But it was Chungking Express (1994) that gave Leung his first full Wong canvas. As Cop 663, he talked to a soap bar, a wet shirt, and a stuffed toy — not for laughs, but with the tenderness of someone who’s forgotten how to touch another human. Wong let Leung be ordinary: a man buying chef’s salad for a flight attendant who left him. In Leung’s hands, waiting became a performance art. When he finally smiles at the new waitress (Faye Wong), it feels like dawn after a decade of night.

Their final collaboration to date, The Grandmaster (2013), is a fitting coda. Leung plays Ip Man, the martial arts master who taught Bruce Lee. But Wong turns a biopic into a meditation on leaving. Ip Man flees Foshan for Hong Kong, leaving behind his wife and his old world. In the rain, he fights with a broken umbrella and perfect posture. Even in kung fu, Leung plays a man holding back — not power, but tears.

Their journey began with a stumble. On Days of Being Wild (1990), Leung arrived for a cameo that would become legend. In a single, unscripted three-minute shot — trimming his nails, straightening cards, preparing for a night out — Wong captured everything his cinema would become: loneliness in a small room, performance as survival, and a man trapped in his own rituals. That final shot, which Leung thought was a warm-up, became the film's haunting coda and a promise of future masterpieces.

Then came the heart of their collaboration: In the Mood for Love (2000). As Chow Mo-wan, a journalist renting a room in 1960s Hong Kong, Leung is a man who speaks only through his spine. He walks past Maggie Cheung’s Su Li-zhen on a staircase so narrow that desire becomes geometry. Their near-misses are more erotic than any kiss. Leung’s face — that famous micro-expression of swallowed grief — finds its fullest expression when he whispers a secret into the stone wall at Angkor Wat. He doesn't cry. He doesn't need to. The ruin does it for him.

For three decades, the partnership between actor Tony Leung Chiu-wai and director Wong Kar-wai has defined the aching poetry of modern cinema. More than any other actor-director duo in world cinema, they have turned restraint into revelation, and a single glance into a universe of regret.

Why do they work? Leung once said Wong never gives him a full script — only music on set, and moods. Wong shoots for months, cuts entire storylines, and finds the film in the edit. Most actors would break. Leung blooms in the chaos. He has said he doesn't act; he becomes . And Wong’s fragmented process forces him to live in the character’s skin until the skin forgets it’s a costume.

Here’s a feature-style piece on Tony Leung’s collaboration with Wong Kar-wai: The Face of Longing: Tony Leung and Wong Kar-wai’s Cinema of Unspoken Desire