To Rose with Love (Hong Kong, 1967)

I am here not so much to review To Rose with Love as to simply let you know that it exists. This is good news, especially if you speak Cantonese, because parsing the film without English subtitles is a bit of a chore. In response to a confused email from me, Durian Dave of Soft Film informed me that, while not a sequel to Chor Yuen’s Black Rose films, per se, it is "considered to be the third part of Chor Yuen’s Black Rose trilogy” (he also provided me with a link to an English language synopsis of the film, which was mucho helpful). That may sound cryptic, but as I watched the film, it made more and more sense.

With To Rose with Love, Chor reunites most of the major cast members from his 1965 film The Black Rose and its immediate sequel The Spy with My Face. The only conspicuous absence is that of Connie Chan, who was either too big at the time for the sidekick role she played in the earlier films or too busy with the twelve other films she made in 1967. Remaining are the glamorous team of Nam Hung -- who was both Chor’s partner in life and in the Rose Motion Picture Company, which produced the film -- and Patrick Tse Yin. Also on the roster is Chor’s dad, Cheung Wood-Yau, in the role of Detective Chan, the sworn enemy of the masked female bandit/avenger The Black Rose -- or, to elucidate by reference to an equally obscure film series, the Juvet to the Rose’s Fantomas.

The hitch here, however, is that none of these actors are playing the same characters that they did in the previous films. True, Nam Hung and Tse Yin’s relationship still exhibits the same flirty antagonism as before, and she is still portraying the Rose’s alter ego, but in this case, rather than the glamorous socialite Chan Mei-yu, that alter ego is Ko Ching-yam, humble nurse to the disabled uncle of Tse Yin’s character, Ma Chim-ho -- who is here a civilian turned amateur sleuth, rather than the detective played by Tse Yin in the original.

Could To Rose with Love then be considered an early example of the series reboot? Perhaps so, given that, in keeping with that tradition, it, while possessing charms of its own, does not quite live up to the expectations raised by the original. No doubt, if there had been an internet in those days, it would have offered little respite from the howled objections of those who felt that Chor, with this treatment, had somehow “ruined” the character of the Black Rose (or, worse yet, had “raped” their childhoods -- a mean feat in the case of a reboot made just two years after the original).

Personally, I choose to see such fiddling as a testament to the iconic durability of the character; No director, writer or star -- even Ben Affleck -- has the power to “ruin” Superman, Batman, or Spiderman, as much as they might try, because those characters’ DNA is written into a vast shared culture, providing an indelible blueprint that exists outside the realm of interpretation. At the same time, I think it is this very durability that invites tampering in the first place, that tempts a creatively restless director like Chor to rearrange those iconic elements. Rose, a chivalrous bandit of fixed iconography, with roots in both Chinese pop and folk culture -- as well as the star of a beloved and massively popular film series -- suits such purposes to a tee.

And To Rose with Love, despite my early doubts, does eventually reveal itself to be a Black Rose film, albeit one in which the Rose herself is a pretty rare presence. Instead the spotlight is given over to Patrick Tse Yin, at the time a formidable star of Cantonese film in his own right. As the film begins, a valuable heirloom willed to Tse Yin’s character by his recently departed father is apparently stolen by the Black Rose, prompting the appearance at the father’s old mansion of Detective Chan and his men. From this point, the film becomes something of an old dark house thriller, with Ma Chim-ho, the nurse Ko, and Detective Chan making their way through the many secret doorways and corridors in the mansion’s seemingly bottomless interior. There is even a nifty bit of business where a door is opened by dancing out a particular melody --- Dance Dance Revolution style -- on a giant keyboard that’s imbedded in the floor. While inarguably evocative of that scene in Big, this reminded me even more of something you’d see on The Avengers, a likely influence upon Chor at the time.

As that indicates, Chor applies the same stylishly mod visual approach here that he did to the previous Rose films. Nam Hung’s outfits are fabulous, as are the interiors to both the mansion and a swinging go-go club that we catch an all-too-brief glimpse of. The director further exhibits a graphic, pop art sensibility in his approach to the frame. Scene transitions frequently see the end of the previous scene and the beginning of the next being presented in split screen, reduced to small frames within a black background. I may be wrong, but some of the zooms that then bring us into the new scenes seemed more like camera moves than optical effects, which would suggest that these transitions were done in camera and that perhaps that black background was an actual physical partition between camera and actors. In any case, however they were accomplished, these comic book touches are just one of the elements that make the film fun to watch, no matter how little of it one (me) is able to comprehend.

