Few films are erotic as this. Teaming up again with cinematographer Chris Doyle (Hero), Wong delivers a panting, passionate picture. A little is a lot here: languid shots of twirling cigarette smoke; the sheen of silk stockings clinging to perfectly shaped calf muscles; glittering, sequinned dresses. It’s a ravishing of the senses, helped no end by Wong's ear for a soundtrack and the willingness of his actors to invest even the simplest of scenes - a couple holding hands in a taxi cab for example - with the full weight of existential despair brought that erotic sadness to a kind of perfection in its story of a man and a woman who live in hotel rooms next to each other, and want to become lovers but never do, because his wife and her husband are lovers, and "for us to do the same thing would mean we are no better than they are." Yes, but no worse, and perhaps happier. Isn't it strange, that most of the truths about love are banal? Every passenger who goes to 2046 has the same intention. They want to recapture lost memories because nothing ever changes in 2046. Nobody knows if thats true because nobodys ever come back. One spectacular shot shows Jing from above and behind, smoking a cigarette and listening to an opera. Its composition is really the subject of the shot. Faye Wong's performance is the airiest, lightest, and most appealing of the three female leads, where fullest expression is given to the romantic, visual poetry Wong Kar-Wai's fans most associate with him ...