Films of Fury: The Kung Fu Movie Book

by Meyers, Ric

  This one stripped down Seagal’s desires to their basics. Basically a very busy twenty-four hours in the life of a very violent Brooklyn cop, the film’s plot was just a string on which to hang Seagal’s multiple scenes of aikido ass-kicking, climaxed by an extended sequence in which Seagal corners the villain (William Forsythe) in a tenement kitchen, then methodically takes him apart in a series of master shots (camera angles that take in the entire room) so you can see Forsythe systematically beaten through the power of aikido — creating one of the most pounding, brutal, and memorable scenes in Seagal’s career.

  Seagal seemed content with that direct, suspenseless approach, but the studio wanted more. So did Andrew Davis. Following Above the Law, he had had another few frustrating years. He managed to get The Package (1989) made, but it was a forgettable suspense thriller starring Gene Hackman as a military man trying to prevent the assassination of Russia’s president. After that, nothing. So, taking a script by J. F. Lawton, Davis hired Tommy Lee Jones and Gary Busey to play villains, got the use of the USS Alabama museum ship, and fashioned Under Siege (1992). It was Die Hard on a boat, but a really good Die Hard on a boat.

  It became Seagal’s most critically and financially successful film, but also one of his most telling, thanks to an infamous magazine article by the scripter, who revealed that it was Jones’ idea to disguise himself as a rock singer, Busey’s idea to kill the captain of the ship while dressed in drag, and that Seagal’s major contribution was the demand that a bare-breasted Playboy bunny be brought onboard in a hollow cake (instead of sticking to Lawton’s subplot concerning a female Coast Guard officer’s heroics). There is less aikido than ever before, but the stars and director try to make up for it with big booms and many, many bullets.

  Taking credit where credit was due, Seagal sought to control his movie destiny. His next film didn’t appear until two years later, but it was produced, directed, and starring Steven Seagal. On Deadly Ground (1994) was promoted as a serious ecological statement — being the story of an oil rig specialist who tangles with an apparently insane corporate polluter. But from the moment Seagal appears onscreen, background characters literally can’t stop talking about how great he is. What at first appears to be an odd directing and editing choice becomes an annoying distraction by the middle of the movie. Finally, when an evil mercenary team’s leader interrupts the climax to deliver a monologue on how incredibly talented Seagal’s character is, it becomes a laughable sign of insecurity.

  Adding fuel to that theory is a perplexing dream sequence in which Seagal’s character is “reborn” in a river of life wearing neck-to-ankle leather while naked “Native American” girls undulate around him. Seagal single-handedly destroys an entire oil foundry, kills all the corporate executives affiliated with it, and what happens? Is he arrested and jailed like some sort of latter-day Billy Jack? Oh, no; he is celebrated and caps the film with a speech about alternate energy sources. Suffice to say that the film did not reach the box-office heights of Under Siege. Therefore, a sequel of that hit was hastily called for.

  Thankfully, Andrew Davis did not need to direct it. He had gone on to direct the wildly successful movie adaptation of the television show The Fugitive (1993), starring Harrison Ford and Tommy Lee Jones, so Under Siege 2: Dark Territory (1995) was directed by New Zealander Geoff Murphy as “Die Hard on a train.” Although far better than On Deadly Ground, it was considered a disappointment. Rather than see that as a setback, Seagal took the initiative to take an effective guest-starring stint in the suspenseful Executive Decision (1996), starring Kurt Russell and directed by longtime editor Stuart Baird. Playing a self-sacrificing government commando, Seagal appeared in only about fifteen minutes of the thriller, but to great effect.

  That successful gambit completed, the next step was supposed to be a comic “buddy cop” picture along the lines of 48 Hours (1982), but when The Glimmer Man appeared in 1996, it was light on the comedy, very light on the “buddy,” and extremely heavy on the kind of action which had become associated with Seagal in the films prior to Under Siege. There was only one major difference: rather than film Seagal’s aikido in one long shot, each of his fights were now torn by dozens of fast editing cuts, so the beauty and smoothness of the moves were all but obscured. It was hard to tell what was actually happening anymore, and even harder to care.