Despite boasting fight choreography by series regular Tong Kai, To Rose With Love can be called an action film only by the standards of the most corpulent shut in. Instead, much of its running time is taken up with talking and everyone pointing guns at one another without firing them. Truly, gun pointing is what has taken the place of hand gestures in this film’s universe. That is, until the final act, when Nam Hung finally shows up in her Black Rose gear to expose the true perpetrators of the robbery and Chor, seemingly in an effort to make up for lost time, crams in a rapid series of multi-participant fist fights, poison gas attacks, and other pulse quickening action set pieces. The delayed gratification has its desired effect, as the Rose, in her familiar cat suit and cowl, by this point has upon us the impact of the reappearance of a long lost and beloved relative, retroactively softening the blow of all the hand wringing and impatience that lead up to her welcome return.

Admittedly, I’m kind of an idiot for watching To Rose With Love the way that I did, because the expectations that I had based on the earlier films lead me to be almost immediately confounded by what it seemed, in all its untranslated Cantonese glory, to be instead offering. Thus I would only recommend doing so to the most dedicated completist. The rest of you should hold out for the deluxe, subtitled and extras laden boxed set of the Black Rose films that somebody should have put out by now yet inexplicably hasn’t. The film seems to lack some of the narcotic romanticism of the original Black Rose -- admittedly a tough standard to live up to -- but there is enough dialogue being spouted to suggest that, were it understandable, there could well be greater emotional depths to be plumbed. Until then, it remains a secret door that this gweilo has yet to completely unlock.

The Friends of 4DK: Oriole the Heroine by Durian Dave

Weak... so weak... head crossing... eyes spinning... knees curdling... blood trembling... Must... post... but can't... But wait... what's that on the horizon? Coming to the rescue, it's none other than Durian Dave of the dynamic Soft Film blog, bringing us a  fascinating post about one of the great heroines of classic Hong Kong cinema.

******

More than 40 years before Michelle Yeoh, Maggie Cheung, and Anita Mui knocked the socks off Hong Kong movie fans with their wuxia-superhero mashup The Heroic Trio (1992), there was another trio of stylish crimefighters kicking ass on Hong Kong’s silver screen. If you listened to last year’s Infernal Brains podcast about the “Jane Bond” films of 1960s Hong Kong, you might remember us talking about a certain Oriole the Heroine and her trusty sidekicks.

THE CHARACTER

Born in 1948 in the pages of the Blue Cover Detective Magazine, Oriole (or Wong Ang) was a modern-day version of the xiadao, the righteous thief of traditional wuxia stories. The original stories published in Shanghai were patriotic spy thrillers set during the war of resistance against Japan. After the communists came to power, the magazine’s publisher fled to Hong Kong and continued publishing the Oriole stories, which proved so popular they were reissued as stand-alone editions and reprinted frequently. Over time, the stories evolved: Chinese gangsters replaced the Japanese villains; the plots became more complex and bizarre; and the writing style became more cinematic. The first official adaptation, Oriole, the Heroine (ca. 1957), came from Shaw Brothers. Two years later director Ren Pengnian and kung fu divas Yu So Chow, Wu Lizhu, and Yam Yin made a series of four films, the last of which was The Story of Wong Ang the Heroine (1960).

THE DIRECTOR

REN PENGNIAN got his start in 1919 at the motion picture unit of The Commercial Press, where he made what is believed to be the first Chinese film with choreographed fight scenes, Robbery on a Train (1920). He also directed the earliest feature-length Chinese film, a true-crime thriller called Yan Ruisheng (1921). Although he made everything from comedies to melodramas, Ren ended up devoting his career to action movies. In 1928 he and his wife Wu Lizhu founded the Yue Ming Studio and made films together up until the 60s. SWAH can be considered a last hurrah from the couple that pioneered the contemporary action film in Chinese cinema.

