WHERE IN THE WORLD IS ANDY LAU?

PUTTING THE POPULAR BACK INTO STUDIES

OF HONG KONG POPULAR ENTERTAINMENT

Joyleen Johanna Christensen

BEc, BA (Hons 1), GDPTT, GDipArts

A thesis submitted in fulfilment of the requirements

of the degree of PhD (Film, Media & Cultural Studies)

June 2013

University of Newcastle, Australia

STATEMENT OF ORIGINALITY

The thesis contains no material which has been accepted for the award of any other degree or diploma in any university or other tertiary institution and, to the best of my knowledge and belief, contains no material previously published or written by another person, except where due reference has been made in the text. I give consent to the final version of my thesis being made available worldwide when deposited in the

University’s Digital Repository**, subject to the provisions of the Copyright Act

1968. **Unless an Embargo has been approved for a determined period.

2 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to begin by thanking Dr Hamish Ford and Associate Professor David Boyd for their time, patience, and sage advice. I have little doubt that I would still be struggling with this research if you both had not agreed to come on board as my supervisors when you did and I will be forever indebted to your significant contributions to this work. In addition to his input into this thesis, I will be eternally grateful to Associate

Professor Boyd for introducing me to Film Studies and providing me with the opportunity to embark on a career that I love. I would also like to acknowledge what an exceptional source of inspiration and support Dr Ford has been since he took over the primary supervision of this thesis in 2010. It would not be overstating the matter to say that his tireless dedication to the thesis – regularly going beyond all reasonable expectations – is the key factor that I would credit with allowing me to complete this work.

I would also like to take this opportunity to acknowledge the academic and professional staff of the English Language & Foundation Studies Centre and the

School of Humanities & Social Science at the University of Newcastle, who have provided me with invaluable support over the years. In particular, I would like to recognise the critical input on various stages of this work by Associate Professor

Shane Homan, Professor Patrick Fuery, Dr William van der Heide, Dr Helen

Macallan, and Associate Professor Therese Davis. I am grateful to each and every one of you for your time and encouragement. I also wish to give special mention to Dr

Beatrice Trefalt for introducing me to Asian Studies and inspiring me to pursue

3 postgraduate study in this area - I feel truly privileged to have been blessed with such a wonderful mentor!

To my friends and fellow doctoral candidates, I wish to express my thanks for the inspiration they provided through their tenacious dedication to their research and their always-appreciated words of academic and emotional support. I also wish to give a very big thank you to the various students I have had the privilege of sharing a classroom with – both as a fellow student and, later, as a Lecturer. Special mention must also be made of the staff and students in the Theatre and Performance Studies program at the University of New South Wales – the things that I learnt from you all will stay with me forever.

I have been very fortunate to be given numerous opportunities to present research from this dissertation at various conferences and symposia. I would like to thank my fellow presenters at the Future of Chinese Cinema Conference (UNSW, 2006), New-

Mac Symposium (Macquarie University, 2007), Asia Pacific Week (ANU, 2010),

New-Mac Symposium (University of Newcastle, 2012), Asian Studies Association

Biennial Conference (UWS, 2012), Inaugural Celebrity Studies Conference (Deakin

University, 2012), Hollywood & the World Conference (Sydney, 2013), Another

World of Popular Entertainments Conference (Newcastle, 2013), the Ourimbah

Research Series, and various Postgraduate Symposia for their frequently inspiring discussions and invaluable feedback on various stages of my work.

4 My most heartfelt gratitude I reserve for my family – the lifetime of support and encouragement that I have received from you is the real reason that I am able to do what I love. Big hugs and kisses to my father, Kel, my brother, Kane, sister-in-law,

Amanda, and darling nephew, Lars, for all their love and understanding. Finally, a very special “thank you” to my mother and best friend, Marti. I am so grateful that you introduced me to Hong Kong cinema, and I know it is a cliché, but I honestly couldn’t have done this without you.

5 ABSTRACT

English-language scholarship on Hong Kong popular culture has traditionally been dominated by discussions about films and filmmakers who have been successful in Western markets. In this thesis, I argue that this practice is problematic for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the promulgation of a core group of individuals and works – typically from action or art-house cinema – who do not adequately represent the culture as it is understood by locals. By engaging in a comprehensive analysis of Andy Lau, a key figure of the Hong Kong entertainment industry who has been routinely overlooked in Western literature, I will demonstrate how conventional approaches to the region’s popular culture need to be more flexible and better contextualised in order to address the challenges presented by globalization and the increasingly dynamic nature of regional cultural flows. My ultimate ambition for this work is that it may shed new light on topical debates surrounding contemporary popular entertainment – specifically in terms of its role as an assumed site for the contestation of ‘national’ identity – whilst firmly establishing Andy Lau as a legitimate subject for further critical attention.

The thesis initially provides star- and industry-based readings of Hong Kong popular culture through positioning the local entertainment industry within discourses surrounding culture industries, audience reception, and debates over cultural identity. Subsequent chapters will consider these issues in the context of cultural globalization, Pan-Asian cinematic collaborations, and the disintegration of national borders, which will more readily situate this examination of regional cultural flows in its proper context. Whilst each of these approaches will be applied concurrently throughout this thesis, emphasis will be given to the interdependent nature of the complex relationship between industry, star, and fan by deliberately ordering the chapters so that a distinct pattern emerges in the movement from a mid-level local industry analysis to a more focused scrutiny of the dynamics of Andy Lau’s wider iconic status in Sinophone cultures.

6 TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION ...... 9

ISLAND OF FIRE: THE SPECTACLE OF HANDOVER-ERA HONG KONG ...... 26

‘UNFORGETTABLE’: CELEBRATING A VETERAN SUPERSTAR ...... 29

A BATTLE OF WITS: THESIS OVERVIEW ...... 34

FOUNDATIONS: MECHANICS OF THE HONG KONG ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY...... 45

FULL THROTTLE: CONCURRENT CROSS-SECTOR CAREERS ...... 46

TRAGIC HERO: LAU BECOMES A CULTURAL ICON ...... 51

MADE IN HONG KONG: ‘HOLLYWOOD OF THE EAST’? ...... 56

A HOME TOO FAR: THE HONG KONG-HOLLYWOOD EXODUS ...... 64

HOME AT HONG KONG: CULTURAL IDENTITY IN NATIONAL CINEMA ...... 72

FIREWORKS: CULTURAL INSTABILITY AND THE CHARISMATIC CELEBRITY ...... 81

RUNNING OUT OF TIME: ANXIETY AND POLITICAL APATHY ...... 82

YESTERDAY ONCE MORE: THE INSISTENCE OF NOSTALGIA ...... 95

THE LONGEST SUMMER: THE HANDOVER ON SCREEN ...... 98

COME FLY THE DRAGON: LAU REDISCOVERS CHINA ...... 103

THE DRAGON FAMILY: ANDY LAU’S ‘NEW’ PATRIOTISM ...... 107

PRINCE CHARMING: THE STAR IN NATIONALIST DISCOURSE...... 119

SUPERSTAR: THE PRODUCTION AND CONSUMPTION OF CELEBRITY ...... 122

STARS AND ROSES: BITTERSWEET CELEBRITY ...... 123

RICH AND FAMOUS: FOUNDATIONS OF LAU’S POPULAR APPEAL ...... 129

LUCKY STARS GO PLACES: ACHIEVING LOCAL FAME ...... 132

HONG KONG GODFATHER: ANDY LAU AS INDUSTRY SAVIOUR ...... 135

WAIT TIL YOU’RE OLDER: LAU’S SLOW RACE TO THE TOP ...... 139

THE CRAZY COMPANIES: ANDY LAU AS COMMODITY ...... 143

7 LOOK FOR A STAR: SITES OF CELEBRITY/FAN INTERACTION ...... 150

THANKS FOR YOUR LOVE: APPRECIATING FAN ADORATION ...... 156

WHAT A HERO!: SHAPING LAU’S PUBLIC PERSONA ...... 168

NEWS ATTACK: SCANDALS AND SETBACKS ...... 171

LOST IN TRANSLATION: CULTURAL CONTEXT IN TRANSNATIONAL REMAKES ...... 179

FORBIDDEN IMPERIAL TALES: CROSS-CULTURAL DISRESPECT ...... 180

THE UNWRITTEN LAW: HOLLYWOOD AS CULTURE VULTURE? ...... 188

CHINA WHITE: HOLLYWOOD’S ‘GATEKEEPERS’ OF ASIAN CINEMA ...... 194

ON THE WRONG TRACK: BEING REMADE IN AMERICA ...... 199

RETURN ENGAGEMENT: INFERNAL AFFAIRS AS POST-NOSTALGIC CINEMA ...... 202

A TASTE OF KILLING AND ROMANCE: APPRECIATING LOCAL TASTES ...... 210

INVISIBLE WAVES: NUANCES OF PRIVELIGED SPECTATORSHIP ...... 219

DANCES WITH THE DRAGON: WESTERN FLIRTATIONS WITH CHINA ...... 221

PAN-ASIAN ANDY: REGIONAL MOVEMENTS AND CULTURAL NATIONALISM ...... 227

SWITCH: FROM GLOBAL TO REGIONAL THROUGH POROUS BORDERS AND PAN-

ASIANISM ...... 231

CENTURY OF THE DRAGON: THE LURE OF CHINESE CO-PRODUCTIONS ...... 234

DAYS OF TOMORROW: HONG KONG MOVES FORWARD ...... 236

SHANGHAI GRAND: THE SOFT POWER OF CULTURAL NATIONALISM ...... 241

PERFECT MATCH: LAU’S PROMOTION OF PAN-CHINESE IDEALS ...... 251

RUNNING ON KARMA: LAU’S PAN-ASIAN PATRIOTISM ...... 256

CONCLUSION ...... 266

REFERENCES ...... 275

APPENDIX A CAREER HIGHLIGHTS...... 290

APPENDIX B FILMOGRAPHY ...... 292

8

INTRODUCTION

Approximately thirty seconds into his first song of the 2001 Summer Fiesta concert in the Sydney Entertainment Centre, Andy Lau noticed me standing in the front row of the audience. After a moment of very apparent bewilderment, the star purposefully strode across the stage, bent down and reached out his arm to shake my hand. It was a relatively simple gesture but, in doing this, Lau appeared to be acknowledging his pleasure at seeing a person who didn’t look to have Chinese ancestry attend one of his shows. And he wasn't the only one who registered obvious astonishment that I knew who he was and liked him enough to purchase a ticket to the concert. In fact, from the time I first enquired about purchasing a ticket from the Chinatown travel agency that was acting as a tour sponsor, through to having the ticket repeatedly scanned by venue staff on the night of the show,1 and facing endless questions from fellow concert- goers during the pre-show countdown, I and my guest were constantly met with queries about whether we actually knew who Andy Lau was. Years later, after having now completed a thesis on the man, I look back at the hidden complexity of that question – and my wonderfully naive response, “yes, I know Andy Lau” – with a knowing mix of amusement and amazement.

1 Of the thousands who milled around the venue before the start of the show, it was clear that the only other people of non-Chinese ancestry in the building were Centre staff – each one of whom insisted on carefully scrutinising our tickets whilst politely inquiring if we were there on the right night and did we perhaps miss The Corrs’ concert that was held there a few weeks before.

9 As a student studying Asian film and cultural studies, I had better access than most to

English-language writing on the topic but, as I soon discovered, the content of these works clearly fell well short of my own lived experiences. Because so little was written in English about those aspects of Hong Kong popular culture that I was encountering on a regular basis, it became necessary to bridge this gap – spending endless hours deciphering Chinese characters to work out film titles and song lyrics and struggling through non-verbal ‘conversations’ with Chinatown shop staff as we attempted to hunt down those Cantonese-language movies or albums that I still required for my collection. Although the situation has certainly gotten better over the years – I have learnt enough Chinese to locate most items without assistance and many Chinatown stores now provide English-friendly signage indicating those VCDs and DVDs that don't have English subtitles – I would still stress the inherent problems gaining consistent access to the products of a new culture when there was so little relevant English-language information available. I have, of course, since learned that there are countless non-Chinese fans of Hong Kong cinema and Cantopop but I do believe that there is still a significant scarcity of enabling processes for engaging with

Hong Kong’s popular culture. Specifically, the seeming disinterest of media outlets, advertising organisations, and even a surprising degree of Western scholars of popular culture to 'pave the way', combined with the perception of many English-speaking

Chinese fans that it would not be worth the effort to provide multi-lingual coverage on websites because potential non-Chinese fans simply wouldn't be interested in engaging with this culture.

Despite the personal origins of my interest in this topic, I will not be participating in a

‘fan as scholar’ discourse in this thesis. Yet, I believe this early personal anecdote,

10 both at the time and even now thirteen years later, works to suggest Lau as an representative model of the Asian celebrity 'blind spot' in the Western pop culture media and scholarship. This brief yet suggestive and highly exemplary encounter establishes some of the key themes of Lau's celebrity – such as, but not limited to, fan interactions and the importance of diasporic audiences to Sinophone cultures – that I will be discussing throughout this work. Most immediately, however, what this early concert experience tells us is that Lau has an expansive cultural reach yet the majority of English-language media continues to ignore him, despite Australia's increasingly multicultural society and an ever-increasing prominence of Chinese cultures within the permanent and temporary populations, along with the growing – if still arguably quite slow and at times reluctant – interest Anglo-Celtic Australians are showing in non-Western cultural forms, texts and performances, at least in some media sectors, as can be seen through the growth of such events as community-based film festivals.

One argument seeking to explain Lau’s virtual non-existence in the Western journalistic space would be based on the fact that despite the exponentially multicultural nature of Australian and other Western societies, powerful political and media discourses frequently maintain a dogged representational emphasis on

European, and in Australia's case Anglo-Celtic and -American identity. In this scenario, Lau is automatically 'out of the picture' or media spotlight no matter how popular he actually is. While this overall picture might be accurate enough in many respects, it is instructive to consider the prominence of a star as such as Ricky Martin, who while also being of non Anglo-American origin nonetheless has enjoyed immense commercial and journalistic media attention in Australia. Note, for example, the media release that announced Martin’s show at the Sydney Entertainment Centre a

11 year before Lau appeared in that same venue. Heralded as the ‘hottest tour of the year’, Martin’s concert announcement was supported by a list of impressive statistics for awards and record sales, as well as a glowing endorsement from US media heavyweight, Larry King, who placed Martin in the same context as Frank Sinatra and

Barbara Streisand as one of the greatest performers of the 20th century (Media release

– Ricky Martin, 2000). Yet, despite having an arguably stronger record of album releases, sales, concerts, awards and, even, fan base, Lau’s own concert received no such promotion, meaning that he sold out the same capacity venue as Martin but without any publicity outside of Chinatown.

Both Lau and Martin began their careers as singer-actors who built up a strong local fan base before becoming global superstars, but, while both Lau’s home of Hong

Kong and Martin’s home nation of Puerto Rico have pro-Western political and economic policies, Puerto Rico shares direct political ties with the US and is geographically closer, effectively making Martin ‘American’ in terms of both a shared home continent and loose-framed ethnicity. Indeed, Martin’s Latin American heritage would have been much less of a hindrance than Lau’s Chinese background in terms of achieving fame in the West. In addition, where once it would have been an obstacle to global commercial success to singing in a language other than English, in recent years, it can be argued, Martin's practice of singing in both Spanish and

English on records and in concert would be a significant factor behind the substantial level of fame he has achieved in the US, which houses an increasingly significant

Latina American diaspora population such that Spanish is now the country’s unofficial second language.

12 When it comes to my own Australian context, despite sharing increasingly close economic and other ties with China and having long experience of Chinese immigration – an overall familiarity far outweighing the relatively slight connection to Spanish-language cultures 2 – it is indicative of the overwhelming US cultural influence in Australia that a US star with Latin American origins such as Martin would have a greater media presence and connected record sales in Australia than the equivalent Chinese figure. Certainly, it is difficult to make an accurate comparison of the relative popularity of global stars such as Lau and Martin because of the unofficial nature of the consumption of Cantopop albums. Within diasporic Chinese communities, in countries such as Australia, albums by Chinese artists have to be purchased via international websites or in Chinatown stores and many more are downloaded illegally or purchased as pirated versions of the original release, which means all these sales cannot be effectively tracked by mainstream recording mechanisms (such as ARIA sales charts). Digital downloads and illegal copying are, indeed, becoming more common across the entire music sector – to the extent that this global trend has led high-profile artists to make the claim that they can no longer make money from recording albums and have to rely on concerts for their income. It is increasingly unreliable to look to domestic sales charts when seeking to compare artists' recording success. And while this situation has dramatically increased over the last decade or so across the board, for Chinese artists such as Lau it has been the case for a very long time, both in their 'home territories' and foreign markets. In this sense, however, the difficulty in gauging commercial success is lessened because the concert attendance at Lau’s concerts clearly confirms that he is, indeed, a commercially prominent figure. The comparison I am making between Martin and Lau is again one

2 According to the most recent Australian Census, Spanish is the 7th most widely spoken community language in the Australia – well behind both Mandarin and Cantonese, which are the 1st and 4th most widely spoken languages, respectively (Australian Census, 2011). 13 that has only become more endemic in subsequent years, as it becomes increasingly clear the extent to which live performance has superseded recorded music as the primary commercial driver of the industry. Lau's success as a performing artist both then and now, both in domestic Chinese territories and for the enormous Chinese diaspora such as that in Australia, is the proper evidence of his celebrity and significance for regionally and globally burgeoning Chinese-language popular culture.

Although Lau is also a multilingual star who features non-English songs on his records, with a huge regional and increasingly global audience (including an

Australian one capable of filling Sydney’s 10,000-seat Entertainment Centre), he enjoys nowhere near the English-language media exposure of someone like Martin, whose US-based celebrity status is channeled back into other Anglosphere nations through Western media processes (such as posters, commercials, newspaper coverage, ticket vendor communications, promotional appearances on local radio and entertainment variety shows). By comparison, Lau's tours to Western nations are almost ‘underground’ or covert operations despite his popularity. By virtue of his absence in Western popular culture discourse, Lau becomes an enigma. The concert experience described above may simply be viewed as a social event, yet when one considers the broader implications of the phenomena of a tour by a global superstar that remains hidden from all but a very contained, almost exclusively diasporic audience base, we can see the significant cultural impact of the paucity of attention that Lau receives in English-language media and scholarship.

The idea of perusing scholarly research in this area first came upon me when I was an undergraduate student studying Hong Kong cinema. I discovered that a large number

14 of English-language works that deal with Hong Kong popular entertainment regularly overlooked key figures of the industry whilst concentrating, almost exclusively, either on the stars of the territory’s action cinema who had a cult fan following in such places as North America or the post-colonial panic films of Wong Kar-wai that were popular at European art house festivals. Such practices, left unchecked, inevitably led to the systematic promotion within English-speaking academic communities of a core group of Hong Kong films and filmmakers that fed a global cult fan base yet bore only a slight resemblance to the actual industry that they originated from.3 A glaring example of such an omission has been the scholarly dismissal of the career of Andy

Lau Tak-wah. 4 Despite being a leading figure of the Hong Kong entertainment industry for the past three decades, Lau has been consistently overlooked in English- language works that deal with the film industry. The choice of Lau as a focal point for this research can best be illustrated through his role as a meta-text – an individual figure whose activities have the potential to reflect broader social, cultural and political shifts in the region over the past thirty years. Certainly, Lau occupies a unique position within the local and regional entertainment industry – a star with unparalleled market appeal in Asian communities – yet, despite some very slowly growing and diversifying Western interest in the popular culture of Asia, most existing scholarship focuses on products of mass appeal, such as anime and manga, at the expense of focusing on an individual figure – as I will be doing via this examination of Andy Lau as a social, historical, and cultural barometer.

3 Aside from English-language translations of Chinese-language media and fan online commentary, non-English works on Hong Kong cinema are beyond the scope of this thesis. 4 Names in this thesis will be presented according to the conventions of the individual’s country of origin. For example, Hong Kong artists will have their names presented with the family name in front of the hyphenated birth name. If the individual has adopted an English name, this will be placed in front of the family name. In this instance, subsequent references will address the individual in terms of their commonly used shortened English name, e.g. Andy Lau, Jackie Chan, etc. 15 As suggested by the title of this thesis, Where in the World is Andy Lau? Putting the

Popular Back Into Studies of Hong Kong Popular Entertainment, Lau is one of the most significant figures in the history of Hong Kong popular culture and a socio- cultural overview of his career that takes into account the star’s complex relationship with fans and media and his role in the promotion of cultural nationalism will be the central focus of this work. This research, therefore, will argue that Lau’s career is interesting in its own right but can also act as a framework for a less Western-centric intervention in the way that Asian popular cultures – and Chinese popular cultures, in particular – are routinely discussed in English-language works.

Although much has been written about the Hong Kong entertainment industry, especially around the time of the territory’s reunification with mainland China in

1997, few English-language works have dealt directly with individuals who are hugely successful in the local market yet are unable or unwilling to translate this success to Western audiences. To some extent, this oversight can been seen as the result of limiting theoretical and conceptual constructs about the nature of stardom and the dynamics of national cinemas, but the fact remains that there is a perceivable gap in Western academic knowledge on the topic and many of the most popular stars of the industry have not been adequately represented in the literature that deals with

Hong Kong’s popular culture.

A review of published English-language research reveals a tendency to focus on aspects of the production process as well as a strong concentration upon the historical development of the industry. There is also great emphasis placed upon the visual style of auteur filmmakers, such as directors John Woo, Tsui Hark and Wong Kar-wai or

16 stars of the martial arts genre, such as Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan – with many of the texts focusing almost exclusively on a handful of such individuals. This focus upon filmmakers from the action genre (and, later, art house favourites such as Tony Leung

Chiu-wai and Maggie Cheung Man-yuk)5 will be considered in Chapter Four when I examine trends in transnational cultural flows. Whilst some sense of the local is provided in a number of these texts, through references to such things as the influence of triad societies and the 1997 Handover, most works omit other critical contextual details, which would give readers a much clearer impression of the inter-related nature of the star-based industry. The majority of texts devote very little time to the making and marketing of local celebrities which obscures the significance of the very public process that typically requires rising film stars to simultaneously maintain a singing career.

This thesis will trace the substantial transformation of Lau’s career since it began three decades ago. In the first three chapters my primary concern will be the local industry as I firmly place Lau within the context of this unique entertainment system.

I will then extend the discussion of Lau’s career into some Western and, most importantly, regional markets in Chapters Four and Five, respectively. Throughout the thesis I will clearly indicate Lau’s increasingly powerful position within the industry through analysis of relevant or milestone films, music videos, concerts and other endeavours that will be presented alongside empirical data, such as box office receipts to show the manner in which Lau’s celebrity has been constructed and understood by

5 Like most Hong Kong actors, Tong Leung Chiu-wai and Maggie Cheung Man-yuk had significant roles in many local films based on a variety of genres, including action and comedy However, after their success in the art house films of Wong Kar-wai, Leung and Cheung are best known to Western audiences as stars of romantic drama. 17 the star, his fans and the media.6 For example, in Chapter Two, I will be using case studies of Lau’s involvement in various projects to demonstrate how he was able to distinguish himself at a critical time when the industry went through a period of crisis as a result of the 1997 Handover. I will also show how Lau has gone on to become a figurehead for the regional cinematic revival in the new millennium. Ultimately, my main aim is to show how Lau has had a career through which we can read broader socio- and geo-political movements within the region over the last thirty years, such as the movement away from the mass production of quickly-made films, which focused on local interests, such as triads, gambling and urban romance, through to greater cinematic cooperation between different Asian (especially Chinese) cinemas, as evidenced in the plethora of historical epics during what has been labelled the

‘Pan-Asian’ era.7 The rising status of Lau within the popular culture of a region that was itself rising in global economic and political prominence also signals how Lau has become emblematic of a more non-Eurocentric understanding of Asian cultures and has developed into a literal representation of how an individual no longer needs the recognition of the West, and particularly the USA, to be a huge star.

Although it lacks the kind of contextualised framework that is fundamental to this thesis, one study that provides a useful precedent in terms of examining a global star as a social and cultural meta-text is Simon During’s (1997) analysis of the transnational success of Arnold Schwarzenegger. In this study, During makes an important distinction between the various ‘glocalized’ cultural products that are

6 For an overview of major milestones in Lau’s career and a list of the English and Chinese titles of films that Lau has been involved in, please refer to the attached Appendices. 7 Typically taken by academics to have started in 2000, the trend for Pan-Asian productions gathered momentum after the international success of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (Lee, 2000), an American-Chinese-Hong Kong-Taiwanese co-production. Although there are some prior isolated examples of Asian co-productions, this movement represented a conscious shift towards big-budget regional co-productions. 18 popular with specific local audiences scattered throughout the world and what he refers to as the ‘global popular’, which During explains “only comes into being where a particular product or star is a hit in many markets” (1997, p. 810). Although Lau and

Schwarzenegger are operating in remarkably different contexts (most notably distinguished by location), there are overlapping topics suggested by During’s study of Schwarzenegger that are relevant to Lau in terms of the methodological application of an analysis of transnational stardom. First, at a thematic level, During’s examination of Schwarzenegger’s position as a global star provides an effective point of contrast for my own analysis of Lau’s career. In this context, Schwarzengger is a particularly useful counterpoint to Lau because, whilst Lau is elusive and his cultural identity adapts easily to the local and the regional, the ‘meaning’ and ‘identity’ of

Schwarzenegger as a cultural and historical text is fairly clear, especially in the way he assimilated so readily to US culture and transformed himself into a Regan-era inspired quintessential right-wing action figure. Furthermore, while Lau certainly fits

During’s definition of the ‘global popular’, there is a remarkable contrast between the

English-language scholarly acknowledgement of the global popularity of

Schwarzenegger and Lau. This distinction is largely attributable to the combined facts that, unlike Schwarzenegger, Lau is both not ethnically European and, perhaps even more importantly, has managed to achieve this global success without having to relocate himself to the United States – a rather remarkable characteristic of Lau’s celebrity that will be discussed in greater detail in Chapter Five.

Although this thesis is focused on one particular celebrity, a secondary goal of the process of closing a gap in the literature will reveal how we may track wider social shifts and cultural border crossings, which have shaped the re-negotiation of cultural

19 identity within the region, whilst providing a useful means for engaging with Pan-

Asian cinematic collaborations and the increasing frequency with which popular

Asian actors appear in Hollywood films. This approach also highlights how, in the past, scholars have tended to promote local artists whose work translates well for

Western audiences. Given recent developments, most obviously and broadly China’s rising global position, I believe it is necessary to find more relevant, contextualized methods of thinking about these changes, and would suggest that a strong concentration only on those filmmakers whose works have been successful in

Western markets is not as relevant as it once may have been and is, in fact, Western- centric in terms of reception and paradigm framing. Instead, I wish to consider the ways in which Lau’s success exemplifies regional exchanges of language and culture.

Although I take Paul Pickowicz’s (2007) point that a China-centric position is advantageous in discussion about Chinese subjects – and I do follow his suggestion to a point by advocating for the need to consider local context – I find that some consideration of the West (e.g. Western scholarship on and reception of Asian culture) is also necessary in order to establish some of the major themes in cross-cultural misunderstanding which lay at the heart of this thesis.

Despite academic developments over the same thirty year period in which Lau has been working, the absence of the ‘popular’ in English-language studies of Hong

Kong’s popular culture suggests that, whilst popular culture (in general) no longer requires validation to be considered serious or legitimate objects of study, in some areas this freedom to discuss truly popular cultural products is still somewhat in its infancy. Seminal theoretical works, such as Michael Schudson's (1987) essay, “The

New Validation of Popular Culture: Sense and Sentimentally in Academia”,

20 established how the field of popular cultural studies was “revised entirely and revitalized” by the academic embracing of popular cultures – so much so that the long-standing issue of justifying its discussion and distinguishing between 'low'

(popular) culture and 'high' (elite) culture had arguably ceased to be an issue (p. 51).

However, whilst theories of mass culture have jumped ahead to an easy acceptance of popular culture as a legitimate object of study, it is clear that the historical framework for discussing some of these cultures have persisted. In the case of Hong Kong's popular culture, twin approaches developed. The first was an adherence to elite culture, which was manifested through English-language deliberations over art house cinema and its placement within a post-colonial discourse. The second was a celebration of select popular culture genres insofar as they related to Western audience tastes. In their own way, each of these two streams of investigation reflected an attempt to engage with the local culture, albeit through a self-perpetuating,

Western-centric lens. With this thesis, I seek to begin the work of overcoming such selective treatments by combining research into the following three dimensions identified by Schudson (1987, p. 52) – the study of the production of culture, the study of texts, and the study of audiences – in order to shape a contextually-based examination of Andy Lau and his position within Hong Kong popular culture and broader Pan-Asian and mainland Chinese business.

In essence, then, this thesis represents an attempt to correct what I suggest is an oversight and bridge a gap between the way that popular Hong Kong culture is routinely represented in English-language works and the way that that these products are understood by local and diasporic fans. I will also be drawing – to the best of my ability – on a number of translated non-English texts and will stress scholars who are

21 either Chinese or have a Chinese cultural background, but even within this context, the amount of scholarship on Lau is fairly limited, which demonstrates how, even in the growing world of Chinese scholarship, there is a reluctance to focus on popular culture figures who have a localized fan base. So, although this assessment of selected works indicates that Lau is similarly under-represented in the Chinese-language scholarship, my primary concern is the failure of English-language works to address and study mainstream popular culture, in particular in non-Western contexts (to be addressed in the following Chapter). An examination of how Lau’s celebrity works at a local, regional and diasporic level should also help explain why he was largely overlooked by the initial wave of English-language texts on the subject. One of the aims of this thesis, therefore, will be to tease out some key reasons for the glaring omission of certain figures from such scholarship. To further clarify the issues outlined above, this thesis will explore three inter-related themes:

 a consideration of the sites of interaction which demonstrate the variety of means (such as online social media and participation in fan club events) through which Lau’s celebrity has evolved, which have increased his visibility with fans and popular media whilst obscuring his increasing cultural relevance for academic research;  the construction of the superstar within the local and Pan-Asian entertainment industries – a process which has been largely overlooked by Western scholarship;  reflection on Lau’s development of a unique star persona within the geographical, historical, social, and commercial context of pre- and post-Handover Hong Kong resulting in a form of celebrity which is, significantly, not dependent upon Western acknowledgement.

Framing Andy Lau as alternatively a cultural text and a cultural agent– an individual whose actions are subject to cultural interpretation and who also has the power to affect that culture – I hope to address each of these issues and demonstrate how a more responsive representation of Hong Kong popular culture can be achieved by re- evaluating the role of celebrity in the promulgation of a distinct yet flexible cultural identity. By combining this approach to popular culture with the knowledge and

22 techniques employed in existing works that focus on the industry, I will be able to clarify the correlations and divergences between the various notions of national culture and will be in a better position to evaluate the impact that such notions have upon a tangible conception of a Hong Kong identity as expressed in the local popular culture and beyond in the Pan-Chinese context.

Although I will occasionally address the works of other internationally recognized

Hong Kong and mainland Chinese filmmakers, my primary concern in this study is the figure of Andy Lau, so, ultimately, the thesis will focus on the production and reception of works that are significant within a Sinophone context. I should note at this point that my definition of Sinophone will, at times, be stretched to include neighbouring regions with large Chinese communities – particularly in Chapter Five when my focus will be turning towards recent regional trends in the production and consumption of Asian cinema. This is an important distinction because gradually broadening the notion of what constitutes ‘Chinese’ culture will create a parallel between this work and the career trajectory of Lau. Although there are obvious commercial considerations at play, because Pan-Asian productions are an effective avenue for seizing a greater share of ‘foreign’8 audiences, this is not an entirely false construction and, as Lau’s rhetoric in interviews over the past decades demonstrate, the star hardly considers himself an interloper when he works outside of Hong Kong.

That being said, Lau’s gestures towards regional specificities have a tendency to reveal his own outsider status and his self-identification with these divergent audiences only holds for the duration in which he is concentrating his attention on

8 In this context, ‘foreign’ simply denotes all audience markets outside of the film’s original country of production. 23 them. Therefore, in this context, the ‘local’ signals the immediate audience that Lau’s projects are directed towards hence, the geographic parameters of a given market may shift across national boundaries as easily as the man does himself. Given the great discrepancies between these markets, what this analysis ultimately demonstrates is the astute way in which Lau and his support team have learned to negotiate regional differences. At times this sensitivity to regional concerns has necessitated taking a creative approach to certain projects, such as playing up local culture and geographical locations in his Hong Kong films; singing in Mandarin, Japanese or

Taiwanese for his non-Cantonese speaking fans; or agreeing to film alternate scenes to appease the varying censorship requirements of different markets (discussed in

Chapter Two and Chapter Three, respectively).

Whilst an emphasis on the local is repeatedly stressed throughout this thesis – especially in those chapters that deal with reactions to the territory’s reunification with mainland China (Chapter Two), the development of Lau’s celebrity (Chapter

Three) and the importance of considering works within the cultural context of their origins (Chapter Four) – the significance of Lau’s diasporic fan base cannot be overstated. Cultural products, such as film and music, are an obvious method through which immigrants are able to connect with their home culture and Chinese communities around the world are especially adept at providing easy access to these works, giving rise to a large, though often overlooked, audience for Chinese-language entertainment. Even though digital downloads have seized a large part of the overseas market away from entertainment distributors, it is still not uncommon to find specialist Asian entertainment stores in each of the world’s Chinatowns. The high volume export and import of Hong Kong films in the 1970s is seen as a critical

24 element in the early development of a cult following of the industry in North

America, the United Kingdom, and Australia as non-Chinese fans often had

Chinatown cinemas and video stores as their only source for these works. Similarly,

Lau’s concerts in countries such as Australia and the United States draw audiences in their thousands but, unlike the tours of other international stars – which are advertised in newspapers, on television, and ticketing sites – shows by Chinese artists are simply advertised through Chinese entertainment websites, word-of-mouth, and posters strewn across the local Chinatown district. On each scale we have to measure the popularity of a recording artist – from time in the industry, to number of albums produced, sales figures, awards won, general recognisability, and size of audience base – Lau is demonstrably as popular (if not more so) than most international touring artists, yet, outside of Asia, where Lau’s tours are national news, his concerts go unreported by Western media outlets9 and unnoticed by all except for the crowds of diasporic Chinese who attend them. As suggested by the anecdote that opens this

Introduction, this ongoing failure of media outlets to acknowledge non-Western cultures has a demonstrable influence upon cultural awareness levels and significantly restricts the capacity of individuals to interact with non-Anglo-American cultures.

Whilst acknowledging the role of non-Chinese fans, especially in creating demand for

English-language scholarship about the industry, it is important to stress the practical function of Sinophone consumers. Here, I take a broad definition of the term

‘Sinophone’ to mean all those individuals of Chinese-heritage who watch Lau’s films and listen to his music, regardless of distinction in their language or geographical location. In other words, I will speak of the consumers of Lau’s work in the same all-

9 Note, for example, how neither of Andy Lau’s 2001 or 2008 Sydney concerts were reviewed by the Sydney Morning Herald, a publication which typically makes a point of covering all major arena shows by international artists. 25 encompassing way that he often does, with reference to specificities of location, language and regional differences highlighted when necessary. As Audrey Yue and

Olivia Khoo (2012) discuss in a special issue of the Journal of Chinese Cinemas devoted to the recent methodological shift toward the ‘Sinophone’ allows academics to “re-engage new sites of localization, multilingualism, and difference that have emerged in Chinese film studies but that are not easily contained by the notion of diaspora” (p. 9). In terms of establishing a framework for discussing Lau’s celebrity across local, regional and diasporic Chinese communities, the adoption of a

Sinophone perspective, first identified by Shu-mei Shih, is certainly more robust than traditional paradigms of the ‘national’, ‘transnational’ or even ‘Chinese-language’ cinema as it allows for a broader definition of Chinese culture/s that aren’t solely dependent upon strict divisions based on geography or language. Furthermore, by adopting Sheldon Lu’s redefinition of the term 10 to include rather than exclude mainland China we move even closer to a model that mirrors the broad reach and flexibility of Lau’s own celebrity.

ISLAND OF FIRE: THE SPECTACLE OF HANDOVER-ERA HONG KONG

My personal interest in popular Hong Kong cinema grew in unison with the mass influx of publications on the topic in the lead up to the territory’s return to Chinese sovereignty in 1997. I was excited by the sudden widespread availability of popular and critical English-language texts that focused on this dynamic industry. However, it soon became apparent that many of these works were somewhat limited in scope and they rarely covered the types of films that I had come to understand as being

10 Lu (2012) makes the significant distinction between the framing of Anglophone (as inclusive of “literature or cultural productions from all English-speaking countries, from both Great Britain and its former colonies”) and Francophone (which includes “cultural productions from outside the sovereign nation of France) (pp. 21-22). 26 representative of contemporary Hong Kong cinema. Generally speaking, the works fell into one of two categories: fan works based on cult favourites, such as the hybrid comedy-kung fu films of Jackie Chan, or more scholastic pieces which examined implicit politics or gender issues expressed in the local cinema, such as the suggested anxiety about the upcoming Handover in the films of Wong Kar-wai or the alternate readings of strong female roles in the films of Tsui Hark and the homo-social relationships depicted in John Woo’s stylistically violent epics.

Within a few short years of the Handover, the number of such publications fell dramatically as Western critical interest in the region’s cinematic output had dwindled along with the actual industry output. Adding to this over-exposure in literature, the industry was in crisis and had been rocked by such things as the Asian Financial

Crisis, the Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome (SARS) epidemic, rampant piracy as well as a severe talent drain, which resulted from a combination of emigrations, early retirements and the deaths of two major stars of the industry, Leslie Cheung Kwok- wing and Anita Mui Yim-fong within months of each other. After such setbacks, many sources that had forewarned about the death of the industry now declared it a fait accompli. In this context, Lau becomes an even more interesting potential figure of study because these seemingly dire circumstances actually coincided with an increase in Lau’s popularity and cultural influence. During this time, Lau increasingly came to be seen by his fans as something of a cultural leader. In addition to spearheading charity and national disaster campaigns, which indicated a certain level of public mindedness, Lau started to present himself as a man with a deep sense of pride in his Hong Kong heritage, as demonstrated in his routine references to traditional Chinese attire and pastimes in his work and public appearances. In addition,

27 Lau was publicly seen to be devoted to the future of the region, for example, investing in local real estate and entrepreneurial ventures designed to strengthen the local and regional film industries.

Ironically, the negative pre- and post-Handover pronouncements about the industry appear to have been a motivating factor behind a small resurgence in local interest at the time as various companies, film bodies and government agencies began making a push for greater public recognition of the impact of Hong Kong’s popular culture. For example, an early acknowledgement of the drawing power of local celebrity came when Madame Tussauds Wax Museum opened a branch of the franchise in Hong

Kong Island’s Peak Tower in 2000. Lau’s wax figure is often cited as one of the most popular on display11 (at both the Hong Kong and Shanghai museums) and features a novel device that allows visitors to feel the figure’s animatronic silicon ‘heartbeat’. A year after the opening of Hong Kong’s Madame Tussauds, there was further acknowledgement of the popular legacy of the industry when the Hong Kong Film

Archive was established in Sai Wan Ho on Hong Kong Island. Currently managed by the Leisure and Cultural Service Department of the Hong Kong Government, the

Archive was established with the mission of collecting and preserving local films and related materials. The establishment of an archive was strongly supported by the film community and was seen by some as a practical response to the anxiety over the

Handover-era fears of a loss of local culture. In addition to these services, the Film

Archive also began producing a series of well-received books and newsletters, which effectively document past and current film culture. In 2004 further interest in the industry was generated with the opening of the Avenue of Stars along the Tsim Sha

11 Museum maintenance staff claim that Lau’s figure is one of the most difficult to take care of as ‘over-excited’ fans like to get close to the figure, leaving behind so many marks that the shirt has to be changed twice a week (“Poor Andy Lau gets groped, kissed, and cuddled,” 2007). 28 Tsui waterfront, overlooking Victoria Harbour. The attraction, which is modelled on

Hollywood’s Walk of Fame, celebrates no less than a hundred celebrities of the local film industry, including Andy Lau, and features extensive information boards that detail the long and dynamic history of filmmaking in Hong Kong. The overall effect of these enterprises was to ‘museumify’ Hong Kong cinema culture at the moment it was deemed to be in danger of disappearance. Whilst such initiatives certainly fulfil the purpose of bringing recognition to the various accomplishments of the entertainment industry, the simple act of celebrating past successes also reminds observers about the relative lack of current achievement within the industry. Whilst tourist attractions like those outlined above may remain static, passive reminders of past glories, industry veterans like Lau remind us that continued celebrity is largely dependent upon a systematic, regular reinforcement of past successes, as demonstrated below in a brief overview of Lau’s 2010-2011 Unforgettable concert series.

‘UNFORGETTABLE’: CELEBRATING A VETERAN SUPERSTAR

For twenty consecutive nights over the 2010-2011 Christmas and New Year break,

Andy Lau took to the stage of Hong Kong Coliseum for a very public celebration of a career milestone. The Unforgettable concert series recognised Lau’s thirty years in the entertainment industry and, with gestures to classic songs, films, and television performances, the star seemed to be taking pains to remind his fans about the foundation of their devotion. Clearly enjoying the rapturous response he was receiving, Lau often provoked the frenzied audience with pleas for even longer and louder reactions although no prompting was necessary when Lau appeared in a sparkling police uniform to sing the title track from his hit film, Infernal Affairs (Lau

29 & Mak, 2002). An even greater reaction was reserved for a short video clip from A

Moment of Romance (Chan, 1990), the film in which Andy Lau solidified his heartthrob status playing a young rebellious triad. 12 As the clip played, a female dancer moved into one corner of the dimly lit stage, whilst the video showed the film’s climatic last moments where Lau’s fatally-wounded hero, Wah Dee, dressed in a wedding tuxedo and wiping blood from his nose, rides a motorbike through the streets of Hong Kong. The dancer, representing the heroine of the film, happily sways across the stage in a wedding dress; like her on-screen counterpart, apparently oblivious to Wah Dee’s impending death. As the music accompanying the film clip fades away the suddenly heartbroken bride/dancer collapses to the ground and is lowered away from view as Lau appears in the opposite corner of the stage, dressed in riding gear and leaning against a glittering motorcycle as he launches into the theme song from the film. These moments are thrilling spectacles that almost seamlessly link

Lau’s more memorable screen personas with his ‘real life’, performed stage identity.

Despite the high frequency of songs from films becoming major hits, film soundtracks are not as common in Hong Kong as this phenomenon may suggest. Instead, actors such as Lau regularly record songs that feature in their films for inclusion on individual albums. Without any explicit connection being made between a film’s soundtrack and the figures they see on screen, audiences of the local cinema have simply come to understand the process as an expression of the industry practice known as ge-ying-shi (literally: music-film-television) where stars of the industry routinely work across multiple platforms and simultaneously act in film and television whilst maintaining a singing career. I will discuss this practice in more detail in

12 Both A Moment of Romance and Infernal Affairs will be discussed in detail later in the thesis (in Chapter One and Chapter Four, respectively) as each of these seminal films will form the basis of case studies. 30 Chapter Two but, in the context of Lau’s concert performances, it is an important point to acknowledge here as these moments demonstrate the effectiveness of weaving together Lau’s film and recording careers in order to achieve a greater impact than he may have had from keeping his personas separate. Ironically, then, these highly constructed concert homages to Lau’s various film roles actually present a truer depiction of Lau’s involvement in the respective films cited than any other activity he may engage in. Specifically, whilst films have the tendency to separate the star’s discrete performances – placing acting and singing parallel to one other – seeing

Lau on stage recreating a character whilst singing the theme from that particular film intertwines these disparate elements and is actually the closest a fan can ever get to simultaneously witnessing the dual celebrity personae of Lau as film star/recording artist.

Although the Unforgettable concerts were just one phase of Lau’s extended public celebration of the 30-year anniversary milestone, which also included television specials and a deluxe three disc CD/DVD release featuring Lau’s own versions of classic Cantonese- and Mandarin-language pop songs, the concerts provided a perfect opportunity to witness the cross-promotion of Lau’s distinct public personas of film star and Cantopop star. I would also argue that Lau’s apparent keenness to re-enact scenes from some of his most iconic films on stage indicates that the star has learned to sell his own celebrity and is an extension of a long-standing practice to create a strong personal brand. This savvy approach to selling a personal brand will be discussed in Chapter Three when I demonstrate how Lau is marketed through a strategy of synergy – using his own songs in advertisements for commercial goods that Lau promotes, using product placement of those goods in his music videos and

31 the films he stars in, and then referring back to those films when he performs the theme songs in his concerts. It also shows how, with each of his self-referential gestures, Lau and his support team are essentially building a public monument to the star within the popular consciousness of his fan base.

Lau’s position as a local celebrity with a large and devoted following was a recurring theme in the concert series and a significant proportion of each of the three hour-plus shows was dedicated to having special guest local celebrities (new and old) who would come on stage and reflect upon aspects of Lau’s character and career. At least once each night, Lau would bring forth one of these guests for a conversation before leaving them to perform the classic hit “Ming Xing” (明星)13 whilst he disappeared backstage for yet another costume change. Although inviting a special guest on stage for a chat is quite standard fare in Cantopop concerts, these particular interactions were unique in the way they extended the familiarity between stars and fans and often the star-fan distinction was clouded even further when the guest celebrities would rhapsodise about being on stage with Lau as they gushed about how much they adored the man. Both in person and online, fans frequently praise Lau for his efforts in bridging the distance between fan and star and, by demonstrating confidence that his fans would feel comfortable listening in on conversations with his friends and colleagues, Lau seemed to be closing the gap even more by inviting them to witness moments that might otherwise be hidden from the general public. For example, on the night that Lau invited frequent co-star Sammi Cheng Sau-man on stage, fans squealed with delight when the actress revealed a container of rice that her mother had prepared for Lau. The presentation of rice represented a shared acknowledgement that

13 The fact that so many of Lau’s actor friends were so willing to perform this song in concert is another testament to the prevalence of the ge-ying-shi expectations that actors will also be singers. 32 Cheng and Lau’s fans were all familiar with the star’s restrictive diet and fitness regime for the concerts.14 Lau played up the gesture of concern for his health by placing one knee on the floor as he threw his head back and drove a spoonful of rice into his mouth.

Speaking to the crowd of 12,000 as though they were old trusted friends, Lau devoted a significant amount of time each night to conversing with fans and, although the show featured more than thirty songs, for the duration of at least three of those songs

Lau would slowly work his way through the audience crowded around the stage barrier – shaking hands with every fan in reach. One last example of Lau drawing fans towards him is the nightly presentation of a short video clip. Rather than thanking fans personally, Lau introduced a clip in which his father expressed gratitude for the devotion shown towards his son. The implication of this scenario is that the fans will recognize Lau’s father and are eager to be treated as his extended family.15 It is a sentiment that Lau has frequently referred to in interviews, especially after the fallout following the 2009 media revelation about his having lied about being in a long-term relationship and secretly getting married in Las Vegas (an event which will be considered in greater detail at the end of Chapter Three). What the above examples effectively reveal is a calculated response to the demands of contemporary celebrity, behaviour which signals Lau as being a particularly compelling object of study,

14 Similar expressions of concern are a hot news item each time Lau prepares for a concert series (“Andy Lau waiting for blood tests”, 2004). 15 The onstage reference to Lau’s father is a continuation of Lau’s public displays of filial piety – the traditional Chinese value, which relies upon respect for one’s elders. Lau also demonstrates his filial nature by remaining very close to his parents and his ‘godmother’, actress Deannie Ip Tak-han. For example, Lau’s parent often accompany him to fan club events, such as birthday celebrations, he mentions them frequently in interviews and he purchased adjacent (inter-connected) houses so that he could continue to share meals with his parents, even insisting that his parents stay with him after his marriage (“Andy’s heavenly queen treatment for his mother”, 2011). 33 especially when one considers both the extent of his success and the longevity of his career, first, as a local Hong Kong celebrity then a Pan-Asian superstar.

A BATTLE OF WITS: THESIS OVERVIEW

The methodological approach that I take with this thesis involves a combination of analytical techniques, including a critical and contextual analysis of individual films considered significant or in some way representative of a particular theme in the construction of Lau’s celebrity or historical moment, such as the Handover, as well as evaluations of selected films and songs which are important to our understanding of

Lau’s position within the industry and broader Sinophone culture. For example, an analysis of some of Lau’s music videos from the late 1990s in Chapter Two will reveal Lau’s increasing interest in his Chinese heritage, which will then find greater expression in his later forays into mainland Chinese cinema. In analysing these texts, I will draw upon a variety of relevant sources, such as English and translated Chinese- language media, businesses dependent upon the local entertainment industry and its audience, fan clubs, websites, as well as various other internet-based sources that document the complex social implications of organized and spontaneous fan interactions. In setting up these case studies I will provide statistical evidence that allows those unfamiliar with the Hong Kong entertainment industry to quickly and easily recognize the significance attached to certain events and individuals.

By using Andy Lau as the focal point for each of these discussions, the scope of this project will be extended to include the areas of star studies (for example, the function of stars in national discourses) and audience studies (specifically, the sites of star-fan interaction). In addition, this research draws together a number of inter-related

34 discourses surrounding Hong Kong as a much discussed, particularly complicated national cinema, including the nature of the entertainment industry, problematizing the local in the era of globalisation (especially as it applies to the multidimensional formation and re-negotiation of post-colonial cultural identity), and the changing place of Hong Kong cinema in the Pan-Asian era. I will return to this last topic in

Chapter Five, but it is worth foregrounding the point that, by virtually ignoring the local industry in the period immediately following the Handover crisis, film studies academics missed an opportunity to capture an important factor in the rise of the ‘new

China’.

Adding to the complexity of this field of study is the necessarily difficult subject of cultural identity – both as a predominant theme within cultural-studies influenced areas of film studies, and, more specifically, as a fundamental aspect of this particular project, which reads Lau through a definable notion of a Hong Kong cultural identity and then explore how this identity shifts as the star later moves into neighbouring areas, in particular mainland China. In his 2001 essay, “The Role of Asian Consumer

Culture in Hong Kong's Post-colonial Identity Formation,” Hong Kong-based media scholar Anthony Fung attempts to “re-theorize the nature of local identity in the Hong

Kong context and to chart the changing configuration of that identity during the transition” phase as the territory was decolonized and renationalized, noting that:

What is local identity is anchored by the identity distance between the established 'ours' and the imaginary 'others'. In other words, the difference of what is perceived to be 'our values' and 'other's values' provides a reference point for a local cultural identity to be based on.

In Fung’s opinion, “for many developing countries, colonized areas or decolonized cities, this question is neither a legitimate, nor a politically correct one” (2001). In the context of this study, the issue of identity is further complicated by the way in which

35 Lau is seemingly able to segment his national identity into a local Hong Kong political identity that encompasses a broader Chinese identity through a sense of a shared cultural heritage. One of the key aims in this thesis is developing a greater understanding of the ways in which Lau can present himself as someone with an almost fluid sense of cultural identity – often referring to himself in the media as being Asian and/or Chinese and/or from Hong Kong. In addition to demonstrating how Lau’s celebrity persona is typically constructed in cultural terms, this shift in the star’s cultural persona can be linked to the increasing importance of regionalism in recent years (discussed in greater detail in Chapter Five).

Moving between star studies, industry analysis and historical-cultural discourse, the following chapters examine: Lau’s position in the local entertainment industry

(Chapter One); his response to the Handover crisis (Chapter Two); the specifics of

Lau’s celebrity persona, which is largely dependent up the promotion of certain values and a strong connection with fan networks (Chapter Three); Lau’s cinematic interactions both in the West (Chapter Four); and closer to home (Chapter Five). 16

By approaching the principal subject of this work from a number of different angles I am able to position Lau in relation to local and regional entertainment industries, whilst examining specificities of the fan/star relationship and considering the way in which Lau has helped define contemporary Sinophone culture. From these varied approaches complexities will begin to emerge and a more complete picture of Lau will develop. More important in the context of this research, however, each theme will be examined using the same individual as its central focus. The use of Lau as a conduit for this examination will undoubtedly demonstrate the practical benefits of

16 Almost without exception, the subheadings in this thesis are drawn from a selection of English- language titles of the 151 films (at the time of writing) in which Andy Lau has had some degree of involvement. 36 appropriately recognising the significance of stars in the Hong Kong film industry and will also highlight the importance of local media and fan communities in shaping the

‘story’ of individual celebrity. In this way, we can see how Lau’s appeal may not be immediately obvious to those outside of the culture. In addition, by looking at the role of fans and the local media in shaping Lau’s celebrity we can move the definition of the central ‘text’ of this thesis from Lau’s films and music onto a reading of these works that takes into account the context in which they were produced and received.

In this thesis I will be engaging in a star- and industry-based reading of the national cinema of Hong Kong and will position its entertainment industry within discourses surrounding culture industries, audience reception, and debates over cultural identity.

Later chapters will then consider these issues in the context of cultural globalization and the dissolution of national borders, which will more readily situate this examination of regional cultural flows in its proper context. Whilst each of these approaches will be applied concurrently throughout this thesis, I hope to further emphasize the interdependent nature of the relationship between industry and star by deliberately ordering the following chapters so that a distinct pattern emerges as we move in from a mid-level industry analysis (in Chapters One to Three) to a more focused scrutiny of Andy Lau’s iconic status within Sinophone communities (in

Chapters Four and Five). This, in turn, which show how Lau’s career trajectory actually reflects broader cultural movements that alternatively place emphasis on the local, regional, national, and global production and reception of popular culture and reveals how these movements expose a paradigm-changing shift away from a

Western-centric perspective of cultural flows.

37 Chapter One, “Foundations: Mechanics of the Hong Kong Entertainment Industry”, features an analysis of existing research on the entertainment industry and identifies gaps in knowledge about the re-negotiation of local and regional cultural identities as they have been expressed through Hong Kong’s popular culture over the last thirty years. In this Chapter, I will establish Lau’s early popular on-screen persona as a heroic gangster in the film, A Moment of Romance, as it was this role that established

Lau as a film star and cultural icon. Underlying this discussion of industry and star is an ongoing argument for the need to better contextualise these films through a consideration of broader cultural forces, such as the practice of ge-ying-shi, which encourages performers to work across various industry sectors and fulfil an important social function. In addition, in this Chapter I provide an outline of industry dynamics and negotiate a framework for understanding Hong Kong as a ‘national’ cinema. The

Chapter will establish the local entertainment industry as a relatively small but socially significant assemblage of individuals typically renowned for their seemingly effortless ability to move back and forth between film, television, and music. Drawing upon existing critical literature in order to present the complex workings of the film industry, I will argue for a contemporary re-visioning of the notion of Hong Kong in terms of a ‘national cinema’ through contemporary debates about globalisation and the transnational flow of cultures. I will be using a national cinema framework in this chapter to firmly establish the historical background for the thirty-year period that this thesis covers. As Vitali and Willemen (2006) explain in Theorising National

Cinemas, traditional discourse focusing on narrowly-defined notions of national cinema can be problematic – especially, I would add, in the context of films produced in Hong Kong during a period of shifting geo-political boundaries. In Chapter One, I will outline my process of adapting approaches to national cinema suggested by Vitali

38 and Willemen (2006), Jinchee Choi (2006), and Chris Berry (2006) but, at this point, I wish to stress that I am not proposing a return to the use of this concept, instead recognising the need to employ a reinvigorated application of such a framework for this particular context. Furthermore, I will not maintain a fixed perspective on the role of national cinema discourse throughout the thesis. Certainly, in terms of discussing industry approaches to the Handover, I will be drawing upon notions of national cinema that acknowledge its role as a key theoretical concept being used during that era. In terms of examining the contestation of a unique Hong Kong identity during this period of cultural crisis, the national cinema discourse is critical. The general reluctance of the Hong Kong industry to explicitly register the crisis on screen – coupled with historical Western scholarly determination to employ national cinema as a central discourse when seeking out perceived concealed depictions of the crisis – is revealing of the gap between traditional theoretical frameworks and local context that

I would argue is endemic to English-language studies of Asian popular culture, in general, and Hong Kong cinema studies, in particular. In later chapters the national cinema paradigm and discourse will be further contextualised through the addition of analysis that examines the flexible repositioning of Lau as a Hong Kong film star engaged in activities that reflect broad movements in the inter-related arenas of cultural globalisation and the Pan-Asian approach to regional filmmaking.

