text: Average viewers looking for any sense of internal coherence in a film should probably give this one a pass. It generates the same feeling as staring at a curious array of individual images that seem to have some relationship one to another, but never coalesce into a totality.<br /><br />While this isolative approach to creating a kind of cinematic montage may appeal to a few students or critics steeped in the inside language of contemporary filmmaking, it is flatly irritating and condescending to us commoners who just fell off the haywagon. An overt avoidance of accessibility may be the intentional hallmark of auteurs like Kar-wai Wong and Tarantino, but to me it comes across as Andy Warhol warmed over. The only redeeming characteristic I find is in the production values, and them there just ain't going to cut it all by themselfs.<br /><br />This is one of those productions in which you watch and listen and wait anxiously and in vain for some clever development of an idea or thought to sustain all the remarkable and beautiful individual scenes. Sorry. The calligraphic credits unexpectedly begin to roll just as your interest begins to stir. I get the same big yawn and let-down reading what I guess are very knowledgeable and thorough comments about this film that never lead to anything truly comprehensible. Ideas and images without some external context are not my idea of fun.<br /><br />Call me a philistine roaming the streets of Hong Kong looking for a bowl of chop suey.<br /><br />