In the Mood for Love: Day One

Chow Mo-wan, a journalist, Tony Leung, and Su Li-zhen (Mrs. Chan), a secretary at a shipping company, share a quiet curiosity as they rent rooms in adjacent apartments in 1962 British Hong Kong. Their lives unfold against a backdrop of bustling neighbors, a nosy landlady named Mrs. Suen, and nightly mahjong tiles that rhythmically echo through the stairwells. Each man and woman returns late from work, their spouses absorbed by long hours and distant commitments, which leaves the two neighbors with long stretches of solitude that invite a closer look at one another. The world outside their doors feels crowded, yet inside their units there is a sense of shared restraint, as if they are both listening for a signal that never quite comes.

Su Li-zhen, Maggie Cheung, carries herself with a poised, careful restraint, balancing the expectations of propriety with a growing sense of misgiving about the life she sees in the couple next door. Chow Mo-wan, the journalist, is equally perceptive, noticing small, almost imperceptible details—the way a handbag travels from overseas with a certain air of secrecy, or how a necktie that belongs to Su’s husband mirrors a gift Chow once gave to his own wife. These tiny coincidences begin to stitch a larger pattern, one that suggests a parallel betrayal. As the pieces of the puzzle fall into place, both at last acknowledge a blunt truth: their spouses are entangled in an affair with each other. The recognition is not a moment of triumph but a careful, almost clinical understanding of two lives that have collided and then drifted apart, leaving behind questions that cannot be answered by anger or rash action.

From this uncomfortable clarity, a fragile bond begins to form. Chow and Su, previously polite out of habit, start to lean into each other—not out of flight from loneliness alone but as a search for a shared language to understand what has been lost. Their conversations deepen, and the two start to reconstruct the past in order to imagine how such a union between their partners might have started. In moments of quiet companionship, they exchange hypotheses and memories, testing how different choices could have altered the course of their lives. The process is intimate but not reckless; they do not seek to replicate the transgression but to understand its mechanics, to protect themselves from ever becoming the kind of people who betray someone they care about.

As the emotional landscape grows more complicated, Chow invites Su to collaborate on a martial arts serial, a project that becomes more than work—it becomes a shared project, a way to fill the hours that might otherwise have eclipsed their own boundaries. Their increased time together draws attention from neighbors who whisper and watch, unsettling the balance of the apartment building. To preserve privacy, Chow rents a hotel room where they can work without intrusion, a temporary sanctuary where the two can explore the contours of their feelings with fewer interruptions. The room becomes a stage for their evolving relationship, a space where the act of writing—of crafting scenes—begins to resemble the act of living. The more they invest in one another, the more they must navigate the tension between what feels right and what could be dangerous to their hearts and to the lives they once knew.

The connection between them deepens, and they begin to confront the realities of their affection. They acknowledge that their growing feelings are not just a reaction to betrayal but a genuine, if reluctant, recognition of something enduring and real. Yet the emotional toll is high. The more intimate they become, the more fragile their restraint appears. They drift apart at times, silences widening like cold corridors between rooms, only to find their way back to each other later with renewed clarity. The dance of proximity and distance becomes a central motif—an uneasy balance between longing and caution that keeps them anchored in the present while haunted by what might lie in the future.

A turning point arrives when Chow receives a job offer in Singapore. He asks Su to accompany him, and she agrees in principle, seeking the courage to make a decisive leap. Yet when the moment comes, reality intrudes: Su arrives at the hotel too late, and the room that once held the promise of a shared future is now empty. The gesture remains poignant rather than dramatic, a quiet admission that time has its own stubborn logic. In Singapore, Chow reflects on their choices and reiterates the old truth that secrets, however well kept, leave a trace—an echo of what could have been. The image of a lipstick-stained cigarette butt found in an ashtray later becomes a small, stubborn sign that keeps the memory alive, a reminder of the woman who stood at the threshold of a new life and the man who watched her leave.

The narrative moves forward in time, revealing the long-term distances and subtle closeness that persist. Three years pass, and Su makes a late, furtive visit to Mrs. Suen, who is preparing to emigrate to the United States, seeking information about renting the old apartment one more time. Chow returns to Hong Kong to search for the Koos, the former landlords who have moved to the Philippines. He learns that a new tenant now occupies the Suen family’s former place — a woman and her young son — a detail that suggests life has continued in the same rooms, even as the people who once inhabited them have moved on. The realization lands with a quiet ache: Su and her child are living in the apartment next door, unseen, a present that lurks just beyond reach.

Amid these life passages, the film returns to a broader vista—Chow’s journey through war-torn landscapes that frame his inner life. During the Vietnam War era, he travels to Cambodia and finds himself at Angkor Wat, a place steeped in history and memory. A monk watches as he quietly whispers into a hollow in a wall and seals his words with mud, an image that resonates with the film’s central conceit: secrets spoken aloud to the walls, then buried, only to surface later in unexpected ways. The motif of hollows and sealed whispers threads through the narrative, a metaphor for the unspoken truths that linger in every room, in every exchange, and in the spaces between two people who almost found a different life together.

What remains most striking about the tale is its restrained, observational clarity. The film moves with an almost documentary calm, never forcing a dramatic confrontation where there isn’t one to be found. Instead, it favors a patient accumulation of small details—the way rooms provide shelter, the micro-dramas of neighbors who keep watch, the ritual of everyday routines that go on even as two people begin to imagine an alternative—a life built not on the negation of past hurts, but on the careful negotiation of present possibilities. The result is a story that feels both intimate and expansive: intimate in its focus on two people who come to understand themselves through each other, and expansive in its sense of memory, history, and the spaces that hold them.

Ultimately, the film leaves us with a lingering sense of what might have been and what remains possible only as memory. The lovers, who never fully close the distance between them, continue to inhabit the margins of each other’s lives—seen, perhaps, through a parted door, or by a wall that keeps their voices just out of reach. What endures is not a grand romance but a quiet, human acknowledgment that some truths are kept alive by the smallest signs: a shared project, a silent room, a hollow in a wall sealed with mud, and the stubborn, stubborn knowledge that the heart keeps its own, often unspent, secrets. The final image echoes that sentiment, inviting us to reflect on the ways memory travels—across rooms, across cities, and across the spaces between two people who once believed they might have chosen differently, had the moment allowed it.

Last Updated: October 01, 2025 at 10:24