It may be somewhat surprising to learn that The Last Dance has become the highest-grossing (domestic) film in Hong Kong history, if only because we’re so used to the idea that the only movies which can really achieve box office success these days are franchise films or effects-driven spectaculars. Indeed, the other five films in Hong Kong’s all-time box office chart (whether foreign or domestic) are Avengers and Avatar titles. The Last Dance, though, is the kind of movie that almost never becomes a major hit (the odd Oppenheimer aside), especially not here in the U.S. — a serious drama made for grown-ups. What accounts for this success? There are a few things: the charm and popularity of its cast, led by legendary comic actors taking on dramatic roles; the handsomeness of its production, elegantly shot in the actual Hong Kong (as opposed to the virtual Hong Kong or period-piece Hong Kong of so many current local and Mainland productions); the resonance of its themes, contrasting traditional cultural practices with the crassness of modern commercialism as well as the righteousness of contemporary feminist principles. But above all, the film’s appeal lies in its caution, a white elephant approach to complex themes that nods in all kinds of directions while for the most part not really engaging with any of them, or denouncing anything but the most cartoonish of cultural villainy.
Dayo Wong, a longtime popular comedian who found little success in film until 2023’s smash hit courtroom drama A Guilty Conscience, stars as a wedding planner forced into a late-in-life career change thanks to the Covid pandemic. Weddings may not be big business anymore, but people are always dying, so he takes over the partnership in a funeral company from his girlfriend’s uncle. Dayo handles the front end of the business — customer service, flower arranging, mortuary services, and the like — while his partner, played by legendary comedian Michael Hui, handles the ritualistic aspects of the funeral. A Taoist priest, Hui performs the “Breaking Hell’s Gates” ceremony (an on-screen title before the film begins informs us that this is a piece of vital Hong Kong cultural heritage), which allows for the soul of the departed to escape Hell and be reincarnated. The inevitable clashes ensue as Dayo’s modern ideas (tacky merchandising, the Internet) contrast with Hui’s more traditional, conservative views.
These clashes are reflected, too, in the conflicts between Hui and his grown up children, played by Michelle Wai (who is terrific, delivering the best and most complex performance in the film) and Chu Pak-hong. Wai is an EMT and somewhat estranged from her father because his Taoism is of the “all women are filthy” variety. Chu works for his dad as a kind of assistant priest, but for him it’s just a job; he doesn’t believe in it all. The film’s structure is generally episodic: Dayo gets a case and screws it up and learns a lesson; Dayo gets another case and impresses Hui with his human kindness; Wai gets a case and loses her one maternal figure (a restaurant owner played by Elaine Jin). There’s a late film subplot with Dayo’s girlfriend that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense: she doesn’t even appear as an actual character until three-fourths of the way through the movie, and he’s way too old an actor for their storyline to work at all. But in the end, everyone learns important lessons in a tasteful mix of light comedy and emotional drama, and they all grow closer together.
The film’s finale confronts the issue of sexism in Taoist funeral practices head-on. Wai, unlike her brother, always wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps but was not allowed to because of patriarchal mindsets. But in the end, Dayo gives her a chance, and argues with a phalanx of angry priests about it. Hui, the voice of authority, takes her side, but pointedly only in a letter. This is indicative of the film’s approach to these complex issues: rather than see the characters themselves change their ideas, they are instead asserted, either through simple dialogue or, in the case of Dayo and Hui’s detente, glossed over by the shared singing of an old Cantonese opera song (if I’m understanding the provenance of their song correctly). It’s Dayo, the stand-in for modernity, who asserts and imposes feminism on the priests, not Hui, who merely okays it from somewhere off-screen. It’s a superficial washing away of fundamentally contradictory ideals, one that tides over the messiness of reality with comforting platitudes, slow-motion dancing, and a soundtrack of swelling orchestral strings.
It’s that soundtrack that gives the game away: a film that truly respected the cultural importance of the “Breaking Hell’s Gate” would let the climactic performance play out in its entirety, capturing perhaps a dying art on film for the benefit of preservation and posterity. Director Anselm Chan, however, records over the ceremony’s traditional Chinese music with Western-style melodramatic orchestration. Maybe one could sell that decision as a commentary on the melding of tradition and modernity, much like the film’s attempt to merge Taoism and feminism. But to this writer, it reads as nothing more than cheap sentimentalism, an admittedly successful ploy for mass success rather than the singular expression of an artistic point of view.
Published as part of IFFR 2025 — Dispatch 3.
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