LO’S WAY [200 - 202]

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LO’S WAY

Lo Wei Productions, Ltd. had hardly existed three weeks, but, I was assured, it had phenomenal potential. This, despite the fact that, other than Lo Wei as marquee director and producer, the full-time staff consisted of Willie—who was hired as general manager just a week before I arrived—and a few administrative personnel. Everyone else in the company’s small Kowloon offices was a contract worker, hired on a project-by-project basis or signed to a short-term deal. 

Including me: Lo Wei’s first star-in-training. 

As we ascended the stairs to the office, Willie’s showbiz instincts seemed to struggle with his basic sense of honesty. 

On the one hand, as general manager, he felt obliged to pump up the company’s prospects as much as possible. “The sky’s the limit, my dear Jackie,” he said, gesturing toward the ceiling, from which bits of cracked plaster occasionally dropped. “Hong Kong today, tomorrow the world. We’ll be taking New Fist of Fury to Cannes—that’s in France, you know—and looking for international distribution.”

My eyes went round as his words sank in, and I almost tripped and fell backward down the stairwell. 

“Ah…be careful, Jackie, I believe that step is a bit loose.” 

On the other hand, Willie punctuated his glorious predictions with wry apologies about the company’s minuscule budget. “We aren’t quite working in top-of-the-line facilities, I’m afraid,” he said. “Of course, that will all change once we’ve gotten some product out on the marketplace. Truly, Jackie, it’s all about potential. Just remember that one word—potential—and we’ll all be fine. Ah, here we are.” 

Willie struggled with the landing door, which was tacked with a hastily painted paper sign indicating that it led to the offices of Lo Wei Productions, Ltd. I reached around Willie, who was cursing under his breath, and yanked on the doorknob. Luckily, rather than coming off in our hands, it pulled open, revealing an open space that might have been a converted storage loft, and probably was. 

A few tables with beat-up phones were scattered around the front of the room. A middle-aged receptionist sat at one of them, reading a wrinkled newspaper. The walls were decorated with posters from movies made during Lo’s golden days. 

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Some of them I recognized; none of them, I noted, featured Bruce. Lo and Brue had parted ways in a very hostile manner. The papers, always hungry for good gossip, printed rumors that Bruce had threatened to kill Lo with a knife, although, when asked, Bruce responded that he’d hardly have needed a weapon to take care of his nemesis. “If I wanted to kill Lo, I could do it with two fingers,” the superstar snorted. 

Remembering the argument the two of them had had on the set of Fist of Fury, I had no doubt that the breakup was nasty indeed. Bruce’s temper was infamous. Almost as legendary as Lo’s ego. 

Still, I was a bit starstruck at the idea of working with a filmmaker who had played such an important role in Hong Kong’s cinematic history. 

“Here we are,” said Willie. “Your new home. I’ll introduce you to the other staff later; they’re at lunch right now, I suppose. Follow me, dear boy; I’ll take you to meet Lo Wei.” 

We walked to the far end of the room, where a folding screen blocked off a sort of open-air office. A thick fog of smoke from behind the screen turned the sunlight streaming through the dirty windows a hazy shade of blue. Two voices were engaged in a discussion—one in a bellowing, masculine tone, the other in a gentle and feminine one. 

Willie pulled a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket, gently dabbed at his nose and mouth, and then took a deep breath and composed himself. 

“Excuse me,” he shouted. “I’m back from the airport with Jackie.” There was a break in the conversation. 

“So what are you waiting for?” the male voice shouted back. “Bring him in.” 

In the small space behind the screen sat a large, fat man with thick black spectacles and an equally thick cigar. His face was red and damp, and his elbows were resting in a clutter of paper scattered across a heavy metal desk. I immediately recognized him as Lo Wei—a bit grayer, a little older, but still as imposing a figure as ever. Next to him, sitting in a rickety swivel chair, was a young and attractive woman, whom Willie introduced to me as Hsu Li-hsia—Lo’s new wife. 

I was surprised to hear that Lo had divorced Liu Lianghua, the former actress who had worked as production manager on many of Lo’s films; Ms. Liu had been a shrewd woman and a good mediator between the temperamental director and his actors. Of course, it was certainly common for big men like Lo to marry many times, and to have girlfriends and mistresses. In fact, one of the most powerful women in Hong Kong film, Mona Fong, had started out as Run Run Shaw’s mistress, before being appointed to a position near the top the Shaw Brothers studio. 

Ms. Liu, a former actress, had been a tough customer who always stood up for what she believed with passionate intensity. 

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She often would say that she wasn’t afraid of anyone, and she wasn’t—not even Bruce Lee. Raymond Chow, the head of Golden Harvest, had actually sent her to America as his representative in negotiating Bruce’s contract with the studio. (Raymond laughs that, in her meeting with the future superstar, she’d outlined the studio’s offer, guaranteed him that it was the best he’d find anywhere, and told him that the offer was nonnegotiable—all while waving her finger in his face! Luckily for Golden Harvest, Bruce found her determination charming rather than infuriating, and the deal was made.)

The new Madame Lo, Ms. Hsu, was cut from a different cloth entirely. She seemed quiet and almost delicate, and she had a beautiful smile, which she graced me with as I walked into the office area.

Lo, on the other hand, didn’t even spare me a wave hello. Instead, he looked me up and down like a farmer examining a possible prize cow. Stepping to one side, Willie waved at the noxious cigar fumes in the air with his handkerchief, and then shrugged and gave in, lighting up a cigarette. 

“He seems fit,” said Lo, finally. “Can he talk?”

Willie nodded in my direction. 

“I can talk,” I blurted out. “I was trained in Chinese opera—singing, fighting, acrobatics. I’m the best stuntman in Hong Kong, and I can be the best actor, too—if I get the chance.” 

Lo shrugged his heavy shoulders and leaned back in his chair, puffing on his cigar. “There are a dozen unemployed stuntmen in the alley behind this building who trained in the opera,” he said. “Let me tell you, kid, the opera is dead. This is the movies.”

Lo shifted his weight forward and leaned on his desk. “The camera doesn’t care how well trained you are, how hard you can take a fall, or how many somersaults you can do,” he grunted. “It’ll love you, or it’ll have you, and sometimes you won’t even know why. If the camera loves you, why, you can be a superstar. And if it hates you, you’re nothing, you got that?” 

Lo tamped his cigar out in a ceramic ashtray already littered with butts. “Now, I didn’t become Hong Kong’s biggest director by making mistakes, kid. If Willie says you’re the real deal, I’m willing to give you a chance. But you listen to me: I’m the director. It’s my set. It’s my movie. You forget that, and you’ll be out there in the alley with the rest of the deadbeats.”

I nodded, and Willie patted me on the shoulder. Lo turned his attention back to his conversation with his wife. Apparently dismissed, the two of us filed back out of the office. 

“You’ll do fine, Jackie,” Willie said. “Don’t worry about Lo; his bark is worse than his bite, as they say. And I do believe we’ll make you a star, my boy. I do believe it.”