By Stephanie Zacharek
By Charles Taylor
By Chris Klimek
By Chris Klimek
By Amy Nicholson
By Amy Nicholson
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
Up until this point, the tone of the film has been relatively light; here, however, things turn dark fast. As the camera makes clear, Chan has no way out. High walls prevent his escape on three sides, while the street gang closes off the fourth. In a standard kung fu film -- or in a standard action film, for that matter -- a couple of things might be expected to happen. The cops might show up and run the gang off, saving the hero at the last minute; the gang members might tumble forward one by one to be sliced and diced by the martial arts star, until finally they split, leaving him behind exhausted but triumphant; or the gang might surge forward en masse, there's a confusing melee and the hero struggles his way to freedom. But with Chan, none of this happens. Instead, the punks begin picking up discarded liquor bottles and, using a baseball bat, hitting them toward where Chan is standing. The bottles tumble end over end in delicious slow motion until they explode against a wall to shower Chan with sharp shards of glass. He begins bleeding, and the bottles keep coming. It is an astonishing example of the star's vulnerability and of the terrible, and terrifying, beauty that can be found in some acts of violence.
The second scene comes a little further along with the same participants -- Chan and the teenage gang -- but in a very different setting. Chan has tracked them to a warehouse to teach them a lesson. This he does using pinball machines, grocery carts, refrigerators and a pool table in an exquisitely choreographed fight sequence that owes as much to Buster Keaton and Gene Kelly as it does to Bruce Lee. Here, everyone gets hit, but nobody gets hurt. It's conflict as amusement, done with the same élan and skill as the earlier example of conflict as terror.
To an American audience used to films that latch onto a tone and, for better or worse, ride it from start to finish, such a flip-flop might be hard to take. What makes it work is Chan himself, a charismatic presence who really has no parallel in Hollywood filmmaking. Bruce Willis is probably the closest comparison, though Willis has neither Chan's physical grace nor the aura of innocence that prompts an audience to accept even his goofiest attempts at humor -- of which his movies contain more than just a little.
That's just part of the reason why in Asia, Jackie Chan is the number one movie star. His most recent film, First Strike, opened to record-breaking figures, and will likely surpass the box office take of Jurassic Park, Asia's top grossing film to date. In the past two decades, Chan has done more than 40 films, breaking practically every bone in his body along the way while gaining fame and notoriety for doing all of his own stunts, which grow ever more amazing. During the filming of 1986's The Armour of God, Chan nearly died when a botched stunt resulted in his taking a 45-foot fall; the perseverance of his "devil-may-care" attitude in spite of it all does his Chinese name, Sing Lung (translates as "to become a dragon"), justice.
Chan has been revolutionary in Hong Kong action cinema, breathing new life into the kung fu genre in 1978 with Drunken Monkey in the Tiger's Eye and the cop genre in 1986 with Police Story. What set these films apart from their counterparts is what's come to be known as the actor's trademark style: martial arts with a Chinese opera influence, slapstick humor and, of course, jaw-dropping stunt work. Chan has proven so successful that he's been given complete creative control over his films, and sometimes takes on the roles of director and screenwriter as well as star. In fact, the majority of his films begin shooting without a script; dialogue and story are created on the fly around Chan's ideas for stunts and locations. While the end result is, like much Hong Kong cinema, loosely plotted, fans don't care -- it's the visceral experience that they're after.
But in the U.S., Chan's popularity has been restricted to a cult following. Two earlier attempts to break into the American market -- 1980's The Big Brawl and 1985's The Protector -- floundered, in great part because Chan was doing Hollywood roles with Hollywood directors, and Hollywood didn't have a clue as to how to use him. But in the decade since Chan's last attempt at American movie stardom, things have changed. The popularity of Hong Kong cinema has grown dramatically, thanks in part to praise from the likes of Hong Kong-film junkie Quentin Tarantino, and as a result, now may be when Chan finally gets some long-delayed stateside recognition.
