Film Review: True Love, for Once in My Life 淺淺歲月 (2025) - Hong Kong
Reviewed by Andrew Chan (Film Critic Circle of Australia)
I rated it 8/10
Rating: ★ ★ ★ ★
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The Quiet Fury of a Heart That Refuses to Break - “True Love, for Once in My Life" arrives like a sustained, melancholic sigh. Directed by Siu Koon-ho and shepherded and produced by the ever-provocative Fruit Chan, this adaptation of Tse Shuk-fun's semi-autobiographical novel is a deeply felt, quietly devastating examination of devotion stretched thin over decades, a testament to a kind of love that modern sensibilities might struggle to comprehend, let alone endorse.
The film spans the giddy optimism of 1980s Hong Kong to the weary complexities of the 2000s, charting the life of Ching-fun (Cecilia Yip), a woman whose entire universe orbits her husband, Kei-chun (Tse Kwan-ho). Their early years hum with the promise of shared futures, a promise shattered by the insidious "Northbound" to Mainland China trend of the 1990s. As Kei-chun establishes a second life – and family – across the border, Ching-fun is left as the solitary anchor for their fractured home. This isn't merely abandonment; it's the slow, corrosive erosion of the very foundation she built her life upon.
What elevates Lou Shiu-wa’s screenplay beyond predictable melodrama is its unflinching, unsentimental gaze. Ching-fun's "loyalty" isn't presented as noble martyrdom, but rather as a profound, almost terrifying obsession. The film's title isn't ironic; it's a stark declaration. For Ching-fun, true love is a singular, unbreakable covenant, a contract signed in her soul that no betrayal, however profound, can nullify. The question the film forces us to confront isn't just "Why does she stay?" but "What does this unwavering fidelity do to a human spirit?"
The answer lies in Cecilia Yip’s monumental performance. Yip doesn't act aging and exhaustion; she embodies it. Every subtle shift in posture, every fleeting shadow across her eyes, every weary line etched by time and sorrow speaks volumes. Her Ching-fun is a monument to quiet dignity, her pain held close, her fury internalized until it becomes a palpable weight. It’s a masterclass in emotional transparency without histrionics. Opposite her, Tse Kwan-ho performs the essential, difficult task of making Kei-chun more than just a villain. He imbues the flawed, wayward husband with a weary humanity, a man caught between desires and duties, whose failures are undeniable yet somehow comprehensible within the messy context of shifting societal pressures and personal weakness. Their chemistry is the film's bruised, beating heart.
The film's technical gambit – being shot entirely on iPhone. Yes, there are moments where the digital flatness or lighting limitations momentarily pull you out, a scene that might have benefited from the richer texture of celluloid. Yet, more often than not, this choice proves inspired. The intimacy it fosters is remarkable. The camera lingers like a silent, compassionate ghost in the cramped corners of Ching-fun’s apartment, catching the dust motes dancing in sunbeams, the worn fabric of a sofa, the clutter of a life lived in waiting. It forces us into uncomfortable proximity with her isolation. Furthermore, the interweaving of archival footage – the handover, SARS – brilliantly roots this intensely personal tragedy within the seismic shifts of Hong Kong's shared history. Ching-fun’s crumbling world mirrors the city’s own anxious transitions.
“True Love, for Once in My Life" is a film of profound patience. Its second act deliberately mirrors Ching-fun’s stasis, which risks testing the viewer’s own endurance. Yet, this patience makes the final act’s emotional crescendo – Kei-chun’s broken return – land with devastating force. The film doesn’t offer easy answers or cathartic revenge. Instead, it presents a stark, challenging portrait of a woman whose definition of love is absolute, perhaps tragically so. Is her steadfastness the ultimate virtue or a self-imposed cage? The film, wisely, refuses to judge, only observe with aching clarity.
This is a mature, deeply affecting drama anchored by two extraordinary performances. Cecilia Yip delivers a performance for the ages, etching Ching-fun's quiet suffering and stubborn devotion onto our hearts. While the experimental cinematography sometimes shows its seams and the protagonist's unwavering stance may frustrate, “True Love, for Once in My Life” triumphs as a poignant time capsule of Hong Kong and a timeless, heartbreaking study of love's most unyielding, and perhaps most unfathomable, form. It is a film that lingers, like the memory of a fading sigh. (Neo, 2026)
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