SEASON’S TURN [218 - 225]

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SEASON’S TURN 

According to Willie, Ng See-Yuen, the mastermind of the independent studio Seasonal Films, was known for having a good eye for young talent. Before leaving to start Seasonal, he’d worked as an executive for Shaw Brothers. His coup, and his downfall, was that he’d tried to convince Run Run Shaw to sign Bruce Lee to the monster contract he wanted—and deserved. Shaw, who couldn’t imagine that a mere actor was worth that kind of money, suggested that Ng was crazy. 

I think the phrase that Americans use is “crazy like a fox.” Everyone knows what a mistake Shaw made in missing out on Bruce—even Sir Run Run himself, who told his friends afterward that turning Bruce away was the single biggest error he’d ever made. 

After the Bruce fiasco, Ng decided he needed to go off on his own. Seasonal, a well-regarded but small outfit whose films were usually quality projects starring no-name actors, was the result. 

The idea to borrow me had originated with one of Seasonal’s top stunt coordinators, a man named Yuen Woo-ping. Yuen was actually a Big Brother of mine, though he was old enough that he’d already left the school by the time I got there. I’d met him before through one of his brothers, who’d stunt-coordinated a film I’d worked on some years before, and we’d become friends. When Ng told me that it was Yuen who’d brought up my name, I immediately knew that I could trust him. Any producer who listened to his stunt coordinators was a man worth working for. 

“Jackie, let me tell you what I think,” said Ng. “I think you have a lot of potential.”

I gave him a half-smile. “Yeah, I’ve heard that,” I said. 

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” he said. “I don’t know you. I don’t know much about you. I’ve seen some of your stuff, and I’m impressed. And Yuen believes in you so much that he actually wants to direct you.”

That was flattering! Even to this day, I feel good when one of my opera brothers says something nice about my abilities.

“But the truth is,” he continued, “no one knows what you can do better than you. So I won’t tell you what we have planned for you, because we don’t have anything planned for you. I want you to tell me. If I put Jackie Chan in a movie, what can Jackie Chan do?” 

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I was stunned. Lo had gone to great lengths to drum into my head my insignificance. To him, I was just a cog in the movie machine, a part of his grand vision. I was pretty much disposable—cheaper and easier to replace than a camera, or even a spotlight. 

And here Ng was asking me for my opinion. Not on stunt work. Not on martial arts. On filmmaking.

Like an avalanche, it all came out—all of the conversations I’d had with Chen Chi-hwa, with Willie, and even with Samo and Yuen Biao back in my stunt-boy days. I told Ng my likes and dislikes, my dreams, my philosophy about what makes a good action sequence. I said things to him that I never knew I’d thought about before, but that all of a sudden made sense. 

“Mr. Ng—”

“N. G., please.” For some reason, that was the nickname he preferred. 

“N.G., Bruce was the best at what he did,” I said. “No one can ever do it better. So why should we try? People want to see living ideas, not dead bones. Bruce was a success because he did things that no one else was doing. Now everyone is doing Bruce. If we want to be successful too, we need to be Bruce’s opposite.” 

I leaped off my chair and into a fighting stance, remembering the show I had put on for Willie. “Bruce kicked very high in the air,” I said, demonstrating an above-the-head kick. “I say we should kick as low to the ground as possible. Bruce screamed when he hit someone to show his strength and anger. I say we should scream to show how much hitting someone hurts your hand.”

I winced and shook out my fist, a comical expression of agony passing over my face. 

“Bruce was Superman, but I think that audiences want to see someone who’s just a man. Like them. Someone who wins only after making a lot of mistakes, who has a sense of humor,” I said. “Someone who’s not afraid to be a coward. Uh, I guess that doesn’t make too much sense, does it?”

N.G. was stroking his chin, watching and listening to my animated demonstration. “I think it makes all the sense in the world, Jackie,” he said slowly. “All the sense in the world. Let’s do it. Let’s make your movie.” 

My jaw dropped. I wasn’t sure how he’d respond to my suggestions. I guess I was just hoping he wouldn’t shout at me. I never thought he’d take what I said seriously. 

But he had. And it made me excited and nervous at the same time. Because all this time I’d been telling myself, if only I could make my kind of movies, I’d be a big success. 

Now I’d see if I was telling myself the truth. 