Rumble, the movie Chan's chosen to try to break his way into the States, is already a proven success; it was released a year ago in Hong Kong to huge response. It seems a logical choice for other reasons as well: it has a U.S. setting (or supposed U.S. setting; it was actually filmed in Vancouver, Canada, which ends up giving New York City some curiously scenic backdrops); a good amount of the dialogue was already in English; and there's a high percentage of Anglo actors, which might make the average American moviegoer find the experience less foreign. The Rumble brought to the U.S. has also been fine-tuned to help cater to the general American audience. In a nutshell, the differences between the U.S. version and the original are all post-production changes. Stock shots of New York have been added, the film was trimmed by about 30 minutes to tighten up the plot and a new musical score was added. The shortened version has lost some scenes that dragged in the original, but strangely enough, it's also lost some of the action. Too, many of the Chinese cultural elements are gone.
But the biggest difference between the two versions is the fact that almost all the Chinese dialogue has been dubbed in English. Unfortunately, the Chinese cast's lips don't move anywhere near in sync with the English dialogue, which may produce some unintended titters from the audience. Chan dubs his own voice, which is a mixed blessing; you can hear the real man, but it has to be said that his English isn't that good. And a fair amount of the dialogue has been changed or deleted altogether, in keeping with the film's tighter plot.
While that last change might seem like something that would get Chan's cult following up in arms, this version isn't really meant for them, or the Chinese population in America, for that matter. (Anyway, many of those fans have already seen the original version at local Hong Kong theaters -- Houston has one, the Diho Theatre on Bellaire Boulevard -- or on a video from an Asian video store. But before you decide to go to one of these stores to check out Chan as the Asian audience has grown to love him, remember that the Hong Kong Rumble isn't subtitled. So, to steal a funny line that was cut from the Rumble now available in U.S. theaters, you'd better know your Chinese.)
Still, for all the cuts and alterations, the U.S. Rumble is pretty much like the Hong Kong Rumble. The plot (to the degree it matters in a Chan film) is basically the same: Chan's character, Keung (which translates as "strong") visits New York for his uncle's wedding, helps out the new owner of his uncle's supermarket, tangles with a street gang that terrorizes the store and, when the mob gets thrown into the mix via a botched diamond heist, takes care of them as well. And the stunts -- the things that really define a Jackie Chan movie -- remain, including not only the fight scenes but an astonishing (and real) leap from one building to another and an extended concluding sequence featuring a runaway hovercraft, and Chan water-skiing without the benefit of skis, that has to be seen to be believed.
Nobody does it quite like Chan. Hollywood's special effects can make almost anything look real, but what Chan does is real (as painful outtakes of stunts gone awry, shown just before the credits roll, make clear). He is, in many ways, the greatest action hero and physical comedian of all time. Cultural differences and language barriers may prevent American audiences from experiencing the whole picture when it comes to Chan, but even the partial picture is intriguing. And it's a picture Americans may soon see more of. In its first weekend, Rumble pulled in more than $10 million at the U.S. box office. As a result, Chan's distribution company is lining up other Chan movies (he's already made two more since Rumble) for U.S. consumption. It's a mixed blessing. Chan may well get the U.S. audience he's been after, and U.S. audiences will be able to see better Chan than Rumble (which, though engaging enough, isn't his best). But the U.S. success also means that the longer, and sometimes better, Chinese versions of his films that Chan fans have sought out at specialty theaters will be pulled, to avoid confusion and competition with the English language release.
Oh, the Chinese Chan won't be completely gone -- film piracy is endemic in Hong Kong, and not all Chinese theaters in the U.S. are too concerned with the provenance of the film reels delivered to them -- but it will be harder to find. Maybe in the best of worlds we can hope that U.S. audiences pick up on what Asian audiences have long known, and the Chan we do end up seeing in America won't be Chan lite, but Chan right.
Rumble in the Bronx.
Directed by Stanley Tong. With Jackie Chan and Anita Mui.
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