Drunken Master

Wang Yang was already sixty-three years old. His eyesight had long grown dim with age, and his temples were touched with gray. Wearing reading glasses, he sat in his office in the main building of the Beijing Film Studio, flipping through newly printed copies of *New Film Works* and *Cinematic Works*. One was published by the Shanghai Film Studio, the other by the Emei Film Studio. They served the same purpose as Beijing Film Studio's *Film Creation*—platforms for accepting screenplay submissions. The studios shared a tacit understanding, but also secretly competed: if you produced an epoch-making masterpiece, I had to produce an even greater one. "Not a single one worth reading!" "Hardly worth mentioning!" After skimming them, Wang Yang gave a proud, haughty huff, rose to his feet with his hands behind his back, and ambled downstairs toward the cafeteria. Everyone he passed along the way respectfully greeted him: "Director Wang!" The first director of Beijing Film Studio was Tian Fang, father of Tian Zhuangzhuang. The second was Wang Yang. He served for thirty-five years, only retiring in 1986. Under his helm, Beijing Film Studio reached its zenith. He was exceptionally skilled at cultivating talent; the "Four Great Directors," "Four Great Cinematographers," and "Three Golden Flowers" all flourished under his guidance. Liu Xiaoqing was one of those Three Golden Flowers. She had originally belonged to another unit before Wang Yang poached her. He had innovative ideas about management as well. As early as the 1960s, he recognized the drawbacks of the major state-owned studio system and wanted to introduce a "contract responsibility system"—essentially Hollywood-style producer studios—though no such concept existed domestically at the time. In that era, it was far too ahead of its time, so it never came to fruition. "Director Wang!" "Director Wang!" "Old Wang, what took you so long?" Wang Yang entered the cafeteria, took his usual seat, and looked around. "I was scoping out the movements of our sibling studios. All right, let's get started!" With a sharp snap, the lights went out, plunging the room into darkness. Immediately afterward, light poured from the big screen. The dream-making machine, running at twenty-four frames per second, illuminated faces full of eager anticipation. At this time, television dramas were only in their infancy, literature fever was surging, poets were rolling up their sleeves, and pop music was brewing beneath the surface. Film was undisputed as the paramount art form—until its decline in the late 1980s and its gradual revival in the new century. Today's feature was a Hong Kong film. A big-nosed fellow sauntered onto the screen with an irreverent swagger. His name was Jackie Chan, and the movie was *Drunken Master*. Early last year, Jackie Chan had shot to fame with *Snake in the Eagle's Shadow*. Striking while the iron was hot, he released *Drunken Master* later that same year, raking in 6.76 million HKD at the box office—second only to Michael Hui's *The Contract*. It signaled that Hong Kong cinema was on the verge of entering its golden age. Even arriving a year late, the undeniable quality of *Drunken Master* still hit the audience with tremendous impact. Directed by Yuen Woo-ping, the film starred Jackie Chan as Wong Fei-hung—an idle troublemaker whose father enlists his good friend Beggar So to discipline him. Beggar So teaches him the Drunken Eight Immortals, and in the end, he defeats the villain... Beggar So was played by Yuen Siu-tien, Yuen Woo-ping's father. His image as a beggar carrying a wine gourd later became the basis for Chin Gentsai in *The King of Fighters*. "He's amazing!" "The fight choreography is so wonderful to watch!" "What's this guy's name? Jackie Chan?" "Hahaha, his bit in drag is killing me!" It felt as if everyone had entered a whole new world, freed from worrying about work or the ideological significance of cinema, enjoying a film purely as spectators. Of course, no one dared to make a ruckus, keeping their laughter hushed and restrained. "..." Wang Yang was thoroughly entertained, but his mind ranged further. He turned to the person next to him. "Are Fu Chi and his people still in Beijing?" "They've gone back to Hong Kong." "Is the matter with *The Shaolin Temple* settled?" "Yes. The Japanese wanted to buy the distribution rights and paid an advance. Fu Chi had a script written and went back to prepare. Filming should start in the second half of the year. Word is, they want to cast actors from the Henan Peking Opera Troupe." "A Peking opera troupe?" Wang Yang shook his head and pointed at the screen. "Look at their movements—flashy, thrilling, fluid, and fun. Martial artists from an opera troupe might have a solid foundation, but their forms are too rigid. The Hong Kong market is developing rapidly; if they stick to the old playbook, I personally don't have high hopes." "Nothing they can do about it. Things are tough for them too." "Indeed. Times aren't easy for our Hong Kong sibling companies