  The good vibes Seagal had engendered in Executive Decision were all but dashed by his 1997 effort, Fire Down Below, which was, for all intents and purposes, an even more ludicrous sequel to On Deadly Ground. Here Seagal was a full-fledged Environmental Protection Agency agent (seemingly with a license to kill) going up against another, even more psychotic, corporate polluter. Only this time, producer Seagal throws in as much country music as he does aikido, seemingly trying to create a latter-day B Western in the tradition of Roy Rogers pictures. He even dons a buckskin jacket, pulls out an ol’ guitar, and sings a couple of tunes he penned himself.

  The film’s lack of success at the box office made an orphan of Seagal’s next movie, The Patriot (1999), so it had its American premiere on the Home Box Office cable channel. There, fans could enjoy Seagal as one of the world’s top immunologists (?!) who becomes a small-town doctor to get away from the machinations of big government disease-control types. But when a militant crackpot spreads a deadly disease, he needs all his killing and healing skills to save the day. As a major motion picture it was sadly lacking but developed a life, and income, of its own on home video.

  Finally, Seagal saw a way to do the movies he wanted to do the way he wanted to do them. By this time, the middle-aged star was thickening, and his reliance on aikido was thinning. But that didn’t matter to his many fans throughout the world. No matter how he looked or acted, his brand of relentless justice could still find favor in multiple countries. So, after a few more feeble stabs at big screen relevance (2001’s Exit Wounds and 2002’s Half Past Dead) Seagal became king of the “Direct to DVD” world — making more than twenty in less than a decade. 2003’s Belly of the Beast is notable in that it included kung fu and was directed by the exceptional choreographer Tony Ching Siu-tung (who also directed 1982’s Duel to the Death, 1987’s A Chinese Ghost Story, and 2002’s Naked Weapon), but the rest were of a type.

  There’s a great man (played by Seagal). Someone messes with the great man by threatening him or his family in some way. The great man goes out and takes care of the problem. Period. The end. It’s clearly McMoviemaking, but there’s a reason the fast food variant has billions and billions sold. One look at any of his “D2DVD’s” audio set-ups tells you all you need to know about why Seagal keeps grinding them out — his down and dirty, bare bones, revenge flicks come complete with at least five different language tracks and seven different subtitles, including Korean, Thai, Spanish, and even Portuguese.

  So don’t cry for Steven Seagal, America. He’s doing exactly what he’s always wanted to do, in the way he’s always wanted to do it — and making a tidy profit each and every time. He may not care what the mass audience wants, but he knows what he wants, and he delivers. Take this telling (slightly paraphrased) dialog from Urban Justice (2007) as he’s confronted by a beautiful, pacifist woman while preparing to wipe out the people who killed his son:

  Woman: “This is just for revenge.”

  Seagal: “Damn straight.”

  Woman: “The cycle of violence will never end.”

  Seagal: “I don’t care.”

  Woman: “You’re as bad as they are.”

  Seagal: “No … I’m a lot worse.”

  Well said, Steven, well said.

  But back in 1990, when Chuck was in Delta Force 2: The Columbian Connection, Jean-Claude was growling “wrong bet,” and Steven was Marked for Death, kung fu managed to make its way into American cinemas in disguise. It started in 1989, when Jackie Chan was rebuffed by U.S. theater owners. His producer was told that they would never show a film with an all-Asian cast. Golden Harvest Studios considered its options and decided, “Wel
l, what if they don’t know that the heroes are Asian? What if the fighters were … turtles?”

  Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird had originally created the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles as something of a joke, but they wrote and drew their independent comic book seriously as an homage celebrating their love of great martial arts movies. The public responded to these “heroes on a half shell,” and especially to Eastman and Laird’s honest conviction. Once a savvy marketing genius ran with the idea, these pizza-loving creatures (Donatello, Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Raphael, named for famous artists), were everywhere — which was where producer Kim Dawson and writer Bobby Herbeck found them.

