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“Anytime I Could Minimize the Use of Verbal Language and Rely on Other Means to Advance the Story, That’s What I Did”: Lloyd Lee Choi on His Cannes-Premiering Lucky Lu
Lucky Lu There’s something about the high-pressure nature of the migrant experience that can make films about it elicit more anxiety than your average thriller. So it is with Lloyd Lee Choi’s Lucky Lu. Set in New York’s Chinatown—a backdrop captured by DOP Norm Li as a caliginous labyrinth of alleyways and sepulchral rooms—Lee Choi’s feature debut centers on the titular Lu (Chang Chen), a Chinese delivery rider who’s spent years away from his wife and daughter, and now, having drummed up enough cash to secure an apartment for three, readies to welcome them to the city. Title notwithstanding, however, Lu might as well be cursed. A few hours before his family’s arrival, his e-bike is stolen, and the building’s super evicts him from the new flat. Left with no job or home, the man must race against the clock to keep his life from falling apart.
This isn’t to peg Lucky Lu as an action film. Ostensibly a feature-length adaptation of Choi’s 2022 short Same Old—a more compact version of the rider’s Sisyphean struggles that premiered in Cannes before nabbing accolades across the festival circuit—Lucky Lu feels just as indebted to Choi’s Closing Dynasty (2023). Like that short, which followed a seven-year-old Chinese girl as she hustled around New York, Lucky Lu is as concerned with fleshing out Lu’s unforgiving routine as it is with watching his estranged child adjust to a grown-up’s world. Which is to say that, once young Queenie (Carabelle Manna Wei) volunteers to follow her dad across the city, the film changes tone, trading some of the breakneck, angst-inducing energy of its first half for more contemplative and cumulatively engrossing moments. Yet what’s most distinctive about Choi’s filmmaking is the restraint with which these are captured. Lucky Lu deftly avoids both bathos and exposition, and Choi’s parsimonious script dovetails with Li’s unobtrusive camerawork, which often frames some of the most harrowing exchanges from a certain distance, as if afraid to intrude in these drifters’ lives. It’s a choice that aligns Choi’s with another recent feature debut centered on New York’s Chinese community, Constance Tsang’s Queens-set Blue Sun Palace (2024)—also shot by Li with an understated touch which, in both works, accords characters a compassionate respect.
Ahead of his journey to Cannes, where Lucky Lu premiered in the Directors’ Fortnight, Lee Choi and I sat to discuss the film’s genesis, how his background as commercial director influenced its visual grammar and pace, and his collaboration with Chang Chen.
Filmmaker: What made you realize you weren’t done with Lu’s story? I’d be curious to hear which aspects of Same Old you felt you’d left unexplored, and made you want to expand the short into a feature.
Choi: That’s a good question. The idea for Same Old sort of came at the last minute; the whole production was very quick. We did it simply because we wanted to—we had a deep desire to tell that story. But once I wrote it, and after we then sent it to festivals and the short went on to premiere at Cannes, I remember something was still lingering. I loved the character, and was really keen to explore him further. I wanted to create a version of Lu who’d be more complex, morally and emotionally, for the feature film. I think a lot of Lucky Lu was inspired by things I’ve seen or heard in my life, but part of the impetus behind it was also the way the immigrant experience has traditionally been portrayed in cinema. There aren’t many immigrant films being made, which is why representing Lu in an emotionally honest way was absolutely crucial.
Filmmaker: Lucky Lu is, strictly speaking, a feature-length expansion of Same Old, but the film also borrows heavily from another short of yours, Closing Dynasty. It’s as if the three belonged to the same cinematic universe. What sort of relationship do you see between them?
