Article in the Los Angeles Times Insert
by R.J. Smith
This article appeared on March 12, 1995 and is one of the best articles to articulate what it was like to be Chow Yun-Fat
at that time. What it was like to be a Hong Kong actor at the top of Asia entertainment celebrities while contemplating
going to the U.S. to make movies, and wondering about the taking over of Hong Kong by mainland China.
The Coolest Actor in the World. In this country, Chow Yun-Fat is only a cult figure. But with China about to take back Hong
Kong, he has his eye on the United States. Some productions begin with a handshake, a conference call, a Bombay martini
at Mortons. We might say they have a hundred starts, or no real start at all, for the inauguration rituals remain private and
various from project to project, studio to studio. But in Hong Kong, all films begin alike. They embark almost exactly as
"Peace Hotel" did in a windowless production office on a December afternoon. They begin with a roast pig wrapped in
cellophane and two dried fish on a table. They begin with a prayer. The ceremony can't start until Chow Yun-fat, the star of
"Peace Hotel," arrives. Asia's greatest actor, he's become a hip invocation in Hollywood, an insider's secret and an
outsider's, too. Best known in the United States for his roles in John Woo's action movies, Chow is a cult hero to a widening
circle of rappers, fanzine writers, punks and poets. He strides into the small room with his wife and a few assistants, and
suddenly the place hums. Over six feet tall with a Seze-52 frame, tiny ears and an arclight grin, he projects friendly good
looks that mock the idea of the hunk. Even at 39, he shows some baby fat. Chow's wife, Jasmine, passes out small
envelopes of money, the size of seed packets, to the 25 or so reporters and the dozen photographers. Joss sticks are lit
and bundles of red and gold paper ignited. Wai Ka-fai, the director of "Peace Hotel," Chow and members of the cast stand
at the head of a long table, all placing a hand on a large meat cleaver. The actor raises the blade and hacks at the hog,
slicing chunks of meat for the gathering. On a desk, Wai Ka-fai has placed calligraphic instruments in specific relationship
to one another. He believes that their feng-shui, their special arrangement, will bless the script he's written."Filming is
extraordinary," he says, "and you don't know what will happen." This remains a time of great indeterminacy for the
third-largest film industry in the world and for Chow, one of the world's most popular actors. "Hong Kong cinema" has come
to mean action pictures obsessed with pop culture and allegory, drunk on energy and stunts and mayhem. These films
became an important export in the wake of Bruce Lee's kung fu success and have given millions around the world their
mental image of Hong Kong as an international metropolis on the make. But in the city itself, the talk is of declining ticket
receipts and dwindling audiences. The industry is contorting itself in anticipation of midnight, June 30, 1997, when Britain
turns over the Crown Colony to the People's Republic of China. Some of Hong Kong's biggest stars, directors and
producers have already moved to Los Angeles and Vancouver, and others have acquired foreign passports as insurance
policies. Soon there won't even be something called "Hong Kong cinema": it will all be Chinese. Everybody senses the
imminent end of something. But the end of what?
"People don't treat him as a superstar. They treat him as a friend."
Chow Yun-fat has more options than most. He makes almost $2 million in U.S. money per movie. He's being courted by the
Communists, who want him to film in China. Hollywood has expressed interest in him for years. The actor is poised to
begin work on an American debut -- "R.P.M.," a tale of a car-theft ring in the south of France, to be directed by Roger Avary, a
former sidekick of Quentin Tarantino. It's the most likely Hollywood project among nine Chow is considering. But Hollywood
feng-shui has its own mysteries. At the time of "Reservoir Dogs," Tarantino told reporters he was writing a script for Chow,
but nobody around Chow has seen it. "Quentin doesn't like to talk about it," says Chow's friend and adviser, Terence Chang.
