Leung says he didn't question Wong's directive, because he had no idea what the story was about. "But it's very difficult for an actor to do that. I had already gotten used to the origin of Mr. Chow, his body language, his gestures, his tempo, his voice. So it was really difficult. That's why on the first day I asked Kar Wai if I could have a mustache -- to make myself believe I'm somebody else. At least I'd have something to hold on to." Wong refused at first, but Leung insisted -- he felt he couldn't find his way into the role without it. And visually as well as emotionally, his instincts were on target: Mr. Chow's pencil mustache gives him an oily elegance; it's a sliver of a symbol that defines the difference between the old Mr. Chow and this new one, whom Leung refers to as "dark and mean," a "cynical playboy."

And yet, even playing this new and rather cruel Mr. Chow, Leung doesn't completely submerge his vulnerability. It would be impossible to do so, and when you see him in person, you understand why. Leung is a decidedly masculine presence on-screen and off, but in front of the camera, in particular, there's also an alluring softness about him -- his masculinity is defined not by macho posturing but by pure comfort within his own body. You can see this in the way he moves in "In the Mood for Love": Even though Mr. Chow walks with his hands placidly at his sides -- the mark of a man who, you'd assume, is constantly afraid of making the wrong move -- his gait is assured and steady, hinting at a bold, if underplayed, sexuality that's anything but businesslike.

But even that's nothing compared with the muted expressiveness of Leung's face. In "Infernal Affairs," Leung plays an undercover cop who has all but erased his identity for the sake of his job. He reveals shadowy, playful traces of the person he used to be to the psychiatrist who's been assigned to treat him: He has a small crush on her, but it's the sort of charming infatuation that dances beneath the surface. We get an even more intensified sense of his anguish when he runs into an old girlfriend, out walking with her young daughter (who, we realize in a deftly played moment, is actually his child). He and the woman chat, filling the awkward space between them with useless words.

Leung's eyes betray everything and nothing: Other actors may seem most vital when they're playing "happy" or "funny," but Leung's velvet-brown eyes can telegraph whole chapters of feeling with a single glance -- even their despair twinkles with life. His smile is easy but sly, and it usually seems to take its cues from his eyebrows: In "Chungking Express," where he plays a cop pining for the haughty flight attendant who has ditched him, we first catch sight of him walking his beat, his peaked policeman's cap perched low over his eyes. He looks only vaguely movie-star handsome, until the hat comes off. Then his whole face opens up, and the eyebrows are the key. Quizzical, worried, vaguely amused: They speak a shorthand of their own, even when the rest of his face appears to be giving away nothing.

I studied Tony Leung's eyebrows intently in the 15-plus-15 minutes I had with him, and I can attest to their almost mystical properties. I'm deeply embarrassed to admit that, very early in the interview, I started to ask Leung a question about "In the Mood for Love" -- a picture I adore -- only to realize I couldn't for the life of me remember its title. I riffled through every secret hiding place in my brain for the correct arrangement of words, but it was nowhere to be found. This mortifying blip lasted for an interminable 20 seconds or so (although the stumbling, stupid silence on the interview tape seems to go on for 20 minutes), after which I had the good sense to make a complete moron of myself by consulting the IMDb printout I'd brought with me.

It's funny, but up to that point I hadn't thought I was nervous at all, even though I've loved Leung's work since I first saw him (in "Hard-Boiled") more than 10 years ago. He's a megastar in Asia, and a megastar to me: I would probably have been more nervous talking to, say, Cary Grant, but perhaps not much more. I realized that by not seeming like a movie star, Leung had completely disarmed me. If I were a camera, I'd know just what to make of Leung's face. But because I'm only a person, the best I can do is search it as if it were a kind of emotional map, and marvel at the inadequacy of words to describe what I see there.

Recent Stories