Against All Odds: My Story

by Norris, Chuck

  Alan promised he would try to set up a meeting, which he did, following the screening of another movie in which the businessmen had invested large amounts of money.

  The night before the meeting, I sat in bed wondering what I would say to the potential investors. I went to sleep with that thought in my mind. A few hours later I woke up with the answer.

  The next evening I walked into Alan's office and found about a dozen of his investors waiting. They had just screened their new movie, but I couldn't tell if they were pleased or worried. I started off by presenting a brief synopsis of my story and then told them about my background in karate. When I was certain I had their interest, I pressed in, saying, “I understand your trepidation about putting up the money for this movie. I know you don't know who I am, but there are four million karate practitioners in America who do. I was the undefeated world karate champion for six years. Since I don't fight anymore, the only way my fans can see me perform is on the movie screen. If only half of them come to see the film, that's a six-million dollar gross on a one-million dollar investment. You're going to make a lot of money!”

  That's what the investors wanted to hear. They were convinced and agreed to put up the money to finance the production of the film.

  A few days later I met with Alan and his partner, Michael Leone, who offered me forty thousand dollars to star in the film. I gulped and said, “That will be fine.”

  “And if the film does well, we'd probably be interested in doing at least two more movies with you.”

  “Great!”

  When I told Dianne how much they were going to pay me, she said, “You're kidding me!”

  “Nope,” I said. “We're in the big time!” We were flat broke, but with forty thousand dollars on the way, Dianne and I went out that night and celebrated.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE FIRST STEP IS THE TOUGHEST

  Ted Post, who had directed Clint Eastwood in Magnum Force, was signed to direct Good Guys Wear Black. He decided that since I wasn't an experienced actor, I should be surrounded by professionals, including James Franciscus, Dana Andrews, Jim Backus, Lloyd Haynes, and Anne Archer. I was excited to have such a great cast, but at the same time I was more than a little intimidated.

  Thankfully the producers also hired Jonathan Harris, a voice and drama coach, to help me with my lines. Jonathan had starred in the television series Lost in Space. A very proper man, who enunciated every word as though he were reciting Shakespeare, Jonathan worked with me eight hours a day for three weeks. He spent more time teaching me how to speak than he did helping me learn the script dialogue.

  One day Jonathan came over to me, put his fingers in my mouth, and stretched it wide open. “Open your mouth, open your mouth!” he screamed.

  “Jonathan, you're the only man in the world who could do that to me and get away with it,” I said when he finally let go.

  “I know,” he said with a smile.

  Even though I didn't always enunciate the way Jonathan desired, at least I learned all the dialogue in the screenplay, including an eight-page scene that called for me to debate the merits of the Vietnam War with James Franciscus. The shooting schedule called for this scene to take two days of filming. It was a very difficult scene for me because I had to sit through all of it without moving.

  I asked Jonathan to talk to the director and make certain that the scene was filmed toward the end of the schedule, so I would have a chance to get comfortable in the role. Jonathan agreed.

  When we started shooting, however, the schedule got turned upside down. James Franciscus had signed to do another film and would be with us for only two days. Consequently, the director decided to film my scene with James on the first day of shooting; worse yet, he demanded that the scene be shot in one day instead of two.

  I had my lines memorized, but on the night before shooting, I was so nervous that I had trouble getting to sleep. The following morning, when we started filming the scene, I discovered, to my horror, that James had rewritten his lines in the script. I had memorized my speech and the cues that led into it. When he started saying things that weren't in the script, I had a terrible time trying to ad-lib and splice in my replies. Worse, I realized that his character's argument was making sense, and that I was not winning the debate as I was supposed to.

  To add to my difficulties, the producers invited a reporter to interview me during the lunch hour. The reporter wrote that I was apprehensive and nervous on the first day of shooting. He was dead right!

  We started filming at 7:00 AM and finished at 4:00 AM the following morning. Twenty hours of straight shooting on my first day before the cameras! I felt as though someone had thrown me into the ocean with chains on my feet and told me to swim ashore. It was a horrendous experience, but I reasoned that if I could survive this first scene, I could survive the film.

  Although I was insecure at the start of filming, I knew that negative thinking would be destructive. Negative thoughts bring negative results, just as positive thoughts encourage positive results. I said to myself, I'm going to do the very best I am capable of doing and not worry about the difference in experience between the others and me.

  When the film was finished, everyone congratulated me on doing a commendable job. When I look back on the picture now, I realize that they were just being kind because I was not a very good actor. But it was the best I could do at the time. The movie was successful despite my lack of experience because I created an image people enjoyed seeing.

  It was with a great deal of trepidation that I invited Steve McQueen to attend a screening and give me his reaction. Afterward we had dinner together. “It's not too bad,” he said. “But let me give you some advice. You are verbalizing things on the screen that we have already seen. Movies are visual, so don't reiterate something verbally that the audience already knows.”

  “Next time let the other actors fill in the plot. When there's something important to say, you be the one to say it. Believe me, audiences will remember what you said. But if you just talk for the sake of talking, they won't remember anything.”