THE PLAYERS

YU SO CHOW as Wong Ang aka Oriole the Heroine. The daughter of Peking opera master Yu Jim-yuen (who taught the Seven Little Fortunes), Yu So Chow grew up behind the stage and by her teens was an accomplished performer specializing in female warrior roles. (Check out this clip of Yu performing with her father.) Her fighting skills alone qualified her for the crown of wuxia queen, which she proudly wore during the 50s and much of the 60s, yet I suspect it was her beauty and glamour that cinched the title. Throughout her career — from her screen debut The Double Pistol Heroine (1949) to her rare non-fighting role in Bachelors Beware (1960) — Yu So Chow possessed a cool attitude and style that found perfect expression in the character of Wong Ang.

WU LIZHU as Wu Nga. Before Yu So Chow there was Wu Lizhu, who made a name for herself as the “Oriental Female Fairbanks” in silent serials such as The Northeast Hero (1928-31) and Mistress of the Spear (1931-32). Besides traditional wuxia and kung-fu films, Wu and her husband Ren Pengnian also made patriotic films such as Greedy Neighbors (1933), Female Spy 76 (1947), and Bloodshed in a Beseiged Citadel (1948), as well as the Occidental swashbuckler Lady Robin Hood (1947). When Wu returned to the screen in 1959 to make the first of four Wong Ang films, she was 52 years old. If it’s true you’re only as old as you feel, then judging by her performance in SWAH, Wu Lizhu most have been feeling pretty young indeed.

YAM YIN as Heung At. The daughter of Yam Yu-tin (who in 1927 was the first-ever credited martial-arts director), Yam Yin starred in some 130 kung-fu and wuxia movies throughout the 50s and 60s. Although her popularity never matched that of Yu So Chow, she was a mainstay of the Wong Fei-hung series. That she never wore the crown of martial-arts queen probably had more to do with Yu So Chow’s innate regalness than a lack of qualifications on Yam’s part. Her fight scenes in SWAH show that Yam possessed an intense physicality uniquely her own.

SHEK KIN as Chiu Yee-kong, leader of the Diamond Gang. If you don’t know Shek Kin, then you don’t know Hong Kong movies. Long before his memorable turn as Mr. Han in Enter the Dragon (1973), Shek was already the epitome of villainy to Hong Kong moviegoers. “Bad Guy Kin”, as he was affectionately called, made more than 500 films in a career spanning six decades. Although SWAH doesn’t showcase his considerable martial skills, Shek proves that sometimes all a villain needs is a nefarious smile, a good cigar, and a trap-door dungeon.

There is no credited fight choreo- grapher for SWAH, but with stunt masters YUEN SIU-TIN (left), LAU KAR-LEUNG (right), and KWAN CHING-LEUNG (not pictured) all appearing as members of Shek Kin’s Diamond Gang, you can be sure the action is top-notch. Yuen Siu-tin is best known for his iconic role as Jackie Chan’s sifu in Drunken Master (and also as the father of Yuen Wo-ping). Less known is that he got his start in movies in 1930 working as a stunt man and choreographer on the films of Ren Pengnian and Wu Lizhu. The late Lau Kar-leung needs no introduction. Suffice to say that before he helped revolutionize the martial-arts genre at Shaw Brothers, he honed his chops in Cantonese cinema. Kwan Ching-leung, a disciple of Yu So Chow’s father, may not be as famous as Lau, yet he contributed greatly to the modernization of martial-arts movies with his choreography in such wuxia spectaculars as The Snowflake Sword (1964) and The Six-Fingered Lord of the Lute (1965). (For more about the groundbreaking work of Lau and Kwan, see my review of Connie Chan’s Lady Black Cat films.)

THE FASHION

Before the fists start to fly, the first thing that impresses about SWAH are the fab duds of Oriole and her pals. As I mentioned above, Yu So Chow really knew how to rock an outfit. And Wu Lizhu was no slouch either. Throughout her career, she sported a butch look that was never less than cool. Decked out in sweaters, vests, and blazers, capri pants (in plaid and houndstooth), cravats and scarves, our three heroines look so sharp that one scarcely misses the catsuit, mask, and cape featured on the pulp covers (and in the Shaw adaptation).

THE FIGHTS

Of course the main reason to watch SWAH is the fights. The story itself is nothing special and primarily serves to keep the characters in motion. As Jean Lukitsch writes in the just published first volume of Electric Shadows: the Secret History of Kung Fu Movies, “A Ren Pengnian movie really comes alive in the fight scenes.... The characters don’t change; all the dramatic energy goes into the action.” Check out the clip below and judge for yourself. If you like what you see, you can watch the entire film here.