Chapter Two, “Fireworks: Cultural Instability and the Charismatic Celebrity”, addresses the 1997 Handover – one of the most common themes in Hong Kong cinema critical and scholarly discourse. Here, I will be focusing on Lau’s response to the Handover both directly, in the form of a literal response to the event in a reflective essay published in Time Magazine, as well as through the analysis of Lau’s

39 involvement in two non-mainstream films that referenced the Handover as well as the transformation in Lau’s public performances of his cultural heritage – specifically as they relate to his music career and, music videos.17 In this chapter, I will also address issues of post-colonial notions of nostalgia. However, rather than hunt for signifiers of what Ackbar Abbas refers to as the ‘Culture of Disappearance’,18 I propose to look at the events surrounding the territory’s reunification with mainland China through a case study of Fruit Chan’s Made in Hong Kong (1997) – a film produced by Andy

Lau which, unlike many of the mainstream films of the era, directly dealt with the harsher realities of life in late 1990s Hong Kong. By establishing how a charismatic star can ease anxiety during times of cultural instability, I will be positioning Andy

Lau as an individual who acts as a self-confessed role model through a public engagement in the ongoing re-construction of his own cultural identity. Considering the pressure upon Lau as a celebrity to present himself as someone who embodies the values his audience, and regardless of whether we ultimately choose to view the star as a cultural text or cultural agent, I suggest that Lau’s continued prominence beyond the Handover implies a similar renegotiation of cultural identity that has occurred at a societal level. Lau is not unique in his adoption of a layered identity that allows him to simultaneously be of ‘Hong Kong/China/Asia’. Rather, he represents a more fluid sense of cultural identity that better reflects a shifting regional consciousness. Indeed, a central aim of this work is to foreground this ‘in-betweenness’ of Lau, especially in terms of the slipperiness of his cultural identity.

17 Cantopop singers like Lau often release multiple singles from each album they record – all with accompanying music videos. Although this is a relatively common practice across many countries, the rise of karaoke in many Asian nations led to a surge in demand for music video compilations (in either DVD or the cheaper VCD format), which were often manufactured by video pirates who often resort to creating their own clips for songs released without a video, compiled from looped scenes of the performer taken from other sources (films, commercials, other music videos). 18 The ‘Culture of Disappearance’ refers to phenomena, identified by Abbas, in which the potential threat of a post-colonial loss of cultural identity manifests itself in Hong Kong’s popular culture through themes of loss and nostalgia. 40

Chapter Three, “Superstar: The Production and Consumption of Celebrity”, starts from Richard Dyer’s influential conception of the star as I survey the production and reception of Lau’s star persona. I am especially interested in examining sites of interaction to determine the social ramifications of Lau’s celebrity both upon his fans and upon the star himself. Specific examples of such encounters will establish the limits of Lau’s agency and show how Lau’s high profile simultaneously empowers the star whilst making him vulnerable to fan favour. For instance, I will examine

Lau’s conscious attempts to shape public opinion about his private persona in the aftermath of media revelations about his 2008 clandestine marriage to a long-time secret girlfriend. Lau’s handling of this event shows how the star has sought to control his public image through managed avenues. Specifically, Lau resisted using traditional media to explain his actions and instead issued a direct public letter of apology to his fans via his own fan website. The incident clearly denotes Lau’s overriding desire to shape public perception even though it also prompted a rare explicit and arguably quite honest admission of the star’s ultimate reliance upon fan acceptance. The chapter will also provide an overview of the foundations of Lau’s popular appeal and his efforts to maintain his popularity. For example, to outsiders, unaware of his reputation for hard work and a tireless promotion of culture and community, Lau may seem unremarkable and an odd choice for a superstar. In fact,

Lau himself has repeatedly stated he is not a natural actor, singer, or dancer, and has to work hard to improve his performances, yet his followers claim it is precisely because he has demonstrated a dedication towards improvement that they most admire the man. Essentially, the chapter looks at the ways in which Lau purposefully blurs the boundaries between himself and his audience. A thirty-year veteran of the

41 notoriously fickle Hong Kong entertainment industry, Lau manages to close the physical and emotional distance between star and fan through such measures as encouraging online communication and providing regular opportunities for his fans to mingle socially (albeit in a very limited and prescribed manner) with the object of their desire. In addition to Lau’s regular blog updates on his website and his personal involvement in a range of fan club activities, fans can connect to the star through his marketing activities. In addition, this chapter will demonstrate how the cross- marketing of Lau’s numerous branded commercial products extends his reach far beyond the limits of most other film and recording artists in the industry. By examining the ways in which Lau mediates his celebrity status in the star-based entertainment industry through individual performances, as well as through a conscious projection of a positive public image, this chapter will shed light on the nature of contemporary stardom in Hong Kong cinema, whilst providing a useful framework for considering Lau’s private and public personae as constantly changing, and revealing, texts.

Chapter Four, “Lost in Translation: The Importance of Cultural Context”, provides an extended reading of Lau’s hit 2002 film, Infernal Affairs, with some follow-on remarks about its Hollywood remake, The Departed (Scorsese, 2006), with significant attention given to the commercial and critical reception of each film. I shall be drawing – in a select, focused way – on a political-economic framework for the examination of Infernal Affairs in the context of its remake introduces themes of cross-cultural exchange whilst providing a platform for investigating the nuances of production and reception in Hong Kong and Hollywood and establishing a greater need for more contextualised approaches to studying these cinemas. In addition to

42 drawing out the similarities and differences between the respective industries, this work also lays the foundation for the next chapter, which considers Lau’s involvement in Pan-Asian collaborations. Together, these last two chapters represent an argument for a better understanding of transnational cultural flows in current national cinema discourse.

Chapter Five, “Pan-Asian Andy: Regional Movements and Cultural Nationalism”, looks at the large-scale ramifications of an individual star’s movement between national cinemas, as I utilize Lau’s post-1997 activities (as both an actor and a producer) as a catalyst for a discussion of how the Pan-Asian film phenomenon may be better contextualised and understood. I will approach this examination of Pan-

Asian cinema through a series of case studies of productions that Lau has been involved in. The chapter includes a discussion of the strategies that have been employed by Lau in his impassioned attempts to reignite interest in local Asian cinemas. This analysis will cover relevant films that Lau has either acted in or had involvement with as a producer through his Focus: First Cuts initiative for new filmmakers. This chapter will also consider the cultural and political implications of

Lau’s activities, such as his involvement in the series of films that celebrated the 60th anniversary of the founding of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). At the heart of this chapter is an acknowledgement of the power of popular culture to promote a sense of transforming nationalistic pride but, more specifically, it demonstrates the impact of Lau’s politically-tainted behaviour. In this context, Yomi Braester’s (2007) application of the Chinese concept of dawan’r – meaning artists with strong reputations and great skill in shaping tastes (p. 551) – is useful in terms of helping to describe the contemporary practice of ‘cultural brokerage’. I will be borrowing the

43 notion of cultural brokerage at various points in this study for the express purpose of framing Lau as a high-profile figure with the ability to shape cultural trends.

By engaging in this comprehensive case study of a key figure of the Hong Kong entertainment industry, I seek to demonstrate how conventional approaches to the region’s popular culture can be made flexible and better contextualized in order to address the challenges presented by globalisation and the increasingly dynamic nature of regional cultural flows. Koichi Iwabuchi’s (2002) notion of ‘re-centered globalisation’ is especially useful for establishing a precedent for moving away from a typical conception of globalism that is seen, almost exclusively, in terms of the spread of Western (specifically US) popular culture to the rest of the world. However, in direct contrast to Iwabuchi’s study – which examines the dominance of Japanese popular culture in Asia and stresses the importance of ‘cultual odorlessness’19 – it is my aim to demonstrate the way that Lau successfully transfers his celebrity across the regional space by repeatedly emphasizing his appreciation of a variety of different cultures. My ultimate ambition for this thesis is that it may shed new light on topical debates surrounding contemporary popular entertainment – specifically in terms of its role as an assumed site for the contestation of ‘national’ identity and help move popular entertainment studies towards a less Western-centric cultural framework, in which Western validation is perhaps no longer required or even desired – whilst providing the simultaneous function of firmly establishing Andy Lau as a legitimate subject for further critical attention.

19 A term used to denote the downplaying of a product’s origin culture so that it may be more readily adopted across a variety of regional spaces. 44 CHAPTER ONE

Foundations: Mechanics of the Hong Kong

Entertainment Industry

This chapter introduces Lau as a product of an entertainment industry that has historically relied upon a formulaic system of cross-sector training and marketing.20

Whilst framing Lau’s early career in terms of a highly-constructed process that produced a formulaic star, what I shall present ahead also traces how Lau came to be differentiated from his celebrity colleagues – first, through the career-defining role as a tragic triad hero in the iconic film, A Moment of Romance, and later, through his decision to stay in Hong Kong after the territory’s reunification with mainland China.

Finally, it establishes a contextual foundation for the following chapter in which I demonstrate how Lau’s direct and indirect responses to the Handover crisis positioned the star as an increasingly significant cultural text. The primary purpose of this chapter, therefore, is to establish Lau as an important figure in the local entertainment industry. Although Lau’s early career trajectory will be shown to be quite stereotypical in many ways, I wish to argue that there is a subtle point of differentiation between the star and his contemporaries. Specifically, I wish to examine those aspects of Lau’s public personae that effectively provided a foundation for the star’s later development into a celebrity with the ability to reflet, and even shape, broader socio-cultural movements.

20 In fact, as will be demonstrated in Chapter Three, Lau’s early career provides one of the most effective illustrations of the traditional pathway from the actor training program offered by the local commercial television station, Tele Vision Broadcasts (TVB), through to work as a television and film actor and a career as a Cantopop singer. 45 FULL THROTTLE: CONCURRENT CROSS-SECTOR CAREERS

There are many reasons to label Hong Kong’s entertainment sector unique: it has a tremendous local and global audience base, high speed and volume of output and, given its size, it has traditionally had a relatively significant degree of influence upon other cultures over the years. However, one of the most fascinating elements of the territory’s entertainment system is the fusion of the film, music and television industries, which provides for a select group of industry superstars to simultaneously maintain careers in various fields. Comprised of a small but hard-working talent base,

Hong Kong’s entertainment community is renowned for the volume and speed of its turnover. For example, films are often conceived, produced and distributed in less time than it typically takes for a script to simply ‘do the rounds’ in the Hollywood system. This swift production pace leaves the industry open to criticisms regarding the abilities of individual performers and the general quality of films being produced

(Bordwell, 2000, p. 16) but for stars such as Lau, a career can be built (at least partially) on audience appreciation of a reputation for hard work and a professional approach to working on multiple films at a quick pace.21 Another notable effect of the mass production approach is that industry output is frequently referred to, in popular media and academic texts alike, in terms of individual actors and directors rather than specific films.

When compared to the local film and television industries, Cantopop is still a relatively recent phenomenon, yet its predominance in the region’s entertainment industry cannot be overstated and, particularly over the last three decades, it has

21 Changing modes of production in mainland Chinese films often means that Lau can now work at a slower pace on films, although this is not always the case, e.g. the swift pace of production on the film, Switch (Sun, 2012). 46 become common practice for popular recording artists to advance with seeming effortlessness into starring roles in feature films and television programs.22 In fact it seems quite extraordinary that, given the virtual monopoly of the film industry by

Cantopop singers, no major works on Hong Kong cinema to date have devoted any kind of substantial attention to the phenomenon.23 Although the Hong Kong industry is clearly star-driven, there are only a small handful of celebrities who are able to sustain long-term careers. Whilst this must, at least in part, be a result of the inherently fickle nature of entertainment industries that rely so strongly on popular – though often short-lived – trends, I would argue that the practice of ge-ying-shi is crucial to a contextual understanding of how some stars are able to thrive whilst balancing multiple careers. The ability to simultaneously maintain a music, film and television career became such a widespread practice that it necessitated the creation of the term ge-ying-shi (J. Lee, 1995, p. 19). As a result of this music, film and television industry fusion, the entertainment sector is forced to rely heavily upon a limited base of talent who are involved in numerous, swiftly-organized productions which are marketed to the public through a complex system of heavy cross-promotion. For example, a singer may have to perform ‘double duties’ on a film when they provide the soundtrack in addition to their on-screen performance – work that is effectively exploited through such marketing techniques as including two for one passes to the film with the CD to inflate audience numbers for the related film. The ability to piece

22 Although a move from acting to singing is less common there are a handful of actors, such as Andy Lau, himself, and Sally Yeh Sin-man, who have managed to achieve considerable success in the transition. 23 One especially poignant examination of this phenomenon is Daniel Wu’s 2006 film, The Heavenly Kings, which, as the title suggests, evokes the local fascination with formulaic Cantopop singers (see my discussion of the Four Heavenly Kings in the following pages). Director Wu is best known as a leading Hong Kong actor and, in this ‘mockumentary’ about his manufactured boy band, Alive, he parodies the local star system. As pop culture commentator Sean Tierney observes, an unfortunate consequence of the ruse that Wu and his co-conspirators perpetrated on the Hong Kong public demonstrated was that “the audience had been so thoroughly trained to accept what it is given that they gladly accepted this fabricated band” (Tierney, 2006). 47 together a montage of scenes from a film to act as a music video for a song is another way that artists may ease the burden of their incredibly hectic workloads. Finally, when it comes time to go on tour the artist can stage lavish film re-enactments for each film’s theme song, rounding out the audience member’s engagement with the material on all levels.24

As a consistent degree of mass exposure is crucial in the entertainment industry, this ge-ying-shi system has inevitably developed so as to ensure a consistent degree of mass exposure that encompasses all aspects of an entertainer’s portfolio, including their extensive advertising commitments. New album releases are typically timed to coincide with the release of a film that will feature the star’s latest single, allowing the performer to enjoy maximum opportunities for cross-promotion. At the same time, goods being publicised will often be featured in the star’s films, and additional, more explicit, advertising acknowledgments are made during the film’s end credits. In addition, CDs will often have promotional stickers on the cover and inserts holding multiple coupons advertising everything from food and drink offers to discounts on clothes, fragrances, toys, electrical goods, services, or whatever other goods that star is currently promoting. Remarkably, the promotion of commercial goods is starting to earn almost the same degree of attention that the films themselves receive, with theme songs and accompanying music videos for branded products becoming almost as common as a music videos based on a film theme song.

24 Long before Lau’s film theme retrospective in his 2010-2011 Unforgettable concerts, Hong Kong concert audiences were accustomed to seeing their favourite films coming to life on stage when singers, most notably Lau, Leslie Cheung and Anita Mui, would perform soundtrack themes ‘in character’. 48 On the surface, this strong link between local film and music sectors would suggest certain parallels with India’s prodigious entertainment industry, however, in direct contrast to the lavish ‘Bollywood’ productions, Hong Kong films rarely draw attention to the fact that their stars can sing. The music/film connection is obvious in

Bollywood productions – not only do audiences frequently see actors ‘singing’ and dancing on screen but there is also wide public recognition of the role of celebrity soundtrack singers who provide the vocals for the actors to mime. As explained in the Introduction, the music/film connection is less pronounced in Hong Kong films than one would expect even though the actors do frequently sing on the soundtracks of their own films (although these songs may have been recorded as works of the artist’s singing career and may not have actually been written with the film in mind).25

Despite the strong music/film relationship, the closest Hong Kong cinema typically comes to having a full-scale musical, aside from Peter Chan’s Perhaps Love (2005), are brief narrative-based performances, such as a backyard sing-a-long in Dance of the Dream and Leslie Cheung’s on screen performance of the theme song to He’s A

Woman? She’s A Man (Chan, 1994). Far more common, however, are inter-textual references, which typically take the form of parodies of the music careers of colleagues. One example is Lau’s mimicry of Leslie Cheung’s androgynous performance of "Wind Keeps Blowing" (風繼續吹), from Cheung’s 2000 Passion tour, in the film Dance of a Dream (Lau, 2001). A second example of this practice can be seen in the film Gameboy Kids (Chan, 1992), which features an extended reference to the ‘Four Heavenly Kings’ (四大天王) – a group of young Cantopop

25 Andy Lau has contributed to the soundtracks of dozens of films he has starred in and/or produced, including: A Moment of Romance (Chan, 1990), Shanghai Grand (Poon, 1996), The Longest Summer (Chan, 1998), A Fighter’s Blues (Lee, 2000), Dance of a Dream (Lau, 2001), Love on a Diet (To, 2001), Infernal Affairs (Lau & Mak, 2002), Cat and Mouse (Chan, 2003), Yesterday Once More (To, 2004). 49 stars comprised of Andy Lau, Jacky Cheung Hok-yau, Aaron Kwok Fu-sing, and

Leon Lai Ming, who rose to individual prominence in the 1980s and severely undermined the supremacy of established superstars, such as Alan Tam Wing-lun and

Leslie Cheung. The scene in question features two bodyguards who are trying to get a young man (played by Lau) to co-operate with them by promising to let him see his idol and the following exchange deliberately plays up the friendly competition between the Heavenly Kings for hit songs:

FIRST MAN: If you’re good, we’ll let you see your idol? Who do you like?

ANDY: Aaron Kwok.

FIRST MAN: What does he sing?

ANDY: “Oh, Yeah!”

SECOND MAN: “Oh, Yeah!” is Jacky Cheung’s song, you idiot!

ANDY (to FIRST MAN, angrily): You told me it was Aaron’s song! I wouldn’t have listened to it otherwise.

FIRST MAN: No. I told you to listen to “The Days We Spent Together”, which is sung by the number one singer in Hong Kong … Leon Lai.

SECOND MAN: Yes, that’s what I said, too! Just don’t listen to anything by Andy Lau – his albums are never hits.

ANDY: Fine! I prefer listening to Alan Tam anyway!

Even with a basic comprehension of the general phenomenon of the Four Heavenly

Kings, audience members lacking a significant degree of local pop culture knowledge would struggle to understand much of the humour of the scene. The majority of local audience members, however, would be likely to appreciate that the song “Oh, Yeah”

(Oh! 夜) wasn’t sung by either Aaron Kwok or Jacky Cheung, but is actually a song by Leon Lai. Furthermore, the song titled, “The Days We Spent Together” (一起走過

的日子) - which was attributed to Lai – is, in fact, one of Andy Lau’s bigger hits.

50 Also, adding to the humour of the film is the fact that Lau’s co-star is fellow

Heavenly King, Aaron Kwok – who, in another scene, falls off a bar stool when he hears Lau’s karaoke rendition of one of Kwok’s own hit songs.

These examples demonstrate a key characteristic of the entertainment industry: a strong level of inter-textuality that is dependent upon a limited group of star performers who are exceedingly familiar with each other and with each other’s work as it is common practice for these performers to work with one another on multiple projects. The result is a playful and public relationship between performers who often star in films together, make guest appearances at each other’s concerts or perform together during award shows. Obviously, fan culture is a crucial element of local entertainment as part of the appeal of this arrangement is that audiences are expected to get the joke, which I believe reinforces the idea that it is wise to consider Hong

Kong films in terms of the actor, director and audience rather than shift the focus back on to individual films as we would be more inclined to do with Western films. At the very least, in terms of improving an outsider’s understanding of Hong Kong’s dynamic entertainment industry, it helps explain such things as the way films in

Chinese DVD stores are organised by star instead of genre (as is typically done in the

West). As will be discussed in greater detail in Chapter Four, this dual emphasis upon the individual performer and the privileged spectator is clearly an approach that works well in this centralized industry.

TRAGIC HERO: LAU BECOMES A CULTURAL ICON

In light of this premise that a useful method for examining the industry is to take a star- and audience-based approach, I believe a simultaneous theoretical and

51 empirically-based reading of the star and text, as is outlined by Richard Dyer in his introduction to Stars (1998), would appear to best suit the purposes of this project.

Whilst a thorough examination of Lau necessitates that his career be placed within the context of the industry, I will follow Dyer’s lead in shifting the emphasis of this analysis away from a production-based dialogue towards a discourse on the reception of Lau as a cultural text.26 Lau’s career provides a unique opportunity to trace the development of celebrity beyond his earliest incarnations (the performer as a

‘product’ of industry), through to recognition on a local level (performer as a ‘star’ and a cultural text) onto something infinitely more relevant and influential in both the industry and culture from which he came.

As stated previously, the films that have been chosen as case studies in this thesis were selected on the basis that they are each considered significant or in some way representative of a particular theme or historical moment. The first of these films, A

Moment of Romance (Chan, 1990), pinpoints the emergence of Lau as a fully-fledged film star and establishes his reputation as the ultimate ‘young, romantic rebel’ hero figure. It is this establishment of Lau’s early and popular on-screen persona as the heroic gangster than I am interested in pursuing at this point, especially in terms of the use of iconographic gestures that will be routinely referred to throughout Lau’s career (such as his staged homage to the final moments of the film in his 30th anniversary concerts, which were discussed in the Introduction as well as in a variety show appearance and various film parodies, both by Lau and other actors).

26 I will briefly return again to Dyer in Chapter Two when I discuss Lau’s role as a charismatic leader during a time of national crisis. 52 In A Moment of Romance, Lau plays Wah Dee, a young man struggling to mediate his own sense of morality with his innate capacity to engage in sudden, effortless and brutal acts of violence. The film revolves around an internal battle within a triad group after Wah Dee takes a rich student hostage during a heist getaway. His violent superior, Trumpet (Wong Kwong Leung), is concerned that the girl will report them to the police and puts out an order to kill her. Wah Dee refuses the order and struggles with his desire to remain loyal to his triad brothers whilst doing what he knows to be the right thing. Throughout the film, Wah Dee struggles with these twin impulses often resorting to violence before contradicting this behaviour by performing an unexpected act of chivalry. This is especially apparent during each interaction with the central female character, Jo Jo (Wu Chien-lien) as Wah Dee’s violent upbringing is stressed through his noticeably harsh treatment of the fragile girl he is trying to protect. In this way, the film mixes together the doomed romance and triad drama by drawing a parallel between the brutal violence and occasional romantic interludes.

The final moments shared by the couple reinforce the themes of sacrifice and fate as

Wah Dee’s death is drawn out over an extended period.

A Moment of Romance (1990) was the first of three films in the series. The second film, A Moment of Romance II (Chan, 1993), reversed the roles with a rich rebel protecting a poor, young Mainland prostitute who has witnessed a murder. The film teamed the original actress, Wu Chien Lien with a new male lead, played by Lau’s fellow Heavenly King, Aaron Kwok. The third film, A Moment of Romance III (To,

1996), reunited Lau with Wu but this time the action moves from a contemporary urban environment to a rural China setting with Lau portraying Lau Tin-Wai, a World

War 2 fighter pilot who crashes his plane in a farming village and romances Ting Siu

53 Wo (Wu Chien-lien), the young woman who nurses him back to health. Although each of these films featured key members of the cast and crew of the original film, there is little else to unite the series in terms of setting or plot, which, once again, highlights the industry emphasis upon stars over individual films.

Given the tremendous popular success of A Moment of Romance this typecasting was quite natural, as film producers were clearly trying to capitalize on Lau’s general appeal, however, it was the seemingly insatiable appetite of film audiences to see Lau in the role of a tragic, heroic young rebel which really drove the market for Lau’s subsequent career-defining blockbusters, such as Full Throttle (Yee, 1995). Lau’s performance as an ill-fated but inherently good ‘bad guy’ in A Moment of Romance established the star as a cultural icon. Furthermore, the scene towards the end of the film where a dying Wah Dee rides his motorcycle through the early morning streets of

Hong Kong has become one of the most celebrated sequences in local cinema history, with the scene being referenced in the promotional materials for both A Moment of

Romance II and Full Throttle as well as being parodied in Feel 100% (Ma, 1996) and

Needing You (To, 2000) and being re-enacted in a Taiwanese variety show, where

Lau made a guest appearance.

The enduring nature of the role is also attested to by Lau’s repeated casting in contemporary urban dramas as a heroic young man (usually either a triad or a policeman) who is brutal and courageous, loyal to friends and a protector of innocents who typically dies a violent and glorified death, as well as Lau’s frequent portrayal of characters named Wah (Lau’s own nickname) or Dee, for example in the films, A

True Mob Story (Wong, 1998), and Prince Charming (Wong, 1999).

54 Although Lau’s typecasting early in his career was a rather predictable outcome of film producers responding to audience demand for the ‘Wah Dee’ character-type, the star would later demonstrate an increased understanding of his own agency and his ability to shape – at least in a limited way – fan perceptions of his on-screen character types through the frequent engagement in self-referential cross-media discourse with his audience. In a way, then, Lau’s agency has been facilitated by his increased awareness of his own role as a cultural text. As will be discussed in Chapter Five,

Lau’s career developed and the star began to move into mainland China co- productions, which led to a greater awareness of the cultural and political implications of the star’s choice of roles and the man who had once been the epitome of local urban angst was reinvented as a patriotic leader of men in historical epics, such as The

Warlords (Chan, 2007), Three Kingdoms: Resurrection of the Dragon (Lee, 2008), and Shaolin (Chan, 2011). Yet, despite Lau’s early and continued success (and his well-established position as important cultural icon and star of one of the most seminal triad gangster films of local cinematic history) Western scholars have continued to neglect Lau. As a result of his increased visibility in Sinophone cultures,

Lau’s expressions of personal annoyance over Western disregard of Chinese artists

(discussed in greater detail in Chapter Four) have taken on a certain degree of cultural significance and, whilst his accusations of racial discrimination are typically directed more towards Hollywood film producers than film commentators, the perceived slight resulted in Lau announcing in May 2013 that he had made the conscious decision to turn his back on Western audience markets (Kamarudin, 2013), discussed further in

Chapter Four.

55 MADE IN HONG KONG: ‘HOLLYWOOD OF THE EAST’?

Although Hong Kong has long been one of the world’s foremost filmmaking centres,

Western scholars have traditionally been reluctant to engage in extensive studies of the region’s cinematic output. Although there was an influx of Hong Kong cinema- themed works – released in response to growing interest in the area prompted by the colony’s 1997 reunification with China – as a general rule, these works tended to focus either on the history of the industry or ruminations about how the impending

Handover would alter the industry terrain, as many stars chose to pursue careers in

Hollywood rather than face an uncertain future. Apart from the works that focused on the cultural nostalgia evidenced in the films of Wong Kar-wai, only a small proportion of works devoted significant attention to individual figures of the industry and there seemed to be a reluctance to discuss projects that might challenge the established view of the star in question. For example, Chow Yun-fat’s performances in action blockbusters directed by John Woo and Ringo Lam largely overshadowed any discussion of his television roles or the numerous dramas and family-orientated romantic comedies that he had appeared in before becoming a cult icon. Though such works effectively outline the foundations for a star’s success in overseas markets, they fail to adequately explain the basis for the individual’s fame amongst local audiences.

One popular text of the era that is directed at Western fans is Hong Kong Babylon: An

Insider’s Guide to the Hollywood of the East (Dannen & Long, 1997). The text is based on an earlier article, “Hong Kong Babylon,” which reporter Fredric Dannen wrote for The New Yorker. In the book, Dannen expands upon his article and complements it with a number of interviews and filmographies of key filmmakers. As suggested by its publishing date, this title coincided with the Hong Kong reunification

56 with mainland China – a fact made more evident by the strong concentration on themes of anxiety in the interview questions and answers. Throughout the work, the authors also embrace the cult reputation of Hong Kong cinema as film student/collector, Barry Long, complements Dannen’s interviews with brief plot summaries of more than three hundred films – complete with Chinese titles and notes on how to access the films in North America and London. Finally, there are twelve

‘Recommended Viewing’ lists compiled by various critics. Even though the text is clearly written from a Westerner’s perspective, the title suggests that the authors intend to give their English-speaking audiences an insider’s perspective into an exceptionally vibrant cinema simply through emphasis upon colourful personalities and amusing anecdotes, such as an account, which Dannen chooses as an opening for his book, of one of Jackie Chan’s more memorable stunt mishaps on the set of Project

A (Chan, 1983). As this example shows, the emphasis upon individual stars and production practices was as prevalent a theme in non-scholarly works as it was in the more academic English-language texts.

In conjunction with an emergent online community 27 , such fan-friendly English- language texts helped support the rapid rise of a global fan base for Hong Kong cinema in the late 1990s and early 2000s. For example, less formal in tone than John

Charles’ The Hong Kong Filmography, 1977-1997: A Complete Reference to 1,100

Films produced by British Hong Kong Studios (2009), Stefan Hammond and Mike

Wilkins’ Sex and Zen & A Bullet in the Head: The Essential Guide to Hong Kong’s

Mind-Bending Films (1996), is a collection of reviews of films organized according to

27 Websites which effectively catered to English-speaking fans of the industry included: LoveHKfilm.com, the Hong Kong Movie Database, HKcinema.co.uk, HongKongCinemagic, and the YesAsia online store. In Australia, many fans received an introduction to the industry through the SBS Cult Movie show and the Heroic Cinema website. 57 individual filmmaker or makeshift theme, such as ‘Ten That Rip’ and ‘Nail-Polished

Fists’. Like Charles’ text, Hammond and Wilkins’ book also includes a glossary, which familiarizes fans with cultural references commonly encountered in Hong

Kong cinema, such as the Cantonese term, gwailo.28 The title of the text plays upon other sensationalist elements of the films it reviews by acknowledging the reader’s familiarity with the English titles of two well-known films whilst essentializing common themes of Asian cult cinema as an Orientalist moral dichotomy (i.e. sex and violence versus Eastern philosophy). Clearly aimed at English-speaking fans of the industry, the text features a foreword by film star Jackie Chan as well as a list of

Chinese titles of recommended films for use when renting videos in North American

Chinatowns. The image-heavy format – with trivia-filled sidebars, such as quotes of amusing fractured English subtitles – best approximates the style of popular fan magazines. Even the back cover spiel – “Far from the orbit of Planet Hollywood, the

New Cinema of Hong Kong Beckons” – references fans knowledge that Jackie Chan was one of the financial backers of the Planet Hollywood restaurant franchise.

Although there are numerous other texts that likewise promise intriguing trivia about the dynamic film industry there is clearly a demonstrable need for Western academics to re-evaluate the kinds of approaches traditionally taken towards studies of Hong

Kong popular cinema. Whether by design or default, the overwhelming majority of

English-language works dealing with contemporary entertainment neglect a significant proportion of the region’s genuinely popular film output. In the context of this research into the neglect of key personalities in English-language works on Hong

Kong cinema, I find Yingjin Zhang’s appraisement of the film chronicle method of

28 Literally “foreign ghost/devil,” gwailo is a potentially derogatory term for Westerners. 58 Chinese cinema to be particularly relevant. In the article, Zhang equates the film chronicle approach with an attempt to “stage a ‘hit parade’ of monumental films and representative personalities” (2000, p. 18). As Zhang suggests, a key problem with this method is that “it selects only those events and texts that fit the preconceived pattern of a progressive development of Chinese cinema toward certain telos and neglects – or even dismisses – alternative visions embodied in non-mainstream film practices” (2000, p. 18). To modify this statement for works that focus specifically on

Hong Kong cinema, I would revise only the last section and make the claim that the majority of the scholarship tends to neglect and dismiss the visions embodied in many mainstream film practices.

A simple but effective illustration of the gap between Western critical studies and the local appreciation of Hong Kong cinema is the conspicuous absence of the top box office drawcards in many English-language texts focusing on the industry. In 2005,

Hong Kong UA Cinemas’ Blockbuster Awards recognised the top grossing Hong

Kong directors, actors, and films for a twenty-year period covering the period 1985-

2005. With 108 films in this period grossing HK $1,733,275,816, Andy Lau was ranked the most successful actor, placing him well ahead of both comedy star Stephen

Chow Sing-chi (HK$1,317,452,311) and Jackie Chan (HK$894,090,962), who ranked second and third highest grossing actors for the period, respectively (“Andy and

Sandra won highest Hong Kong box office actor and actress,” 2005). Given their disproportionate representation in both academic and popular Western literature, it would no dobut surprise readers of those texts to find that Lau had a total box office figure which was almost double that of Jackie Chan during his most active and

59 successful period (as evidenced by the fact that Chan had starred in four of the top ten grossing films of the same period).29

This recognition of Lau’s significant position in the film industry may have surprised some but perhaps even more surprising is the failure of Western film scholars to seize upon this knowledge as a foundation for examining his career, no matter how belatedly. Yet, despite a greater overall presence in post-Handover scholarly literature, Lau continues to be under-represented in texts that deal with the region's entertainment output. In other words, outside of the regional popular media, Lau is rarely mentioned. Even the most outstanding recent contributions to the field, such as the edited collection At Full Speed: Hong Kong Cinema in a Borderless World (Yau,

2001), tend to fortify established patterns of signifying Hong Kong cinema as being of interest purely on account of its dynamic aesthetic and issues of post-colonial cultural dislocation. Yau’s volume is a useful example of how certain trends are reinforced as it draws upon predictable figures to represent its key themes, with entire chapters dedicated to the now very familiar roll-call of cult and art house icons who are reassuringly well-known to Western followers of the industry, including John

Woo, Jackie Chan, Tsui Hark, Ann Hui and Wong Kar-wai. At Full Speed contains just two references to the highest grossing actor of the time; one as a name in the glossary of stars and the other in a statement about “idealized masculinity strongly associated with Hong Kong movie stars such as Chow Yun-fat, Leslie Cheung, and

Andy Lau” (An, 2001, p. 108) At the very least, this introduction to Lau would be

29 Similarly, Western followers of Hong Kong cinema might reasonably have expected to see an actress like Maggie Cheung, Michelle Yeoh, or Brigitte Lin top the highest grossing actress list and a director with a strong cult following like John Woo, Tsui Hark, or perhaps even Wong Kar-wai named highest grossing director. Certainly few individuals outside of the local and diasporic Cantonese-speaking audiences would recognise the names of either Sandra Ng Kwan-yue or Wong Jing, the actual highest grossing actress and director of the previous twenty years. 60 confusing for those Western viewers who only know Chow as a cult action hero in

John Woo and Ringo Lam films and who recognize Cheung as Asia’s first gay icon, best know in the West for his roles in Farewell, My Concubine (Chen, 1993) and

Happy Together (Wong, 1997). Lau’s fellow “highest grossing” award winners were similarly conspicuous through their absence. Director of popular comedies, Wong

Jing, who was the highest grossing director between 1985 and 2005, received two mentions in the collection; once as the director of Casino Raiders (1989), a film which actually starred Lau, and the other in the list of glossary of key industry figures.

Sandra Ng, the highest grossing actress of the period, did not receive a single mention in the entire volume. It is not my intention to imply that At Full Speed is not a valuable contribution to the field; in fact, I mention it specifically because of its well- deserved reputation. My point is simply that there is a gap between the way English- language critical studies have traditionally presented Hong Kong cinema and the way it may be understood at a local level.

What particularly intrigues me about such a disjuncture between the operation and representation of Hong Kong cinema is that, to some extent, the repetition of key themes and figures may have established a standard framework for other academics to follow, yet a distinct ‘canon’ cannot wholly account for what seems to me to be a continued and glaring oversight. Consciously or not, critical studies that concentrate on Hong Kong popular entertainment have managed to avoid talking about some of the most significant figures in the industry. Entertainers like Lau and his fellow

Heavenly Kings make mainstream films that Western audiences would rarely (if ever) get the chance to see at their local cinemas. As may be said of the majority of world cinemas, when Western cinemas do screen foreign films they typically select the same

61 cult and art house films that also attract scholars of non-Western cinema and, given the fact that English-language scholarship is naturally aimed at Western readers, it is not totally unreasonable for these studies to consider the films of individuals, like

Wong Kar-wai, who may be better appreciated outside of their home territories.

Ultimately, then, explanations for the reticence of English-language authors to discuss stars such as Lau may be less reliant upon a presumption of prejudice against the

‘popular’ and more about the lack of a contextualized framework for talking about someone who is successful across so many fields and who has had a career pathway that has been both formulaic and unique. At the very least, the absence of a framework for discussing stars like Lau would help explain why films made by his peers are discussed in terms of the filmmaker’s overriding style whilst what critical and scholarly coverage there is of Lau's films tends to focus on plot or production rather than the star himself.30

A simple but effective comparison is to consider those English-language texts that examine Hong Kong popular culture alongside the multinational corporations who have attempted to establish a local base in this region. For example, companies as varied as Pepsi-Cola, Madame Taussauds and MTV all undoubtedly conducted extensive market research before individually determining that Andy Lau was the local celebrity to have the most impact as their first local representative (“Pepsi’s big number blitz”, 1993; “Andy Lau set to launch MTV's 'Unplugged' in Asia”, 1995). A crucial point of difference between Western-based academics and companies, then,

30 An effective example of this point is Leung Wing-fai’s chapter in East Asian Cinema: Exploring Transnational Connections on Film (2008). Although Leung’s chapter features an extended examination of Infernal Affairs it contains only a handful of brief references to Lau’s position as a star – details which establish the role Lau plays in the film, the fact that he and co-star Tony Leung Chiu- wai were considered “box office guarantees” (p. 82) and a note that Lau, in 2002, was “less well- known abroad [than Leung] but had been a famous actor in Asia for two decades” (p. 78). 62 reveals the importance of local context. Obviously, the financial imperative behind the decision of which local star to promote means that the companies listed had to closely examine local conditions (similar to the study of the box office figures which also determined that Lau was the biggest local box office star) whereas most English- language texts looked at the popular culture of Hong Kong purely from an outsider

(Westerner) perspective. Although I would not advocate that academics should wholeheartedly adopt an approach which is based purely on financial considerations over and above other aspects of celebrity and film culture, a necessarily objective process of determining celebrity impact according to the consumption of a star can, at least, allow us to look beyond fixed subjective historical frameworks and start to see local concerns at work.

A flood of theories have been offered to account for the decline of the Hong Kong film industry but the most frequently cited factors are the lower budgets and increased production costs driving down the number of films being produced each year, rampant piracy, shrinking overseas markets, regional recession, the growing influence of Hollywood, and the mass exodus of filmmaking talent to other countries as the 1

July 1997 deadline approached (Bordwell, 2003, p. 158; Sullivan, 1999a, p. A45).

After the fourth straight year of foreign films (i.e. films produced outside of Hong

Kong) outnumbering domestic releases, 1997 finally saw the box office figures for imported films overtake local proceeds – a feat made all the more remarkable when one recalls that, as late as 1992, “not a single Western film made it into the year’s box office top ten” ("Hong Kong cinema loses ground, grosses," 1998). Arguably, the tastes of audiences were also changing. According to many film commentators in the late 1990s, there was little to be excited about and talk suddenly turned to the impending – some would say, inevitable – death of modern Hong Kong cinema. Hong 63 Kong cinema, in the late 1990s, became an endangered commodity and observations about the moribund state of the industry – such as Tony Rayns’ comment about “what remains of the film industry” (1999, p. 47) – became a common feature of English- language reports. Even in the years following the Handover, commentators would still look back on the period for signs of the industry’s demise.31

A HOME TOO FAR: THE HONG KONG-HOLLYWOOD EXODUS

As stated in the Introduction, one of the most obvious factors which had a negative effect on the film industry was the crippling mass migration of filmmaking talent, including many of the industry’s biggest names, in the lead up to the 1997 reunification of the territory with mainland China. Marquee stars such as Jackie Chan,

Chow Yun-fat, Michelle Yeoh Choo-kheng, Maggie Cheung Man-yuk, Sammo Hung

Kam-bo and mainland Chinese actor turned Hong Kong star, Jet Li Lian-ji, all left

Asia behind in order to pursue opportunities in the West, as did a number of the territory’s most prominent directors, including John Woo Yu-sen, Tsui Hark, Ringo

Lam Ling-tung, Ronny Yu Yan-tai, and Kirk Wong Chi-keung. Whilst, for some, the move was seen as a direct response to the Handover (e.g. filmmakers concerned that the Handover would negatively impact their ability to keep making films in the territory), others had benefited from the increased exposure that the industry was receiving and were able to relocate to industries that offered larger pay and access to

31 One poignant example is a LoveHKfilm review of the 2001 Joe Ma film, Funeral March, which discusses the plot device of the ‘terminal beauty’. The reviewer notes that the frequently used device could be seen as “a reaction to the impending 1997 Reunification, as terminal illness could easily be seen as a metaphor for Hong Kong's return to the mainland” (Kozo). Indeed, the device of the terminal beauty is evidenced in a number of popular pre-1997 films, such as C'est La Vie, Mon Cheri (Yee, 1993), Dr. Mack (Lee, 1995), Lost and Found (Lee, 1996), Feel 100%...once more (Ma, 1996) and What a Wonderful World (Chiu, 1996). As I will discuss further in Chapter Two, Andy Lau’s own 1997 film, Armageddon (Chan), dealt with this notion of inevitable death through the escapist lens of science fiction to tell the story about the end of the world.

64 new audience markets. These stars had varying degrees of success outside of their home industry, but, in retrospect, Andy Klein notes, “the biggest problem confronting

Hong Kong transplants is not a lack of talent, imagination, experience or even language: It's adapting to Hollywood's way of doing business” (1998, p. 36).

Certainly, the limited success that certain individuals had in Hollywood could hardly offset how desperately the domestic industry struggled without them.

With a talent shortfall the industry experienced rapidly declining box office receipts.

Although there were a few exceptions, for instance a number of Johnnie To’s films, the cinematic output for this period was labelled as being generally “disappointing”

(Bordwell, 2003, p. 154). As a result of plummeting box office revenues – caused, in part, by the widespread availability of cheap home entertainment alternatives – a number of strategies were implemented over the years by cinema owners hoping to lure audiences back into cinemas. Two such schemes involve the establishment of premium cinemas (similar to the Gold Class and Premiere screening rooms in

Australian cinemas) and an eight-week industry-wide initiative by cinema owners to halve ticket prices on Tuesdays and Wednesdays during September and October of

2002 (Groves, 2000, p. 59; Kan, 2002, p. 17). Although some chains, such as UA

Cinemas, were happy with the increased numbers that the promotion brought in, many decided against extending the offer, claiming that the campaign cost them more than they could recoup through discounted ticket sales (Kan, 2002, p. 17).

Moreover, declining box office receipts typically leads to more cinema closures (and delays in building of new cinemas), the result of which is fewer ways to see films and an exhibition industry that is staring to fall behind the times. One example, of this

65 trend is a report from the 1999 CineAsia convention detailing how most of cinema operators at the time expressed an extreme reluctance to embrace the emerging digital technology until the local film industry was able to get out of its slump (Groves, 1999, p. 26). Even the SARS outbreak of 2003, which had an immediate impact upon box office revenues at the time, cannot be blamed for diminishing audiences in the long term, as experts confirmed that the population’s subsequent eagerness for entertainment actually allowed for a fairly “decent recovery” (Kan, 2003, p. 12).

What was even more troubling were reports stating statistics like: “Hong Kong's film industry [suffers] its worst year in a decade in 2005 with plunging domestic box office receipts and a decline in the number of local productions” (AFP News, 2006), which fuelled fears that the situation was not likely to improve any time soon.

As the Hong Kong film industry began to hit rock bottom, Western film scholars quickly seized upon South Korea as a possible substitute. Following its deregulation and liberalization in the late-1980s, and buoyed by an influx of young filmmaking talent (many of whom had been trained overseas), the mid-1990s marked a point where the film industry began producing a steady stream of the region’s more critically and commercially successful films – seemingly picking up where Hong

Kong had left off. “Rapidly emerging from the obscurity of the art-house circuit” with a winning combination of technical proficiency, improved storylines, and the fashionable (though frequently shocking) explicit depictions of sex and violence,

South Korea quickly became the hottest new market for Asian film ("Korea's Big

Moment”, 2001, p. 46) and provided the backdrop for a new era of regional cinematic co-operation. Despite the early intense scholarly interest in the industry, South Korea has had only a few scattered hits in the West and most of its influence has been

66 restricted to domestic and regional markets. Following on from this shifting focus from Hong Kong to South Korea, however, was a movement away from critical interest in national cinemas towards a growing trend of regional film co-operation between these divergent cinemas.

The Pan-Asian32 phenomenon took a few years to get started, however, and, in an ironic turn, at the same time that Western audiences were rediscovering the merits of various Asian cinemas, the film-going public in many of these countries (Hong Kong, in particular) seemed to be growing tired of local films and started lining up to see

English-language productions – typically Hollywood blockbusters – in record numbers. As the Hong Kong film critic, Longtin Shum notes, this change in audience tastes played a significant role in the poor box office performance of local productions

(AFP News, 2006). These issues compounded were then compounded by a series of localised natural, medical and financial crisis. In particular, the Asian economic crisis that started in July 1997 sent Hong Kong into a devastating recession, resulting in a predictably dire situation at the local box office. Of course, given its traditional strong reliance upon exports to other Asian markets, the industry was dealt a double blow of sorts as the sales of films plummeted even further when many of the key exporting regions, such as South Korea, Indonesia and Malaysia, were similarly hard-hit by the sweeping economic crisis ("Hong Kong cinema loses ground, grosses," 1998, p. 10).

32 I will be using the term Pan-Asian as it has typically been applied to co-productions between the major regional film-making centres of East Asia (China, Japan, Taiwan and South Korea), even though it has also been used to describe works involving the smaller national cinemas of Southeast Asia (such as Thailand, Singapore, Malaysia, Philippines, Vietnam and Indonesia). In fact, some organizations and festivals, such as the UK Pan Asian Film Festival, extend this definition to include films from across the entire Asian continent, including South Asia (Burma, India, Tibet), Central Asia (Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan), and the Middle East (Iran, Iraq, Kurdistan). 67 There were other financial implications arising from these changes as well, including the changing behaviour of film and music pirates who tried to buoy their dwindling profits during time of economic crisis by increasing their piracy operations. The situation got so bad that on the 17th March 1999, 1500 protestors from the entertainment industry took to the streets of Hong Kong for Anti-Piracy Day. Led by

Jackie Chan, the group of local artists marched together in an effort to bring attention to the crippling effect that rampant video and music piracy was having on the entertainment industry and, “all of Hong Kong's 73 cinemas darkened their screens”

(Sullivan, 1999a, p. A45). As Variety writer, Donald Groves (2000), observes, there was a noticeable improvement in circumstances in the direct aftermath of a crackdown on pirates by authorities in December of that year, but it wasn’t long before these pirates found new and increasingly sophisticated ways to work around the various measures put in place to curb their debilitating trade (p. 59). According to

Motion Picture Industry Association chief executive, Woody Tsung, film piracy was a key reason behind the staggeringly low box office receipts in Hong Kong for 2005 as

“more people watch pirated DVDs and films from illegal downloads [than were watching them in cinemas]” (AFP News, 2006). UA Cinemas General Manager, Bob

Vallone, concurs with this argument, explaining that there are a number of factors behind Hong Kong cinema’s downfall, but it is the “unchecked piracy […] that is especially vexing: The widespread availability of counterfeit DVDs and video compact discs remains endemic in Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand and mainland

China” (Groves, 2000, p. 59). Even more frustrating, was the fact that each time a new technology was introduced into the market it seemed to further exacerbate the problem of piracy, first through the ease of burning DVD copies and then via illegal downloads from the Internet (Sullivan, 1999b, p. A8). Yet, despite all these dire

68 claims by producers and distributors who clearly have a vested interest in the role of piracy in directing consumers away from cinemas and authorised sellers of entertainment goods, there were a number of positive ramifications of the practice, such as enabling a wide consumption of films, which feed into the cultural currency of local viewers As a result of the ready availability of pirated works, a great majority of the population were able to access cheap copies of films and this coverage resulted in an especially film-savvy culture, which allowed filmmakers to use inter-textual references to a far greater degree than would be possible in most other national cinemas. This facet of the industry/audience relationship is an essential element of

Hong Kong’s ‘privileged spectator’ model (the more explicit political dimensions of this phenomena will be discussed in Chapter Four). More specifically, as we will see in Chapter Three, Andy Lau certainly could not have had such a smooth transition into mainland Chinese films if not for the strong fan base that were already familiar with his work through illegal imports and downloads of his earlier recordings, films, and television series.

Whilst industry leaders focused on trying to curb rampant piracy and enticing audiences back into cinemas with strategic marketing exercises, the government took a different approach and attempted to revitalise the industry by funding initiatives to better support local art and culture and promote new talent.33 For example, in 1997 the government sponsored an initiative to help boost the ailing industry through the decision to establish an Art Development Council which could fund independent film projects – a gesture that film critic Sam Ho claims directly resulted from “the British ruler’s desire to leave behind a legacy, installing various people-serving gestures in

33 An approach that Lau also took in his promotion of the Focus: First Cuts initiative (discussed in Chapter Two) 69 the last few years of their regime” (Ho, 2003-2004, p. 4). Following on from this development were a number of other government-backed projects, such as the establishment of FilmArt (the Hong Kong International Film and TV Market – organized by the Trade Development Council), a Film Services Development Fund, and even a Film Office, which would provide for an annual festival as well as the founding of a film archive – a facility that the territory had been desperately in need of for many years (Sullivan, 1999a, p. A45). The short-term effects of these official efforts to curb piracy, bolster the local industry and celebrate the territory’s rich film culture and heritage through various initiatives and an increased support of Hong

Kong productions at international festivals were so promising that film scholar

Stephen Teo wrote about the ‘reawakening’ of Hong Kong cinema for a late 2000 issue of Film Comment. In the article, Teo identified “an increasing trend toward co- productions between Hong Kong and Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, China, Singapore, and Thailand, suggesting an emerging sense of ‘Pan-Asianism’ uniting the different markets” (2000, p. 11). These developments Teo to declare that post-1997 cinema had suddenly become “much more interesting” when these regional co-productions were placed in conjunction with local offerings by dynamic filmmakers, such as Johnnie

To, Fruit Chan and Wong Kar-wai.

Driving the Pan-Asian co-production movement were a number of changes to policy and the overall political landscape in mainland China. For example, prior to the 2002

U.S.-China Bilateral World Trade Organization (WTO) Agreement, Chinese authorities had imposed strict restrictions upon the importation of foreign films,

70 allowing for a quota of ten foreign films 34 per year. Under the new agreement, however, China vowed to “quadruple imports to forty films after accession, growing to fifty films in three years, of which twenty will be on a revenue-sharing basis, in each of the three years.” (The White House Office of Public Liason, 1999). Of course, as market analysts were keen to point out, there was great potential for “significant rises in screening of foreign film” as it was intended that, after a transition period, “an import ratio of two domestic films released to one foreign film (based on viewing time) is to apply […] a situation that the US studios and other content providers have been eagerly awaiting for some time” ("China film sector value to treble over three years," 2005). Shortly after China’s entry into the WTO agreement, the central

Chinese government also entered into the Closer Economic Partnership Agreements

(CEPA) with the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region (SAR). Signed in June

2003 and implemented on 1 January 2004, the CEPA essentially acts as an extension of the WTO agreement’s relaxation of China’s foreign film policies. The practical impact of these agreements upon the production and consumption of local and foreign films in China will be discussed in Chapter Five.

One of the most significant advantages of the new agreement is the decision to no longer treat Hong Kong productions as if they were foreign films that must be accounted for in the importation quotas. 35 Also, with respect to co-productions between mainland China and Hong Kong, the main story of a film is no longer required to take place in China, although the “plot or leading characters should be

34 Whilst the term ‘foreign films’ originally denoted all films produced by a nation other than China, this definition has been relaxed a number of times to accommodate such agreements as revenue-sharing ventures. 35 With the stipulation that they must first be approved by the relevant mainland Chinese authority ("Report: Hong Kong's film industry," 2006).

71 China-related” ("Report: Hong Kong's film industry," 2006). Finally, the ratio of mainland Chinese to foreign actors was decreased from a ratio of half to one-third of the leading actors. The relaxation of this last rule had a tremendous impact upon the landscape of Chinese-language cinema, as demonstrated by the success of resulting

Pan-Asian productions such as House of Flying Daggers (Zhang, 2004), which allowed producers to take advantage of a widespread audience base for the transnational Chinese cast led by Andy Lau, Takeshi Kaneshiro, and Zhang Zi-yi.

Whilst these arrangements clearly had an enormous impact on an industrial level, I would argue that this relaxation of restrictions based upon the national origin of performers in Chinese co-productions also had ongoing social ramifications and allowed for individuals, such as Lau, to publically negotiate a more flexible sense of cultural identity.

HOME AT HONG KONG: CULTURAL IDENTITY IN NATIONAL CINEMA

This section will examine the ways in which various films and film stars may be linked to national discourse and also establish the place of film in popular memory of a particular culture. As literary and post-colonial theorist Homi Bhabha notes in his introduction to The Location of Culture (1994):

The move away from the singularities of “class” or “gender” as primary conceptual and organizational categories has resulted in an awareness of the subject positions – of race, gender, generation, institutional location, geopolitical locale, sexual orientation – that inhabit any claim to identity in the modern world. What is theoretically innovative, and politically crucial, is the need to think beyond narratives of originary and initial subjectivities and to focus on those moments or processes that are produced in the articulation of cultural differences. These “in-between” spaces provide the terrain for elaborating strategies of selfhood – singular or communal – that initiate new signs of identity, and innovative sites of collaboration, and contestation, in the act of defining the idea of society itself. (pp. 1-2)

72 Following from such an understanding that the process of identity negotiation occurs in the ‘in-between’ spaces, I propose that Lau’s behaviours, such as his conflagration of the terms ‘Hong Kong’ and ‘Chinese’ in media and in his performances, constitute such ‘moments’ of articulation of cultural differences and similarity. As a cultural text, Lau routinely ‘performs’ his identity in a way that a seemingly simple act, such as releasing music videos containing conspicuously Western or Chinese characteristics (see Chapter Two), may become a gesture towards the renegotiation of self. Similarly, Lau’s decision to move into regional co-productions (based primarily in mainland China) rather than follow his colleagues to Hollywood at the time of the

Handover, is apparently seen by fans as a patriotic stance rather than a professional one, which is based purely upon practical considerations, such as less visibility and interest from that market than peers like Jackie Chan and Chow Yun-fat, as well as the potential language obstacles and the genre-based expectations placed upon

Chinese stars in that market (see Chapter Four for further discussion of these genre- based expectations). As mentioned earlier in this chapter, the major Hong Kong artists who relocated to Hollywood did so on the strength of their background in action and martial arts films – genres that typically preference physicality over the ability to deliver dialogue. Whilst Lau has experience in these genres, he is primarily a dramatic actor and his English skills, though quite solid, would certainly not be considered strong enough for him to star in a non-action Hollywood film.

The point of these two examples is to show how cultural (and, in this case, political) meanings are easily assigned to the routine articulation of the individual self.