either. Elder Liao [Chengzhi] personally commissioned this project. It hasn't been easy. I hope everything goes smoothly for them." Wang Yang sighed, then added, "Since martial arts films are so popular, shouldn't we consider broadening our genres? We can't keep making films about bitter suffering and deep-seated grievances forever." "Well... wouldn't there be risks?" "If we're afraid of risks, how will we ever get anything done? We need serious films, but we also need entertainment films. A two-pronged approach. Keep an eye out for scripts from now on—if anything goes wrong, I'll take full responsibility." While the leadership was chattering away in front, a select few were chattering in the back. The group from the Literary Department had unconsciously gathered around a certain young fellow, who was providing a running commentary like a live bullet-comment feed as they watched, both entertaining and educating them. "Now, this Wong Fei-hung was a real historical figure. Born during the late Qing and living into the Republic era, he began practicing martial arts at three, wandered the jianghu with his father at seven, and later opened a martial arts school in Guangzhou. On the side, he practiced medicine and sold herbs, founding a clinic called Po Chi Lam, and even served as a martial arts instructor for the Guangzhou naval fleet. "His father was Wong Kei-ying. Wong Kei-ying's master was Luk Ah-choi, whose master was Master Jee Sin. Master Jee Sin, together with Abbess Ng Mui, Taoist Priest Bak Mei, Fung Do-duk, and Miu Hin, were known as the Five Elders of Shaolin!" "I can tell right away you're talking nonsense! Why would a Buddhist temple have a Taoist priest?" Jiang Shan pouted. "Oh? Look at you, knowing that Buddhist temples don't have Taoist priests!" "You think I'm stupid? I'm in elementary school!" "Shan Shan, mind your tone. Don't be rude!" Jiang Huaiyan chided her, though Jiang Shan didn't take it to heart. Chen Qi smiled and explained, "Bak Mei started out in Shaolin, but later went over to Wudang. Wudang is Taoist. Mind you, this wasn't the Shaolin in Henan, but the Southern Shaolin in Fujian. "And that Miu Hin was no slouch either. He had a daughter named Miu Tsui-fa, and she had a son named Fong Sai-yuk. Boy, this Fong Sai-yuk was eight feet tall and eight feet around the waist! Wielding a silver spear drenched in heroic blood, he charged seven times in and seven times out of the Qing army camp..." "Isn't that Zhao Zilong?" Ge You exclaimed in amazement. "All heroes under heaven are cut from the same cloth! If Zhao Zilong can charge in and out seven times, why can't Fong Sai-yuk? Even Granny Liu was no simple pushover!" He started off sounding serious enough, but soon wandered off into pure absurdity. Even so, everyone loved listening to him—especially Ge You, whose small eyes blinked with shining admiration. He thought this younger brother was truly impressive: three years younger than him, yet knowing so much, and boasting a thick head of hair to boot. ... Watching internal reference films was one of the few times people could let their hair down. Yet happy moments never lasted long. When Jackie Chan defeated the villain and the movie ended, everyone was thrilled to have watched such a great show, but also regretted that it was over so soon. Once they stepped outside those doors, it was back to days of "unity, alertness, earnestness, and liveliness." The crowd filed out quietly and dispersed in twos and threes, whispering among themselves about the best parts of *Drunken Master*. Under the dim streetlights, Wang Yang strolled along with his hands behind his back. Faintly carried by the night breeze, a voice drifted over... "Why don't we have movies this good?" "They're different genres. They're good at making entertainment films, but we have our own strengths—military films, rural life films, realist subjects; they can all be very good." "Then can't we make an entertainment film too?" "You think it's that easy? Watching *Drunken Master* just now, which part was the best? Wasn't it the training and fighting scenes? And why? Because it taps into the audience's psychology. Take you, for example: if one day you suddenly bumped into an old master who taught you peerless martial arts so that no one in the world could defeat you, wouldn't you be thrilled?" "I'd be thrilled to death!" Ge You slapped his thigh. "Exactly. The better you can strike an emotional chord with people, the better the film will be." "..." Wang Yang followed behind for a moment, glanced at the young man who was babbling away, and strolled off. Jiang Shan was also led home by her father. Ge You walked with Chen Qi all the way to the entrance of the guesthouse, clearly craving more conversation. Being shy, however, he hesitated to initiate anything. Fortunately, Chen Qi said, "I mostly just revise scripts during the day, so I have plenty of free time. If you're ever bored, feel free to drop by for a chat." "Ah, great! Wonderful! Let's catch up another day, then." Only then did Ge You head back home.