Title: Three Summers: Tony Leung’s Poetic Meditation on Time, Identity, and Hong Kong’s Pre-1997 Soul
In the vast constellation of Tony Leung Chiu-wai’s filmography, Three Summers (1992)—alternately titled 哥哥的情人 (The Lover of a Brother)—occupies a quiet yet profound space. Directed by Lawrence Ah Mon (Liu Guochang) and co-starring Jacklyn Wu and Cherie Chan, this understated gem is neither a flashy crime thriller nor a Wong Kar-wai-esque romance. Instead, it is a lyrical coming-of-age story set against the backdrop of a secluded Hong Kong island, weaving themes of familial bonds, societal transformation, and the bittersweet passage of time. For global audiences seeking a window into pre-handover Hong Kong’s cultural psyche, Three Summers offers a poetic narrative that resonates with universal truths about love, loss, and the inevitability of change.
- A Quiet Revolution: Contextualizing Three Summers in 1990s Hong Kong Cinema
The early 1990s marked a pivotal era for Hong Kong cinema. As the 1997 handover loomed, filmmakers grappled with themes of identity and uncertainty. While action films like Hard-Boiled dominated box offices, Three Summers emerged as a counterpoint—a contemplative drama that eschewed genre conventions for intimate storytelling. Directed by Lawrence Ah Mon, known for his socially conscious works like Gangs (1988), the film captures the quiet anxiety of a society on the cusp of political upheaval, mirrored in the microcosm of a remote island community.
The film’s original Chinese title, 哥哥的情人 (“The Lover of a Brother”), hints at forbidden romance, but its English title, Three Summers, better encapsulates its cyclical exploration of time. Set over three consecutive summers, the story unfolds through the eyes of Ban Chi (Cherie Chan), a teenage girl whose life is disrupted by the return of her estranged brother, Ah Wai (Tony Leung), and the arrival of a mysterious woman (Veronica Yip). This narrative structure mirrors Hong Kong’s own countdown to 1997, where each passing year brought new tensions and transformations.
- Tony Leung’s Ah Wai: A Portrait of Fragmented Masculinity
Tony Leung’s Ah Wai is a man haunted by the ghosts of his past. Having left the island for Hong Kong’s urban jungle, he returns with physical and emotional scars—a metaphor for the disillusionment faced by many Hong Kongers navigating rapid modernization. Leung’s performance is a masterclass in subtlety; his eyes convey a lifetime of unspoken regrets. In one pivotal scene, Ah Wai stares at the sea, his silence speaking volumes about the chasm between his urban failures and the island’s idyllic simplicity.
Ah Wai’s relationship with his sister Ban Chi forms the film’s emotional core. Their interactions—awkward yet tender—reflect the generational divide in 1990s Hong Kong. Ban Chi represents youthful idealism, while Ah Wai embodies the weariness of a generation grappling with existential uncertainty. Leung’s chemistry with Cherie Chan (who delivers a breakout performance) elevates their scenes into poignant meditations on familial love strained by time and distance.
- The Island as Metaphor: Tradition vs. Modernity
The film’s setting—a fishing village untouched by urban sprawl—serves as both sanctuary and prison. For Ban Chi, the island symbolizes innocence and stagnation; she yearns for the excitement of Hong Kong, much like the city’s youth fantasized about global horizons pre-1997. Conversely, Ah Wai’s return highlights the island’s role as a refuge from urban chaos, a theme echoed in the works of Chinese literary giant Shen Congwen, whose pastoral influences are evident in the film’s aesthetic .
The annual influx of summer tourists—urbanites seeking escape—further underscores this duality. Among them is Veronica Yip’s character, a enigmatic figure whose entanglement with Ah Wai disrupts the island’s equilibrium. Her presence embodies the encroachment of modernity, challenging the villagers’ insular worldviews. Director Lawrence Ah Mon uses these interactions to critique Hong Kong’s fraught relationship with progress, asking: Can tradition survive the tides of change?
- Visual Poetry: Cinematography and Symbolism
Cinematographer Andrew Lau (later famed for Infernal Affairs) bathes the film in a golden, sun-drenched palette that contrasts sharply with Hong Kong’s neon-lit urbanscapes. Recurring motifs—a weathered fishing boat, a crumbling pier, the rhythmic lapping of waves—evoke the passage of time. One standout sequence juxtaposes Ban Chi releasing a paper lantern into the night sky with Ah Wai burning old letters, visually linking their personal catharses to the island’s cyclical rhythms.
The film’s most haunting image is the Iguazu Falls lamp featured in Wong Kar-wai’s Happy Together (1997), which surprisingly appears here as a symbol of unfulfilled dreams. This intertextual nod invites viewers to consider Three Summers as a quieter companion piece to Wong’s more celebrated works, united by themes of longing and dislocation.
- Music and Silence: The Soundscape of Memory
The film’s soundtrack, anchored by the Mandarin ballad The Price of Love (愛的代價), serves as an emotional throughline. Initially diegetic—played on a tourist’s cassette player—the song later transitions into non-diegetic scoring during Ban Chi’s moments of introspection. Its lyrics (“Remember to cherish your youth / For it never explains itself”) mirror the film’s meditation on impermanence.
Equally powerful are the scenes of silence: the creak of a rocking chair, the crackle of a bonfire, the absence of dialogue as Ah Wai gazes at the horizon. These auditory choices reflect director Lawrence Ah Mon’s belief that “the loudest truths are often whispered.”
- Legacy and Relevance: Why Three Summers Matters Today
Over three decades after its release, Three Summers remains a vital text for understanding Hong Kong’s cultural identity. Its exploration of displacement anticipates the post-1997 diaspora, while its critique of urbanization resonates in an era of climate crisis and digital alienation. For Tony Leung, the film marked a transition from TV heartthrob to serious actor, foreshadowing his collaborations with Wong Kar-wai and Ang Lee.
Internationally, the film’s themes of cultural erosion and generational conflict find echoes in works like Studio Ghibli’s Only Yesterday (1991) and Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me by Your Name (2017). Its refusal to provide easy answers—Does Ah Wai find peace? Will Ban Chi leave the island?—invites viewers to sit with life’s ambiguities, much like the uncertain future Hong Kong faced in 1992.
Conclusion: An Invitation to Slowness
In an age of TikTok-speed storytelling, Three Summers dares to be unhurried. It is a film that rewards patience, revealing its depths through lingering glances and half-spoken truths. For foreign audiences, it offers not just a story about Hong Kong, but a mirror to their own relationships with home, memory, and the relentless march of time. As Ban Chi learns by her third summer, growth is not about reaching destinations—whether geographic or emotional—but about embracing the journey itself.
In the words of a village elder in the film: “The tide always returns, but never the same water.” Such is the beauty of Three Summers: a cinematic tidepool where every viewer can find reflections of their own transient lives.