Furthermore, we can see through Lau’s own media comments about being a role model, that the star is aware of this process of assigning meaning to his behaviour. A

73 simple but effective example of this would be Lau’s decision (albeit strongly shaped by a consideration of mainland China’s censorship restrictions) to change his approach to playing criminal characters. As demonstrated already in this Chapter in the discussion of A Moment of Romance, Lau’s early film career was largely centred on playing criminals characters, typically triad members, who were constructed as relatively heroic given their circumstances. As explained in Chapter Three, when I discuss the foundations of Lau’s popular appeal, this familiar characterisation as the young criminal being inherently good (despite harsh circumstance) resonated with local audiences at the time and was reinforced by Lau’s off-screen persona as someone who had worked hard to advance themselves from humble beginnings. Yet,

Lau’s more recent role choices – as alternatively a historical hero or a successful contemporary professional – tell a very different story. In films such as Shaolin and

What Women Want (Chen, 2011), Lau embodies figures that reinforce his current off- screen celebrity persona as an urbane entrepreneur who has a strong sense of pride in his cultural heritage. This shift in Lau’s public presentation of himself, as expressed in film role choices, as well as similar shifts in concert and music video performances

(see Introduction and Chapter Two), demonstrates a general maturation in the star’s celebrity persona but also a distinct movement away from a strongly defined local

Hong Kong identity towards a regional cosmopolitanism that strongly links to Abbas’ theories about the re-negotiation of post-colonial identity.

In Hong Kong: Culture and the Politics of Disappearance (1997), Ackbar Abbas outlines three possible scenarios that may arise from such an attempt to overcome

“the colonial condition” and define a local identity (p. 11). The first is the reassertion of the local as a means of marking independence. The second relies upon an

74 appropriation of the marginal – a celebration of “little narratives, local knowledge, and paralogies as […] strategies for resisting the master discourses, scientific and legitimated, of the centre” (Abbas, 1997, p. 12). This second model is perhaps best evidenced through the sudden, though still limited, rise in Western interest in local documentary cinema dealing with urban life, especially during the Handover period.

The third and final model is cosmopolitanism, which Abbas asserts, represents the

“hope of breaking away from local ghettos and entering the world in full cultural equality” (1997, p. 13). It is this final model that Abbas suggests most readily explains the general movement towards Pan-Asian co-productions in recent years.

To view the output of the local film industry as a form of ‘national cinema’ has always been highly problematic. As Yingchi Chu suggests in the opening of Hong

Kong Cinema: Coloniser, Motherland and Self, Hong Kong can be viewed as a

“national cinema only in an incomplete and ambiguous sense” (2003, p. i). In addition, the weaving together of the local, national and trans-national cinemas in

Asia has further blurred the lines between what may be considered Hong Kong cinema. Certainly, in terms of aesthetic style and favoured genres, late-1990s Hong

Kong cinema actually appeared to have more in common with the dynamic commercial cinema of South Korea than either of its Chinese-language counterparts.

For this reason, the placement of Hong Kong’s films alongside those of other

Chinese-language cinemas of mainland China and Taiwan was a frequently used approach in English-language texts about ‘Chinese cinemas’ that seems at odds with the acknowledgment of the complex competing nationalisms at play within each of these cinemas and the unique historical complexities of Hong Kong.

75 Adding to this dilemma is the tendency of many Asian filmmakers to try and secure wider audiences by capitalising on the inter-regional recognition of local superstars – a process that has become virtually institutionalized in recent years with the Pan-

Asian cinema phenomenon. With the increasing regularity of exchanges of filmmaking expertise and resources in the region, discerning a unique and tangible

Hong Kong national cinema is becoming increasingly difficult. For example, of the thirteen films that Lau made between 2006 and 2011, only three were financed and filmed in Hong Kong (eight were mainland Chinese productions and two were co- productions between Hong Kong and Taiwan and Thailand, respectively). Focusing purely on Lau’s output like this we can see how Lau’s cultural identity becomes hybridized as the star simultaneously locates himself in Hong Kong/China/Asia. It also provides a useful framework for Chapter Five, when I will problematize Lau as a relatively fluid focus point for the promotion of cultural nationalism

Naturally, such co-productions also have ramifications for the way we must now conceptualise the various industries in which Lau operates. As editors Valentina

Vitali and Paul Willemen insist in their introduction to Theorising National Cinema,

“it is too early to relegate [issues of classifying national cinema], still unresolved, to a bygone era” (Vitali & Willemen, 2006, p. 7). Revising the way that the local popular cinema is presented in critical discourses, I frame my argument around contemporary approaches to cultural identity and national cinema, which take into consideration issues such as globalisation and transnational cultural exchanges. Chris Berry outlines the reasons behind the need to re-evaluate the notion of a ‘national cinema’:

In the case of film studies, we need to place the ‘national cinema’ approach and transnational cinema within a larger framework of issues around cinema and the national. Within this framework, the national is no longer confined to the form of the territorial nation-state but multiple, proliferating, contested and overlapping. Assumptions many of us made a few years ago about the 76 waning of the national and the waxing of the transnational are being challenged the transnational continues to grow. But the national persists, often indeed stimulated by the very same transnational forces that we thought might be making it obsolete (2006, p. 149).

Such tactics are employed to great effect by Berry in his evaluation of Taiwan’s national cinema. Acknowledging that “the national may not be what it once was, but neither has it disappeared” (2006, pp. 148-149) Although obviously focusing on a very different kind of cinema (within another very complicated national context),

Berry offers a reading of three films by Taiwanese director, Hou Hsiao Hsien to demonstrate how one can take complex films that have moved beyond traditional constraints of the ‘national’ and make them relevant in the current era of increasing focus upon regionalism.

Chris Berry’s revised approach to national cinema is particularly relevant to this project in the sense that it offers a welcome solution to the traditional complications of negotiating a Hong Kong national cinema by essentially replacing the idea of a

‘national cinema’ with a more workable, solution of “cinema and the national” (2006, p. 148). Speaking now about mainland-based cinema, Berry writes:

The idea of a national film industry seems obsolete in the face of burgeoning co-production and transnational distribution and exhibition. From blockbusters like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000) and Hero (2002) to low-budget independent films like Uniform (2003) and The World (2004), increasing numbers of Chinese films are transnational productions. Neither their production nor their consumption circumstances match the idea of films produced within a territorial nation-state to express national culture for national audiences – which was the practice in the People’s Republic for most of the Maoist period (p. 149).

In the above statement, Berry justifies the reasons behind the lateral shift in perception and elaborates upon the difficulties of trying to force contemporary

Chinese-language productions into a conventional national cinema framework.

Berry’s argument for “cinema and the national” would certainly allow for greater

77 flexibility of discussion and, in the context of this thesis, provides an approach that allows for a contextualised and specific discussion – not only of Lau and his films but also of how a cultural text like an individual celebrity can highlight broader cultural movements, such as the role of ‘soft power’ in the development of cultural nationalism in mainland Chinese (to be discussed in greater detail in Chapter Five).

In a 2006 article entitled “National Cinema, the Very Idea,” Jinchee Choi specifies that there are three different approaches that one can take to the study of national cinemas:

 Territorial Account – relies upon the fixed boundaries of the nation of the film’s origin or, when so modified, the nation associated with the film’s actual production and/or source of investment;  Functional Account - national cinema is defined in connection with national identity;  Relational Account – looks at how a cinema differs from Hollywood cinema and other national cinemas (p. 311).

Outlining the available options, Choi makes the convincing case that the Relational

Account approach is best suited for contemporary evaluations of national cinema, explaining that the Territorial and Functional Accounts are inherently flawed and that the only way to gauge a national cinema is to place the significance of its emergence within a historical context as it relates to Hollywood and/or other national cinemas

(2006, p. 315). In the context of this study, it is useful to consider how Lau’s career further develops this scenario as he can simultaneously act as an agent of multiple

Asian national cinemas, whilst resisting comparisons to Hollywood cinema.

A useful model for the Relational Account approach to Hong Kong’s national cinema is to be found in Lii Ding-tzann’s 1998 essay, “A Colonized Empire: Reflections on the Expansion of Hong Kong Films in Asian Countries”. In the piece, Lii positions

Hong Kong cinema as an aberration, which defied the “unidirectional nature of

78 international media flows,” succeeding to not only “resist foreign domination, but also to invade neighbouring countries” (1998, p. 123). In the context of this work, I will employ Choi’s principle of the Relational Account approach to national cinema and replace the relatively inflexible geographical production-based approach to national cinema with a more suitable star-based approach, which adequately takes into account how Pan-Asian productions effectively make use of transnational celebrities, such as

Andy Lau. As noted above, Lau’s decision to participate in more mainland Chinese productions after the reunification provides an interesting precedent through which to test the possibility of national cinemas having fluid, or porous, borders – a notion that will be expanded upon in Chapter Five.

Whilst there may be some disagreement amongst commentators regarding the level of political sentiment evidenced in local films, there is little doubt that the momentous changes within that industry over the past decade and a half have a very direct correlation with the events of 1997. The most significant of these changes lies in the mass exodus of many of the industry’s leading filmmaking talents. However, the depleted roster of stars has led to greater opportunities for those individuals who stayed behind, as the drop in the number of total productions often led to a strong determination to make a quality film that could hold audience favour for longer periods of time than was customary. A second offshoot of these developments was the fact that many actors were now given more choice in the kinds of roles they played.

Aside from the ready availability of information on individual stars and the production of films that they have been involved in, a star-based (or even, film-based) approach to the study of national cinema has the welcome effect of negating many of

79 the central flaws that Jinchee Choi identifies with the traditional Territorial Account approach, and, the problems that arise when one attempts to attach a fixed geographically-based label to a sizeable pool of films that draw upon necessarily diverse cultural, creative, and economic resources. In addition to adding a much- needed flexibility to the theoretical parameters of national cinemas, an approach which maintains a firm focus upon an individual film or filmmaker has the additional advantage of creating a space for cultural recognition, which is entirely specific to the circumstances of consumption.

The industry influences and the renegotiation of defining terms of what constitutes a national cinema, as outlined in this chapter, have laid the foundation for later discussions about the role of popular culture in promoting cultural nationalism (to be discussed with specific reference to Lau’s individual works in Chapter Five). It is important to focus this project by bringing together the inter-related aspects of star- industry-nation so that we can start looking at what has happened within popular culture industries over the last thirty years through Lau – an individual whose career actually exemplifies many of the broader issues discussed in this work, such as negotiating Hong Kong’s post-colonial identity, the rise of co-operative regional cinema, and the shifting balance of power in China’s relationship with Western culture. In this respect, the work is not so much about a local or even national cinema as the place of individuals with multiple subjectivities in this increasingly complex and hard to define transient popular culture. The approach is necessarily complex because I am attempting to provide a more contextualised representation of a situation that is simultaneously concerned with the individual, industry and nation at the level of local, regional and global.

80 CHAPTER TWO

Fireworks: Cultural Instability and the Charismatic Celebrity

Hong Kongers like their films to be fast and furious. Not too much emotional involvement and oodles of surface physicality. A big screen roller coaster ride with no time (or need) to think, and then back to work. Speed, action, money and movement – the hallmarks of Hong Kong (Woolley, 2012).

As Richard Woolley, the first Dean of Film & Television at the Hong Kong Academy for Performing Arts, notes in the quote above, the local cinema is necessarily dynamic because of the way it both captures and accommodates the hectic pace of life in Hong

Kong. Although the desire to use film as a form of quick escapism is not unique to

Hong Kong audiences, Woolley’s generalizations about the superficiality of local cinema is closely linked to the heated discussion amongst Western commentators about the apparent apathy of the territory’s population to deal with real life issues that were provoked by the lead up to the 1997 Handover. This chapter will examine the Western media’s reaction to the reunification and will explore the scholastic trend for discussing the event in seemingly contradictory terms, where the assumed anxiety experienced by the otherwise apathetic local population during this time finds expression through symbolic cinematic gestures, which are framed in post-colonial terms. I will then go on to discuss Andy Lau’s own public reaction to the event, in terms of both his immediate and direct response (such as writing the reflective essay in Time magazine, where he pledged to remain in the territory after the Handover) as well as his production of

Handover-themed films and a revitalized public image that represented a renewed

81 interest in his traditional Chinese heritage. Hong Kong’s cinema is inherently commercial36 and, with few exceptions, was not generally seen as an appropriate site for the contestation of political matters or the direct negotiation of the territory’s otherwise well-publicised identity crisis. Despite this, we can see how Lau circumvented this aversion to deal directly with the serious socio-political implications of the Handover by putting his support behind a filmmaker like Fruit Chan who was willing to tackle the subject. During a time of anxiety-laden change, Lau’s use of active – though, importantly, not politically explicit – promotion of Sino-nationalism was instrumental in differentiating the star from other popular industry figures.

RUNNING OUT OF TIME: ANXIETY AND POLITICAL APATHY

Most English-language accounts of the anxiety crisis experienced by the population of

Hong Kong in the lead up to the territory’s 1997 reunification with China date back to the early 1980s. Before governor Murray MacLehose used his 1979 official visit to

Beijing to confirm Deng Xiaoping’s position on the issue of Hong Kong’s sovereignty, many Western commentators were hopeful that Britain might be able to continue on as administrator of the colony beyond the expiry of its 99-year lease (1997, p. 27).

However, an official visit to Beijing by British Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, in

1982 to discuss the issue indicated that there was no possibility of England continuing to control the territory and, two years later, the British government signed the Sino-

British Joint Declaration, which effectively stated that Britain would honour the terms of the lease as set out in the original treaty. This declaration naturally held particular import for the people of Hong Kong, as it was the official confirmation that the colony

36 In 2007, the HKSAR government announced support in the budget for film industry investment but these subsidies were limited to small and medium-budget films (Lee, 2007).

82 would definitely be returning to Chinese rule after Britain’s lease ran out on 1 July

1997. Significantly, just like the British colonisation of the territory a century earlier, it was a decision that was made without the input of Hong Kong’s seven and a half million inhabitants (Tan, 1993, p. 14).

As the deadline for the Handover drew closer, the media began to focus more upon the population’s reactions to the supposedly dire future of the territory and this scrutiny understandably intensified greatly around the time of the Tiananmen Square Massacre.

There had been strong coverage of the estimated 1.5 million citizens (20% of the population) who went out on the streets to support of the student protests in Beijing on

28 May 1989. Just days later, many Hong Kong citizens, who were reported as being notoriously apathetic about political matters, were on the streets again in response to the

Chinese government’s violent crackdown on protesters at Tiananmen (Hoover &

Odham Stokes, 1998, p. 26). Years later, as preparations were being made for Hong

Kong’s transition into a Special Administrative Region of China, Western media sources persisted with the violent connotations associated with the incident. Speculative headlines from American magazines, such as Fortune magazine’s, “The Death of Hong

Kong” and Newsweek’s, “China Takes Over: Can Hong Kong Survive?” provided frequent reminders about the unknown, possibly violent, future that lay before Hong

Kong. The use of the provocative and politically-biased Fortune and Newsweek magazine covers demand much more substantial critical treatment than I provide here.

However, these sources are cited primarily because of the valuable insight they provide about established patterns for addressing the Handover in Western popular media – patterns that would also be reflected in English-language works on the popular cinema

83 of Hong Kong around this time. In this context, the Fortune and Newsweek sources can be seen as key examples of a certain discourse. Further, I would argue that the treatment of the Hong Kong population’s apparent anxiety over the reunification as depicted in these magazines is not so dissimilar to the emotionally-driven explorations of the theme of cultural panic that feeds into the frequently reinforced link between the auteurism of

Wong Kar-wai and Abbas’ conception of Hong Kong as ‘culture of disappearance’ in

Western scholarly works that examined the industry’s cinematic output during that era.

The cover photograph that accompanied the Newsweek story was especially noteworthy in the manner in which it drew upon related notions of unjustness and violence. Baring the caption, ‘model at a Hong Kong fashion show’, the 19 May 1997 issue of Newsweek depicted a Hong Kong model blindfolded by the Chinese flag. As Jerome Sibergeld states, the image was striking in the way it managed to conflate “several images in the

Western viewers’ mind: justice, female, with balance-scales in hand, and traditionally shown blind to represent her neutrality; or that same blindfold, ironically, signifying the obstruction of justice or blindness to injustice; and the victim blindfolded, unjustly set before a firing squad” (1999, p. 139). Although contemporary Hong Kong media usually didn’t use such strong imagery as this, a sense of population’s anxiety was still apparent. For example, a 1988 editorial in the Hong Kong newspaper, Ming Pao Daily, observed that “Hong Kong people fear change not out of any particular admiration for

British colonial government, but because they prefer a system in which they have no need to be afraid of the government” ("Two editorials from Ming Pao Daily," p. 313).

Although the editorial puts forward a similar suggestion that the people of Hong Kong have good reason to be fearful of the Chinese government – a year before the military crackdown on protesters in Tiananmen Square – it is important to note that it also

84 explicitly rejects the implication that Western rule is necessarily preferable, demonstrating how even those who were anti-Communist were perhaps not unambiguously pro-colonial either.

In much of the scholarship that engaged directly with the issue of the Handover we find the ever-present spectre of the ‘impossibility’ of Hong Kong’s post-coloniality, leading to a situation in which the territory was often described as having a ‘schizophrenic’ nature.37 John Erni (2001) argues that, during this period, Hong Kong was in the unique position of being situated “between imminent decolonization (pre-1997) and ‘re- nationalization’” (p. 390). Although she doesn’t differentiate like Erni does between the territory’s return to mainland Chinese control as compared with Great Britain’s

‘textbook’ colonization, Rey Chow (1992) also emphasizes the notion that the people of

Hong Kong would be ‘between colonizers’ when she speaks of the difficulties encountered by local writers in the lead-up to the Reunification, asking “how do we talk about a post-coloniality that is a forced return to a 'mother country,' itself as imperialistic as the previous colonizer?" (p. 158). At the heart of this socio-cultural re- negotiation of identity, then, is the persistent problem of Hong Kong being concurrently de-colonised and re-colonised. On the surface, at least, it would seem that, according to both the scholarly literature and more journalistic coverage (with sometimes different emphasis and levels of nuance), that the territory’s reincorporation into China – a geographically and linguistically connected nation with which Hong Kong shares a cultural, historical, linguistic and ethnic background – should not have automatically provoked such strong apprehension from a population who had already endured the

37 See for example Howard Y.F. Choy’s (2007) “Schizophrenic Hong Kong: Post-colonial Identity Crisis in the Infernal Affairs Trilogy”.

85 imposition of the utterly foreign language, culture and practices of the British. Yet, as the population’s uncharacteristically pro-active response to the massacre at Tiananmen

Square demonstrates, shared principles of democracy (in combination with wholehearted participation in capitalistic enterprise) drew Hong Kong much closer to its

British colonisers, and to the West more broadly, than a shared culture was able to link it to mainland China. Unlike other nations that have gone through periods of de- colonisation, Hong Kong was never given the opportunity to forge ahead with creating a new post-colonial identity as, in the process of being de-colonised, the territory was simultaneously being subsumed under PRC control. Note, though, that even the labels of ‘Handover’ and ‘Reunification’ (often treated by commentators as being inter- changeable when discussing Hong Kong’s transfer back into Chinese control) are powerful politically-charged terms in their own right – the first positioning Hong Kong as a passive entity and denoting a negative and relatively reluctant exchange, whilst the second has positive connotations of reconnecting with an original and authentic culture.

It was this later perspective that Lau appeared eager to adopt and his public behaviours very clearly suggested that Hong Kong was not so much being re-colonised as it was being ‘brought home’.

Twenty years after Chow first posed the question of how the territory’s population would deal with the difficulties of being forcibly reunited with China, we may see the practical consequence of such tension being played out in the social-cultural reality of life in contemporary Hong Kong. Note, for example, Szeto and Chen’s (2012) recent examination of the Hong Kong population’s general reluctance to accept what they perceive to be the ‘Mainlandization’ of Chinese culture. Distinct from the movement

86 towards ‘re-Sinofication’ that promises mutual benefit from the merging of mainland

China and Hong Kong cultures – an approach clearly embodied in the developments of

Andy Lau’s career over the same period – ‘Mainlandization’ refers to the perceived threat to local culture from practices that allow mainland Chinese interests to overwhelm local concerns. In this context, ‘Mainlandization’ becomes a specific threat to Hong Kong cinema because local figures, such as Lau, may be able to star in mainland China-Hong Kong co-productions but ‘below the line’ jobs (and, increasingly,

‘above the line’ jobs, too) in film production will inevitably be taken up by mainland

Chinese at the expense of Hong Kong workers (Szeto & Chen, 2012, p. 115). Although this ongoing tension between mainland China and Hong Kong culture – vividly expressed as an escalation of political protests led by the citizens of Hong Kong – is clearly problematic for both the HKSAR and PRC governments, the implicit public and political pressure upon prominent cultural figures such as Lau, to find a stable balance between the two cultures does help explain the star’s apparently contradictory nature.

As Grady Hendrix’s 2014 report on growing political activism – or, more precisely, the intensification of anti-mainland sentiment – demonstrates, despite Lau’s well-publicised efforts to promote greater cooperation with the PRC, the star is still viewed as a high- profile defender of Hong Kong’s interests. The particularly vexed post-colonial ‘grey’ area that Hong Kong exists in, resists any artificial attempts to promote a new cultural identity and, at least in part, accounts for why this portrait of Lau’s career cannot fit neatly alongside other more relatively linear post-colonial histories. Lau’s undeniable cultural power (which will be addressed in terms of the themes of soft power and cultural nationalism in Chapter Five) is largely reliant on the way he has disentangled

87 himself from this particular post-colonial state and is recognisable as a prominent symbol of local historical and cultural forces.

Whilst these recent studies demonstrate the local population’s current frustration over the practical impact of jobs being lost to mainland Chinese and general threats to local culture, the media’s focus on specific political issues was much more acute around the time of the Handover. In “The Impact of 1997 on Political Apathy in Hong Kong,”

Patricia Tse Wen-sei (1995) examines the escalating sense of political uncertainty that permeated Hong Kong society in the late 1980s and early 1990s and notes a significant loss in public confidence after the signing of the Joint Declaration, when the Chinese government began to assert its power over the territory. Robert Cottrell (1992), foreign correspondent for the British newspaper, The Independent, elaborated on the nature of

China’s assertion of power in his article, “How Mrs Thatcher lost Hong Kong,”38 noting in bombastic terms that Deng Xiaoping famously took the opportunity of Mrs

Thatcher’s poor health during her trip to China to categorically reject the Prime

Minister’s suggestion that Britain continue on as the administrators of Hong Kong, indicating that “if he agreed to let Britain stay in Hong Kong beyond 1997, he would be no better than the traitors of the Qing dynasty who had first yielded Chinese soil to

Britain under treaties which were illegal and invalid” (Cottrell, 1992). After the clear indication that Chinese authorities would be actively pursuing the return of Hong

Kong’s sovereignty, the population began to lose faith in their inherited colonial government system which, conscious of its limited lifespan, began to embark on massive infrastructure projects – including work on the new airport at Chep Lap Kok,

38 Together with the previous examples of the Newsweek and Fortune cover stories, such titles signal the openly colonial attitudes of Western media at the time that Hong Kong was somehow the West’s to ‘lose’ and that this loss would be directly linked to the ‘death’ of Hong Kong.

88 the Rose Garden Project, and the demolishment of the infamous Kowloon Walled City

– designed to restore confidence in the long-term viability of the region (Tse, 1995, p.

214). As Sam Ho (1997) observes in the Hong Kong cinema retrospective, Fifty Years of Electric Shadows, by 1991 the population was in the depths of a severe anxiety crisis over what was to become of the colony after 1997 (p. 59). Yee Lee suggests that this fear of an unknown future typically found expression through a form of hyper- capitalism, as the economically-competitive population turned their concentration towards making as much money as possible before the return to Chinese control (1988, p. 316).

One significant outcome of this hyper-capitalism was a rather noticeable shift in class consciousness as the gap between rich and poor became even more pronounced, as those members of the population who could afford to leave Hong Kong, did so, and those who were stuck with an uncertain future became all the more despondent about their lack of options.39 For those people who, for one reason or another, stayed on the

‘One Country, Two Systems’40 arrangement proposed by Chinese officials both drew attention to the schizophrenic qualities of the colony as well as provoking a very public re-evaluation of Hong Kong’s sense of self. Frank Martin notes that there had been a tendency for many outside the region to underestimate the extent of Chinese patriotism,

“particularly those in Hong Kong” (Martin, quoted in Hershenshon, 2000, p. 151). I will argue in Chapter Five that it is exactly this underestimation of the patriotic nature of

39 One estimate places the figure of emigration from Hong Kong in the lead up to 1997 at approximately half a million people – roughly equivalent to 10% of the population. (Ian Scott, quoted in Tan, 1993, p. 14) 40 A constitutional arrangement under which Hong Kong would become part of China whilst retaining some autonomy through the ability to control the region’s political, legal and economic systems for at least fifty years after the Reunification.

89 non-PRC Chinese, which largely accounts for the failure of Western scholars to begin to recognise the implications of Lau’s popularity across various Sinophone cultures, as the star explicitly symbolizes the unification of disparate geographical communities who share common Chinese heritage. In local terms, Lau can be seen as a figure who was able to successfully negotiate this crisis of cultural identity by making a smooth (and very public) transition from a local Hong Kong-based cultural identity to a regional and global Chinese-based identity. Tan See-kam (1993) sees this identity crisis as arising from an inherent opposition within Hong Kong’s subjects who are forever caught

“between cultural (even ‘emotional’) identification with China (self) and paranoid alienation from communism (other)” (p. 14). In the absence of any grand-scale public political discourse regarding the reunification, the dynamic local popular culture in the lead up to the Handover took on a particular significance for many commentators.

A common theme in contemporary English-language works dealing with the territory’s cinematic output focused attention on issues like the implied nostalgia in the films of

Wong Kar-wai (for example Chow, 2010; J. Ma, 2010). A case in point is Wong’s recreation of 1960s Hong Kong in Days of Being Wild (1990) and In the Mood for Love

(2000), which are frequently cited as examples of the director’s attempt to capture the sights and sounds of old Hong Kong before they were lost forever. Other techniques used by Wong include references to symbolic dates and a theme of trying to return home. The first of these devices is used in the 1994 film, Chungking Express, where

Takeshi Kaneshiro plays a heartbroken policeman who deals with his sense of loss over the relationship with an obsessive quest to find a can of pineapple with a particular

90 expiry date.41 Being set in modern-day Argentina, Wong’s 1997 film, Happy Together, lacked Chungking Express’ use of Hong Kong landmarks but Wong still kept the city

‘visible’ by having Lai Yiu-fai (played by Tony Leung Chiu-wai) exhibiting a palpable homesickness and devotedly resolving to escape his depressing situation by returning home to Hong Kong. Although such observations may be interesting from the perspective of examining specific films or as expressions of Wong’s auteurism, I would contend that they are not as valuable for considering the cultural context of the

Handover as their voluminous representation in the Western film scholarship of this period might imply. Whilst I am working against such a strong auteuristic line in this work, primarily because I wish to avoid the problematic issue of intentionality that is inherent in this approach, I also wish to provide a precise focus on the relationship between a high-profile industry figure and his local environment. In this way, this research may sit alongside the more common director-driven histories whilst circumventing a typically Eurocentric approach that misunderstands the local.

Whilst the various texts focused on formal readings of Wong’s films are certainly useful tools for contemplating the expression of the director’s artistic sentimentality, my interest here is in the examination of the indirect political discourse and popular re- negotiation of the Hong Kong identity by Andy Lau – an individual, I would argue that, as a case study, tells us more about popular consciousness than Wong, an international art house favourite whose films were often critically claimed but not as commercially successful as may be suggested by his big name casts, including stars such as Tony

Leung, Leslie Cheung, and Maggie Cheung. Lau’s popular appeal is of particular

41 The motif of expiry dates was also apparent in the film’s marketing slogan, "If my memory of her has an expiration date, let it be 10,000 years...".

91 interest in this context as it was seen to increase in proportion to his rising status within the industry – a favourable side-effect of the rather sharp talent drain as many of the colony’s other top entrepreneurs and entertainers made very public emigrations to countries such as Canada, Australia, Singapore, and the United States (Reynaud, 1999, p. 8). Whilst Wong’s work was used extensively by Western scholars as a prism through which to understand the state of pre-Handover Hong Kong, Wong himself has acknowledged that films such as Chungking Express (Wong, 1994) are simply representations of the city as seen through his eyes. Yet, by adopting a loose auteuristic approach based on an actor such as Lau, whose films represent a wide range of perspectives – including Wong’s in the films As Tears Go By (Wong, 1988) and Days of

Being Wild (Wong, 1990) – we may have a more useful and representative focal point for discussions of the reaction to the Handover as well as other historical moments that have had a significant socio-cultural impact. For example, a quick comparison of two specific films that Lau had involvement with – Days of Being Wild (Wong, 1990) and

Made in Hong Kong (Chan, 1997) – reveal wildly divergent representations about the issue of the Handover. The first focuses firmly on Hong Kong’s past and the associated theme of nostalgia, whilst the later reflects the central character’s generally pessimistic view of an uncertain future. Although both films may be dealing with issues of anxiety surrounding the reunification, there is a variety of perspective that comes from looking through the lens of an actor that is typically absent when one focuses purely on the vision of individual directors.

Although Wong Kar-wai’s films were clearly emblematic of the anxiety and nostalgia brought on by the handover, the relative drop in critical and scholarly interest in Wong’s

92 works after the period of crisis had passed hints that he had only limited relevance to the way Hong Kong cinema could be constructed in critical studies. More than anything,

Wong was an interesting ‘blip’ – his focus was almost entirely on a localized cultural identity but his version of this identity was deliberately historical in focus and personally indulgent in practice, being presented as an individualised view of Hong

Kong as seen through the lens of a nostalgic auteur. Wong’s films promised a glossy yet gritty version of what he represents as the ‘real’ Hong Kong, concerned with the claustrophobia experienced by ordinary people (be they police, criminals, service workers) who live in cramped apartments and rely on fantasy and obsession to distract them from their dreary, meager existences. Through the colourful lens of Australian cinematographer, Christopher Doyle, the ordinary became extraordinary and Hong

Kong became the backdrop of beautiful nightmares. Western (particularly European) art house appreciation for this approach feed into existing structures for examining post- colonial identity renegotiation and the sudden wave of interest in Wong’s films of the

1990s-early 2000s should not really be surprising, although I argue that it does reveal quite a bit about more scholarship trends than it possibly ever did Hong Kong.

In direct contrast to Wong Kar-wai, Lau’s celebrity has actually increased over the same period and his “failure” to succeed in Hollywood (and subsequent movement into the

Pan-Asian arena as discussed in detail in Chapter Five) is particularly revealing as it demonstrates an evolution that, in retrospect, gives us a useful framework for charting the growing impact of cultural flows within the region. Simply put, the short-lived academic fascination with Wong Kar-wai worked well in terms of that era’s scholastic concerns with the transnational and post-colonial. Western scholars had the framework

93 to deal with these issues and gravitated towards filmmakers such as Wong, not necessarily because they worked in that cultural context but because they worked within the existing critical structures. In this thesis I wish to examine a more contradictory individual who started his career embodying Western – specifically North American – ideals at a time when the territory itself was particularly open to and directly connected with Western culture. Lau grew up in this relatively robust period of Hong Kong-

Western cultural exchange42 and his career development and changing style over the past thirty-plus years nicely parallels the territory’s three-phase landmark shifts: from

Western-friendly colony in the 1980s, through the cultural crisis surrounding the

Handover (occurring mid-way through Lau’s own career) and shift into the post- colonial to a renewed focus on China in the new millennium.

From a Western perspective, Hong Kong was especially interesting when it went through a period of crisis but the more recent rise of mainland China has made the situation harder to discuss simply because there isn’t much in the way of traditional scholarship to show how to discuss post-colonial populations who seem to so readily reattach themselves to their pre-colonial cultural heritage. As geographical entities – first separated then reunited – Hong Kong and mainland China came to represent competing models of modernization and ideology. What was remarkable about the post-

Handover ‘One Country/Two Systems’ arrangement is that a loss of culture arising from colonial disruption is rarely regained easily and opportunities to make minor gestures to a shared heritage, such as those routinely enacted by Lau, make help bridge this gap.

42 Which, for example, gave rise to unique Hong Kong hybrid phenomenon of Cantopop (the fusion of the local Cantonese vernacular with the Western pop melodies).

94 YESTERDAY ONCE MORE: THE INSISTENCE OF NOSTALGIA

According to scholars writing at the time, such as Michael Hoover and Lisa Odham

Stokes, the anxiety provoked by the 1997 Handover was easily transposed into the popular culture of Hong Kong – especially in terms of the colony’s cinematic output

(1998, p. 26). Naming their article (and subsequent expanded work on the topic in book form) after Ringo Lam’s 1987 gangster drama, City on Fire, Hoover and Stokes effectively capture the perceptible fear and resignation that often permeated films released in the decade before the transfer of sovereignty. Taking as their focus the top films of late 1980s and early 1990s Hong Kong cinema (such as John Woo’s A Better

Tomorrow (1986), The Killer (1989), and Hard Boiled (1992); Ringo Lam’s ‘Fire’ films; and the immensely popular Young and Dangerous triad series) Hoover and

Stokes’ work identifies common thematic subtexts which centre around loss, betrayal, increased corruption, and a profound sense of dislocation. As demonstrated in the openly satiric film, Heaven Can’t Wait (Lee, 1995) – which Hoover and Stokes claim is ultimately about “the media’s power to con the public and its potential to turn 1997 into

‘spectacle’” (p. 34) – even the makers of the notoriously nonsensical social comedies were not adverse to working politically savvy messages into their films.

Undoubtedly the most frequently referenced issue involving the crisis of identity expressed within Hong Kong cinema is the fear of loss – not only of assets but also a fear of the loss of culture (Hoover & Odham Stokes, 1998, p. 35; Williams, 1998, p.

71). In a 1994 article entitled, “The new Hong Kong Cinema and the Déjà Disparu,”

Ackbar Abbas examines the psychology behind the re-examination of Hong Kong identity in feature films and established why pre-1997 Hong Kong cinema is such a

95 fascinating study. In Abbas’ view, after years of living under a cloud of ‘protective amnesia’, the colony’s population was provoked into a serious reassessment of its identity by the impending reunification with mainland China (1994, p. 67). In essence, the subject of Hong Kong only became of interest to its population right before it seemed it was about to disappear – a phenomenon that Abbas refers to as the ‘culture of disappearance’. Abbas goes on to argue that the desperate attempts to retain the essence of Hong Kong identity in popular culture only added further to the sense of loss when it discovered that Hong Kong culture seemed to have already disappeared. Abbas describes the sensation as an “uncanny feeling of […] déjà disparu – the feeling that what was new and unique about the situation is always already gone, and we are left holding a handful of clichés” (1994, p. 67). Whilst this phenomenon essentially describes a theoretical obsession with the loss of culture, I would argue that many of

Andy Lau’s public gestures – in the lead up to and beyond the reunification – represent a clear desire to reclaim elements of his culture, and, therefore, might be seen as a physical symptom of the déjà disparu sensation.

Despite all the external scholarship dealing with the various reunification issues uncovered within Hong Kong films, it was, nevertheless, apparent that Hong Kong filmmakers were as reticent as the rest of the population when it came to discussing politically sensitive issues, such as the Tiananmen Square Massacre and the Handover, in more overt terms. The few who did choose to make their feelings public, typically received a very hostile reaction, as the following comment from New Wave43 director,

Ringo Lam, demonstrates:

43 ‘New Wave’ was the term applied – first by local broadcast media and later, by Chinese and Western scholars – to a group of particularly influential, young Hong Kong filmmakers working in the late 1970s

96 After the bloodshed [of the Tiananmen Square Massacre] everyone is crying and showing so much emotion in the media. Almost every fifteen minutes the television repeats the same news. Everyone is so sad. Okay, I feel sad too. But the thing lasted too long. After two or three weeks I said 'Can we break for a while? Let's have the Dragon Boat Festival [a popular yearly event in Hong Kong].' All of a sudden, everyone came after me. I said 'I'm sorry' and went to Singapore and stayed there for a month. There were threats sent to my company. After that, my movies didn't get a good response (Lam, quoted in Hoover & Odham Stokes, 2001, p. 262).

In a nostalgic article about the state of the Hong Kong film industry in the Special Hong

Kong 1997 Edition of Time Magazine, it is noted that “Hong Kong was the cinema that worked [but] now the workers are fretful” – with only two filmmakers willing to take their chances making films about the Handover. 44 The article’s author notes that commercial concerns also play a key role in the decision to avoid overt politics in film

("Hong Kong’s movie magic: Sex, violence, lousy subtitles," 1997). N.K. Leung refers to this period between the 1980s through to the Handover as Hong Kong’s ‘Post-1997

Consciousness’ period: “a period when the Hong Kong cinema finally caught up with this issue of paramount political importance and began to express, not always overtly, its sentiments on the matter” (2000, p. 170). The notion that the population of Hong

Kong weren’t willing to pay to see films that could adequately reflect their growing apprehension has been used by many writers as an excuse of sorts to sift through various blockbusters of the previous twenty years, looking for the presence of reunification issues in even the most blatantly apolitical films of the era.

Even more than a decade after the Handover, the industry was still being derided for its handling (or lack thereof) of those issues. A typical example of such a reaction can be and 1980s, who typically trained overseas and/or began their careers in the local television industry. Ann Hui and Tsui Hark are the two New Wave directors who are perhaps best known to audiences outside of Hong Kong (Cheuk, 2008, p. 10). 44 The filmmakers referred to are South African-born Lawrence Ah Mon and Wayne Wang (The Joy Luck Club), whose English-language romance, Chinese Box, starred Jeremy Irons and Gong Li ("Hong Kong’s movie magic: Sex, violence, lousy subtitles," 1997).

97 found in Senses of Cinema co-editor Adrian Danks’ review of the 2008 Hong Kong

International Film Festival. In the piece, Danks admonishes directors Silvia Chang and

Samson Chiu for their offerings – Run Papa Run (2008) and Mr. Cinema, (2007), respectively – stating that both films “rely too readily on an easy nostalgia for the recent past” (2008, para. 5). Danks then goes on to say that the second film “has little resonance and does little to truly challenge the common amnesia of Hong Kong cinema when it comes to dealing with its own history” (2008, para. 5). Even the title of Danks’ review, “A City of Forgetting,” reminds readers of the frequently cited examples of cultural amnesia in films of the previous decades.

THE LONGEST SUMMER: THE HANDOVER ON SCREEN

The examples given above demonstrate some of the ways in which English-language works have tried to come to terms with the treatment (or lack thereof) of the Handover in Hong Kong’s cinema. Given the focus of this work, I wish to consider the impact that

Andy Lau had upon popular consciousness of the Handover with his behind-the-camera involvement in projects that were less commercially orientated than those he typically starred in. Although I shall now be examining two films which were written and directed by another filmmaker, it should be noted that the widespread public recognition of Lau’s personal involvement in the production and marketing of each film is crucial to a proper understanding of how these extraordinarily unique and controversial films came to acquire such a broad and appreciative audience – despite, or perhaps because of, their inherently political stance.

98 The first of these productions, Made in Hong Kong, was a surprise 1997 hit for independent writer/director, Fruit Chan and also helped launch the career of Sam Lee

Chan-sam.45 It tells the story of a juvenile delinquent, his terminally ill girlfriend, his mentally disabled charge, and a teenage girl, whose suicide early in the film provides the unlikely trio with a mission. In terms of both story and the way the film was shot, the film was highly unconventional by Hong Kong standards. In fact, as Tony Rayns noted in his review, the unique production background of Made in Hong Kong “has attracted as much attention as the film itself” (1999, p. 47). With a budget of around

US$80,000, Chan and his crew of five people, shot the film on real locations, using non- professional actors, with film stock left over from Chan’s years as an assistant director on mainstream Hong Kong films (Kozo, 1997b). Although initially ignored in Hong

Kong, the film quickly became a favourite at international film festivals and eventually ending up winning many prestigious awards, such as the Special Prize at the Locarno

International Film Festival, as well as local honours, such as the Best Picture, Best

Director and Best New Performer awards at the 17th Hong Kong Film Awards, the

Golden Horse awards for Best Screenplay and Best Director, Golden Bauhinia awards for Best Picture and Best Director and the Hong Kong Film Critics Society awards for

Best Director and Film of Merit. Following on from this success, Lau and Chan teamed up again for another film, the 1998 Handover-themed hit, The Longest Summer.46

45 In direct contrast to the usual route to Hong Kong stardom, Lee, a non-actor, was discovered by Chan as he was skateboarding through the streets and went on to become one of the “most ubiquitous and fastest rising stars of the Hong Kong entertainment circle ("Andy missed the chance to act Wei Xiao Bao"). 46 The literal translation of the film’s title, ‘The Flurry of Last Year’s Fireworks,’ is a direct reference to the Handover ceremony.

99 In a 2001 interview, Fruit Chan is cautious about the political implications of the bleak future presented in each of the films, claiming that he doesn’t ‘know politics’ and that the films were intended to mirror “the feelings of our generation” (Chan, quoted in A.

Y.-h. Fung, 2003, p. 266). Even though the films were “marketed as ‘local’ crimes,

‘local’ evils, and ‘local’ politics”, Anthony Fung claims that their non-political facade allows for wider interpretation, such as an expression of “the younger generation’s dissatisfaction with political disfranchisement and social instability caused by China’s takeover” (2003, p. 266). A brief episode from the film reinforces Fung’s assertion of underlying political sentiment, when the central character complains that he doesn’t want to go to Shenzhen because he “hates everything that’s China”.

A brief investigation of the central themes of Made in Hong Kong (and, later, The

Longest Summer) underscores Fung’s insistence that Chan meant for the films “to criticize the oppressive, uncaring, and absurd authority” (2003, p. 266). During the opening credits of Made in Hong Kong, the protagonist, Moon, informs the audience of how the education system has failed his generation – leaving them with few options but to drift into a life of juvenile delinquency as triads and debt collectors for loan sharks.

Just as the ‘system’ fails Moon and his friend, Sylvester, the bureaucratic red tape prevents his girlfriend, Ping, from receiving a life-saving kidney transplant. However, it is not just the system that proves to be morally corrupt in this film. Moon’s father has a child with his mistress and his mother agrees to accept the indiscretion in exchange for cash and then proceeds to abandon Moon, herself; Ping’s father also abandons the family and when Sylvester is terrorised and beaten by a group of young thugs his parents deny knowing him. Even the peripheral characters display a callous coldness

100 unthinkable in most mainstream films. The gangs of punks routinely bully Sylvester and when they attack Ping’s mother in an attempt to coerce her to hand over the money that her husband owes, they try to take her fourteen year-old daughter away so that she can be prostituted as payment for the debt. In another striking instance of brutality, Moon witnesses a schoolboy attack a man with a meat cleaver in a public toilet. The kid screams that the attack is revenge for the man’s rape of the boy’s twelve year-old sister.

It is only when the boy is leaving that we discover that the man is actually his father.

Deflecting any negative assumptions about his lifestyle, Moon insists that he is not worthless and, by the end of the film, the young debt collector proves himself to be one of the most ethical characters of the film. Although he is always the first to step up to a fight, Moon distinguishes himself from the other characters with his nagging sense of right and wrong.47 Furthermore, aside from the young social worker, Moon is the only character of the film to display any genuine emotion. More than the violence itself, it is the various characters’ indifferent response to suffering that truly angers Moon. He berates his mother’s lack of concern over her husband’s infidelity and is incensed by the callousness of the suicide victim’s teacher/boyfriend. When Sylvester dies, Moon is the only person to be moved. As further evidence of the endemic nature of apathy, Chan allows the audience to witness the distinct responses of Moon and Ping’s mother to the girl’s death. When Moon arrives at Ping’s apartment after recovering from a near-fatal stabbing, her mother is sitting down to dinner and casually invites him to enter. It is only upon seeing Ping’s shrine that Moon becomes aware of her death. As her mother picks at the various dishes, Moon hits the television over and over again, finally

47 Much in the same way that Lau’s character, Wah Dee, does in A Moment of Romance.

101 throwing it over a balcony in his despair. In The Longest Summer, the second film Chan made with Lau, this apathy is related directly to the events of 1 July 1997. Utilising an action plotline of dual robberies gone wrong, Chan uses humour to soften the political elements of the story of a group of de-commissioned British soldiers who become desperate when they realise they have will have no place within the new society. Like

Made in Hong Kong before it, The Longest Summer is filled with death and despair and the future of the protagonists (and Hong Kong) appears exceedingly bleak.

Lau’s involvement with Chan’s films becomes confounding when one tries to reconcile the negative representation of Hong Kong’s future in these films with Lau’s public demonstrations of exceeding optimism about the same topic. According to Fung, Lau’s personal investment in these two films represents Lau’s determination to market

“correct Chineseness via popular culture”:

These seemingly non-political and blaming-the-criminal movies, to many viewers, paralleled the ground swell of sadness about the departure of the British from the colony and the ushering in of the brutal new sovereign, all of which was taking place without any say from people in Hong Kong (2003, p. 266). Fung goes on to note that “involving himself in these local film productions about politics simply smooths Lau’s image transformation: he cares about Hong Kong, [and] he is a Chinese patriot. The intermingling of these identities pleases the local audience and the Chinese authorities alike” (2003, p. 266). Whilst Fung clearly differentiates between ‘Hong Kong’ and ‘Chinese’, his point about how these identities may co-exist at an individual level is an important one. This point highlights the fact that Lau was able to effectively mediate his parallel Hong Kong and Chinese identities by reinforcing his devotion to stay in the territory post-Handover. Unlike many other megastars of the

Hong Kong film industry, such as Jackie Chan, Chow Yun-fat, Jet Li, Sammo Hung,

102 Tsui Hark, John Woo, and numerous others, Lau consistently refused to entertain the idea of abandoning Hong Kong and tried to prove his sincerity by publicising his decision to invest in local businesses and real estate. At the same time, however, Lau began to publically reinvest himself in his Chinese heritage – wearing traditional

Chinese clothing more often and sharing with his fans his love of Chinese history and culture. This last gesture took many forms, including public displays of Buddhist faith, and frequent media references to the various traditional skills (such as calligraphy and martial arts) that he had acquired over the years. In the following section I will investigate example of these ‘performances’ of Lau’s cultural identity, and, in Chapter

Five, will go on to demonstrate how popular culture gestures such as these can be used to help shape a sense of cultural nationalism.

COME FLY THE DRAGON: LAU REDISCOVERS CHINA

Fung notes that, as a star revered by millions of fans from Hong Kong and China, to

Taiwan, Singapore, Malaysia, Japan, Korea, and the various Chinese communities around the world, Lau’s astounding international popularity is a testament to the entertainer’s ability to accommodate “both the national and local markets” (2003, p.

266). Like many of his contemporaries, Lau’s early recording career had been heavily influenced by the previous generation Cantopop stars, such as Alan Tam Wing and

Leslie Cheung, who had distinguished themselves from traditional Hong Kong recording artists (who typically had a background in Cantonese opera) through the combination of Cantonese-language and Western pop sound and aesthetics. But in the

1990s, Lau began leaving behind many of the Westernised dance routines and raps, and started incorporating traditional Chinese instruments into his pop-fused ballads. In

103 addition, Lau started to present himself more frequently in his music videos dressed in traditional attire48, whilst performing complex lion dance routines or striding along the

Great Wall of China, with dozens of flag bearers lining the path (see the discussion of

Lau’s music video for the song, “Chinese People” ahead in this chapter). This shift towards outspoken patriot seems especially remarkable due to the seeming suddenness of Lau’s evolution from an Americanised urban youth to self-appointed saviour of traditional Chinese culture which, fittingly, provided a foundation for the star to publicly move beyond the post-colonial cultural identity crisis provoked by Hong

Kong’s return to mainland China. Contemplating the practical expression of patriotic and political sentiment in Cantopop songs, John Erni (2004) notes that:

At the center of the genre is the strong and proud male voice, signifying Chineseness in all of its historical melancholia and ideological glory. However, singing from Hong Kong, to what definition of “Chineseness” do these songs appeal? Surely, the floating signifiers of “China,” “Chinese,” “homeland,” “country,” and “nationhood” exist in the songs to unite a broad historical patriarchy that would embrace Hong Kong’s ethnic and geographical ties with China. But many of the patriotic tunes in Hong Kong Cantopop display a rather ambivalent set of affective positions within this patriarchal imagination. Put simply, Hong Kong’s historically ambiguous relationship with China in the geopolitical sense raises questions about the patriotic fervor expressed in the songs, and perhaps renders patriotic passion as another type of glossy surface (p. 16). The following analysis of Lau’s song “Chinese People” (中國人) will certainly confirm many of Erni’s observations about the use of patriotic signifiers in political pop songs.

However, I would argue that, far from being a ‘glossy surface’ version of a patriotic anthem, Lau’s performance of ‘patriotic fevor’ in this song was indicative of the star’s intention to start pursuing a very public renegotiation of cultural identity – linking his

48In a 2006 interview, Lau expressed his annoyance with those commentators who take issue with his frequent performance in traditional Chinese attire, saying: "Some people say, 'He's singing in cheong sam again?' I think it's very annoying. What's wrong with cheong sam? I don't know if the people who say that are Chinese" (“Hong Kong actor-singer Andy Lau denies rumours he’s gay”, 2006).

104 cultural heritage to specific Sinophone principles whilst making direct reference to the

Hong Kong citizens’ place in the broader Chinese geopolitical landscape.

Already firmly established as cultural text, Lau’s sudden emphasis upon his Chinese heritage in songs immediately re-positioned the star as an emblematic ‘bridge’ – linking

Hong Kong’s anxious population with their traditional cultural legacy. A particularly striking case in point is the difference in Lau’s performance in his music videos (MV) for “Happy Monkeys” (開心的馬騮)49 and “Chinese People” (中國人). The first video, released in 1993, features Lau and a group of dancers dressed in street wear commonly worn by American basketball players and rappers during the early 1990s. Lau himself is shown wearing a colourful sports team jacket, long basketball shorts and high top basketball sneakers along with a cap for a US basketball team, worn backwards. Adding to the American feel of the song is a refrain at the end of the song, which features the repeated English phrase, ‘Andy, go, Andy, go go’ – a line which also makes effective use of Lau’s Romanised first name. English language also features on the graffiti wall in front of which Lau and his co-stars pose. The final images show how a Western

(specifically African-American) style of dancing is employed in the clip, including moves made famous by Michael Jackson, Will Smith, Prince, and others. Although Lau occasionally still makes reference to Western elements in his more recent works,50he has rarely returned to such obviously indulgent displays of Western influence.51

49 The song is taken from Lau’s 1993 Cantonese album, The Answer is You (答案就是你). 50 The two most frequently referenced Western influences upon Lau are Michael Jackson and classical Hollywood comedians. The Michael Jackson connection was reinforced through Lau’s performance at a charity concert with Jackson in Seoul in 1999 (“Andy can’t forget meeting Michael Jackson”, 2009) as well as his hiring of a private cinema to screen the documentary, This Is It, (“Andy accompanied Carol to watch movie”, 2009) and the clear references to Jackson in the costuming and choreography – Lau employed Jackson’s own choreographers after the star’s death – in portions of the Unforgettable concerts (“Andy learn dancing from five instructors,” 2010). Lau’s love of classical Hollywood comedies was

105

The second video example represents the real peak of Lau’s surge in nationalist pride, which would neatly coincide with the reunification of Hong Kong with China. In March

1997 Lau released the patriotic anthem “Chinese People” as a Special Edition CD single

– with a disc shaped like China.52 Erni (2004) notes, the release of such an obviously patriotic anthem “provides us with a useful exemplar of how political feelings are re- packageable in opportunistic ways” (p.19). He also goes on to note that Lau used the song to “heavy-drum his way into the affective spaces that crossed over new and old patriotic feelings” – behaviour that effectively demonstrates Lau’s “commodification of and flirtation with political feelings” (2004, p. 19). The following month the track was included on his new full-length Mandarin/Cantonese album, Love is Mysterious (爱如

此神奇). Sung in Mandarin, rather than Cantonese (the local dialect of Hong Kong), the song was a massive hit, both in Hong Kong and mainland China. The song details the five thousand year history of the Chinese people, with references to generations of

Chinese “with yellow faces and black eyes” – people who share the same blood, heart and dreams of the future. The final lines of the song encourage the listener to “let the world know that we are all Chinese”.

The music video for the song begins with Lau, dressed in a white traditional long robe, standing on the Great Wall surrounded by a small army of flag-bearers, each man holding a red flag emblazoned with the characters for ‘Chinese People’ (中國人).

most clearly demonstrated in the 2010 music video for “Ruffian” (a cover of Sam Hui “Ren Ban”, which featured Lau dressed as comedy icon, Charlie Chaplin). 51 Maghiel van Crevel notes that in mainland China such Western influences were dubbed by the authorities as “spiritual pollution” (van Crevel, 2003). 52 The political ramifications of this gesture will be discussed in greater detail in Chapter Five when I examine the role of popular culture in the promotion of cultural nationalism.

106 Between verses, the men are replaced by a group of young children, lined up as they follow Lau’s instructions to wave their arms and perform unified dance gestures. As the sun rises behind him, Lau looks meaningfully out into the distance as he continues to sing the deeply patriotic lyrics – occasionally putting his hand over his heart or raising an arm and spreading it out to reveal the picturesque vista. These melodramatic gestures combine with iconic references to the Great Wall location, the ancient army-style flags and the flag-bearers’ ‘Mao suits’ stress the solemnity of the song’s themes. Further substantiation of the premise of Chinese unity is then implied by Lau’s incorporation of a repeated cultural signifier into his performance as, four times during the video, Lau stands straight with his head held high, as he rests one hand in front of his body and uses his other hand to sweep the front flap of the robe behind him. It is a classic gesture frequently employed by heroes in traditional Chinese opera and kung fu films.

THE DRAGON FAMILY: ANDY LAU’S ‘NEW’ PATRIOTISM

Aside from the absence of an explicit reference to Mao Zedong at the end of the song,

Lau’s “Chinese People” actually contains many of the requisite elements of a

Revolutionary anthem, including references to the beauty of the Chinese landscape and tales of the heroic fortitude of the Chinese race. A quick study of the lyrics and reception of Andy Lau’s “Chinese People” reveals this striking similarity between the modern hit and patriotic songs sung during the Cultural Revolution, such as the following song, “Singing for the Motherland”:

A five star red flag is fluttering in the wind. Victory songs are loud and clear. [We are] singing for our beloved motherland. We walk into prosperity and wealth, Going through mountains and plains Cutting across the rolling Yellow River and Yangtze.

107 This vast and beautiful land is our beloved homeland. Heroic people stand up and are unified as solid steel. We [Chinese] are industrious, we are brave, Independence and freedom are our ideals. We conquered many hardships and won liberation. We love peace, we love our homeland. Whoever dares to invade us would meet with death. The sun in the East is rising. The People’s Republic is growing. Our leader, Mao Zedong, guides the direction. Our life is better each day, And our future is bright with thousands of points of radiance

(Xiaobing Wang, quoted in Lu, 2004, pp. 105-106).

Discussing the lyrics of “Singing for the Motherland” in the context of the Cultural

Revolution, Lu Xing notes that such songs were designed to promote patriotic sentiment

– typically stirring feelings of national pride before veering into a statement of allegiance to the country’s post-1949 leader, Mao Zedong (2004, p. 106). Lu goes on to say that such songs “incorporated high notes, long chords, and elements of folk songs

[and] this type of song gave the listener a deep, heartfelt appreciation for the motherland, in addition to a sense of confidence and wellbeing” (Lu, 2004, p. 106). The fact that Lau’s “Chinese People” follows a similar lyrical and melodic structure as such revolutionary anthems might help explain why, in 2005, a PRC government agency (the

Shanghai Municipal Education Commission) selected “Chinese People” – a song recorded by a contemporary Hong Kong-based pop star – to be included in a list of 100 sanctioned patriotic songs to be taught to middle-school students in mainland China

(Zou, 2005).

