by Meyers, Ric
Galloping out of the ancient era was the Han dynasty, which stretched about four hundred years — from 200 B.C. to 200 A.D. Within hard-won governing walls, a certain ruling logic was in effect: a leader was chosen from the ruling family, and other members of the same family succeeded that person when he died. Simple to decide, hard to enforce. The Chinese had big families, and the infighting to become leader was ornate and often deadly.
Also, craziness wasn’t restricted to the royal family. Constant wars were being waged to take over China from both outside and inside. Different families wanted to create their own dynasties, and different Chinese wanted to create different Chinas. Even so, Chinese government was becoming more structured at the end of the Han dynasty. The central government was located at the capital, with a chancellor, an imperial chancellor, and a commander-in-chief advising the emperor.
Out in the field, as it were, were nine ministers of state, each supported by a staff of directors and minions. In addition, there was the Department of Agriculture and Revenue, and the Lesser Treasury. Throughout this organization were various officials, secretariats, and even eunuchs. None of these people were immune to the emotions that are the stuff of great motion pictures such as lust, greed, pride, and envy.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the equation, some people sought mental and physical peace in the pursuit of Taoism and Confucianism. Scholar/philosophers Lao-tze and Confucius may have been contemporaries in the fourth or fifth centuries, but both apparently developed a way of life that emphasized simplicity, humility, harmony, wisdom, and the acceptance of both human and mother nature in an insightful, personal, forgiving manner. The two may have even found it sadly amusing how followers and politicians would ultimately attempt to put the two philosophies in conflict to see which would become the more influential.
Back on the other side of the tracks, the Han emperor gave parts of the country to his relatives as kingdoms. Agencies and armies were everywhere, especially because warring nomads in central Asia, called the Hsiung-nu, kept attacking from the north. As 200 A.D. neared, things just got worse and worse. China was divided, and dynasties came and went with alarming frequency. Because of this, the period from about 250 A.D. to 600 A.D. was known as the Six Dynasties.
Now there was a mess. Although Taoism promoted simplicity and Confucianism spotlighted ethics and education, both were reinterpreted by followers, users, and abusers to fit their means, ends, and times. And the times were turbulent. Then came Buddhism, an Indian system of behavior founded on enlightenment and the desire to eliminate suffering by eliminating desire. There was much more room for abuse and corruption of this creed than the less difficult teachings of Lao-tze and Confucius. The basic problem with eliminating desire, of course, is that it can’t be done, because it’s part and parcel of human nature.
But within the seeds of this mess blossomed the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, a Chinese novel written by Luo Guanzhong, based upon the turbulent years at the end of the Han Dynasty, when the kingdoms of Shu, Wei, and Wu vied for supremacy — lasting from around 170 A.D. until the uniting of China in 280 A.D. As influential to entertainment as this huge book was, even more potent was the creation of “Jiang Hu,” initially mentioned by a poet somewhere in the 9th century, but cemented, like the Romance, in the 14th.
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms can be wildly compared to Gone with the Wind, in that they concentrated on civil strife within their respective countries — only the Chinese epic was far longer and served as source material for far more plays, books, poems, and movies. Jiang Hu, however, was a concept — an alternate universe of “rivers and lakes” (its exact translation) roughly relatable to America’s “wild west” … only this “wild east” was full of swordsmen and women all vying for power, lust, love, and happiness in a “martial art world.”
Beyond this simplicity, Jiang Hu can also be fully recognized by fans of comic books, which predominantly exist in the “Marvel Universe (Spider-Man, Iron Man, et al)” and the “DC Universe (Superman, Batman, et al)” — which are recognizable variations of America, only filled with flying, swinging, individually costumed superheroes. Such was also the case in Jiang Hu’s martial art world, complete with esoterically named, outfitted, skilled, and weaponed supra-heroes. This creation led to thousands of “wuxia,” aka “heroic chivalry” stories, and hundreds of movies.
