In an opulent flower house in the 1930s, Fleur (Anita Mui), one of the premiere courtesans, falls in love with Chan Chen-Pang (Leslie Cheung), known colloquially as The Twelfth Master, a wealthy heir to a large pharmaceutical company.  Forbidden by the family to marry, the two star-crossed lovers forge a suicide pact rather than live apart.  Fifty years later, Fleur returns to Hong Kong as a ghost looking for her lost love with the help of a newspaper ad man, Yeun (Alex Man), and his girlfriend, An Chor (Emily Chu). 

One of Stanley Kwan’s early works, Rouge (1987) is a lush romantic tragedy written by Kang-Chien Chiu based off of Pik-Wah Lee’s novel.  Restored by The Criterion Collection in 2022 for home release, it does not take long for audiences to be swept up in the glamor of it all and to be transported back in time thanks to Bill Wong’s cinematography, Fung-Lan Wan’s costuming, and an incredible Siu-Tin Lai score that is rooted in a traditional style, but also bring in modern synthesizer elements to help oscillate between the two time periods, and for Western audiences, scratch at the eerie tones found in some of their iconic horror titles.  The film feels at home within Kwan’s growing resume of films that center on women who oftentimes find themselves entangled in romantic affairs, but he does not vilify these characters, rather he treats them as tragic heroes and there is always a deep sense of longing in his work. 

At the center of the film is the illicit romance between Fleur and The Twelfth Master.  Even the most traditional romances require a chemistry between the leads to land, and here, Mui and Cheung are absolutely magnetic.  Mui is incredibly enticing as Fleur, enchanting audiences as she graces the frame, but she does not just bring her looks to the screen.  She plays the role with a careful sadness about it as if the lingering idea that this relationship is doomed from the start – destined to be a clandestine affair given Chan’s status – and those stomached doubts inform her performance during the 1930s sequences.  Their affair plays out like the emotional finale of Romeo and Juliet as the film argues that life is empty and meaningless if it is unable to be shared with the one you love, and while the suicide trope may seem a bit dated, especially in modern times where sensitivity around suicide has only grown, it is handled with respect in the film.  Its narrative use here does not feel out of place as there are few if any grander and more finite ways to end a story than one final consummation of passion and desire, in an exquisitely dressed room centerpieced with a gold framed bed, while lethal doses of opium and rich wines course through Fleur and Chan’s entwined bodies. 

Kwan allows this hidden romance that will be denounced by the family of the involved parties to play out with unabashed freedom on the glimmering silver screen, and many in the LGBTQ+ spheres will find relatability to these themes even though the relationship at the heart of the film is not a queer one.  As one of China’s few openly queer directors, though not yet publicly out at the time of Rouge’s release, many of Kwan’s films contain trace elements of his queer identity, and in his documentary Yang ± Yin: Gender in Chinese Cinema (1997), Kwan addresses these issues in a matter-of-fact way that examines his many influences and helps unlock deeper levels of theme and understanding throughout his own body of work.  Never losing his sense of melancholy, Kwan went on to release his gay romantic drama, Lan Yu (2001), starring Ye Liu and Jun Hu, which premiered Un Certain Regard at that year’s edition of the Cannes and went on to pick up a litany of other laurels during its various festival runs. 

Returning to Rogue, Wong’s camera captures Cheung in an absolutely blistering light.  The star, having already taken the Chinese music world by storm was just starting his rise in the film industry, and Kwan wielded Cheung’s signature androgynous build to great effect here.  Cheung’s vitality fills the frame, an exuberant young man with more money than he could ever spend and who emotes through larger-than-life displays of affection, coupled with his smoldering good looks, it is impossible not to be drawn to The Twelfth Master. It becomes very clear why the other women at the flower house always have a pointed, jealous gaze towards Fleur, further alienating the woman who was sold to the brothel at the age of sixteen, as she is the one who won this playboy’s heart and stands a shot at rising from this life.  What Rogue does so well, though, is how it frames The Twelfth Master as the perfect man, but it does so with great restraint, playing in favor of Cheung’s self-proclaimed sensitivity that helps soften the character who could easily be played as a rude, egocentric, narcissist.  There are certainly elements of narcissism in the role, but it is more the bold bravado of someone who was never told “no” and does not know quite what they want to do so they try a bit of everything.  The script also humbles The Twelfth Master as there are things his family’s wealth cannot buy.  For example, it is revealed that he wants to pursue a career on the stage, and while he can buy his way onto the call sheets despite his questionable talent, it still opens him up as a man in touch with his feelings and not a hardnosed, businessman which the family wants him to be.   

