by Meyers, Ric
As of this writing, Sir Run Run Shaw, and the Studio he helped create, still lives. Celebrated as a philanthropist, he has donated literally billions of dollars to charities, hospitals, and schools. At the age of one hundred and three, he remains married to Mona Fong, who had been both his mistress and producer of all the Studio’s movies.
Picture identifications (clockwise from upper left):
Project A; the many faces of Jackie Chan; Jackie Chan in Police Story 3: Supercop; Rush Hour; Jackie Chan and Simon Yuen in Drunken Monkey in a Tiger’s Eye; Drunken Master 2.
Jackie Chan was born in 1954 with the name Chan Kong-sang (aka Chen Gang-sheng) to a chef father and a maid mother. His parents were poor but steady workers. Until he was seven, his folks cooked and cleaned at the French embassy in Hong Kong. But no matter how hard his father toiled to teach him humility and virtue, Chen/Chan followed in Bruce Lee’s footsteps: finding street fights.
Then came the single most meaningful moment in his life: his parents secured jobs at the American Embassy in Australia. Only two problems: they decided not to bring their young son and to enroll him in the China Drama Academy. This benign-sounding institution was an old-style Peking Opera school where, for the next ten years, Kong-sang would eat (not much), sleep (not much), and slave (loads) to learn acrobatics, song, dance, acting, and kung fu under strict, martial discipline.
His headmaster, Yu Zhan-yuan, was half-respected and half-feared. He was a stern taskmaster who was quick to punish and slow to compliment. But at least he was teaching them something useful in the world of Hong Kong show business. That, unfortunately, didn’t include reading or writing. While others in the school sought to survive, stay under the radar, or curry the master’s favor, Chan dedicated himself to impress.
He soon manifested the personality that shaped his life: that of the textbook abandoned child. Since, subconsciously, he couldn’t help feeling that his parents might not actually love him, he set out to make everyone else do it instead. Eventually he gained the nickname “Double Boy,” since he tried doubly hard than any one else. That held him in good stead when he finally “graduated” the Academy, only to find no call for Peking Opera performers.
But he had already been featured in movies as a child actor — Seven Little Valiant Fighters: Big and Little Wong Tin Bar (1962) and The Eighteen Darts (1966) being two of the better known. In 1971, at the age of seventeen, Chan found it the perfect time to use his burgeoning skills. His Academy big brother Sammo Hung Kam-po (aka Hung Chin-pao) was already established as one of the most sought-after action directors, so Chan soon found himself in The Little Tiger of Canton (aka Snake Fist Fighter aka Master with Cracked Fingers, 1971), but, truth be told, he didn’t make much of a favorable impression — not with his narrow eyes and greasy little mustache.
He fared much better as an anonymous stuntman — doubling the villain in Fist of Fury or getting his neck broken by Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon. “Everybody idolized Bruce,” Chan told me years later. “So no one would talk to him. But I asked him if he wanted to go bowling with us after shooting wrapped for the day. He just looked me up and down, and walked away. But then, that night, in he comes and sits down next to me at the lane where we’re bowling. He just sits there, watches us bowl for ten frames, then thanks me and goes. It was like the whole place was holding its breath! As soon as he leaves, everybody started slapping me on the back and shaking my hand. He really gave me face that day.”
But even Bruce’s kindness and Sammo’s help wasn’t enough to keep the young man gainfully employed, so he joined his parents in Australia, but only found work in construction. Its only benefit was gaining him muscles, and an American nickname. A fellow worker named Jack had trouble pronouncing Kong-sang, so he started calling Chan “Little Jack.” Then, when the other workers had trouble pronouncing “Little Jack,” they shortened it to “Jacky.”
Meanwhile, back in Hong Kong, a hopeful Malaysian film producer named Willie Chan Chi-keung was looking for a way to establish himself. He was duly impressed by Jacky’s contributions to such Sammo-influenced films as Hand of Death (1975, directed by a promising newcomer named John Woo), and sold the flagging Lo Wei on the idea that this fledgling star was the perfect choice to become the “new Bruce Lee.” Jacky, bored by construction work and unable to find contentment down under, was ready to give kung fu films another try. Intrigued by Chan’s possibilities, Wei signed Chan to a long-term contract, changed his name to Sheng Lung (“Little Dragon”), and set him immediately to work on New Fist of Fury (1976).
