Ah-Jin is speaking all the time, as a narrator, a witness or a “pedagogue” of Hong Kong history. She is actually telling her own story retrospectively, but it seems that “herstory” and history are commensurable, namely, her story is also Hong Kong’s story, and vise versa. Likewise, the belief she imparts to the lovelorn young man-- Cherish the present regardless of sweet or bitter, which would ultimately be the best memories for the further-- is also made for the audience, the present and further Hong Kongnese. Broadly speaking, every human being can be the epitome of history and there is no deny that Ah-Jin touches the big picture of Hong Kong from a personal angle, for example, her intercourse with Zhou Wenguang. But it is still worth questioning: In what sense can the voice of Ah-Jin become the voice of Hong Kong? Or more acutely, has the former both been embezzled and enabled by the latter, otherwise no voice of prostitutes can be made or heard? Further, does Ah-Jin really have a subject in this movie and is it possible for her to establish/feel the subjectivity without identifying with an ideological Hong Kong-ness?
Obviously Spivak’s gesture is appropriated again here. I may need to clarify how can Ah-Jing belong to the subaltern since her life is seemingly more funny and fortunate than painful. But setting a specific criterion of the subaltern is more undesirable than leaving the boundary vague and fluid. (Another pitfall may be the circular argument: because he/she can’t speak, he/she is subaltern; because he/she subaltern, he/she can’t speak; if he/she can speak, he/she is no longer subaltern.) Therefore, for me, the subaltern can only be defined in relation to the superior Other. What we can discern is, Ah-Jin is in fact marginalized and stigmatized even within the prostitute group because of her lack of beauty. Thanks to Ah-Jin’s “One Hair, One Soup” activity, we take a glimpse of the large quantity of prostitutes in Hong Kong. Though as a self-differentiated collectivity (Men and usual women shouldn’t be in our row), they never form a transformative power/class and make a strong voice for themselves. The absurdity is, if no one can guarantee the prostitutes will contribute to and benefit from Hong Kong’s prosperity, how can the film let Ah-Jin speak for Hong Kong? Moreover, self-differentiation happens within the fluid collectivity as well: some prostitutes can be more popular and some may clear her “dark” history through marriage. That’s why faced with the former sisters (prostitutes) who’ve already got married, Ah-Jin can’t help feeling differentiated and expelled, thus leading to her childish, excessive and performative frolic. In this sense, the retrospective narrative doesn’t really give Ah-Jin and the prostitutes a self-affirmative voice. Since the comedy attributes prostitutes’ tragedies to individual fate or temporary crisis of Hong Kong rather than some ineradicable socioeconomic and ethical mechanism, the ending utopia can’t be something other than the comical.
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