How Hong Kong’s dystopias became its reality

In a dilapidated building, two rebel archivists collect items from bulldozed sites around their crumbling city, in a desperate attempt to preserve memories of their rapidly vanishing home. Outside the British consulate, an elderly woman holding an umbrella as a crutch sets herself on fire, protesting Britain’s complicity in the city’s loss of liberties. In a scene reminiscent of Mao’s Cultural Revolution, Hong Kong children sporting arm bands and Red Guard-esque uniforms are instructed to throw eggs at the storefront of a local bookshop selling “politically sensitive” works.

These are some of the eerily prescient scenes that make up Ten Years, a dystopian independent film that celebrated its 10-year anniversary with a special screening at this year’s Hong Kong Film Festival UK (HKFFUK) in London, co-hosted by Amnesty International last Sunday. The annual festival, now in its third year, will screen 52 titles that belong to what organisers call a “new wave” of cinema inspired by the city’s recent transformations, at venues across the UK. “Ten Years stands as one of the defining works of Hong Kong’s 21st-century cinema,” Ching Wong, the festival’s director—who is also a writer and actress in the film—said at the screening. “Many of its predictions came true only in a few years, unfortunately. But what stays with us is the film’s quiet belief in the power of human connection and solidarity.”

Now banned in Hong Kong and Mainland China, Ten Years captured Hongkongers’ anxieties in 2015 over what their home may become by 2025, in a series of haunting vignettes depicting the potential impact of Beijing’s increasing control over the semi-autonomous city. Filmed on a tiny budget of just HK$500,000 (£47,400), it was an instant hit upon release, selling out screenings across the city before it was pulled from commercial theatres following pressure from Chinese authorities. When it unexpectedly won Best Film at the Hong Kong Film Awards a year later, Beijing barred the broadcast of the ceremony on the mainland, calling it a “virus of the mind”.

I was a journalist covering the film awards for local media in 2016—an era of relative press freedom that now feels like a lifetime ago. I still recall the shock that reverberated across the auditorium that evening: the moment of utter silence, followed by rapturous applause. The flash of cameras from the press area, as we all flocked forwards, scrambling over one another, for our front-page shots. The look of disbelief on the executive producer’s face, as he stepped onto the stage and spoke about how the award represented hope in Hong Kong; how it belonged to us all.

The words were heartfelt, if a little dramatic, I remember thinking. Things aren’t great, but the future doesn’t look that bleak yet. The explosive 2019 anti-authoritarian protests triggered by a proposed extradition law had not yet occurred, and there was still leftover energy from the 2014 “umbrella movement” calling for universal suffrage. Parts of the film had indeed resonated; for instance, a segment about a veteran taxi driver losing his livelihood when Mandarin overtook Cantonese as the city’s official working language (something that was already happening even within my own industry). Others, though, such as a plotline involving a government-backed assassination attempt at a political function, felt exaggerated, and far too removed from reality.

While rewatching the film for the first time in 10 years, I was struck by something like déjà vu: its scenes felt hauntingly familiar, and not just because I’ve seen them before. This is because many of the film’s worst fears have arguably now been realised, even if they’ve taken on a different shape or form in real life. Following the crushing of the 2019 protests and Beijing’s implementation of a sweeping national security law in 2020, Hong Kong’s once-vibrant cultural scene has been crippled by censorship, either at the hands of authorities or self-imposed out of fear.

Artists are fleeing the city to continue working in “self-exile”, or are being sentenced to jail for crimes such as “subversion” or publishing “seditious” children’s books. Statues commemorating politically sensitive historical events, such as the Tiananmen Square Massacre, are being removed from universities and public spaces. Libraries are being purged, independent bookshops are closing left and right, and teachers are being warned to stay vigilant against “hostile forces” apparently pervading book fairs and extracurricular activities, lest students become radicalised. The city’s legislature has been overhauled to only allow “patriots” into office, and tens of thousands of Hongkongers have now resettled abroad, including over 150,000 who have migrated to Britain.

I recently caught up with Kiwi Chow, one of the directors of Ten Years who is also known for his banned documentary on the 2019 pro-democracy protests. Unlike some of his co-directors, Chow is still based in Hong Kong, and remains determined to continue his craft, despite the escalating challenges. His struggles include a lack of funding, dwindling resources and, of course, censorship. Chow self-funded his most recent project, which he shot in Taiwan after failing to obtain support from local sponsors, venues and film companies; all were wary of working with a director who has created politically sensitive films. Many of his artist and activist friends have also either left the city, or been imprisoned.

“The censorship is so intense now. But I feel a sense of social responsibility, as a Hong Kong filmmaker,” Chow told me. Today, it would be impossible to make a film in Hong Kong like Ten Years, he says. Under such conditions, hope is elusive, but Chow still retains a sense of camaraderie when he sees other Hongkongers continuing to make art, whether they’re based in the city or abroad. “I don’t feel lonely—we’re all still in it together.”

Ka Leung Ng, also a director and producer on Ten Years, echoed Chow’s sentiments. Although he’s now based in the UK, Ng says he still grapples with similar challenges, explaining that Beijing’s influence over the global arts scene is slowly increasing. “Even in the UK, there are many restrictions. Here, they’re not completely free [from Chinese influence], but they don’t even realise it.”

Both characterise the cultural phenomenon of Ten Years—the film’s enduring success, how it continues to resonate with both Hong Kong and global audiences a decade later—as an unexpected “treasure”. Rather than asking whether or not the film’s various predictions came true, perhaps we should reflect on how we’re responding to its portrayal of Hong Kong at present; how we’re interacting with the themes of identity, resistance and belonging that the film ultimately grapples with, Chow says. “What matters is that we keep on thinking about Hong Kong, and about its future. The meaning of the film—that will remain forever changing.”