  Making a deal with all concerned, they signed director Steven Barron. Barron became famous with a series of innovative music videos, including Dire Straits’ Money for Nothing, A-ha’s Take on Me, and Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean. His first movie, however, was a different story. Electric Dreams (1984) was hobbled by a silly script, but there was no question that it was the work of an original thinker. His thought for the Turtles was simple: the more outlandish the characters, the more realistic the atmosphere and photography had to be. It would be a concept that he had to continually fight for, but one that helped make the first Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (1990) film the only one worth watching.

  The animatronic suits for the leading characters were made by Jim Henson’s Creature Shop. But to fill those tiny suits required very small, very capable martial artists. They were three Asians and three Americans: Yuen Mo-chow, Choi Nam-ip, Chi Wai-chiang, Reggie Barnes, Ernie Reyes Jr., and Kenn Troum.

  “You could hardly see in there, and you could hardly breathe,” Troum told me. “And, oh yeah, you sweat buckets as well.”

  While Pat Johnson, veteran of the first four Karate Kid pictures (1984, 1986, 1989, and 1994) handled the stunts, the kung fu consultants were Chun Wai “Brandy” Yuen (who worked with Sammo Hung on Dreadnaught and Pedicab Driver, among others) and Tak Wai “Billy” Liu.

  “They all conferred together,” said Troum, “but it was usually Brandy and Billy who worked with us on the more intricate kicks and hits.”

  This combination of American and Hong Kong experience lent an authenticity that audiences around the world appreciated. It came together in an international hit, which the producers then squandered with inferior sequels that upped the level of absurdity while diminishing the realistic look of the original.

  The Turtles’ success in theaters, TV, and toy stores made networks and studios far more receptive to Asian concepts that they had rejected in previous years. For instance, Tokyo producers had been trying to convince American television stations that the many teams of costumed superheroes that were beloved in Japan would also be as big a hit in America. The biggest costumed superhero in Japan, in both size and success was Ultraman, but despite many attempts to Westernize him, his truncated, dubbed appearances on English-speaking television, and in American comic books, were mostly forgotten.

  The problem seemed to be the pesky differences between Eastern and Western cultures.

  To see one of these Japanese superhero shows was essentially to see them all. They all started with an interchangeable alien villain deciding to take over the earth. The only thing standing in their way is a group of supernaturally powered teenagers. So every week a new monster is dispatched to defeat the heroes and destroy the population. The first half of these efforts was all setup and the second half was all action. Mobs of biodegradable thugs are thrown against the heroes to soften them up, only to be defeated easily. The main monster would then appear and trash the town as well as the costumed teens, until the kids banded together into a gigantic robot. The monster would then grow magically to giant size and slug it out until the team blew him up. Then there would be just enough time for a joke or important life lesson.

  Television executives took one look at these redundant, silly shows — albeit colorful and action-packed — before dismissing them without a rational thought. Looking for any way in, the Tokyo entrepreneurs even tried getting American producers to laugh with them rather than at them. In the wake of Woody Allen’s What’s Up Tiger Lily (1966), in which Allen redubbed a bad Japanese espionage movie, members of the SCTV comedy troupe did the same for thirteen half-hour episodes of a high-flying Japanese television series. The result, Dynaman (1988), was shown on the USA cable network’s Night Flight anthology music and comedy series, before disappearing.

  Finally, the Saban company convinced Fox television to air what they were calling Mighty Morphin Power Rangers (starting in 1993 and still on the air as of this writing), hodge-podged from various seasons of the Super Sentai series (which has been running continually since 1975). They kept the Japanese action sequences while refilming the non-costumed moments with an interracial, English-speaking cast. In fact, to make it even more attractive to its young audience, they made one of the boy heroes (the yellow ranger) into a girl. It didn’t matter. As the long-suffering Japanese producers figured, the series was a big success in the States, spawning two movies as well as many different series.