Outside the writers’ windows, however, the Sui and T’ang dynasties (approximately 600 to 1000 A.D.) were really picking up the action. The Sui dynasty reunited northern and southern China, but collapsed from overextending itself. The T’ang dynasty saw the creation of the Shaolin Temple, and, thereby, semi-officially marked the sorta start of kung fu. Of course, kung fu, in many forms, was already well established. The more militant kind was alluded to in artifacts as far back as 2700 B.C. Confucius, the son of a soldier, was supposedly well versed in battle.
But outside the temple walls all sorts of court intrigues were going down, resulting in many lives being ruined or ended. Several of the emperors were truly perverse and depraved, creating all sorts of situations the Shaolin monks could fight. Life went on as usual in the royal court, with everyone stabbing each other in the back, front, side, or wherever a blade might fit. Everyone jockeyed for power, including the courtesans and concubines. One, Empress Wu, was so good at power games that she rose from being just one of the emperor’s women to deposing the rightful heir to become empress herself.
None of this happened — not the reunifications or deposings — without all manner of bloody complications. Empress Wu managed to hold on until she was eighty years old and then handed the empire over to a rightful heir, but he was poisoned by his wife, who tried to become Empress herself. She, however, was outclassed by Wu’s daughter, who got her brother to the throne, and tried to run the country through him. She, in turn, was foiled by her brother’s rightful heir, who took over in a coup that resulted in her “suicide.”
Things improved considerably (at least as depicted in modern cinema) with the coming of the Sung dynasty. The Sungs united a deeply fractured China, known as the Ten Kingdoms, into a Northern Sung and a Southern Sung. The Northern Sung consolidated and instituted reforms (which didn’t quite take). The Southern Sung had a sophisticated political structure, which led to legal problems and clerical corruption. Overpopulation didn’t help either. Already the Chinese numbered in the millions.
Then there was Genghis Khan. He led the Mongolian horde, who had decided to take over China. The Northern Sung made a deal with the Mongols, and for forty years, waited until the time was right to take out the Southern Sung. Khan’s sons, Mangu and Khublai, marched down in 1250, and, by 1268, Mangu was dead and Khublai was attacking. Within a dozen years the Mongols controlled the entire Chinese empire.
Thus began the Yuan dynasty, a less-than-one-hundred-year reign marked by resistance fighters and espionage. It was not a happy time. Most Asians are deeply concerned about their pride — their “face” — and this era marked a great loss of face. All that changed in the mid-1300s. Bad government led to rebellion. The Mongols were pushed north, and the Ming dynasty started in the south.
There were clan intrigues, gang battles, threatening western Mongolians, threatening far eastern Manchurians, threatening Japanese, and internal warlord conspiracies. There was also Journey to the West, a landmark novel published anonymously sometime in the late 1500s. It told of a Tang Dynasty Buddhist monk’s pilgrimage to India, but featured a scene-stealing character who was to become a cornerstone of Chinese kung fu fables: the Monkey King.
Otherwise known as Sun Wukong, he is a mischievous, clever, rebellious anthropomorphized simian who has a way with the kung fu pole. His powers and character so delighted so many that he has since been the source for adventures in every entertainment medium, from Peking Opera through cartoons to movies. He was certainly a great character with which to escape from the trials and tribulations of Ming Dynasty life.
Things came to a head in the mid-1600
s, when the Manchus combined with bandit leaders to take over China and institute the Ch’ing (aka Qing) dynasty. This was yet another roughly three-hundred-year reign that created great change, and magnificent fighters to survive those changes. It contained at least one, if not several, Shaolin Temple destructions, forcing the surviving monks to create new kung fu forms. It was also a time of remarkable foreign contacts. The early Ch’ing emperors had relations with Russia, Tibet, Turkey, Nepal, Burma, Thailand, Vietnam, and Korea. They also had some trouble with Rome and Christianity.
All those residents and visitors were probably entertained via the Peking Opera, a traditional form of theater that combined music, singing, acting, mime, acrobatics, and choreography (both dancing and kung fu). Arising in the 18th century, and fully developed in the 19th, it revolved around a set repertory of increasingly familiar romantic, comedic, dramatic, and martial plays which were judged by the quality of the exacting, nuanced, performances, as well as the complex and colorful make-up and costumes. Peking Opera, now also referred to as Beijing Opera, established theatrical traditions which remain influential in Chinese cinema.