N.G. decided to give Yuen the directing chance he’d been looking for, and brought him in to flesh out ideas for my first Seasonal project. It was a partnership that was as good as any I’d had in my life; even though 

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Yuen and I hadn’t overlapped during our periods at the school, he knew Master’s ways, knew what I was capable of and what would make me look my best. Only Samo knew me better, and at the time, he’d never had the chance to direct. 

I showed N. G. and Yuen some of the Snake Fist forms I’d been working on ever since Shaolin Wooden Men—showy, silly variations that had less to do with fighting ability than entertainment value. Combined with the acrobatic stunts of my opera training, this kind of Snake Fist would be a good style around which to base the film, we decided. 

The other major decision we made was to turn the relationship of master and student upside down. Usually, in martial arts films, the sifu is a wise and respected teacher, beloved by his disciples, whose death leads his best student to seek grim vengeance. Maybe as a bit of secret revenge of our own against our old master, Yuen and I suggested that the character of the sifu should be a crazy old beggar—but not so crazy that he couldn’t teach a young boy a lesson. And, rather than being a noble superman, my character would be a simple bumpkin without manners or ambitions, trapped into learning against my will. 

Unlike what Chen Chi-hwa and I had done in Half a Loaf of Kung Fu, it wasn’t our idea to make fun of kung fu films. With Snake in Eagle’s Shadow, we wanted to reinvent the martial arts movie—to bring humor and humanity to a genre that seemed to have lost its sense of both. 

N. G. suggested as my costar and on-screen teacher none other than Simon Yuen Siu-tin, Yuen Woo-ping’s father—a veteran Shaw Brothers actor and a former martial arts instructor at my school. Simon lent exactly the right touch of wily malice to his role as the old master, setting off my happy-go-lucky country youth perfectly. In the film, Simon plays the last surviving practitioner of the Snake Fist school of martial arts, which has been under systematic attack by the disciples of the evil Eagle Claw master (played by Korean tae kwon do expert Hwang Jang Lee). When I find the old man lying injured after an attack by Eagle Claw students, I come to his aid and give him food and shelter. 

It’s a decision I learn to regret, first, because it turns me into a target of the Eagle Claw school, and second, because it leads Simon to take me on as his disciple—and his idea of martial arts training features things like push-ups over burning sticks of incense, with him leaning on my back.

Somehow, I survive his instruction techniques and become a Snake Fist fighter. 

Unfortunately, in my first battle against the evil Hwang, I realize that Snake Fist is not powerful enough to defeat the Eagle Claw! It looks like the end for me and my master, until I discover my pet cat fighting with a poisonous snake. Even though the snake is fast and venomous, the cat wins the battle with his agility and leaping ability. Once the snake has struck, 

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it is committed; the cat, on the other hand, can twist and turn  away from any attack, and land on its feet with any fall. I realize that a cat-style martial arts would be stronger than Snake Fist, and perhaps even stronger than Eagle Claw. After all, cats eat birds, don’t they? 

And so, in the film’s final battle, I defeat Hwang using all of my master’s training, combined with the new Cat’s Claw kung fu that I’ve invented. Cat’ Claw mostly involves me leaping around and making meowing noises; it’s not a real kung fu style. But the acrobatics and tumbling that we incorporated into the style looked wonderful, and the fight was just as exciting as any of Bruce’s battles—yet completely unique in look, feel, and tone. 

In fact, when we were done with production, we realized that the finished film was different from any kung fu movie ever made. What we didn’t know was whether different would translate into popular. Especially since film distributors had warned N.G. in advance that a “Jackie Chan picture” was a recipe for financial heartbreak. Then again, in every way that mattered, this was the first real Jackie Chan picture. 

We shouldn’t have worried.

Snake in Eagle’s Shadow was a blockbuster hit. 

Every week, the three of us gathered in the production office to look over the box office totals, in Hong Kong, and then Taiwan, and Thailand, and Singapore, and Malaysia. The numbers kept going up. And up. And up. 

And then, one week, N. G. sat at his desk reviewing the figures, while Yuen and I discussed ideas for the next film we intended to do, occasionally getting up to demonstrate martial arts moves.

“Hey, you two,” said N. G., looking up at me and Yuen. “Here’s a question: what’s the biggest film in the history of Hong Kong?”

We stopped in midspar. “Fist of Fury,” I guessed. 

“Nah, Way of the Dragon was bigger than Fist of Fury,” said Yuen. “It’s gotta be Way of the Dragon.”

N. G. gave us both a broad smile. “You’re both wrong.” He handed us a slip of paper covered with scribbled numbers. “The answer is Snake in Eagle’s Shadow.”

