Lung’s second film, which followed his well-received debut Prince of Broadcasters, is widely considered his best work. The crime story merges social realism, action, melodrama and unabashed didacticism into a compelling and unique drama.

“As much a damning critique as a call for hope, The Story of a Discharged Prisoner is filmmaking at its sharpest and most masterful,” Clarence Tsui wrote in the South China Morning Post in 2011.

Lung’s script is neat in the manner of a French policier. Lee (Patrick Tse Yin) is released from prison after a 10-year stint for safecracking and intends to go straight. But triad boss One-Eyed Jack (veteran villain Sek Kin) knows of his skills and uses violent tactics to get him to join his gang. The police do not help, as they are pressuring Lee to join the gang as an informer.

A ray of hope comes from social worker Miss Mok (Patsy Kar Ling), who truly believes that prisoners can change their ways and become honest members of society. This part of the story is Lung’s main focus.

“He tries to show the tragedy of someone who chooses to remain on the right side of the law, but is tyrannised on the one hand by society (personified by the police detective played by Lung) and the triads on the other,” wrote critic Law Kar.

Lung began his career as an actor at Shaw Brothers in the 1950s and learned directing by assisting veteran filmmakers Chow Sze-luk and Chun Kim.

An avid watcher of American and European movies, he aimed to bring modern filmmaking techniques to Chinese films, especially Cantonese movies, which were in decline during the late 1960s thanks to Shaw Brothers’ high-quality Mandarin-language productions.

Lung’s use of montage – the editing together of shots to tell the story in a cinematic way – was more advanced than that of his contemporaries, and that gives The Story of a Discharged Prisoner a modern look. The opening scene, in which a heist goes wrong, could pass as a segment of a French film of the time.

A scene in which a beggar in a wheelchair is pushed to his death down a flight of steps is a direct reference to the classic pram scene, a groundbreaking montage sequence, in Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin (1925).

Such realism allowed a working-class audience to relate to the plight of the characters. “The film gains its strength not from its social critique, but from its sympathetic portrayal of the poor,” Law noted.

Teddy Girls (1969)

Lung’s films are often “on the nose” in terms of their social commentary – he not only gets his characters to voice his own position on social issues, but he often instructs the audience on what to think. Teddy Girls, which focuses on juvenile delinquents in a reform school, is a perfect example of this.

The kindly head of the reform school constantly explains to all around him – and therefore the audience – how broken homes and society’s evils have led to his prisoners turning to nihilistic behaviour and violent crime. Increasing their self-esteem and training them in moral behaviour will result in model citizens, he says.

On-the-nose scripts are not considered acceptable in filmmaking today, but Lung was even criticised for this approach back in the 1960s and 70s. Interestingly, he not only admitted that his films were instructional, but he also said that he consciously aimed to make them that way.

“I mean my films to be didactic,” Lung said in a 1974 interview with film researcher Law Wai-ming. “I’m not saying that I have something to teach everyone, but 60 per cent of my audience have something to learn, as their education level is low.

“Cinema is an effective means of communication. Surely, it is OK to moralise as long as you don’t bore while doing it.”

Lung went on to say that, although he expressed himself cinematically, he also spelled out the film’s message explicitly in dialogue, to make sure that the entire audience understood it.

Tsui’s mother has a sleazy new lover (played by Lung) who swindles her out of her business. When her mother commits suicide, Tsui and her friends in the reform school escape with the intention of exacting violent revenge on him.

Although the film offers ample opportunity to explain the effects of bad parenting on children, Lung never forgets that he has to entertain his audience. So there is action in the form of mass fights – which are surprisingly badly choreographed – and even elements taken from American exploitation films, such as a prison shower scene.

Teddy Girls also features some advanced cinematic scenography, notably Tsui wildly freeing some caged pigeons to express her frustration with her mother.

In this regular feature series on the best of Hong Kong cinema, we examine the legacy of classic films, re-evaluate the careers of its greatest stars and revisit some of the lesser-known aspects of the beloved industry.

Veteran art director Tsao Nien-lung designed the vistas to resemble Chinese landscape paintings. The actors move elegantly across them, complemented by the smooth dolly and tracking shots that lend the film a sophisticated air.

Ling Po, who was already a veteran performer in 1963, proved immensely popular in her male role and went on to play numerous cross-gender characters in other huangmei diao productions.

The Dream of the Red Chamber (1977)

As both actresses were then famous for contemporary roles, their pairing caused consternation among conservative fans when it was announced. However, both rose to the challenge with gusto, although they were dubbed for the songs.

The Dream of the Red Chamber is an adaptation of Cao Xueqin’s sprawling 18th century novel, one of the four great classical novels of Chinese literature. It chronicles the rise and fall of a powerful family dynasty.

To make it film-ready, Li followed previous movie versions and dropped the politics, focusing on the doomed romance and various canonical scenes, including the famed “swapped wedding” incident.

Li’s self-penned screenplay is tightly structured. The fragile, sickly Lin Daiyu (Chang) is deeply in love with her sensitive childhood sweetheart, the young master Jia Baoyu (Brigitte Lin). However, the powerful Jia family prefers that he marry the sensible and proper Xue Baochai (Michelle Yim).

Because Baoyu only has eyes for Daiyu, his family orchestrates a cruel deception, and he is tricked into a wedding ceremony with the heavily veiled Baochai instead. The tragic climax is sealed when Baoyu discovers the betrayal.

To prepare for her male role, Lin underwent long daily make-up sessions, where her eyebrows were glued upwards and thickened, and she was bound in cloth under her costume to flatten her figure. The headdress for her character was an antique piece owned by director Li.

Originally cast as Jia, Chang was annoyed when Li recast Lin in the role before shooting, reportedly because he believed Lin possessed a greater masculine presence.

Lin wrote that she viewed The Dream of the Red Chamber as one of the most important films she ever made, not least because she got to work with Li, whom she revered.

Struggling for years to find backing, Li finally got his chance to make the film in 1977 when Hong Kong developed an unexpected fascination with the novel.

“After a short-lived spurt of sex pictures, a new old trend has emerged overnight,” wrote local critic Mel Tobias in 1977. “All at once there is a flurry of interest and a hurry to put on the silver screen the classic Chinese novel The Dream of the Red Chamber.”

Tobias noted that there was a batch of adaptations already out or in production, including a 15-year-old “communist” version that had been re-released, and a planned sexed-up adaptation.

This sudden competition forced Li to rush the shoot. Even though the resulting film brims with craftsmanship, he was reportedly disappointed with it and lamented that he had missed an opportunity to make something great.

In this regular feature series on the best of Hong Kong cinema, we examine the legacy of classic films, re-evaluate the careers of its greatest stars and revisit some of the lesser-known aspects of the beloved industry.