‘Birth of The Dragon’, the latest film about Lee Jun-fan, professionally known as Bruce Lee, serves as a poignant reminder of my teenage obsession with movies featuring the late actor.
Bruce Lee, who passed away at 32 on July 20, 1973, in Hong Kong, then a British colony, was born on Nov 27, 1940, in Chinatown, San Francisco.
Lee, a versatile figure who possessed roles as a film actor, director, martial artist, martial arts instructor, and philosopher (holding a Master’s Degree in Philosophy from the University of Washington), revolutionized traditional Hong Kong martial arts cinema.
His films not only garnered immense popularity and acclaim but also sparked a newfound Western fascination with Chinese martial arts during the 1970s, effectively broadening global perspectives on the art form.
The news of Bruce Lee’s untimely passing reached me through the radio one afternoon in August 1973 at our old Kedap longhouse. At that time, I was adorning our humble room in preparation for our upcoming Gawai Antu.
School holidays were in full swing, and I was a student in Form Six Lower at Methodist Secondary School Sibu. Among the decorations, a painting of Bruce Lee, crafted by my hand, was to grace our walls.
Several households in Kedap had also commissioned me to create similar artworks. The moment I heard of his demise, I halted my decorating efforts and mourned the loss of my idol and hero.
Subsequently, following Bruce Lee’s passing, my collection grew to encompass nearly all of his films in VHS, later transitioning to VCDs and DVDs. I also amassed a variety of magazines and memorabilia dedicated to Lee, including works featuring his late son Brandon.
Notably, a VCD featuring his daughter Shannon starred in a borrowed copy never returned to me by a friend who would later ascend to positions of political prominence in the early 1990s.
Before the era of Bruce Lee’s iconic films such as “Big Boss,” “Fist of Fury,” “Way of The Dragon,” “Enter the Dragon,” and the incomplete “The Game of Death,” my interest in Chinese cinema had already been piqued.
A monthly English publication titled “The Southern Screen,” focusing on Hong Kong and Taiwanese cinema, captivated me since 1968. By the time I departed SMK Saratok for Methodist Secondary School in Sibu at the close of 1972, I had diligently collected nearly every issue, immersing myself in the cinematic world it unveiled.
Those bygone days marked the pinnacle of Shaw Brothers, the renowned Hong Kong-based film company boasting the world’s largest array of Chinese-made films.
During extended school breaks since 1968, my primary goal was to accrue sufficient funds for bus and express boat fares to Sibu from Saratok to reunite with my eldest brother Edward, with additional funds earmarked for cinema outings.
In Sibu, establishments like Lido, Rex, Palace, Cathay, King Hua, Zenith, and others served as our beloved weekend ‘movie hunting grounds.’ A matinee double-feature or two-in-one presentation was a coveted opportunity, allowing audiences to immerse themselves in up to four hours of cinematic escapades, albeit sometimes enduring the pungent odour of urine in certain theatres, particularly prevalent in the front rows near the restroom entrance.
The names of revered Chinese actors from the 1960s and 1970s—Jimmy Wang Yu, David Chiang, Ti Lung, Yueh Hua, Chin Han, Chen Kwan Tai, Alexander Fu Sheng, Chen Sing, Charlie Tsin, Lo Lieh, Yang Hua, Tang Kwang Lung, Ku Feng, Chow Yun-fat, and many others—were on everyone’s lips, embodying the era’s cinematic icons. Subsequently, luminaries such as Jackie Chan, Andy Lau, Jet Li, and Donnie Yen emerged as contemporary favourites, enriching the tapestry of Chinese cinema.
Among their female counterparts, luminaries like Li Ching, Brigitte Lin Ching-Hsia, Lily Ho, Betty Ting Pei, Nora Miao, Zhang Ziyi, Gou Ling, Cheng Pei-Pei, and others commanded adoration and respect.
Beyond Bruce Lee’s cinematic legacy, notable productions such as “The One-Armed Swordsman” (Jimmy Wang Yu), “New One-Armed Swordsman” (David Chiang), “Twelve Gold Medallions” (Yueh Hua), “Chinese Boxer” (Jimmy Wang Yu), “Have Swords Will Travel” (David Chiang, Ti Lung), “Deadly Duo” (David Chiang, Ti Lung), “The Wandering Swordsman” (David Chiang), “Shaolin Temple” (Alexander Fu Sheng), “The God of Gamblers” series (Chow Yun-fat), and a plethora of other captivating titles enriched the cinematic landscape of the era.
Recollections of heroic figures like Jimmy Wang Yu, David Chiang, or Yueh Hua galloping on horseback to deliver justice elicited thunderous applause from audiences, a testament to the enthralling nature of sword-fighting epics that kept viewers riveted. In contrast, romantic films featuring Tang Kwang Lung, Chin Han, and Chen Chen sometimes elicited audible snores from less captivated viewers.
To this day, I continue to indulge in Chinese cinema via platforms like YouTube, gravitating towards films and actors from the 1960s and 1970s. I prefer productions with original dialogue, subtitled in English or Bahasa Malaysia, as English-dubbed versions often lack the authenticity and nuance of the original performances, evident in incongruities between spoken lines and facial expressions.
YouTube offers a vast selection, though stalwarts like Jimmy Wang Yu and Ti Lung, now in their 70s, have gradually receded from the limelight, yielding space to a new generation of actors.
Presently, a captivating anti-Japanese film series titled “GunKing” has captured my attention. The narrative revolves around the valiant exploits of five female members of the Kuomintang Bomb Squad during the 1940s, consistently triumphing in their anti-Japanese endeavours.
I find solace in following this series and others before retiring for the night, cherishing the timeless allure of Chinese cinema and its enduring impact on audiences worldwide.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