Bigger than Bruce!

I whooped and slapped Yuen on the back, sending him sprawling, and then did a backward flip.

Bigger than anyone!

As much as I’d fantasized about the possibility of becoming a star, it was always just a dream, something that could never really happen. Fame and success belonged to other people, the beautiful ones, the wealthy ones. Not poor, uneducated, unhandsome boys like me. 

“No time to celebrate,” said N. G. “We have to prove to the distributors that this thing,

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this Jackie Chan phenomenon, is not a fluke. We have to make them understand that you, my boy, are for real. And that means another movie.”

Yuen looked at me, and I grinned back. “No problem, boss,” he said. “Listen to this idea…”

The idea we’d been working on would take the successful formula we’d begun with Snake in Eagle’s Shadow and bring it to the next logical level. It would be faster. Looser. Funnier. And it would throw an even more hallowed tradition for a loop. 

One of the greatest legends of Chinese history is a hero named Wong Fei-Hung. He was a doctor and a warrior, a healer of the sick and a protector of the weak. He was one of the most powerful martial artists of his time, one of the Ten Tigers of Canton, a rebel whose skills were feared by the tyrannical Ch’ing emperors and revered by his people. In fact, his story is at the very heart of the Cantonese cinema, because the first hit movies in Hong Kong history were a series of films about his life. (A series so successful, in fact, that it ran for ninety-nine episodes!)

What Yuen and I suggested was that we make a new film about Wong. However, rather than show him as a heroic adult, we would explore what he was like as a young man before he grew into his legend—lazy, naive, ignorant, and rebellious. 

“I like it,” said N. G. “I shouldn’t like it, but I like it.” 

And so we began shooting Drunken Master, the film that would change everything for me forever. We took the best stuff from Snake in Eagle’s Shadow—recasting Simon Yuen as a drunken old master who becomes my mentor. We invented a whole new set of kung fu styles, called Eight Drunken Gods martial arts, based on the drunken-style kung fu that Wong Fei-Hung was supposed to have practiced as his secret weapon. We added wild acrobatics, street brawling, slapstick antics, comic mime, and even some real drama. 

It was bigger than Snake in Eagle’s Shadow. 

It was bigger than any of us could possibly have expected. 

I had started to see things change for me when Eagle’s Shadow was released; other actors knew my name, and sometimes people recognized me when I went out. But after Drunken Master, I had my first real taste of what it was like being a celebrity. 

People ran up to me in public, asking for my autograph. I would see kids playing “drunken master” in the street, weaving and rolling their arms. Newspapers started calling me for interviews, and gossip magazines sent reporters to follow me around. And N. G. wasn’t stingy with the money my movie had earned; instead of the HK$3,000 that Lo Wei paid me per film, he gave me HK$50,000—more cash than I’d ever seen in my life. 

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Instant fame and sudden fortune do things to people. I’m human. And I’m not very proud of the kind of person I became. I was used to eating noodles in the street and sleeping on the floor of my little apartment. Now that I had money, I started to buy things that I’d always envied, big star things, like gold chains and nice clothes. I looked at automobiles, trying to decide whether a Porsche or a Mercedes best fit my new image. I remember walking into the same jewelry shop where I’d bought gifts for my parents; this time, I bought gifts for myself: seven watches, all Rolexes, one for each day of the week. I went into a boutique that I remembered as being very snobbish—one that had warned me that the clothes they sold were too expensive for someone like me. This time, I had them bring out all of their clothes one by one as I sat there, nodding and shaking my head. Finally, I pointed at random items, not even making it particularly clear which ones I wanted, and told the staff to send them to my apartment. I could tell that the salespeople weren’t sure which clothes I’d picked, but they were afraid to let me know. It didn’t matter; I intended to return some of them anyway, just to make life difficult for them. 

Everywhere I went, I was followed by a group of twenty people—stuntmen, acquaintances, and hangers-on. They weren’t my bodyguards, and they weren’t even really my friends; they were there because I had money and I was willing to spend it. But I was blinded by my ego and pride. 

I started acting like a big shot in public, too. There’s a hotel in Hong Kong called the Peninsula—the finest, most elegant place on the island. Of course, the rule in Hong Kong is that you must be dressed appropriately. A jacket, a tie, a suit, even a tuxedo. One afternoon, I strolled over to the Peninsula with my gang of followers, and walked through the front door—wearing shorts. It wasn’t long before the commotion drew the manager, who recognized me as Jackie Chan, the movie star. 

