BRAWLING FOR DOLLARS [257 a 259]

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BRAWLING FOR DOLLARS

I don’t know why I thought that making Hollywood films was any more glamorous than making Hong Kong films. Trust me, there’s nothing more boring than being on location for a movie shoot. Especially if you’re one of the only people on the set who can speak your language. 

David had brought me down to San Antonio, complimenting me on my newfound grasp of English the whole way. “You speak like a native, Jackie!” he said. 

Well, that was an exaggeration. I could make my way through simple conversations, and I wouldn’t die of hunger or thirst if I were left alone in a strange city, but I wasn’t going to be engaging in any debates on philosophy. 

“Do they have Chinese food in Texas?” I asked gloomily. The truth was, I was still thinking about Teresa and our dinners together. Los Angeles had some great Chinese restaurants. 

“They have Chinese food everywhere,” he promised. 

He wasn’t lying; there was a Chinese restaurant just a few blocks away from the hotel where we were staying. Unfortunately, the food there was terrible, and it was the only Chinese restaurant in the entire city. Every time I finished eating, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t come back. And, of course, every day I’d end up returning, hungry less for the food than for a taste, however awful, of home—and a memory of my moments with Teresa. 

It kept my mind off my troubles on the set. 

Not that it was so awful; it was better than working with Lo Wei. But rehearsing the script, I felt my jaw tighten as I said each line. I was concentrating so hard on speaking the words properly that I could barely hear what I was saying. Any emotion, any passion or feeling, was blocked by a rocky wall of unfamiliar syllables. 

And then there was the action. 

I was used to directing my own stunts. Even if someone else was the actual coordinator, I’d always had the freedom to shape the intricate dance that made up a fighting sequence, adding my own unique spin. Improvisation was at the heart of all my performances. Even a scene that just called for me to run down a street, if I saw a way to do it that would add a burst of humor or adrenaline, I’d reshape the scene to incorporate the move.

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But that wasn’t the American way. The director, Robert Clouse, had scripted and storyboarded every scene in advance, deciding exactly where the cameras would be placed and how the action would move. This worked when he was directing Bruce Lee; Bruce’s martial arts were tightly controlled, a compact whirlwind of energy that could be captured in a single master shot. But my style was wilder, more open, and acrobatic. As my films became more sophisticated, I found myself running through fight sequences in two, three, and four separate takes, shot from different angles, to get every facet of the intricate choreography on screen. 

We ran through one scene in which I was supposed to move from a car to the door of my father’s restaurant, which was being held up by mobsters. As I walked around the set, I saw in my mind how the scene could go. Through broken English and physical demonstrations, I showed Clouse my idea: I’d leap forward out of the car, roll into a somersault to stay beneath the line of sight, and then backflip to a position near the door. 

“No, Jackie,” he said. “Just get out of the car and walk.” 

“Just walk?” I said, in disbelief. 

“Walk.” 

Reining in my frustration, I slowly walked from the spot where the car would be to the restaurant entrance. Then I turned around to face the director, and summoned up all of the English at my command:

“No one will pay money to see Jackie Chan walk!”

It was a prediction that would later prove tragically correct.

The shoot seemingly went on forever. 

Now, these days, I’m known in Hong Kong for taking a long time on my productions; usually, the best I can do is turn out a movie a year, because I want everything to be perfect. It takes twenty years to raise a child, right? So one year to make a movie isn’t that bad.

But at this point in my career, I was used to productions that started, ran, and wrapped in less than a month. Sitting for weeks on end in San Antonio, eating bad food, and walking through the same boring scenes was driving me crazy.

And I still had Teresa’s face floating in my mind. I imagined what it would be like to see her again, and thought about our one and only kiss. I was a little afraid that she’d have forgotten me after all our time apart, or that she’d have realized that I was just a silly kid, too ugly or unsophisticated to think of as a boyfriend. 

I looked different, too: to go with the 1930s period look of the film, I’d had to cut my hair, which was one of my most prized features. As I sat in the barber chair, David told me that I looked like I was losing my best friend. 

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Well, in a way, I was; at the opera school, all of us boys had to shave our heads, so as soon as I had the chance, I grew my hair as long as possible. It was like making up for lost time. I guess it’s silly when I think about it now, but back then, it felt like a disaster. 

Still, it didn’t kill me, and hair always grows back. I figured that by the time I had the chance to get back to Asia, I’d have my good old shaggy look back again. 

And I was right. 

The weeks on the set of Battle Creek Brawl passed like dripping water, but they were just the tip of the iceberg. I didn’t find out until I was back on the plane to Los Angeles, but my stay in America would be a lot longer than I expected. 

“Another movie?” I exploded. 

Battle Creek Brawl—now titled The Big Braw—was in postproduction, and Golden Harvest was eagerly awaiting its release. I was looking forward to getting back to Asia and seeing Teresa. 

It wasn’t in the cards. 

“Well, you have to stick around to do publicity anyway,” said David. “You know, let the American public meet Jackie Chan. And besides, this film is different—a lot of other big stars will be in it, too. Hollywood stars.” 

That got my interest. “Really?” 

“And it’s about an auto race, so you get to drive in a fast sports car,” he added. “Very exciting.” 

I decided I could wait just a little while to go back. Cannonball Run sounded like it might be fun. 

“Of course, first you’ll have to face the most terrifying challenge of all,” he said, adopting a mock tone of fear. “American reporters!” 

I scoffed at his joke. I’d survived a childhood under my master’s stick. I’d jumped off buildings for a living. I’d even faced down Triad gangsters. 

Why should I be scared of American reporters?