Teddy Girls (Hong Kong, 1969)

As one of the more prolific and thematically adventurous directors in 1960s Cantonese cinema, Lung Kong found it wise to placate his backers by alternating his output between lucrative crowd pleasers and the ambitious social dramas that seemed to be closer to his heart. 1969’s Teddy Girls is one of the latter. And while the film boasts a level of grit and violence uncommon to the relatively conservative Canto cinema of its era, it is nonetheless a far cry from the many more exploitive depictions of the delinquent schoolgirl that would come pouring out of various corners of Asia within just a couple of years. Held up against, say, one of Norifumi Suzuki’s Terrifying Girls High School films, for instance, Teddy Girls comes across as something more akin to Rebel Without a Cause; a slick yet sober A-list entertainment that gains added cachet through its sincere desire to address a pressing issue of the day while at the same time still cadging some of the edgy glamour associated with youthful rebellion.

To bear the burden of personifying at-risk Hong Kong youth, Lung chose Josephine Siao, whose popularity with Cantonese cinema audiences at the time was second only to that of one woman industry Connie Chan. After starting out as a child star, Siao had spent much of the 60s starring in wuxias and the occasional Jane Bond entry, but, by the time of Teddy Girls, had for the most part left such roles behind in favor of appearing in dramas and comedies. Nancy Sit, another of the belles of 1960s Canto cinema, also makes an appearance, and one of the joys of watching Teddy Girls is seeing these actresses, so often called upon to exemplify wholesome heroines, stretching their acting wings to portray cold-eyed teenage hard cases.

As the film begins, Siao’s character -- a teenaged child of privilege who is named Hsu Yu-ching but called “Josephine” by friends and family -- is hauled into court after being involved in a brawl at a discotheque. Her mom (Teresa Ha Ping) pleads for leniency, blaming her own failings as a parent for Josephine’s wayward ways. But when the judge lets her off with probation, Josephine says that she would rather be confined to a reformatory than sent back home, where -- as a later flashback reveals -- mom is too busy lolling around in bed with an oily hoodlum (played by Lung himself) to be at her father’s deathbed during his final moments, and who, when reminded by a servant that Josephine’s birthday is coming up, simply hands the kid a wad of cash to throw herself a party and fucks off.

Josephine is thus sent to a reform school run by the progressively-minded rector Du (Kenneth Tsang Kong), who believes in effecting positive change through encouragement rather than punishment. Josephine endures the expected hazing at the hands of her fellow inmates, but eventually bonds with a group of toughs lead by the steely Ma Pi-shan (Sit), and soon seems to be making progress. That is, until she receives word that her mother has committed suicide, having been swindled out of her money by the aforementioned hood. Bent on revenge, Josephine schemes with Ma Pi-shan and two other girls to make an escape.

As comparatively genteel as it may be, one thing that Teddy Girls does share in common with the Japanese pinky violence films is its depiction of its protagonists as being the inevitable losers of a rigged game -- and that thanks to the simple fact that they are women in a man’s world. Violence may be presented as an option to be frowned upon, but, under such circumstances, it is also hard not to see it as these characters’ only recourse. And so, upon making their break, Josephine and her cohorts’ separate paths carry all but one of them toward a brutal reckoning with a male betrayer. In Sit’s case, it is the deadbeat father of her out-of-wedlock child, and in the case of the prostitute Sussie (Mang Lee) it is her cheating boyfriend and former pimp. Finally, all converge upon the apartment of Josephine’s nemesis, as rector Du, the film’s lone example of masculine virtue, desperately searches the night in hope of finding them and averting catastrophe.