Kwan’s film is not just a historical romance but rather, it tells a dual narrative across its 93-minute runtime which jumps ahead 50 years to the present-day – at the time of release – Hong Kong.  Fleur returns clad in her black robe with dragonfly print and a different kind of palpable sadness about her.  One of the most visually exciting things about these sequences is how Kwan frames Mui so that she can float through the frame, her careful physicality concealing the movement of her legs which adds to her sense of otherworldliness.  In addition to her performance, the film also helps to alienate Fleur as she navigates the modern metropolis and memories appear in the reflections of the malls and office building windows from the world she knew, now unrecognizable to her.  Kwan and Mui expertly inject this sense of being lost and alone, even in your own city, into Rouge.   

The script does chase its tail a little in the transition with a clunky introduction of Fleur to An Chor, bordering on the territory of camp, but their initial hesitancy towards each other makes some of the moments in the third act much stronger when An Chor is working so fiercely beside Fleur to follow the clues to where The Twelfth Master is now.  This entire framing device feels surprisingly modern, not just because of the smoggier locales of the 1980s cityscape, but structurally the template holds up well even today as the briefest of triggers unlock a new memory for Fleur on her hunt for answers and for closure. 

There is a cynicism latent in the DNA of Rogue when it compares the two central romances; Fleur with The Twelfth Master and An Chor with Yeun.  Fleur’s relationship is captured with such electricity, even though it only covers the span of a few months and begins transactional, there is so much heat and passion there compared to An Chor and Yeun who have a mundanity about their love.  This concept is visually aided by the grey, drabness of the modern apartment in which they live as opposed to the elegance of the tea rooms.  It is important to emphasize that Kwan is not invalidating their romance which has been going on for years, yet they remain unwed, but it is a curious note that the illicit pairing in the film is the heavier of the two.  Perhaps this is an inkling towards a desire to live fully and to be true to his own identity, something that would remain illegal in Hong Kong until 1991; two years before one of Cheung’s most iconic roles as Xiaodouzi in Farewell My Concubine (1993) and twelve years before the he would die by suicide at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Hong Kong.  The collision of these two worlds, however, brings about the real notion that above all there is a desire to not be othered by society as seen when An Chor and Yeun do have sex more explicitly yet less passionately than Fleur and The Twelfth Master are seen to have engaged in, but agree that they would not kill themselves for one another despite their love for each other. 

It is as if Kwan is saying that in these modern times, there is no place for sweeping romance or large displays.  We must censor our emotions and therefore ourselves. The set design further proves this as cheap commercialism – tattered posters of various brands – have covered the once ornate walls of the buildings in town which, unless converted to a store or a mall have been allowed to crumble. Kwan is lamenting the arts which have suffered and fallen out of style. Even the central mystery of 3811, the date and time in which Fleur and The Twelfth Master secured their fate and promised to meet again, is lost in the modern hustle of ID numbers, beepers, and banking pins. In art, gone are the large, live casts of the stage with the energy of an upcoming cue, replaced by cranes and cameras and machines with the endless safety net of going back for another shot, to be displayed on a screen further separating the audience from the raw emotion of the actors.  Fleur has been given another shot and by extension so has The Twelfth Master, but even still, life is not like the films and we are missing that drive and passion for life in a world that values production over all else.

The narrative of Rouge moves effortlessly through time across fifty years, and in the more than thirty-five years since its initial release, the film remains a powerful experience.  Its complexity comes not from a convoluted narrative, but rather the simple notion of following the heart and finding that once-in-a-lifetime love and the overwhelming emotional highs and lows that come with that.  It is unfair to gloss over Man and Chu’s work, who really help to sell the supernatural aspects of the film, but the intensity that Cheung and Mui bring to the screen eclipses everyone around them.  A pure example of star power, and when the two are together, it is impossible to look away. Kwan gives them all the tools they need to live out this fantasy – the daydreams of lovers in the earliest and most exciting moments – capturing the hearts of the audiences only for them to be gutted when we experience the gradients of heartbreak with Fleur; grief, confusion, remorse, and finally, the closure of acceptance with the strength to carry on.