(Through an assistant, Tarantino said he was too busy to comment.) A jump to the United States is fraught with risk--it
could alienate Chow's Asian following without boosting him here. When such stars as Jackie Chan or even Toshiro Mifune
tried Hollywood, the film industry brushed them aside. Now, as Hong Kong papers count off the days until the changeover,
Chow acts as though there's no big decision to make. While he sees the value of coming to terms with his decisions before
China comes to terms with hers, he's not going to fret about it in public. But then, he always looks cool. The actors and
journalists mark a moment of silence in the production office and then mingle. In a room full of edgy cast members and a
director who's close to biting his nails, the star is nonchalant, reverting to the happy insolence that has made him an icon in
a dozen countries. Wearing blue jeans and a denim jacket, Chow entertains reporters in a side room. He cracks peanuts
with one hand, pops them in his mouth. When the phone rings, he doesn't hesitate to pick it up. On the line is a doctor, and
after realizing that he's speaking to Chow, he asks for free tickets to the Chow movie opening this weekend. Chow starts
his banter without a halt in the peanut-popping. "Sure you can buy a ticket, but it will cost you double," he explains. He's
speaking loudly, so that all the reporters can catch what he's saying. "I go to the doctor and they charge me too much. You
go to the movies and you're going to have to pay, too." The writers haven't weighed in yet on the new Chow movie, but their
laughter tells him what they think of today's performance. From the 70 or so movies he's made since 1976 emerges a
Chow Yun-Fat archetype--an unselfconscious, enduringly loyal regular guy. There's a good reason he comes across that
way; friends say it's who he is. "All Hong Kong knows that every day he goes to the market, buys fish and vegetables, takes
them home and cooks them for his mother," says director Wong Jing. "People don't treat him as a superstar. They treat him
as a friend."Sitting tall in the driver's seat of his white Toyota minivan on a Friday night, everybody's friend is driving
himself--there's no limo--to the debut of his latest film, "God of Gamblers Returns." As he navigates Kowloon traffic, he
makes fun of contemporary Hong Kong movies. He skewers the actors who play the same rolls over and over, and the
famous director who makes three movies at a time by letting his assistants do much of the work. He hoots at the plots and
the lack of sophisticated writing. The funny thing is, while he never mentions it by name, Chow could be talking about "God
of Gamblers Returns." After tonights screening, some of the film's actors will shoot last-minute fix-ups, even though the
movie opens in just a week. "Returns" isn't a film Chow is very excited about, even if this second in the "God of Gamblers"
series is destined to be one of the biggest local movies of 1994. Rickety slapstick one minute, a halfhearted supernatural
tale the next, the movie ultimately gives up and goes soft-core. In recent years, many of Hong Kong's educated, affluent
citizens have fled, and the ticket buyers are now younger, poorer, more male and less cosmopolitan. "You've lost your
middle-class moviegoer," one newspaper critic laments. "Returns" is made for the new Hong Kong ticket Buyer arriving at a
bright marble-and-glass shopping mall, Chow glides past security guards holding back hundreds of noisy fans. Up a stairs
in a lobby, he patiently stands for pictures, flashes exploding in the mirrored walls behind him. It's about midnight when
Chow climbs back in the minivan. He sighs, and for once the regular guy who can't get enough of the public seems to fade.
"Boring, boring," he murmurs. All the way home, the mini- van passes walls papered with Chow's face. "Hong Kong films
are dying," says director Ringo Lam, with the convulsive laugh of a Ringo Lam villain. One of Chow's best friends, Lam
makes punkish action pictures--the actor has starred in five. Whooping again as he sips a Bloody Mary in a hotel coffee
shop, Lam is adamant. "right now is really bad. You don't have many talents coming up, and the budgets are getting
smaller and smaller." When Beijing redefines the industry, he adds, at least things will get the shaking up they need. "I think
when '97 comes," he says, "new regulations and rules will be introduced. I know when the environment changes, to a
certain extent it will help the industry. Because maybe then you can extend your subject matter in your film."
