Dream Factory: Cantopop Mandopop 1980s-2000

Review By Elic Chan

July 29, 2026

As you step out of the elevator on the second floor, you are immediately greeted by a small research desk. The entrance area displays historical artifacts related to various artists, including two large binders filled with photos, posters, newspaper and magazine clippings. Unlabeled and free of captions, the display invites visitors to flip through a visual history of who’s who in the Canto-Mandopop world. To the left sits a collection stand of mostly Leslie Cheung cassette tapes (Figure 1). Although not openly advertised, the exhibit has a heavy focus on Leslie, with several installations dedicated to his name.

Figure 1. A collection of vintage Canto-Mandopop cassette tapes featuring numerous iconic studio albums, compilations, and remix tapes from the 1980s and 1990s.

The opening exhibit features a fashion installation with a backdrop of timeless music videos of fan favorites (Figure 2). In total, there are sixteen iconic costume mounts, recreated by six local Asian designers who chose outfits reflecting their personal connection to the music. This sets a precedent for the entire exhibition. The Dream Factory showcase is not a broad overview of the Canto-Mandopop world; instead, it offers deeply personal tributes that reflect the unique pulse of the Chinese entertainment diaspora in Vancouver.

Naturally, the main centerpieces include undisputed classics: Anita Mui’s legendary farewell concert wedding dress, Teresa Teng’s elegant cheongsam, and Roman Tam’s dramatic peacock gown. But other choices feel more unexpected, like Aaron Kwok’s colorful, asymmetrical cotton shirt. While it successfully captures Aaron’s playful energy, I would argue that he has far more definitive fashion moments. For instance, the high-glamour, military-inspired look from his The Iron Curtain Temptation era, which reflects Michael Jackson’s 90s aesthetic, feels missing here.

Figure 2. A fashion exhibit dedicated to the iconic outfits of legendary Canto-Mandopop performers.

The curation also leans heavily on favorites, devoting multiple outfits each to Anita, Aaron, and Leslie. Personally, I would have loved to see more breadth. The exhibit misses a chance to feature a trendsetter like Sammi Cheng, who famously challenged the 90s fashion status quo. Again, I had to remind myself that this is not an encyclopedia. It’s an intersection of local memory and creative reinterpretation, and on that front, it delivers.

The second exhibit, a listening and singing lounge, is the true gem of the show. The setup beautifully mirrors the look of 90s karaoke lounges – including the cover of the songbooks that are laid out for visitors to explore (see Figure 3). There are eight songbooks wired with headphones. At first glance, the books are identical. Closer inspection reveals the curators have categorized them into eight distinct themes, each containing 50 tracks, amounting to a massive library of 400 songs to enjoy. At the front of the room, a small stage and lectern invite participants to pick a karaoke favorite and perform. The intention is not just to reminisce, but to reenact. As most Chinese Canadians know, Canto-Mandopop was not just background noise for car rides or dinners at the local HK cafe; it was something we actively performed at home and in lounge private rooms. With vintage karaoke laserdiscs suspended throughout the space, this creative installation pays perfect tribute to the performance dreams we all had on that stage.

Figure 3. The listening and singing space invites visitors to relive the karaoke lounge of the 1990s.

Among other wall installations, the back of the lounge features an installation by Bagua. It is a sprawling montage of donated albums, featuring artists who might have been missed in the opening exhibit. Legends like Alan Tam, George Lam, and Leon Lai finally get their roses here. Because of the crowdsourced approach, visitors might not see their personal favorites—notable missing icons include Hacken Lee and Cass Phang. However, the wall of fame also holds a brilliant, thoughtful puzzle. Embedded in the middle of the montage are seven traditional Chinese characters that translate to: “Across ten thousand rivers and a thousand mountains, there is always love.” Taken from a 1982 Hong Kong television theme song by Liza Wang, the phrase runs deep. Look closely, and you will realize the seven characters are actually formed using fonts clipped directly from the album covers themselves (see Figure 4). The message is poignant: despite geographic distance, music was the thread that sustained the bond between families, friends, and a fragile immigrant community.

Figure 4. Wall installation of Cantopop and Mandopop album covers by Bagua.

Next is a hidden tribute that contextualizes the entrance collection. In a dark viewing room, visitors intimately learn about Leslie through a short documentary by Black Rhino Collective. The documentary highlights his humble beginning, rise to stardom, his Vancouver connection and his influence around the world. For those not familiar with his work, Leslie’s fame in Asia spanned over two decades as a singer as well as an actor in more than 50 films. Tragically, he took his own life in 2003. Many speculate issues related to depression and/or stigma surrounding his sexual identity at the time. The back of the room hangs a memorabilia case, alongside a photograph of his memorial bench in Stanley Park, a place where devoted fans gather annually in April to commemorate his passing. The retelling of Leslie’s life is timely. His struggle with his sexual identity and mental health serve as a reminder to us the cost of prejudice and social rejection. To the Chinese community visiting the exhibit: what does his legacy demand of us today? If his stardom peaked today in 2026, would his story have been the same?

When I exited the museum, I was struck by a profound sense of longing. I simply did not want to wake up from the dream. Partly because I wanted to see more, and partly because I know this dream didn’t end in the 2000s. The culture lives on. Jacky Cheung just wrapped up his massive worldwide concert tour, and Keung To is due for another Vancouver visit.

Ultimately, the Dream Factory is an essential exhibition for anyone interested in Asian communities, diaspora, and cultural studies. It is not a historic archive of everything Canto-Mandopop. Instead, it offers fragments of glitter and glamour that blur the line between reality and escape, the line between here and there, and the line between the performed and the personified. A dream is never truly complete, never fully understood, and never the same twice. But as with all dreams, it is pure, and the best ones are the ones we remember by heart.

Acknowledgements

I am particularly grateful for the generosity of Yilin Chen (a member of the curating team). She was an invaluable guide and was extremely helpful in answering my many questions during my visit.