Two people rehearse an affair they are too decent to have.
Every frame is a doorway, a corridor, a mirror cutting the two of them into separate rooms. Wong makes restraint look like the most extravagant thing in cinema: the noodle stall, the rain, the same waltz until it becomes a pulse. What I love most is the cruelty of the structure — they practise the betrayal, they play their spouses, and the performance is the closest they get. The last act in Angkor Wat should be pretentious and instead it is the only place big enough to put a secret. Nothing since has touched it for pure texture.