The first time Pei Yan ever met Zhuang Xiao, he went to the man’s home to pay his respects and talk about a chance to appear in the American remake of Drunken Fist. Within seven steps, he ended up exchanging real blows with Zhuang Xiao, and that bastard nearly split his ear open with half a move of “White Ape Presents Fruit,” delivered one-handed.
Just half a move.
His ear did him the favor of not bursting a blood vessel and pouring blood everywhere on the spot, but when he turned his back and walked out of Zhuang Xiao’s house, the torn earlobe still began to bleed, the blood running down onto his shoulder…
Pei Yan debuted at eighteen. He had never gone through a formal acting program, but he came from a proper martial-arts family. He fought for three years in national mixed-martial-arts club competitions, made a name for himself over several bouts, and then, after a tragic accident, retired. He stopped fighting.
He was only twenty-one then, the heir of an orthodox school, young, handsome, fresh-faced, and very good at fighting. It would have been a waste of the body and face heaven had handed him if he never entered show business, so moving into acting seemed natural enough to outsiders.
Within two years, Pei Yan starred in a breakout set of kung-fu idol romances, a remake of the old King of Beggars. The first one was such a hit that the tacky franchise ran to three films. Kung-fu screenwriters had been running dry in recent years, their brains apparently full of paste and unable to squeeze out a new idea, so the trend was to pour old wine into new bottles. Famous classics took turns being tossed into the pot, and old plots paired with a few tender young faces became the quickest way to stir up the audience’s nostalgia and boost the box office. Under the painstaking cultivation and hype of his godfather-slash-nanny of an agent, Johnny Wu, Pei Yan had become famous, a little satellite in the martial-arts film world that was drawing plenty of attention.
As some sour people put it, that little satellite was about to launch into space, circle the Milky Way, and go chasing after the big stars.
Once he had reached the Milky Way, his larger ambitions and career goals could no longer be hidden. He wanted his face on foreign big screens. Everyone in the business understood that blooming abroad raised your value at home. If you had no real ability, you could rub shoulders with a free red carpet at Cannes or sit in the audience at Fashion Week. If you had the ability, you went onto the big screen and fought with the real thing.
Pei Yan considered himself one of the capable ones. He thought very highly of himself.
“Old Pei, this opportunity is really very good. The producers contacted us privately and made themselves very clear. They bought the rights two years ago but kept putting off production. The American version of Drunken Fist needs a Chinese martial-arts actor as the male lead. How many people in the industry actually fit? Fewer than five if you count on your fingers. Then take out the ones who are too old or not handsome enough, knock off another two or three, and there aren’t even one or two left who can act and fight. Old Pei, you absolutely have to try for this film.”
His agent, Johnny Wu, was forever energetic, enthusiastic, farsighted, and striving upward. He came into the room to discuss business with his face already slick with the sweat of trying too hard. After rummaging through his pockets and failing to find a handkerchief, he simply pulled the necktie from the front of his suit and wiped his face with it.
Johnny Wu folded down three of the five fingers he had held up and gestured to the popular little satellite under his management. See? The tougher the role, the more it required real technical skill, the fewer people could honestly be called competitors.
Comrade Old Pei had just finished his morning practice and come out of the shower. His head was slightly bowed, water continually dripping from his scalp and running down his chest.
“Old Pei” was what he had told Johnny Wu to call him. What was with all this “A-Pei, A-Pei” in that southern accent? It grated on his ears. From now on, everyone should call him Old Pei.
Johnny Wu’s smiling cheeks twitched. “Mr. Pei, I’m nearly two whole zodiac cycles older than you. I’m Old Wu and you’re Little Pei. Who dislikes pretending to be young so much that he insists on pretending to be old?”
Pei Yan had raised his eyes at his agent with an amused look. You’re older than me, but can you beat me?
The one with the harder fists got to make the rules. If you could do better, then come on.
That was exactly how full of himself he was. Young, hot-blooded, and carrying a body full of pride that refused to bow.
Pei Yan looked at the two fingers Johnny Wu still had raised. “The two left who can both act and fight. Who are they?”
“You!” Johnny Wu patted Pei Yan’s shoulder like a parent doting on a child, wiped away a disobedient drop of water rolling over that smooth bald head, and helped the proud child into a jacket. The only thing he did not do was bend down and put the kid’s shoes on for him.