  He gave me an example of what he meant. In Bullitt, he had a scene with Robert Vaughn in which he was to respond with a long speech. Steve read the speech and realized that it was too wordy. He approached the director, who asked him what he would like to say. Steve crossed out the long speech and wrote one line: “You work your side of the street, and I'll work mine.”

  “Everyone remembered that line,” Steve said. “That's what you have to do in your movies. Read your scripts carefully, and if you don't like some of your lines, go over them with the director. Try to convince him to let you say as little as possible, and make your lines memorable.” An example of this is Clint Eastwood's “Go ahead, make my day.” Everyone remembered that line, a song was written about it, and President Reagan even included it in a speech.

  “Put as much of yourself into the character as possible,” Steve advised. “We all have multiple aspects to our personalities, and you have to draw on them, the light or humorous side as well as the dark and aggressive side. By using those facets of your personality, your character will become more real to you and the audience. Always remember that the real star is someone the audience identifies with.”

  Steve's encouragement meant the world to me, and over the years I've tried to follow his acting advice. It works!

  Despite their enthusiasm for Good Guys Wear Black, the producers had problems finding a distributor since none of the studios had faith in the film's box office potential. In desperation, the producers decided to distribute the film themselves. They borrowed money, rented theaters for a flat fee for a week or so in small towns, and pocketed the box office receipts.

  I traveled to the openings of the film, from small town to small town. I did interviews at schools, with the local newspapers, on local television, and with anyone who would talk with me. We started in Texas and traveled throughout Oklahoma, Tennessee, and other parts of Middle America. After a few week
s on the road doing ten or twelve interviews a day, I had learned to recount the plot of the film in anything from thirty seconds to three minutes, depending on how much time I was allowed.

  Each night after the show, my brother Aaron and several of our black belt students collected the receipts from the theater owner. Since we had basically rented the venue to show our own movie, the money taken in through ticket sales belonged to us.

  Many critics panned the film, saying I should get back to teaching the martial arts because I sure wasn't an actor. Such comments really hurt me because I felt I had done the best I could. I told Steve that I couldn't understand what the movie critics expected. “I'm not trying to win an Academy Award,” I said. “I'm just trying to make a film people will enjoy.”

  Steve laughed. “Look,” he said, “the bottom line is that if your movies make money, you will continue to work. If you get the best reviews in the world, but your movie bombs at the box office, you will be unemployed. The only thing you have to worry about is the public. If they like your movies, you'll have a long career.”

  Steve was right. Despite the critics' sour reviews, Good Guys Wear Black did well in the towns where it was shown. So well, in fact, that Alan Bodoh began looking for another screenplay for me. I asked Pat Johnson, another black belt and a close friend who aspired to be a writer, to work on an idea for a script.

  “Since you're a world karate champion, let's write a story about a world-class karate fighter,” he suggested. The screenplay Pat wrote, entitled A Force of One, was about a karate champion named Matt Logan who heads up a squad investigating a gang of drug lords who are taking over a city. The leader of the gang was played by Bill Wallace, my good friend and the world middleweight kickboxing champion.

  The climactic fight scene between us was filmed in a sports arena in San Diego. There were hundreds of extras in the arena, including about thirty tough-looking Mexican-Americans. While Bill and I were fighting, they kept throwing things into the ring, causing us to blow scene after scene. No one wanted to say anything to them because they were spoiling for trouble. Of course, we could have called the police, but that might have caused a real hassle.

  I suggested to the director that we stop filming while I went and talked with the rowdy bunch. I sat down in the middle of the group and noticed immediately that several of the troublemakers had guns and knives. But a few of them had seen Return of the Dragon and were fascinated by the fight scene between Bruce Lee and me in the Coliseum. They had a plethora of questions, and I answered them all while the director looked on, biting his fingernails.

  Finally one of the gang members asked me if I wanted them to put on a real rumble for the film. “Thank you,” I said, “but that won't be necessary. I would appreciate it, though, if you didn't throw things into the ring.” The rowdy guys agreed not to disturb the action again, and we finished the scene without any further incidents.

  After A Force of One was completed, the producers again had difficulty finding a distribution company. They decided to do exactly what they had done with Good Guys Wear Black, basically distributing and promoting the movie ourselves. I started all over again on the same promotional trail, plus some new venues, as well. I had made some friends on my first trek, so it wasn't quite as stressful the second time around, and the critics were a little more responsive to me. But I felt like a Ping-Pong ball getting beaten back and forth. Good Guys was still showing in various cities, so I had to fly to one city to promote A Force of One and then to another city to promote Good Guys Wear Black. I bounced from El Paso, to Detroit, to San Antonio, to Chicago. There were times when I arrived in a city and had to think, Now which movie am I promoting here? I stayed on the road nine months with both pictures!

  In addition to working the media, I also did martial arts demonstrations in public schools in cities where the movie was playing. That wasn't usually a problem in small-town Middle America, but I wondered if some of the inner-city high schools and middle schools in which I scheduled demos might get a bit more precarious. Would someone in the audience attempt to challenge me?

