Tsui Hark One of Hong Kong cinema’s biggest directors and most influential producers, responsible for Peking Opera Blues and the legendary series Once Upon A Time in China, recounts his early years and his relationship with his wife cum producer.

I was born in China and my father brought me over to Saigon, Vietnam, when I was still young. I grew up there until I was 14, when my family moved to Hong Kong.

My father was a very conservative businessman, but he prided himself on being adventurous and creative. After he died, I learned that he’d been through difficult times. People like that have to become creative in order to survive.

As a child, I focused on trying to please my parents and do well in school. Only after school did I feel a sudden hesitation to follow the well-beaten path and become, say, an engineer. That was the most critical moment of my life.

After university in the US, I worked in New York on documentaries and in newspapers.

If I hadn’t gone into film, I’d probably be a reporter right now.

When I returned to Hong Kong in 1976, one of the easiest jobs to apply for at the time was in TV. Working there was one of the most rewarding experiences I’ve ever had. The series I directed, The Gold Dagger Romance, was suddenly being called the best thing on TV. I had never had that experience of being talked about before.

I joined the film industry in 1979 when it was recruiting new blood. It was like opening a door and walking into a whole new world. It was scary.

Almost every project I take on is a major challenge. Doing something creative such as film is rewarding but grueling if you want to make something original. When you really go into the details and explore the material, you’re actually exploring parts of yourself.

I have moments when I feel that nobody I’m working with understands what I’m trying to do. Different people visualize the same project in different ways, and they are influenced by everything, from what movies they’ve seen to their personal understanding of life.\

My relationship with my wife [producer Nansun Shi] is like that of a projector and a screen. There are many people in life whose feedback you don’t need to care about. But with an emotional partner, you feel like you don’t exist if you don’t receive a response from them. In the same way a projector can’t completely exist without a screen.

Working together with my wife involves the same learning curve one faces in all aspects of modern life. One encounters plenty of bumps, but you can avoid unnecessary conflict if you learn to compromise.

Now most filmmakers go to China because of the size of the market. But I don’t think the Hong Kong film industry will die because people start heading to a different city. If the audience continues to support Hong Kong films, then Hong Kong films will flourish.

Hong Kong has its own energy and vibrancy that is distinct from the Chinese mainland.

People always ask me which of my films is my favorite. The answer always changes. I feel close to the subject matter of different films at different points in my life.

As a filmmaker, you just don’t lose energy if you feel like you still have more films to make. So many new ideas accumulate in your mind, so many projects that have yet to be done.

Every time you finish a project you feel proud and happy. But when you look back in the long run, it’s like those past achievements are no longer part of you now, they’re part of a previous self.

I don’t think about how I want to be remembered. You can’t control the impressions or memories people have of your life.

What you can control is how you live and enjoy that life.
John Robertson