Andy Lau – “Chinese People”

Five thousand years of wind and rain, how many dreams hide in it? Yellow faces, black eyes, with unchanging smile Mountains and rivers wind eight thousand miles, like a long, long song No matter where you come from and where you are going to

All shed the same tears, endure the same pains The sufferings once we suffered, keeping them deep in our hearts

108 Of the same blood, of the same race Wonderful dreams to be realised in the future, let’s do it now together

Hand in hand, you are me and I am you. Don't separate you and me, proudly walk forward Let the world know that we are (all) Chinese people

The song features traditional music elements, such as classic instrumentation and a resonant operatic chorus, which lends to the epic scope of the lyrics. Although the song is sung in Mandarin, the simple lyrical structure and strong traditional elements induce a sensation of familiarity, in part explaining why the song managed to be so popular even outside of Mandarin-speaking zones. A final factor in the widespread appeal of the song is the ease with it song can be learned through the use of brief lyrics, which follow a set pattern of repetition – repetition being a key factor, which, Lu Xing claims, can ascribe a degree of power to songs of this nature (2004, p. 105).

The immediate effect of the song’s lyric – and the difficulty involved in cross-cultural paraphrasing – is attested to in the following observation provided by a translator:

I edited this line [“Hand in hand, don't separate you and me”] after I noticed another website that linked to the translation misinterpreted my word choice-- I'd originally gone from the Chinese word 分 to "distinguish" in English, but 分 can also mean to divide and separate into parts. It's not that Chinese people are indistinguishable from one another, but something more like "there's strength in numbers." Sometimes it becomes difficult to translate between two different languages when you also have to translate between two different cultures (Luna).

A sample of comments posted by fans on the social network websites YouTube and

Ting Dong provides further evidence of the song’s power:

This song makes me feel sooooo proud to be Chinese- tiffycatt

When I hear this song I feel a sense of pride that I am Chinese, this song is very patriotic - Wolfsbane909

109 The lyrics are epic, if you don't understand Mandarin, it would be impossible to truly feel the depth of this. Especially the way he's able to stress the dynamics and melody despite it being a tonal language- SomewhatAlarming

A very patriotic song, Andy Lau sings it very well too- Luna.

These comments reveal the very personal impact that the song has upon each of its listeners. Furthermore, the commentators note the specific effect of the song’s patriotic theme – a sentiment, which is expressed in another hit of the era, “Great China” (大中

国). Like the lyrics of “Chinese People,” this song relies upon notions of cultural similitude between various Chinese populations – beginning with the rousing statement that “We all have a home – her name is China” and ends with a repeated line from the chorus, “China…I wish you well…you are always in my heart” (T. Zhou, 2009). Like the revolutionary songs and the more contemporary hit, “Chinese People”, “Great

China” takes its inspiration from the vast, awe-inspiring Chinese landscape and the fortitude of the nation’s population:

Gao Feng – “Great China”

We all have a home Her name is China With many brothers and sisters, and a stunning scenery to boot In our home lies two dragons - Chang Jiang and the Yellow River Not forgetting Mount Everest, the world's highest peak Our big China, oh, what a big family We have experienced many setbacks but came out strong Our big China, oh What a big family I want to accompany her forever.

China I wish you well You are always in my heart China I wish you well but not with verbose adulations

110 We all have a home Her name is China With many brothers and sisters, and a beautiful scenery to boot Look at the Great Wall of China snaking in and out of the clouds Look at the Tibetan plains, broader than the horizon.

Interestingly, though “Great China” is not Lau’s own song he was provided with the opportunity to sing a verse of it during a live performance with the original singer, mainland Chinese recording artist, Gao Feng. Gao and Lau were joined on stage by

Taiwanese pop star, Jeff Chang – making the performance a Mandarin-language collaboration between three Chinese artists – representing, respectively, China, Hong

Kong and Taiwan. Although Gao Feng and Jeff Chang were eagerly cheered on by the crowd, the televised China Central Television (CCTV) recording of this live performance reveals that the mainland Chinese audience greeted Lau’s surprise appearance halfway through the song with thunderous applause. Having ‘overseas

Chinese’ singers, such as Lau and Chang, collaborate on the song’s performance was a clear indication of the willingness of those involved to think about the commonality of the Chinese experience – it was also further evidence that Lau was open to sharing his desire to reclaim a sense of authentic Chineseness through yet another public insistence of the continuity of his Chinese heritage. With each shared gesture such as this, Lau’s public image was being reconstituted. Having started his career as an icon of Hong

Kong youthful rebellion in A Moment of Romance,53 Lau was now becoming the public face of how Hong Kong could embrace its common pre-colonial cultural heritage with mainland China, even if this meant that certain concessions had to be made, such as the shift from the local Cantonese language to Lau’s increasingly frequent use of Mandarin.

53 Which was, itself, strongly influenced by popular US culture, such as Rebel Without a Cause (Ray, 1955).

111 I will return to these examples again in Chapter Five, as this emphasis upon culture over politics is a key element of the transformation of Lau’s public persona from Hong Kong to Hong Kong/Chinese. It also directly relates to the increasing relevance of popular culture in the promotion of cultural nationalism – as opposed to state-backed nationalism – within mainland China (a complex division that will be discussed in greater detail in Chapter Five).

Lau further extended his reach to non-Hong Kong Chinese audiences with Malay and

Taiwanese-dialect recordings, performances of classic Chinese Mandarin-language folk songs, and traditionally themed videos for Mandarin-language songs.54 In addition to releasing the little-known Malay track, “Adakalanya Menghiris”, Lau recorded the theme song to his Taiwan-based film, Island of Greed (Mak, 1997) in Fujianese, a

Chinese dialect – also known as Hokkien or Minnan – spoken in the southern Fujian province in China, as well as certain regions of Taiwan and other areas of Southeast

Asia. Like his collaboration on “Great China”, Lau had another well-received performance from this era with a rendition of the traditional folksong, “Jasmine Flower”

( 茉莉花) – a Mandarin-language classic that Lau sang live with backing from

American saxophonist, Kenny G. 55 Whilst “Jasmine Flower” has great significance within China it has also become something of an internationally-recognised symbol of

Chinese culture.

54 Lau also released Just For You, a special EP to celebrate his 20th anniversary in 2000, which featured a promotional Cantonese-language song for the Tao Ti tea company, an English cover of David Carradine’s 1976 hit, “I’m Easy” (for the internet provider EC Easy Net), and a Mandarin-language song dedicated to fans, “You’re My Pride” (你是我一生中最大的驕傲). 55 An instrumental version of the song had been recorded earlier by Kenny G along with another traditional Chinese classic, “The Moon Bears Witness to my Heart” (月亮代表我的心). Kenny G also collaborated with Lau on one of Lau’s bigger hits of the decade, “Be My Woman” (你是我的女人) – the theme song to Lau’s film, A True Mob Story (Wong, 1998).

112 The song first received recognition in the West as the first Chinese song to be recorded in an English-language text, before developing into an effective example of colonial-era

Orientalism when the melody of the song was incorporated into Italian composer

Giacomo Puccini’s 1926 opera, Turandot. Given Lau’s regular utilisation of ancient

Chinese culture (and the PRC’s implicit recognition of the political benefits of such gestures through government promotion of Lau’s performances) it is hardly surprising that “Jasmine Flower” has more recently been appropriated by the PRC as a method for essentialising China as ‘eternal’ and ‘ahistorical’ through repeated performances of the song in association with the Beijing Olympic Games – first, when it was performed at the closing of the Athens Olympic Games as an introduction to the next host country, then, when the tune was played during the medal ceremonies of the 2008 Olympic

Games.

Whilst “Chinese People” may have been directed at a broad Sinophone audience, the timing of its release to coincide with the Handover was a significant gesture towards allaying the fears of the Hong Kong population through the encouragement of a celebration of shared cultural heritage. It is no less significant, therefore, that Lau’s second patriotic anthem, “Mother”, was released in 2009 as a ‘present’ to the

Motherland to mark the 60th anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of

China (PRC). Through the use of ahistorical Chineseness, “Mother” – like a number of

Lau’s other works of this time – represents a classic contradiction that effectively obscures how the arrival of communism in China in 1949 represented rapid modernisation and, later, during the Cultural Revolution, attacks on the traditional values and culture that Lau was using to celebrate a historical and political milestone of

113 enormous ideological importance. Whilst the lyrics of the song are considered softer than those of “Chinese People” – suggesting a “mother nurturing and protecting her children” (“Andy sang another patriotic song after 12 years”, 2009) – the music video for the song once again firmly placed Lau in the role of a patriotic traditionalist. Lau alternates between two traditional Chinese outfits – the samfoo and a long gown – and is seen rousing dragon dancers and thoughtfully studying Chinese classics whilst returning to gestures used in the “Chinese People” video – specifically, gazing serenely into the distance and holding his hand over his heart.

As seen above, Lau has made a habit of expressing his Chinese heritage through music videos and the following quick overview of a few more specific examples will demonstrate how the recurring themes contained in these videos have effectively supported Lau’s expanding role as a cultural text. Specifically, the examination of common cultural elements in these texts signals the development of a new, broader cultural identity for Lau through which the star was reinvented as a Hong Kong/Chinese celebrity who had greater appeal to a wide Sinophone audience base. For example, the

1992 Cantonese song, “The Real Me” (真我的風采) was one of the earliest examples of Lau’s use of music videos to demonstrate his pride in traditional Chinese culture and many elements contained in the video have been used again in later instances. In this early video, Lau appears on a beach and on a junk whilst taking the lead in a lion dance and performing the requisite acrobatic martial arts movements. The video also contains a number of other ‘gestures’ to traditional culture, including Lau’s wearing of a cheong sam, his emotive gazes into the distance and the whipping of the skirt of the long shirt

(gestures all repeated in the “Chinese People” video) as well as an occasional water effect, which likens the video to a traditional watercolour painting. The watercolour

114 effect is used again in Lau’s video for the 2006 Mandarin-language Chinese New Year song, “Prosperous New Year!” (恭喜發財), which is perhaps Lau’s most concentrated demonstration of pride in Chinese culture through references to traditional music as well as culturally significant gestures, events and architecture. This song features adult and children singing in chorus (similar to “Chinese People”) and the music video features Lau once again whipping the skirt of his cheong sam behind him as well as making specific gestures to the Chinese New Year by holding up a Calligraphy banner and forming the cupped hand gesture used to wish good luck. In addition to featuring a dragon dance, Peking Opera 56 and the popular game mah-jongg, the video makes direct reference to the upcoming 2008 Beijing Olympics as Lau pretends to stroll through the iconic world landmarks (including China’s Great Wall, the Forbidden City and Hong

Kong Harbour) whilst saluting Chinese athletes who are positioned taking up all the places on an Olympic podium. Lau also relies on melodramatic gestures to link the patriotic theme of performing well as a nation in international competition to the emotive lyrics of his song, “Everyone is No.1,” which was used as the theme for the

2008 Paralympic games (for which Lau was a Goodwill Ambassador).

One further example of Lau’s explicit demonstration of pride in Chinese culture that is especially striking given the rising global power of the PRC and the increased visibility of Chinese culture in the lead-up to the Beijing Olympics is the promotion of Buddhist spiritual philosophy through the video for “Woodfish and Goldfish” (木魚與金魚). In this clip, Lau reinvents himself as a Buddhist monk, slowly fingering prayer beads and, at one point, softly taking hold of a fly that lands on his face before releasing the insect

56 Lau also dresses in operatic attire for his 2009 video, “Ode to Macau” – a tribute to celebrate the 10th anniversary of Macau’s reunification with mainland China (“Andy to sing Ode to Macao”, 2009).

115 in a pointed gesture towards the Buddhist ethos of non-violence to all living things.

Throughout the clip, Lau can also be seen carefully practicing the art of calligraphy and landscape painting, whilst watching over young novice monks as they play and train, practice martial art manoeuvres, and tap the classic Chinese instruments – the

‘woodfish’ of the song’s title.

This direct reference to Buddhist elements of Chinese culture in the “Woodfish and

Goldfish” music video was far from an isolated event. In 1998, Lau made a recording of himself reciting Buddhist teachings (released under his monastic title, Hui Guo) and, in

2012, the star ordered reprints of this album for personal distribution as part of the celebrations for the one month anniversary of his daughter’s birth (“Andy Lau distributes Buddhist teachings album for free”, 2012). Although the gesture was intended to be private and was only shared with close family and friends, news of this gesture (along with the gifting of vegetarian treats) became a hot topic of discussion in the media and in online social sites. Along with the little-known original recording and these specific private examples of following Buddhist traditions, Lau has often been seen performing his faith in other more public gestures, such as being photographed performing a Buddhist blessing ceremony at the start of new projects (such as films and concerts) and wearing a symbolic red string around his fingers on the cover artwork for the 2005 Mandarin-language album, All About Love (再說一次我愛你).57 Lau’s faith was similarly on display when he joined other entertainers to record a song in 2012 for the Hong Kong Buddhist Association (“Andy sings for HK Buddhist Association”,

57 Linked to Lau’s 2005 film of the same name.

116 2012). Another recent example of Lau’s public expression of his Buddhist faith is the video for “Enlightenment” (悟) – the Mandarin-language theme song from Lau’s 2010 film, Shaolin – which depicts images from the film in which Lau plays a ruthless warlord who is forced to take refuge in the Shaolin temple where he learns to live a more peaceful life. Like the music video for “Kick Into the Future” (踢出個未來) -

Lau’s theme song for the Stephen Chow comedy, Shaolin Soccer (Chow, 2001) – the video for “Enlightenment” references the Buddhist themes in the film’s content, as well as Buddhist-inspired lyrics written by Lau. Together, these examples act as simple yet strong statements of Lau’s faith and they supplement similar music video expressions of the star’s cultural pride. Whilst these are all isolated examples, the fact that Lau is often spoken of in terms of his adherence to Buddhist customs (whilst other stars are rarely depicted in this manner) is yet another example of how Lau’s celebrity is quite unique in its construction around distinct cultural elements.

The main point of all these examples is to reinforce how those English-language texts that focus purely on specific films and/or filmmakers miss the ‘big picture’ of Hong

Kong’s popular culture. Like the ‘transmedia’ franchises identified by media scholar

Marsha Kinder (1991), and the ‘transmedia storytelling’ process later described by

Henry Jenkins (2003), Hong Kong’s entertainment industry encourages local personalities to “move across media platforms, encouraging their fans to follow them wherever they appeared” (Jenkins, 2013, p. 2) and, through the effective use of diverse transmedial forms of communication, the ‘story’ of a celebrity starts to unfold.

Certainly, when we are looking at a particularly active individual such as Lau, I would argue that we could never grasp the full implication of his position in that culture

117 without considering a wide pool of sources (including Lau, his fans, media, and other industry figures) and examining the diverse range of his public interactions, from film roles to album releases, music videos, concert performances, commercial endorsements, media coverage, promotional and social activities, such as fan interactions and online exchanges. At the very least, a consideration of these sources demonstrates that Lau’s song “Chinese People” was far from an isolated instance of a patriotic anthem that was zealously received by Sinophone audiences. In the context of the examples provided above it becomes evidence of Lau’s ongoing public performance of cultural pride that can be shown to resonate with his audiences (and, as will be demonstrated in Chapter

Five, such displays of cultural pride have been shown to be a particularly effective method for promoting cultural nationalism).

By taking this approach we can see that perhaps the most striking thing about Andy

Lau’s remarkable transformation from a young, highly Westernised pop idol of the

1980s and early 1990s to a legitimate Pan-Asian cultural icon for the new millennium is that his career progressed in a way that was intricately linked to Hong Kong’s own shifting position in relation to the region and the rest of the world. Along with Lau’s refusal to publicly declare concern for the future of Hong Kong after the reunification

(which distinguished him from many other local industry stars, such as Jackie Chan,

Chow Yun-fat, Stephen Chow Sing-chi, Tsui Hark and John Woo)58 these performances of inherent ‘Chineseness’ were readily accepted by Lau’s fan base and allowed for a seemingly smooth transition from a Western-influenced Hong Kong-based personality to a more traditionally-focused Chinese identity. As will be discussed in the following

58 See, for example, the pessimistic interviews with many of these stars in Film Without Bounds: The New Hong Kong Cinema (Kwan, 1992).

118 section, we can move beyond a simple consideration of Lau’s behaviour in terms of an individual expression of shifting post-colonial identity and start begin investigating the star’s actions during the Handover era through S. N. Eisenstadt framework of the charismatic star who builds audience loyalty through their responses to a period of national crisis. Certainly, in terms of advancing the notion that Lau’s celebrity has developed like a story unfolding across various traditional and new media platforms, the star’s public investment in his Chinese heritage remains a key element in the construction of a ‘character’ whose appeal to Sinophone audiences is largely based upon allegiance to one’s culture, most explicitly demonstrated in Lau’s announcement that he would not follow his colleagues to the West but would stay in Hong Kong after the territory’s reunification with mainland China.

PRINCE CHARMING: THE STAR IN NATIONALIST DISCOURSE

In terms of examining Lau’s reconstruction of his cultural identity post-1997, I believe

S.N. Eisenstadt’s ‘cultural instability’ approach provides a useful framework for demonstrating how Lau’s star status was able to develop rapidly during a time of crisis within the Hong Kong entertainment industry. As Richard Dyer notes, in these situations “one needs to think in terms of the relationships […] between stars and specific instabilities, ambiguities and contradictions in the culture” (1998, p. 31). Dyer cites Alistair Cooke’s Douglas Fairbanks, the Making of a Screen Character (1940) as an early example of such an approach, noting how Cooke accounts for Fairbanks’ stardom in terms of “the appropriateness of his ‘Americanness’ to the contemporary situation of America” (p. 31). Cooke’s summation of Fairbanks’ attraction to pre-war

American audiences:

119 At a difficult time in American history, when the United States was keeping a precarious neutrality in the European war, Douglas Fairbanks appeared to know all the answers and knew them without pretending to be anything more than “an all-round chap, just a regular American” (The American) (Cooke, quoted in Dyer, 1998, p. 31)

The value of examining a well-loved star’s actions during a period of crisis has been well established59 and the adoption of such a model will provide a useful framework for this examination of the privileged position that has been accorded Andy Lau in Asian, particularly Sinophone, popular culture. Such studies, which examining various film stars within national discourses, confirm Eisenstadt’s thesis that local audience appreciation of certain celebrities tend to coincide with periods of cultural instability. In this study of Andy Lau’s position within Hong Kong popular culture we may note the star’s very public musings on the import of the territory’s return to Chinese sovereignty

– a scenario that loosely parallels, which obvious contextual differences, the Fairbanks example of appealing to the public during periods of national crisis. In one of his most explicit statements about the fate of the territory, Andy Lau wrote a special

“Reflections” piece about the Hong Kong Handover in a special commemorative Hong

Kong edition of Time magazine. In the article, Lau confirmed his plans to continue living and working in Hong Kong after the Handover and urges his peers to follow their own destinies:

At this turning point in history, I hope all Hong Kong artists will be encouraged to follow their convictions and persevere with their endeavours. It is time Chinese people earned the recognition they deserve (1997).

This is a key quote that effectively encapsulates Lau’s twin – and theoretically quite contradictory – markers of cultural identity. This dual allegiance to Hong Kong and mainland China is evident in Lau’s performances (as demonstrated in the previous

59 See, for example, Gill Plain’s (2006) book on British actor, John Mills, and James Welsh’s (1987) work on John Wayne.

120 discussion of the star’s music videos) as well the repeated emphasis upon Lau’s pride in his Hong Kong identity (as highlighted by the first sentence of this quote) and broader statements about Chinese nationalism (the final sentence). On the tenth anniversary of the Handover, Hong Kong academic Zhang Longxi placed this question of cultural identity in a broad social context, observing:

Hong Kongers have no problem being culturally Chinese, but because of their history, many of them still see themselves as Hong Kong Chinese first, differentiated from mainland Chinese (Zhang, quoted in Abdoolcarim, 2007)

I will return to Lau’s promotion of Chinese nationalism in Chapter Five but, at this stage I wish to argue that, whilst the placement of screen stars within a nationalist discourse is hardly a new phenomenon, such approaches are deserving of a re- evaluation in light of the recent recognition of transnational cultural flows within film theory as well as the particular complexities of Hong Kong’s historical position and the growing power of China. Lau’s success in the Pan-Asian domain (examined further in

Chapter Five) will allow us to test theories about how cultural identity is expressed through popular culture. Part of this discussion will be dependent upon a deeper understanding of Lau’s local star persona, which I believe to a large extent was shaped by his actions around the time of the reunification. Specifically, the preceding discussion of Lau’s involvement in Made in Hong Kong – one of the few significant pieces of Handover-themed cinema to be released during that period – combined with his promotion of re-Sinification through various music texts, provides an effective demonstration the star’s increasingly flexible positioning of his own cultural identity.

121 CHAPTER THREE

Superstar: The Production and

Consumption of Celebrity

This chapter establishes the foundations of Lau’s popular appeal and traces his development as a local star as I seek to bring together those diverse aspects of his career that go beyond representational and discursive aspects of star culture to reveal wider structural concerns, such as the social and political effects of celebrity. In the following sections, I address Lau’s celebrity through key themes, which, I argue, transforms the star into a significant cultural text who has a particular relevance within the Hong Kong community. Whilst transmedia storytelling is a phenomenon that has gained much scholarly interest in recent years (particularly in terms of the way popular franchises such as Star Wars, Doctor Who, and Batman have seized always and increasingly upon multiple media platforms as a way to expand their reach to a broader audience base), it is clear that the Hong Kong entertainment industry’s long-standing practice of ge-ying- shi enables such extensions of the market at the level of the individual celebrity. And, as the following sections demonstrate, Lau’s savvy transmedia promotion of the ‘story’ of his career has facilitated the star’s development from a typical ‘product’ of the industry to fully-fledged superstar. By developing a strong personal brand and regulating many aspects of fan-star interactions (such as an official fan club and website), Lau and his marketing team were able to manipulate many aspects of Lau’s public image, but, as the

122 2009 scandal over his clandestine marriage demonstrates, a number of factors remained outside of the star’s control, such as fan responses to his behaviour.

STARS AND ROSES: BITTERSWEET CELEBRITY

Andy Lau must have died two dozen times in the past two years when I happened to be on the Beijing Metro. The first time I heard it, I was shocked. But then I noticed the other passengers were so calm, they must have encountered it before. As I can remember, only one passenger, an old gentleman, bought a copy. I don't think he is Andy's fan, but who knows? Wherever Chinese is spoken, everyone loves Andy (R. Zhou, 2007).

In a 2007 article, “Rumours of Andy's death greatly exaggerated,” China Daily reporter Raymond Zhou relates the phenomenon of newspaper vendors regularly

‘killing off’ one of China’s most loved celebrities. In this particular instance, the unscrupulous subway newspaper hawker Zhou describes was trying to drum up business by announcing the entirely falsified story that Andy Lau had been murdered by triads. Zhou reflects upon feeling a brief flash of grief upon hearing the latest announcement of Lau’s death before reminding himself that, “about 30 percent of the time when I ride the subway, I hear this headline broadcast from car to car by a one- person sales army” (Zhou, 2007). Whilst it is a simple anecdote, the story does more effectively hint at the overall extent of Andy Lau’s popular appeal – as both beloved icon and commodity.

Graeme Turner (2010) argues that there are four approaches that academics can use when examining celebrity – two of which have often been employed in traditional celebrity studies and two, he suggests, that still need greater development (p. 14).

Specifically, Turner argues that, in the past, celebrity studies have tended to focus on

123 representational and discursive aspects of celebrity but that the field needs to widen its scope and give more attention to the industry that produces celebrity as well as any cultural effect that the celebrity may be said to hold. Owing to the established scarcity of English-language scholarship on Lau’s celebrity, it is my intention to simultaneously apply all four approaches in this work.

Dealing first with the representation of celebrity, I would argue for the need to establish Lau as a star who is interesting in his own right by looking at a representative body of primary works to show how Lau himself operates as a media text. In terms of the discursive effect of stardom, I am keen to consider the ways in which Lau’s celebrity gets ‘reprocessed and reinvented’ through various modes of representation.

Specifically, I am concerned with a fundamental issue that Turner describes as the transformative process of celebritisation, which highlights the need to determine if celebrity is ultimately a form of empowerment or objectification. In this instance, I would argue that Lau represents a complex compromise between an empowered and an objectified celebrity as he is an individual with a particular set of personal characteristics who is able to use the industry processes as a framework for personal empowerment, although, at times, he is demonstrably affected by those same structures. A brief but telling example of such impact is the way Lau was pressured into performing an unscheduled and unauthorised concert by having a government official publicly grant him a special visa to travel to China to perform for the thousands of fans had already bought tickets. In a similar way, it can be seen that, whilst Lau employs social media to advertise new work and keep a strong line of communication open between himself and his fans, these same fans have a record of

124 everything he documents and they can become cynical when they believe he has been manipulating the truth.

Moving beyond common approaches to celebrity studies that revolve around representation and discourse, Turner (2010) reasons that it is necessary for celebrity studies “to find ways to map and understand the increasing structural importance of the production and consumption of celebrity to the shape of media and entertainment industries” (p. 14). Turner goes on to argue that, if we are to understand celebrity as a commodity, it would be wise to look at the industry that produces the commodity in a bit more detail (p. 16). As Turner points out, understanding the industrial processes involved in the production and consumption of celebrity necessitates an examination of the roles played by transnational organisations – not only the “usual media and entertainment interests, but also the large advertising and promotional interests” (p.

15). To make this a more manageable task, Turner suggests focusing on a number of interrelated aspects such as the processes and practices through which celebrity is produced and marketed in particular local or national regions or markets (p. 16). Of particular interest here is the focus upon regions and markets is especially important as we can trace very distinct shifts in the way Lau’s celebrity has been produced and consumed by Sinophone audiences. Furthermore, the length of Lau’s career and his trajectory from local to regional star allows for consideration of industry connections between media, corporate enterprises and government. Of particular interest in this study of Lau’s career is the impact of market and regulatory disruptions, such as the

Asian Financial Crisis, ongoing issues with piracy, the growth of digital media and

China’s easing of certain restrictions on imported film quotas.

125 Finally, Turner argues for an examination of celebrity as a “cultural formation that has a social function” (2010, p. 14). Importantly, in the context of this research, function needs to be understood not just in general terms but as it specifically relates to contemporary Asian, mainly Chinese, popular culture. What is ultimately at stake in such arguments is a negotiation over the whether the individual celebrity has real, affective, power to influence behaviour or if the celebrity is chosen by fans as an exemplary model citizen who reflects inherent culturally-embedded values. In terms of

Lau’s career, it would appear that the latter statement is the most useful in helping define a clear reason for Lau’s longevity as a celebrity. Certainly, if one had to decide upon a concrete basis for Lau’s celebrity it would be his continual embodiment of an ever-evolving set of cultural attributes that are well received by Sinophone audiences.

As I will now demonstrate, the ‘story’ of Lau’s career (as it has been developed by the star, his management, the media, and fans) depends equally upon the star’s love of his cultural heritage, his reputation for hard work, the regular acknowledgement of fan base, and a recognition of the important role of mentors (from Lau’s own mentors,

Chow Yun-fat and Deannie Ip, in his early career through to Lau’s current position as mentor for numerous young actors and singers). Given the significance attached to these two qualities of a hard-working ethic and a filial sense of respect for one’s seniors in Chinese culture, as well as the fact that they are two of the most frequently referenced elements of Lau’s personal character, goes some way to helping us define the cultural function of Lau’s celebrity. Whilst this point helps establish the view that

Lau may be seen as a cultural text, who was chosen for his ability to embody culturally attractive characteristics, albeit with a reasonable degree of personal agency

126 that has clearly increased with his rise in status, there is also an argument to be made that Lau may have affective power as a political symbol. Now with long-standing popular support in mainland China, Lau fulfils an important role for the CCP (a point that I will return to in Chapter Five).

Since 2005, the renewed interest in the promotion of popular culture has manifested itself through the apparent but unofficial Chinese government support for more established stars, such as in the promotion of star-filled patriotic feature films and the selection of entertainers who were chosen to represent China in the 2008 Beijing

Olympic Games promotional activities and major ceremonies. This overlap between politics and pop culture was similarly evident when Lau and a host of other Hong Kong entertainers performed for Chinese President Hu Jin Tao in celebrations marking the

10th anniversary of Hong Kong’s reunification with mainland China on 30 June 2007.

Whilst the anniversary party was hyped as a rare opportunity to see the Heavenly Kings reunite after their successful performances at the original Handover ceremony,60 the online commentary that followed the event focused on Lau’s political currency, which became most evident when the President quickly shook hands with the other celebrities before stopping to chat briefly with Lau (“Four Heavenly Kings sing together on stage for Hong Kong handover 10th anniversary”, 2007).

Further confirmation of Lau’s bridging role between Hong Kong and mainland China

60 Aside from the original Handover ceremony, where Lau had distinguished himself from his fellow Heavenly Kings by being the only one to wear traditional Chinese attire instead of a Western suit, the only time the four performed together before the 10th anniversary was at a special 2003 tribute to Leslie Cheung at the 22nd Hong Kong Film Awards, where the Four Heavenly Kings sang an acappella version of Cheung’s hit theme song from the film, A Better Tomorrow.

127 followed the next morning when, in his position as Ambassador for Hong Kong’s

Ocean Park, Lau welcomed two new pandas to the theme part as gifts presented to the

Hong Kong SAR from China’s central government. As these examples demonstrate, there is a distinct, though not always overt, political element to Lau’s activities, which highlights the growing power of his celebrity in the region. As a young actor in a supporting role in Ann Hui’s Boat People Lau was largely shielded from controversy about the political implications of the film, which documents life in Vietnam following the end of the Vietnam War.61 However, we can see a well-developed sense of political sensitivity when Lau open acknowledges of the need to shoot different endings for films, such as Fulltime Killer (To & Wai, 2001) and Protégé (Yee, 2007)

– in which Lau plays an assassin and drug lord, respectively – so that the criminals can be shown to suffer for their crimes in the Malaysian and mainland China versions of those films. Of course, it is not solely Lau’s acquiescence in such matters (and, by extension, the compromises made by the directors and producers of his films), which establishes him as a savvy political player, but also the reciprocal acknowledgement of

Lau’s position by the Chinese government itself. Certainly, when the government is shown to react as strongly as they did to spontaneous public expression in the form of reality shows,62 one has to wonder about the implications of their support for stars such as Lau. In this way we may see that, what worked for Lau on an individual level

– achieving fame through the embodiment of his cultural values as much as for the actual product he produces – now has the apparent potential to work at a national level

61 As Lawrence Chua (1991) notes, Boat People had a complicated release: “One of the first Hong Kong produced films to be shot in the People’s Republic of China, it was initially banned in Taiwan, then taken out of distribution in Hong Kong, and, when the film’s complicated ideological structure surfaced, was forbidden to be shown in China as well.” 62 A reference to the well-publicised negative government reaction to the much-hyped spontaneity of a 2005 contestant in the reality show, Mongolian Cow Yoghurt Super Girl (Turner, 2010, p. 17).

128 as well as Lau has essentially become, in his mainland China work, at least, a government-approved symbolic embodiment of Chinese culture.

RICH AND FAMOUS: FOUNDATIONS OF LAU’S POPULAR APPEAL

Lau’s continued celebrity is derived from multiple, interrelated sources encompassing the film, television, music and advertising industries, as well as general fan discourse, making it necessarily to consider certain themes that are frequently referenced in public observations about the foundation of Lau’s appeal.63 Specifically, I wish to focus on two of the most commonly discussed aspects of Lau’s character – his demonstration of cultural pride and his hard-working nature. Whilst most of the references to Lau’s public appreciation of Chinese values and traditions coincides with

Hong Kong’s reunification with mainland China, when Lau was frequently shown engaging in traditional Chinese activities, public recognition of his work ethos dates back to the early days of Lau’s career.

This last point may be best exemplified by the continued allusion to two specific episodes of Lau’s life. The first relates how Lau, originally named Lau Fok-wing, was born in 1961 to a poor family in the rural town of Tai Po in Hong Kong’s New

Territories and, as a young child, would have to wake at 3am every morning to make eight trips to fetch water for his family. The second oft-quoted tale describes how Lau earned the nicknames ‘Superman’ and ‘Rebel without a Pause’ by appearing in more than seventy films between 1987 and 1997 and sleeping in his car between acting jobs.

63 Note, for example, the biography page of AndyLauSounds – a fan-operated collection of English- language translations of local media coverage - that defines Lau according to his roles as ‘Actor’, ‘Popstar’ and ‘Superstar’, and answers the self-posed question “Who is Andy Lau?” with references to the star’s hobbies, relationships, awards and honours, charitable activities and community service roles.

129 At one point in 1991, when he was averaging a movie a month, Lau was acting in four different movies per day in as many locations. A report on Lau’s performance in Jay

Sun Jianjun’s 2012 spy film, Switch, reminds readers that Lau is still willing to work with demanding shooting schedules:

For the workaholic, during the shoot he often had to rush from one location to another and shoot right away. When he was working in Dubai he had rides to different locations. Due to the tight schedule he needed to change inside the vehicle. When he arrived at the next location he was able to go to work right away. Such an intense production process made him feel very fulfilled, as if he has returned to the 80s Hong Kong film production pace ("Andy Lau gets more exq the busier he gets," 2012).

Part of Lau’s ongoing appeal is undoubtedly related to such stories, which simultaneously highlight Lau’s historical and continuing hard-work attitude. As the following comments from the Asian Fanatics64 forum demonstrate, long after Lau reached the pinnacle of his fame, fans still regularly remind each other of the star’s hard fought journey:

He is one of the artist that has been work hard. from nobody to somebody! keep up the good work (Cwaim, 2005).

Andy Lau is one of the actor I like, very good singer, nice personality, he work very hard for what he got, and he deserve it, he is a very talented (Guest, 2005).

Seeing Andy’s hardwork and with his experience, determination and hardworking heart, he’s a learning model for all (Velverse, 2005).

No doubt, Lau’s ‘rags to riches’ story documenting his rise to fame, fortune and power from such humble beginnings would be an appealing reminder of the potential gains from relentless effort for many of Hong Kong’s seven million citizens. As Francesco

Alberoni discovered in his 1962 study into the phenomenon of stardom, a key condition of celebrity is the myth of ‘social mobility’ – the principle that everyone has the potential to become a star (See Dyer, 1998). Indeed, as reflected in contemporary

64 Together with AndyLauSounds, Asian Fanatics is a leading source of online English-language information about Lau.

130 celebrity culture discourse, this kind of dangerously deceptive promise of easy fulfilment of desire is the key driving force behind the current explosion of instant stars who are discovered through online social networking sites and reality shows

(Turner, 2010). Whilst the vast majority of these hopeful individuals will never achieve their dreams of instant fame and fortune, the potentially harmful ideological lie of social mobility clearly continues to hold currency and Lau often uses media coverage to emphasise the value of hard work during times of hardship. For example, in a 2009 Apple Daily piece where Lau expressed his wishes for the new year, explaining that he had deliberately chosen to release an album that year because he had always had good success with his music during the Chinese Year of the Ox:

I have two new songs, one named “I Do” and another named “I Wish”, although everyone are saying that the economics are not good, I wanted to urge all, I do hard work and I wish to prosper in wealth (“Andy: ‘If you work hard, you’ll get rewards’”, 2009).

In spite of the practical limitations of social mobility, it clear that Lau’s story has the ideological function of supporting the capitalist myth that any individual can prosper if they just work hard enough. Lau, his fans and the media also play up how Lau’s aptitude for hard work is shaped by his also having been born in the Year of the Ox, therefore, Lau is frequently identified with the ox character (considered to be the hardest working symbol in the Chinese zodiac cycle), leading to the additional nickname ‘Nui Hua’ (Ox Andy) and, later, to Lau’s creation of the popular Andox toy ox characters.

Clearly, then, Lau's celebrity is built upon a series of culturally-based themes that the star, his fans, and popular media routinely reference. These values, such as a hard- working nature, loyalty to old friends, filial piety, community spirit, and a love for

131 Chinese heritage, are the cornerstones of Lau's celebrity and examples of behaviours that confirm these values are endlessly repeated by the star, his fans and popular media - especially during times of crisis. We can see this demonstrated on the local level when the media and fans backed Lau’s handling of the Handover (as discussed in Chapter

Two) but we may also note how these themes are used by the media and fans to support

Lau personally and defend him from negative publicity, such as after the announcement of Lau’s relationship with Carol Chu (discussed later in this Chapter). Similarly, Lau, his fans and the media use these values to promote the star. For example, the well- established theme of being hard working provides a template upon which Lau’s new ventures can be based (such as the aforementioned promotion of new music in the Year of Ox). In addition to giving us insight into how Lau has remained a major figure of the entertainment industry for over three decades, this understanding of celebrity built upon cultural values helps us understand why Lau has often been neglected in the English- language literature.

LUCKY STARS GO PLACES: ACHIEVING LOCAL FAME

In addition to his hard-working nature, a secondary aspect of the popular appreciation of Lau’s career is the fact that it has been a very public journey to stardom, which Lau often encourages his fans to reflect back on. As mentioned in Chapter One, Lau, like a number of his contemporaries, started his career as a student in the famed TVB actor- training program. Within a short time of joining the program, Lau was offered some minor television roles and gave a well-received performance in Ann Hui’s Boat

People (1982), the multiple award-winning drama depicting the plight of Vietnamese people looking to flee the country after its unification under a Communist government

132 in Hanoi. Lau’s popularity rose steadily with a lead role in the TVB series, The

Emissary (1982) and, within a year, Lau had become a household name after starring in the station’s cult hit serial adaptation, Return of the Condor Heroes (1983). Hoping to capitalize on the popularity of some of their young stars, TVB put together an All-

Star Challenge variety show, featuring Lau and four other station idols – Felix Wong

Yat-wah, Michael Miu Kiu-wai, Ken Tong Chun-yip, and Tony Leung Chiu-wai.

Quickly branded by the media as the ‘Five Tiger Generals of TVB’, the Five Tigers often made public appearances together and, even after some individuals left the station to pursue other projects, it was not uncommon for different members of the group to team up with each other again sporadically throughout their careers.

After his initial success with TVB, including some early collaborations with veteran actress, Deannie Ip, Lau experienced a setback when the station blacklisted him in

1986 for refusing to sign a five-year exclusive contract. At the time, Lau wished to follow the advice of his mentor, Chow Yun-fat, by moving into feature films. In a

2005 Cover Story interview with Taiwanese actress-singer, Stella Chang, Lau described an early encounter with Chow in which Chow had asked Lau to guess the brand of watch he was wearing: “I was disappointed. I thought he was showing off. It was a Rolex with diamonds. But then he told me, ‘Remember that when you work hard, you can have anything you want’” (Li, 2005). The discussion had lasting ramifications upon Lau who used the eight-month hiatus without jobs to improve himself and learn English, horse riding and kung fu. Eventually, Chow, a former TVB idol himself, encouraged Lau to make the break from the station and provided Lau with some work in supporting roles in his films, Rich and Famous (Wong, 1987),

133 Tragic Hero (Wong, 1987), and God of Gamblers (Wong, 1989). Although the incident clearly damaged Lau’s television career at the time, the long-term ramifications were much more positive as it gave Lau a dynamic backstory that effectively supported his early star image as a rebellious youth in the films leading up to and following on from A Moment of Romance.

Achieving success despite the major setback of losing the support of TVB also appeared to motivate Lau to take greater control over his own career as the star’s frustration over losing this control is a common theme in interviews about the blacklist period. In a 2009 interview on the Radio Television Hong Kong (RTHK) show, Let’s

Talk, Lau credits the difficult experience with teaching him humility and strengthening his resolve:

Then my monthly salary is just $6800, I'm used to giving $6000 to my parents as house expenses, when I got put into cold storage suddenly, I have to go to remote areas to sing and dance to earn money. […] It was really tough then, I was bald [as a result of shaving his head for a role], fat and ugly, I was as fat as Tam Bing Man, it hurt my dignity, I was one of the Top 10 Idols. Thus I decided to slim down, kept telling myself that I'm going through all this, fight to live longer! ("Andy missed the chance to act Wei Xiao Bao," 2009)

A second theme in such recollections is Lau’s continued admiration of early colleagues. In particular, fans respond eagerly to Lau’s interview references to his

Return of the Condor Heroes co-star, Idy Chan, noting:

it’s so sweet of Andy to keep indicating that Idy left him the deepest impression. even though the news reports this quite a few times, i wont mind hearing Andy say it again. ^___^ (Michelle, 2007)

i agree with you, i don’t mind hearing andy lau keeps sharing his most memorable idy chan to the public (Sakura, 2007)

People cannot forget Andy & Idy as a couple! They often ask Andy about Idy. It’s super sweet of Andy to always say nice things about Idy (Helen, 2007)

These quotes reveal both the nostalgic attitudes of fans towards Lau’s older works

134 (which the star exploits well in his own nostalgic gestures, such as the Unforgettable

30th anniversary concerts, where Lau was publicly reunited with Idy Chan on stage)65 as well as fan appreciation of Lau’s demonstrated loyalty towards old friends and colleagues.

HONG KONG GODFATHER: ANDY LAU AS INDUSTRY SAVIOUR

Although frequently asked about a possible return to television, Lau had often rejected the idea, stating that he preferred the system in the ‘old days’ (i.e. before he claims television actors started taking it upon themselves to change the script) saying: “When

I used to work with Deannie Ip, we would film once every three days. We would sit and read our lines together and talk about the plot” (Oriental Daily News, 2004). Also, in a nod to his continuing friendships with members of the Five Tigers, Lau claims that the experience of being shunned by the station gave him the opportunity to gauge who his true friends were ("After 3 golden decade, Andy revealed that he wish to become a film director," 2009). These quotes simultaneously demonstrate Lau’s allegiance to old colleagues – by showing how he is still close with Ip and members of the Five Tigers – whilst putting a more positive spin on his earlier negative relations with TVB. In this way, Lau effectively rewrites the story of his career and reframes the early failure and public humiliation of the blacklist period as a personal learning

65 Indeed, Lau has a history of memorializing himself. In addition to autobiographies, the Unforgettable concert series, and the 20th anniversary Just For You EP, Lau gave himself a unique ‘present’ to celebrate his 100th film. The film, A Fighter’s Blue (Lee, 2000), in which Lau played a Muay Thai kickboxer, was often referred to as a personal project for Lau. Shot in Thailand and featuring a cast of comprised largely of local non-actors (though with the important exception of himself), A Fighter’s Blue gave Lau the opportunity to play a character who was far removed from his usual on-screen persona, something that Lau appeared to relish by extending the publicity around the project through a companion soundtrack and a Making Of documentary.

135 experience – a gesture which ultimately says less about TVB’s actions than it does

Lau’s self-aggrandising attempt to remind his followers of the effort it took him to bounce back from this setback and stresses, once again, how his success and reputation is as much about these contextual details and the ‘story’ of his career as the actual skills demonstrated on screen.

Given the way that Lau often reflects upon this period of his career in interviews, it is not surprising, therefore, that 2012 media reports suggest that Lau is considering returning to TVB for one series after he was publicly urged to help inject some life back into Hong Kong’s struggling television industry. With story headlines such as

“Will Andy Lau’s Return to TVB Save the Ailing Network?” (HeTieShou, 2012), media reports are attracted frenzied responses from Hong Kong’s netizens (internet- citizens), who are keen to see a return to classic formulas.66 Online comments also return to familiar themes about Lau’s TVB contemporaries when both fans and journalists branch out into discussions about Deannie Ip’s simultaneous return to television dramas and the unlikely but much-desired on-screen reunification of Lau and Idy Chan. It was also reported that Lau was keen to make a cameo on the show,

Gun Metal Grey, which starred Michael Miu and Felix Wong, two of Lau’s Five

Tigers ‘brothers’, but that he ultimately decided that his presence would prove too much of a distraction and he didn’t want to take the focus away from the two leads.

Although this particular reunification fell through (and a handful of commentators interpreted the event as evidence that Lau considered himself ‘too big’ for the show) most fan responses typically applauded Lau’s apparent ongoing dedication to his old

66 Lau’s own criticisms about current productions are repeated by fans who express similar dissatisfaction with the lack of creatively in contemporary shows.

136 colleagues. However, regardless of the actual outcome of the rumoured reunion or even Lau’s motivations for deciding against the cameo appearance, the strong overall response to the report confirms the ongoing fascination with Lau’s demonstrations of loyalty. The importance of loyalty was also a virtue stressed by the vice-chairperson of

China Star Entertainment Group, Tiffany Chan Lan, (better known in the local industry as Mrs. Heung), when she was interviewed by Ming Pao Weekly about her experiences with industry stars. Praising the fact that Lau once halved his fees during a bad economic period, Mrs Heung was adamant that Lau’s loyalty placed him in strong contrast with other superstars, such as Stephen Chow, who the industry leader described as being painful to collaborate with (Mrs Heung sing praise of Andy’s loyalty”, 2009). With stories such as this, media and industry figures help perpetuate the narrative of Lau’s celebrity, in this instance, recasting what is arguably a very pragmatic business decision into a demonstration of a noble quality.

The rhetoric used by media, industry figures, and fans in these reports is particularly interesting as it recalls similar discussions from the early 2000s when the same groups regularly conversed about the way they thought Lau was attempting to save the Hong

Kong film industry through activities like the Focus: First Cuts project. In a telling example of public impressions of star personas, Lau’s fans were quick to place the star in the role of hero, agreeing with each other that he would certainly return to the station to help when requested:

IF Andy comes back it is out of friendship and gratefulness rather than money (HeTieShou, 2012)

I believe such headline is just to pressure poor Andy. I bet even Eric will say “I can easily invite the Jade Emperor to film for TVB, but not Stephen Chow” (F. Lim, 2012)

137

So, Andy willing to help out TVB is unsurprising. I think Eric will have a harder time convincing Chow Yun Fat. (Kidd, 2012)

Tony Leung Chiu Wai That to me is a never. I never see Tony Leung Chiu Wai back at TVB for even a walk on role. (F. Lim, 2012)

In addition to once again reinforcing the theme of Lau’s altruism, such comments reveal a tendency for fans to gauge celebrity personae against comparable industry figures. Specifically, in a manner, which recalls Mrs Heung’s positive comparison of

Lau against Stephen Chow, this collection of comments reveals that many fans are convinced that Lau is more likely than his peers (major stars like Chow, Tony Leung

Chiu-wai, and Chow Yun-fat,) to demonstrate faithfulness to a local institution. In addition to such claims being made by reporters and fans, Lau also has the very public pressure of being urged to return to TVB by his colleague and good friend, veteran actor, Eric Tsang – an industry heavyweight who holds part ownership of TVB and who will act as producer for the proposed series. Tsang states:

If I'm able to bring back one star using my sincerity. I have confidence to bring many, many more stars back to TVB. Andy Lau and Chow Yun Fat are both responsible people. If they feel that it's necessary, they will return," Eric said, who hopes that with the return of the biggest names that started off their careers in TVB, it would bring back the glory days of the station to be recognised as the only TV station in Hong Kong (C. Lee, 2012).

According to Tsang, stars such as Lau and Chow Yun-fat have a duty to help reignite the industry that made them household names, “When the mother station is in need, I know they will come back to help!” (Natalie, 2012). One last point about the public response to Lau’s possible return to TVB is that online comments demonstrate a strange combination of nostalgic longing to see Lau return to television, whilst being simultaneously critical that the star’s presence for one series will have anything more than symbolic value for the industry. Yet, from the perspective of reshaping Lau’s public persona, this move would be particularly effective, as it would bring the

138 blacklist story full circle by having Lau constructed as the magnanimous superstar who became the saviour of the same station that tried to destroy his career.

WAIT TIL YOU’RE OLDER: LAU’S SLOW RACE TO THE TOP

Whist the majority of fan and media references to Lau’s hard-working nature and perseverance relate to his acting career, Lau’s musical development mirrors this theme. Lau had started to embark on a singing career before the TVB blacklist but it would take a number of years for him to achieve fame in this arena and much longer again to gain respect for his efforts to improve his singing after achieving initial success as a heartthrob popstar. Although it was common in Hong Kong for actors to also have a recording career, the usual trajectory was for aspiring singers to move from music into acting, not from acting into singing as Lau did. Lau received his first recording contract in 1985 and shortly thereafter released his debut album, I Only

Know I Love You (只知道此刻愛你), however, it wasn’t until his fifth album, Would

It Be Possible? (可不可以), released in 1990, that Lau really became a major name in the Hong Kong music industry by going triple platinum with the album and winning the most popular male singer at the1990 TVB Jade Solid Gold Awards. By 2000, Lau had received 292 awards for his singing career. It was this feat that saw him enter the

Guinness World Records for the “Most Awards Won by a Canto-Pop Male Artist”

(Guiness World Records, 2002, p. 188). Shortly after this recognition, however, Lau announced that he would be taking a break from these award shows – a gesture that highlighted widespread general dissatisfaction with the way the award shows were being handled, including strong rumours of rigging and increasing antagonism between fan factions.

139 Although Lau’s acting typically attracts more Hong Kong and mainland Chinese media attention than his recording career, I would argue that – as a medium for communicating his public (individual) persona – Lau’s role as a Cantopop performer is arguably just as important, if not more so, than the star’s involvement in film projects, which are, by virtue of the inherently collaborative process of filmmaking, necessarily more an expression of group efforts. As further acknowledgement of the importance of Lau’s music career, I think it is useful at this point to consider his significant role in the history of Cantopop. First appearing in the mid 1970s, the rise of Cantopop as a genre represented a relatively sudden but very well received popular movement towards music that blended Westernised pop instrumentation with Cantonese lyrics and a strong sense of local specifity. The early Cantopop era is best epitomised by stars such as Samuel

Hui Koon-kit (許冠傑) and his brother, Michael Hui Koon-man (許冠文) who sang pop tunes grounded in the social realities of everyday life in Hong Kong, including work issues (typically with a comedic twist). A standout feature of early Cantopop – that has largely survived today – is the use of Cantopop songs in films that also feature the singer as a lead actor. By the late 1970s, Cantopop themes had also become a defining feature of televised serials – most notably period dramas and soap operas – with television actors such as Roman Tam (羅文) and Adam Cheng Siu-chow (鄭少秋) quickly becoming major stars of the Cantopop industry. The period between the late

1970s through to mid-1980s was characterised by the rise of pop idol worship, with mega-stars Alan Tam Wing-lun (譚詠麟),67 Leslie Cheung Kwok-wing (張國榮), and

Anita Mui Yim-fong (梅艷芳) dominating the industry until their respective ‘semi-

67 Former singer of The Wynners (溫拿樂隊), the most popular Cantopop band of the 1970s.

140 retirements’68 in the late 1980s. In recognition of the commercial prospects of the mass popular appeal of Cantopop artists, the era also saw the rise of merchandising, fan clubs,

‘super-concerting’,69 and organised public appearances, which were often “orientated to community and charity events” (Erni, 2004, p. 8). The period immediately following this, lasting up until the Handover in 1997, saw some of the most significant movements in Cantopop history – developments which have continued to shape the industry as it stands today. Significantly, in terms of this thesis, prominent Asian media and cultural studies scholar, Erni, notes that – along with the resurgence of all-male bands, the rise of the Karaoke industry, the movement towards tabloid reporting of celebrity gossip and scandals, and the post-Tiananmen arrival of ‘political Cantopop’ – the crowning of the

Four Heavenly Kings in 1992 was one of the major developments in Cantopop history.

Significantly, all the characteristics of 1980s Cantopop commercial practices outlined above are still major elements of Lau’s career and are indicative of the ways in which

Lau has managed to distinguish himself from his contemporaries, whilst utilising marketing strategies that largely conform to stereotyped industry practices. However, despite such recognition and success, Lau’s vocal ability (or lack thereof) has been a persistent area of fascination for followers:

Fantastic actor, decent singer. (Zyphere, 2005) he doesnt sing ALL That good.. and hes getting old... i admit his songs in the 90s were good, but currently not as good songs... and his voice. (Amezames, 2005)

Earning the nickname, ‘God of Acting’, early in his career Lau had been signalled out

68 A relatively common practice where superstars of the Cantopop industry temporarily cease recording and touring to focus on other projects (typically, their film careers) whilst giving newer stars an opportunity for greater exposure and award consideration. 69 On the topic of the ‘super-concerting’ phenomenon, Erni notes that the practice of “performing thirty or more consecutive concerts in rapid succession […] became the frenzied trend of mass Cantopop consumption” (Erni, 2004, p. 8)

141 as being one of the most outstanding actors of his generation yet his work as a recording artist has often suffered from inevitably negative comparisons with fellow

Heavenly King and ‘God of Songs’, Jacky Cheung. Similarly, Lau’s dancing abilities were long overshadowed by ‘God of Dance’ Aaron Kwok, whose pre-Heavenly King career was as a TVB dancer. As Ee Kee Li observes in his 2005 review of Lau’s career: “Jacky Cheung may have been the King of Heavenly Kings of their time but as the title gets passed to a new generation of entertainers, only Lau remains at the top”

(Li, 2005). Although the individual ‘members’ of the Heavenly Kings have rarely feed into the hype surrounding their arbitrary grouping – a commemorative performance to honour Leslie Cheung being a notable exception – reporters and fans still have a tendency to make comparisons between the four, for example, by tallying whose films will take higher box office receipts if they happen to have close release dates.

Though, historically, Lau has suffered from negative comparisons to other artists his continued fame is a testament to the effective promotion of extra-textual elements, such as perseverance, in the construction of his celebrity. In an example which underlines the theme of the perceived value of hard work (even over and above talent) legendary

Cantopop singer, Alan Tam, revealed in a 2009 interview that he had initially tried to dissuade Lau from pursuing a singing career as he felt Lau didn’t have any natural talent in this area and that it would be better if Lau focused his efforts upon acting (“Alan Tam almost talk Andy out to become a singer”, 2010). This was seen a minor revelation as

Tam was a keen supporter of Lau’s early singing career and had promoted Lau in interviews and had often invited him to guest perform during concerts. Explaining that

Lau’s determined attitude ultimately convinced him to support the young star, Tam

142 notes that he admires Lau for being “hard-working, keen to learn, although not born with talent, but all the hard work made him into a talent” (“Alan Tam almost talk Andy out to become a singer”, 2010). It is a statement that again reflects the recurring theme in Lau’s celebrity of hard work triumphing talent, a point that is key to the context- reliant nature of the star’s fame and affection, which also stands in direct contrast to the

Hollywood star system. Similarly, the reference to Tam’s mentoring of Lau’s singing career and his assertion that Lau, himself, has become a good “learning model for newbies”, reinforces the cultural importance of the mentoring relationship within the industry (“Alan Tam almost talk Andy out to become a singer”, 2010). Ultimately, what all these examples demonstrate is that Lau’s celebrity persona has been constructed through the key elements of hard work and loyalty. Certainly, the references in this thesis to the otherwise indiscriminate grouping of Lau with both his television (Five

Tigers) and music industry (Four Heavenly Kings) contemporaries is primarily relevant for the sentiment these labels provoke with fans and Lau’s subsequent use of such nostalgia in the re-negotiation of his star personae. These qualities – based on a very specific context – are often cited by industry figures, the local media and fans as cultural values and are given as reasons for their appreciation of Lau as well as accounting for Lau’s longevity in the industry and are used as a way to differentiate the star from his colleagues.