  The demonstrations went off phenomenally well, and the kids in the schools were all polite and receptive. My last demonstration in New York was at an all-girls school, with a student body of more than a thousand young women. I thought to myself, At least I don't have to worry about any tough guys out there wanting to challenge me.

  I dressed in my white gi, did the demonstration on stage, casually mentioned the fact that my movie was playing in the local theater, and concluded my presentation. Everything seemed great. After the performance a large number of teenage girls crowded up around the front of the stage to shake hands with me. As I went down the line, shaking hands, I greeted each young lady. They were laughing and having fun. As I was shaking one young woman's hand, she jerked so hard that I went flying off the stage. I landed on top of the girls and slid down onto the floor as they ripped at my clothes. I felt like a rock star as the school security had to come and help me get out.

  I couldn't believe it! The one school that I'd felt safe in, and I'd nearly gotten killed! I sure hope that girl bought a ticket to the movie!

  A Force of One grossed more than twenty million dollars, and Good Guys Wear Black earned more than eighteen million, far exceeding any predictions. The producers of my films prospered, as did I. My salary increased from $40,000 to $125,000 for A Force of One.

  When we did A Force of One, the producers had a small office with only one secretary. The staff grew to fifty within two years. By the time we made a third film, The Octagon, they had a staff of more than a hundred and had become one of the leading independent studios in Hollywood. My three films alone eventually grossed more than a hundred million dollars worldwide! American Cinema went public with working capital of sixty million dollars. I was proud to be a part of their growth.

  But then Michael Leone, who was Alan's boss, told him that he did not want to do any more Chuck Norris films, that karate films were dead. Alan argued with Michael about letting me go, as did David Miller, a vice president at American Cinema. David told Michael, “You're making a huge mistake.” But Michael's decision stuck, and he fired David. My contract was not renewed, and soon after, Alan Bodah left the company as well.

  Ironically, the company followed up with three very large-budget films that bombed at the box office. Soon after that, American Cinema experienced financial difficulties and eventually declared bankruptcy.

  My feelings were hurt because I thought that Michael Leone and I were friends, but I would soon learn that in the film business, you're a friend only as long as there's a need for you. Exceptions exist, of course, but not many.

  Fortunately, another film company, Avco Embassy, immediately offered me a movie called An Eye for an Eye. That film led to Silent Rage with Columbia Studios and Forced Vengeance for MGM. My career shifted into high gear with the successes of Lone Wolf McQuade, Code of Silence, Delta Force, and my three blockbuster Missing in Action films.

  In 1989, Delta Force 2 was screened at the Senate theater in Washington D.C. with about eight hundred people, including many members of Congress and their families, in the audience. Aaron and I were sitting in the front row next to Senators Pete Wilson and Bob Dole. Midway through the screening, Senator Dole whispered to me that he and Pete Wilson wouldn't be able to stay for the entire movie because they had to attend a vote in the Senate. “Fine,” I said. “Thanks so much for coming. I really appreciate it.”

  Toward the end of the film, they got up to leave as did all of the other senators. A few minutes later I turned around in my seat and saw Senators Dole and Wilson near the exit still watching the movie. And that's where they remained until the end of the film.

  They were late for the vote, and it was put in the Congressional Record that the vote was delayed seven minutes until Senators Dole and Wilson arrived. Now you know why!

  CHAPTER 16

  CLOSE CALLS

  One of the secret dreams that I held close to
my heart for many years was the desire to do something in honor of my brother Wieland's death in Vietnam. When film director Lance Hool showed me a screenplay about American prisoners of war in Vietnam, I felt strongly that this was the vehicle through which I could not only honor Wieland but also the more than two thousand other American soldiers who had not been accounted for in that horrific war.

  Unfortunately, although Lance and I were passionate about the project, nobody else in Hollywood seemed interested. It was the early 1980s, and our country was still smarting from the embarrassment at the hands of the Ayatollah Khomeini, who had held American citizens hostage in Iran for more than a year. With the inauguration of Ronald Reagan as president and the release of the hostages, the country's mood had improved. Few people wanted to relive seeing American soldiers held captive. At least that was the prevailing opinion in Hollywood.

  I went from one production company to another, trying to convince them that doing a movie about MIAs would be both honoring to Vietnam veterans and financially rewarding at the box office. Finally Cannon Films agreed to produce the movie we titled Missing in Action, the story of Colonel James Braddock's return to Vietnam to rescue soldiers that politicians and others said had long since been released.

  In the climax of the film, my character, James Braddock, barges into a courtroom in Saigon where a hearing is taking place on the subject of American soldiers still trapped in Southeast Asia. The men and women attending the hearing are about to reach the politically correct conclusion that no more Americans are being held captive in Vietnam, when Braddock bursts their bubbles by bringing with him into the hearing room a band of prisoners he has just freed from a Vietcong slave camp.

  When the film first opened, I went to see it in a public theater, which I prefer over Hollywood premiers, because I've always been much more interested in the ticket-buyers' opinions of my movies than the professional critics. One of the biggest thrills of my life came at an opening of Missing in Action that I attended in Westwood, California, when the audience literally stood to their feet in a standing ovation following the climactic scene in which Braddock proved that MIAs were still being held against their will in Vietnam.