JULY RHAPSODY Review: Unsettling Variation on an Ordinary Man's 40s

Stepping into the threshold of the new millennium, the promise of new possibilities presses itself upon everyone’s imagination. While many conceive the future with renewed hope, Ann Hui’s July Rhapsody seems instead to hesitate at the entrance to the new era, evoking a sense of disturbance and uncertainty, tinged with loss and ennui, through the portrait of a man in his 40s.

In the Rohmer-like opening scene (and indeed, the theme of love and morality appears to resonate with a French auteurist sensibility as well), Lam Yiu-kwok (Jacky Cheung) lies under the sun on a beach, reading a book on Chinese history. A secondary school teacher who lectures on classical Chinese literature, Lam follows a tedious daily routine, imparting Chinese poetry to a restless class.

He must remain both passionate and patient, as this is the disposition a “good student” is expected to uphold. Yet a looming midlife crisis gradually encroaches upon him: living in a cramped flat, his meagre wages barely cover the family’s expenses; the success of his former classmates bruises his self-esteem, leaving him superior only to a friend now working as a bartender; and the monotony of life with his wife, Chan Man-ching (Anita Mui), leaves him torn and exhausted, compounded by the responsibility of caring for two underage children.

This, however, is not the end of his troubles. At school, Lam must navigate not only students and administrators, but also an unsolicited romantic entanglement with his student Woo Choi-lam (Karena Lam), who unwittingly develops feelings for her teacher. With her pure gaze and innocent appearance, Woo resembles a blooming flower to Lam -- already a withered, unnoticed leaf -- captivating him through repeated encounters that gradually transgress the boundaries of a conventional teacher–student relationship.

At the same time, the unexpected return of an unwelcome “old friend,” Shing Sai-nin (Tou Chung-hua), agitates the family, resurfacing a long-buried secret within Lam and Chan’s 20-year marriage. Despite Lam’s resentment, Chan insists on caring for Shing during his hospitalisation as his health deteriorates.

It later emerges that Shing, once their beloved teacher, has an affair with Chan and impregnates her. Upon hearing the news, Shing abandons her and leaves for Taiwan for another job opportunity. At Chan’s plea, Lam rushes her to the hospital, where she gives birth to their elder son, Lam On-yin (Shaun Tam), who only learns the truth years later, when Chan finally reveals it.

Ann Hui and screenwriter Ivy Ho refrain from amplifying the emotions concealed within the characters. Instead, through a grounded depiction of an ordinary Hong Kong family, emotions are stirred via external events, as though such experiences could happen to anyone.

Although the camera largely adopts the husband’s perspective, Chan is far from a mere foil. She oscillates between morality and conscience, eventually choosing the latter to reclaim her identity -- not as an embittered victim, but as a figure of empathy and understanding.

With minimal makeup, Mui delivers a vivid portrayal of a typical housewife (though it is difficult not to recall that only months later she would be diagnosed with cervical cancer). As for Cheung, while he may lack the conventional handsomeness of Hong Kong’s other “Heavenly Kings,” his mature masculinity lends credibility and depth to the role.

A comparison can be drawn between this film and Summer Snow, which centres on a woman in her 40s. In July Rhapsody, the husband’s distress arises from his intimate entanglements with others, involving his student, his wife, and his former teacher.

In Summer Snow, by contrast, the burden of familial responsibility and the “naturalised” duty of caring for the elderly fall squarely upon the wife. This contrast underscores a key gendered distinction in middle age, subtly reflecting issues of female autonomy embedded within patriarchal structures.

Moreover, July Rhapsody constructs a fluid image by gesturing toward the broader socio-economic context of its time. The title “July” alludes to Ode to the Red Cliff by the Chinese poet Su Shi, written in reflection on the Battle of Red Cliff in 208 CE -- a prose piece once taught by Shing to Lam and Chan. The poem mourns the heroic past of Zhou Yu in order to critique the declining present time.

Within the film, it not only implies the intermingled bond between Shing and his former students, but also conveys a lament for the irreversibility of time and the loss of shared memories. Ultimately, these sentiments converge in the low-frame-rate television footage of the Yangtze River, generating a beautiful yet distorted imagination of the Three Gorges, where the long-planned dam project would officially come into operation years later, amid widespread controversy over its profound social and ecological impact.

As the turn of the century unfolds, a parallel shift overtakes Lam’s life, rendering his 40s weightless on account of persistent tremors. One might speculate that Lam was born in the 1960s, a period of significant political upheaval in China. Following Hong Kong’s handover in 1997, a pervasive sense of insecurity permeated the city. Hui captures this condition as a form of mundanities -- an affective state quietly embedded in everyday life that repeats itself without anything actually “new”. This may help explain the film’s two ethically transgressive “puppy love” relationships across different ages (as a pun), suggesting a circular retribution of Lam -- an irreparable mistake that haunts an otherwise peaceful existence.

Alongside its realistic and humanistic register, Hui softens this pessimistic undercurrent, guiding the couple toward reconciliation through a deeply moving embrace. Within this disordered rhapsody, she composes an unsettling variation on an ordinary man’s forties, winding up its movement in a gentle, poetic cadence.