All I know is Asian cinema. It represents this violent color streaming freely, dancing wildly somewhere unknown. Leaving the remains of its spectrum falling below into the endless grave, where all light collapses. It illuminates, but at the same exact spot where it tarnishes. And it just doesn't allow to care or notice, just moving brokenly to the syncopated stanzas and rhythms that most of us seem not to understand. Its choreography is upside-down, backwards, and inside out. Its rules are only a simple disguise of anything beyond proper film etiquette. Which it does not follow them, only to abandon. Because it purposefully and playfully picks the trail with sharp pebbles and rocks, and bleeds all over it. No remorse, no regret. In the end, it leaves with a happy smile on its face.



I have accepted this. I have entered and learned. This World behind the waterfall, beneath the clouds, in the interstellar heights of tamed mountains cracking bamboo poles; The Heroes riding on Hidden Dragons, waists dangling with Flying Daggers that flaps its acute silvery accents against each other, creating and writing its own argent symphony. The weak skies heedlessly hide their azure tint, and make way for the arriving potentates who have already dismissed their tainted robes and gowns, letting it discover the miles of freedom above the Dragon Gate Inn. And we are the scarcely lit dot in the middle of this amphitheater, appreciating the wonders of our 360-peripheral-omnipotence, thinking we have just traveled to a dimension where time cannot reach. We repose ourselves into the stillness, we bury the mystic East into the stomach of the Gobi Desert, and we wait for its agitated response.



The sand whirls upward, its formation of a rudimentary tornado softly brushing up against the warmer-than-expected current. It shoots its microscopic weapons towards our eyes, the specks of sand informally breaks open the top layer of our iris. A tearful of ecstasies that contained visions spouted down, clinging hard to our cheeks, and finally loses its grip. And so do we, the mirage begin to sink, down asunder where some more disturbed fabrication saunters. The ancient warriors in heavy armor retreat in unison, only to horrifically follow the downward rush of madness. The remains are not what you would expect. The smell of the streets; its half-dead aroma suffering from being alive. Its integrity and honor surgically removed, leaving a muddled and crippling trail behind as it crawls with bitter strength into the alleyway that opens up for him. The entrance to a slow and demoralizing death; called The Longest Nite.



This is not an epic that starts out as sprinkles in the cascading breeze, slowly plummeting and descending into the naked garden, and composing calligraphies of old China and antiquated cultures onto the denuded plain. No, you can shake the crystal ball more than once, but again—you will get nothing. So why then, did I pick this film? The Longest Nite, a heavy film-noir that is rare and unseen by most, and esteemed by few. Simply because it's a reflection that absorbs us, a portrait that moves forever, even after the movie has ended. A million Suns will be lost in this night that extends into tomorrow, nothing will escape alive, and nothing alive can intrude. It is a conceited utopian World, its faultless arrogance is so genuinely seductive that it just compels me to leave words, however shaped and fonted, that this might be the best Asian film that you will ever see. It's like standing next to a mythical entity, in its own trance-like state, gasping one last breath under the full moonlit


The Longest Nite is really a film about two men, one who quietly knows everything, and another who knows essentially...nothing. The question is, who here is more dangerous? Who is the one that is more likely to repeatedly blink his eyes in disbelief to your words that you thought were so innocent, and then suddenly...a loud screech of shuffled furniture...you lay prostrate with your last memories leaking out of your brain. It doesn't matter anyways; because you have just succumbed to a living anarchy whose heart beats with quiet droplets of blood that has already turned red within his body. He moves just like us, and he has been deteriorated by his own excretion of sweat, fatigue, and agony. You see it as he walks over your limp and dying frame, completely ignoring what's under him. A bathroom faucet creaks, and releases the tension in dirty contaminated liquid. The man refreshes himself, washing away the little muscles of sanity still featured on his face. He analyzes his cleansed reflection in the widened mirror before him, the eyes led the way, but they quickly diverted and escaped, realizing the horror that he has become. Tired lines run the trails of his faded expressions, his cheek and jaw tightens, clinching his face like a shaking fist, ready to strike at any time and place. The audience is shocked, for we recognize the all-too-familiar profile; International superstar Tony Leung – in quite possibly his finest role yet.


