POSTLUDE EVERYTHING CHANGES

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POSTLUDE EVERYTHING CHANGES

It's April 1999, and I'm sitting in my office in Hong Kong, waiting for another year to pass. 

Birthdays aren't really a big thing for me; I guess I feel like it's bad luck to keep track of how long 

you've been alive! If I celebrate at all, I prefer to do it very simply—a quiet dinner with friends 

and family—and I only do it for Willie's sake, because he's a sentimental old softy, and besides, 

he loves to make toasts.

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More often than not, on my birthday, I'm working: Flying to scout a new location. Going over 

script ideas. Viewing audition tapes. It's just like every other day, except that you never know 

when someone's going to jump out at you with a cake. The one time the JC Group staff threw 

me a surprise party, I almost had a heart attack—Willie called me, I walked downstairs, and 

suddenly a big crowd was shouting my name and singing. It was very nice of them, but as I 

reminded them later, I hate surprises.

(I may take the craziest risks in my movies, but when it comes to my real life, I prefer it as boring 

as possible. My friends ask me to go on vacation with them—"We're going on a jungle safari," 

they say, or a mountain climbing expedition, or a scuba tour along the Great Barrier Reef. "Why 

don't you come along?" I tell them they must be kidding me. "That's not fun—that's work!" For 

me; a vacation is eight whole hours of sleep.)

Today, I told everyone that I wanted a day of peace and quiet for my birthday gift. All afternoon, 

everyone's been tiptoeing around, whispering, trying really hard not to disturb me. They even 

had the receptionist turn off the ringer on the main phone. Poor girl; she's had to spend the past 

few hours staring at the switchboard, watching for blinking lights so she'll know when to pick up 

the line!

I appreciate the gesture; I have the best staff in the whole world, and I don't think I tell them that 

often enough. Most of them have been with me five, six, eight, even ten years. They've gone 

through everything with me, and I'd do anything for them. They're like my extended family.

But you know what? Two hours of peace and quiet is already enough to bore me to tears. "It's 

always the same," Willie always says. "You say you want some rest, and then a few minutes later 

you're asking for something to do. We clear out a relaxing day for you, and then you start making 

phone calls, or offering to help other people with their work, or cleaning the office. Jackie, the 

only way you're going to ever take it easy is if someone knocks you out and ties you up. Slow 

down! Smell the roses!"

So on my 45th birthday, I'm trying to smell the roses.

There's a tour bus that drives past the JC Group headquarters at the same time every day, and 

they always stop in

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front of the gates in order to take pictures of the building. Today, I happened to be looking out 

the second-story window as the bus came by; they couldn't see me, and wouldn't have been 

able to tell it was me even if they could. But the bus must have been full of fans, because as they 

stopped, they held up a big sign wishing me a happy birthday. You wouldn't believe how touched 

I was.

Even when I forget that another year in my life has gone by, my fans never do.

And this year went by more quickly than any I can remember.

In September, the first edition of I Am Jackie Chan came out, and I spent months traveling all 

over America, signing books, appearing on talk shows, and greeting crowds of fans. I never knew 

there were that many people who'd seen my movies, but after all, I've been making films for 

more than two decades now. Teenagers come up to tell me they've introduced my movies to all 

of their friends; fathers come up to me with their kids and say that they 've brought them up 

watching Jackie Chan videos; couples tell me that they first met at a screening of one of my 

movies.

It's wonderful. And a little bit frightening.

Recently, I was invited to visit Russia, and when I got there, all the soldiers in my military escort 

asked for my autograph. "You are a very big star here, Jackie!" they say.

What? In Russia?

Yes, even in Russia. One of the guards used to be on a submarine, and he said that during their 

long months under the sea, the sailors spend all their free time watching my films. When they 

return to port to be replaced by a new crew, they leave the videos behind. Crew after crew of 

Russian marines have seen my movies, over and over!

I don't know if he should have told me; maybe it's a classified military secret.

But like I said, it can be a little scary. You always hear actors say: It’s not easy being famous. It 

sounds ridiculous, because stars spend their whole lives trying to become a household name, 

and then they tell the newspapers that fame is terrible, there's no privacy, and so on and so on. 