THE CRAZY COMPANIES: ANDY LAU AS COMMODITY

One particularly noteworthy aspect of Lau’s celebrity is his willingness to embrace synergy as a form of simultaneously promoting his various cross-media efforts. For example, as noted previously, it is quite common for Lau to star in a film and also

143 have his songs on the film soundtrack. Then, when it comes time to perform the songs in concert,70 Lau typically does so by dressing in character and introducing songs via video clips of key scenes from the relevant film. At times, Lau has enhanced this recreation of film roles by inviting co-stars on stage with him. For example, Lau’s

2001 Concert Fiesta shows featured extended dance demonstrations with his Dance of a Dream (Lau, 2001) co-star, professional dancer, Shirley Huang Rui. Similarly, in the 2002 Proud of You concerts, Lau and his Love on a Diet (To & Wai, 2001) co-star,

Sammi Cheng, took to the stage in matching fat-suits to recreate their characters of

Fatso and Mini. In the 2010-2011 Unforgettable concert series, Lau recreated a number of his most iconic film roles, including appearing on stage in a motorcyclist’s outfit to sing the theme from A Moment of Romance and donning a police uniform to sing the title track from Infernal Affairs. Whilst most of these on-stage recreations of screen roles were at least partially promotional in nature (i.e. advertising for current projects), the Unforgettable concert series was more reflexive in nature, allowing Lau to focus on a couple of critical points in his local film career by recreating his roles as, alternatively a triad and a cop, in two iconic contemporary, urban Hong Kong films.

When Lau brought his tour to China in 2011, however, it was with some significant modifications, such as the inclusion of the theme song to the mainland Chines film,

Shaolin, which Lau performed dressed as a general while sitting on top of a metallic horse in front of a watercolour backdrop representing the Chinese mountains.

70 Concerts are also a useful forum for Cantopop stars such as Lau to publically thank their sponsors – both through on-stage expressions of gratitude as well as through the selling of related merchandise. It is customary for all Cantopop concerts to begin and end with formal announcements in which organizers read out long lists of individual thanks to all concert sponsors.

144 Clearly, then, Lau’s concerts act as an extended form of advertising for his films but another imaginative way of bringing together Lau’s various roles as actor-singer- spokesman is through product placement in his films and music videos. The film Dance of a Dream, for example, features a Tao Ti vending machine strategically placed in the corridor of Lau’s character’s dance studio. Much in the same way, Lau’s music videos for the songs, “Heart Come With Me” (全心來跟) and “Campaign” (廣告系列) were mini-films that acted as extended advertisements for Ericsson mobile phones (Seno,

1998). A further unique opportunity for cross-promotion is explored with the special store coupons that come packaged with fan club membership applications in Lau’s music CD releases. At the same time as he is effectively promoting these goods, Lau’s celebrity persona is being strengthened through demonstrations of his loyalty to certain brands, though a rather blatant acknowledgement of the corporate side of his fame that would be difficult to imagine in a Western context. For example, in 2009, Lau released a collection of the ten songs (and accompanying music videos) that he had recorded for yearly advertising campaigns for Tao Ti. Entitled Long Distance Partner and advertised as “the perfect ten-year relation between the star and the brand,” the collection drew upon the oft-repeated conception of Lau’s celebrated loyalty (“Long Distance Partner – production description”, 2009). At various stages of his career, Lau has advertised such varied products as Motorola, Ericsson, and LG Shine mobile phones; Cartier Tank and

Solvil E Titus, and Cyma watches; Pepsi and Tao Ti beverages; HKNet broadband service; Superwarm thermo underwear and Baleno casual wear; Acura luxury automobiles and OSIM uDivine massage chairs. A particularly notable point about

Lau’s more recent endorsement arrangements is that they are typically for high-end luxury brands. Ironically, even though much of Lau’s continued appeal appears to be

145 based on his humble origins this part of his background clearly has little place in his current commercialized position as a symbol for modern urban elites of Hong Kong,

Shanghai and Beijing.

Whilst the retrospective ‘rags to riches’ tale is seemingly based in truth, Lau plays with the agency it affords him by selectively deciding when to share elements of this story. One particularly striking example of when Lau’s poor past and prosperous present collide is when he began referring in interviews to a particularly expensive herbal tea that his mother prepares for him when he was training his voice for a series of concerts. Containing ingredients such as wild ginseng and cordyceps, Lau noted that one dosage, at about HK$5,000, is good only for three brews ("The Andy Lau six- pack diet," 2011). At one point, the prescription tea became relatively famed amongst

Lau’s fans when he paid HK$800,000 to provide each fans at his 2004 pre-birthday celebration with some of the tea as a gift. Rather than make any disparaging comments about the conspicuous flaunting of wealth through exorbitant purchases, the response to Lau’s gesture was typically effusive, with dozens of responses to a single report all gushing about Lau’s generosity ("Andy Lau spends $800,000 on gifts to fans," 2004).

Looking beyond the dollar value of his box-office and recording output, other commercial considerations, such as Lau’s roles as product spokesman and entrepreneur, further demonstrate the powerful position of Lau across a wide range of industries. As one of the most highly commercialized stars, Lau frequently tops the list of the region’s biggest money-makers but his position as one of the most lucrative advertising spokespersons means that managing the marketing practices for so many

146 varied products and services can be a rather intricate process that, at times, conveniently ties together Lau’s roles as endorsement figure, actor and recording artist. A striking case in point is Lau’s recent association with luxury car manufacturer, Acura, which began in 2009 with a commercial for the Acura TL, a mini-film directed by Hong Kong filmmaker, Andrew Lau (director of Infernal

Affairs). This collaboration then led to Acura’s sponsorship of Lau’s 2011 film, What

Women Want, which featured Lau’s character driving an Acura MDX. In 2011, Acura also sponsored Lau’s 2011 mainland China Unforgettable concert series and used the concerts as a promotional activity, providing customers who purchased an Acura vehicle in Xiamen Haicang store on 15 April 2011 with a surprise package at Andy’s

Beijing concert ("Acura sponsors Andy’s concert," 2011). Turner (2010) has highlighted the need to work out where power lies in such cross-industry connections but the sheer complexity of arrangements, such as those mentioned above, which involve Lau and a variety of different stakeholders, simply demonstrates the inherent difficulty of negotiating contracted relationships between film producers, advertisers, agencies, distributers, and concert sponsors, who each have their own interests.

Regardless of who ultimately holds the most power in these commercial arrangements it is clear that Lau has a well-established marketing structure that he is keen to develop and protect, as is demonstrated by his frequent seeking of legal protection for his own brand.

As is often the case with prominent individuals, Lau has had well-documented on- going difficulties with controlling the unauthorised use of his name and image. Whilst expressing his general distress over large-scale piracy of his films and music and the

147 manufacturing of ‘knock-off’ versions of his Andox toy range ("Andy angry of his pirated 'sons'," 2009), Lau has been involved in a number of well-publicised lawsuits.

One such case, which is still referred to when teaching Hong Kong copyright law, is the dual action that Lau took against the Hang Seng Bank in 2000 for using his name and image in advertisements for a range of celebrity-branded credit cards and phone cards. In the suit, Lau claimed that the bank had infringed copyright and had potentially damaged his reputation (and, no doubt, affected his earning potential) when they promoted the cards bearing his image without obtaining his consent. The court determined in favour of the bank and decided that names and images were not protected by copyright and that members of the public were unlikely to assume Lau’s express endorsement (Ng, 2009; Pendleton, 2007).

Although we might imagine that the growing economic gap between Lau and his followers (evidenced by his reports of the purchasing of expensive goods and promotion of luxury brands), in most cases, fans have been exceptionally supportive of Lau’s right to protect the brand that they believe he has worked hard to develop, as evidenced in the responses of Lau, the media and his fans to one particular legal matter that threatened to bring negative publicity upon the star. In 2010, a mainland

Chinese intellectual property rights firm, who had been employed by Lau’s company to protect his trademark in that region, sent a letter to an elderly restaurant owner ordering him to stop trading under the name ‘The Authentic Liu Dehua [Lau’s

Mandarin name] Pressed Salted Duck Shop’, without realizing that the man had been using his own name when he first opened the shop in 1980 (i.e. when Lau was still using his birth name, Lau Fook-wing). Although some in the press were quick to seize

148 upon the suggestion that Lau might be bullying the man with this demand (“Andy Lau bullies duck shop owner”, 2010), the case was swiftly resolved and the restaurant owner and his family took pains to stress in interviews that they didn’t believe the star could be at fault, insisting, “Andy is too good, just that those in his company is too wicked” and that “Andy is such a nice person, he has done so much for the disaster, we all respect him” (“Sichuan Liu De Hua: Andy is too good a man”, 2010). This simple example of a potentially negative event allows us to see recurring themes of

Lau’s celebrity at play. First, Lau’s positive reputation clearly helped shield the star from accusations that were too damaging as even his supposed victims refused to believe that he actually had anything to do with matter. 71 In addition, Lau’s philanthropic activities were referenced as the owner’s family emphasised that one of the reasons for their faith in Lau was the star’s involvement in driving charity support72 after the Sichuan earthquake devastated the region in 2008. Finally, the incident allows us to see how Lau is able to bypass the media and, in this instance, even his own company, to directly interact with his followers by posting a personal response to the shop owner on his fansite blog, reassuring the man by saying: "Don't worry, Uncle. It will be alright” (“Andy Lau runs salted duck restaurant?”, 2010). This final point highlights a unique application of star/fan communication, which I argue in the following sections, helps set Lau apart from his colleagues. In making a direct statement, via his personal blog, Lau shifted the discourse around the case from the rumours of bullying in the media that had focused on the impersonal tone of the

71 As Elaine Jefferies (2011) explains in her piece examining the scandal that ensued when Chinese actress Zhang Zi-yi’s defaulted on a pledge of one million yuan for the disaster-relief efforts following the devastating 2008 Sichuan earthquake, there is a great deal of scrutiny and pressure on Chinese celebrity philanthropists – a response that stands in direct contrast to the cynical criticism that is typically attached to philanthropic activities of US celebrities. 72 Including writing and recording the fundraising song, “Promise” (承諾).

149 copyright order to cease trading to something reassuring and familiar (even addressing the man as ‘Uncle’), which simultaneously reinforced his filial nature and demonstrated how Lau attempts to exert some form of personal control over matters that threaten his image.

LOOK FOR A STAR: SITES OF CELEBRITY/FAN INTERACTION

In Desperately Seeking the Audience (1991), Ien Ang observed that the central difficulty with gauging the effects of popular culture upon audiences is that this interaction typically occurs on a very personal, intimate scale. For a long time this implicit imposed distance between observer and observer appeared to be unavoidable

– in fact, the availability of data on audience responses to media and popular culture actually appeared to be diminishing as audiences had access to a host of new technologies, such as DVDs, cable television and downloadable content, that made it easier for individuals to experience even more cultural products within the privacy of their own homes. At the same time, however, other technological advancements have triggered an astronomical growth in the publication of personal experiences in readily accessible forms, such as online blogs and social media sites, which provide researchers with immediate access to the hitherto private experiences and opinions of individuals from all across the world. Although the notion of viewer agency is now a given within film studies, I reference it as a means of drawing attention to an issue which has particular relevance for this research – the unique interaction between stars and their fans. Given Lau’s iconic status within the Hong Kong entertainment industry it seems necessary to establish a case for the agency of the people who, to some extent, are responsible for elevating him to this prominent position.

150 Although early celebrity studies tended to concentrate on the parallel constructs of the individual’s on-screen persona and a concealed private life, subsequent works on stardom, such as those by Richard Dyer (1979, 1986) and Christine Gledhill (1991) have attempted to draw out the complexities of such a limited model. For example, in a 1982 essay of the same name, Anne Peters and Muriel Cantor reintroduce the notion of “Screen Acting as Work,” reminding readers that, in addition to the work that stars perform on set, stars must also engage in a series of exhausting, but necessary, unpaid duties including “studying acting, seeking agents, going to casting interviews … keeping the body in shape, socialising with other actors, and making contacts” (p. 60).

As this quote suggests, having a better understanding of what it is that the star actually does highlights the great insight that star theory provides related fields of study where the notion of star as social phenomenon can be explored further, such as the nature of celebrity in contemporary popular culture as well as issues of reception. In his ‘Tools for the Analysis of Celebrity as a Form of Power,’ P. David Marshall (1997) outlines the necessary elements that must be integrated into any such model:

 The collective/audience conceptualisations of the celebrity;  The categorical types of individuality that are expressed through the celebrity;  The cultural industries’ construction of celebrity;  The relative commodity status of the celebrity;  The form of cultural legitimation that the celebrity, singly or as part of an entire system, may represent; and  The unstable nature of the meaning of the celebrity – the processual and dynamic changeability of the individual celebrity and the entire system of celebrity (p. 51)

In order to better understand the power of the celebrity figure it is obvious that social construction of meaning is a key element. As one of the first works to focus extensively on the social constructions of meaning behind the star figure, Richard

Dyer’s Stars (1979) remains influential to this day largely due to the constant

151 renegotiation of his notion of the ‘star image’ in subsequent star-based texts. Dyer’s central assertion is that a proper theorisation of one’s subject can only be achieved through a combination of sociological (star as social phenomenon) and semiotic (stars as signs) approaches leads him to the middle-ground of ‘star as image’.

The semiotic value of stars is perhaps best summed up by Susan Hayward when she notes that, “stars are shifting signifiers, they function as reflectors of the time and as signs to be reflected into society” (2002, p. 354). However, as Paul MacDonald notes in

“Reconceptualising Stardom,” a supplementary chapter to the second edition of Dyer’s book, the development in theories of stardom that have appeared after Stars reflect a broad movement within the field of film studies away from questions of the “social significance of film representations” towards an exploration of “the ways in which social circumstances act as a context for the production of a star’s significance” as well as a general return to questions dealing with the history of cinema (1998, p. 177).

Christine Gledhill offered one of the more valuable definitions of a star in the edited volume, Stardom: Industry of Desire (1991). In this work Gledhill proposes a model of the ‘star as construct’ which incorporates three inter-related, but ultimately independent, components; “the ‘real person’, the ‘characters’ or ‘roles’ played by the star in films and the star’s ‘persona’ which exists independently of real person or film character, combining elements of each in a public ‘presence’” (p. 214). In this context, we can see how Lau’s off-screen rebellious defiance of TVB aligns with fan acceptance of Lau’s on-screen heroic rebel persona in films such as A Moment of Romance. It is an example of what Dyer refers to as a ‘Perfect Fit’ - when “all the aspects of a star’s image fit with all the traits of a character” (Dyer, 1998, p. 129). In direct contrast, Lau himself has

152 noted an insistence when he experienced what Dyer identifies as a ‘Problematic Fit’. In the years before his long-term relationship and subsequent clandestine marriage were revealed, Lau’s private life was seen to be somewhat at odds with his professional role as pop singer and, during his promotion of the 2006 album Voices, Lau admitted that he felt he had limited ability to appeal to Hong Kong audiences through love songs. In this admission we can see how Lau’s construction of a false private persona (perpetually single man) had begun to a negative impact upon his ability to effectively sell his public image as romantic actor and singer – an admission that demonstrates the star’s own awareness of the limits and nature of his context-reliant fame.

As Barry King notes in “Articulating Stardom,” an individual actor’s performance style may be categorised as either ‘impersonation’ or ‘personification’ (1985, p. 42). King rationalizes that, when an audience is familiar with the work of a particular actor, they will, within reason, be able to determine whether that individual will demonstrate different qualities with each new character they evoke (impersonation) or if they will bring a level of sameness to each performance they offer (personification). Essentially, then, the difference between impersonation and personification can be measured against the willingness of an actor to adapt their range of physical gestures and voice from role to role. As Susan Hayward asserts, “a star who plays roles that are consonant with her or his personality (no matter how constructed that is) will be far more typecast and produce ritualised performances far in excess of a star who impersonates” (2002, p.

357). Importantly, then, the strategy that the actor employs will have a significant impact not only upon the individual film texts that they perform in but also upon their social status as a star.

153 Looking at Lau’s celebrity in these terms we may reasonably conclude that the star falls into the second of these categories – personification. Given the longevity of his career, we can use this framework to see how Lau’s evolving public persona has developed through three stages over the years, with each stage representative of a development in

Lau’s personal celebrity, which is then reinforced through his public performance of this role. In order, these stages would be:

1. A focus on the self – evidenced through Lau’s typecasting as a rebellious, self-centred youth in the early years of his career; an on-screen image which was reinforced by Lau’s well-publicised off-screen refusal to acquiesce to TVB’s demands that he lock himself into a long contract with the station; 2. A focus on society – Lau becomes a recognisable member of the Hong Kong entertainment community and uses his personal celebrity to support local causes and promote local issues, accepting ambassadorial roles and participating in community events and industry initiatives; 3. A focus on philosophy – Lau’s celebrity approaches myth, as media, industry figures, fans and even Lau himself, promote the star as a role model and cultural symbol.

Whilst each of these stages may never truly represent the complete individual, Lau’s willingness to be seen performing these roles (under such intense scrutiny and for such a long period of time) suggests that the star is able to continue doing what he does simply because he doesn’t register any conflict between these behaviours and his core personality. Similarly, the shifting focus from the self to broader ideological concerns reflects Lau’s acknowledged acceptance of his role as a social leader and cultural text.

In this way, we can see that Lau has been performing authenticity. As the star gained greater control over his own career he made decisions that ‘struck true’ to his basic nature (e.g. promoting cultural values in music videos) and, in many instances, purposely blurring the lines between private and public in ways that allowed him to almost entirely live his life in full view of the public (the key exception obviously being his secret relationship with Carol Chu, as will be discussed in the following sections of this Chapter).

154 Within the relatively small Hong Kong entertainment industry, an individual’s ability to clearly distinguish themselves from other stars is often one of the most crucial elements in the negotiation of celebrity status. Once a star has cultivated a specific image they may experiment with it in different scenarios however it becomes exceedingly difficult to move beyond this construction and many Hong Kong stars find themselves routinely enacting the same ritualised performance. Note, for example, Lin Feng’s (2010) analysis of Chow Yun-fat television career in the context of his construction as a modern xiaosheng.73 At the same time, due to the logistics associated with the modest number of working actors in the industry, most stars in Hong Kong cinema are able to move between genres with far greater ease than their Hollywood counterparts. For stars such as Jackie Chan and Stephen Chow Sing-chi who dominated their respective genres of kung fu comedy and mo lei tau (literally ‘nonsensical’) comedy, being typecast does not appear to present much of a problem, yet, for many other stars of the industry the pressure to fulfil audience expectations can be a constant battle. For example, whilst

Tony Leung Chiu-wai has performed in numerous action films and comedies throughout his career, his reputation as one of the best dramatic actors in the industry frequently overwhelms his many other career achievements, especially after his international success in a series of Wong Kar-wai films, such as Chungking Express

(1994), In The Mood For Love (2000), and 2046 (2004). Similarly, Ekin Cheng Yi-kin has starred in many well-received dramas and romantic comedies but for a long time remained an icon of youthful rebellion due to the strength of his performance as the charismatic triad leader, Chan Ho-nam, in the Young and Dangerous film series. For many years it appeared as if Andy Lau might suffer a similar typecasting fate after

73 A young, good-looking romantic hero often found in traditional tales of Chinese literature and theatre.

155 reprising the role of a romantic young rebel in literally dozens of films that followed his star-making turn as Wah Dee in the 1990 classic, A Moment of Romance. However, in the lead up to Hong Kong’s 1997 reunification with mainland China, new opportunities for better roles began to present themselves as industry heavyweights like Jackie Chan and Chow Yun-fat left Hong Kong for Hollywood and the stalwarts of the industry such as Lau, Leung, and Cheng strived to fill the resulting void.

THANKS FOR YOUR LOVE: APPRECIATING FAN ADORATION

Although other major stars of the Hong Kong entertainment industry have their own fan clubs, no other star is as active in their promotion and participation in fan club activities. Lau was the first Hong Kong celebrity to have their own website and he often actively encourages fans to join his linked personal fan club, Andy World Club

(AWC), through the aforementioned application forms included with new releases as well as through online communications, such as his 2010 video appeal on kaixin.net

(the Chinese version of Facebook) for mainland Chinese fans to join the club ("Andy plays with pirated Facebook," 2010). In addition to providing typical fan club benefits, such as newsletters and t-shirts, and even scholarships, the AWC has added the incentive of Lau’s regular personal participation in fan club events, such as birthday parties, pre-concert events and other social outings, such as bowling tournaments, calligraphy and Tai-chi courses, and opportunities to do charity work alongside Lau.

Through both Andylau.com and the AWC fan website, Lau provides a dedicated online space for fans to keep up to date with his activities, purchase authorized memorabilia and communicate with one another, explaining:

156 I hope that the website would add a space for all to interact, family members come to the website more often, leave me more replies, be it related to me, news, matters of AWC, your feelings or just a like, I can see all of them (Andy in new outfits to meet “family members”, 2013).

In addition to maintaining an online presence, Lau’s fan club operates a personal museum, which various awards, props, costumes and other items of significance to his career. Lau further memorialises himself by occasionally acting as an author to write up the ongoing story of his life in the autobiographies, Love Is Not Deep Enough (濃

情愛不完) (1992) and This Is How I Grew Up (我是這樣長大的) (1995), as well as penning the diary documenting his thirty days on the set of the 2011 Ann Hui film, A

Simple Life.

As Graeme Turner notes in “Approaching Celebrity Studies”, “the growth of new media has generated new ways of representing, consuming and producing celebrity”

(2010, p. 11). This shift, and the resulting increase in academic interest in star studies, is seen by Turner as an opportunity to demonstrate the wider functions and significance of celebrity. Specifically, Turner implores academics to venture beyond traditional definitions of celebrity and to move from a mode of analysis in which celebrity functions as either media text or the locus of discourse on consumer culture towards a consideration of the ways in which celebrity may also shed light upon industry and cultural formation. Turner argues that the social and cultural implications of celebrity “are probably the aspects we understand least at the moment [but] they are also the aspects about which we should be most legitimately concerned in the long term” (2010, p. 14). Such an investigation would represent a two-handed approach to see both how the industry and star produces celebrity as well as how the celebrity is consumed by fans. Specifically, it entails taking a look at the structure of how Lau’s

157 celebrity is produced and represented in primary works, media, interviews, and official websites as well as how they are consumed in individual films, recordings, concerts, and fan gatherings.

A simple demonstration of such symmetry at work is offered by the promotion of Lau’s film, All About Love. Lau’s Focus production company produced the film and the star engaged in a rigorous promotional tour to support it, including recording an album, a radio drama, promoting a tie-in comic book and making numerous public appearances throughout Asia. Followers of Lau would have been well aware of the star’s fondness for magic and were delighted when Lau showcased his abilities as an amateur magician in the film by performing a trick with a necklace and ring. In this way, the division between Lau as a public figure and film character started to blur as the star openly engaged in one of his favourite personal hobbies on screen. The on-screen/off-screen divide shrank even further when Lau would replicate the magic trick during his promotional appearances and his fan club began selling replica necklaces to allow fans to practice the trick themselves.

Whilst this may be an isolated case study, it reveals points of connection between a star, product and the consumer/fan, which is typically obscured. It also highlights one of the most fascinating aspects of Lau’s interactions with his fans, as the star uses traditional and social media to provide insight into his ‘private’ life in order to encourage a sense of connection with his followers and then ‘performs’ these moments publicly. A similar example of Lau engaging in such a process is his sharing of a passion for tenpin bowling (Seno, 1996). Lau often references his love for the game in media interviews,

158 in his website broadcasts, and even in the occasional film so it is hardly surprising that

Lau’s bowling parties (where the star simultaneously indulges in his hobby at the same time as spending time with a group of fortunate fans) are often the highlight of the

AWC fan club event schedule. Amongst Hong Kong celebrities, a willingness to get so close to fans, so often, is rare. Indeed, the level of assumed familiarity and comfort that

Lau displays with his followers would be remarkable for any star with that level of fame. However, in the context of this work what I find especially fascinating is the notion that Lau is in some way mediating the fan-star connection and appears to give just enough of himself to satiate fans and sustain their loyalty whilst using this direct link for his own convenience (in this case, having some downtime whilst ostensibly still working). These examples demonstrate some of the invisible links between a star, their products, the industry, fans, and the broader community. Through the AWC website,

Lau’s blog, media appearances and interviews Lau and his team are able to sustain the perception of Lau as a knowable quantity – a star with certain passions and hobbies that can be shared with followers. This operates across a broad spectrum from dedicated fans (those who visit his webpage, attend fan club events and purchase merchandise) through to regular consumers who are less concerned with Lau as an entertainer but acknowledge the star’s position as an elite role model and cultural connoisseur (people who purchase the luxury items that Lau promotes, such as cars and massage chairs).

The following comments by fans on the Asian Fanatics Andy Lau forum gives a good indication of the way Lau’s fans typically represent the star through discussions about his work ethos, star image, and philanthropic activities:

I'm sure anyone would want to know why a 15-year-old girl would like him THAT much... sure, I have to admit his voice isn't that great anymore and he's

159 starting to rap like hella... But that's not the whole point. It's the image. He's given everyone the image that he's hardworking, would do everything up to perfection to satisfy his fans and most of all, he doesn't have attitude problems and wouldn't act super arrogant because he has won 5 or 6 awards in one awards ceremony. You might say that it might not be his true image, but what I see now is quite enough. Besides, if this really ISN'T his true image, then wouldn't you say he's got great acting skills? He's a like a role model for me, and I'm sure, for many people too (Tarepanda, 2005) I am sure everyone knows how good andy is at both acting and singing. Apart from that he is also a good donors. He has his own andy lau fund where he uses the money to help the unfortunate. This shows he really care for others and not a selfish. […] Andy is so caring and kind. He likes to help out in many activities to raise the fund for those who are unlucky. He always perform for free and donate with his own pocket money. His attitude is the thing that we should learn! (Ikwan, 2005)

Whilst the first of these comments at first sounds dismissive of Lau, they highlight an often-repeated assertion that fans are more concerned with Lau’s public image than his specific talent and that their respect for the star is based upon his position as a role model. The second statement likewise quickly moves on from Lau’s acting and singing to again reinforce the significance of his star persona – specifically, his generosity and community-mindedness and, again, his ability to act as a role model.

Essentially, fan postings such as these demonstrate that fans are acutely aware of

Lau’s promotion of a positive public image (indeed, Lau often admits as much himself).

Crucially, this image is co-constructed by Lau (in interviews, blog entries, career choices, community activities), his fans (in online postings, public behaviours) and the media (through the reporting of all of the above interactions). Whilst to some degree this may be true of all celebrities, I would argue that this mutually beneficial arrangement is unusually prominent for being at the very heart of the narrative of

Lau’s career and goes some way towards explaining why Lau’s fulfilment of certain culturally determined criteria is ultimately more important to his followers than sheer

160 talent for his chosen professions. This is not to say that Lau is necessarily a weak singer or actor, just that it would be difficult to find another celebrity with this level of long-standing popularity who is routinely discussed in such a way that their fans value the star’s position as cultural role model more than they do specific works.

One specific example that effectively demonstrates the competing elements underlining fan appreciation of Lau’s celebrity is a 2010 study of 1095 secondary students in Hong

Kong and Shenzhen (in south mainland China), which examined the basis of idol worship using the star as the target role model. The authors, Xiao Dong Yue, Chau-kiu

Cheung and Dennis Sing Wing Wong, explain that they chose Lau for three reasons:

(i) he has been highly visible in Chinese societies; (ii) he has won numerous awards, including that of the ‘One of the Top 10 Outstanding Youth in Hong Kong’ and that of the ‘One of the Top 100 Outstanding Chinese since 1949’; and (iii) he has been a modest, self-inspiring and hard-working person and has thus maintained a very positive image in China. (Yue, Cheung, & Wong, 2010, p. 3). In the study, published in the Asian Journal of Social Psychology, the authors attempt to identify whether study participants frame their idol worship of Lau upon a glamour- orientated or achievement-orientated response, 74 and, for the purpose of the experiment Yue, et al. categorized idol worship into the following five dimensions:

(i) glorification: glorifying, beautifying a star (three items, i.e. I think that Andy Lau is the best person in the world; I feel that Andy Lau is irreplaceable; I feel that Andy Lau is the most capable person in the world); (ii) idealization: mystifying and enhancing a star (three items, i.e. I believe that Andy Lau is truly tall and handsome; I believe that Andy Lau is full of charisma; I believe that Andy Lau is very capable); (iii) identification: inspiring oneself after the idol (three items (i.e. I wish to become a person like Andy Lau; I take Andy

74 Achieved by showing participants two separate 20-minute PowerPoint presentations using magazine and newspaper articles as well as webpages about Lau. The first presentation highlighted Lau’s “remarkable fame, wealth and glamour” and the other focused on Lau’s “positive life beliefs, pro-social behaviours, and occupational ups and downs” (Yue, Cheung, & Wong, 2010, p. 3).

161 Lau as a role model for personal accomplishments; I feel inspired whenever I think of Andy Lau); (iv) emulation: role modeling or social learning of a star (three items (i.e. I wish to be as accomplished as Andy Lau; I wish to be as reputable as Andy Lau; I admire very much the fame Andy Lau accomplishes); and (v) attachment (two items, i.e. I wish to be a friend of Andy Lau; I fantasize to chat with Andy Lau freely). (Yue, Cheung, & Wong, 2010, p. 3-4). Importantly, the authors take care to distinguish between the different types of idol worship exhibited by Hong Kong youth as compared to their mainland Chinese counterparts, specifying that Hong Kong youth focus on more romantic aspects of their idols (attributed to entertainment industry promotion of these characteristics), whereas mainland Chinese youth focused on more ideological characteristics (attributed to the government promotion of moral education) (Yue, Cheung & Wong, 2010, p. 2). Given the previously established evidence that Lau was a heavily-promoted product of the

Hong Kong entertainment system and the fact that, since the rise of Pan-Asian cinema,

Lau has also become the effective promoter of ideological goals in mainland China as well, Lau would seem to be uniquely well positioned as a target role model for this particular experiment. However, whilst both groups were ultimately more interested in the achievement-oriented framework of Lau’s success than the glamour-oriented model,

I would argue that this result was sharply skewed by Lau’s established persona as a hard-working individual who emphasizes the ideological responsibilities of celebrity above the more glamorous aspects of the position. Had the authors selected a celebrity who was more closely aligned with a glamorous celebrity lifestyle, instead of someone like Lau, whose stardom is so strongly linked to achievement through hard work, I suspect the findings of this experiment could have been very different.

In addition to this well-established respect for Lau’s work ethic, another key theme of fan adoration relates to the star’s treatment of his followers. One brief example that

162 gives an indication of the typically positive fan response to a publicity exercise occurred when Lau fulfilled a five-year old promise to act as a self-proclaimed postman and send out over 10,000 time capsule letters written by Taiwanese fans. In

2002, Lau had released the album, A Beautiful Day, which comprised ten songs inspired by real life events. One track on the album, “Time Capsule”, was a song based on the story of a Japanese couple who had received a time capsule letter from their eight-year old daughter after she had been murdered by kidnappers. As part of the promotional activities for the album, Lau urged fans to send him their own letters, which were to be written on a blank notepaper that was packaged with the CD. Five years later, local media reports announced that Lau was preparing to fulfil the promise by organising for the letters to be sent out and online responses to the story were predicably effusive about Lau’s demonstrated thoughtfulness towards his fans:

A time capsule as a gift to fans ... brilliant idea. Small cost, big success (MonCheri, 2007)

andy is an extremely thoughtful and amazing person who reaches out to his fans and that is what makes him such a big success (Madhatter, 2007)

I really do like Andy. He is just such a warm and caring person. Just really cares about his fans with his heart (ShandyGirl, 2007)

That is an amazing way to give back to your fan. It is great to have an idol like Andy Lau. Support you forever! (dt8383, 2007)

i think andy lau is a great man for doing this. it really makes me look up to him as a role model and as a person (Annie_Jeh, 2007)

Again, fan comments reveal an unusually self-conscious awareness of the nature of

Lau’s celebrity. The first two responses emphasise that Lau performs small gestures as a way of holding on to fans whilst the next two stress what they see as a genuine expression of consideration by the star, and the last takes this admiration a step further stressing how such behaviour makes Lau a good individual to try and emulate. Aside

163 from formalised fan events and online communications, the closest most fans get to

Lau is through his concerts, where they get to experience another side to the star – his on-stage persona. In the article, “Andlantis,” Victoria Chin reports on her experiences at an Andy Lau concert in Atlantic City in December 2005. Although Chin confesses that she is not a die-hard fan of what she calls ‘the Asian Elvis,’ she is impressed by

Lau’s showmanship and acknowledges the entertainer’s long-term cultural impact:

The magnitude of his fame is a difficult idea to grasp, as there is no equivalent in America, and may never be. For decades, Lau’s entertainment value has never ceased to amaze his onlookers. An audience member made a joke as we exited that the young generations of Chinese will know Andy Lau’s name better than they know Chairman Mao’s. At first I laughed, until I realized that this fan’s words may one day be a reality. (Chin, 2006) Time and again throughout the review Chin feels compelled to comment on the specificities of Lau’s interaction with fans as if it were the key defining feature of the entire concert experience:

Lau spoke in both Mandarin and Cantonese, and was very attentive to his fans. Between each song, he posed for pictures, accepted numerous gifts from the audience, and brought laughter to the auditorium with his good-natured quips. Perhaps it was just an act, but it’s easy to see why Lau is one of the biggest celebrities Asia has ever known [… He] knows how to talk to an audience of thousands and make each fan feel like he or she is involved in an individual conversation. When he wasn’t smiling for cameras, he was responding wittily to comments shouted by fans [… He] crooned and charmed his way through Atlantic City, where he performed with such gusto that even the non-believers among us simply had to believe (Chin, 2006).

The other defining measure of Lau’s star power, according to Chin is his simple devotion:

Lau proved his resilience during the second show, which took place only several hours after the first, when he performed in spite of persisting flu symptoms (Chin, 2006).

For the most part, Lau’s fans – conspicuous in their striking orange fan club uniforms

– are renowned for their strong loyalty and respectful treatment of the star but a

Shanghai news report describes Lau’s reaction to an encounter with a particularly

164 zealous fan at a 1996 film premiere:

Andy arrived in person to meet the fans. The organizer might have underestimated the charisma of Andy, the scene almost gone out of control. […] When the Heavenly King was backing off, a lovelorn female fan stepping on the heads of human wall overrode the security, like a tiger pouncing on its prey, she dropped onto Andy. She hugged his legs with all her might, yelled, “I want your signature!” The security came forward. Andy signalled them to stop. He took up the pen and autographed gentlemanly for the girl. Complete with an embrace for her. That was the one and only autograph Andy signed in Shanghai at that time, this signature won him thunderous applause from all in the scene (Lee, 2002).

Although such forms of extreme behaviour are not widespread, what is interesting about this report is that it is not the fan’s extreme behaviour that draws so much attention as it is Lau’s reaction to the girl.

Another popularly cited example which again focuses upon Lau’s treatment of his fans as a direct extension of his celebrity persona is when Lau stopped mid-performance during his 2007 Wonderful World concert in Chengdu 75 to rescue a fan from particularly heavy-handed security (“Andy Lau turns into Superman??!”, 2007). In this instance, a man had managed to get past the security line and climbed the stairs to the stage in order to shake Lau’s hand and offer the star a bouquet of flowers. However, when the fan climbed back down the stairs Lau noticed the security team roughly grabbing him. Video footage of the incident, which was exceedingly popular on social websites, shows the fan being dragged away as Lau yells at the security members to stop before directing other members of his entourage to intervene. When they fail to do so promptly, Lau leaps off the seven-foot stage into the pit below and pushes the security team away from the man, punching a few individuals who refuse to let the man go, before placing himself between security and the fan and then escorting the man to safety. When he returned to the stage, Lau immediately addressed the incident and

75 The final date of Lau’s mainland concert series.

165 reminded his fans about safety precautions before using the episode as an opportunity to promote his fan club, saying:

If you want to get close to me, it is not difficult, join Andy World Club, we can always meet in my fan club gathering!

Although online commentators expressed widespread admiration for Lau’s action (even amongst those who insisted they were not fans of the star), Lau himself was quick to downplay the incident, posting a lengthy response on his personal blog (accessible through the AWC fansite) immediately after the concert had finished in which he admonished the fan for forcing him into bad behaviour:

Tonight I am saddened, having just finished a perfect 16th concert, I should be happy celebrating but instead, because of an ignorant angel, my heart is destroyed!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He was punching the railing without control, and did not think of the consequences. The security had panicked and in order to protect me, they did some ugly actions to him. As for me, I wanted to protect him and so I did some ugly action towards the security. Why must he cause this world to be so ugly?

I am more saddened when after I had protected him, and he went back to his seat, he was cheered on by his friends for his action.

I hope it’s just me being over sensitive. He had done wrong and I had done wrong for his sake, why the cheers?!!! I now hope more that they will do some soul-searching and think about what I really want, and someday to apologize to the security. The world will then be more beautiful, my dreams will then be perfect!!!

I’m thankful I have this ‘CHEER station’ where I can come to pour out my woes, otherwise I will go crazy.

I just hope that people who like me will not make me look bad again, don’t worry for me!! When I awake, I will be strong, tomorrow will be another beautiful day!

One more phrase from my heart, I am proud of my family (“Andy Lau jumps from stage”, 2008).

Using rhetoric reminiscent of a leader providing guidance for how their subjects should live their lives, Lau uses the incident as a launching point for a rather patronising appeal in which he uses emotion and ideology to reinforce the importance of authoritative

166 control and to shape the behaviour of fans, who the star believes are reflecting negatively upon him. Although it is reasonable to question whether Lau himself actually writes each of the entries posted on his personal blog, the timing, tone, and personal nature 76 of many of these posts suggests that Lau is the likely author. Given this assumption, what most intrigues me about this posting is the way Lau employs this direct line of communication between star and fan. Whilst Lau’s response contains some rather predictable cautions against the repetition of such hazardous behaviour and other general observations drawn from his over-wrought grief about the increasingly dire state of modern society, statements appealing for fans to not embarrass him or hurt his feelings are quite specific in terms of establishing traditional boundaries of the fan- star relationship. In this way, Lau appears to see his fans as an extension of himself and, whilst acknowledging his inability to control them, Lau still uses fan devotion as a tool, demanding fan obedience in exchange for his attention. However, whilst episodes such as this appear as a burden to Lau (even whilst they raise fans’ estimation of him) he does also acknowledge in his post that fan support – especially when concentrated as it is on his website – is also a driving force that allows him to keep doing what he loves.77

The Lau ‘brand’, then, is essentially a trans-media story with a narrative shaped by the spreading of information about the star through multiple delivery channels, some of which is the systematic marketing of Lau’s image (in films, recordings, videos, online website, official fan club, promotional events, constructed fan experiences, merchandising, ambassadorships) and others that are outside of the star’s control

76 Such as responses to the news of his clandestine marriage and the passing of close friends such as Leslie Cheung and Anita Mui. 77 In fact, Lau often refers to the fan club website as a ‘gas station’, where he can occasionally duck in for a quick morale boost from his private cheering squad.

167 (including media reports, fan responses and public memorials, such as awards, the star on the Walk of Fame and wax figures at Madame Tussauds).

WHAT A HERO!: SHAPING LAU’S PUBLIC PERSONA

Despite sometimes downplaying his position, it is clear that Lau’s influence is pervasive but what I find of particular interest here is the way we may link the formal and informal processes to arrive at some understanding of how Lau’s celebrity is managed in both the public and private spheres. This can be made possible by considering Lau’s position with the Hong Kong and mainland Chinese entertainment industries, through such things as interviews by and about the star. These sources help demonstrate Lau’s commitment to improving his own skills as an artist as well as a more general devotion to the industry through his attempted revival of the industry in various film initiatives as well as his participation in organized activities, such as helping establish a film archive and his involvement in protests against piracy and triad involvement in the Hong Kong entertainment sector. Lau’s position is also cemented by the reversal of roles over time from supporting actor who was being mentored by leading industry stars, such as Chow Yun-fat and, to a lesser extent,

Jackie Chan, to someone who is frequently cited as a mentor to a new generation of young entertainers from all over Asia.

As may be expected of a self-professed role model, it is not uncommon for Lau to use online media, interviews and public appearances as a forum to provide lifestyle advice

(Lee, 2001). For example, Lau has been known to give in to fan fascination over his dietary habits, by posting his restrictive ‘concert diet’ and recipes for special herbal tea

168 recipes on his websites and sharing his thoughts about eating ‘bad’ foods, such as durian fruit (which is notorious for causing pimples and bad breath). Interestingly, Lau also often complements his remarks with quotations derived from Eastern philosophies. For example, when queried about the fact that he hadn’t added more shows to his sold-out 2005 Singapore concert tour Lau provided a simple response that the Stadium had already been booked out before stressing that, as with all things in life, it is important to do just the right amount, “no less, no more” (Lee, 2001). When quizzed how it is that he is able to captivate three generations, Lau is pragmatic in his response, saying that it is simply due to having “been around long enough” (Lee,

2001). In contrast to this throwaway statement, however, Lau has often commented on his own position in the industry and in society, admitting that he feels a strong sense of responsibility and that the sheer breadth of his fan base means that he always wants to set a good example. Furthermore, as each of the previous fan comments reveal, this repeated assertion that Lau desires to be a good role model has now become an integral element of the star’s celebrity persona, with fans often seeking to promote this specific aspect of Lau’s personality over any discussion of individual works.

As one of the central objectives of this work is to try to better understand the complex mechanics of Lau’s continued celebrity and what it reveals about the transformation of

Sinophone popular cultures, it is important to consider the ways in which Lau, his fans, and the popular media each play an important role in constructing the multiple layers of Lau’s public persona. Although this process largely depends upon reading

Lau as a cultural text and determining the foundations of his popular appeal by examining a variety of approaches through which we may understand Lau as star,

169 commodity, entrepreneur, and cultural icon, it is also necessary to consider the various sites of star/fan interactions (such as online exchanges through Lau’s AWC fan website) as well as reflecting on the way that the popular media positions Lau in more general terms as a key figure of a local entertainment industry.

Lau’s approach to his own celebrity ultimately reveals a tension between Lau’s desire to take control over his public image as well as the occasional reminder that he is still, to some degree, vulnerable to forces outside of his control, such as unexpected fan behaviours. Lau’s leadership in promoting his own milestones, such as his 100th film and the drawn out celebrations for his 30th anniversary as an entertainer, demonstrates

Lau’s marshalling of intricacies of the celebrity-fan relationship, where he appears to be giving fans a formal output for expressions of their devotion, whilst playing to the notion that his longevity as a star is ultimately dependent upon their continued approval. Although this occasionally produces tension in the star/fan relationship (as discussed in the following section) it is evident that, over the course of his long career,

Lau has been active in seeking greater control over the production and reception of his celebrity. In particular, Lau’s early and eager embracement of online technology has allowed the star to promote a greater sense of individual connection with a large number of geographically diverse followers.

Having a greater understanding of the foundations of Lau’s popular appeal and the multiple levels at which his celebrity operates gives greater insight into the multiplicity of his interactions with fans and media and allows for a better articulation of the unique functioning of Lau’s stardom. Specifically, this analysis helps identify

170 common themes in the way Lau’s celebrity is produced and received, which suggest the longevity of his stardom may be attributed to the fact that he is an individual who is able to effectively balance the tensions of performing authenticity. Upon close examination, Lau reveals himself to be a canny star whose self-conscious recreation of the foundations of his celebrity – in particular his humble origins and a hard-working ethos – allows him some degree of control over public responses to the star personae.

NEWS ATTACK: SCANDALS AND SETBACKS

Just as Lau indulges in the blurring of public and private in the performance of

‘intimate’ moments on stage (e.g. the Unforgettable concert thank you video) and at fan events (e.g. bowling parties) he has, for a number of years, utilized his website to connect with fans and bypass traditional media with matters concerning his private life.

Although the popular media had occasionally hinted at a secret union, the only evidence they could provide were a small number of frequently circulated images, including: a couple of old photos of the two together shortly after they first met in the late 1980s; a

1999 shot of Chu leaving Lau’s Hong Kong apartment and another of her attending one of Lau’s concerts in 2008. In February 2009 tabloids published images of Lau and Carol

(seen together for the first time in approximately twenty years) having lunch with her parents in a Malaysian restaurant. The media went into a flurry suggesting that Lau and

Chu were soon to marry. Placed under increased pressure to confirm the nature of his relationship with Chu, Lau made a statement on Hong Kong Cable Television that same month denying that he was married ("Andy Lau apologizes for lying about marriage,"

2009). Whilst the practice of reporters using rumours to put pressure on a celebrity to

171 confirm or deny allegations may be common practice, and something that Lau typically managed to avoid through firm, repeated statements that he will not discuss his private life, this one statement would provide temporary respite from media hounding but, ultimately, became a major source of embarrassment for the star when it was revealed that he had blatantly lied to fans about his relationship status.

In August of that year, Chu’s father passed away and Asian tabloids again went on the offensive, trying to confirm Lau’s position in the Chu family by attempting to get photos of Lau walking in front of the car carrying the coffin (a traditional obligation fulfilled by the son-in-law of the deceased). Lau, his assistants, and members of Chu’s extended family went to great lengths to prevent the media getting a shot of Lau at the funeral, using a mass of large silver umbrellas to shield the star from prying cameras – a tactic that was relatively successful and resulted in very few images being published which clearly showed Lau. A Chinese tradition of marriages having to be carried out within a hundred days of the passing of a family elder (or else being delayed for three years) further fuelled rumours that a wedding was imminent. A week later, as the couple travelled back to Hong Kong, Lau finally gave the first public confirmation of his relationship with Chu as he accompanied his partner through the Hong Kong airport arrivals hall. Although paparazzi had occasionally been able to get a few distant shots of the two, this was the first time it was clear that Lau appeared to have made a conscious decision to appear publicly with his partner, with reports noting that the couple had originally distanced themselves from one another, with an assistant placed between them before Lau decided to hold Chu’s hand as they moved through the awaiting photographers. The highly circulated shots of Lau walking steadfastly through the

172 airport holding the hand of his clearly distressed partner represented a turning point in

Lau's relationship with the media.

By refusing to separate from Chu, Lau seemed to have had a sudden change in attitude and appeared to be defiantly defending his right to support his grief-stricken partner, even though he would have surely realised that he could no longer deny the relationship. Yet, despite putting pressure on Lau and straining his relationship with the popular media, the press continued to present the star in terms of the established themes of his celebrity, namely that he was family-orientated, kind-hearted and concerned individual. To support these claims, media organisations such as Oriental Daily News78 described Lau’s behaviour in detail and mentioned how the star repeatedly apologised to the reporters who were being knocked out of the way, as well as posting additional images of Lau’s parents arriving at his apartment in preparation for the couple’s arrival and shots of Lau apologising to a woman whose luggage had been knocked over in the media rush.79

After a brief period of intense media scrutiny, which ultimately resulted in the uncovering of a marriage license, which revealed the couple had actually been married in a clandestine ceremony in Las Vegas in June 2008, Lau circumvented traditional media and used his own website to justify his actions and apologise to fans for having lied about his relationship. Even after the initial frenzy died down and the popular

78 Oriental Daily News had been in a long-term standoff with Lau over the publication of information from one of Lau’s lawsuits. Aside from covering major news items, such as the revelation of Lau’s marriage and the suicide of the father of one of his fans, the paper put a four-year block on Lau, refusing fan demands to cover Lau’s promotional activities or attendance at events (“Andy blocked”, 2012). 79 Lau also apologised again to the woman on the website blog entry that documented the incident.

173 media became supportive of the couple's efforts to conceive a child, Lau was still reticent to talk, with most media reports routinely referring to the star's caged responses to questions and flat-out refusals to discuss anything private. After the birth of his daughter, Lau has again expressed a strong desire to control media intrusion into his private life but, with the release of an official commemorative photo for fans, which shows a close image of Lau’s hand entwined with those of his wife and daughter, Lau has demonstrated how he plans to continue using his own direct channel to fans to offer them something that is personal yet unobtrusive and, importantly, on his own terms.

The swiftness with which Lau was able to recover from this scandal illustrates well the star’s increasingly sophisticated understanding of his particular celebrity-fan dynamic.

Specifically, that he could, to some extent, circumvent popular media reports and offer fans a direct response told from his point of view. No doubt, the facilities that Lau already had at his disposal – specifically, the ‘in house’ fan club and website that act as a central hub for all Lau-related news and products – placed Lau in a relatively powerful position vis-à-vis other local entertainers who dealt with their own scandals either in teary media confessions or shamed silence.80 In a manner of speaking, the longevity of the deception reinforces the relative power Lau has had over fan and media access to the

'real' Lau. Given the amount of media scrutiny on celebrities at Lau’s level, his ability to hide a twenty-four year relationship (and then a marriage) would appear to be quite an achievement. Furthermore, the fact that this deception only came undone at a time when

Lau was otherwise preoccupied with the death of his partner’s father again reinforces the view that Lau has had at least some degree of control over how much of his private

80 That being said, online reviews of the Unforgettable concert series note that Lau burst into tears three times during the 20 December 2010 concert when talking about fan support following the image crisis of his marriage scandal.

174 life has been for public consumption. Although there are some precedents in Asian popular culture for celebrities managing to keep relationships private, no star of comparable fame has managed to sustain the deception over such a long period, which hints at both Lau’s strong desire to hide the union as well as the considerable efforts the star and his management must have gone through in order to keep the relationship secret.

Although Lau's relationship was considered by some in the local media as an open secret (seemingly supported by the tabloid reports of Chu visiting his Kadoorie Hill apartment and attending his concert), for many years, rumours persisted that suggested that the star may be gay and in a long-term relationship with fellow TVB acting- program graduate, Danny Poon Wang-ban (“Andy and Danny Poon”, 2010, “Andy

Lau’s past ‘Brokeback’ relationship revealed”, 2010). Even one of Lau’s closest friends, fellow ‘Five Tiger’, Felix Wong admitted during a 2010 concert guest appearance that he had originally assumed Lau and Poon were a couple as they had lived together for a period of time and were inseparable both on- and off-set (“Felix Wong”, 2010). Lau denied these rumours vehemently in the late 1980s, insisting “if I'm gay, I'll die of

AIDS in seven years" – a statement that would be seen as an abhorrent and insensitive thing to say but was taken locally as a definitive final statement on the matter, akin to promising on the lives of family members. Lau later said in interviews that he had been angry with the question at the time and had regretted his words.81 The star also blamed himself for allowing the rumours to persist, explaining in a 2006 TVB interview that his attitude may be responsible for the misunderstanding: “I've never pronounced loudly

81 In fact, Lau’s first directing effort was Love Under the Sun (2003) – a musical short film (featuring an all-star cast of Hong Kong entertainers) for the World AIDS Campaign to raise awareness and dispel myths about how HIV/AIDS is transmitted.

175 I'm not gay, and I don't think there's the need to do so" (“Hong Kong actor-singer Andy

Lau denies rumors he’s gay”, 2006). Lau went on to say that whilst he wasn’t homosexual, he didn’t think it was a bad thing if the media claimed that he was, as he had gay friends and was appreciative of his “very direct […] very frank” gay fans

(“Hong Kong actor-singer Andy Lau denies rumors he’s gay”, 2006). Whilst this turn around no doubt signifies changing societal attitudes and the general maturing that comes with age, the shift in Lau’s projection of his public self is distinct nonetheless as it demonstrates a more sophisticated approach to media that highlights Lau’s development from young actor defending himself against unwanted publicity to a community-minded role model using the media to sell both himself and the values he promotes. The ‘about-face’ also marks Lau’s movement through the stages outlined earlier in this Chapter – from a focus on self, through to a focus on society and then a focus on ideology – a shift that demonstrates Lau’s simultaneous roles as both a cultural text and a cultural agent (attempting to use his fame to influence culture).

The multitude gestures to traditional values and Lau’s reputation for dedication to family and friends has effectively protected the star from long-term ramifications of negative publicity. Whilst many of Lau’s colleagues (typically the younger stars of the industry) have been at the centre of scandalous affairs and legal controversies82, most of the popular media reports on Lau before the marriage scandal had been focused on his professionalism and his desire to spend his rare free time with family, friends and fans.

Although Lau was initially lambasted by the press and some followers for his dishonesty in stating that he was not in a relationship when he was, in fact, already

82 Most notably, the 2008 Edison Chen sex scandal that followed revelations that Chen had a collection of intimate and explicit photographs of other celebrities stolen from his computer (some of which were leaked to the media).

176 married, his decision to appeal directly to fans in an open letter of apology on his website gave Lau a sympathetic platform from which to shape a justification for his behaviour.83 In a manner that frequently shifted between humble and righteous, Lau claimed that he had lied to protect his partner, in part from triads, who were known to have targeted Lau and those close to him in the past.84 Lau also was able to explain that his decision to finally marry Chu was influenced by their desire to have a child as Hong

Kong has a legal restriction on the use of IVF treatment that stated only married couples could have access to that technology.85 Even before his relationship was uncovered, Lau had been frequently quoted by the press as wanting to become a father so it perhaps not so surprising that fans, and later reporters, moved beyond issues of honesty onto supporting Lau and his wife to have in their efforts to conceive a child. Whilst some commentators in the media and on social sites claimed to be satisfied with the reasons

Lau provided for failing to disclose his relationship, there were many others who were critical of Lau’s failure to acknowledge the issue of fan reactions to the deception.

Specifically, comments suggested that Lau was likely covering up the relationship out of fear of extreme fan responses. The most frequent claim was not that Lau should be fearful of fans disliking him86 but rather that he was afraid of his followers harming themselves because of him. Whilst many harked back to the multiple suicides that followed revelations of Jackie Chan’s 1983 marriage to the Taiwanese actress, Joan Lin

Feng-jiao, other commentators pointed to Lau’s own recent trauma associated with the

83 The revelation of Lau’s marriage also set the tone for a series of less-hyped disclosures of other top celebrity unions, including the announcement (within days of the uncovering of Lau’s marriage certificate) that both Leon Lai and Miriam Yeung Chin-wah had each married their respective partners in secret services (“Two more HK celebrity secret marriages come to light, 2009). 84 Michael Backman states that Lau (along with Jackie Chan and Chow Yun-fat) had admitted to paying protection money to triads and the house of his personal assistant was fire-bombed “in what appeared to be a triad-related incident” (2005, p. 218) 85 A frank admission that also helped dispel another persistent rumours that the couple already had a child (or children) that they were trying to hide from the public. 86 Lau also claimed that fan disapproval was not the reason behind his deception.

177 highly-publicised suicide of the father of one of his fans in 2007. 87 Not only does this incident highlight the need to look beyond individual films and music as texts when examining Lau’s career, it also draws into focus the centrality of context to an understanding of his celebrity (discussed in greater detail in the next Chapter), where such an important decision as hiding a long-term relationship was clearly shaped by local factors such as the threat of triads and the tragic experiences of other entertainment figures. Finally, the temporary nature of Lau’s fall in popularity because of the scandal highlights the overall effectiveness of his long-term promotion of goodwill. A similar incident could easily have ended the career of many other Chinese celebrities – even those with a high profile – yet Lau moved on from this episode with relative ease, and even had many critics retracting their criticisms after the star attempted to provide some form of moral justification for his behaviour.

The themes of Lau’s star personae unpacked in this chapter complete the overview of his transformation from a ‘product’ of Hong Kong’s formulaic entertainment industry to a local superstar who has distinguished himself from his contemporaries through the public performance of an increasingly flexible cultural identity. In the following chapters, I will demonstrate how these factors have shaped Lau’s interactions with

Hollywood and mainland China – specifically, how Lau’s perception of Western disrespect of Chinese artists has led the star to be one of the most prominent supporters of Pan-Chinese ideals as expressed through cultural nationalism.