  By the time of the first American film version, Mighty Morphin Power Rangers (1995), California (and, eventually, New Zealand) filmmakers were producing most of the material — allowing an actual woman in the yellow ranger’s suit and more kung fu to carry the day. But just like the Turtles before them, subsequent films and TV series were not as good as the first, but, again, just like the Turtles before them, new incarnations continue to be created. As of this writing, brand new versions of both the Turtles and the Rangers are being readied for the Nickelodeon Network, to air alongside the Kung Fu Panda TV show.

  The question is, will enough people care? A notable percentage of new audiences were turning to videogames for their prime entertainment. There, martial arts in general, and kung fu in particular, is a mainstay. Naturally movie studios tried to get in on the act, with mostly disastrous results. Mortal Kombat (1995), in fact, was the only halfway decent movie adaptation of a video game. It helped that the video game itself had more of a back-story than most, but it didn’t help that the game featured more blood than a date with a starving vampire.

  The filmmakers, led by director Paul Anderson, wanted to attract the under-seventeen crowd, so meaningless movement replaced the bone-snapping thrills of the game. Aiding greatly in the film’s acceptance was the game’s driving musical themes, not to mention co-star Robin Shou — the only one of the leads who actually knew any kung fu. Although Shou contributed some decent wushu to the special effect-laden mix, nothing made much sense in the finished film, and the seemingly slapped-together script constantly undercut whatever involvement the audience might feel. It was even worse in Mortal Kombat: Annihilation (1997), which not only made almost no sense, but wasn’t even remotely exciting. By then the kung fu had been reduced to empty movement, with no intellectual or emotional reason for being.

  But then Rush Hour premiered in movie theaters, one month after the success of the martial arts-vampire movie Blade (1998), while, a month after that, Martial Law premiered on CBS television. Meanwhile, the samurai-sword stylings of the long-running Highlander movie series (1986-2007) were still going strong, and, despite the tragic death of Brandon Lee, The Crow was given new life on television in 1998, with Mark Dacascos — a veteran of many kung fu exploitation films and future host of Iron Chef America — as the avenger from beyond the grave.

  But this was all just prelude to a game-changing event in 1999. Sure, everyone knew that Jackie Chan and Jet Li could do kung-fu, but what about that mythical audience the studio executives always talked about? The ones who would “never” accept a Chinese star? Who would be their hero? Would you believe Keanu Reeves? Actually it was more Yuen Wo-ping, because he was the one who choreographed the martial art action in The Matrix, the pioneering, influential science fiction epic.

  Despite its disappointing sequels, The Matrix cannot be underestimated in terms of American kung fu. This time it was American-born actors who were able to
learn enough to be almost credible as kung fu fighters. Their stances may be a bit off-balance and their actions more ice than water, but they were credible enough to convince viewers (and, maybe more importantly, other movie stars) that they too could, as Keanu put it on screen, “know kung fu.”

  Although the Matrix trilogy quickly descended into substandard superhero and sci-fi, that one fight between Reeves and Laurence Fishburne — mislabeled on screen as “karate” in true standard-operating-racism ignorance — was enough to whet whole new audiences’ appetites for kung fu … appetites that Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon quickly satisfied. Tragically, however, Hollywood raced forward to staunch the hunger as quickly and effectively as they could. The descent started, as many cinematic descents did, with Star Wars I: The Phantom Menace (2000).

  The non-spaceship action in the original Star Wars trilogy — Star Wars (1977), The Empire Strikes Back (1980) and Return of the Jedi (1983) — was clearly based on samurai films. The action in the Star Wars prequel trilogy — The Phantom Menace, Attack of the Clones (2002) and Revenge of the Sith (2005) was clearly based on kung fu films — specifically Moon Warriors, the 1993 “Crouching Tiger meets Free Willy” film directed by Sammo Hung, which was screened at Lucasfilm prior to the prequels’ production. That film’s acrobatic action was solidly translated into light-saber terms, but the fight choreography, credited to stunt coordinator and sword master Nick Gillard, was the very model for the internally-closed, pod people version of “kungfoo” known in the trade as “empty movement.”