One of Hong Kong’s best-loved screen comedies, Chicken and Duck Talk in 1988 uproariously flew the flag for local traditions struggling to survive. The setting is Ah Hui’s Restaurant, where dismal service and a complete lack of hygiene aren’t enough to stop customers streaming in for the Cantonese specialty of barbequed duck. But all that changes when a Western fast food joint opens across the road and shows what it takes to lure patrons away. As the hypercompetitive Danny’s Fried Chicken mounts its assault on local businesses, the duck shop’s penny-pinching manager Hui (Michael Hui) must struggle to keep his ragtag staff loyal and win back customers or lose his diner for good.
With Hongkongers these days asserting local identity and cultural heritage more than ever before, Chicken and Duck Talk plays like the movement’s delightful pop-cult precursor. Under the guiding hand of Hui and writer-director Clifton Ko, the duck restaurant is a greasy microcosm of Hong Kong business practices in need of sprucing up. On that front the movie is a hotbed of caricature, dishing up familiar sights to local cinemagoers (waiters holding glasses with their fingers in the tea, cleaning ladies mopping under tables with customers still seated, the butcher at work with cigarette in mouth).
The cutthroat tactics of Danny’s boss Mr. Poon (Lawrence Ng) and his henchman (Ku Feng), meanwhile, go over the top in their portrayal of foreign business strategy as a far from wholesome affair, confirming the image of multinational chain stores squeezing family businesses. In the lead role, Michael Hui elevates his comical portrayal of mean bosses to a new level, this time annoying not just employees but also a loving wife (Sylvia Chang) and his visiting mother-in-law (screen veteran Pak Yan). Ricky Hui, as waiter Cuttlefish, bears the brunt of the manager’s absurdist cost-cutting ways and the rest of the staff prove a colorful bunch.
Clifton Ko’s direction (in the late 1980s Hui had settled into the role of writer, actor and executive producer) is playful and fast moving, flipping with abandon between slapstick and nuance. Comedy scenes are expertly choreographed with the ensemble cast performing like a regular tight-knit troupe. Pre-1997 handover anxieties get humorous nods and the Jacques Tati–influenced score keeps things bright and lively.
Coursing through the film are clear social concerns which reflect Hui’s belief that even in the humble genre of comedy, filmmakers should seize the chance to speak their mind.