Don't get me wrong, I love my fans, and I wouldn't have things any other way. Still...

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I was in Hawaii to attend a film festival, and one afternoon I decided to sneak out and go to the 

beach. Not to surf; as I said, that's too much like working. But the beaches in Hawaii are beautiful, 

and the sun is bright, and the ocean is so crystal blue that it looks like a special effect. I wanted 

to lie down somewhere and take a nap—just to get away from the noise and crowds. So I wore 

sunglasses, brought a big towel, and found myself a little shady corner near a palm tree. I made 

myself comfortable and closed my eyes…

…And then, a few minutes later, I heard someone whispering nearby. "I think that's Jackie Chan!" 

"Is he sleeping?" "I think he's sleeping!" "Should we wake him up?"

I lifted my eyelids for a quick peek. It was two teenage boys, probably about the same age as my 

son. Somehow, they'd seen me come down to the beach and followed me to my hiding spot. 

"Let's go get a camera!" they said. And they ran off to go call their father.

By the time they came back, I'd picked up my things and gone. I was in Hawaii for five days, and 

I spent a total of five minutes on the beach.

I love my fans. I love the attention, and the spotlight, and the chance to meet people from all 

over the world. But my father always says, "Too much of what you love is almost as bad as too 

little." So I've had to find ways of hiding. When I first became a "celebrity" - I was so young back 

then! - I always drove fast sports cars and wore flashy jewelry and watches. I had a big crowd of

my stuntmen around at all times to open doors for me and make sure people knew that Jackie 

Chan was here.

Now I drive a little Japanese car, a Mitsubishi that no one would bother to notice. And when I hit 

a red light, I'm always careful to stop a little bit ahead or a little bit behind the other cars, because 

if I stop exactly parallel to them, they'll look over and see me at the wheel. People get out of 

their cars at busy intersections to come talk to me!

And all of this craziness was happening to me before Rush Hour.

Rush Hour changed everything.

Right before it was released, I told Willie that I'd be happy if the movie made $40 million, just 

so\that it earned more money than Rumble in the Bronx. It would prove that I could 

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be a success in Hollywood. Even if I never made another film there, I could tell myself that I was 

no longer a failure in the United States, and I could go back to Hong Kong happy.

But Rush Hour made $31 million in it’s first weekend alone. More money than any of my films

had ever made—in just three days! I couldn't understand it; my agent couldn't explain it; the 

executives at New Line Cinema couldn't have predicted it. As the days went on, the movie 

showed no signs of stopping, and the phones began to ring and ring and ring. Journalists asking 

for interviews. Friends congratulating me. And studio after studio offering to set me up with the 

best directors and most famous actors in the world.

In America, $100 million buys you the word "superstar." Tom Cruise is a superstar many times 

over. So is Mel Gibson. And Tom Hanks. And Robin Williams. After Rush Hour, Hollywood 

people—who knew about me before, yes, you re Jackie Chan, wonderful, wonderful, can you 

speak English? — began to use that word to my face. Jackie Chan, superstar.

I guess it was flattering, but I'm not stupid. In Hollywood, you're only as big as your most recent, 

movie, and though maybe nothing is nicer than being a superstar, nothing is worse than being a 

'former superstar," which is what you turn into when your next film earns $15 million. So I wasn't 

going to be impressed just because some producer who'd seen one of my films—and not my 

best one, either—decided I was suddenly good enough to join the ranks of the big shots.

But two things did make an impression on me.

The first was the time I attended the Academy Awards. I was sitting in the green room by myself—

Willie had gone out for a smoke—and I was feeling like a complete outsider. There were big stars 

everywhere, and they were all talking, complimenting each other on what they were wearing, 

or predicting who would win in each category. John Travolta was sitting and reading a magazine. Tom Hanks was drinking a soda. People were looking at me and smiling, but I kept my head down, 

afraid to start a conversation.

And then, suddenly, Robin Williams came in—and stopped right in front of my chair. "Oh my God, 

you're Jackie Chan!" he shouted, pulling me to my feet and giving me a big hug. I didn't know 

what to do, so I just stood there being