This film takes up where Bruce Lee’s left off, with the survivors of the kung fu school escaping Japanese soldiers to come across the Chan character. Nora Miao, who was the female lead in the Lee picture, returns to her role, and teaches Jacky what is essentially their idea of jeet kune do — here called Ching Wu. Then he goes back and takes vengeance on Lee’s murderer in a rote, lackluster way.
Although hardly inspired, his performance seemed to fit Lo Wei’s bill, so he plunged Chan into eight more movies over the next two years. But this was 1976 — the year Liu Chia-liang made Challenge of the Masters, Chang Cheh made three Shaolin movies starring Fu Sheng and Ti Lung, and a young upstart, independent producer named Ng Sze-yuen made a surprise hit called The Secret Rivals. What Lo Wei was grinding out made money, sure, but otherwise just wasn’t cutting it.
Nor was Shaolin Wooden Man, Jacky’s second 1976 film for Wei’s company (directed by Chen Chi-hwa). It was another wooden (all puns intended) kung fu film — with Chan taking revenge for his father’s death thanks to the coaching of a handy Shaolin monk. But this was the first film in which Jacky was given a little freedom in the fight scenes. Slowly, he started to find his way. There was little chance to improve in Killer Meteor (1977) since Jacky was playing the villain and Jimmy Wang Yu was playing the stolid, limited hero. At least in Snake-Crane Art of Shaolin (1977) — a Chang Cheh knock-off also produced by Wei and directed by Hwa — Jacky was back as the protagonist. He was becoming more proficient, while displaying more charisma.
To Kill With Intrigue was next on the treadmill. Lo Wei’s company didn’t have the money, materials, or even inclination to make great kung fu films. Instead, they relied on Double Boy’s eagerness to please. But even a performer of Chan’s ability couldn’t do enough with terrible working conditions, mediocre scripts, or his producer’s desire to maintain his ego’s status quo. When this film failed at the box office, Wei all but gave up on Chan … which turned out to be the actor’s trump card.
Contractually stuck with Jacky, Wei basically gave him carte blanche on his next picture. Chan took the opportunity to, in his words, “fool around.” Seeing that everyone was trying to copy Bruce Lee, he decided to do the opposite. Since Bruce kicked high, Jacky would kick low. Since Bruce was serious at all times, Jacky decided to make faces. Since Bruce never got hurt or made a mistake, well, you know…. Instead of fighting against the inevitable restraints of bad martial arts filmmaking, Chan went with them.
Half a Loaf of Kung Fu (1978) was the first recognizable “Jacky Chan Film.” He both had fun with, and made fun of, kung fu film clichés. In the opening credits alone, he lampooned exaggerated sound effects, frenetic editing, wooden men, the famed Japanese film series about Zatoichi the Blind Swordsman, and even Jesus Christ Superstar. His inventive, unusual work fell on blind Lo Wei eyes, so it was back to the grindstone for three more uninspired efforts: the 3D Magnificent Bodyguard (1978), the Liu Chia-liang Spiritual Boxer knock-off Spiritual Kung Fu (1978), and Dirty Ho knock-off Dragon Fist (1978) — all of which Jacky got to contribute his fight choreography to, since Lo Wei didn’t seem to care. He had apparently resigned himself to doing the best he could with the rest of this “box office poison’s” contract.
But two other people really seemed to care. There was the aforementioned Ng Sze-yuen — once assistant director of Jimmy Wang Yu’s The Chinese Boxer, and now the creator of the first major independent movie company, Seasonal Films. Ng ha
d been intrigued with Half a Loaf of Kung Fu, and saw the glimmer of a market that the two major kung fu film studios, Shaw Brothers and Golden Harvest, weren’t really serving.