87 See “Jackie Chan’s marriage sparked suicides” (2003),“Jackie Chan kept his wife and son a secret because …” (2004), Vivian Wang’s 2007 article, “Father kills himself chiding Andy Lau’s indifference to his daughter”, and “Andy Lau sought psychiatrist’s help after death of fan’s dad” (2009).

178 CHAPTER FOUR

Lost in Translation: Cultural Context

in Transnational Remakes

This chapter features a case study of Lau’s 2002 film, Infernal Affairs, and its 2006 remake, The Departed, to demonstrate the underlying importance of cultural context as well as the specific nuances of privileged spectatorship within Hong Kong cinema and how recent political and cultural shifts have started to change the way in which the West relates to Asian (especially mainland Chinese) cinema. In addition, I will consider

Hollywood’s position in the appreciation of global cinemas as well as the role of key

Hollywood identities in promoting local audience interest in Asian cinema. In this way,

I will be exploring the complex relationship between Hong Kong and Hollywood cinema, specifically as it relates to the perceptions of the later’s disrespect of the former’s culture – an examination that will shed light both on why Lau has often been overlooked by Western film producers and commentators and why the star has made the conscious decision to turn his back on the West and focus his attention on Asian productions. Indeed, one of the most noteworthy outcomes of this research has been the observation of the start of a paradigm-changing shift away from Western-centric cultural flows and a disruption of the long-held notion that a celebrity can’t function as a global star without recognition from Hollywood.

179 FORBIDDEN IMPERIAL TALES: CROSS-CULTURAL DISRESPECT

That Lau, a megastar of the Pan-Asian arena, has, thus far, been unable to make a convincing transition into Western popular consciousness is a issue that the star admits has occasionally caused some degree of frustration. However, in recent years, the tone of such discourse has shifted focus as an increasing number of Hong Kong filmmakers now publicly attribute such oversights to a systemic denial of Western interest in Asian artists. A telling example of the perceived disrespect is the failure of Western commentators to properly acknowledge the most basic specificity of the national origins of the Hong Kong blockbuster, Infernal Affairs after the success of its Hollywood remake, The Departed. In particular, fans and filmmakers were justifiably astonished and angry that the PA announcement during William Monahan’s acceptance for Best

Screenplay at the 79th Academy Awards specified that Monahan had based his story upon the “Japanese film, Infernal Affairs.” When told of the astonishing and almost unbelievably ignorant blunder, Alan Mak, the co-director of the original film, stated that he thought it must have been a joke. However, after being informed that Variety magazine had made a comparable mistake by labelling Infernal Affairs a Korean film,

Mak declared that it seemed like Americans couldn’t tell East Asian countries apart from one another (liamis2046, 2008). Whilst this anecdote spotlights a couple of specific errors, the public nature of the blunder and the fact that it was repeated with two different Asian nations substituting Hong Kong, help us clarify why filmmakers such as Lau would have the impression that Westerners do not appreciate let alone fully differentiate between various Asian film cultures, including when it comes to people in the film industry who even get the name of the country from which they adapted a film wrong. The mislabelling of Infernal Affairs as, alternatively, a South Korean film and a

180 Japanese film would seem to its Hong Kong creators, if not racist, then, at the very least, negligent and disrespectful as well as revealing of the embarrassing (to say the least) ignorance and lack of worldliness of Western film industry people (at least in the

US) in a way that would be unthinkable the other way around.

Such complex cultural negotiations at play in discourses surrounding respect for transnational stars88 and knowledge about their national origins and cultural coordinates are well demonstrated in the following examples from the French film, Irma Vep

(Assayas, 1996), which features Hong Kong actress, Maggie Cheung, playing a fictional version of herself. As a showpiece for Cheung, the film teases its audience with the notion of the shifting boundary between the actress’ real and fictionalized personas, yet one scene in particular deliberately plays down her position as a transnational celebrity.

In that scene a journalist is interviewing Cheung and discovers that she has never appeared in a film directed by John Woo – an omission Cheung puts down to Woo’s preference for a masculine aesthetic. The journalist, who is clearly a big fan of Woo’s films, continues on regardless, excitedly telling her about his appreciation for Woo’s characteristic highly-stylized, choreographed violence. This is not the only time in Irma

Vep when Maggie Cheung’s position in the Hong Kong film industry is characterized by her absence as, at one point, she has to explain to her on-screen director, Rene, that doubles were used in many of the scenes where he is praising her for her roles in classic

Hong Kong action films. Although these scenes come across on screen as lightly amusing faux pas, there is something revealing about the way Cheung’s character

88 See Tony Williams “Transnational stardom: The case of Maggie Cheung Man-yuk” (2003) and Eva Tsai’ “Kaneshiro Takeshi: Transnational stardom and the media and culture industries in Asia's global/post-colonial age” (2005).

181 appears simultaneously dismayed by, and resigned to, Western ignorance about aspects of her home culture.

Specifically, the Irma Vep interview scene can be seen as painting a picture of the ways in which global film cultures connect or, rather, fail to connect. By shifting the focus of an interview with Maggie Cheung onto a culturally decontextualized appreciation of

John Woo, Assayas suggests that it is filmmakers like Woo who international audiences are more likely to associate with Hong Kong cinema. Once the interviewer finishes his excited prattle, he asks Cheung about her impression of French films forcing the actress to acknowledge that Hong Kong audiences are unlikely to be very familiar with French films because of their general lack of availability in that region of the world. Even though she is clearly uncomfortable with the trajectory of the interview, Cheung is polite in her responses to questions about John Woo and French cinema. Although the film has its own scope of overriding concerns (including how France may appear through the eyes of a foreigner) the tone of this exchange makes clear that the interviewer character is exceedingly proud of French cinema and is eager to hear that overseas audiences appreciate French films. Despite this, he seems oblivious to the irony that his effusive chatter about John Woo may be embarrassing or even offensive in the context of conducting an interview with another star of that industry.

What the Irma Vep exchanges highlight, amongst other things, is a basic lack of understanding about cultural context. In this case, both the interviewer and director characters are clear fans of Hong Kong cinema but it is a limited and obviously foreign perspective that they epitomize as they limit their references to a handful of specific

182 Hong Kong identities and productions.89 The result is that both characters champion

Cheung whilst ignoring any of her work, such as her dramatic roles, which would not readily fit into their vision of the popular Hong Kong cult cinema mould. Although these Irma Vep scenarios are fictional, or at least semi-fictional, such matters of transnational industry respect and a wider appreciation from overseas audiences still regularly feature in the discourse of non-Western filmmakers.

For instance, at the 1996 Toronto International Film Festival screening of Irma Vep

Shelly Kraicer enquired about the offers for roles that Maggie Cheung had received from non-Asian directors. According to Cheung, aside from Irma Vep, they were all based around stereotyped images of Asian women, which, she made clear, “she didn't want to have anything to do with” (Kraicer, 1996).90 It is a familiar sentiment expressed by major Asian stars and is an issue that Andy Lau says he struggles with.91 In a 2004 interview with Min Lee, Lau talks about receiving offers for parts in Hollywood films but was particularly insistent that he wouldn’t “settle for two-bit roles or stereotypical characters who only excel in kung fu” (M. Lee, 2004). Lau also expressed his frustration that, two years after its initial release, Infernal Affairs had still not been distributed in the United States. Given the overwhelming popular and critical success of

89 Another telling example which highlights this disjuncture between the way Hong Kong films are understood by locals and the way they are routinely perceived by Western audiences are the opening remarks made by New York columnist Cullen Gallagher in his review of John Woo’s Once a Thief: “There are certain things you expect in a John Woo movie: fancy gunplay; top-notch action choreography; a never-ending supply of bullets; flashy clothes; slow-motion over-the-top violence; doves. There are certain things you don’t expect in a John Woo movie: Chow Yun Fat ballroom dancing in a wheelchair; prank cakes springing from boxes; friends blowing flour into each other’s faces; microwaved soda cans catapulting flaming basketballs; fart jokes” (Gallagher, 2012) 90 As Olivia Khoo (2007) explains her book in The Chinese exotic: Modern diasporic femininity, a key premise of Maggie Cheung’s function in Irma Vep is that – by the end of the film – the actress is able to enact “her own translation of the processes of her own exotification” (p. 102). 91 Assayas was also keen to work with Lau and offered him a lead role in Boarding Gate (Assayas, 2007) before scheduling conflicts forced Lau to withdraw from the project ("French director Olivier Assayas eyes Andy Lau for new movie," 2006).

183 the film locally, Lau was dismayed but not especially surprised at its failure to access an

American audience. Bemoaning the fact that Asian films seem to be unable to get distribution in the United States without the support of a major studio (if, indeed, they get any support at all), Lau ultimately concludes that it comes down to artistic contempt:

"Do you think they respect Chinese movies? … I don't think the product I'm working on is inferior to theirs" (M. Lee, 2004). Lee also reports that Lau was highly critical when asked if he could imagine such attitudes towards Chinese actors changing in the future:

“‘Not in my generation,’ he said. ‘Look at how long it took for blacks’” (M. Lee, 2004).

Whilst Lau’s comments reveal a general scepticism towards American film distribution practices, his comparison with Hollywood’s conduct towards Chinese actors and its treatment of African-Americans also touches on a unique feature of the reception of

Chinese-language films in that country, specifically, the unique, ongoing cinematic relationship that has been established between the two marginalized groups in

Hollywood. African-Americans make up a significant proportion 92 of the audience demographic for films with Chinese stars (Ongiri, 2002). Clearly, there is a historic precedent for this trend of cross-racial identification in the positive reception of Bruce

Lee films by African-American audiences in the 1970s as well as the frequent linking in popular and academic texts between the kung fu genre and the ‘Blaxploitation’ films of the era – a relationship David Desser attributes to the Warner Brothers studios, who were the leading producers and distributors of both genres (Desser, 2000, p. 24).93 In addition, Asian/African-American on-screen collaborations have also provided a useful

92 Disproportionately large in terms of overall cinema attendance. See Gina Marchetti ‘s (2001) article “Jackie Chan and the Black connection” for more information about the link between African-American audiences and Hong Kong cinema. 93 See K. Cha-Jua Sundiata, “Black audiences, blaxploitation and kung fu films, and challenges to white celluloid masculinity” (2008).

184 framework for a number of Chinese-speaking stars to make their transition to

Hollywood in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Notable examples of this trend include:

Jackie Chan’s Rumble in the Bronx (Tong, 1995) and his pairing with Chris Tucker in the Rush Hour (Ratner, 1998) series, as well as Jet Li’s collaborations with Aaliyah in

Romeo Must Die (Bartkowiak, 2000), Delroy Lindo in The One (Wong, 2001) and rapper DMX in Cradle 2 the Grave (Bartkowiak, 2003). Significantly, though, each of the examples outlined above and interviews with the actors involved in those projects

(Lee, Chan and Li), all concur with Lau’s assertion that all American audiences are looking for in Chinese actors is a stereotypical character who excels in martial arts.

Following on from this criticism of Hollywood practices, Lau takes issue with the assumption that Chinese productions are necessarily of poorer quality than American productions. Equating his multi-tasking abilities with an Olympic decathlon athlete, Lau defends his work, stating, "I don't think the quality of my product is worse than those of artists who star in fewer movies" and argues that Chinese stars must often balance multiple careers as actors as singers (M. Lee, 2004). In response to media suggestions that he could be bolder with his role choices, Lau claims that he was only prevented from starring as one of the gay leads in Wong Kar-wai’s Happy Together (1997) because of production scheduling issues. Lau notes that he was also keen to star as the transvestite Chinese opera singer in M. Butterfly (Cronenberg, 1993) – a role that eventually went to the Hong Kong-born American actor, John Lone – before he got into disagreements with the filmmakers over a particular (unspecified) scene. Stating that they refused to negotiate with him and called him a 'nobody', Lau again asserts the point that he feels an overall lack of respect from Western filmmakers (M. Lee, 2004). Lau

185 brings up the incident again in a 2006 interview, but this time the star explicitly links the central issue of disrespect (“to them, I'm nothing”) to a failure of the Western filmmakers to fully appreciate his local following:

I asked the director if he could change that scene. I said I'm a superstar in Asia. This movie factors in the Asian market too. If I do that, it will affect my image. (“Hong Kong actor-singer Andy denies rumours he’s gay, 2006).

In addition to attesting to a conflict in Lau’s outlook – obviously still perturbed by the dismissal of Western filmmakers whilst claiming to be satisfied with his regional fame

– this quote also highlights a fundamental conflict at the heart of this thesis, Lau’s knowledge of what Asian audiences want from him and the failure of Western parties to understand the significance attached to the fulfillment of these cultural expectations by local audiences.

The discourse surrounding the issue of Western appreciation of Asian cultures has shifted significantly since many of Lau’s contemporaries left Hong Kong to relocate to

United States around the time of the Handover. For example, when recounting the practicalities of working in the Hollywood system, stars like Jackie Chan sound alternatively bitter and disappointed that they have failed to sustain the initial success of their first American productions. As Desser (2000) notes, Chan’s “popularity among mainstream US audiences waned quickly [and] in a sad but consistent manner, each film released subsequent to Rumble in the Bronx performed less well” (p. 19).94 In a

2006 interview, posted on his own website, Chan vents his frustrations with the various limitations imposed on Hollywood filmmakers. Specifically, he targets the strict safety

94 Rumble in the Bronx (Tong, 1996) grossed $32.3 million; Supercop, a 1996 US version of Chan’s earlier Hong Kong release Police Story 3: Supercop (Tong, 1992) earned $16.25 million; Jackie Chan’s First Strike (Tong, 1996) earned $14.5 million and a 1997 US release of an earlier Hong Kong film, Operation Condor (Tong, 1991), earned $10.4 million

186 restrictions and insurance related issues, which Chan claims, have curtailed his ability to perform the kinds of stunts that he is renowned for ("Jackie Chan frustrated by

Hollywood's safety rules," 2006). At the heart of such statements is the fundamental assumption that Hollywood and its audiences had embraced foreign filmmakers specifically because of their unique talent. Along with popularising the combination of martial arts and comedy, the key factor of Chan’s celebrity (which clearly differentiated him from other Hong Kong actors) was his performance of his own, increasingly risky, stunts. It is understandable, therefore, that artists like Chan became disillusioned with a system that simultaneously applauds the filmmaker’s unique approach then restricts their ability to operate outside of Hollywood fixed processes and structures.

Operating as a small community, members of the Hong Kong entertainment industry are expected to be aware of the movements and actions of their peers and the local media will often demonstrate this assumed familiarity by using interviews as an opportunity to seek a star’s input of his or her colleague’s private life, including the solicitation of relationship and career advice. It is reasonable to assume, therefore, that Lau would have at least moderate knowledge about the reception his peers are receiving overseas.

So, once again, context remains key and Lau’s seemingly over-defensive comments about the lack of respect Asian filmmakers receive from Hollywood may, to some degree, be supported by the evidence of his industry friends as well as his own personal, albeit limited, experiences. In effect, the diminishing visibility of Hong Kong artists in

Hollywood films, so soon after their much-publicised transfer to the United States at the time of the Handover, was taken by some industry figures and followers of Hong Kong cinema as evidence of these stars being used by the system and discarded once they

187 were no longer of interest. To some extent, also, we can see how the difficulties faced by stars like Chow Yun-fat and Jackie Chan upon their return to Chinese cinema make evident the shifting cultural politics of the last decade and a half as both of Lau’s former mentors have struggled to regain favour with Sinophone audiences after their time in

Hollywood. Chan and Chow appear humbled in interviews and are often labelled

‘traitors’ by online commentators, who suggest the stars were wrong to turn their backs on their Chinese culture in order to pursue fame in the West (discussed further in

Chapter Five). Over the same period, Lau’s repeated appeals for Chinese people to demonstrate their cultural pride (e.g. in his Time Handover essay, music videos, and various media interviews) have resulted in the star being labelled a national hero and a patriot by fans, who praise the fact that he was loyal to his heritage and stayed in the region to fight for greater global recognition of Chinese culture on his own terms.

THE UNWRITTEN LAW: HOLLYWOOD AS CULTURE VULTURE?

The increasing frequency with which Lau references Western disrespect for Chinese artists demands some investigation into the ways that Hollywood interacts with other cultures. Certainly, the American ‘consumption’ of foreign cultures is a standard theme in many texts examining transnational cultural flows, but what I now intend to demonstrate is that much of disrespect Lau perceives may actually represent

Hollywood’s predilection for associating specific genres with different national cinemas. In “Transnational Trajectories in Contemporary East Asian Cinemas,” Song

Hwee Lim argues that Hollywood has traditionally behaved like a vulture by taking what it wants from other cultures and stripping them back to make something more

188 applicable for its own purpose (2011, p. 15). However, whilst it is certainly true that

American cinema has a long history of repackaging successful overseas content for

English-speaking audiences that are generally unlikely to see the original film on which the remake is based, I want to demonstrate how such flows operate on a practical level and consider the wider cultural ramifications of these practices. Specifically, the following overview of transnational exchanges will show that the remaking trend is hardly one-sided. Furthermore, there are defined genre-based patterns of influence, which goes some way to explaining why a star like Lau, who defies the stereotype of

Hong Kong action hero, may find it difficult to find an audience in Hollywood.

As noted above, the first distinction that needs to be made is that this is not an exclusive one-way trend. That is to say, Hollywood is not the only film industry drawing inspiration from across the globe and remaking these works into products suitable for local subtitle-averse audiences, who otherwise may not have the opportunity or desire to engage with the original. Whilst Hollywood’s propensity to remake successful foreign films draws much critical attention – largely because of the overwhelming visibility of that industry – the same may easily be said of a number of other film industries.95

Recent East Asian remakes of US films include: Handphone (Kim, 2009), the South

Korean remake of Phone Booth (Schumacher, 2003); Saidoweizu (Gluck, 2009), the

Japanese remake of Sideways (Payne, 2004); Paranormal Activity: Tokyo Night

(Nakamura, 2010), semi-sequel, semi-remake of Paranormal Activity (Peli, 2007);

Ghost (Ohtani, 2010), the Japanese/South Korean co-production remake of Ghost

95 A brief survey of such international remakes of American films includes: Russian director Nikita Mikhalkov’s film, 12 (2007), a modern remake of the Hollywood classic, 12 Angry Men (Lumet, 1957); Nigerian director Farouk Ashu Brown’s remake of Titantic (Cameron, 1997) into My Beloved (2003); Stork Day (Manfredonia, 2004), an Italian remake of Groundhog Day (Ramis, 1993); and The Beat My Heart Skipped (Audiard, 2005), a French remake of James Toback’s Fingers (1978).

189 (Zucker, 1990); Connected (Chan, 2008), a China/Hong Kong co-production remake of

Cellular (Ellis, 2004); High School Musical China (Chen, 2010), a remake of High

School Musical (Ortega, 2006); What Women Want, a remake of the 2000 Nancy

Meyers American film of the same name; and Fifth Generation Chinese-director Zhang

Yimou’s A Gun, a Woman and a Noodle Shop (2010), which operates as a homage to the Coen Brothers’ 1984 neo-noir film, Blood Simple. Although this is only a brief survey of some of the American films that have been remade for local Asian audiences it clearly demonstrates the point that remaking films for local audiences is obviously a global practice. That being said, the breath of genres covered in the list above (covering romance, comedy, drama thriller, horror, and musical) suggests that Hollywood’s remakes are relatively unique in linking certain national cinemas to specific genres.

Whilst there is apparently little restriction of genre use in the international remakes of

American blockbusters, the same cannot be said of Hollywood’s own appropriation of foreign films. An early indication of the forming of the Hollywood trend for linking national cinemas with a specific genre is when Western filmgoers first witnessed the genre-crossing reimagining of Japanese director Kurosawa Akira’s samurai films,

Rashomon (1950), Seven Samurai (1954) and Yojimbo (1961), which were remade in the 1960s, respectively, as The Outrage (Ritt, US, 1964), The Magnificent Seven

(Sturges, US, 1060) and A Fistful of Dollars (Leone, Italy/Spain/West Germany, 1964).

After the overwhelming initial success of these remakes it would be decades before filmmakers returned to source Asian films as inspiration for new English-language productions. But, even then, with the exception of the romantic comedy-drama, Shall

We Dance (a 2004 remake of the 1996 Suo Masayuki Japanese film of the same name),

190 there was a strong tendency to remake films sourced almost exclusively from the horror genre. Note, for example, the onslaught of Japanese horror-remakes starting in 2002 with American remakes of Nakata Hideo’s Ringu (1998), remade in English as The

Ring (Verbinski, 2002) and, subsequently, The Ring Two (Nakata, 2005), a remake of

Ringu 2 (Nakata, 1999). Another of Nakata’s films, Dark Water (2002), was remade as a 2005 Walter Salles film of the same name. As the phenomenon continued there were also US remakes of the 2001 Kurosawa Kiyoshi film, Circuit (Japanese: Kairo), remade as Pulse (Sonzero, 2006), as well as the very successful remakes of Shimizu Takashi’s

The Grudge horror franchise. Shimizu, who had been Kurosawa Kiyoshi’s student at the

Tokyo Film School, not only created the original Ju-on: The Grudge Japanese horror series, he also directed the film’s original US remake, The Grudge (2004), as well as the film’s first American sequel, The Grudge 2 (2006).96 Although the Japanese horror- remake trend eventually died off, as did the samurai trend in the 1960s, the successful translation of these trending genres into English-language remakes, strengthened

Hollywood’s desire to seek inspiration from other cinemas and reinforced the potential of adapting visually-strong, low budget genres for English-language audiences.

In Gary Xu’s article, “Remaking East Asia, Outsourcing Hollywood,” producer Roy

Lee describes the financial and aesthetic impetus behind the horror-based ‘Asian New

Wave’ of the 2000s stating that it is relatively cheap to film in most Asian countries and horror, in particular, is a genre where Asian filmmakers have excelled in the redevelopment of Hollywood formulas and techniques (Xu, 2008). Furthermore, Lee argues that there is little need for the kinds of fundamental changes that would be

96 Shimizu stayed on as co-producer of The Grudge 3 (2009) but was replaced as director by Toby Wilkins.

191 required of other genres, which may be more firmly based in character and plot, rather than aesthetic appeal. In reference to the American remake of The Grudge, Lee notes that “the director simply switches the main role from a Japanese to an American in a clear awareness that [Sarah-Michelle] Geller’s white face and screen persona are more than enough for the film’s acceptance in North America” (Xu, 2008, p. 195). It is certainly a strong statement to make and although, this time, it comes from an Asian-

American already working within the Hollywood system, it, yet again, reinforces the notion that there are substantial racial prejudices underlying transnational production processes.

Notwithstanding the strong manifestation of Japanese influence in this era, it should be noted that there were actually a number of other Asian cinema remakes during the

‘Asian New Wave’, including: The Uninvited (Guard Brothers, 2009), based on Kim Ji- woon’s A Tale of Two Sisters (South Korea, 2003); My Sassy Girl (Kwak, 2001) remade as Yann Samuell’s 2008 film of the same name; The Eye (2008), based on the Pang

Brothers Pan-Asian series of the same name; Mirrors (Aja, 2008), which was loosely based on the South Korean film, Into the Mirror (Kim, 2003); and Shutter (Ochiai,

2008), based on the 2004 Banjong Pisanthanakum and Parkpoom Wongpoom Thai film of the same name. What is significant about this second set of remakes is that all but one, the romantic-comedy, My Sassy Girl, still remain confined within the horror genre.

Although both Hong Kong action and Asian horror films shared a propensity for strong visual elements – typically with less focus on plot or dialogue but more emphasis on action and atmosphere suggested through highly stylised acting and the use of location, lighting, cinematography, and editing – that could be easily replicated for English-

192 speaking audiences, the rising success of American remakes of Asian horror films actually coincided with the dwindling success of the action films of Hong Kong ex- patriots (see the discussion of the films of Jackie Chan, Jet Li, etc. in the previous section). So, instead of increasing the overall visibility of Asian cinema in Hollywood, the genre-based adaptations of one national cinema simply replaced another. In fact, instead of the Asian New Wave phenomenon helping to sustain the careers of the transplanted Hong Kong action filmmakers, this period marked a movement away from

Asian actions and thrillers, with Hollywood instead increasingly drawing influence from action/thrillers that originated from European, in particular Scandinavian, cinemas.97

Focusing now on the second distinction that needs to be made when mapping the flow of transnational cinema allows us to see that this overview of historic trends of cinematic remakes reveals a pattern of American remakes of foreign productions that are based on genre. Specifically, what this reveals is a tendency for Hollywood to draw influence from Asian cinemas for horror, and, before that, action, as both these genres rely on strong visuals and techniques that are easily replicated as opposed to

Hollywood’s appropriation of story-based dramas, comedies and thrillers from

European sources, which places greater responsibility upon individual actors and requires an efficient translation of dialogue. Consider, for example, specific incidences of American remakes of successful non-Asian films, such as the French sources of numerous Hollywood hits of the 1980s and 1990s. Although there are noticeably fewer

97 For example: Insomnia (Nolan 2002), a remake of Norwegian director Erik Skjoldbjærg’s 1997 film of the same name; Brothers (Sheridan, 2009), remade from the Danish film, Brødre (Biers, 2004); Contraband (2012), which was the US remake of Reykjavík-Rotterdam (Jónasson, 2008), directed by Baltasar Kormákur, the star of the original Icelandic hit; Let Me In (Reeves, 2010), which was based on Tomas Alfredson’s 2008 Swedish film, Let the Right One In (Swedish: Låt den rätte komma in); and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (Fincher, 2011), which was based on the 2009 Niels Arden Oplev Swedish film of the same name.

193 Hollywood remakes of English-language hit films – which would seem to support the argument that it is primarily linguistic considerations (specifically American audience’s notorious refusal to read subtitles) that are the key driving force behind Hollywood’s desire to remake foreign films - it is certainly not unheard of.98 What I have been problematizing here are some of the causes behind Andy Lau’s failure to find an entry into Hollywood, specifically, the inherent obstacles of the Hollywood system (such as audience resistance to subtitles) and the reliance upon genre-based remakes of other national cinemas, which mean that Lau, who doesn’t readily fit the action genre, will have difficulty becoming a star in Hollywood either through the distribution of films he makes in Asia that have been well-received in that region (such as Infernal Affairs, as will be discussed later in this Chapter), or, by starring in Hollywood productions.

CHINA WHITE: HOLLYWOOD’S ‘GATEKEEPERS’ OF ASIAN CINEMA

Having already covered the obstacles presented by Hollywood producers and subtitle- resistant Western audiences, I will now move on to the final obstacle for Asian filmmakers trying to find an audience in the West, namely, Hollywood’s ‘gatekeepers’

– individuals, such as Quentin Tarantino and Nicolas Cage, who are fans of Asian cinemas and attempt to promote it to American audiences but whose efforts are often, inadvertently, ruined through time delays, poor dubbing and the loss of original cultural context. In demonstrating that there are clear (albeit select and patchy) efforts being

98 The political thriller State of Play (Macdonald, 2009), for example, was based on a 2003 British television serial of the same name. Similarly, the Mel Gibson film, Edge of Darkness (Campbell, 2010) was based on a 2009 British series of the same name. A more recent example, Neil LaBute’s 2010 US remake of the British hit, Death at a Funeral (Oz, 2007), draws back into focus the issue of race, as the film shares a common language with its predecessor but, significantly, differs in the ethnic makeup of the cast, with the American remake featuring an ensemble comprised, almost exclusively, of African- American actors – a creative approach which invites comparisons with The Wiz (Lumet, 1978), the African-American retelling of The Wizard of Oz (Fleming, 1939).

194 made in the West to promote Asian cinema, this investigation will challenge Lau’s assumptions of widespread racial discrimination in Western filmmaking communities.

At the same time, it will highlight how the continued reliance on a genre-based framework for showcasing Hong Kong cinema necessarily obscures the cultural context and broader impact of that industry. Another small though significant, point that I wish to add about these Hollywood ‘gatekeepers’ is that, whist they are actively seeking to promote Asian cinema in the West, they have, so far, continued to be bound by the established genre-based considerations of the Hollywood system – focusing almost exclusively on action cinema and, most recently, in the case of Tarantino’s Django

Unchained (2012), the samurai-inspired spaghetti westerns that were discussed at the start of this Chapter. The effect of this continuing trend is that Hollywood’s

‘gatekeepers’ are essentially performing the same function as the authors of English- language texts on Hong Kong’s popular cinema by promoting a specific set of films and filmmakers who are distinguished by the genre they commonly work in rather than the broader culture that they supposedly represent. Although the intention to encourage greater appreciation of Asian cinema in the West is a clear motivation that links these individual scholars and ‘gatekeepers’, the impact of their widespread promotion of specific ‘keystone’ personalities through targeted scholastic works and film distribution reinforces the view that Hong Kong cinema is about little more than the violent action of urban gangster films or martial arts epics.

Before moving on to some of the ways that these initiatives to improve Western appreciation of Asian cinema have been thwarted, I want to make clear that I believe some of these gestures (such as the following example of Tarantino acknowledging the

195 country of origin of films he remakes)99 are a useful starting point for opening up the public dialogue about the cultural implications of remaking films. Tarantino’s use of borrowed plotlines and stylistic elements from Hong Kong cinema could easily be seen in a cynical light if not for the director’s well-publicised efforts to bring greater attention to the works of directors such as John Woo, Ringo Lam, and Wong Kar-wai, from whom Tarantino draws his inspiration. Labelled ‘The Disciple of Hong Kong,’100

Tarantino has gained a reputation for using media opportunities to bring attention to those cult films that inspire him. He has also been directly involved in the promotion such foreign films in America, releasing titles like Wong Kar-wai’s Chungking Express

(1994) on DVD through his Miramax-backed distribution company, Rolling Thunder.

Even after Rolling Thunder was shut down in 1997 due to lack of interest, Tarantino continued to attach his name to foreign productions, including Iron Monkey (Yuen,

Hong Kong, 1993) and Hero (Zhang, China/Hong Kong, 2002).101

Although the two films mentioned above were labelled as having been ‘Presented by

Quentin Tarantino’, rather than being remade by the Western director, the handling of their US cinematic release also hints at potential difficulties. In both instances, the

American cinematic release of each film only occurred after significantly lengthy delays, by which time many American fans would have already seen the films as imported DVDs (“Studio warns kung fu site”, 2003). Hero was released in the United

States in 2004, almost a full two years after its Hong Kong release, and Iron Monkey

99 A seemingly simple gesture but one that stands in stark contrast to the previous example at repeated mislabeling of Infernal Affairs – something that could potentially have been avoided if Martin Scorsese (the director of its remake) had been as forthcoming about the origins of The Departed. 100 This title was conferred by French filmmaking team, Jac and Johan, who directed the documentary, Tarantino, The Disciple of Hong Kong (French: Tarantino, le disciple de Hong-Kong) (2011) 101 Tarantino is currently involved with a similar initiative, Dragon Dynasty, which has been established as an Asian Cinema DVD distribution subsidy of the Weinstein Company.

196 had an even longer delay between its initial 1993 Hong Kong release and its appearance in American cinemas eight years later. Yet such delays, the controversial mistranslations of subtitles102, and various other instances of cultural misappropriation

(such as the inclusion of a distinctly Japanese sword on the promotional posters for

Hero), both films were ultimately well-received by American audiences, with Hero grossing almost US $54 million and Iron Monkey taking US $14.6 million, making them, respectively, the 3rd and 12th highest-grossing foreign language films in North

American box office history (Box Office Mojo).

The examples above clearly demonstrate some of the difficulties inherent in having foreign stakeholders controlling the promotion of non-local films, which may explain why, since the 1990s there has been a growing trend for foreign directors to relocate to

America to remake their home-grown successes for English-speaking audiences – a trend reminiscent of the Hollywood migrations of European directors in the early to mid-twentieth century (S. H. Lim, 2011). 103 Around the time that he relocated to

Hollywood, John Woo remade one of his more successful Hong Kong films for

American audiences with the 1996 remake of the 1991 film, Once Upon a Thief. Later, as part of the Asian New Wave of the 2000s, other Asian directors followed this trend with Filipino director, Yam Laranas, remaking his 2004 horror, Sigsaw as The Echo

(2008) and Thai directors, the Pang Brothers, bringing Hollywood star Nicolas Cage to

Thailand for the 2008 reimagining of their 1999 debut, Bangkok Dangerous (Channel

102 See Anderson (2004). 103 An early example is Dutch director George Sluizer, who went to Hollywood in 1993 to make an English-language version of his original 1988 Franco-Dutch film, The Vanishing (Dutch: Spoorloos). Using a combination of Dutch and American locations, fellow Dutch director, Dick Maas, remade his 1983 film, The Elevator (Dutch: De Lift) for American audiences into the 2001 film, Down. Danish filmmaker, Ole Bornedal also travelled to the United States to remake his 1994 hit, Nattevagten, into the Ewan McGregor horror-thriller, Nightwatch (1997).

197 News Asia, 2007).

Whilst Tarantino is perhaps the most visible Hollywood figure promoting Asian cinemas, Nicolas Cage is another established Hollywood force with a well-publicised appreciation of Asian cinemas who occasionally blends into his own productions and the following brief discussion of his involvement with the remake of Bangkok

Dangerous effectively demonstrates how easily a remake can lose important cultural context (even, in this case, when it was remade by the original directors in the original country of origin). After working with John Woo on the director’s first American production, Face/Off (1997), Cage expressed a desire to team with other Asian filmmakers but the logistics behind the Bangkok Dangerous remake reveal additional underlying cultural challenges of a process that producer Norm Golightly, president of

Cage's production company, Saturn Films, described as combining “a big Hollywood star with (some) authentic Asian filmmaking” (Lionsgate Films, 2008). In the original version of the film, the lead character is a deaf-mute Thai hit-man but, realizing this would not be practical in Western marketing terms, the decision was made that the character's isolation would come “not from a physical limitation but from his inability to speak Thai and his unfamiliarity with the local culture” (Lionsgate Films, 2008). The transference of the deaf-mute characteristic onto the character of Fon, played by Hong

Kong actress, Charlie Yeung (who is similarly exempted from the need to speak Thai), evidences another way that films – regardless of origin and content – continue to signal the limitations of cultural boundaries. This example also demonstrates how seemingly minor accommodations (such as writing Cage and Yeung’s inability to speak Thai in the story of the film) can have a significant impact on the representation of culture

198 within remakes. In the following sections I will examine how such adjustments in the remake of Infernal Affairs reveal a critical point of difference between Hong Kong and

Hollywood filmmaking practices, revealing how Hong Kong cinema is heavily reliant upon the privileging of local audiences.

ON THE WRONG TRACK: BEING REMADE IN AMERICA

Examining the cultural specificities of the Hong Kong filmmaker-audience relationship will also go some way to resolving Lau’s seemingly contradictory understanding of local audience expectations, demonstrating a keen insight into the concerns of local audiences but being relatively ignorant of Western audience expectations. A simple case in point is the report that Lau wished to appear in the Hollywood remake of Infernal

Affairs but was apparently denied even a token role in the film. In an article examining

Hollywood-Asia transnational productions, Gary G. Xu states that Korean-American producer, Roy Lee, the acknowledged driving force behind the Asian New Wave of the

2000s, had said that Lau “wanted a role, however minor, in the remake The Departed but it simply was not possible to insert an Asian face in the scenes of the Boston mafia”

(2008, p. 195). Xu does then point out that Chinese tabloids actually reported a contradictory story at the time – insisting that Lau had resisted attempts to cast him in the US remake (2008, p. 202).104 Although it is not immediately clear which version of the story comes closer to the truth, there is little doubt that The Departed ultimately conformed to type in its portrayal of a defiant monoculture that Hollywood continues to

104 Although Lau has reportedly been keen to appear in a number of Western films, specifically M. Butterfly, The Departed, Boarding Gate, Iron Man 3 (Black, 2013) – each of these plans ultimately fell through and, although the reason typically given is that Lau’s schedule wasn’t able to accommodate the filming, to some extent, these failures seem to be at least partially attributable to Lau’s self-admitted desire to protect his local image.

199 insist on – made all the more apparent through the almost entirely white Irish-American ensemble cast and the frequent use of racist remarks aimed at, among others, African-

Americans, Latinos and Chinese characters.

Most of the popular and critical attention surrounding the remake of the Hong Kong blockbuster Infernal Affairs (2002) as The Departed (Scorsese, 2006) focused upon two key areas of interest. The first related to the star credentials of the people involved.

This is hardly surprising considering the names attached to the project: the original rights to the film were secured by Brad Pitt’s production company, the film was directed by Martin Scorsese and it starred Jack Nicholson, Leonardo Di Caprio, Matt Damon,

Martin Sheen, Alec Baldwin, and Mark Wahlberg. The second, more intriguing, line of discourse surrounded the aesthetic and cultural implications which arose from the way that the remake converged, overlapped, or moved away from its original source, with many commentators questioning the fundamental logic behind the need to remake a contemporary and well-received hit. Whilst the specifics of these arguments will be discussed shortly, this two-stream focus upon stardom and cultural aesthetic reinforces my central point that there is still a significant division between local understanding of

Sinophone popular culture and its reception the US context, which this case study of the remake of Infernal Affairs can help explain. Specifically, this case study will demonstrate how the process of remaking Infernal Affairs involved the removal of gestures from the original film that had unspecified but significant cultural meaning for local audiences (these gestures and their relevance to Hong Kong audiences will be discussed in greater detail in the following sections).

200 Anat Zanger clearly outlines how such concerns are common when one looks to the reasoning behind remakes:

The tendency of cinema to produce a “remake” that retells a previously successful story has to be accounted for in the light of the medium’s unique capacity for reproduction. Given the fact that recorded versions already exist, what is the purpose of re-addressing and re-articulating the same story time and again? The relationship between original and version encapsulates the dialectic of repetition, the dialectic between old and new, before and after, desire and fulfilment. Using the phenomenon of multi-versions as one that illuminates the preferences and politics of the cinematic apparatus through its choices of repetition and differentiation (2006, p. 9).

It is this issue of "choices of repetition and differentiation" that I am most interested in.

As a remake that followed its original source by only four years, The Departed was well positioned to draw comparisons with its predecessor. Much like the star-studded line-up of The Departed, a great deal of the advance interest in Infernal Affairs came about through local audience anticipation of a film reunion between Andy Lau and Tony

Leung - the two most successful members of early 1980s television mini-series super group, The Five Tigers. Although Lau and Leung had worked together on numerous projects over the years and were each well-established stars in their own right, their obvious chemistry continued to be a very real incentive for Hong Kong audiences

(especially when it was revealed that the film’s theme song was to be a duet between the pair). Further investigation into the factors surrounding the remarkable local success of the original film and its relatively dismal American release, indicated that there was more involved than a general failure on behalf of international distributors to adequately promote Infernal Affairs.105 Although Alan Mak, one of the directors of Infernal Affairs, claimed to be pleased with the critical and commercial success of the film’s remake in the US, Lau’s mixed response to The Departed (discussed in greater detail later in this

105 When the film was eventually release in the US it opened on just five screens and grossed less than US$90,000.

201 Chapter) highlights key points of difference between the two versions which reinforce the cultural function of the original film as post-nostalgic cinema, a concept investigated in the following sections, which caters to Sinophone audiences tastes and privileges local spectatorship.

RETURN ENGAGEMENT: INFERNAL AFFAIRS AS POST-NOSTALGIC CINEMA

This section demonstrates how, by referencing elements of classic Hong Kong films,

Infernal Affairs moves local cinema forward by recalling the past – offering a very different kind of memorialisation of Hong Kong film culture than the films of Wong

Kar-wai and essentially acting as a form of post-nostalgic cinema.106 Operating on a parallel storyline that highlights a mythical bond between men on the opposite sides of the law, Infernal Affairs employs a device used in some of the most popular films of

Hong Kong cinema, such as City on Fire, The Killer, and Running Out of Time.

Specifically, by using the easy chemistry between the policeman and criminal to establish a light-hearted tone for the scene in which the two protagonists first meet as adults, Infernal Affairs is most striking in its semblance to one of the standout films of

1980s, John Woo’s classic, The Killer, In the original film, Woo slowly alternates back and forth between images of the assassin, Ah Jong (Chow Yun-fat), and Inspector Li

(Danny Lee) sitting in the same chair listening to the same song. The overall effect of this scene is to give viewers the impression that the two men have become virtually indistinguishable from one another, or more precisely, act as two halves of the same person. Similarly, in Infernal Affairs, the characters of Lau and Chan are shown to be

106 For more on the notion of post-nostalgic cinema, see Vivian P. Y. Lee’s Hong Kong Cinema since 1997:The Post-Nostalgic Imagination (2009).

202 two sides of the same man. At times, the films turns into a poignant no-win tragedy where the characters involved seemed to be helpless and unable to direct their own fates. Yet, even though this early encounter between Lau and Chan demonstrates that they have a genuine connection, which will be frequently reinforced throughout the film, circumstances beyond their control force the men to keep playing cat-and-mouse games with each other.

As stated above, the scene in Infernal Affairs in which Lau and Chan sit together listening to a Cantopop ballad is the most direct reference to the iconic montage of

The Killer and helps firmly establish, once again, how a cop and criminal can be mirror images of each other. The first encounter between the two central characters of

Infernal Affairs occurs when the police officer, Inspector Lau Kin-ming (Andy Lau) goes to buy a stereo from an electronics vendor, Chan Wing-yan (Tony Leung Chiu- wai). The two men quickly bond over music and sit together in silence for some time as they listen to a classic Cantopop ballad. The exchange ends with Lau instructing Chan about stereo wiring and Chan returning the favour by offering a referral for Lau to buy a speaker system in a cheaper store. The scene ends with a comic reveal as the audience discovers that Chan is, in fact, still a triad member and has just made a sale for the owner from whom he is supposed to be collecting protection money. Whilst in Infernal

Affairs the camera settles on Lau and Chan as they silently sit side-by-side, the original scene in The Killer establishes a similar connection through a series of camera sweeps which alternate between the two men sitting in the same chair at

203 different times of the day. As a Sally Yeh song107 plays over the scene, each individual sweep brings us closer to one of the men but the scene is edited in such a way that audiences are left with little doubt about their bond. The scene ends with Inspector Li suddenly sliding back his chair so he can take aim at his lieutenant who is about to burst through the doorway. Immediately, Woo cuts to a shot of the killer performing a similar action earlier in the story. Shocked by the detective pulling a gun on him, the lieutenant falls down on top of the body of the man the killer had shot earlier – a gesture that demonstrates that Inspector Li is ‘in the head’ of the man he is trying to catch whilst demonstrating that he has confirmed how the murder took place. Like Inspector Li in The Killer, Inspector Lau attempts to get inside of the mind of the man he is chasing – in this instance, by attempting to teach himself Morse Code (which he knows the mole uses) whilst listening to music through the stereo that he purchased from Chan.

In effect, then, the reference to The Killer sequence in Infernal Affairs acts as a critical link between this film and one of the most significant films in modern Hong Kong cinema. Hong Kong filmmakers regularly rely upon audience recognition of such inter- textual moments, and as an isolated instance, this remains a particularly effective use of film technique to visually capture an important, recurring theme in contemporary film.

Essentially, it acts as a ‘shorthand’ gesture, a piece of visual slang that says far more than either the plot or dialogue in these scenes could do by themselves. At a plot level, the scene represents the oft-repeated promotion of culturally-based philosophies of

107 Sally Yeh is the Cantopop singer/actress who stars in The Killer as a lounge singer who Chow Yun- fat’s assassin character accidently blinds. The cop and killer bond over their desire to protect the singer and even go so far as to keep up the pretense that they are old school friends whenever she is around.

204 balance, honour codes and the need to strive for virtue (also very familiar in Western, and Hollywood crime films) but, more specifically for the purpose of this thesis, this example demonstrates, once again, the importance of considering context when examining Hong Kong’s popular culture.

From a Western, and particularly Judeo-Christian perspective, this dichotomy between lawmen and criminals is seen in terms an Apocalyptic struggle between good and bad where one of these forces must ultimately triumph over the other. However, the conception of yin-yang in Chinese Daoist philosophy allows for a balance between opposing forces. Although director John Woo is Christian (and frequently references

Christian imagery in his films), The Killer provides explicit on-screen representations of

Chinese Daoist philosophy in the construction of character and plot. Just like The Killer,

Infernal Affairs focuses on the fine equilibrium between natural dualities and exaggerates the interdependent nature of these qualities, showing how they can co-exist either within the one person or in the more extreme form of two individuals who share a common bond even though they are (if only slightly) on opposite sides of the law. In this sense we may also see the Chinese Daoist philosophy at play as even the promotional materials (posters and photo stills) for these two films effectively highlight this conception of balance between opposing forces. In contrast, the promotional materials for The Departed draws focus to the fragmented identities of star/character, with heavy emphasis upon Scorsese’s coup of uniting Hollywood ‘royalty’ (Jack

Nicholson) with two of the major actors in that industry (Leonardo Di Caprio and Matt

Damon).

205 Whilst Infernal Affairs clearly capitalizes on a long tradition of Hong Kong films that deal with the symmetry between police and criminals,108 the potential for a symbiotic relationship between the characters of Billy Costigan and Colin Sullivan is never really explored in The Departed. In fact, in spite of the obvious tension and drama implicit in a cop-as-criminal/criminal-as-cop setup, the only explicit reference to the connection between the two men in the American film is a quip by Jack Nicholson’s mob boss character, Frank Costello, at the start of the film as he announces to his young recruits that:

When I was your age they used to say you could become cops or criminals. What I'm saying to you is this... When you’re facing a loaded gun, what's the difference?

The other key theme of the original film which is lost in the American remake is the

Buddhist conception of the eighth, and worst, kind of hell – Continuous (Avici) Hell, where the individual in question faces an eternity of continuous suffering.109 For the character of Inspector Lau, this is represented through the fear that he will always be at the beck and call of his triad brethren. Lau has spent ten years as a policeman and he is shown to be proud of his success in that profession. As a result, he feels little connection with the triad members he is frequently compelled to protect. When Lau finally kills the triad leader, Hon Sam (Eric Tsang Chi-wai), it is shown as Lau’s attempt to try and break free of his triad duties and take back some control over his own life. There is even a very brief flashback to Sam instructing a young Lau that: “you

108 Although the device of pairing of cop/criminal has been used successfully in Hollywood productions, such as Michael Mann’s Heat (1995), the frequency of its use in Hong Kong cinema has become one of that industry’s defining features. See, for example, the particularly developed discussion of on-screen homo-social relationships in Julian Stringer’s article, 'Your tender smiles give me strength': paradigms of masculinity in John Woo's A Better Tomorrow and The Killer (1997). 109 The central theme of Infernal Affairs is made explicit in the opening moments of the film as the camera skims over Buddhist statues and a prologue appears with the nineteenth verse of the Nirvana Sutra (the verse containing explicit reference to Continuous Hell).

206 choose your own future.” Shortly after this, Lau pledges to reinstate Chan’s identity and surrenders himself to Chan without a struggle, insisting that he wants to turn over a new leaf. In an ironic and tragic twist, he is ‘rescued’ by a fellow police mole, who shoots

Chan in an effort to keep Lau’s triad identity a secret. In a final twist, Lau shoots his rescuer in one last attempt untangle himself from ongoing triad commitments and, it could be argued, in retaliation for the murder of Chan. Lau’s grief during Chan’s funeral appears to be genuine and the final moments of the film are a reworked flashback of an earlier scene in which a remorseful Lau expresses a wish that he were able to swap places with Chan. Lau may be finally free to be a real policeman but in the process, he loses his girlfriend and has to now live with the responsibility of Chan and

Superintendent Wong’s (Anthony Wong Chau-sang) deaths. Lau’s sense of guilt, and the implication that his ‘Continuous Hell’ will be living with the burden of the deaths of two good men, once again reinforces the moral tale at the heart of this story and helps explain why Andy Lau would be later be so dismayed with the portrayal of glorified violence (for violence sake) in The Departed (discussed below).

Lau’s guilt, along with the reciprocated affection between his character and Chan, highlights one of the more notable character differences between Infernal Affairs and its

American remake as, in the original story, both characters come across as essentially good men who are trapped by circumstance. In the Hong Kong version, Lau and Chan are able to acknowledge their connection and, in spite of their relative positions, manage to strike up a strong bond. For example, Superintendent Wong 110 is a wise and experienced man who is respected by both Lau and Chan – a trait that, yet again,

110 This character was split into three different characters in the remake: Oliver Queenan (Martin Sheen), Dignam (Mark Wahlberg), and Ellerby (Alec Baldwin).

207 reinforces the parallels between the two men. Such a symbiotic relationship is cast aside in The Departed as each man gravitates instead towards his own mentor as undercover cop, Billy Costigan (Leonardo Di Caprio) aligns himself with his captain, Oliver

Queenan (played by Martin Sheen) and, to a lesser extent, police mole, Colin Sullivan

(Matt Damon) maintains a connection with mob boss, Frank Costello. The Departed also develops a complex love triangle between Sullivan, his psychiatrist girlfriend,

Madolyn, and Madolyn’s sometime patient, Costigan – a connection that serves to further distance the two men rather than highlight their likeness.

With respect to their charges, The Departed’s Frank Costello clearly has a much stronger hold on police mole, Colin Sullivan than his Hong Kong counterpart, Hon

Sam, does on Inspector Lau. Arguably, though, much of this difference may be attributable to the public personas of the respective actors in those roles. Jack

Nicholson’s Frank Costello is a fearsome mob leader whose own henchmen frequently stand in awe of his cold brutality and the apparent joy he derives from the suffering of others. It is a larger-than-life character that Nicholson endows with equal measures of charm, psychosis and menace – a combination familiar to audiences in Nicholson’s depiction of The Joker in Batman (Burton, 1989), the devilish Daryl van Horne in The

Witches of Eastwick (Miller, 1987), and countless other roles. Nicholson’s counterpart in the Hong Kong version is a veteran character actor, Eric Tsang, who became known locally for his comedic roles. Aside from roughly breaking apart the arm cast of the suspected mole, Tsang’s portrayal of triad boss, Hon Sam is relatively meek. Although both criminals enjoy an antagonistic relationship with their police counterparts this is as far as the similarities go. This last point about how a star’s persona can shape audience

208 responses is even more pronounced in the following example that details an inter- textual reference, which shows how Hong Kong audiences tend to read post-nostalgic films like Infernal Affairs.

As previously established, there is a key distinction between the portrayal of the boss/mole relationship in Infernal Affairs and its remake. Specifically, this dynamic shift is deliberately encouraged by the makers of Infernal Affairs through the casting of

Edison Chen Guan-xi and Shawn Yue Man-lok as the teenage versions of Chan and

Lau. To an outsider who lacked knowledge of the local popular culture this piece of casting would not seem particularly noteworthy (indeed, it may even be confusing as the two do not really resemble the stars who will soon play these characters), yet it is a calculated gesture that directly relates to one of the key points in this Chapter and, indeed this thesis as a whole: the way that Hong Kong filmmakers regularly privilege local audiences. At the time Infernal Affairs was being filmed Chen and Yue were up- and-coming stars of the Hong Kong film industry so Hong Kong audiences could easily interpret the on-screen maturation into the characters played by Andy Lau and Tony

Leung as an diegetic metaphor for having paid one’s dues. Effectively, the action of using two different actors to play teenage versions of the adult characters gives the story greater depth and is a technique which nicely draws into focus a key difference between

Hollywood and Hong Kong cinema in relation to the latter's use of the audience knowledge. As a result, the film is able to easily jump forward a full ten years showing the adult Chan and Lau fully ensconced in their undercover positions. It is a relatively smooth transition that appears to stand in stark contrast to the almost instantaneous criminal credibility that is afforded Billy Costigan’s character on account of a dubious

209 family background and a brief stint in prison. Showing Lau’s casual initiation into the triads along with a group of teens who have similarly been enlisted by the triad boss to infiltrate the police helps justify the relatively indifferent relationship between Hon Sam and Inspector Lau. It is a duty that Lau performs without any real conviction and he clearly doesn’t enjoy the backstabbing which is involved with the role with the same degree of fervour as his American counterpart, Collin Sullivan. As a result, Sam and

Lau’s relationship takes on a subdued boss-worker dynamic, rather than the violent kinship that is implied in the American remake as we see mob boss Frank Costello taking a vested interest in Colin Sullivan from a very early age. Whilst these different behaviours obviously provoke a variety of viewer responses to the characters in the original film and its remake, I will examine how fans of the original film and its filmmakers (including Lau) responded to differences and how these responses signify specific characteristics of the filmmaker-audience relationship in Hong Kong cinema.

A TASTE OF KILLING AND ROMANCE: APPRECIATING LOCAL TASTES

Whilst the overall critical and popular reaction to The Departed was favourable - with the film winning numerous industry awards and performing well at the international box office (no doubt, bolstered by its superstar cast, director, and Hollywood’s globally unmatched international promotions campaign) – the film did receive some negative reactions from the makers and fans of Infernal Affairs. What I find especially revealing about these responses (detailed below), it is that whilst fans of the original film and even the directors appeared to take issue with how much it was (or wasn’t) changed in the American version, Lau was more vocal in his disapproval of the remake’s emphasis

210 on violence, which clearly went against Infernal Affairs‘ strong Buddhist themes, which are not very obvious to Western ‘outsiders’.

The following online posting, is a typical response from a fan of Infernal Affairs. In it, the author simply focuses on the extent to which The Departed has diverged from its source:

1. Infernal Affairs is set in Hong Kong, while The Departed is set in Boston. 2. Everyone in Infernal Affairs is Asian and speaks Cantonese, while everyone The Departed is white and speaks English (with Boston accents) 3. The character played by Mark Wahlberg is new, and so is the ending involving him. The last 30 seconds of The Departed is completely new. 4. The ways Leonardo Di Caprio/Tony Leung character communicates with the police at the deal are different. 5. Jack Nicholson character is a little more fleshed out than Eric Tsang character (The Korean, 2007). Whilst the tone of the posting is humorous, the author does, nevertheless, make clear a familiar argument that appears in numerous online fan postings – that The Departed was lacking in originality. Arguably, many of these comments, which focused on very specific points of difference between the original film and its remake, were provoked by comments that Martin Scorsese had made essentially saying that, whilst Infernal Affairs is a good example of why he loves Hong Kong cinema, he was simply inspired by the story, maintaining that “The Departed is not a remake of that film” (Scorsese, quoted in liamis2046, 2008). I would argue that this tendency for fans to focus upon specific elements in the remake indicates a widespread feeling that the remake was a relatively bland or weak reimagining of the original film, a response that differs considerably from Lau’s reaction, which focused on key thematic and plot differences.

211 Like the fans of the original cycle of films111, Infernal Affairs co-director, Alan Mak

Siu-fai, appeared to disagree with Scorsese’s assertion that The Departed wasn’t a remake, noting that the film “stuck so close to the original it looked like they are just making Infernal Affairs again” (liamis2046, 2008). Given the strong similarities between the two films, Mak goes on to note that he couldn’t help but be pleased when

The Departed was announced winner of Best Picture at 79th Academy Awards because it was “like Infernal Affairs winning an Oscar” (liamis2046, 2008). Mak also took the opportunity to point out the implied injustice and sad irony of The Departed winning these awards when Infernal Affairs had been denied a place in the nomination shortlist for the 76th Academy Awards after being submitted as Hong Kong’s entry for Best

Foreign Film (liamis2046, 2008). Whilst Mak’s comments simply reinforced fan observations that the remake was a basic retelling of the original tale, Lau’s critical response to the remake highlighted specific differences between the films, as the star placed greater emphasis upon technique, plot and characterisation in his evaluation of the remake. Stating that he enjoyed The Departed and would give it a rating of 8 out of

10, Lau also noted that the high levels of extreme violence and profanity in the film dismayed him. In addition, he thought that the remake’s reliance upon a single female character, as a shared love interest for both men wasn’t as effective as the original film, which presented the two male leads in separate relationships. Speaking more about the differences in characterization, Lau states that he worked hard on the psychology of his undercover triad character to ensure that he was not “an obvious bad guy”, in such a way as he felt the Matt Damon character was portrayed.