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And we follow him to his next victim, something will guide him. Be it a phone call or be it one's own pessimism. His hasty and incautious footsteps bruise the aging floorboard beneath him a little more, and the walls dare not echo back. His baggy pants hang low, and so furrowed as if it had been chewed up and spitted out by a malfunctioning washing machine. His jacket, stale and almost asleep of being worn out, clumsily conceals his skinny and malignant structure. His devilish gaze watches the inevitable occur through his thick and soulless shades. In The Longest Nite, Tony Leung is Sam, but ironically, Sam is not Tony Leung. There is no Tony Leung, he has been destroyed by director Patrick Yau. The chamber of roses abandoned long ago. The office chair unoccupied; no one to test his erotic penmanship on novels of 2046. The street corner empty, the rain sadly hits the ground, the mood for love is still there, but lingers like the rotten air. This is Sam; the story spilled in a heap of broken bottles. We see him in an early scene, trespassing a citizen's rights to have leisure time for tea. He barges into the restaurant, and flashes his meaningless police badge at the waitress. He moves towards his prey, slowly stalking and scoping him. The suspect's tea turns cold. Sam questions the minion of his inability to follow his orders to leave Mongkok. A gang war is a few corpses and gunshots away from happening, and Sam's patience has fallen over the edge. The punishment will be handled directly, ceramic wine bottles tests the suspect's metacarpals...again and again. The other customers barely twitch their attention to the daily routine, goes on their business playing cards, reading newspapers. A bald man roughly 50 feet away from the interrogation makes a phone call, and then gently returns to his homely tomato soup.



The bald man is played by Lau-Ching Wan, easily one of the best actors in all of the World. He arrived in Mongkok hours earlier, his plebeian nature equates to human dirt cemented to the once-marbled sidewalks in this city of rich aristocrats and gangsters. Low-bread and low-key, he doesn't speak, here his words are not worth the 2 cents. Even the tattooed dragon that lives on back of his neck is rendered modest. A basic man, enjoying his plain tastes of soup, living his Life without interruptions – then his table grew an arm. Sam's arm, planted firmly. Sam had already sensed him, and now makes himself known. His face, discolored and furiously descending with sweat, studies the bald man, attempting to beat him down with a sinister facade. The bald one only curiously looked back, as if observing a terrible accident. Sam leaves, but also does with some threatening messages. The bald man brings his last spoonful of soup into his mouth with quiet aplomb. An introduction for the ages.



The two meet again by their ungodly fates, the unpleasant ruins of their subverted spirit strewed about, searching, and finding its own oxygen. Infinite particles of wasted matter drifts without sight, like dead mosquitoes still locked in a lifeless wind. A jail cell was their unexpected place of assembly. The haunting oblong cubicle painted by the lush and vibrant colors of hatred, betrayal, and iniquity. A melancholy dye, the cinematographer kidnaps this moment. Tortures it, and then lets it go. A scene to remember; an epicenter where all events connect in the Longest Nite.



This film and this night were touched by the hand of Evil. Licked by the pointed tongue. Gashed by the sword of mendacity. Mongkok and Hong Kong preserves. At the end, one last shot is fired toward the dying city. It lives, only to bleed more and more. It never dies, still upholding its dark destiny over its clustered skyscrapers. A beauty to watch in the distance, but never too close. That was the significance of this Longest Nite. The Longest Hell; which is nothing less than a punctilio in Asian filmmaking. The final speck of light, captured and killed off, consumed by the completed midnight. Words can now rest....in eternity. What an ambitious work this is.



Recommended:
Yes

Viewing Format: DVD