PAGE 2
by R.J. Smith
This article appeared on March 12, 1995 and is one of the best articles to articulate what it was like to be Chow Yun-Fat
at that time. What it was like to be a Hong Kong actor at the top of Asia entertainment celebrities while contemplating
going to the U.S. to make movies, and wondering about the taking over of Hong Kong by mainland China.
The Coolest Actor in the World. In this country, Chow Yun-Fat is only a cult figure. But with China about to take back Hong
Kong, he has his eye on the United States. Some productions begin with a handshake, a conference call, a Bombay martini
at Mortons. We might say they have a hundred starts, or no real start at all, for the inauguration rituals remain private and
various from project to project, studio to studio. But in Hong Kong, all films begin alike. They embark almost exactly as
"Peace Hotel" did in a windowless production office on a December afternoon. They begin with a roast pig wrapped in
cellophane and two dried fish on a table. They begin with a prayer. The ceremony can't start until Chow Yun-fat, the star of
"Peace Hotel," arrives. Asia's greatest actor, he's become a hip invocation in Hollywood, an insider's secret and an
outsider's, too. Best known in the United States for his roles in John Woo's action movies, Chow is a cult hero to a widening
circle of rappers, fanzine writers, punks and poets. He strides into the small room with his wife and a few assistants, and
suddenly the place hums. Over six feet tall with a Seze-52 frame, tiny ears and an arclight grin, he projects friendly good
looks that mock the idea of the hunk. Even at 39, he shows some baby fat. Chow's wife, Jasmine, passes out small
envelopes of money, the size of seed packets, to the 25 or so reporters and the dozen photographers. Joss sticks are lit
and bundles of red and gold paper ignited. Wai Ka-fai, the director of "Peace Hotel," Chow and members of the cast stand
at the head of a long table, all placing a hand on a large meat cleaver. The actor raises the blade and hacks at the hog,
slicing chunks of meat for the gathering. On a desk, Wai Ka-fai has placed calligraphic instruments in specific relationship
to one another. He believes that their feng-shui, their special arrangement, will bless the script he's written."Filming is
extraordinary," he says, "and you don't know what will happen." This remains a time of great indeterminacy for the
third-largest film industry in the world and for Chow, one of the world's most popular actors. "Hong Kong cinema" has come
to mean action pictures obsessed with pop culture and allegory, drunk on energy and stunts and mayhem. These films
became an important export in the wake of Bruce Lee's kung fu success and have given millions around the world their
mental image of Hong Kong as an international metropolis on the make. But in the city itself, the talk is of declining ticket
receipts and dwindling audiences. The industry is contorting itself in anticipation of midnight, June 30, 1997, when Britain
turns over the Crown Colony to the People's Republic of China. Some of Hong Kong's biggest stars, directors and
producers have already moved to Los Angeles and Vancouver, and others have acquired foreign passports as insurance
policies. Soon there won't even be something called "Hong Kong cinema": it will all be Chinese. Everybody senses the
imminent end of something. But the end of what?
"People don't treat him as a superstar. They treat him as a friend."
Chow Yun-fat has more options than most. He makes almost $2 million in U.S. money per movie. He's being courted by the
Communists, who want him to film in China. Hollywood has expressed interest in him for years. The actor is poised to
begin work on an American debut -- "R.P.M.," a tale of a car-theft ring in the south of France, to be directed by Roger Avary, a
former sidekick of Quentin Tarantino. It's the most likely Hollywood project among nine Chow is considering. But Hollywood
feng-shui has its own mysteries. At the time of "Reservoir Dogs," Tarantino told reporters he was writing a script for Chow,
but nobody around Chow has seen it. "Quentin doesn't like to talk about it," says Chow's friend and adviser, Terence Chang.