“Mr. Chan,” he said, his eyebrows quirking. “We are, of course, honored to have your business, but we cannot allow you to eat here wearing short pants.” 

“Why not?” I said. My followers clustered around me, nodding their heads and gesturing. 

 

“Well, we have rules about proper attire,” he said, sweat beads beginning to appear on his upper lip. “You must wear long pants…” 

I looked at him, in his sharply creased black suit, his bow tie, and his crisp white shirt. He was the kind of guy who would have kicked me out if I’d come to the hotel just three months before—the type of patronizing jerk who cared more about how someone was dressed than what kind of a person he was. A well-dressed Triad gangster could be seated here in an instant. Jackie Chan in short pants could not. 

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“Okay,” I said. “I’ll wear long pants. Give me a pair of long pants, and I’ll put them on.” 

The manager, flustered, said that it was all very irregular, but soon afterward left and returned with a pair of black slacks in my size. Right there in the Peninsula lobby I pulled them on over my shorts, and then motioned to my people to follow me into the restaurant. I drank one cup of coffee and then motioned to my followers that it was time to leave. 

The next day, we came back. 

“Mr. Chan, I’m sorry,” said the manager again, this time quite agitated. 

“What’s wrong?” I said, innocently. “I’m wearing long pants.” 

“But…you’re wearing a T-shirt,” he said. “We have a strict policy—”

I shrugged my shoulders. “You said long pants. You never said anything about what kind of shirt. Let’s go, boys.” 

And we brushed past the manager into the restaurant, where I had my second cup of Peninsula coffee in two days. 

It was very immature, but it was the kind of revenge I’d been hungry for all of my life. Somehow, I’d realized that being famous meant I could break the rules without getting punished. I could make my own rules. And even if I was punished, having money meant that I could get away lightly. 

It isn’t any different here in America. You see teenage idols on drugs, or dunk, or in jail. Too much, too quickly, with no one ever telling them no. I was fortunate to have had my master and my father when I was younger, so I never got into any real trouble. But, as I said, I’m not proud of the way I behaved. 

The one thing I am proud of is that I set aside HK$20,000 out of the money N. G. gave me and packed it nicely in a beautiful wooden box. On top of the cash I put an expensive pearl bracelet, and then I wrapped the box myself. The package was delivered to Oh Chang the next day, along with a note telling her that she had my eternal thanks—and more, but that part of our life was over, and we’d both accepted it. 

I moved to a beautiful new apartment, nicely decorated with real furniture. I don’t know what happened to my handmade junk; I guess it just got thrown out. I wish I’d kept some of it today, just for the memories. But at the time, I didn’t want to keep anything from my earlier life.

Unfortunately, there were some things from my earlier life that I couldn’t avoid forever. 

The phone rang, and I rolled over in my bed to reach for it. It was midmorning, headed toward noon, and I was still dead asleep, having spent most of the previous evening out with my boys. 

“Hello?” I said sleepily. 

“Jackie, is that you?” 

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It was Willie, whom I hadn’t spoken to since I’d finished my two films with Seasonal. (When I first began working with them, I’d spoken to Willie just about every day, telling him what a joy it was to work with Yuen and N. G., and thanking him for making the “loan” possible. Eventually, though, the excitement of success had taken over, and my communications with Willie had been lost in the noise of the crowd.)

And that’s when it hit me. 

My work at Seasonal was temporary. I was still under contract to Lo Wei. 

All of the success I’d gained could be pulled away just as quickly, if I returned to the box office failures that had haunted my past. 

“Hi, Willie,” I said weakly. 

“Congratulations on your success,” he said. “I’m very happy for you, but, I’m sorry to say, it’s time for you to come back.” 

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” I said. “I don’t care if it’s Seasonal or Shaw Brothers or anywhere; loan me out again! I can’t make the kind of movies Lo wants me to make.” 

Willie was quiet on the other end of the line—struggling again between his duty to the company and his friendship with me. “Jackie, let me talk to Lo,” he said. “I think I can make him understand that your success is based on your freedom—and that you’ll only come back if you can make the movies you want to make, the way you want to make them.” 

I thought about what Willie said. He was right. I was under contract. And, as my father would have said, it didn’t matter if Lo wanted me to put my head in a tiger’s mouth. A contract is a contract. My honor was at stake. But if only I didn’t have to trade my career for my honor!

My only hope was, once again, to trust Willie.

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