111 In addition to the original Infernal Affairs, this film cycle includes a prequel, Infernal Affairs 2 (Lau & Mak, 2003) and a sequel, Infernal Affairs 3 (Lau & Mak, 2003).

212 Given that Hong Kong cinema is typically framed by non-Asian commentators as being characterized by highly-stylised violence, it may seem surprising that Lau’s key criticisms of The Departed reflect a distaste for unnecessary violence and cursing.

However, it merely reinforces the point that the violent occupations of the film’s lead characters are less a means to depict over-the-top violence than they are a way to explore moral ambiguities through the cultural contextualization of Buddhist teachings.

Here I wish to stress again the point that the production and reception of Infernal Affairs and its remake highlights the significance of cultural context whilst also shedding light on why Lau would be frustrated with The Departed’s critical and commercial success in the US, especially as he (and the fans) appear to be implying that the remake was an unnecessary and inferior film. Obviously, the remake wasn’t made for Hong Kong audiences but I think it is important to acknowledge that Lau (like most film viewers) tends to put both films into his own local context. Certainly, the issue of too much swearing and a failure to examine codes of honour are important from Lau’s specific viewpoint although, like all film spectators, this is from his own culturally-informed perspective. That being said, in relation of the long term significance of these films, it is clear that Infernal Affairs still holds currency with its local audiences as, within days of its release, the critically-acclaimed police action drama, Cold War (Leung & Luk,

2012), in which Lau makes a cameo, was already being heralded by local media as this decade's successor to Infernal Affairs (Chew, 2012).

What these particular points reveal is a number of deep-seated distinctions in the approach towards remaking foreign films which centre on the inter-related issues of cultural construction surrounding a film’s formal qualities, its use of themes and devices

213 and the filmmaker’s understanding of local audience knowledge. When Lau criticized

The Departed’s excessive use of swearing and its reliance upon gratuitous violence and what he considers an inappropriate and unnecessary romantic triangle, he was doing so not only as a star of the original film but also as someone intimately familiar with Hong

Kong film culture. The implication here is that the remake had misinterpreted the underlying moral ambiguities of the original story by ignoring the code of honour and the role of homo-social allegiances and fundamental Buddhist principles. Even leaving aside, for the moment, those very specific elements which mark Infernal Affairs as a film directed at local and diasporic audiences (such as the celebrated reunion of Andy

Lau and Tony Leung Chiu-wai and the extra-diegetic implications of using Edison Chen and Shawn Yue as their on-screen younger selves), there remains discernible evidence of a culturally-constructed cooperative relationship between the film’s creators and its audiences.

Because so much of this communication with local audiences unspoken, those unfamiliar with Hong Kong popular culture are likely to miss those nuances apparent to local and diasporic fans of the film. Therefore foreign remakes, such as The Departed, often suffer from negative comparisons to the original versions simply because the filmmaker in question hasn’t fully understood many of the specific qualities that made a story appealing to its original audience. Even getting the original director to remake their films for English-speaking audiences can’t overcome this issue because they usually confront the reverse problem of using cultural constructs that don’t readily translate to new audiences (see, for example, the discussion of Japanese Onryō at the end of this section). Having to make numerous compromises whilst being restricted by

214 unfamiliar Hollywood production processes, foreign directors such as John Woo and the

Pang Brothers, will tend to distil their English-language remakes down to what they see as being the most fundamental aspects of the story. That is, they will reproduce those elements which, to some degree, rely upon audience understanding of themes and devices which may be culturally specific. My point here is that those directors who try to bring their local culture to another market by recreating a successful film for an unfamiliar audience will feel pressure (from themselves or other parties) to make accommodations for different audience knowledge, yet what made Infernal Affairs (and

Woo’s Hong Kong version of Once a Thief and Pang Brother’s original Thai version of

Bangkok Dangerous) work so well in a local context was the respective filmmaker’s understanding and effective representation of those cultures. This argument then suggests that the ideal approach to transnational film production is to ensure directors working outside of their own countries have a better understanding of the culture they are now working in so they can find adequate substitutions for important themes and symbols that they wish to use. An alternative approach would be to encourage these new audiences to be better informed about the first culture so they may better appreciate films in their original format. For example, the failure of films to make transnational transitions often hinges on the issue of translation, specifically, the inherent difficulties of using subtitles. A general perception of both scholars and film fans is that Western audiences are divided in their acceptance of subtitled films – with most markets being willing to accommodate subtitled films, except for North American audiences, who typically prefer to watch an English-language remake (Nichols, 1996; Irvine, 2010).

Although there have certainly been issues associated with the poor translation of Asian

215 films, 112 which have hurt their overseas reputation – especially in terms of the notoriously poor subtitles and dubbing of Hong Kong films in the so-called ‘chop socky’ era – the attempt to translate non-linguistic elements, such as themes, plot devices and general cinematic style, has the potential to reveal more about specific cultural nuances.

A brief overview of select cinematic influences upon some key American and Hong

Kong film productions from the past three decades reveals an increasingly complex system of cultural flows between the two filmmaking centres. The kung fu craze of the

1970s opened up a cult-based Western market for badly-dubbed Hong Kong film productions, but it was only in the 1980s and 1990s that a more legitimate two-way exchange of popular culture really became apparent with the arrival of Hong Kong action crime dramas and romantic comedies which reflected classical Hollywood sensibilities and the success of Hong Kong-style action films featuring Western martial artists such as Chuck Norris, Steven Segal and Jean-Claude Van Damme. As mentioned already, two of the most influential Hong Kong filmmakers of this period were John

Woo and Ringo Lam. In an essay on America’s historical appropriation of Asian popular culture, David Desser attributes John Woo’s international success to the fact that American audiences find his films “both familiar and pleasingly unique”, before going on to explain that the Hong Kong gangster films of Woo and Ringo Lam struck a particular chord with American film fans in the 1980s and 1990s because they “fit comfortably into patterns of male-orientated action and buddy films, such as those made

112 For example, the controversial translation of the central theme of Tianxia (天下) in the US release of Hero. Literally translated as “all under Heaven”, but colloquially understood to refer to “the world”, the term was translated as “our land” in the American version of the film, implying that the characters were only referring to China (Anderson, 2004).

216 by Howard Hawks or Sam Pekinpah” (2003, p. 188). Certainly, the impact of landmark films, such as Lam’s City on Fire and Woo’s The Killer can be seen in the American

‘translations’ of both plot and directorial style in films like Quentin Tarantino’s

Reservoir Dogs (1992) and Woo’s 1997 Hollywood production, Face/Off. By 2000, these inter-textual cinematic references were becoming more multifaceted. Note, for example, how the Point Break (Bigelow 1991) plot device of having criminals wear presidential face-masks was developed by Johnnie To and Wai Ka-fai in Fulltime Killer

– complete with a homage to the original film in the form of a poster for Point Break being featured during an exchange between the central character, played by Andy Lau, and the girl he is dating.

As the categorization of criticisms about The Departed demonstrate, one of the most common forms of cross-cultural ‘translation’ in English-language remakes uses a system of simple substitution, such as swapping Hong Kong for Boston and triads for the mafia. In some cases this can certainly work, note, for example, Roy Lee’s earlier statement about how easy it was for Takashi Shimizu to keep the effective aesthetics of his English-language remake of the horror, The Grudge, with just a simple substitution of an American actress (Sarah Michelle Geller), who could be placed into a Japanese setting. Similarly, although it required a more significant departure from the original, the Pang Brothers’ solution to remake Bangkok Dangerous by substituting a Thai deaf- mute with an American who couldn’t communicate because of his inability to speak or understand the Thai language worked much in the same way as Takashi Shimizu’s remake. If we were to define the success of these two remakes in terms of their respective director’s ability to retain as much of the ‘feel’ of their original films as

217 possible, much of the credit may be attributable to the fact that each of these examples where able to limit the amount of film element substitutions by simply placing an

American actor into an Asian setting.

However, although the two remakes in question were able to retain much of the local

‘colour’, this one act of substitution – placing a Western actor into an Asian setting – immediately shifts the dynamics of each story onto issues of dislocation and ethnic difference. For example, a film like The Grudge, which was originally told as a series of vignettes in which a succession of individuals fall victim to the curse of vengeful mythological spirits, becomes a tale that renders Orientalised ‘otherness’ in the remake as the central Western hero is confronted by the supernatural strangeness of her adopted country. Western audiences of the film, likewise, react with delighted terror when confronted by the eerie oddity of the film’s Onryō. As powerful spirits who play feature strongly in traditional stories of Japanese afterlife, the Onryō character would, no doubt, confound Western audiences with its lack of focused vengeance. Unlike the justice seeking ghosts of Western cultures, the Onryō is usually a wronged female who directs seems to direct her rage without focus, frequently allowing her male partner (typically, the woman’s lover/killer) to escape harm. Although it may not be considered necessary for Western audiences to have this cultural knowledge in order to enjoy the horror, it remains a useful indicator of how culture and context continue to shape the experiences of different audiences.113

113 In literary theory, such a failure to effectively translate specific culture-based allusions has famously been dubbed a ‘culture bump’ (Leppihalme, 1997).

218 INVISIBLE WAVES: NUANCES OF PRIVELIGED SPECTATORSHIP

Writing about the issue of non-local audiences missing subtleties in films, Jason

Anderson recalls having an epiphany about the need for contextual knowledge when reviewing the German film, The Forest for the Trees (Ade, 2004) at the Toronto

International Film Festival (Anderson, 2004). In an interview with the writer-director of the film, Maren Ade, Anderson was surprised to learn that the central character,

Melanie, spoke with an accent that identified her as being from the countryside:

Recalling certain scenes, I realized that the city slickers do seem instantly amused or contemptuous whenever Melanie opens her mouth. But since I don't speak German, I didn't have a clue that Melanie's accent is the first in a series of things that cut her off from others. Subtitles can't convey that kind of nuance, which is why a German filmmaker with an eye on the international market would usually not include it. (American directors, on the other hand, are free to give characters Southern accents, a ready signifier for stupidity.) As I think back on the few dozen subtitled films I watched over the past three weeks, I wonder, "What the hell else did I miss?" (Anderson, 2004).

Whilst mainstream Hollywood cinema often still tries to live up to the ideal of reaching the widest possible demographic and being all things to all domestic audiences, Hong

Kong cinema is much closer to achieving this in reality. Hong Kong audiences range greatly in age but rarely differ in terms of other key demographic indicators. They are typically eager film goers and most audience populations can be reasonably expected to have a very thorough understanding of the major films produced by the local industry, as indicated by the frequency of inter-textual references. There is also a sense of continuation within these films through the extra-diegetic understanding that it is really the star that drives a film, rather than genre or even story. 114 For example, the audience’s understanding of the real-life mentoring relationship between Chow Yun-fat and Andy Lau (and, to a lesser extent, Jackie Chan and Lau) helps smooth the transition

114 A phenomenon reinforced by the cataloguing of films in Chinese DVD stores according to star (as mentioned in Chapter One).

219 as Lau takes over from Chow and Chan after the first two God of Gamblers films and

Drunken Master films, respectively. In a similar fashion, audiences accept that Lau can, in turn, pass roles on to Stephen Chow (God of Gamblers, again), Aaron Kwok (A

Moment of Romance series), Nick Cheung (The Conman series) and Ekin Cheng

(Running Out of Time series). What this essentially reveals is a much more complex and dynamic relationship between filmmakers and audience members than has been suggested by the English-language texts that look at Hong Kong cinema. Having this understanding of the demand that the industry it places upon its fans gives us a much better comprehension of how cinema operates at a local level. At the very least it should allow for greater appreciation of the sophistication of the Hong Kong film community in terms of its ability to interact with a wide population.

Historically, the Hong Kong film industry has been less concerned with individual films than with keeping up a steady supply of entertainment and there is an expectation that a number of these films that will act as both as vehicles for superstars of the industry as well as products which can fill cinemas during peak holiday times. The Chinese New

Year film, for example, has a holiday market that may be comparable to the

Thanksgiving weekend release of films in the United States or Australia’s Boxing Day openings. One particularly noteworthy feature of local Hong Kong cinema attendance – as opposed to the industry’s overseas audience consumption of those films – is the geographical limitations imposed by Hong Kong’s housing conditions. David Bordwell observes that the crowded nature of Hong Kong forces people out of their tiny abodes and into the various arenas of leisure-time – restaurants, karaoke, gaming venues, and cinemas as the population, who typically work six day working weeks, naturally place a

220 great deal of value in their leisure activities, such as eating, gambling, music and movie- going (2000, p. 18).

During the 1980s and early 1990s Hong Kong’s film industry had the ability to reach a wide range of different Chinese-speaking audiences both across Asia as well as in various Sinophone communities around the world – a feat that Ding-Tzann Lii argues made the industry a ‘marginal empire’ (Lii, 1998). Therefore, when considering the international flow patterns of Hong Kong’s films it would not be sufficient to look only at first-release films because the strong export market for Hong Kong film product demands deeper examination of the distribution of these films in broader terms. It would be necessary, for instance, to consider festival and special-interest showings, television and cable deals, as well as the massive home entertainment market.

Obviously Chinese-language films (and Hong Kong films, in particular) have different distribution patterns than other global film markets. For example, despite having a massive export industry, the distribution of Hong Kong films is handled by only a handful of companies and the international market for these films is effectively limited to pockets of diasporic communities and cult audiences.

DANCES WITH THE DRAGON: WESTERN FLIRTATIONS WITH CHINA

By tracking the contours of Asian-Western film culture trajectories we can map out some of the tensions at play in such exchanges and recognise the fundamental gaps in the Western understanding of Asian cinemas and vice versa that sets up the following chapter, which tracks Lau’s regional success. This also acts as a useful foundation for establishing Lau’s place in transnational cultures, specifically in an East-West paradigm

221 which has, at times, assumed a one-way flow – although the regional flows of Pan-

Asian productions demonstrate how such flows have started to change course. Where once Hollywood was able to draw in Asian stars to rework their native successes for

English-speaking audiences, big name Asian stars are now being cast alongside

American actors in Hollywood blockbusters. Such examples include the casting of

Chow Yun-fat in Pirates of the Caribbean 3 (Verbinski, 2007) and Jay Chou’s work in the Bruce Lee role of the film, The Green Hornet (Gondry, 2011). The reversal of such dynamics – putting Asian stars in Hollywood films instead of using this talent to simply recreate American versions of Asian films – seems to be largely attributable to the lure of an increasingly lucrative Asian audience base. One final example that effectively combines the issues of shifting East-West power dynamics with the ever-present issue of Western disrespect of Asian artists is the response to Andy Lau’s rejection of an offer to star in Iron Man 3 (Black 2013), which, at the time, Lau attributed to wanting to spend more time with his family. In a gesture which reinforces the largely symbolic power of Asian filmmakers in Hollywood, whilst simultaneously downplaying their individual influence, Dan Mintz, CEO of DMG Entertainment Group and one of the producers on Iron Man 3 responded to Lau’s refusal by releasing a statement saying that they would simply replace him with another big Chinese star (Wigler, 2012).

Whilst Lau has often commented in the media about such examples of the West’s disrespect of Asian filmmakers, it is increasingly obvious that a number of other heavyweights of the Chinese film industry are becoming similarly dissatisfied with

Hollywood’s treatment of local stars. Indeed, one of the most powerful ‘behind-the- scenes’ figures in China’s film industry – arguably in the world – Wang Jianlin

222 (chairman of the Dalian Wanda Group)115 recently expressed his displeasure with the poor treatment of Chinese actors in Hollywood blockbusters, explaining:

Hollywood wants to make money by throwing in a few famous Chinese actors, giving them a couple of scenes and a handful a lines, and then cutting them out for the North American market. But if American film companies approach China like a money tree and do not respect the Chinese market and Chinese consumers, then these types of companies are destined to fail in the Chinese market (Berry, 2014, p. 4). In an article documenting some of the difficulties Hollywood is having breaking into the lucrative Chinese markets, Michael Berry (2014) notes that the positive influence of relaxed quota restrictions through Chinese-US co-production is starting to be somewhat mitigated by a complex set of factors, including “Chinese control and manipulation of screening times and release dates to film piracy [and] the Chinese film industry’s adoption of Hollywood forms, genres, styles, and even settings” (p. 3). Berry then goes into great detail explaining how the last of factors is of particular concern to Hollywood producers as Chinese films that recycle Hollywood hits are proving to be incredibly popular with local audiences, yet only cost a fraction of the original to produce (2014, p.

3). More importantly, in the context of a Chinese response to the race-based politics of the global film industry that Lau and Wang vividly describe, these movies feature

Chinese stars in place of Western actors.

In his introduction to Remade in Hollywood: The global Chinese presence in transnational cinemas – a title which, tellingly, conflates the terms ‘Hollywood’ and

‘transnational cinema’ – Kenneth Chan (2009) posits the following questions about the sustainability of the recent ‘Chinese invasion’ of Hollywood:

115 The Dalain Wanda Group have steadily increased their presence in Hollywood in recent years by purchasing the AMC theatre chain and making a sizeable donation to the Academy of Motion Pictures film museum (Berry, 2014, p. 1).

223 [How long can Chinese cinemas] “maintain their current pride of place in Hollywood’s multiculturalist approach to cultural appropriation and syncretism? What strategies can these cinemas resort to in order to achieve longevity in the business, and at what cost?” (Chan, 2009, p. 1)

Whilst the first of these questions simply reflects the frequently reinforced cynical perspective of Hollywood’s disingenuous engagement with other cinematic cultures, the second is much more intriguing in the tantalising way it teases out inherent biases of

Western-centric global flows of culture that are being challenged by this thesis. In posing a query about the types of strategies non-US cinemas can use to maintain a foothold in the American audience market, we see not only an implicit acknowledgement that non-US cinemas should (and do) desire long-term exposure to

Western audiences, but also that such an outcome would necessitate a rather drastic, costly and strategic approach. Clearly there was no way that Chan could foresee such a sudden shift in the dynamics of this relationship was just a few short years away as

Hollywood would increasingly be put under pressure to adjust its own strategies in order to gain access to the increasingly lucrative Chinese audience market, for example, with Hollywood A-list celebrities, such as Nicole Kidman and Leonardo di Caprio, travelling to China to show support for the Wanda Qingdao Oriental Movie Metropolis, which is set to become the world’s largest film studio by 2017 (Berry, 2014, p. 1).

The shape of China’s (and other film industries) historic connections with the West – specifically, Hollywood's genre-based preferences for film importations and the perceived lack of respect for Asian artists who don't fit the action (later horror) mould – provides a framework for theorizing why Lau, who doesn't fit neatly into either category, has had difficulty finding his place in Western film culture and appears to have arrived at the conclusion that racial prejudices are hindering such a transition and

224 that, perhaps, he doesn’t need this recognition anyway.116 Obviously, the matter is a great deal more complex than the transnational flows discussed above suggest but preliminary readings of these trends indicate that Lau will continue to struggle to reach

Western audiences unless he either follows the route of stars, such as Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung Chiu-wai, who have managed to attract a degree of transnational recognition through their exposure in the kinds of films promoted in the European art house market and film festivals or, alternatively, win limited recognition by accepting what are arguably 'token' roles in Hollywood blockbusters, made by producers looking to attract Asian audiences.

What these examples ultimately highlight is a fundamental movement away from Lau’s reliance upon Western appreciation for Chinese culture and a shift, however shallow, in the power dynamic between these two cultures. Although this shift is largely the result of wide-ranging economic and political transformations, not yet fully realized, we can use Lau’s career to track the immediate impact it has had upon cultural flows. Lau grew up in an era of particularly vibrant connections between Hong Kong and the West that was largely precipitated by the success of Bruce Lee in North America. At the same time, many of Lau’s own early heroes were from the West and he has been quoted as being a big fan of Robert DeNiro and Micheal Jackson, amongst others. However, after some failed personal attempts at capturing the interest of Western audiences117 and then witnessing the reverse migration of fellow Chinese entertainers who were unable to

116 Although, when he travelled to London for the 2012 Paralympic Games, Lau appeared to be quite amused by the fact that, as someone familiar to millions of people around the world, no one in that city recognized him (“Andy could walk freely without disturbance on London streets”, 2012). 117 Lau revealed in a 2010 interview that he had signed with a Hollywood agency in 1992 and had taken regular trips to the US every three months to read film scripts but found that there was very little available for Chinese actors and soon lost interest in actively pursuing a career in Hollywood (“Andy Lau’s Hollywood encounter”, 2010).

225 sustain Hollywood careers, Lau became increasingly cynical about any opportunities for gaining critical recognition from Western audiences. As this chapter has indicated, any hopes Lau may have originally had for the global recognition of Chinese artists in his

Time Handover essay where all but forgotten after the poor handling of the promotion of Infernal Affairs in the wake of the success of its remake. When asked in 2006 if he still wished to pursue a career in the United States Lau was clear that the issue ultimately had less to do with his desire as it did Western attitudes towards Chinese actors, declaring:

I don't think they have any roles to offer to Asian men ... It's not something I have a great desire to do. The reality is they rarely make movies with Chinese. I don't think they respect Chinese, unless I make a film directed by a Chinese director (“Hong Kong actor-singer Andy Lau denies he’s gay”, 2006).

Convinced that Western filmmaking communities and popular media are inherently disrespectful of Chinese artists encouraged Lau to turn his attention to regional productions, and, somewhat ironically, with the rising profile of China, this regional success has at least made Lau and other Pan-Asian stars a relatively attractive commodity from the perspective of Western producers, as evidenced in the desire to cast him in Iron Man 3. In fact, when Lau was asked about the position of Chinese actors in Hollywood at the 2013 Cannes Film Festival, the star claimed he is “not interested” in appearing in Hollywood films anymore and restated his earlier assertions that “there is ethnic discrimination in Hollywood” (“Andy Lau says ‘No’ to

Hollywood”, 2013). Lau also claimed that “Hollywood is only looking to tap the

Chinese film market and does not respect Chinese actors” and demonstrated his point by making direct reference to the treatment of Chinese stars, Wang Xueqi and Fan

Bingbing, who were reduced to playing cameos in Iron Man 3, after Lau turned down a role in the film himself (Kamarudin, 2013).

226 CHAPTER FIVE

Pan-Asian Andy: Regional Movements and

Cultural Nationalism

This final chapter looks at Lau’s career in the context of a shifting sense of nationalistic pride. Specifically, with Lau positioned as a star who fans recognise as an apolitical patriot – and an individual who has a role to play in the rise of ‘new China’ – I will address how this relates to the Pan-Asian trend of film co-productions between different

Asian nations through to current debates about China’s use of ‘soft power’. Starting with an examination of Lau’s movements back and forth over the ‘porous border’ that separates Hong Kong from mainland China, I will track Lau’s rising status within the region through his involvement in Pan-Asian film co-productions. From this point, I consider the cultural and political implications of the PRC using a figure such as Lau to shape popular culture and strengthen the spread of cultural nationalism within mainland

China. Ultimately, the chief goal of this chapter is to demonstrate and analyse the practical socio-political impact – at a regional level – of Lau’s public performance of an increasingly fluid sense of cultural identity.

IN THE BLOOD: LAU AS A ‘NON-POLITICAL’ PATRIOT?

Andy Lau is patriotic. His image as a Chinese is not ‘suddenly political.’ He always wears long Chinese white robes. He indeed cares about Hong Kong’s politics and social affairs too (Unnamed fan, quoted in A. Y. H. Fung, 2003, p. 266).

This quote, from Anthony Fung’s (2003) “Marketing popular culture in China: Andy

227 Lau as a Pan-Chinese icon,”118 illustrates the fact that Lau’s admirers do not see his behaviour as being inherently political, behaviour that is intriguing on a number of levels. The fact that Lau’s fans feel the need to deny the politicalised nature of his actions is certainly revealing but rather than insist that this is simply a case of naivety, I will investigate a contextual explanation for Lau’s actions which takes into consideration the way this behaviour may be perceived from within Sinophone cultures.

Specifically, I will examine fan and media responses to Lau’s Pan-Asian film productions and demonstrate how the star’s fans have reconstructed him as a national hero.

Essentially, I will problematize Lau’s behaviour and demonstrate that, whilst the star may not be overtly political from the perspective his fans, media and government responses to Lau’s work indicates he is certainly engaging in a politically charged renegotiation of what it means to be from Hong Kong, Chinese and/or Asia. When considered alongside his established promotion of Chinese culture in films and music recordings and videos, Lau’s easy conflation of these terms in interviews suggests an intention to reshape his cultural identity through the use of language. By using ‘Hong

Kong’, ‘Chinese’, and ‘Asian’ as almost interchangeable terms, Lau epitomizes the fluidity of the Pan-Asian phenomenon, and through relatively simplistic rhetoric, Lau is able to acknowledge the complexity of the situation. On a very basic level Pan-Asian productions provide a blueprint for interregional cooperation and, although the original

118 Fung’s article is the first substantial English-language piece of scholarship that focuses on Lau as a star of Pan-Asian cinema. Prior to this the only Anglophone works to focus on the star were short ‘interest’ pieces on Lau as a Cantopop star or on the film festival circuit. See, for example, Mike Levin’s Billboard article on the marketing of Lau, entitled “Shiny, impenetrable images and `a schedule from hell': Marketing the Sino-pop idol” (1996) and Variety’s snapshot bio of Lau on the eve of the star’s receipt of the Asian Filmmaker of the Year at the 2006 Pusan International Film Festival ("Lau of the Land," 2006).

228 motivation behind these productions may be financial, the broader implication of Pan-

Asian cinema is an explicit recognition of the fact that individuals don’t have to share the same language or geographical location when they are united by something bigger, such as the ideological construct of a shared heritage or the perceived lack of Western respect (as discussed in the previous chapter). In many ways, Lau is the perfect subject to trace the development of Hong Kong cinema into Pan-Asian productions. Although a number of Lau’s contemporaries made a similar movement into Pan-Asian film productions, no other Asian artist has as much overall cultural influence and is as active in the promotion of cultural nationalism.

A brief comparison, which highlights the effectiveness of Lau’s supposedly apolitical approach against more obvious demonstrations of support for the CCP, is the backlash that resulted from Jackie Chan’s controversial comments at the Boao Economic Forum that took place on the southern Chinese island of Hainan in 2009. Speaking to Chinese business leaders and senior government officials, including Prime Minister Wen Jiabao,

Chan responded to a panel discussion about mainland censorship and rigorous media control, by saying:

I'm not sure if it's good to have freedom or not. I'm really confused now. If you're too free, you're like the way Hong Kong is now. It's very chaotic. Taiwan is also chaotic. I'm gradually beginning to feel that we Chinese need to be controlled. If we're not being controlled, we'll just do what we want (Nix, 2009).

British reporter Clifford Coonan (2009) was one of many Western commentators to seize upon these comments as a way to draw a parallel between Chinese ‘control’ and the Tiananmen Square Massacre. Speaking of Chan’s apparent turnaround, he notes:

Chan was critical of the crackdown on pro-democracy demonstrators in Beijing and other Chinese cities in June 1989, but in recent years has taken a much more pro-Beijing line. He was heavily involved in the public relations drive ahead of the Olympics and features as a Chinese customs officer in a

229 promotional video aimed at stopping tourists buying pirated goods when visiting China (Coonan, 2009).

Obviously such comments could just as easily be used to describe Lau. In fact, I would suggest that, in the eyes of Sinophone audiences Lau has an even stronger association with the CCP than Chan through the use of his songs as government approved products for moral education and his various ambassadorial roles.119 Despite this, Lau continues to be seen by his followers as a fierce – apolitical – Chinese nationalist and is even revered as a national hero (as I will examine in detail through discussion of the film

Switch at the end of this Chapter), whilst Chan’s comments sparked heated online discussions, where he was routinely labeled a traitor, and official complaints to the

Hong Kong Tourism Board demanding that Chan be replaced as Hong Kong’s tourism ambassador (“Jackie Chan faces backlash over China freedom remarks”, 2009). Some of the harsher criticisms of Chan’s comments also recalled earlier assertions that Chan was a traitor for having made the move to Hollywood:

Apparently now that he has made his millions in free countries, Jackie Chan feels that he is now positioned to turn on those free countries and their values as a member of the master landlord class in CCP China, and can insult his countrymen by alleging that they are inferior to other peoples and nations (Mirolyuba, 2009).

As such comments demonstrate, many were of the opinion that Chan was no longer in a position to talk about Chinese affairs as he was seen to have turned his back on his home during its period a crisis, a move which sits in strong contrast to Lau’s public announcement of his determination to stay in Hong Kong beyond the Handover. Such attitudes were also evidenced when Lau’s former mentors, Chan and Chow Yun-fat, struggled to re-establish a presence in China. Chan’s Hollywood film, Rush Hour 3

119 Despite ongoing criticism over his association with the CCP, especially in his native Hong Kong, Chan was recently been announced as a government advisor and a member of the National Committee of the 11th Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference (Smith, 2013).

230 (Rattner, 2007) was famously banned in China for its portrayal of triads (“Jackie Chan movie banned in China, 2007) and Chow’s scenes as the Captain Sao Feng in Pirates of the Caribbean 3: At World’s End (Verbinski, 2007) were cut by Chinese censors, according to web forum commenters, because Chow’s performance was too stereotypical: “it is the image of the Chinese in the eyes of Hollywood producers”

(“China censors 'cut' Pirates film”, 2007). Certainly, the trend for Chinese figures to take a cynical view of Hollywood appears to be continuing, as evidenced by Lau’s recent public condemnation of the treatment of Chinese actors in Iron Man 3 (as discussed in Chapter Four).

SWITCH: FROM GLOBAL TO REGIONAL THROUGH POROUS BORDERS AND PAN-ASIANISM

In light of the above discussion, I would argue that one of the key reasons for the different responses to Lau and Chan’s interactions with the Chinese central government stems from the way each of these stars adapted to the changing relationship between

Hong Kong and mainland China after the Handover. The emergence of a strong Pan-

Asian cinema in the early 2000s was one of the most significant consequences of the late 1990s Hong Kong film industry upheaval. Essentially, the phenomenon altered the way Chinese-language films were conceived (both locally and internationally), and demanded a redefinition of the theoretical limits placed upon national cinemas.

However, whilst many commentators simply lamented the downfall of the Hong Kong film industry and chose to focus on the social, political and cultural shifts which had undermined industrial structures and practices as considered in Chapter One – such as the reunification with mainland China, the Asian economic crisis, the relaxation of PRC

231 film industry regulations, and on-going film piracy – a handful of the industry’s key players sought to adopt radical strategies in an effort to invigorate the ailing industry.

Lau was heavily involved in such ventures both through his involvement in mainland

China productions as well as in his role as entrepreneur.

As an industry that was simultaneously renowned for its uniqueness as well as its ability to devour and regurgitate foreign films with startling regularity, the Hong Kong film industry demonstrates better than most how very problematic the conceptualization of a

‘national cinema’ can be. As William van der Heide demonstrates in Malaysian

Cinema, Asian Film: Border Crossings and National Cultures (2002), traditional discussions of national cinema have focused upon the economic, analytical and cultural objectives associated with selling the notion of a cohesive national identity – with an emphasis upon “qualities of uniqueness, distinctiveness, and patriotism” (p. 107) The main problem with such an approach, according to van der Heide, is that it

“underemphasizes the transformative power of cultural interaction” (2007, p. 107)

Instead, van der Heide proposes the adoption of Robert Stam’s approach to national cinema, which focuses upon a “more open, reciprocal, de-centered negotiation of specificity and difference” (2007, p. 107). Although the notion of the border as a tool for the defining of national cinemas certainly has its uses, it also has the unfortunate effect of pushing to the side each film or filmmaker that challenges the notion of an organic, homogenous cinematic hub. Sheila J. Nayar states her article, “Invisible

Representation: The Oral Contours of a National Popular Cinema”:

Nation-states are incomplete regions for the purposes of analyzing cinema. Neither from a production nor a consumption standpoint do political boundaries sufficiently divide, group or structure world cinema (2004, p. 13).

232 The discussions in this thesis certainly support Nayar’s insistence that national political boundaries are an ineffectual way of examining cinema, as Lau’s position in Sinophone culture clearly demonstrates that a great deal of his influence comes from the ability to bridge gaps between the various areas in which he operates. In this sense, Lau’s behaviour (and the impact he has had on the popular culture of these regions) becomes defined by the fluidity with which he is able to move across national boundaries. By regularly moving back and forth between these nations and zones – both physically through his involvement in film production, concert performances, and charity events, as well as through his easy conflation of the regional identifiers of ‘Hong Kong’,

‘China’ and ‘Asia’ – Lau effectively dilutes the more static attributes of these ‘imagined communities’ (Anderson, 2003), allowing for a renegotiation of how transnational exchanges may be defined. In his review of van der Heide’s text, Mike Walsh refers to boundaries that are “porous in the face of transnational influence” (2004, p. 176), a concept that is particularly well sutied to this examination of how Lau simultaneously spreads himself across an number of different cultures.

Although slightly harder to define than the alternative conception of the border, or even borderless cinemas, the ‘porous border’ is a concept that draws its power from the fact that its complexity in many ways mirrors the complexity of the phenomenon that it seeks to explain. I believe that the porous border is a very useful tool in the study of contemporary Chinese cinema, which is characterized by an increasingly free movement back and forth across different cultures. The porous border is a concept that does not conveniently ignore the multitudinous influences that constitutes the construction of a national culture, nor does it gloss over the unavoidably messy issue of

233 an individual’s identity as it relates (or rather, doesn’t) to this national model. And as we deconstruct these imagined fixed borders we can begin to acknowledge that contemporary global cinema actually reflects a fluid configuration of societies that routinely embrace common cultural interests.

CENTURY OF THE DRAGON: THE LURE OF CHINESE CO-PRODUCTIONS

Whilst it is tempting to view the Chinese-language Pan-Asian productions as a kind of knee-jerk reaction to declining box office receipts for domestic films in the region, it has been increasingly apparent that the proclivity of filmmakers to engage in hybrid productions simply reflects a world-wide movement towards cinematic globalization.

As Christina Klein observes, "the notion of a distinctly American or Chinese or Indian cinema is breaking down, as film industries around the world become increasingly integrated with one another in ways that make them simultaneously more global and more local" (Klein, quoted in Lam, 2006, para. 7). Indeed, even the briefest survey of some of the larger Pan-Asian productions of this era demonstrates the degree to which the nationality of a film has become almost redundant. Consider the following:

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (Lee, 2000) – a US/China/Hong Kong/Taiwan co- production of a Mandarin-language film, with a Taiwanese director and a cast of Hong

Kong and mainland Chinese stars; House of Flying Daggers – a mainland Chinese production featuring a Hong Kong actor, mainland Chinese actress, and a Taiwanese-

Japanese actor in the lead roles; Memoirs of a Geisha (Marshall, 2005) – a US production of a Japanese story featuring a cast largely comprised of mainland Chinese actors (many of whom could not speak fluent English), which was filmed in English; and 2009 Lost Memories (Lee, 2002) – a Korean production staring local heartthrob,

234 Jang Dong Gun, alongside Japanese actor, Toru Nakamura, with Japanese being the dominant language of the film. As stated above, the rise of Pan-Asian co-productions resulted in the specificities of a film’s country of origin becoming less significant.

Whilst this movement, in itself, confirms the validity of applying the ‘porous border’ concept to regional cultural flows, it also helps explain how certain individuals, most notably Lau, became more prominent during this era as media and fan emphasis on a film’s nationality was replaced by a focus on a film’s star.

Considering the motivations behind Pan-Asian co-productions, as well as the long-term ramifications of increased regional co-operation, demonstrates both how Lau transferred from local celebrity into regional star with relative ease and also how these regional connections support his current position as a Sinophone cultural icon. The obvious and immediate benefits of transnational co-productions are that they pool resources from a number of sources, which often provides an increased budget and an assurance that the film reaches a larger audience due to the cross-cultural appeal of its stars. But what of the long-term goals? Whilst some filmmakers, such as Lau, declared their intentions to bolster the local film industries, others seemed to be actively trying to compete with

Hollywood’s blockbusters. For example, noting that he "wanted to make Asian audiences feel it's a familiar story but also make Western audiences feel they're watching a love story like Troy (Peterson, 2004) or an Asian version of' Gladiator

(Scott, 2000)", John Woo’s first Chinese release after sixteen years in Hollywood was the 2008 two-part epic, Red Cliff, which was well received across Asia but repackaged as “a condensed, one-instalment version in international markets” which wouldn’t be familiar with the Three Kingdoms tale that the films were based on (Red Cliff restores

235 credibility of Chinese epic, 2008; “John Woo takes Chinese epic to Western audiences”,

2009). Andrew Lam (2006) refocuses the issue by suggesting that, unlike other historical attempts to unite the nations of Asia, this new Pan-Asianism, is less ideologically-based, and while “Pan-Asianism was originally the vision of the unified

East as separate from the West, […] it must now be redefined in its full global implications, which, in terms of movies, includes Hollywood” (2006). This situation certainly put a new spin on what Meaghan Morris identified as the ‘industrially innovative’ practices that stemmed from the international co-productions that were a feature of Hong Kong cinema between 1973 and 1985 (2004, p. 181) but, as I will explain below, these successful regional interactions have effectively become something of an ideological standpoint, with leading figures of this movement such as

Lau now being seen as advocates for less Western-centric practices. A key manifestation of this shifting emphasis is the creation of the Asian Film Awards.

Established in 2007, the Asian Film Awards quickly developed from a Hong Kong- based initiative to a regional equivalent to Hollywood’s Academy Awards. Lau, in particular, has a strong association with the Awards both through his regular nomination and winning of awards, as well as his role as Jury President for the 7th Asian Film

Awards held in 2013.

DAYS OF TOMORROW: HONG KONG MOVES FORWARD

As indicated above, one of the key personal goals driving Lau’s Pan-Asian career was a self-professed dedication to bolster the region’s cinema, initiatives which were focused around the development and promotion of local talent such as the aforementioned Asian

Film Awards and Lau’s Focus: First Cuts project, discussed in this section. Andy Lau

236 was firmly established as one of Hong Kong’s leading film and recording superstars in his own right by the time of the territory’s reunification with mainland China in 1997.

However, the shifting roles of individual artists within the Hong Kong entertainment industry (that came about as a result of the mass exodus of local filmmaking talent in the lead up to the Handover) helped solidify once and for all Andy Lau’s position at the top of that industry. One area that Lau demonstrated a particular interest in was film production and, whilst the actor tried to demonstrate his commitment by admitting to having lost millions of dollars on “poorly vetted projects” (Gough, 2004, p. 44) over the years, the financial and legal frustrations associated with his first production company,

Teamwork, were, to some degree, overshadowed by the undeniable success of the company’s involvement with Made In Hong Kong. Insisting that film production is “a business for other people but not for me”, Lau claims that his entrepreneurial efforts are motivated by a simple desire to see good films being made:

This is my interest. I love to act, to see good films made. We need to give opportunities to young directors. If not, our film industry will forever stay the way it is (Leung, 2000).

With such statements, Lau repeatedly draws attention to the both fact that he uses his own money for many of these ventures whilst deliberately steering conversations away from any financial benefit he may derive. In this way, Lau began to actively self- promote himself as someone who could help reverse the fortunes of the local industry, a theme seized on by industry figures, media and fans when they called upon Lau to help revive the TVB station (as discussed in Chapter Three). In a gesture reminiscent of his

Times essay, which called upon his colleagues to promote their local culture, Lau announced to the media his desire to fund a ‘super film’ that would bring together five of the most popular stars of Hong Kong cinema – Jackie Chan, Chow Yun-fat, Stephen

Chow, Tony Leung Chiu-wai, and Lau, himself. Initial media reports indicated mixed

237 reactions within the industry to what was considered a rather radical plan of action.

Despite Lau’s advocating of the project, the film was never made but, in a development which effectively shows how Hong Kong and mainland China became intertwined through Lau in the Pan-Asian era, many of these individuals did eventually work together in later mainland Chinese co-productions.

Although Lau’s plans for a super film eventually fell through, the star did receive even more positive media attention for his entrepreneurial efforts when his Focus Films (HK) group launched Focus: First Cuts in 2005. Focus: First Cuts was a Project

Greenlight120-style initiative, with a planned total investment of HK$25 million that provided guidance and financial assistance for six promising young directors from

Singapore, Malaysia, Taiwan and Hong Kong (Rothrock, 2005a, p. 10). Daniel Yu, the

Chief Operating Officer of Films with Focus: First Cuts described the initiative as a way “to present the next generation of great Asian filmmakers to Asian and international audiences, offering a variety and scope that is representative of Asia's growth as a key player globally”, with the primary aim being to “promote the inter- fusion of Asian cinema” (Yu, quoted in G. Ang, 2006). As he had done many times before, Lau again cast himself in the role of the altruistic martyr by emphasizing the financial unfeasibility of Focus: First Cuts, stating that:

I'm not going to get back what I invest. I just want to create some projects ... for training in a good environment that doesn't include financial pressure (Rothrock, 2005b, p. 16).

Despite the clear absurdity of a producer claiming he doesn’t want to make money from his investments, Lau’s declarations proved exceedingly popular with local

120 An initiative designed to support new filmmaking talent – in this case, a televised series of which followed first-time filmmakers who had won the a chance to direct a feature film supported by producers, including Ben Affleck and Matt Damon.

238 commentators. For example, in terms reminiscent of the simultaneous valorisation of

Lau and condemnation of his industry peers in the earlier ‘Save TVB’ discussions, local reporter Li Ee Kee, offered the following observation:

That Lau is willing to put up his money to nurture new talents speaks volumes of him, especially considering that few in his place have done the same (2000).

Again the focus of the discourse shifts as Lau and his supporters tried to reiterate the fact that most of the Pan-Asian endeavours he was involved with were more about improving local film industry prospects through improving the quality of films rather than merely trying to cash in on a larger audience market.

In direct contrast to his company’s successful production of Fruit Chan’s Made in Hong

Kong, the Handover-era films that Lau starred in were relatively poorly received efforts.

The first, Armageddon, was a big budget science-fiction mystery drama in which Lau plays a doctor who uncovers a cult conspiracy on the eve of the apocalypse. The film generally disappointed audiences, who labelled it as Hong Kong's “response to The X

Files [and the industry’s] first *boring* action movie” (Libretio, 1999), which “could have done with less of the thinly disguised metaphor for the Handover, and more of the exploding monks” (Mark, 1999). In a review of the film for the English-language Hong

Kong film appreciation site, LoveHKfilm, lead writer, Kozo ignores the signification behind a 1997 Hong Kong film that deals explicitly with the end of the world instead choosing to comment on Lau’s role as a “pretty-boy scientist”, claiming that “only in

Hong Kong could Andy Lau be chosen to decide the fate of the world” (1997a).

Tellingly, in an era when most of Lau’s contemporaries had relocated to Hollywood and

Lau himself was insisting on a serious commitment to the territory, Armageddon is one of only a few of Lau’s films that features the actor on non-Asian locations and speaking

239 English. The apparent ‘mixed message’ of Lau promoting loyalty to the local whilst filming outside the territory and using a different language was further compounded in the star’s second major film of the year, Island of Greed (Mak, 1997). This film is remarkable for a number of different reasons, not the least of which is the political implications behind the story of corruption and triad infiltration of the Taiwanese government. In this film, Lau plays the part of Fong, a captain in the Taiwanese

Ministry of Justice Investigation Bureau who, at one point, states: “Many years ago, they ruined mainland China. Our people retreated to Taiwan. If they ruin Taiwan now, where can we go?” As Lau isn’t referencing Communism here (even metaphorically), such righteous sentiments work well in this context, as Shelly Kraicer observes:

There is probably nothing in this film that would seriously displease the mainland film-releasing censor machine. The PRC is officially 100% behind root-out-corruption campaigns; and anyways, all the corruption in Island of Greed is displaced safely to Taiwan. And ponder the spectacle of heroic upholders of the State's interest righteously unleashing unbridled force and violence against the State's enemies: something that would be expected to go over without too much difficulty in mainland officialdom, one suspects (Kraicer, 1998).

As mentioned in Chapter Two, Lau also worked on the soundtrack for Island of Greed, for which he recorded two songs, “Lonely Star's Tear” (孤星淚) and “World's First

Class” (世界第一等), written by Taiwanese rock legend, Wu Bai. In addition to indirectly acknowledging the talent of the greatly admired Wu, local audiences were pleased that Lau recorded the later song in Hokkien, a dialect of Minnan Chinese spoken in the southern Fujian province in China, as well as certain regions of Taiwan and other areas of Southeast Asia. Given the obvious complexity suggested by the preceding examples of two films that vary remarkably in terms of geography and language, I would argue that the ease with which Lau was able to move between these different cultures provides further evidence of relevance of applying the porous border

240 framework to his career whilst laying the framework for the following discussion about how film and music can be used as a form of soft power, and how this popular culture encourages expressions of cultural nationalism.

SHANGHAI GRAND: THE SOFT POWER OF CULTURAL NATIONALISM

Since Harvard professor Joseph S. Nye first defined the term in 1990, there has been increasing political and academic interest in China’s use of soft power. Much Western political and media responses to China’s evolving global presence is typically anxious in tone, at times bordering on paranoid. Of particular interest in this regard is the

Congressional Report looking into “China’s Foreign Policy and ‘Soft Power’ in South

America, Asia, and Africa”. Requested by Senator Joe Biden when he was Chairman of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, the 2008 study outlines a number of key issues dealing with the motivations of China’s increasing use of soft power, specifically, the advantages for China and the assumed limitations of these endeavours as well as the resulting implications for U.S. interests. As Biden states in his original request for information:

China’s emergence as a global power has profound implications for the security and economic interests of the United States. The pace and scale of China’s development is unprecedented, and poses a host of issues that have made China the image of globalization in the minds of the American public. Yet for all of the attention being paid to China’s rise and its attendant economic, environmental, security, and political consequences, the United States still has a very imperfect understanding of China’s power and motivations or how the rest of the world is responding to China’s integration (Congressional Research Service, 2008, p. vii)

Whilst I have been arguing throughout this thesis that Western academics and industry figures need a more developed understanding of context in order to better represent the role of culture in shaping a sense of cultural identity, this report clearly demonstrates

241 that a similar lack of cultural knowledge is evident at even at the highest levels of government. Although there are numerous fascinating points made in this document, two of the most striking elements are the admitted failure of Western expert advisors to understand the motivations of the Chinese government as well as how this frustration is expressed in the increasingly hostile language used to theorise the situation, which, at turns, goes from staunch defence of assumed US authority (“US supremacy”, US as

“the chief architect and dominant player” of the global system) to dropping pejoratives labels (“red team”, “panda huggers”). This cultural challenge becomes especially apparent in a section entitled “No Strings”, in which the assertion is made that:

Recipient governments of PRC trade and investment are particularly attracted to the fact that Chinese money generally comes with none of the pesky human rights conditions, good governance requirements, approved-project restrictions, and environmental quality regulations that characterize US and other Western government investments (Congressional Research Service, 2008, p. 9). At one point, the US is positioned like an international police force, as the report writers question China’s ability to hamper “US efforts to promote good governance around the world and to limit corruption” (Congressional Research Service, 2008, p. 13)

Furthermore, the report accuses the PRC of ‘short-changing’ its foreign aid recipients by making false announcements in order to create “symbolically significant headlines” but then fails to follow through on those commitments. For example, the report claims that China had reported pledging $63 million to Indonesia after the 2004 tsunami, when the actual figure was $22.6 million. The report also argues that even the inflated figures were “dwarfed by the $405 million pledged by the United States” (Congressional

Research Service, 2008, p. 11). Although the report cautions that the US must be vigilant because “it is clear that China’s growing international muscle, even if natural and benign, by definition increasingly must compete with and even limit U.S. freedom

242 to pursue American global interests relatively unencumbered”, the researchers conclude that the “US soft power, complex and multi- faceted as it is, will be dominant globally far into the future” (Congressional Research Service, 2008, pp. 11, 13). Some commentators have mocked the research report, with one reviewer labelling the report’s finding that China’s soft power efforts are ultimately ineffective as “wishful thinking”

("China's soft power," 2008). At the very least, the fearful undertone of the report seems driven by the fact that the experts themselves seem unclear about the CCP’s motivations for more obvious global soft power gestures, such as increasing (the appearance of) the provision of foreign aid. Given the enormous financial and political benefits for the US government that have stemmed from the nation being the foremost exerciser of soft power, it is little wonder that policy makers were concerned that the increasingly powerful Chinese government was looking to follow suit and extend its own cultural presence in international markets.

Considering that cinema has traditionally been on one of the strongest forms of soft power at the disposal of US it is ironic, then, that the authors of the Congressional

Report didn’t make mention of China’s growing influence on transnational film productions. Certainly, it seems that Hollywood producers have been aware for some time that breaking into the lucrative Chinese market would require greater co-operation with Chinese government and businesses as well as laying the foundation for greater visibility of Chinese culture in Hollywood film, such as the aforementioned casting of

Chow Yun-fat in Pirates of the Caribbean 3, and Jay Zhou in Green Hornet. In fact, the assumed power of the Chinese market is now so strong that, in 2011, media commentators noted that the CCP did not even have to issue an official complaint for producers of the Hollywood Red Dawn remake to decide that they were hampering their

243 chances in the lucrative Chinese market by replacing the original – now defunct –

USSR villains with Chinese assailants (Schrader, 2011). At a reported cost of $1 million, MGM ordered that the scenes featuring Chinese villains or Chinese symbols be re-shot and re-edited so that it would now be North Korean soldiers who were invading the US. Whilst there have been a number of concessions made for Chinese audience tastes (and Chinese censors) through the amending of scenes in recent films for their distribution in China. 121 There has also be a distinct trend emerging in which

Hollywood producers are looking to co-produce films with Chinese input from the start of a new project. For example, in April 2013, the Paramount studio announced that it would partner with China Movie Channel 122 and Jiaflix Enterprises to produce

Transformers 4 (Bay, 2014), stating the Chinese parties were going to assist with the

"selection of filming sites within China, theatrical promotion and possible postproduction activities in China as well as casting of Chinese actors and actresses in the film." (Zakarin, 2013). The financial imperatives underlining this more cooperative approach to Chinese audience becomes even more pronounced when one considers how rapidly that market has been growing in recent years. In 2010, China had the world’s fifth largest box office market outside of the US (estimated at $1.5 billion) (Fink and

Horn, 2011) and, by 2013, China’s box-office revenues had jumped to $2.7 billion dollars, making it the world’s second largest film market, second only to the US ($10.8 billion) (Walker, 2012). These figures, released in a report by the Motion Picture

Association of America (MPAA), suggest that, if it continued at its current rate of growth, China could actually overtake the US by the end of the decade (Walker, 2012).

121 In his “Hollywood’s China Syndrome” article, Tim Walker (2013) cites examples of producers tre- editing scenes from Men In Black 3 (Sonnenfield, 2012), Titanic 3D (Cameron, 2012), and Skyfall (Mendes, 2012) that would have offended Chinese audiences and the CCP. 122 Run by the Chinese government’s State Administration of Radio Film and Television.

244 As Christopher Dodd, the chairman and chief executive of MPAA, notes:

China is building something like 10 screens a day. There is a voracious appetite for product” (Walker, 2012)

In addition to the creation of additional cinemas, this ‘voracious appetite’ is also being fed by greater audience access to foreign films. Although China’s quota restrictions have historically ensured that no more than twenty non-Chinese films could be released each year, a special trade arrangement in 2012 amended this figure to allow for an additional fourteen foreign releases as long as they were in 3D or Imax format (Walker,

2012). Given the huge (and obviously growing) market for film within China it seems quite remarkable that scholars haven’t devoted more attention to the social and cultural ramifications of this ever-increasing mass exposure to cinema.

In the context of seeing Lau as someone routinely engaged in soft power activities, primarily through his involvement in mainland Chinese film productions, I wish to take the opportunity to reassess the purpose and effect of soft power. After his original coining of the term, Nye revisited his definition of soft power twenty-four years later, stating that it is the “ability to shape the preferences of others . . . . [It] is the ability to get what you want through attraction rather than coercion or payments. It arises from the attractiveness of a country’s culture, political ideals, and policies.” (2004, p. XI).

Leaving aside for the moment policies and even political ideals, what I find especially interesting about this definition is the requirement for culture to be ‘attractive’. As Alan

Hunter notes, soft power is successful when “the ‘target’ of soft power does not feel threatened or persuaded into supporting an agenda, but actually identifies with it”

(2009, p. 375). Whilst state attempts to influence culture could be seen as coercive – for example, their promotion of the film, Confucius (Hu, 2010), discussed later in this

245 section – an individual like Lau would encounter less resistance from audiences simply because his approach is a non-threatening, attractive one. Whilst there are clear points at which popular culture and the state’s promotion of culture overlap (such as Lau’s involvement in the Handover ceremony and 10th anniversary ceremony, as well as the events celebrating the 2008 Beijing Olympics), focusing on the star instead of the political imperative of his projects helps explain why Lau’s Hong Kong-based fans choose to downplay his political role, as it better approximates the local distinction between state and culture.

Such a focus on an individual’s cultural impact creates tension with how soft power has been defined and challenges the way other texts (such as the Congressional Report) typically conceive of soft power in purely diplomatic terms and something that can only operate in parallel, or as a precursor to, hard power, which is necessarily dependent upon military and economic infrastructure and hardware. As it is constructed in the

Congressional Report, soft power appears to fall exclusively into the domain of the state, yet, when one considers a different approach to cultural influence we can get a better idea of how soft power may operate on a non-state (even individual) level. In an article entitled, “It's Not a McWorld, It's a Dragon Buffet World: The Emergence of

Chinese Soft Power”, Christopher Branding makes an interesting observation about the role of the Chinese diaspora as a significant source of Chinese soft power. Branding does this by making a distinction between Chinese restaurants as a mode of contemporary Chinese social influence compared with the notion of American cultural imperialism, as epitomised by the McDonald’s Family Restaurants. Drawing upon sociologist George Ritzer’s (1993) use of the term ‘McDonaldisation’ to illustrate how modern Western society mimics fast-food restaurant management practices, Branding

246 shifts focus onto the politics of cultural influences, noting that ubiquitous independent

Chinese restaurants operated by immigrants are far more numerous than McDonald’s restaurant franchises whilst not constrained by universal iconic branding or a centralised identity:

The Dragon Buffet world heralds a powerful and unheralded shift in international affairs from centralized culture backed by a hegemonic power to the decentralized source of soft power for the autocratic state. The Chinese rise in soft power assets depends on diffuse base of foreigners who have little claim to political power or loyalty to China. This is the new Dragon Buffet world: decentralized, unbranded, and uncontrollable. (Branding, 2006, p. 1)

Whilst I don’t wish to endorse Branding’s Orientalist language, and the article is problematic in various ways, it is useful in terms of thinking about the impact of culture and clarifying the issue of intention versus influence. This distinction shifts the focus of power away from the state whilst highlighting how such flows reverse typical trends as the cultural influence may spread from a diasporic (introduced) population to their adopted home. It is a notion that destroys any assumption that soft power operates solely as a unidirectional force – flowing from the home country out into the world. The

‘Dragon Buffett’ example reminds us that soft power is essentially just an expression of appealing aspects of a particular culture (such as food, music, film, history) that has the potential to make something foreign seem more familiar and attractive. Therefore, whilst soft culture may have political consequences, the separation of culture from state in this example unravels the premise that the key motivation behind all soft power is the indoctrination of other cultures (which appears to be the attitude taken in the

Congressional Report). Indeed, this example demonstrates that soft culture does not even have to be deliberate. Although the operators of Chinese restaurants may represent a variety of different Sinophone cultures, their non-Chinese customers may never fully appreciate this diversity (for example, not be able to tell the difference between regional

247 cuisines), yet Chinese restaurants may still be the closest many non-Chinese individuals in Western societies ever get to experiencing or appreciating Chinese culture. It is unlikely that many of these business owners would still have a direct connection with

China, and they may be second, third or even fourth generation Chinese-American.