(Through an assistant, Tarantino said he was too busy to comment.) A jump to the United States is fraught with risk--it
could alienate Chow's Asian following without boosting him here. When such stars as Jackie Chan or even Toshiro Mifune
tried Hollywood, the film industry brushed them aside. Now, as Hong Kong papers count off the days until the changeover,
Chow acts as though there's no big decision to make. While he sees the value of coming to terms with his decisions before
China comes to terms with hers, he's not going to fret about it in public. But then, he always looks cool. The actors and
journalists mark a moment of silence in the production office and then mingle. In a room full of edgy cast members and a
director who's close to biting his nails, the star is nonchalant, reverting to the happy insolence that has made him an icon in
a dozen countries. Wearing blue jeans and a denim jacket, Chow entertains reporters in a side room. He cracks peanuts
with one hand, pops them in his mouth. When the phone rings, he doesn't hesitate to pick it up. On the line is a doctor, and
after realizing that he's speaking to Chow, he asks for free tickets to the Chow movie opening this weekend. Chow starts
his banter without a halt in the peanut-popping. "Sure you can buy a ticket, but it will cost you double," he explains. He's
speaking loudly, so that all the reporters can catch what he's saying. "I go to the doctor and they charge me too much. You
go to the movies and you're going to have to pay, too." The writers haven't weighed in yet on the new Chow movie, but their
laughter tells him what they think of today's performance. From the 70 or so movies he's made since 1976 emerges a
Chow Yun-Fat archetype--an unselfconscious, enduringly loyal regular guy. There's a good reason he comes across that
way; friends say it's who he is. "All Hong Kong knows that every day he goes to the market, buys fish and vegetables, takes
them home and cooks them for his mother," says director Wong Jing. "People don't treat him as a superstar. They treat him
as a friend."Sitting tall in the driver's seat of his white Toyota minivan on a Friday night, everybody's friend is driving
himself--there's no limo--to the debut of his latest film, "God of Gamblers Returns." As he navigates Kowloon traffic, he
makes fun of contemporary Hong Kong movies. He skewers the actors who play the same rolls over and over, and the
famous director who makes three movies at a time by letting his assistants do much of the work. He hoots at the plots and
the lack of sophisticated writing. The funny thing is, while he never mentions it by name, Chow could be talking about "God
of Gamblers Returns." After tonights screening, some of the film's actors will shoot last-minute fix-ups, even though the
movie opens in just a week. "Returns" isn't a film Chow is very excited about, even if this second in the "God of Gamblers"
series is destined to be one of the biggest local movies of 1994. Rickety slapstick one minute, a halfhearted supernatural
tale the next, the movie ultimately gives up and goes soft-core. In recent years, many of Hong Kong's educated, affluent
citizens have fled, and the ticket buyers are now younger, poorer, more male and less cosmopolitan. "You've lost your
middle-class moviegoer," one newspaper critic laments. "Returns" is made for the new Hong Kong ticket Buyer arriving at a
bright marble-and-glass shopping mall, Chow glides past security guards holding back hundreds of noisy fans. Up a stairs
in a lobby, he patiently stands for pictures, flashes exploding in the mirrored walls behind him. It's about midnight when
Chow climbs back in the minivan. He sighs, and for once the regular guy who can't get enough of the public seems to fade.
"Boring, boring," he murmurs. All the way home, the mini- van passes walls papered with Chow's face. "Hong Kong films
are dying," says director Ringo Lam, with the convulsive laugh of a Ringo Lam villain. One of Chow's best friends, Lam
makes punkish action pictures--the actor has starred in five. Whooping again as he sips a Bloody Mary in a hotel coffee
shop, Lam is adamant. "right now is really bad. You don't have many talents coming up, and the budgets are getting
smaller and smaller." When Beijing redefines the industry, he adds, at least things will get the shaking up they need. "I think
when '97 comes," he says, "new regulations and rules will be introduced. I know when the environment changes, to a
certain extent it will help the industry. Because maybe then you can extend your subject matter in your film."
PAGE 2
