressive points the ending might attempt to score are negated by Dayo Wong’s appallingly sexist monologue just scenes prior.
What merits does The Last Dance possess? Veteran cinematographer Anthony Pun’s work adequately utilizes the anamorphic frame, and while the somber color palette suits a film about death, it lacks visual appeal. Chan demonstrates some visual ideas, particularly in the opening and closing shots, but his most effective shots are merely competent. The supporting cast performs adequately, bringing their thinly written characters to life in brief scenes, including Michael Hui. A major selling point was the collaboration of two comedy legends, Hui and Wong, in a drama. While Hui is convincing as a traditionalist Taoist priest, his character arc is fragmented and underdeveloped. (William Chang’s dominant role in Hong Kong film editing is controversial. While I tend to defend Chang, his arthouse editing style with abrupt cuts clashes with this commercially oriented studio film.) Hui might still be a contender for Best Actor at the Hong Kong Film Awards, but his potential was significantly wasted on inferior material.