Choi: I love that you say that; I also like to consider them part of the same cinematic universe… [laughs] I’m not sure how many people will go in having watched the two shorts, but Lucky Lu is very much an amalgamation of them. Same Old and Closing Dynasty—I basically shot them back-to-back, and they were both fueled by this desire to explore some characters from Chinatown, a sort of bubble I haven’t really seen much in films. I mean, New York has served as setting for all sorts of stories, but I wanted to explore the migrant experience from these two very different perspectives. On the one hand, Lu’s, whose world—as it was in Same Old—is dark and blunt; on the other, Queenie’s, who shares the same playfulness of Closing Dynasty’s young protagonist. Lucky Lu may have been conceived as an expansion of Same Old, but I wanted to embrace that child perspective again; that was the main driving force. Still, I needed more stakes to propel the story across ninety-plus minutes. Hence the idea of the wife and daughter coming over from China, and everything crumbling the night before their arrival. You could go back to Bicycle Thieves, but I really wanted to subvert that a little bit—I didn’t want to follow that film’s structure, or meet one’s expectations, and I think Lu, who’s essentially the unluckiest guy in the world, made for a powerful engine.
Filmmaker: There’s an almost thriller-like quality to the film, especially at the beginning, when Lu must scramble to keep things from falling apart.
Choi: I can see why you’d think that. The film’s pace does have a sort of thriller tempo. There’s a ticking clock, a phone that keeps on ringing—everything around Lu is happening very quickly. But I wasn’t concerned with tying the genre to the migrant experience. It was, more simply, a matter of taste: generally speaking, thrillers are the sort of movies I love watching and want to make — movies that have a sort of emotional propulsion, and do not just rely on plot to drive everything forward. But I also think that Lu and his family belong to an invisible working class that isn’t quite explored, especially in films shot in the US, which made me particularly eager to investigate these marginalized communities. My own parents were immigrants and worked their asses off to feed and house us. Which means I can connect with Lu and Queenie both; I can relate to his pain but also understand what it feels like to see that from a kid’s perspective, and only realizing much later what you parents had to go through just to get by.
Filmmaker: And yet your film doesn’t work through big moments or declarative statements. You trade exposition for more lapidary lines, as when Queenie, looking at her estranged father for the first time in years, muses “papa doesn’t look like papa anymore.” I was hoping you could talk about your writing, and the kind of restraint you observed throughout. It made me wonder if the script was a lot thicker, at first.
Choi: That line’s one of my favorites, and you’re right: the story was a lot bigger, initially. But I think I’m just allergic to exposition, to be honest. There are moments in the film that still seem to me a little expository, but they were sort of necessary to plant some key pieces of information. Denis Villeneuve once said that if he could do a whole movie without dialogue, he would. I think the same. I love the language of cinema—the fact that one doesn’t need to rely exclusively on words but can use images and sounds and moods to tell a story. And I also don’t think I’m a very strong dialogue writer! [laughs] So anytime I could minimize the use of verbal language and rely on other means to advance the story, that’s what I did. I just love films that don’t take the audience for granted. Films that allow viewers to fill in the gaps, and figure things out with the characters, you know? I love ellipses, for example, and though here there aren’t any—the film only spans 48 hours—my next film will jump through time a lot more. But I’m glad you felt that restraint; it’s just what I was hoping for. The original script was a lot fatter, and I chipped away at it, after multiple rounds of feedback. Even the shooting script was a little beefier. Obviously in the cutting room things changed again.
Filmmaker: You have a background shooting commercials, and I was wondering if you think that’s influenced your approach to narrative filmmaking in any way. Salman Rushdie, who for many years served as a copywriter for an advertising company, has often spoken about how the experience shaped his prose. Would you say the same happened to you and your craft?
Choi: That’s another good question. I think Fincher said something similar: the training you receive as a music video or commercial director, one way or another, inevitably influences your narrative filmmaking. And it’s true. Shooting commercials forces you to tell so much in a very short amount of time. You need to be efficient with all elements of your scenes, and not let them linger for the sake of letting them linger. By now I’m familiar with the approach, but I wouldn’t say I’m the greatest at making punchy 15-second ads. Even as a commercial director, I’m more of a storyteller. But working in advertisement was a great chance to learn how to say a lot with very little. I love blocking. I love composing for my shots, and how much you can tell just by moving your actors around the frame. And that came from spending days and days working on commercials and trying to figure out how to tell this or that little nugget with one shot. Subconsciously, I think that all this seeped into my way of writing and filming.
Filmmaker: Could you speak about your choice to shoot on film?
