Hitmen & Heartthrobs: Revisiting Love and Fallen Angels
Where in the mortal coil does one discover purpose? Does it reside in love, lust, labor, leisure, or only in luck? Does it exist at all, much less in the late-night, neon fog of 90s Hong Kong? These are the questions that Wong Kar-Wai (colloquially, WKW) tossed into the recesses of midnight with the release of his film Fallen Angels (1995)—questions that nearly 30 years later, have gone largely unanswered by audiences who have historically been hypnotized by the film’s aesthetics rather than its questions of existence.
To attempt to understand the film’s ontological tissue, we might simply begin by trying to understand a staple character in many WKW films: the hitman. Meet Wong Chi-Ming, our archetypical criminal character, boasting slicked hair, dark shades over his eyes, an open collar revealing a white tank top underneath, two pistols, and a lit cigarette never more than an arm's reach away.
Yet, something tragic underscores the gangster tropes and clichés. Even in the kinetics of his body during his assassinations, we see an undeniable disregard for life. He moves brazenly in the open, never seeks cover, and lunges, un-strategically, into the line of fire. Make no mistake—this is not thrill-seeking, it is nihilism. Wong’s life is one of tedium and existential inertia, as he bounces back and forth between his nocturnal hitjobs and the subsequent ritual of drinking away the bullet wounds in the shadows of his local bar.
Although Wong doesn’t seem to possess any drive or purpose in life, he seems to believe that it might be lurking somewhere out there for him to find in the off-chance: his face lights up at the mention of weddings, he entertains the idea of starting his own business, and even contemplates leaving the Hong Kong undercity in search of something new. Such is the central toil of his character: a softly burning indecision racks him between the nihilistic belief that life is devoid of purpose, and the optimistic tracings of hope that say it doesn’t have to be.
Wong’s story cannot be finished without introducing the character who finds herself constantly intertwined with him: the unnamed figure of “The Agent.” She is his liaison to the criminal world, working to solicit, schedule, and arrange for all of his assassinations—she also happens to possess an unyielding, unreciprocated infatuation with him. She breaks into his apartment, stalks all the locations he frequents, yet never seems to meet him. Herein lies the ironic torment central to the Agent’s character: her omniscient knowledge of the criminal world and the whereabouts of all its vice-ridden characters, yet her inability to encounter the one person she truly cares about. In this way, we see Wong and his Agent live analogously futile lives. Wong, unable to obtain escape from a life of crime; and his Agent, unable to obtain escape from a life of romantic isolation.
The entanglement of Wong and his Agent is, oddly, one carried out in absentia—during the film’s nearly two-hour runtime, the characters only come face-to-face with each other once. In this absence of physical collisions between the characters, WKW instead opts to portray a psychic connection between them. We know already that the Agent stalks Wong’s apartment, rummaging through his trash and belongings to stitch together a portrait of the hitman. What complicates this relationship further is a later revelation that Wong has been planting these clues and breadcrumbs for her to find, going so far as to communicate with her subliminally through songs he leaves playing at the bar’s jukebox.
During their one face-to-face encounter, Wong rejects the advances of the Agent and motions to end their relationship entirely. As a response, the Agent urges him to take one more hitjob—a job that will be his last, as he predictably charges into the line of gunfire with reckless abandon, only this time, never to get back up. Most viewers read the scene as an act of revenge or malice on behalf of the Agent—wherein she deliberately sends Wong on a death mission—in response to his rejection of her. A murder.
Yet, Wong’s final words do little to corroborate such a vengeful reading of the text. As he woozily fades into the afterlife, he narrates with utter clarity: “I don’t know if it was a good decision or not, but at least it’s mine.” This leads many to ideate that this death is Wong’s willful decision. A suicide.
But why must such a binary of choice exist, especially in context of the metaphysical understanding between Wong and his Agent? Why must Wong’s death be either his decision, or the Agent’s? Can we perhaps read his death as a joint action, and perhaps, an act of mercy?
A more radical reading of the film might say that Wong’s final, fatal hitjob, organized by his Agent, is her way of providing Wong the opportunity to seize decisiveness in death—an event that he has been skirting and dancing around his whole life. The chance, for once, to make a concrete decision. And perhaps, Wong’s willingness to follow through on this suicidal mission is not a consequence of recklessness, but an act of compassion—by walking into death, he unchains his Agent from her impossible infatuation with him.
Fallen Angels shows us that Wong and his Agent live aimless lives lacking affection or meaning. Yet, the conclusion of the film doesn’t have to be so dreary. Perhaps, Wong’s death marks the instance wherein both of our lost characters witness momentary, ephemeral traces of compassion and purpose. Perhaps, in the throes of postmodern youth and urban life, this is but one of the melancholic iterations of love.