Johnny Wu said honestly, “I think Zhuang Xiao could play it too. Mr. Zhuang really is formidable. He’s been working over there for several years, and Hollywood studios recognize both his name and his kung fu. After all… he debuted quite a few years before you.”
Pei Yan watched water drip from his head. He had no way to argue with that. Zhuang Xiao was very famous, had been in the industry for years, and was an old senior within their circle. Pei Yan respected him too and had long known his reputation.
*
Pei Yan normally had no patience for rambling nonsense, but his pride ran extremely high. Once something lodged in his mind, he never dragged his feet or muddled around.
After roughly settling things with his agent, he flew to Los Angeles a few days later, took the initiative to speak with representatives, met the director, and auditioned at the studio… Anything within his own ability to accomplish, he quietly got done ahead of time. The last thing left was to visit Mr. Zhuang in nearby Irvine.
He arrived uninvited at Zhuang Xiao’s door. Yes, there was an opportunity to remake the blockbuster Drunken Fist, and unusually, the male lead was a Chinese role. From what the producers had implied, only the two of them could play it. One would be chosen. So, let’s talk.
Mr. Zhuang, you really want the role? I really want it too.
Pei Yan had already auditioned for every part he might conceivably play and personally performed several of the fight sequences that would definitely appear in the script. He dropped from a three-story building, did the motorcycle stunt, and performed several different martial-arts routines. He wanted to prove to the director and producers that he could do all of it himself, without plaster doubles and without a stuntman. He truly wanted this movie, wanted to break through, and wanted to use this bridge to reach Hollywood.
The kung-fu film world was actually very small. Stunt teams occupied their own little territories, constantly running into one another, and generally avoided direct explosive confrontations. But everyone knew everyone else’s name. There were no unfamiliar faces.
Supposedly, the circle even had an unwritten rule. If you wanted to build a bridge and “fight” your way into Hollywood, you first had to visit Mr. Zhuang, bow your head, offer tea, and call him ge. It was basic courtesy to a senior. After all, Zhuang Xiao had more seniority, entered the industry earlier, and crossed the ocean before everyone else to gild himself abroad.
Calling Zhuang Xiao an “old senior” did not mean he was actually old. He was only a few years older than Pei Yan.
Pei Yan did not enter the film industry until he was twenty-one. Zhuang Xiao had been on the big screen since he was eleven.
He had simply been born at exactly the right time and caught the golden age of kung-fu cinema, those brilliant years when the best and most badass people in front of and behind the camera ruled the industry. Back then, a Hong Kong director preparing a movie about a young fighter went to the mainland looking specifically for a fresh child actor and picked eleven-year-old Zhuang Xiao from a club in Daxing County.
The script was excellent, passionate and tragic. The boy in the ring was thin and slight, his face covered in blood, his weathered eyes having the last shred of innocence crushed out of them by the brutal laws of life until both blood and tears ran dry. The ending was heroic and nearly wiped out both the main cast and supporting cast. A □□-style film like that was plainly made to chase awards. Zhuang Xiao became famous young, and that one movie alone gave him enough prestige to live on for half a lifetime. He became the youngest Best Actor winner in Cannes history.
Elio’s Notes: The source itself contains two missing/censored characters in “□□-style film.” FD preserves the gap rather than guessing what the author originally wrote.
Very few people in the industry now had ever been lucky enough to work with the directors and superstars from the 1990s kung-fu boom. Zhuang Xiao was one of the last survivors of that generation who was still acting and could still fight.
That was why so many people said the final glow of last century’s kung-fu and wuxia films still rested on Zhuang Xiao’s shoulders, the last genuine “great hero” left on the screen…
Pei Yan had Johnny Wu call Mr. Zhuang’s house. Half an hour after the call ended, he was already standing at Zhuang Xiao’s front gate, leaving the other man no chance to refuse his visit.
Zhuang Xiao’s house in Irvine looked good from the outside, a sizable mansion with a swimming pool. He had been a star for years, so naturally he was not short of money.
A whole ring of people waited inside to receive Mr. Pei. Pei Yan recognized most of the faces. They often appeared on screen. They were the martial artists from the famous Zhuang Stunt Team.