Choi: Shooting on film for me was non-negotiable from the start. Every producer tried to dissuade me, but I was lucky to have Norm Li as my DOP—he’s a master, and shoots everything on film, so how could I choose not to when I had one of the best cinematographers in the world? We were lucky the producers were on board with that, because the economics of that choice don’t make any sense. I’m sure everyone says this, but there’s just a timeless feel to film. And I like to think that if you were to watch it again in ten years it’d feel more timeless than it would have if we’d shot it in digital, with whatever new lenses that might be trendy right now. There’s also the fact that film captures the textures of New York City in a way that you just can’t emulate with digital cameras. Closing Dynasty was different—we shot it in digital, and it looks beautiful in its own way, because the digital grants it a clarity which I think fits the child’s perspective. But I just missed the way the city was captured in Same Old. I was debating whether to shoot in 16 mm or 35 mm, and I was leaning for the latter, at first.
Filmmaker: How come?
Choi: Because I wanted something a bit sharper. I wanted it to not feel like it was shot on film, but still retain those textures, if that makes sense. I guess I didn’t want it to be too obvious. So we went back and forth between the two for a bit, but the economics of shooting in 35 mm are even crazier than they are with 16 mm. In the end we did some test footage. I told Norm I wanted it to be a cleaner, sharper 16 mm. I didn’t want to call attention to the fact that it’s film; I just wanted it to feel that way. I saw the footage, and decided to go with 16 mm.
Filmmaker: I feel as though the restraint we were talking about earlier plays out visually, too. Some of the film’s most intimate and heart-breaking exchanges are often shot from a certain distance. There’s something almost respectful about the choice; we’re never intruders so much as fortunate eavesdroppers.
Choi: When I watch movies that don’t manipulate me into having this or that emotional reaction—movies that don’t need camera movements or special effects or any other trick to achieve that—I find that they just hit me more. I wanted to do the same with Lucky Lu; I wanted to be as honest as possible and just be there with the characters, without tricking you into feeling anything other than what you’d naturally feel as you watch them unravel in front of you. Of course in the end there are moments that might lean into that, and I suppose I do try to guide you, in some way… But I tend to prefer to just sit back and observe, to not try to push an emotion but let it happen naturally. That restraint is possibly the single greatest break from the world of commercials, which are all about the visual flair: you need to make sure every frame is as beautiful as it can be. I want the opposite of that. No fancy lighting, no fancy movements—which doesn’t mean I don’t want my shots to be cinematic or beautiful, only that I’d rather not push that and manipulate too much.
Filmmaker: Was that was the same rationale behind the score? You use non-diegetic tracks very sparingly, and there are times when these seem to emerge from the city’s own soundscapes. What informed your conversations with composer Charles Humenry?
Choi: I love Charles’s score; he just finished recording it yesterday, with live musicians, which I think will make it sound even better. But again, I didn’t want it to push emotions—it’s just there to kind of support something. To tell you the truth at first the plan was to go without music. A blunt, sort of Dardennes brothers-type movie where the score would be purely diegetic. But there was something about the idea of bringing a kid into the film, into this particular story, that made me reconsider. I don’t want to give away too much about Lu’s family’s arrival in New York; I’d rather keep that as a surprise for the audience, because I think the music really does shift after that juncture. In the film’s first part the score seems designed to heighten Lu’s hopefulness—his family’s flying over, everything’s slowly coming together. But once things start to go wrong, the film goes quiet. The second half has a few short themes, but nothing more. I told Charles I wanted to create a theme people would remember, and I think he did. I was thinking of Moonlight, If Beale Street Could Talk, but also “Yumeji’s Theme”, from In the Mood for Love, which was a big inspiration for us—I thought its repetitions were very powerful. The Dardennes can create amazing movies without any score, which I love, but I thought this film needed to have one so as to capture, musically and emotionally, a child’s perspective, and how she might experience her journey across the city.
Filmmaker: Can we talk about your cast? I’d love to hear how your collaboration with Chang Chen began, and what made you think he’d be a perfect fit for Lu.
