MEETING THE PRESS [260 - 265]

Pag.260

MEETING THE PRESS

“How do you pronounce your name?”

“Do you really know karate?”

“Are you the new Bruce Lee?”

I sat at a long table in a conference room facing a small mob of interviewers, all of them shouting out questions too quickly for me to understand. David sat next to me, trying to bring the room to order. “Please, one at a time,” he said, looking at me anxiously as I slumped down in my seat.

“My name is Jackie Chan,” I said, slowly. “I do kung fu, not karate. And I am not Bruce Lee.” 

A woman with a notepad raised her hand and David gestured in her direction. “Can you break boards with your hands?” 

I had no idea what she was talking about. “Why would I want to break boards?” 

“So you can’t break boards?” 

David took a deep breath and tapped his watch. “Speaking of breaks, Jackie is very tired, and I think he could use a rest. He’ll be available for interviews for the next few weeks; please just call the offices of Golden Communications if you want to schedule a session.” Golden Communications was Golden Harvest’s U.S. subsidiary. 

Muttering in annoyance, the reporters got up from their seats and left for the corridor, where there were refreshments and snacks. 

“They’re crazy,” I said. “In Hong Kong, when I say something, the press just says, ‘Yes, Jackie!’ Here they all want me to show them how to do karate. I don’t know any karate. But I’d like to show them some kung fu.” 

I punched at the air, gritting my teeth in irritation. David patted me on the shoulder. “Now, Jackie, don’t be angry, you’re doing fine. This is just newspapers, anyway. Save your energy for the big stuff. I got a call from the publicist in New York, and she says they want you for TV!” And he named one of the top national morning talk shows. 

I’d watched a lot of television while I was here in the U.S., but I usually didn’t get up early enough to watch morning programs. I had no idea what show David was talking about, except that he, and everyone else, seemed to think it was very important. 

Pag.261

That night, I gave Willie a call. 

“Hello?" he said, in his familiar morning voice—not quite awake, but still trying to sound alert. “Oh, it’s you, Jackie. How are things in America?” 

I told him my story about being thrown to the media wolves. “It’s really terrible,” I said. “I have no idea what to say to these people. They all look at me like I’m an animal in a zoo.” 

Willie made sympathetic noises, “There’s a price to pay for success, Jackie,” he said. “The bigger you get, the more pieces of you people want. Now, there’s a secret to dealing with the media—all you have to do is plan out in advance what you want to say. We’ll just work out all the questions that they might possibly ask, and figure out answers for them, right? And really, you’ll be just fine.”

We talked late into the night, and when my head finally hit my pillow, I felt almost confident about facing the TV cameras. I had a script; I had my lines. How different could it be from acting in a film? 

“Okay, the interview is going to be taped, not live, so relax, Mr. Chan. If you have trouble with anything, we’ll just edit around it.” The producer was putting a body mike on my shirt, and having a little trouble because I’d chosen to wear a T-shirt. I never wore dress shirts if I could help it, and besides, for my first broadcast interview, I wanted to be comfortable. 

“Okay, I think you’re set. Do you want some makeup?”

 I shook my head. “No makeup,” I said. “Not a girl, I don’t have to look pretty.” 

The producer, a balding man with horn-rimmed glasses, gave a perfunctory grin in return and then escorted me over to the set, where I was seated in a comfortable chair. The host soon joined us and gripped my hand, making a face and shaking his fingers as if I’d crushed it. “You must be very strong,” he joked. “All that martial arts stuff—really builds you up, huh?” 

I nodded, smiling, and drummed my fingers on the arms of my chair, trying to remember the things I’d talked about with Willie. 

“Okay, are we ready to roll?” he said. “Great. Wonderful. Let’s go.”

“On three ... rolling!” called the cameraman.

“Hello, and we’re back!” said the host, his face shifting into a plastic grin. “With us now we have the next great star of martial arts. His first film, The Big Brawl, is coming soon to a theater near you. Let’s welcome the man who’s going to make you forget all about Bruce “The Dragon’ Lee—Jackie Chan!” 