In Peking Opera there are great heroes, but also great villains. In Chinese history, one great villain was the British East India Company. It wanted the wealth that China reserved, so to open its shipping lanes, they sent opium. Once introduced, it could not be gotten rid of. A booming smuggling trade sprang up, and the demand was so great that it even strained national silver supplies. The leaders in Peking and the walled city of Canton said they wanted opium out. England wanted the silver that opium brought. In 1841 the British attacked.
By 1846 China was open to the British, the French, and the Americans. Anti-foreign feelings swelled in Chinese hearts, leading to some very nasty goings-on … what with British heads impaled on spikes and all. The central areas of anti-Anglo feelings were Kwangtung and Canton. Pirates and bandits were everywhere, taking white people’s heads. In 1857 the British and French occupied Canton and started moving toward Peking. The Russians joined them.
By 1860, things that had come to a head came to a boil. There were Taiping rebellions and Muslim rebellions marking political and religious unrest. The more confusing things became, the more widespread was the corruption. All the out-lying areas (Nepal, Burma, and the like) were falling under British control. Meanwhile, Japan was getting into the act, coming into conflict with China over the sovereignty of Korea. Things got so bad between China and the “gweilos” (foreign devils) that the government leased Hong Kong to the British for ninety-nine years to serve as an import-export way station. It was basically a liaison between the fractious powers.
Things boiled over in 1900. This was the infamous boxer rebellion, where a zealous army of anti-foreign revolutionaries depended upon what they called the “Righteous and Harmonious Fist” to face down the gweilo guns. You can imagine how well that turned out. A form of “concerted effort” toward a goal of health and balance was monkey-kinged by the blind hopeful into a mythically invulnerable form of self-offence.
Actually, it’s little wonder. For centuries, kung fu students had been internalizing and personalizing handed-down knowledge, making alterations as needed for their own size, shape, and temperament — as well as that of their loved ones. The Ling family fashioned ling gar (Ling Family Fist). The Hung family designed hung gar (Hung Family Fist). A woman named Wing Chun developed, well, guess what, to suit herself and her friends. The Chen family and Yang family, among others, devised their personal variations on taichi (which, in itself, means “balance”).
On the inside, astonishing things were happening. But, on the outside, all the unknowing, unhappy, people could comprehend was that amazing things could be accomplished if you just followed the right teacher. The insecure and self-hating amongst them used that desire to their own advantage. On June 20, 1900, all-out war was declared for “support of the Ch’ing and extermination of foreigners.” By 1901, China was no longer under its own rule and the populace who could be humiliated were humiliated.
For the next decade, China suffered all manner of indignity: foreign intervention, civil war, and Japanese invasion, among others. Finally, in 1912, the Republic started to take shape. The National Assembly was created, populated by mostly revolutionaries. But just because they were revolutionaries didn’t mean they were any less insidious than their power-hungry ancestors. Dirty deeds were the order of the day. Yuan Shih-k’ai convinced the Assembly to declare him president, then promptly disbanded the Assembly and instituted a dictatorship.
But Yuan died in 1916, and members of the government battled amongst themselves to see what sort of country China would become, imperial or democratic. When the smoke cleared, there was the Nationalist party and the Communist party. By 1922, most of the influencing nations agreed to allow China to find its own way, and from there on in, it became a battle between Chinese regions — mostly north and south.
China’s story was full of “no-win” scenarios. There were many times during its eras when both sides of an issue were “right,” allowing modern filmmakers to picture all kinds of heroes: Ming, Ching, Manchu, Shaolin, or others. The 1930s were equally rich in stories. The Nationalists had established a new order, which lasted from 1928 to 1937, even though they warred with the Communists most of the time.
What brought them together was an outside enemy: the Japanese. For years, the Japanese ravaged China, committing atrocities that the Chinese still can’t quite comprehend, let alone get over. This has always been a vital aspect of Chinese kung fu movies: hatred of the Japanese. It wasn’t until relatively recently that a Japanese was pictured in a favorable light in a Chinese movie. For the most part, they are pictured as the worst kind of cowardly, arrogant, dishonest, and foul creatures imaginable.