Choi: Chen was our number one choice. I watched him for most of my teenage and adult life, and to work with someone I consider a legend, I mean… [laughs] I’d never worked with someone of that caliber. We sent the script to his manager, who passed it to him. And once he read it, he agreed. But the whole thing started with a couple of Zoom calls. I even flew over to meet him and hang out for a day. I thought it’d be important for him to get to know me. I was so jet-lagged though, because we met the same day I landed—this was in Asia, and I was just so out of it. In the end we hung out for ten hours, a ten-hour meeting. It was a surreal experience. We had a casual coffee-lunch and talked about the script and once we wrapped I thought, Great, we’re done; now everyone’s going home and I can sleep. Instead we went out for dinner, another four hours. I was so exhausted I remember melting into my seat, all while trying to be present and hopefully convince him to be in the movie. But Chen is, honestly, the kindest, most generous actor; he was fully committed to the project.
Filmmaker: Lu’s a very laconic figure, and what’s perhaps most striking about Chen’s performance is its corporeal dimension. His shuffle, his gesture, his expressions—so much of what he does in the film happens through his body. Could you speak about how you went about creating Lu’s character, and how collaborative the process was? Did you give Chen and Carabelle Manna Wei enough room to improvise, or did you have a very rigid idea of what each scene would look?
Choi: Well, Chen only arrived a week before we shot, so there really wasn’t much time to dig into that kind of exploration together. There were no loose rehearsals; he just did it all by himself. He showed up and moved in a way that kind of blew my mind. His little jogs, the way he transforms when he’s alone, or again how he shifts when he’s around his family—those nuances, that’s Chen. All I told him at first was that Lu was a guy of many masks; he can blend and adjust to whoever is around him. I think Chen really liked this idea of physical transformations, but in the end, those were all his making. As for Carabelle, she’d never acted before; she’s only seven, and I think she was an incredible discovery. I’m so happy we found her. In terms of planning, Norm and I shot-listed everything for over two months before we shot. Every day we’d sit down and go through every scene. We didn’t deviate much in the end. I hate storyboards, so we just sketched overhead diagrams and kept a Google doc of all the shots. Naturally we had to adapt a little, but we were pretty strict in terms of coverage, and didn’t overshoot. We were quite specific, but within those constraints the actors could always change things up a bit, and we would adapt to their input. With Carabelle, she would just do what we told her, and as a non-professional, she was incredible. She might not know blocking, but she’d still hit all the right marks and was great throughout. Chen in a way was the complete opposite; as a veteran, he’s a master at blocking, and would often bring his own thoughts. Things sometimes shifted a bit, but nothing too drastic.
Filmmaker: I was quite intrigued by the way you captured New York. You elide all iconic sights to turn Chinatown into a maze of alleys, corridors, flats. Come to think of it, this too feels like a kind of restraint.
Choi: That’s another thing that was non-negotiable, and I’m happy you felt that way. I knew we were going to shoot in New York City, but I didn’t want there to be any clear geographical markers—I didn’t want to see the Empire State Building, say, or the Statue of Liberty, or anything you might associate with the city. If you didn’t know this was set in New York, you could imagine the story taking place in another metropolis. And I like that you used the word “maze”; the way we shot the city, we wanted to accentuate that feeling of claustrophobia, with walls everywhere you look, and no air to breathe. The only open window is the one you see at the very end, and throughout there’s a very suffocating feeling. There were times when we’d happen into some stunning locations and realized we just couldn’t use them—they were too beautiful. And I wanted to avoid beauty for beauty’s sake; every location and every shot had to serve the specific feelings we wanted to convey. Shooting a commercial requires you to do the opposite: you’re just chasing beauty, which was the opposite of what I wanted to do with the film.
Filmmaker: You’ve just won the 2025 TIFF-CBC Films Screenwriter of the Year Award for your script Yakult Ajumma. Totally fine if you’d rather not talk about it at this stage, but is this the feature you’re planning to shoot next?
Choi: Yes—I’d love to make that film. It’s ready to go, and I’m hoping to draw some interest for it after Lucky Lu’s Cannes premiere. But yeah, I’m really excited about it. The film’s based in Seoul, and it’s more of a Korean story, but still about another invisible service worker—except in a very different framework. It’ll be more of a mystery thriller as well as a portrait of motherhood, but a lot less neo-realist than Lucky Lu. Maybe something closer to Shoplifters: grounded, honest filmmaking, where the driving force again will be to serve this character. I’m very excited for that one.