I waved to the camera, keeping my smile fixed on my face. 

“So, Jackie, I hear you’ve spent most of your life training in karate.” 

“No, no, kung fu. Not karate,” I said. “Karate is Japanese; kung fu is Chinese.”

Pag.262

“But basically, they’re the same thing, right?”

 “Not the same thing!”

“Can you smash a brick with your fist?”

I shrugged. He was speaking very fast, and I was starting to get nervous. “I’m sorry?”

The interviewer’s smile became brittle. The producer, offstage, made some hand motions and pointed to his mouth and ear. “Okay, uh, well, there’s that old saying about letting your fingers do the walking, right? Why don’t you show us a little of your kung fu? You know, do a demonstration?”

I’d completely lost track of what he was saying by this point. I looked off-camera and saw the producer throw up his hands, as someone called out, “Cut!”

The host pulled off his mike, walked off the set, and began whispering to his producer. The publicist came over and tried to reassure me that things were going to be all right. “They want you to show off your kung fu, Jackie,” he said, striking a martial arts pose. “Can you do that?”

I was aghast. Here I was, the biggest star in Asia, and the host was asking me to perform like a trained dog! What was I supposed to do—sit up and beg? Roll over? I’d spent hours the previous night going over the things I wanted to say about my film, and all they wanted me to do was kick and jump around.

The publicist saw my face turn red, and he stepped back. “Don’t be angry, Jackie,” he whispered. “Listen, everyone wants to see what you can do. You’re the best in the world, right? Just let ’em see it, and they’ll be happy.”

 I thought about what Willie told me, about the price of success. “Okay,” I said finally. “If they move that table, maybe there’s room to do something.” I stepped off the set to stretch out. Behind me, the producer had returned and was speaking to the publicist.

 When I came back, the publicist had a resigned expression on his face. “Forget it, Jackie,” he said. “It’s... it’s okay. They’ll, ah, they’ll just get some footage of you in Los Angeles. You won’t have to go on camera today.”

I felt the tension go out of my body. The whole trip was a big waste of time—six hours from L.A. to New York, and now another six hours back again—but at least I didn’t have to do stupid things in front of that grinning host. And I was sick of speaking English. I resolved not to say another English word for the rest of the day, and I didn’t, communicating only in nods and shakes of my head.

Some months later, I found out the truth: the show had decided my English wasn’t good enough for broadcast and had cut my segment. There wouldn’t be any “footage in L.A.” The publicist had just wanted to spare my feelings.

Pag.263

The day I found out, I threw myself down on my bed and cried. It had built up inside me for months, my rage at being a permanent stranger, a foreigner in a foreign land. How could I go from being a prince in Hong Kong to being a beggar in America? Where was my pride? 

I had an interview with a big magazine later that day, and I showed them a different side of Jackie Chan. 

The first thing the reporter said was that even though I was famous in Asia, he’d never heard of me. “Is it strange not to be recognized as a star here in the States?” he asked. 

“It’s okay that you don’t recognize me,” I said, shrugging at him in disdain. “Everyone in Asia recognizes me.” 

Irritated, the reporter prodded me again. “Mr. Chan, it seems like you need to work harder to get into the U.S. market,” he said. 

“I’m not interested in the U.S. market,” I responded. “What I’m interested in is Asia. There are billions of people in Asia, and how many millions in the U.S.? America is a very small market." 

The interview didn’t go very well, and when it was printed, some people found my lack of humility shocking. But my take-it-or-leave-it attitude had an effect: after the interview ran, dozens of TV and radio stations began asking for interviews, telling the publicist that people were writing and calling in, wanting to know more about this high-handed new guy from China. Was he really that big of a star? Who did he think he was, anyway? Who was he? 

Even that morning show called me for another interview. I agreed, on one condition: the host would have to fly out to L.A. to meet me. 

