The almost unimaginable grief of a husband and father is chronicled in “Papa,” an affecting drama based on the true story of a 15-year-old boy whose murder of his mother and sister shocked Hong Kong in 2010. Featuring an outstanding lead performance by Sean Lau, “Papa” is played in a low key that produces high emotional impact — giving great depth and complexity to its protagonist’s unwavering determination to still love his son and understand what caused this tragedy. With expert tonal control over a non-linear screenplay that follows the aftermath of the crime and examines the love story that brought this family into being, writer-director Philip Yung’s delicately crafted film should find a large and appreciative audience when it opens in Hong Kong on December 5, following its world premiere in competition at Tokyo.
A big change of pace from the flashy-trashy glitz of his fact-based 2022 cops-‘n’-triads saga “Where the Wind Blows,” “Papa” continues Yung’s interest in real-life crime tales, which includes the Yung-produced “The Sparring Partner.” Here, he steers closer to the tone of his 2015 breakout hit “Port of Call,” about the murder of a teenage girl. That film’s probing examination of human reaction to a horrific act of violence is present in this study of an ordinary man with extraordinary stoicism and reserves of love.
A quiet guy who found love and began raising a family later in life than most of his friends and family, Yuen (Lau) is first seen opening the 24-hour restaurant he and wife Yin (Jo Koo, excellent) run in the bustling Tsuen Wan neighbourhood. The reason he is setting up tables and chairs so slowly is explained by the presence of police at his family apartment directly across the road. Earlier that morning, without warning, his 15-year-old son Ming (Dylan So) murdered his mother and younger sister Grace (Lainey Hung) with a meat cleaver.
According to Ming, who is passionately concerned with environmental issues and animal welfare, he acted after voices in his head told him the planet was overcrowded and to kill people. “Dad thinks he hasn’t taken good care of me and that’s why I’ve done that, but that’s not true — this would have happened no matter what,” says Ming at his trial. It is not until later that a clear diagnosis of the boy’s mental condition is revealed. This plays a critical part in audiences connecting with Yuen and understanding how he is able to maintain his love for his son while dealing with the kind of guilt that no explanation can erase.
Chapter titles with the names of family members take us backward and forward in time. As Yuen goes through the awful process of arranging funerals and starting life again on his own, flashbacks reveal his lovely romance with Yin, a waitress at his restaurant with a beautiful heart and zest for life who cares not that he is much older than her. A delightful scene typical of their relationship finds them hiring a karaoke room as dawn breaks on their wedding day. The arrival of Ming and Grace and the demands of running a 24-hour business show Yuen as someone who may not use many words, sometimes bumbling his way around as a father, but whose love for his family is deep and true.
In the present Yuen attempts to learn more about mental illness and how this might help him with Ming. In a heartbreaking moment long after the terrible incident has taken place, Yuen shows his vulnerability by breaking down in tears of shame after hiring an escort and being robbed by her employers before anything happens. Here and in many other short sequences Yung creates a vivid impression of a man attempting to process the unfathomable and find a way forward. Especially poignant are Yuen’s visits to the psychiatric prison holding Ming, where every word or gesture is precious in his quest to find answers and hope.
Transitioning seamlessly between past and present, Yung creates something closer to a stream of consciousness than a conventional story. Technique plays a strong role, with the warm amber tones and use of slow-motion in the long-ago past contrasting with the flatter and more formal look of the present. Intelligent use of narrow depth-of-field photography emphasizes Yuen’s isolation. He is often seen in sharp focus while people and objects around him are blurred and indistinct. At other times Yung will commence sequences out of focus, with slowly-forming picture sharpness timed perfectly for emotional impact.
Lau, who has graced Hong Kong movies from as far back as 1986’s “Silent Love” to the more recent “Warriors of Future,” is terrific in one of his finest roles. As a man not given to talking all that much nor showing a wide range of emotion, Lau’s beautifully calibrated performance leaves viewers in no doubt of the crushing sorrow and anguish behind his apparently calm and measured exterior.
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