Then there was Yuen Wo-ping. The son of venerated Simon Yuen Hsiao-tien, a master of stagecraft and northern-style kung fu who personally trained all seven of his children, Wo-ping had seen his father play kung fu villains alongside Shih Kien in the Kwan Tak-hing Huang Fei-hong series, as well as kung fu masters in Chang Cheh’s Shaolin Martial Arts (1974) and Liu Chia-liang’s 36th Chamber of Shaolin and Heroes of the East. As Ng saw something funny in Jacky Chan, Wo-ping saw something funny in his father.
Lo Wei, however, didn’t smell anything funny when Ng asked him to loan Jacky Chan to Seasonal for a film or two. All he smelled was money, and traded Jacky over with an ostensible “good riddance.” The three men — Chan as star, Ng as producer, and Wo-ping as director — were on exactly the same wavelength. Inspired by Liu Chia-liang’s Spiritual Boxer, they did it three better with Snake in the Eagle’s Shadow (1978), a brilliantly conceived and executed “new wave” kung fu comedy featuring Jacky as a hapless, mischievous, well-meaning bumpkin, Simon Yuen as an incognito, on-the-run, consummate snake style practitioner, and Huang Jang-li as a vengeful eagle claw killer determined to wipe out the snake school.
Chan seemed to explode out of the screen with joy at finding his place in the kung fu film firmament, while Wo-ping’s directing skills were never more effective. The audience shared their delight throughout, and only grew in exultation when Chan’s character develops “cat style” kung fu to defeat the eagle master. The film’s success was immediate and almost overwhelming, but the trio were already hard at work on the follow-up.
Drunken Monkey in a Tiger’s Eye (aka Drunken Master, 1978) proved to the trio, and everyone else, that Snake in the Eagle’s Shadow was no fluke. In fact, it was the rare sequel that improved on the original in virtually every way. The first masterstroke was to have Jacky play a new kind of Huang Fei-hong — a young, roguish, teenager who came before the august healer. The second was to have Simon Yuen play the legendary Beggar Su, a beloved historical character. The third was to immortalize Drunken Style, which Liu Chia-liang had featured in Heroes of the East, but not to this potent effect.
Although essentially a remake of Eagle’s Shadow, Drunken Master’s concepts were streamlined, and this new picture stands as one of the sleekest, flat-out, action-filled kung fu comedies. But quantity of action is not enough. Quality of action and character was the object here, and while Chan’s character, nicknamed “Naughty Panther,” moved from one fight to another, the imagination that went into creating the wonderful situations is extraordinary. Although essentially one long action sequence (the outlandish training scenes can be considered part of the action), the movie manages to build until the battle between a tiger claw hired killer and the Naughty Panther.
Half the time Panther is being trained (tortured), while the other half he tries to escape … but is always outwitted by the drunken master who teaches him the “eight drunken fairies” — a style that requires ample portions of alcohol. Chan “graduates” from the training part and moves into the impressive “forms” sequence, before the inevitable and anxiously awaited blow-out finale. There, Panther must save his honorable father from a hired tiger-claw killer (again played by exceptional leg fighter Huang Jang-li), and does so by inventing a new, delightful, amalgamation of the eight drunken fairies on the spot.
This finale was perfectly designed for Chan’s skills, and set the tone for the rest of his career’s action scenes, because he is a kung fu sponge. In the Peking Opera school, he had learned theatrical wushu techniques. From schoolmate Sammo’s productions, he acquired hung gar. From Bruce Lee’s sets, he synthesized wing chun and jeet kune do. Then, from Yuen Wo-ping, he infused taichi and Shaolin animal styles. Finally, he brought his own acrobatic, tradition-changing mentality to the mix, and developed a screen kung fu that was both constantly evolving but still clearly identifiable as his.
Ng Sze-yuen served as shepherd to Chan and Yuen’s re-creation, revitalization, and resurrection of the kung fu comedy revolution. Drunken Master was an even bigger hit than Eagle’s Shadow, and Chan went from box office poison to superstar overnight. Simon Yuen, at the tender age of sixty-six, achieved the stardom that had eluded him throughout his forty-five-year career. Ng was happy. Wo-ping was very happy. Chan was even happier. Lo Wei was happiest. Suddenly he had Hong Kong’s biggest star under contract for at least one more iron-clad film, and bragging rights that he was the one who had “made” both Bruce Lee and Jacky Chan.