By 1939, things had stalemated somewhat. The Allies threw in some five hundred million dollars to aid China in her fight. Sadly, the fight wasn’t just with the Japanese; it also continued between the Communists and the Nationalists. On December 7, 1941, that all changed again: Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. America was angry now, which didn’t help the Nationalists. As World War II dragged on, bringing poverty and inflation with it, the reigning Nationalist government fell completely out of favor.
Once the war ended, Chinese civil war raged until 1949. It was Chiang Kai-shek versus Mao Tse-tung, and Mao won for the Communists. October 1, 1949 marked the establishment of the People’s Republic of China, while Great Britain still ruled Hong Kong until 1997 (the Nationalists fled to Taiwan and created the Republic of China, which still has a troubled relationship with the mainland). So, now that we’ve established where all the kung fu films’ stories come from, we can get down to the history of the movies themselves.
Up until the last few decades, the kung fu film story was really the Hong Kong kung fu film story — the People’s Republic didn’t really make a bona fide non-propaganda action epic until 1981. Although many films were made in Thailand, the Philippines, and most especially Taiwan, few were of any note. In fact, I once recognized a Taiwan movie star working as a busboy in a California restaurant. He remembered appearing in about seven hundred movies in the twelve years he toiled as an actor. That was more than a movie a week! When I asked him what he was doing working as a busboy, he replied, “The pay is better.” So you can imagine the quality of those seven hundred movies. There were exceptions, of course, but those will be dealt with in good time.
In any case, there seems to be a slight disagreement concerning which was the first Chinese kung fu movie. The Hong Kong International Film Festival lists it as Thief in the Car (1920). Martial Arts Movies magazine listed it as Monkey Fights Golden Leopard in an article by James Seetoo. This was a 1926 silent film about the Monkey King, taken from Journey to the West. However, most English-speaking fans of the genre consider it to be The Burning of the Red Lotus Temple (1929). It hardly makes any difference, really, since the 1930s and 1940s were rife with nebulous martial arts-influenced films. The one thing they all repo
rtedly had in common was that the kung fu wasn’t very good.
These movies all shared an artificiality that reduced the effect of whatever kung fu was included. Even so, the films from 1920 to 1949 are interesting in terms of how they relate to the later movies, and for how their colorful titles compare to their somewhat staid presentation. For instance, there was How Wu Song Killed His Sister-in-Law (1927), Bloody Fights (1933), and, most importantly, The Adventures of Fong Sai-yuk (1938) … important because this latter film is the first to feature credited kung fu choreographers (Ho Si-kit and Ng Mei-lo).
We’ll be seeing a lot more from Fong Sai-yuk, but, in the meantime, the reason movies were being made at all was that Hong Kong was westernized. That is, they were more modern and less restricted than their mainland Chinese comrades. These areas were also overpopulated, and stricken with all manner of social ills that progress can create. Therefore, they were in far more need of entertainment. Up until 1949, this entertainment was highly stylized theater and cinema, mostly based on ancient traditions, presented in a Peking Opera-esque manner — much in the way that early American sound movies were little more than filmed stage plays.
But then a director named Hu Peng heard about a healer and kung fu teacher named Huang Fei-hong (aka Wong Fei-hung). Born in 1847 (and died in 1924), Huang Fei-hong was the son of one of the famous Ten Tigers of Kwangtung (a group around which several movies have been made). Other than the fact that he practiced medicine, was expert in many forms of kung fu, and excelled at a sport-contest called lion dancing, not much is known about the fellow.
Wu Pang rectified all that by starting a marathon film series that comprised eighty-five feature films over a twenty-year period. The Story of Huang Fei Hong, Parts One and Two (1949) was only the beginning of a phenomenon which was to become the foundation of the modern kung fu film. Up until then, most movie martial arts feats were totally ludicrous and completely inaccurate (a problem that still afflicts most bad kung fu movies, namely most of those that appeared in the United States following Bruce Lee’s death).
