Rigorously unsatisfied with the Blueberry after-taste, Goldenfiddle Hogye 1065-2 correspondent Divad Q. Nead has graciously offered to serve up a fresh report card on Wong Kar Wai’s melancholy minorpiece of 1996, Chungking Express. So, with just a little further fuss…

Keywords are enough to hurt a boy: sexcocaine, cultfavortie and a delusional pager - pineapple, in essence is the heavy metaphor we are all in search of when desperate for the sickness associated with Brigitte Lin and her cleft. Donning a blonde wig one does become Garbo or Rowlands if only for a moment. Foregoing subtitles this go with beer and a front row view, the ambulating raincoat/red shades made for a better bed-fellow to Doyle’s hand holding of thirty-five millies, a body caught in the window, passing on the escalator, following cop 223 through the Chungking mansions. Rumors of the film’s assembly over cigarettes lifted an already heavy quilt over my eyes, sitting so close to those I admire. Under pressure and contract, Wong culls a series of images mixed with Frankie Chan’s very 90’s bottle songs to render us in love albeit out of luck. Regardless of my palpitations, I’m fey for Cantonese in any context, especially when my adolescent mind isn’t focused on flashing English or the use of punctuation. The best imitation of this picture is my flight from a noodle stand late one Wednesday when I hadn’t the Won for purchase but had already wolfed enough for payment. You can’t buy better jostling, filming pursuit through Nepalese and Indians, their shirts turned inside out for another day’s use. According to the wire, the plot synopsis is empty, and better to remain that way just as a dead J. Doe rests in it’s room awaiting the students, yet Leung Chiu Wai beckons the identity of this boisterous body, royal blue cop shirt standing out amongst the otherwise ordinary gun-metal white. Just as one watches Lulu without the voices, viewing putrid lower Hong Kong without words unearths the heady contradictions held by your best attempts at exhaustion, Lan Kwai Fong dishes mocking your time at 17 in food service or the waitress you fell for in Seoul, recklessly hoping to find her home one day switching your old soap