Similarly, these individuals are unlikely to have a current connection with the CCP – if anything, a decision to relocate to the West may be indicative of a resistance to the government. But, again, this doesn't’ diminish the immediate and often ongoing impact that they have had on facilitating the interaction of different cultures; it merely reinforces the point that soft power requires neither explicit motivation nor political intention. Reframing this argument for Lau’s circumstances we can see how Lau is also able to assert a certain degree of power, both outside of China and as an introduced

(semi-foreign) source of influence, by conjuring romantic notions of shared Chinese heritage and identity from the view of an individual cultural spokesperson who is located outside of the political realm. In other words, he reminds us that cultural heritage does not always need to be connected to a politicised history. The point that power – in this instance, soft power – can come from outside of the state is especially imperative when we can see that it allows nationalistic sentiment to stem from both political and cultural sources. 123 This example also reveals a twist to the Chinese version of US soft power as, ironically, Chinese culture is often constructed, especially in Western media, as being homogenous, yet, as the McDonaldisation/Dragon Buffet example illustrates, the business model approach of US cultural imperialism is actually far more regimented than the equivalent assumption of Chinese power derived from the collected efforts of a large mass of individuals. The other important element of

123 Obviously, there are also precedents for this in the US and the soft-political power of Hollywood has been well documented (“Exporting the American dream, 2004; Stanley, 2012; Baghdadlian, 2013).

248 Branding’s observation is the recognition that Chinese soft power can just as easily be shaped by individuals as it can be by the state (a narrow view of soft power, such as the one adopted in the preceding Congressional Report).

Although soft power essentially focuses on efforts to influence those ‘outside’ a culture,

Branding’s distinction is also especially important in the context of trying to shape views of those ‘within’ a culture. Specifically, I am interested in the distinction between state and cultural forms of nationalism. English-language literature on Chinese nationalism tends to focus on the activities of the CCP to encourage patriotism, but though the ‘double othering’ of this arrangement – with emphasis simultaneously being placed on the difference of Chinese culture and the communist political system – this literature tends towards scepticism and suspicion.124 In contrast to panicked responses to state initiatives (whose soft power is often positioned alongside its hard power through the frequently referenced military backing of the state) the impact of individuals, even prominent ones like Lau, is often overlooked are viewed as being virtually benign and lacking in agency. In the context of this thesis, therefore, I would make the argument that Lau’s ability to be seen as being ‘non-political’ is mutually beneficial to both the actor and the state. Whether it is his intention or not, Lau has a special relationship with authorities. Andy Lau is soft power in action. Through such things as staring in Pan-

Asian productions, touring areas like Tibet, and recording in local languages, Lau makes non-threatening gestures to the local whilst playing up the regional.

124 Significantly, whilst much of the (American-based) literature reflects this strong level of distrust about the motivations behind Chinese soft power, Nye notes that there has been a distinct shift in non-American public attitudes towards the matter, with a 2005 BBC poll of twenty-two countries reporting that “nearly half the respondents saw Beijing's influence as positive compared to 38% who said the same for the U.S.” (Nye, 2005).

249 In his book, Cultural Nationalism in Contemporary China: The Search for National

Identity Under Reform, Yingjie Guo (2004) makes a number of pertinent points about the role of nationalist sentiment in China during the last twenty years. Specifically, Guo makes the useful distinction between state nationalism and cultural nationalism. One of the reasons for such an approach was to distance the current trends from the traditional

Western approach to reporting about Chinese nationalism, which often has very negative undertones. At the heart of Guo’s argument is a plea for commentators to be more aware of the fact that, whilst the two strands may overlap at times, cultural nationalism can also be seen to be in conflict with state nationalism, which is driven by

CCP power. Defining cultural nationalism as “an ideological movement concerned not just with political autonomy but also with the creation of a self-aware, morally innovative national community with shared ethnic values, myths and memories” (2004, p. 150), Guo’s construct is useful in helping make clear why Lau’s works are typically seen by Chinese commentators as being nationalistic, without necessarily being overtly political. Without making this distinction, many of Lau’s post-Handover activities may suggest that he had an especially strong political agenda. As mentioned previously, Lau received a special entry visa permit to perform in an unscheduled concert in China and the CCP relaxed the taboo of fan clubs to allow classification of AWC as a ‘Video &

Music Culture Development Promotion Agency’, two brief examples that demonstrate how Lau is seen to receive special treatment from government agencies and officials. At the same time, Lau’s recurrent and public appropriations of traditional Chinese culture, as well as his participation in high-profile events (such as the 1997 Reunification ceremony, the Beijing Olympic Games events) increasingly denote Lau as a ‘poster boy’ of the CCP – especially after his role in the Party-anniversary propaganda films

250 Founding of the Republic (Huang & Han, 2009) and Founding of a Party, aka.

Beginning of the Great Revival (Huang & Han, 2011), discussed later in this section. Of particular interest to my assertion that Lau’s soft power has political ramifications is the star’s sensitive mediation of regional concerns through activities such as his aforementioned performances in Tibet and recording of songs in local dialects.

Obviously, Lau’s main mode of communication is through popular culture as he operates in the arenas of film, music, advertisements, social media and public appearances. Given the unavoidable interference of the state in these areas, it is inevitable that Lau’s work will regularly intersect with politics and, as one of China’s preeminent entertainers, fans expect Lau to take part in most major events, such as the

1997 Handover ceremony and celebrations for the 2008 Beijing Olympics. It is through such occasions that we can best see the overlap of the cultural- and state-based nationalisms – an intersection of forces, which may seem distinct to citizens but which tend to blur the issue for ‘outsiders’. As an individual whose national identity has become more fluid in recent years, Lau is positioned as being almost apolitical at times.

PERFECT MATCH: LAU’S PROMOTION OF PAN-CHINESE IDEALS

Often this apolitical persona directly benefits Lau career, such as the previously mentioned example of the star conveying “a sense of patriotism and national pride in the controversial Tibetan setting” (Fung, 2003, p. 265), when he sang the fan-dedicated song, “Love You Ten Thousand Years” (愛你一萬年) during a performance in Tibet in

1999. Nevertheless, it does highlight an inherent ethically problematic aspect of Chinese cultural nationalism – the promotion of a Han Pan-Chinese ideal to the exclusion of other parties. Yingjie Guo (2004) points out that such singular-minded approaches –

251 with nationalist rhetoric which focuses almost exclusively on an elite Han-Chinese- centred viewpoint – is incapable of adequately catering to those who don’t readily fit into the Pan-Chinese mould, such as members of national minorities, diasporic Chinese, and the populations of Taiwan and Hong Kong (p. 9). The situation is blatantly problematic but it is precisely because Lau is seen as apolitical that he is able to do such things as perform for appreciative Tibetan and Taiwanese audiences without earning the ire of those fans or the CCP. A further telling example is the inclusion of Taiwan and

Tibet on the map of China that feature under the titles of both Lau’s 1996 “Chinese

People” CD single and the VCD and DVD box-sets for the 2004-2005 Vision Tour of

China. It is interesting to consider the pseudo-political ramifications of the inclusion of these areas, as well as the presumed acceptance of this depiction by the media and Lau’s fans, which is suggested by the lack of controversy over the images.125

As a Hong Kong citizen and an ethnic Han Chinese who works within the state structures, Lau is positioned simultaneously as being both inside and outside mainland

Chinese politics. In this way, Lau is able to publicly draw upon shared cultural heritage, even though his mainland China films typically avoid explicit politics by, almost exclusively, pre-dating the modern, post-1949 period. The only exceptions to this rule are the modern settings of Western China and Shanghai, respectively, in World Without

Thieves (Feng, 2004) and What Women Want (Chen, 2011). Yet, even in these contemporary tales, we see a highly moralistic handling of characters, with the immoral thieves in the first film either dying being imprisoned and the remake of What Women

Want being reconfigured as a young executive’s attempts to negotiate modern

125 The only comments about the China-shaped disc made by reporters invited to the release event (including reporters from mainland China, Taiwan and Singapore) was that there were technical problems with the CD player and a minor fault with tome of the individual discs (Josephine, 1997).

252 challenges in a rapidly commercialised city (adapting to the needs of the rising female consumer class) with his traditional Chinese principles (filial piety to a formally-abusive father).

Although the Sinophone populations of the various regions Lau appeals to (including ethnic Han and national minorities, in mainland China, as well as diasporic Chinese, and the populations of Taiwan, Hong Kong and Macau) would no doubt all have different responses to the star’s promotion of cultural nationalist sentiment, a popular culture basis for soft power is clearly far more likely to be successful than a state-based appeal for nationalism. Furthermore, as Peter Harris observes, there is another relatively simple reason for why state nationalism appears to have given way to cultural nationalism in China in recent years:

Party leaders are reluctant to face up to the full implications of nurturing citizenship, which would involve observing the rights as well as the duties of citizens […] The nationalist high ground is thus left to cultural nationalists seeking to rebuild a sense of history, tradition, shared language and identity (2004, p. 151).

Clearly, then, it is in the CCP’s best interests to quietly support Lau’s expressions of

Pan-Chinese cultural pride, and through this relinquishment of overt control, we can see how Lau becomes a cultural actor with even greater political power. One example that effectively demonstrates the tensions provoked when the state actually attempts to directly influence popular culture itself is the mainland Chinese popular response to the government’s handling of the cinematic distribution of the CCP-backed film, Confucius.

Originally scheduled to be released in time to mark both the 60th anniversary of the founding of the PRC and Confucius' 2,560th birthday,126 this film was expected to be a

126 Thereby co-justifying both events with pre-modern history and culture and propping up modern Communist state power.

253 success as it featured Chow Yun-fat playing a highly celebrated historical figure.

However the endeavour failed spectacularly when mainland Chinese audiences responded negatively to the state’s control over theatrical distribution deals that saw the propaganda film being shown in state-controlled theatres at the expense of Avatar, an international blockbuster that rapidly gained a mass following in mainland China

(Magistad, 2010). Whilst netizens clearly had issues with the political agenda of

Confucius (detailed below), online popular Chinese entertainment websites also demonstrate how the film failed as general entertainment, with 13,039 Douban.com users giving the film an average rating of 4.4 (on a scale of 1 to 10) as compared to the

95,280 users who gave Avatar an average rating of 9.1 (LaFraniere, 2010). The public demand for the American film eventually won out and authorities allowed Avatar to replace Confucius, which had attracted only a meagre audience (F. Guo, 2012).127

The clash over Confucius and Avatar is a prime example of how state and cultural nationalism can overlap whilst being at odds with one other. The CCP’s financial and administrative support for the film represented part of a larger push by the state to reinstate Confucian ideals (which also included promotion of global Confucius

Institutes). However, as Yingjie Guo (2004) notes, this state-driven project to reinstate

Confucianism as an ideal moral order is one of the key points of difference that separates state and cultural nationalists. At both an academic and popular level, the state’s recent desire to promote Confucian ethics is viewed with a great deal of cynicism. In a Yale Global piece entitled, “Confucius vs. Avatar: And the Winner is…”,

127 According to the Chinese news agency, Xinhua, even though Confucius had been well publicized and opened on a record number of 2,500 screens, it still only averaged US$1.8 million in its first three days of release, compared with the US$100 million in box office receipts that Avatar received during its first three weeks in China (an average of US$4.7 million per day) (LaFraniere, 2010).

254 Mary Kay Magistad guesses at the motivations behind the CCP’s adoption of a new approach to the position of Confucius in contemporary culture, noting that:

Once vilified by Mao Zedong as a feudal counter-revolutionary, China’s leaders have more recently promoted Confucianism as a moral code for modern China, one that happens to encourage respect for the existing hierarchy (Magistad, 2010).

Chinese netizens posting on the Tianya chat-site were incensed with what they perceived as an attempt to “shove propaganda films down Chinese viewers’ throats” and encouraged a boycott of the film, with one commentator claiming that, “Confucius is the enemy of democracy and freedom. He only tells people to become slaves, subject to exploitation and oppression” (Magistad, 2010). Another commentator took a similarly provocative approach, stating that, “Confucius is an ***-kisser, that’s why all these government officials like him” (Magistad, 2010). The standoff also motivated fans to cite Avatar’s themes of mass destruction as an explanation why the government was so keen to restrict Chinese audience access to the film. On this topic, Magistad quotes a contributor to the Mop website, who claims that Avatar is essentially “about the government’s forced evictions of people, and about them risking their lives to protest

[…] no Chinese director dares to touch this topic” (Magistad, 2010). The point of this example is that nationalist projects are more likely to backfire when it is obvious that the state is behind them. Even the relative success of the CCP-backed companion films,

Founding of a Republic and Founding of a Party (aka. Beginning of the Great Revival), which celebrated the 60th anniversary of the PRC and the 90th anniversary of the CCP, respectively, had less to do with obviously political elements of the stories than the massive cast of Chinese stars making cameos, which made the films a minor cultural event. Online reviews make clear that Chinese audiences were well aware that the anniversary films were essentially propaganda pieces but, as Kevin Ma notes, the main

255 draw was clearly the star-studded cast: “[Audiences] are likely not watching Founding of a Republic for its pro-Communist message. Instead, the main attraction is how directors Han Sanping and Huang Jianxin manage to fit reportedly 170+ stars and directors into a 139-minute historical epic” (K. Ma, 2009). Like Confucius, these films were widely acknowledged as obvious pieces of propaganda – another way for the CCP to try and further establish their legitimacy – but the shift in focus in both these anniversary films from a serious political message to an impressive line-up of star cameos allowed the films to become an accepted cultural event. Together, the preceding examples of Confucius, Founding of a Republic and Founding of a Party, demonstrate how the mainland Chinese public response to obvious propaganda is becoming more openly critical but, rather than purely resisting the political overtones of these films, commentators are placing increasing relevance upon star power and the entertainment value of films – a trend that further justifies how a star such as Lau can be more effective in their promotion of cultural nationalism than the government can be by itself without this access to the soft power of popular culture. This last point is effectively demonstrated in the positive online response to Lau’s attempt to shape national sentiment with his film, Switch (Sun, 2012), which I will detail in the following section.

RUNNING ON KARMA: LAU’S PAN-ASIAN PATRIOTISM

This final section documents how Lau has become a cultural leader at both a local and national level in recent years. With reference to two specific examples of fan responses,

I will show how fan support for Lau to assume the position of Hong Kong’s Chief

Executive position, and their descriptions of him as an off-screen national hero during the Sino-Japanese clash over the Diaoyu Islands, highlights a growing trend for both

256 Hong Kong and mainland Chinese to position Lau in more political roles since his development into a Pan-Asian figurehead. The hit 2004 film House of Flying Daggers marked a milestone in Lau’s career and allowed the actor to begin to reposition himself as a Chinese actor rather than a Hong Kong actor. It should be noted that, whilst Lau was already a recognised celebrity in mainland China (especially after the phenomenal success of the song “Chinese People”), he was only able to seize the opportunity to increase his cinematic visibility through the PRC film industry reforms that effectively opened the massive mainland Chinese market up for a number of independent non- mainland producers. As a direct result of such sweeping reforms, 2004 marked the first time in ten years that Chinese films were able to out-gross foreign features at the mainland Chinese box office (AFP News, 2006). Zhang Yimou’s House of Flying

Daggers and Feng Xiao Gang’s A World Without Thieves became the two biggest hits of 2004. Financed, respectively, by the Beijing New Picture Distribution Co. Ltd and

Huayi Brothers (one of the most successful production companies in mainland China), both films were independent productions and both films starred Andy Lau. A similar situation occurred at the Hong Kong box office a year later when Lau’s Wait ‘Til You’re

Older (2005) was one of only two local productions to make it into the list of the year’s top ten grossing films. Obviously, the decision for producers to try and capitalize on

Lau’s solid Pan-Asian fan base has been beneficial, with each of these films also achieving an impressive degree of commercial and critical success well beyond the primary PRC market.

It should be noted, however, that while there were many advantages for Hong Kong filmmakers wishing to associate themselves with PRC productions, there were also

257 some rather severe limitations. Hong Kong producer-director-writer, Tsui Siu Ming

(one of the few other film industry stalwarts to set up a production company when the demand for local product was on a downward trajectory) outlined what he considered to be the major drawback of mainland Chinese co-productions – the dearth of storytelling opportunities. As Tsui points out, stories that feature gambling, triads and horror elements are actually barred on the Mainland (Li, 2006). Although these restrictions may not seem so severe at first, historically, gambling, triads, and horror have accounted for a quite significant proportion of the thematic content of Hong Kong’s films. Tsui sums up the situation thus:

In the end what you have is a film that is neither here nor there. So we have decided to produce two types of movies, one that caters to China and the other, the rest of the world (Li, 2006).

However, before plummeting box-office receipts necessitated a change in tactics, Hong

Kong actually had an industry that typically produced films for, in fact, three audience groups: the local population; diasporic Chinese communities and a very devoted, if limited, overseas cult fan base many of whom did not speak Chinese and who had to rely on frequently abysmal subtitles. The stream of high-budget Chinese-language productions that followed hits such as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Hero, and

House of Flying Daggers, marked a noticeable shift in the level of international exposure that such films were receiving. As early as 2002 Hong Kong International

Film Festival Programmer Jacob Wong observed how the industry downturn was helping to weed out the inferior local products: “In the good years of the early '90s,

Hong Kong made 200 films a year, but only a handful, maybe 10%, were worth watching … Now they are making 60 films and 10 are worthwhile" (Wong, quoted in

Sullivan, 1999a, p. A45). In a rather ironic twist, the decline of Hong Kong cinema appeared to strengthen the industry but may have managed to isolate its core audience

258 groups in the process of trying to appeal to new Western and mainland Chinese markets.

On a more specific level, this period also marks a transition in Lau’s relationship with various stakeholders in his celebrity (including producers, audiences, and state agencies), which has necessarily shifted over the years. Not only has Lau become more powerful as a veteran entertainment figure, with a loyal fan base and proven marketability, he has gained entrepreneurial experience through the success of his production companies in Hong Kong and China and, through his charity and ambassador roles, acts as a national figurehead with a recognizable cultural function.

Aside from attesting to Lau’s continued workaholic approach, Lau’s involvement in twenty-nine films over the last decade reveals the star’s relative ease in alternating between Hong Kong and Pan-Asian productions, which has allowed him to establish and maintain his position as both local and regional star. Lau’s continuing involvement in local Hong Kong productions also suggests that the film industry didn’t really disappear after the Handover, it was just reimagined – and despite the fact that the on- screen action typically takes place in pre-modern mainland China, there is a sense of continuity as Lau and his Hong Kong contemporaries frequently team up in these productions. For example, Lau was able to work with Sammo Hung in Three Kingdoms, with Carina Lau in Detective Dee, and with Jackie Chan and Nicholas Tse in Shaolin.

In retrospect, Lau’s decision to forsake an attempt at a Hollywood career to focus his attention on regional cinemas suggests a shrewd assessment of the cultural climate but, as the previous chapter demonstrated, without a strong action repertoire, could have easily foreseen that he would have been unlikely to be able to translate his local success

259 to an American setting. Obviously, it is difficult to encapsulate, fifteen years after the event, the pervasive atmosphere of anxiety experienced by a large portion of Hong

Kong’s population in the lead up to the reunification with mainland China.

Nevertheless, Lau’s well-publicized pleas for his peers to not abandon the territory in his Time essay still seem striking when one considers the widespread fear of the unknown during that era. A UNESCO issue paper detailing migration issues from Hong

Kong during this period effectively highlights the overwhelming sense of apprehension, suggesting that the territory’s citizens were “infected by a doomsday syndrome that sets in motion a self-fulfilling prophecy of social collapse” (Wong, 1997, p. 6). The paper also describes the migration conditions of the Basic Law – the legal framework that restricts mainland resident entry into Hong Kong whilst allowing Hong Kong residents free movement in and out of the mainland – this condition no doubt assisted Lau make the relatively smooth transition into the mainland Chinese entertainment industry. The crucial point here is that Lau is emblematic of an enormous geopolitical repositioning, in which Sinophone popular cultures are not seen as having to be legitimised through

Western cultures.

Although he may not always do this intentionally, Lau’s use of emotion-driven patriotic language (as used in his “Reflections” essay) fortifies the star’s cultural influence to the extent that fans – especially those from Hong Kong and mainland China – have begun to single out this particular aspect of his public persona in social media discussions. For example, in the lead up to the release of the film, Switch, much of the online fan discourse focused upon how Lau’s on-screen role as a special agent seeking to recover a national treasure from Japanese triads translated to the actor’s supposed adoption of a

260 real life national hero persona.128 Driving these comments was a brief scene in the film’s trailer, which featured Lau solemnly chastising a Japanese villain for taking an ancient painting, saying, “If it is not mine, I will not think of possessing it. If it is not yours, do not even think about getting a single grain of sand or a drop of water.” This proclamation by Lau’s character was widely circulated by Chinese netizens as a particularly well-timed response to the tensions provoked by the dispute over the

Diaoyu Islands.129

Although there were numerous other external examples of popular reactions to the clash, the quote – from a movie that had yet to be screened – rallied public sentiment around Lau and positioned him in the popular consciousness as a patriotic figurehead who was eager to defend Chinese honour. Although we can reflect upon these posts as individual outbursts that are only linked indirectly to Lau through the rhetoric used by his on-screen character, they are informative as demonstrations of how citizens look to idealised social leaders as substitutes for political ones. A further explicit illustration of this behaviour is the short-lived 2012 campaign for Andy Lau to become Hong Kong’s next Chief Executive (“Andy Lau for Hong Kong Chief Executive”). Drawing reference from Lau’s cameo role as the head of government in the film, Golden Chicken 2 (Chiu,

2003), the online petition was a novel exercise built around Lau’s tongue-in-cheek characterisation of himself as a perfect Chief Executive in the year 2046 (when China’s

‘One Country/Two Systems’ arrangement with the Hong Kong SAR comes to an end).

As the film’s protagonist, a lovable and quirky prostitute (played by Sandra Ng),

128 The fevered online discussions surrounding the issue in the lead up to the film’s release no doubt also helped propel Switch into setting the record for third largest all-time opening-day record for a local film (Tsui, 2013). 129 Ironically, there weren’t any references to the Hong Kong reunification with China, despite obvious parallels between the quote and the PRC pronouncements about Britain’s forced return of the territory.

261 watches a public video address system, we can see the fictional Lau promising that

Hong Kong’s citizens “need not pay taxes for 20 years, and there will be free education, medical, housing for life and benefits for the elderly”. His address ends with a ‘special present’ – a promise that citizens can close their eyes and imagine Hong Kong at any time, just as they wish it to be. Like the Diaoyu Island online posts, the Chief Executive campaign positions Lau as a cultural and political text – an agent through which the public can indulge obvious wish fulfillment.130 What I find especially remarkable about these two unrelated instances is that they confirm how Lau has come to satisfy dual roles as a figurehead for both the local (Hong Kong Chief Executive) and national

(Chinese hero).

Whilst the Diaoyu Islands example reflects a convenient popular appropriation of a singular text to reflect the sentiments of a segment of the (typically mainland) Chinese population, Lau’s own role in the matter is not as innocent as one would imagine.

Whilst it is common for online commentators to appropriate cultural texts for their own purposes – regardless of the intentions of the original creators of that text – in this instance there is clear evidence to suggest that the filmmakers (Lau, in particular) were attempting to provoke national sentiment, even if not specifically directed at the issue of disputed sovereignty over the Diaoyu Islands. As a result of the online furore and questions about the motivation behind the timing of the trailer’s release and its apparent inflammatory content, the film’s director, Sun Jian-jun, was prompted to defend the actions of the filmmakers involved. In a statement that provides rare insight into the degree of creative input that Lau has in the films he makes, Sun notes that:

130 Interestingly, Lau’s role as a faux Chief Executive was alluded to again in 2013 during a massive impromptu protest against the Executive Council’s decision to deny HKTV’s application for a broadcasting license. When Lau joined the thousands of protesters marching down Hong Kong streets, he was reportedly greeted with cheers of “The Chief Executive speaks!” (Hendrix, 2014, p. 4).

262 Lau explored many ideas with me. He thought that in order to produce more grand Chinese films, we should incorporate national sentiments. The Hollywood films which succeeded have included all these universal values. Andy specifically wanted to create a national hero who fights for his country. He can be a nobody but he is absolutely a respectable hero. This is not a film which talks about love, but it features clearly the national sentiments. We hope the viewers can share our sentiments too (Sun, quoted in Stella, 2012).

Despite such clear goals, Sun insists that he and Lau “had no intention of tapping into the current Sino-Japanese tensions to promote the film” as the film had been in the planning stage for approximately two years (Stella, 2012). Sun’s comments are especially pertinent in the context of Lau’s functions with respect to soft power and cultural nationalism. In particular, I am intrigued by Sun’s assertion that Lau has identified what he believes to be a strong national sentiment within Hollywood films, which he wishes to replicate for Chinese audiences. In addition, it is a statement that demonstrates how in tune Lau is with political and cultural identity flows. Lau may not have originally stated an intention to tap into the Sino-Japanese crisis but he has obviously picked up on a general groundswell of nationalist sentiment that he is keen to exploit and states an intention to develop.

Placing this episode in the context of the broader debate about using soft power to promote cultural nationalism, we can see again how such initiatives may be more successful if initiated at the individual rather than state level. In direct contrast to the public resistance to the obvious propaganda of state-driven efforts to promote national sentiment in the film Confucius, the groundswell of patriotic fervour triggered by the trailer for Switch was largely reliant upon public perceptions of Lau’s patriotic hero persona. In this way we may see that, whilst Lau’s cultural nationalism often overlaps state-nationalism, the mutual benefit afforded by Lau’s promotion of traditional values only works so far as the two entities are able preserve a healthy distance from one

263 another. Furthermore, although we may not be able to determine the extent to which

Lau’s decision to use traditional values and national sentiment to make “grand Chinese films” was motivated by personal desire, industry and/or political considerations, it is clear that his ability to shape public sentiment relies upon the ongoing legitimisation of his performance of a range of shifting Chinese cultural identities.

Although (as documented in Chapter Two) Hong Kong’s film industry, as a national cinema, did little to explicitly acknowledge the broader cultural-political implications of the Handover, I would argue that a more fruitful line of inquisition would be to examine the popular impact of Lau acting as a cultural broker during and after this period, in terms of both his role as a leading figure of Pan-Asian cinema and through his promotion of Sino-nationalism. Although Pan-Asianism and Sino-nationalism are clearly distinct concepts – the first representing the movement towards regional cooperation (especially in terms of filmmaking) and the later signifying the concurrent resurgence of patriotic sentiment in exclusively Chinese popular cultures – the way that

Lau is able to move so easily back and forth between the promotion of broad Asian interests and specifically Chinese ones, is evidence once again of the fluidity of the star’s geo-political personae.

Interestingly, though, we may get better clarification of how it is that Lau shifts so easily between these divergent – but intertwined – fields by considering once again his reach across multiple media platforms. Specifically, it would seem that Lau’s elevation of Pan-Asian interests is most readily evidenced in his starring roles in films that were the result of co-production agreements between various Asian nations and which

264 involved multi-national (Asian) casts and crew as well as through his contributions to developing and promoting regional filmmaking talent via the Focus: First Cuts project and Lau’s high-profile support for Asian film festivals and award ceremonies – most notably, acting as Jury President for the recently-established Asian Film Awards. These significant gestures to Pan-Asian cooperation have been supplemented through Lau’s efforts to record songs in various non-Chinese languages and his willingness to lend his considerable celebrity status to charity fund-raising events for disaster relief targeting a variety of Asian nations. In comparison to his participation in Pan-Asian activities,

Lau’s promotion of Sino-nationalism is much more difficult to get a firm grasp on and, aside from the increasing prevalence of the expression of pride in Chinese culture that flows through his various music videos, most of Lau’s more explicit pro-Chinese behaviour is to be found in everyday actions, such as public appearances in CCP- organised events and comments in the media about what he perceives as ongoing anti-

Chinese sentiments in the West. Tracking Lau’s rather remarkable development from local star of the Hong Kong entertainment industry, we may see how the star’s current positioning as a major figure in the promotion of cultural nationalism is an extension of his return to a shared cultural heritage at the time of the reunification with China.

Essentially, then, the Handover-era promotion of re-Sinification and the soft power strategies currently employed by Lau can be seen as a mingling of two different sides of an inter-connected phenomena, in which the later has taken on a more pronounced political dimension.

265 CONCLUSION

Monument: The Legacy of Andy Lau

Whilst Andy Lau’s early career was clearly shaped by local Hong Kong industry forces as documented in the preceding chapters, the growth of his regional profile after the territory’s reunification with mainland China allows us to go beyond the strict classification as a stereotypical commercial Hong Kong entertainer and place the star’s career in the context of broad cultural, economic and political movements that have impacted upon the region over the past three decades. More so than any of his contemporaries, Lau’s career has benefited greatly from the industry downturn after the

Handover and his sphere of influence continues to grow. Naturally, I am wary of suggesting that Lau had a definite plan of action for expanding his local celebrity into pan-regional superstardom but the clarity of Lau’s expressed desire to focus his attention on the Asian market is compelling. Beginning with his essay for the Handover edition of Time magazine, and then regularly reinforced in media interviews, Lau uses nationalist rhetoric to justify his contentment with regionalised success.

Although Lau was appealing to a discrete, local, Hong Kong audience in his Handover essay, his role as self-appointed leader during the territory’s time of crisis provides a useful foundation for theorizing how Lau has taken on the task of promoting Chinese cultural nationalism. This can help shape our understanding of why Lau’s fans deny any political agenda behind his actions – he may be a role model and figurehead but, first and foremost, he identifies himself as being an individual. Identifying himself variously

266 as Hong Kong, Chinese, and Asian. The self-markers of Lau’s identity shift as effortlessly as the man, himself, does across these borders. Like Woody Allen’s eponymous hero in Zelig (1983), Lau is something of a chameleon and can be all things to all people, although the star is yet to experience the backlash suffered by the fictional

Leonard Zelig. Like his song, “Chinese People”, Lau’s mainland Chinese films effectively remind audiences why they love China and, in this way, Lau uses his industry knowledge and cultural influence to accomplish a different, individualized version of soft power, which simultaneously benefits both the star and the Chinese state.

One of the primary motivations behind making Lau the central figure of this thesis is that Lau refuses to limit his energies to film alone instead becoming heavily involved in many fields of endeavour that draw focus to cultural and political issues that impact

Hong Kong, such as his various ambassadorship appointments and business projects that require local and international co-operation. At the same time, as one of the leading figures of the Hong Kong entertainment industry and an individual who is frequently renowned for his apparent (performed) devotion to various aspects of traditional

Chinese culture, Lau is perfectly poised to demonstrate how both stardom and nationalism are negotiated in the public arena. Finally, the intense level of interest in

Lau and his many undertakings exhibited by both fans and the media highlights the benefit of reconciling these two forces whilst demonstrating the role that each play in the construction of celebrity.

Although, at an individual level, Lau appears to have a relatively fluid individual cultural identity, his celebrity is clearly driven by the promotion of culture-specific

267 values and an active engagement with his fan base. Not only do these behaviours again highlight the effective inter-dependence between celebrity, media and audience, the use of Sinophone culture as a basis for Lau’s celebrity allows us to see the links between individual stars and the industry in which they work, as well as the effect each has on socio-cultural movements. Therefore, in addition to shedding light on broad historical flows in Sinophone cultures over the past thirty years, this study of Lau’s career – demonstrably unique in terms of temporal and geo-political span – encourages us to examine the impact of an individual who has acted as an effective cultural broker in both local and regional entertainment industries. Although Lau’s politics have been rarely made explicit, through his films, music and other instances of ‘performance’, the star has engaged in a very public ongoing re-negotiation of cultural identity.

At a very basic level, this project represents an attempt to reconcile the theoretical conception of what constitutes a Hong Kong national cinema (as it has been presented in various academic texts) with the reality of my experiences as a long time follower of the industry. Ultimately, I have determined that many of the works discussed in this thesis function as cultural products that operate through certain contextualised codes and conventions and which facilitate a ‘preferred reading’ and give preference to the

Sinophone spectator, a framework of reference that could benefit Western scholars looking to investigate this area in the future. Certainly, in the context of this work, a focus upon Sinophone culture is a convenient way to see how Lau’s celebrity can simultaneously appeal to the local (Hong Kong Chinese), regional (mainland Chinese) and global (diasporic Chinese). In addition, a brief overview of Lau’s movements over the past decade effectively demonstrates this balance between overlapping Sinophone

268 audience markets, as Lau has spent almost an equal amount of time working in Pan-

Asian and Hong Kong productions (typically averaging one film per market each year).

As these points suggest, various stages of Lau’s career tend to be defined by audience markets. Through primary language and thematic content, we can trace a trajectory from the local to the diasporic to regional and note a movement during the Pan-Asian era towards a blending of these audience markets in the form of a cultural cinema

(Sinophone cinema), as opposed to a national cinema. The demonstrated effect of the

Sinophone cinema is a renewed emphasis upon shared heritage, which denies the expression of local culture and concerns. In other words, by moving towards a cinema that reaches a wider Sinophone audience (both near and far), Lau and his peers may have captured some idealised version of a shared cultural essence, but they were in danger of neglecting the local and the specific. The recent re-emergence of media and scholarly interest in select Hong Kong productions reveals that the sudden proliferation of co-produced Mandarin-language historical epics may have expressed this love of shared Chinese heritage but they were ill-equipped to fill the void of Cantonese- language films that dealt with contemporary urban life and featured popular local themes, such as triads and gambling, which were considered both less relevant and inappropriate for mainland Chinese audiences. For Hong Kong to completely ‘lose’ a local star like Lau to mainland China so soon after the previous exodus of many other local celebrities to Hollywood would surely have provoked further industry decline if not for Lau’s seemingly deliberate decision to alternate his attention from large-scale historical Chinese co-productions like Shaolin to contemporary Hong Kong films, such as Ann Hui’s A Simple Life. It would appear that, ten years on, the industry has begun to

269 balance itself out and the success of Pan-Asian cinema has drawn the interest of

Hollywood and begun to reaffirm the potential of local cinema. Hence, the warm reception of recent Hong Kong productions such as Cold War, which has been likened to Infernal Affairs and is hailed as a belated return to quality local cinema. Even more important in terms of reasserting the importance of local cinema, Cold War – like

Infernal Affairs before it (as addressed by Chapter Four) – is understood and explained by local media and audiences through the lens of previous hit films that successfully captured frantic energy of the urban world.

By engaging in this comprehensive case study of a key figure of the Hong Kong film industry, I have demonstrated how prominent recent approaches to cinema may be modified to allow for the dynamic nature of the particular industry in question, in this instance by placing greater stress upon the importance of regionalism. In addition, the flexibility of the method that I propose should make the challenges presented by globalization and transnational cultural fluctuations infinitely more manageable. My ultimate ambition for this thesis is that it may add a new perspective to topical debates surrounding contemporary Hong Kong popular cinema – specifically in terms of its role as an assumed site for the contestation of ‘national’ identity – whilst providing the simultaneous function of firmly establishing Andy Lau as an important subject for greater critical attention. With an understanding that Lau’s celebrity lies ‘outside’ of traditional texts, such as films and music, and is constructed largely through fan-defined sites and media representations of ‘themes’ of the star’s public persona, we can start to account for his absence in Western scholarship, recognising that it is particularly

270 difficult to see where the text and content lie, unless you are either inside the culture or something of a fan.

As the title of the thesis suggests, the issue of “locating” Lau has been a central concern guiding much of this research. When I first posed the question of “Where in the world is

Andy Lau?” my first aim was to highlight what I considered to be a rather remarkable void in the English-language literature on Hong Kong popular entertainment. However, after having identified this gap, I was intrigued and increasingly confronted by the challenges of trying to locate Lau using traditional film studies methodologies. Working my way through a variety of approaches, I first attempted to place Lau’s celebrity within a national cinema framework, before moving through transnational cinema and ultimately determining that a combination of world cinema – in particular with a stress upon the importance of regionalism – and star studies offered the best means of approaching Lau’s unique brand of stardom. Lau’s career was clearly too broad to be constrained by the inherently problematic conception of post-colonial readings of a

Hong Kong/mainland Chinese ‘national cinema’, even if – as I have argued – much can also be learned about the pre- and post-Handover period through this figure. Whilst the problems associated with the notion of geographical boundaries in national cinema may be offset to some extent by placing Lau’s work within a transnational cinema framework, such a relocation also tends to emphasise the co-operative elements of transnational partnerships by moving the focus onto the hybrid nature of changing industrial practices at the expense of obscuring the significance of the local and regional aspects of Lau’s stardom that have been so important to his career and the important transformational period he “represents” as both historical agent and text. As this thesis

271 has demonstrated, cultural context is an absolutely fundamental aspect to consider when seeking to analyse Lau’s fame and, as such, it demands a less Western-centric lens through which to examine the operation of a cinema that operates without needing to go through Western gatekeepers. This is, perhaps ironically, a rather atypical approach to take in terms of recent global cinema scholarship. It should also be noted that as a fundamentally commercial star, a figure such as Lau already sits outside of many recent film studies methodologies, especially much – certainly if not all – world cinema scholarship. Whilst the issue of context has to be a foundational concept in all world cinema discourse, I would argue that its relevance has rarely found greater expression than through the career of Andy Lau, a non-Western star who as a truly multi-media historical actor and text of enormous commercial and cultural impact has achieved so significant a level of fame through the simultaneous expression and promotion of pressing local, regional and national concerns.

At the same time as I was rethinking how to look at a national and regional cinema that was in a process of substantial transition, I had to repeatedly ask myself whether it was actually possible to locate Lau’s celebrity in precise cultural, historical or even political terms. As this thesis has consistently demonstrated, one of the most intriguing aspects of Lau’s celebrity is the way these forces are in constant flux, with the star at times spreading himself across the Asian region, only to then turn his attention to the national level and then pull in to an even tighter focus just on Hong Kong, which allows him to simultaneously maintain his attachment to the regional, the national, and the local. It is rather fitting, then, that it was only after letting go of fixed notions of geographical boundaries – traditionally dependent upon such markers as a film’s country or countries

272 of production – that the critical importance of context for Lau’s special case became evident. The challenge, then, is in large part both building a very detailed account of context but also the challenge of discovering both ‘Where is the text?’ and ‘Where does it happen?’. With this new knowledge came the freedom to see that it was also possible to examine Lau’s career by looking beyond individual films and see that his celebrity and cultural significance actually lies much more crucially in ‘grey’ areas of stardom, such as fan and media interactions. Simply put, Lau’s particular kind of celebrity is both what has made him so popular (with so many) for such a long time as well as being one of the key reasons he remains obscured from the view of many Western scholars. Lau’s ability to operate in these ‘in-between’ spaces – between nations and between strict definitions of actor/singer/commodity, between agent or historical actor and text – allows him to reach deep into those areas of popular imagination that cannot be reached through a simple surface examination of geographically ‘stamped’ individual films.

Even at the end of this research I still find it rather striking that opening up a space for

Lau in the English-language scholarship on Hong Kong popular entertainment has necessitated a fundamental reconsideration of global cultural flows and a close, historically careful examination of regional factors. Yet it is precisely this framework that has allowed us to see the full scope of Lau’s transition from a local celebrity who, like many in that position, was eager to receive recognition in the West at the start of his career through to the development of a regional celebrity who has realised that he no longer needs Western validation in order to be a global superstar.

273 In the process of demonstrating how this unique star performs the function of a meta- text exemplifying broad, local, regional and global socio-historical and cultural shifts that have taken place over the last thirty years, this thesis provides a record of significant themes and shifts in Andy Lau's career. I would like to finish, however, by noting how such a contextually-based analysis may also be useful not just for other contemporary scholarship concerned with the quickly changing nature of global popular culture flows but also, more specifically, can provide useful background research for future examinations of Chinese and other non-Western popular culture. At the very least, this study demonstrates how the next generation of Asian celebrities might now be better poised to go into the West, but with a crucial distinction: on their terms. Already, in figures such as Eason Chan Yik-shun (陳奕迅) and Daniel Wu Yin-cho (吳彥祖) – two stars of the Hong Kong entertainment industry who are generally regarded by both fans and the popular media as likely successors to Lau in the respective fields of singing and acting131 – we see the emergence of a new generation of multi-lingual stars who are well positioned to, perhaps one day soon, receive the kind of media and scholarly attention from the West that has, until now, been denied Lau. Educated in the UK and

America, respectively, Chan and Wu represent a new class of 'globalised' Chinese celebrity. Chan and Wu are major figures in Hong Kong's Cantonese-language music and film industries and both are also fluent in Mandarin, however, unlike Lau, who has struggled to learn English as a third language, Chan and Wu demonstrate great ease when conversing (and, in Chan's case, singing) in English132 – a factor which has, no

131 Although Chan is most-widely known as a singer and Wu is primarily regarded as an actor, as is typical of the industry practice of ge-ying-shi, they have each established careers in both film and music. 132 Wu’s first language is actually English and the star admits he often has difficulties with Cantonese pronunciation and has to work hard to learn to read Chinese characters (“Blog entry – 23 November”, 2001).

274 doubt, contributed to their rising profiles in the West.133 Furthermore, even if these new stars are ultimately denied access to Hollywood, the recent dynamic shifts in audience markets makes it likely that they – and Chinese popular culture, in general – will be treated with greater respect within the entertainment industry.

Of course, the important distinction to make here is that both Chan and Wu are less

‘indigenous’ to Hong Kong than Lau. Whilst these young stars may be ethnically

Chinese they are also, to some extent, ‘from’ the West on account of their educational backgrounds and the fact that they have each spent significant periods living outside of

Asia. As this research has demonstrated, Lau has developed a global career – although he still remains largely absent in Western media and scholarly discourse – despite the lack of access to the kind of relatively smooth transnational pathways available to stars like Chan and Wu. More importantly, and clearly linked to why I argue throughout this thesis that Lau is absent in the Western sphere, Lau’s celebrity is firmly based on his ongoing performance of a specifically Chinese cultural identity … in all its forms.

133 Eason Chan’s extended 2013-2014 world tour saw the star performing multiple nights in London at the O2 Arena, as well as shows in the United States, France, Canada, Thailand, China, Macau, Hong Kong and Australia (“Eason Chan holds 3rd personal concert in London, 2014, p. 1) and Daniel Wu has appeared in a number of recent English-language film productions including Inseparable (Eng, 2011) with Kevin Spacey, The Man with the Iron Fists (RZA, 2012) with Russell Crowe, Europa Report (Cordero, 2013) and will feature in the upcoming Warcraft (Jones, 2016), which is based on the popular video game series (see Napolitano, 2014; Ford, 2013; “Wu hopes to export HK success to Hollywood”, 2010).

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289 APPENDIX A Career Highlights

1961 Andy Lau born in Tai Po, New Territories, Hong Kong 1981 Lau joins the TVB acting program 1982 Lau achieves fame with a lead role in the TV series, The Emissary 1982 After a couple of minor film roles, Lau has a standout role in Ann Hui’s Boat People, for which he receives a Best Supporting Actor nomination at the Hong

Kong Film Awards 1983 Lau becomes a TV idol with his role in the series, The Return of the Condor Heroes 1983 Lau is named one of the TVB’s Five Tigers – recognition of his status as a leading TV actor 1985 Lau records his first album, Only Know that I Still Love You (只知道此刻愛你) 1987 Lau refuses to sign a long-term contract with TVB, resulting in a station blacklist 1988 Lau establishes his ‘Heroic Gangster’ image in Wong Kar-wai’s As Tears Go By

1988 Establishment of the Andy World Club fan club 1990 Lau has a career-defining role as Wah Dee in A Moment of Romance 1990 Lau releases the hit album, Would It Be Possible (可不可以) 1991 Lau sets up his own production company, TeamWork Motion Pictures 1992 Media names Lau a Heavenly King – one of the four stars who dominate Hong

Kong’s Cantopop industry 1993 Lau becomes Pepsi’s first Asian celebrity spokesperson

1994 TeamWork production company closes down 1994 Lau establish the Andy Lau Charity Foundation 1995 Full Throttle – a return to the celebrated Wah Dee character type – becomes a blockbuster hit 1997 Lau is executive producer for Made in Hong Kong

290 1999 Lau nominated as one of Hong Kong Ten Outstanding Young Persons for his professional achievements and charity work 2000 Lau reforms the TeamWork Group (in collaboration with CCT Telecom) 2000 Lau wins his first Best Actor award at the Hong Kong Film Awards for his performance in Running Out of Time 2001 Lau is the first Cantopop singer invited to have a wax figure made for Madame Tussauds Hong Kong museum

2002 A protracted legal dispute with CCT Telecom is resolved and Lau is awarded full control of Team Work, which he re-establishes as Focus Group Holdings 2004 HKSAR Government awards Lau with a Medal of Honour

2005 Lau recognised as ‘No.1 Box office Actor 1985–2005’ 2006 Lau launches the Focus: First Cuts regional filmmaking initiative 2006 Lau named ‘Asian Filmmaker of the Year’ at the Pusan International Film Festival 2007 Lau creates the Andox toy character 2007 Lau is put under intense media pressure when the father of one of his fans

commits suicide and the family blame the star 2008 HKSAR Government awards Lau with a Justice of the Peace 2008 Lau helps establish the Artistes 512 Fund Raising Campaign in response to the Sichuan earthquake 2008 Lau marries Carol Chu in a secret ceremony

2008 Lau performs in the closing ceremony of the Beijing Olympic Games and is appointed Goodwill Ambassador for the Summer Paralympics

2009 A media scandal ensues when Lau’s secret marriage is uncovered by the press 2013 Lau is appointed Jury President of the 7th Asian Film Awards

291 APPENDIX B Filmography

Year English Title Chinese Title Role

1982 Once Upon a Rainbow 彩云曲 Actor

1982 Boat People 投奔怒海 Actor

1983 On the Wrong Track 毀滅號地車 Actor

1983 Home at Hong Kong 家在香港 Actor

1984 Everlasting Love 停不了的愛 Actor

1984 Shanghai 13 上海灘十三太保 Actor

1985 Twinkle, Twinkle Lucky Stars 夏日福星 Actor

1985 The Unwritten Law 法外情 Actor

1986 Lucky Stars Go Places 最佳福星 Actor

292 1986 Magic Crystal 魔翡翠 Actor

1987 Tragic Hero 英雄好漢 Actor

1987 Sworn Brothers 肝膽相照 Actor

1987 Rich And Famous 江湖情 Actor

1988 Lai Shi, Last Eunuch in China 中國最後一個太監 Actor

1988 Three Against The World 群龍奪寶 Actor

1988 The Dragon Family 龍之家族 Actor

1988 Walk on Fire 獵鷹計劃 Actor

1988 The Truth 法內情 Actor

1988 The Romancing Star 2 精裝追女仔 2 Actor

1988 The Crazy Companies 最佳損友 Actor

293 1988 As Tears Go By 旺角卡門 Actor

1988 In the Blood 神探父子兵 Actor

1988 The Crazy Companies II 最佳損友闖情關 Actor

1989 Casino Raiders 至尊無上 Actor

1989 Bloody Brotherhood 同根生 Actor

1989 News Attack 神行太保 Actor

1989 Long Arm of the Law III 省港旗兵第三集 Actor

1989 City Kids 人海孤鴻 Actor

1989 Crocodile Hunter 專釣大鱷 Actor

1989 The Fortune Code 富貴兵團 Actor

1989 The Truth - Final Episode 法內情大結局 Actor

294 1989 Runaway Blues 飆城 Actor

1989 Perfect Match 最佳男朋友 Actor

1989 Proud and Confidence 傲氣雄鷹 Actor

1989 The First Time Is the Last 第一繭 Actor

Time

1989 Little Cop 小小小警察 Actor

1989 China White 轟天龍虎會 Actor

1989 God of Gamblers 賭神 Actor

1989 The Romancing Star 3 精裝追女仔 3 之狼之一 Actor

族

1989 Stars and Roses 愛人同志 Actor

1990 Forbidden Imperial Tales 嫁到宫里的男人 Actor

295 1990 No Risk, No Gain 至尊計狀元才 Actor

(Casino Raiders - The Sequel)

1990 A Home Too Far 異域 Actor

1990 Return Engagement 再戰江湖 Actor

1990 Island of Fire AKA. The 火燒島 Actor

Prisoner

1990 Kawashima Yoshiko AKA. The 川島芳子 Actor

Last Princess of Manchuria

1990 Gangland Odyssey 義膽雄心 Actor

1990 Dragon in Jail 獄中龍 Actor

1990 A Moment Of Romance 天若有情 Actor

1990 Days of Being Wild 阿飛正傳 Actor

296 1990 Kung Fu vs Acrobatic 摩登如來神掌 Actor

1991 Don't Fool Me 中環英雄 Actor

1991 Hong Kong Godfather 衝擊天子門生 Actor

1991 Dance with the Dragon 與龍共舞 Actor

1991 Tricky Brains 整蠱專家 Actor

1991 God of Gamblers II 賭俠 Actor

1991 The Last Blood 驚天十二小時 Actor

1991 The Tigers 五虎將之決裂 Actor

1991 Zodiac Killer 極道追蹤 Actor

1991 Lee Rock 五億探長雷洛傳: 雷老 Actor

虎

297 1991 Lee Rock II 五憶探長雷洛傳 II: 父 Actor

子情仇

1991 The Banquet 豪門夜宴 Cameo

1991 Saviour of the Soul 九一神鵰俠侶 Actor

1992 The Sting 俠聖 Actor

1992 Lee Rock III 五憶探長雷洛傳 III Actor

1992 Handsome Siblings 絕代雙驕 Actor

1992 Come Fly the Dragon 反斗馬騮 Actor

1992 Casino Tycoon 賭城大亨之新哥傳奇 Actor

1992 Casino Tycoon 2 賭城大亨 II 之至尊無敵 Actor

1992 What a Hero! 嘩！英雄 Actor

298 1992 Gun N' Rose 龍騰四海 Actor

1992 Gameboy Kids 機 Boy 小子之真假威龍 Actor

1992 The Prince of Temple Street 廟街十二少 Actor

1992 Saviour of the Soul 2 92 神鵰俠侶：痴心情長 Actor

劍

1991 Casino Raiders 2 至尊無上 II 之永霸天下 Actor

1993 Moon Warriors 戰神傳說 Actor

1993 Days of Tomorrow 天長地久 Actor

1993 Future Cops 超級學校霸王 Actor

1993 The Sting II 至尊三十六計之偷天換日 Actor

1994 A Taste of Killing and 殺手的童話 Actor

Romance

299 1994 The Three Swordmen 刀劍笑 Actor

1994 Drunken Master II 醉拳 II Brief appearance

1994 Tian Di AKA. Heaven and 天與地 Actor, Presenter

Earth

1994 Drunken Master III 醉拳 III Actor

1995 The Adventurers 大冒險家 Actor

1995 Full Throttle 烈火戰車 Actor

1996 A Moment of Romance 3 天若有情Ⅲ之烽火佳人 Actor

1996 What a Wonderful World 奇異旅程之真心愛生命 Actor

1996 Shanghai Grand 新上海灘 Actor

1996 Thanks for Your Love 1/2 次同床 Actor

300 1997 Armageddon 天地雄心 Actor

1997 Cause We Are So Young 求戀期 Cameo

1997 Made in Hong Kong 香港製造 Producer

1997 Island of Greed 黑金 Actor

1998 A True Mob Story 龍在江湖 Actor

1998 The Conman 賭俠 1999 Actor

1998 The Longest Summer 去年煙花特別多 Executive

Producer

1999 Fascination Amour 愛情夢幻號 Actor

1999 Prince Charming 黑馬王子 Actor

1999 The Conmen In Vegas 賭俠大戰拉斯維加斯 Actor

301 1999 Running Out of Time 暗戰 Actor

1999 Century of the Dragon 龍在邊緣 Actor

2000 The Duel 決戰紫禁之巔 Actor

2000 Needing You 孤男寡女 Actor

2000 A Fighter's Blues 阿虎 Actor, Producer

2001 Love on a Diet 瘦身男女 Actor

2001 Fulltime Killer 全職殺手 Actor, Producer

2001 Dance of a Dream 愛君如夢 Actor, Producer

2002 Golden Chicken 金雞 Cameo

2002 Fat Choi Spirit 嚦咕嚦咕新年財 Actor

2002 The Wesley's Mysterious File 衛斯理藍血人 Actor

302 2002 Infernal Affairs 無間道 Actor, Producer

2003 Love Under the Sun 愛在陽光下 Actor, Director

2003 Cat And Mouse 老鼠愛上貓 Actor

2003 Running on Karma 大隻佬 Actor

2003 Infernal Affairs III 無間道 III: 終極無間 Actor

2003 Give Them a Chance 給他們一個機會 Cameo

2003 Golden Chicken 2 金雞 2 Cameo

2004 1:99 1:99 Actor

2004 McDull, Prince de la Bun 麥兜．菠蘿油王子 Voice only

2004 Magic Kitchen 魔幻廚房 Actor

2004 House of Flying Daggers 十面埋伏 Actor

303 2004 Jiang Hu 江湖 Actor

2004 Yesterday Once More 龍鳳鬥 Actor

2004 A World Without Thieves 天下無賊 Actor

2005 The Shoe Fairy 人魚朵朵 Producer, Narrator

2005 Wait 'Til You're Older 童夢奇緣 Actor

2005 All About Love 再說一次我愛你 Actor, Producer

2006 I'll Call You 得閒飲茶 Producer, Cameo

2006 My Mother is a Belly Dancer 師奶唔易做 Producer, Cameo

2006 Invisible Waves 暗湧 Producer

2006 Crazy Stone 瘋狂的石頭 Producer

2006 A Battle of Wits 墨攻 Actor

304 2007 Protégé 門徒 Actor

2007 Brothers 兄弟 Actor

2007 The Warlords 投名狀 Actor

2008 Three Kingdoms: Resurrection 三國之見龍卸甲 Actor

of the Dragon

2009 Look for a Star 游龍戲鳳 Actor

2009 Founding of a Republic 建國大業 Cameo

2010 Future X-Cops 未来警察 Actor

2010 Detective Dee and the Mystery 狄仁傑 之 通天帝國 Actor

of the Phantom Flame

2010 Gallants 打擂台 Presenter

2011 Shaolin 新少林寺 Actor

305 2011 What Women Want 我知女人心 Actor

2011 Founding of a Party AKA. 建黨偉業 Actor

Beginning of the Great Revival

2011 A Simple Life 桃姐 Actor

2012 Switch 富春山居圖 Actor

2012 I Love Hong Kong 2012 2012 我愛 HK 喜上加囍 Cameo

2012 Cold War 寒战 Actor

2013 Blind Detective 盲探 Actor

2013 Firestorm 风暴 Actor, Producer

306