Free Films of Fury: The Kung Fu Movie Book by Ric Meyers Page A

Tokyo (1991), which blows by in seventy-six minutes. Here Brandon is a wisecracking supporting player to brooding beefcake Dolph Lund-gren , as a cop who runs afoul of Japanese-American mobsters.
    Once again, it showed anyone who cared to look that Brandon had charisma to spare and was only getting better with each scene. That performance seemed to do the trick, because Brandon wouldn’t have to wait as long before his next big break. It came with Rapid Fire (1992), the younger Lee’s first major studio release, and a canny combination of the star’s strengths. Here, for the first time, Brandon doesn’t begrudgingly agree that he is Bruce Lee ’s son, he proudly proclaims it, happily acknowledging his father’s influence but letting his own engaging personality carry the day. As before, it was the force of Brandon’s charisma, not his fists, that carried this otherwise predictable, unimaginative, and often occasionally dreary movie.
    This set the stage for The Crow — based on James Barr’s bleak black-and-white comic book. The story couldn’t be simpler. A rock star is murdered and, a year later, with a crow as harbinger, comes back to wreak vengeance on his killers. Ambitious director Alex Proyas , however, used this story as a clothesline to hang elegant visuals upon, which stayed in the memory long after the rudimentary dialogue and muddled action faded. Basically, Brandon’s character lived in a fictional, futuristic, and seemingly post-apocalyptic city of self-conscious sleazeballs, where the only character who doesn’t painfully posture and spout film noir clichés is a nice-guy cop played by ex- Ghostbuster Ernie Hudson .
    But the excitement (and exhaustion) was palpable on The Crow ’s North Carolina set, where everyone was inspired by Proyas’s vision and Lee’s appeal. They knew they had something special and exciting, but they also knew they had to slave to get it done in time for a pressing release date. The mocking “I survived The Crow ” T-shirts, which were supposedly being planned, turned bitterly portentous on the night of March 31, 1993, when Brandon was shot — just days before his marriage.
    The allusions to his father’s death continued in the tragedy’s aftermath, but rather than being resurrected by stand-ins and tacky camera tricks ala Game of Death , Brandon’s visage and power were reborn through multi-million-dollar computer special effects, which grafted his face to the body of a stunt double. The final mirthless mockery was that The Crow , unlike Game of Death, was arguably improved by the rewriting and refilming needed to complete the movie.
    Brandon lies beside his father in a Seattle cemetery. In life, they created memorable entertainment. In death, they have forged a tragic dynasty that will never be forgotten. There is little doubt that, had both lived, they would have added much more to the world’s knowledge and entertainment. Kung fu, and kung fu films, would have only grown in respect and appreciation. Bruce would have set, then raised, the bar with each production. With age and experience, he would have matured, and then would have communicated that sense of balance and wisdom through his art.
    But with his death, taking with it his unique martial art and moviemaking skills, the world outside Asia was left to snigger at clones, bad dubbing, and lost-in-translation ignorance. Even the best of subsequent kung fu films were relegated to critics Roger Ebert and Gene Siskels’ “turkey” or “stinker of the week” status on their syndicated movie review TV series through sheer, stubborn unwillingness to learn more.
    Why did Bruce Lee die? The truth will never be known for certain, but I have a theory. He pushed himself too hard. Deep in the desire to become the Chinese Superman, he lost sight of himself. As Dirty Harry said, “A man’s gotta know his limitations,” and Bruce Lee punished his mind and body to the point that it gave in. And, in that light, he