Ng Sze-yuen saw the writing on the wall, and backed away. Willie Chan, Jacky’s agent and manager, stepped up. Golden Harvest, still smarting over the loss of Bruce Lee and their fumbling of Game of Death, moved in. But while they and Lo Wei haggled over details, the ever-honorable Jacky set to work on Fearless Hyena, his final film for his “discoverer’s” Company. It followed, in form and function, Eagle’s Shadow and Drunken Master’s lead, with one major difference. This time, Chan called all the shots, proving to his growing group of fans that the previous two films weren’t just Ng and Yuen’s babies.
Here he plays Lung, the grandson of the last of the Hsin-yi fighters. Like the snake master before him, the head Hsin-yi man is being hunted down, this time by Ch’ing Dynasty General Yen and his trio of killers — all who carry a form of “switch spear,” a spear that folds like a switchblade. Crafty, opportunistic Lung sneaks away from his grandfather’s forest shack to perform as a martial artist for money. He takes on all comers, disguising himself as a buffoon and a girl, until he inadvertently leads Yen to his grandfather. The old man is killed, but Lung is prevented from interfering by a crippled old sifu (here played by Chan Wai-lau). He takes Lung away to train him in “Emotional Kung Fu,” which involves crying and laughing to unleash untapped power.
When the smoke cleared, Lo Wei’s bank accounts were considerably fuller, and Golden Harvest had a newly-minted superstar — a “Jackie” of all trades who was always eager to please the new authority figure in his life … but not so eager that he’d ever let them completely Game of Death him. The arrangement was unprecedented: the man they slightly renamed “Jackie” (to differentiate him from the low-rent, box-office-poison “Jacky”) had full run of the studio as well as total control of his films — to the point that he could spend as much time and money as he wanted.
“To show respect,” Jackie told me, “they even gave me Bruce Lee’s old dressing room. Everyone told me it was haunted, so I decided to sleep there to show I wasn’t afraid. In the middle of the night I heard a scratching at the door. Even though I don’t believe in the supernatural, it took me three tries before I finally swung open the door. It was a stray puppy.” Not wanting to share the lost canine’s fate, Jackie immediately set about making his ultimate statement in new wave kung fu comedy: The Young Master (1980).
To do that, he needed his own team. On his previous films, he had watched with appreciation (and perhaps a little envy) as Yuen Wo-ping worked with his brothers Cheung-yan, Chun-yeung, Shun-yi, and Yat-cho. Having no siblings of his own (that he yet knew about [in later years he would discover that his father was a Chinese spy with a second family]), Jackie set out to create his own. As much as he admired many of his Peking Opera schoolmates, they were otherwise occupied by Sammo, so he called upon stuntman friend Chiang Wing-fat (otherwise known as Mars), and Lo Wai-kwong, to serve as foundation for an ever-growing, ever-changing team of collaborators.
The Young Master was Jackie’s “kitchen sink” film, in which he throws in characters and conflicts at will. The plot, such as it is, has him trying to rescue a friend from a life of crime. As he attempts to bring the chief thief down, he keeps bumping into the sheriff (Shih Kien) and his two children (Peking Opera schoolmate Yuen Baio and Queen of Shaw Studio kung fu Lily Li). But that was really just a thin line upon which to hang show-stopping kung fu and French farce-flavored sequences.
Another Young Master swerve is that Chan’s character is not a good enough martial artist to defeat his enemy (the mighty Wang In-sik). Throughout his last three films, Chan had made it quite clear that he liked torture/training scenes. The things he does to himself on-screen are scarcely believable. In the climactic fight of The Young Master, Chan is pummeled unmercifully but keeps coming back for more. He just keeps getting kicked and punched and hurled — sometimes in “dare-you-to-find-any fakery” slow motion — until he defeats the bad guy simply by surviving.