Every face was cold, and they had strength in numbers.
Veins stood out faintly on every one of them as they glared at Pei Yan like tigers watching prey. From their expressions, they clearly wanted to kick him straight out of the room and into the sea.
The California sun was vicious. It poured through the glass doors and burned over his body, making Pei Yan’s scalp shine and setting off the stark black and white of his eyes and brows.
He had shaved his head glossy-smooth. His face was long and lean, his eyes narrow, his lips thin.
He was young and handsome, so he dared to shave his head. Even bald, he could still become famous.
By the time Pei Yan saluted them with clasped fists, neither servile nor arrogant, the atmosphere in the room was already drawn tight as a bowstring. The next second, Fatty Bao came around the back of the sofa and swiftly grabbed Johnny Wu, temporarily easing a situation that was one spark away from exploding.
Fatty Bao’s full name was Bao Pengzhi, and he was Zhuang Xiao’s agent. The two agents put on fake smiles, shook hands, and exchanged pleasantries, both grinning as though the zipper controlling their upper and lower lips could open and close at will. They acted as if they were old friends.
Johnny Wu smiled. “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Bao! My surname is Wu. Everyone usually calls me Johnny.”
Fatty Bao answered with a dry chuckle. “I’ve heard so much about you too. Mr. Wu Junde, is it? Handsome and virtuous… oh, Wu as in ‘nothing’?”
Elio’s Notes: Bao is teasing him with his name. “Wu Junde” can be heard as “handsome and virtuous,” while 吴 (Wu) is homophonically played against 无 (wu, “none/no”), turning the introduction into a deliberately irritating little pun.
“…” Johnny Wu’s smiling cheeks twitched. He had an excellent temper. “Anything is OK! Our Old Pei happened to be passing by today and came especially to visit. He just wanted to talk with Mr. Zhuang about what he thinks of the prospects for Drunken Fist…”
Fatty Bao said, “Our Mr. Zhuang has opinions about the movie? Whoever is suitable plays it. Whoever can fight gets up there and fights.”
Johnny Wu said, “There’s more than one team that can fight. Besides, this is filmmaking, not a real tournament. It isn’t decided purely by fists. Casting depends on other things too… The producers and director invited us over to audition, so since we were here, we happened to stop by and pay Mr. Zhuang a visit.”
Fatty Bao said, “The producers invited us to audition too.”
Johnny Wu said, “Oh… I see.”
Standing to the side, Pei Yan suddenly cut in. “You’ve already auditioned? What did the director say?”
Bao Pengzhi thought, You ask and I’m supposed to tell you the truth?
“The director said he’s long admired Mr. Zhuang’s reputation and wants to make a traditional, authentic Chinese kung-fu film. Naturally he’ll cast whoever fits best. What he wants is precisely Mr. Zhuang’s name and standing both overseas and at home.” Bao Pengzhi piled a smile onto the lower half of his face, but his eyes were not smiling.
“And the action choreography has already been assigned to our team. All that’s left is the final contract.” Fatty Bao cheerfully added that sentence, dropped heavily back onto the sofa, and made the cushions bounce with cheerful tyranny while watching disappointment suddenly show on Pei Yan’s face.
If the Zhuang Stunt Team had already been locked in for action choreography, then there was an eighty or ninety percent chance the role belonged to Zhuang Xiao. Otherwise it made no sense. If the production wanted Zhuang Xiao’s people as martial-arts directors and wanted to eat from the same pot, how could it possibly kick the boss of the Zhuang team out of the cast?
The Zhuang Stunt Team had more than twenty members and was publicly recognized as one of the best martial-arts stunt teams in the industry. There seemed to be nothing left to fight over unless Zhuang Xiao himself withdrew, had a scheduling conflict, or simply did not want the role.
How could a newcomer seize billing and climb so easily? You wanted to take a piece of meat from the old-timers’ plates and rise above them. On what basis? Because you were some brat who had barely grown his hair in?
Bao Pengzhi stood again and offered his hand to Pei Yan once more, intending to shake. This was clearly sending the guest out. They had not even offered him a sip of tea.
Pei Yan did not move and did not extend his hand. Zhuang Xiao had not even shown his face, and they were dismissing him like this?
Pei Yan asked, “Is Mr. Zhuang home? I’d like to speak with him for a moment.”
