Film Name: 虎度门 / Hu-Du-Men / Stage Door / 虎度門
In my younger years, I often dreamt of a mist-shrouded lotus pond at dawn, where a group of children were practicing their singing voices—single-note, high-pitched, still carrying traces of childhood. For a time, I believed my past life must have been that of a failed Peking Opera apprentice. Only later did I realize it was “Farewell My Concubine.” My childhood home sat right next to the opera troupe. Though I never saw these people, their voices drifted through the night like wandering ghosts. One elderly female lead actress went mad, wandering the streets in rags, singing the “Flower-Giving Pavilion” scene in a daze. She glanced at me once, and I’ve never forgotten that look—like a spotlight that instantly bleached all my memories white.
After one person basks in glory, they inevitably grow weary and seek to fade away. Yet another’s arrival makes this farewell tense and confrontational. I’m not referring to Liu Zhengfeng retiring in “Swordsman,” but to “Stage Door”—that Cantonese opera star Leng Jianxin. Fanny Siu is one of the few Hong Kong stars I truly admire—a seasoned actress whose craft only deepens with age. Rumor has it she started as a child star, sharing an era with the now-legendary Pearl Chan. Those years were also the heyday of Anita Yuen, who won two Best Actress awards for C’est la vie, mon chéri and He’s a Woman, She’s a Man. Once tipped to become the next Maggie Cheung, she’s now faded from the spotlight. Chen Xiaodong still sings and acts. Just recently, the movie channel aired a promo for his film “Everlasting Love” starring Qin Hailu, featuring his cover of Faye Wong’s “Wo Yuan Yi.” Yet his name no longer graces the A-list, and he resents being relegated to the B-list. My first glimpse of Chen Xiaodong was in “Stage Door”—shy, timid, with two prominent canine teeth. I thought to myself, this guy will probably keep playing younger brothers for years to come.
Perhaps it was several martial arts films that cultivated Fanny Siu’s heroic aura, lending considerable credibility to her portrayal of the dual-role character Leng Jianxin. Besides, the Hong Kong entertainment industry back then, in the era of black-and-white Cantonese films, bore the imprint of traditional opera. With theatrical makeup, standardized portraits, vinyl records, and stiff postures, the emphasis was still on the word “appearance.” I’ve seen my share of films in this vein: Wong Shu-ch’in’s Woman-Demon-Human, Chen Kaige’s Farewell My Concubine, Ning Ying’s For Fun, and Ko Chi-sum’s The Mad Phoenix. Whether starring superstars who lit up the silver screen or nameless extras, they all tell the tragicomic stories of life after the makeup comes off.
Cold Sword Heart—a name of resolute determination, suited only for facing a stage alone, battling oneself to the bitter end. She never imagined that in that final glance before her departure, a Malaysian second-tier actress named Ye Yushuang would arrive, bringing forth the illegitimate child abandoned for years. On another front, there was Brother Long with his complex relationships and a daughter navigating ambiguous sexual identity. She could embody Mu Guiying, Fan Lihua, Zhao Zilong, or Shen Xiang splitting mountains to save her mother—yet the current play demanded she become a woman long forgotten. This was Siu Fong-fong’s theatrical version of “Summer Snow.”
In Shu Qi’s 1996 film “Stage Door,” like most Hong Kong productions, I sensed the familiar, down-to-earth regional flavor. The star-studded cast, human relationships, comedic elements, and happy ending all contributed to the kind of satisfying story we secretly hoped for. Yu Jiaolong never leapt from the cliff in “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon”; Li Xiaojun waited for his lover in “Comrades: Almost a Love Story”; Ruhua never untangled that token of devotion in ‘Rouge’; “Center Stage” never took her own life. She lived on, like the legendary Monroe, in an unnamed alleyway in Shanghai. It doesn’t matter how discerning our mundane lives should be. Televisions, refrigerators, air conditioners, wooden furniture—all are covered in the realistic dust of our existence. Forgive me for flipping through glossy celebrity magazines even when not seated on the toilet. Forgive me for watching variety shows every weekend without fail. Forgive me for still being unable to forget Wong Kar-wai. Forgive me for never daring to write “daydreaming” under “special skills/hobbies” on official resumes.
A friend of my mother’s, that veteran actress from the theater troupe—I’d seen her perform “Meng Li Jun.” I simply couldn’t believe this chattering old woman before me was the same dignified, majestic emperor who moved with such grace and authority on stage. After falling out with her son, she came to our home to pour out her sorrows. So we invited her to stay for dinner, then to watch television. She had truly aged. No sooner did she settle on the sofa than snores filled the air. When awake, she usually criticized the various figures on TV. For all women, she had only one word: “demons.” The host was a demon, the singer was a demon, the actress was a demon too. She was genuinely enraged, unable to tolerate anything before her eyes, as if our home itself were filled with demonic energy. I knew why. We forced her to confront the shame and disarray of her own past. During those days, I resented her visits intensely. I deliberately turned up the volume when she slept, yet she snored on, unperturbed—clearly her signature performance.
Whenever I see Siu Fong-fong, I think of this old woman. Watching Leng Jianxin before the mirror—rubbing her cheeks red, drawing her brows, lining her eyes, applying powder, lifting her arches, pasting on false eyelashes, wrapping her hair, and adorning herself—how I wished our lives were all splendid opera excerpts, selecting only the most perfect and crucial moments to perform. Husbands understanding wives, mothers accepting daughters, sons embracing mothers, the grand processions of the Hu Du Gate—all the joyous clanging of cloud gongs and drumbeats after the wounds of love had healed. Many years have passed since the old woman left for Hangzhou and never returned. What I remember now is her leading me through the backstage corridor hung with theatrical costumes, the cool silk threads embroidered with an ancient, vibrant peony. I heard the sounds of instruments being tuned in the music room, a qingyi singer practicing her voice in the distance, a pair of opera boots resting on a trunk lid, dusted with a light layer of grime. I peeked through the corner of the crimson-gold curtain, gazing at the sea of people below. Suddenly, I cried out: “Eee-ya-ah!”
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