And you know what? They agreed to my demands. And the show was a big success—without my having to do silly things to show off. (I only show off when I want to.)

I’d made my point. I wasn’t going to jump through any more hoops for patronizing reporters or feel any shame for being Chinese. 

I’ve done a lot of talk shows in America since then. My English is a lot better now, but the important thing has been the adjustment in my attitude. I know who I am; I’m Jackie Chan. I may not have perfect English, but tell me, how many talk show hosts can speak Chinese? Can Jay Leno? David Letterman? I can guarantee that I know more of their language than they know of mine! 

There are billions of people in China, and millions of Chinese people around the world. Someday, everyone will have to learn Mandarin, just like most people have to learn English today. 

Unfortunately, despite all the advance publicity, The Big Brawl was small at the box office. Most viewers who weren’t kung fu fans just didn’t bother to go see the film. 

I guess I wasn’t that surprised. The acting wasn’t very good, and the story was boring—but not as boring as the action. 

Pag.264

Part of it was the stiff choreography, which was still a source of resentment for me. Part of it was the fighters who were cast to play my opponents. They were big, beefy guys whose fighting skills were very limited. 

“In Hong Kong, I can hit my stuntmen, bam, bam, bam, and they’ll block every punch,” I complained to David. “American stuntmen are so slow! If I hit them, they’ll still be blocking the first punch by the time I’m swinging my third.” 

David nodded, agreeing. “Well, as I said, the next film is different. It’s not a kung fu film, so you won’t have to worry about that kind of action. You can just be yourself.” 

That statement was about as wrong as you could get. In Cannonball Run, I played a race car driver who was Japanese! Because I wasn’t supposed to be American, I didn’t really have to speak any lines, at least not any English ones. All I had to do was make funny faces. There was a little bit of fighting, but nothing interesting; it could have been anyone playing my role. It certainly didn’t have to be Jackie Chan. 

Except for the fact that Golden Harvest was trying to cover all of its bases. My costar in the film was Michael Hui, Mr. Boo himself—Golden Harvest’s other big superstar. With him and me in the cast, they could guarantee that the film would sell in Asia, and it did very well in Japan, billed as JACKIE CHAN and MICHAEL HUI in Cannonball Run, with Burt Reynolds. 

In America, it was advertised as BURT REYNOLDS in Cannonball Run, with Jackie Chan and Michael Hui. Way at the bottom. 

They were using the American stars to introduce me to the American audience; it was another strategy, the opposite of what they were doing with The Big Brawl. If I couldn’t become a Hollywood star on my own, they thought, at least I could ride to success on other stars. 

And I had heard of some of the big American names before—Dean Martin, Burt Reynolds. They talked nicely to me, but they had no idea who I was. It was all very phony— “Oh, hi, yeah, good morning, guy, great to see you.” Very Hollywood, in the bad sense of the word. 

I remember that Sammy Davis Jr., who was partnered with Dean Martin in the movie, came up to me and said, “Gozaimas!” every day. Which I later learned he thought meant “good morning” in Japanese. “You’re a famous cat in Japan, right, man?” he’d say. And I’d tell him, “No, I’m not Japanese— I’m Chinese.”  And then he’d say, “Right, babe, Chinese. Sayonara!”

It got so that I stopped wanting to talk to anyone. If someone approached me and spent more than three minutes chatting, I tried to find an excuse to get away. Eventually, people got the idea. 

The film turned out to be a very big hit in America, and also in Japan. (As a result, they made a sequel, which unfortunately I was obligated to appear in, according to my contract.)

Pag.265

In Hong Kong, however, it was a big flop. 

My Hong Kong audiences didn’t want to see me as part of an ensemble of American stars, and they certainly didn’t want to see Chinese people being made to look ridiculous. 

In my world, I was a star. In fact, I was the star—the boldest, brightest one there was. 

Why couldn’t Americans understand?