Someone beside them could no longer stand it. He reached out impatiently, swept Fatty Bao’s hand aside, and went straight for Pei Yan.
Wind cut past Pei Yan’s ear as fists and feet immediately took position. Several vicious palm strikes chopped toward his face. The man trying to smash it wore hatred in his eyes, his rims dark red. He was one of the Zhuang team’s martial artists, named Sa Risheng, younger even than Pei Yan and with an even more explosive temper.
“If you want my ge, get past me first.” Sa Risheng’s palms were fierce. He attacked with hands and legs together, kick after kick forcing Pei Yan backward. Pei Yan planted one hand, flipped sideways, and vaulted over the sofa.
“Xiao-Sa!” someone nearby shouted.
“Th-this isn’t good, is it? We came sincerely to visit, not to fight… this, this is too…” Johnny Wu stared in shock and tried to intervene, only to get rammed in the stomach by the sofa as it shifted position and stumble sideways. With Uncle Wu’s constitution, even three of him tied together and stacked like sacks of grain would not survive one kick from Sa Risheng.
“Pei, if you dared come here, don’t expect to walk out that door.” Sa Risheng bit the corner of his mouth and smashed a palm into Pei Yan’s shoulder. The palm became a claw and seized his clothes. With a loud rip, half the shirt tore open from collar to upper arm.
Bao Pengzhi had actually been acting out of goodwill earlier, trying to get Pei Yan to recognize the difficulty and leave quickly. They were all in the same circle. There was no need to cause trouble or damage relations between the two sides. Let the conversation stop at the movie Drunken Fist, stop at business, and not dig into unpleasant old history or grievances that neither side could easily untangle.
“Xiao-Sa!… What are you doing?! Watch your strength! Stop fighting!” Fatty Bao shouted several times with his eyes wide, but he was fat and could not fight, so shouting did nothing. He could not hold anyone back. The ring of younger men nearby were itching to join in and looked ready to swarm Pei Yan together.
At that moment, the expression vanished abruptly from Pei Yan’s face. His mouth tightened hard. After taking several palm strikes from Sa Risheng, he began to hit back.
You people struck first. You tore my clothes off my shoulder. You think I’m letting you do that for free?
Shoulder shift, elbow attack, then a ruthless move straight into a knee.
When Pei Yan threw his leg, it whipped out with crushing force, and he did not hold back.
His knee smashed hard beneath one side of Sa Risheng’s ribs, exactly the way he had fought on the MMA stage before, bout after bout, winning and knocking opponents out.
The flying knee forced his opponent to fold. Pei Yan followed with a sweep and took the fight to the ground, where he was strongest. He torqued Sa Risheng’s knee joint with overwhelming control, pinned the thigh from behind, gripped the knee, wrapped the lower leg, and twisted sideways.
Sa Risheng cried out in pain. Sweat burst across his young face, which went pale.
If Pei Yan had used his full strength, the knee and lower leg would have been ruined.
The entire exchange lasted less than ten seconds. His movements were fluid, fast as lightning. The surrounding stuntmen stared dumbfounded, instantly stopping the steps they had been about to take toward a group attack. The room went silent.
Fatty Bao had always known when to bend and when to stretch. He hurriedly shouted, “We know you’re formidable, Mr. Pei. There’s no need to get serious and hurt someone or damage relations. Let go, hurry, let go!”
Who could fight?
Then get your boss out here and show his face.
Pei Yan said nothing at all. He only lifted his eyes and swept them around the room. That was how arrogant he was.
He had been a competitive fighter. He had only been retired and in show business for two years. His skills were nowhere near rusted. He was still in his prime.
That day, in Zhuang Xiao’s house, with Pei Yan twisting Sa Risheng’s lower leg until the other man screamed, the person he had come to see finally appeared.
It was also the first time Pei Yan had ever encountered Zhuang Xiao off-screen. Zhuang Xiao walked over from the back porch of his own house with sunlight across his shoulders, dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, his hair tied into a knot at the back of his head.
From a distance, Zhuang Xiao said, “Why are you fighting? Both of you let go.”
Pei Yan’s first impression of Zhuang Xiao was that the man was terribly unphotogenic in movies. In person, he looked far better than he did on screen.
Then again, movies often covered him in “injury makeup,” leaving his face bloody and bruised to sell tragedy and heroism, or deliberately made a handsome man ugly so he could show off his acting. Zhuang Xiao himself was extremely handsome, with dark brows, bright eyes, a straight nose, and a very light, neatly trimmed ring of facial hair around his mouth. His face was flawless.
Pei Yan was still kneeling and pinning Sa Risheng down. He became absorbed in looking up at Zhuang Xiao, studying him and thinking about how to discuss the movie and fight for the role. He did not immediately release Sa Risheng’s lower leg. Holding it a few more minutes would not break it as long as he did not apply force.
“Xiao-Sa, you let go too. Get up.” Zhuang Xiao looked at the man sprawled on the floor.
Sa Risheng’s face twisted in pain. If he could have broken free, he would have gotten up long ago. Did they think he enjoyed lying there?
“Old Bao, Xiao-Sa, this isn’t how you receive someone from the same trade.” Zhuang Xiao seemed to smile faintly, his lips moving as he fairly criticized his own people first for being rude to a guest.
People who practiced martial arts did not casually fight others. They did not brawl in the street. Starting fights made you look badly raised and without rules.
“Ge! Eriletu is already like that! He’ll never stand up again, he’ll never wake up again!” Sa Risheng’s face was pressed against the floor. He grimaced through the pain but still shouted it out. Something was clearly wet in his eyes, and he looked ready to tear Pei Yan apart with his bare hands.
Xiao-Sa normally barely spoke in complete sentences. He was extremely introverted and almost never fought anyone. He was absolutely not some badly raised wild kid.
Zhuang Xiao stopped Sa Risheng from continuing with one look, then used another to force the tears back into Xiao-Sa’s eyes. Can we not bring it up? If you’re going to bring it up, then don’t cry.
“It was just a burst of short-range force in that match. I didn’t break the rules.”
Elio’s Notes: Cun jin (寸劲) is explosive power generated over a very short distance. Here Pei Yan is stressing that the damaging impact came from the instant of force, not from an illegal technique.
Pei Yan lowered his gaze to Sa Risheng struggling beneath his knee and answered with that line.
He was under someone else’s roof and still would not offer one soft word of apology. It was practically pouring oil onto a fire and begging to get hit, but that was Pei Yan’s temperament. It had been a nationally standardized tournament, with three referees watching on-site and strict rules governing the match. I did not foul. I fought clean.
“You fucking didn’t break the rules…” Sa Risheng’s furious roar was cut off when Pei Yan torqued his knee again. He could no longer shout, sweat pouring more heavily as he trembled from the pain.
Pei Yan still did not let him go. He quietly put more pressure into his hands, deliberately teaching Sa Risheng a lesson. If you insist on digging straight into the sorest place in my heart and dragging it out to make me miserable, then lie there. I’ll let you hurt a little longer.
From below, he looked up at Zhuang Xiao and acknowledged him with his eyes, which counted as a greeting. The humiliation of being forced into retirement and his ferocious competitiveness pushed the resentment buried deep in his chest upward until he blurted, “Mr. Zhuang, your agent just said it. Whoever is suitable plays it. Whoever can fight gets up there and fights!”
Before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, he had not seen how Zhuang Xiao got in front of him.
It was as though the man had never moved at all and was still strolling under the porch in the sunlight, yet a palm was already at Pei Yan’s brow.
The hand cut sideways toward his neck with enough force to nearly chop through his windpipe. Caught completely off guard, Pei Yan hurriedly released Sa Risheng and threw himself backward.
Zhuang Xiao’s broad chest blocked the light in front of him…
That hand came forward beneath Pei Yan’s jaw, both chopping and lifting. Zhuang Xiao used only one hand; the other never moved. It was just half a “White Ape Presents Fruit.” Stars burst across Pei Yan’s vision, and his neck was knocked backward until his cervical vertebrae clicked, making his heart jolt.
The palm sent him flying sideways to the floor, and a sharp pain shot through his left earlobe…
Only then did he understand. When Zhuang Xiao said, “Why are you fighting?” he had meant the kids should not bother fighting Pei Yan.
This man probably held grudges too. He had likely wanted to slap Pei Yan in the face for a long time and had finally found the opportunity today.