Perhaps somewhat predictably, Teddy Girls (a term that seems to be used as a catch-all for delinquent youth with no apparent connection to the British subculture that spawned it) ultimately shows us that the crooked path leads to tragedy and that society is to blame. Happily, Lung Kong has the sense to balance the earnest didacticism with which these points are laid out with a corresponding level of flash and style. This is, after all, a movie that closes with Kenneth Tsang Kong delivering a lengthy lecture about the causes of delinquency (which amusingly include “those films that show brutal fighting”). So it helps that, to make that medicine go down more easily, Lung avails himself of most of those thrills that the JD genre places so closely within reach. These include, of course, brutal fighting, but also wild dancing to that devil rock and roll music, angsty teenage melodrama, and endless scenes of young actresses in Capri pants copping loads of threatening attitude. I’m also happy to report that the sobriety of the message doesn’t preclude such whimsical flourishes as the improbable, funhouse layout of Josephine’s mom’s apartment, or the arty, self conscious minimalism with which certain courtroom and funeral scenes are staged.

All of which is to say that you don’t have to be of moral mind to be entertained by Teddy Girls, although the strong performances by its young leads do go a long way toward inviting our empathy and compassion. It also should be noted that the film is worthwhile for providing a window onto what may have been an abiding concern for Hong Kong society at the dawn of the 70s, especially to the extent that the causes of teddy girl-ism enumerated therein seem to be products of creeping westernization. Nonetheless, the fact is that the violent transgressions of female juvenile offenders hold an allure that no amount of high-mindedness can dampen. Certainly anyone with a conscience would hope for these girls to eventually turn their lives around and find salvation, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t also want to watch them break stuff along the way.

The Infernal Brains Podcast, Episode 10

 

In this very special episode of the Infernal Brains, Tars Tarkas, myself and our guest, Durian Dave of Soft Film, nerd the fuck out over Hong Kong Jane Bond films while my kitchen collapses in flames around us. It's a shame we didn't film it, but I suppose the slide show accompanying the streaming version below  makes up for it in visual razzle dazzle. For those blind movie fans out there who'd prefer to simply listen to the podcast with your enhanced super hearing, you can download it for your iPode machines here.

The subterranean John Barry: the secret life of the James Bond scores

The recently departed John Barry scored a lot of movies, and a surprising number of those without his knowledge or consent. During the first half of the 1960s, the James Bond films -- with their internationalist flavor and emphasis on speed, power, technology, and style -- modeled the ideal of consumerist modernity, and Barry’s soundtracks to those films captured that mood to the extent of becoming an inextricable part of the overall package. Thus it shouldn’t be too surprising that, during that period, commercial filmmakers in developing countries utilized those soundtracks as a shorthand means of hitching their more rickety cinematic wagons to James Bond’s supercharged engine, while at the same time reflecting their own countries’ global aspirations.

Trawling the world pop cinema of the 1960s leads to countless, unexpected encounters with “borrowed” cues from Barry’s scores to the 007 films, especially those from Goldfinger and You Only Live Twice. In my three years of writing about these movies, I can’t imagine how many times I’ve typed some variation of the phrase “pilfered bits from John Barry’s score to ____”. In Hong Kong, those bits turn up in both Cantonese films -- such as the “Jane Bond” films of Connie Chan and the Dark Heroine Muk Lan-fa films starring Suet Nei -- and Mandarin ones, such as Shaw Brothers spy efforts like The Golden Buddha and Temptress of a Thousand Faces. In India, they were a staple element of B “Stunt” films, accompanying many of the exploits of wrestling star Dara Singh, as well as lending authenticity to cash-poor, sub-Bondian espionage thrillers like Golden Eyes: Secret Agent 077 and Love and Murder. And in Turkey, they provided the musical backdrop to a myriad range of frenetic comic book adaptations along the lines of the Kilink and Iron Claw the Pirate films.

In this age of heightened sensitivity over issues of piracy, such flagrant flaunting of copyrights might seem shocking. But it’s important to remember that it was the below-the-radar status of many of these foreign film industries that allowed them to borrow so freely from other works without permission or fear of reprisal. I doubt that, even if they had known, Barry or his representatives would have seen it as being worth their while to pursue the makers of the Turkish Flash Gordon or those of some no budget Indian Bond imitation. Instead, I’d prefer to see these far flung appropriations of his work as a testament to Barry’s unparalleled mastery of his craft -- a mastery that enabled him to create music that not only served the purpose of enhancing the action on screen, but which also functioned as iconography in itself.

Of course, I wouldn’t be able to report on these unusual uses of Barry’s James Bond scores if I weren’t already keenly attuned to those scores myself, and immediately able to recognize them by even the briefest snippet (which is sometimes all that some of these movies allow you). This I owe to my friend Andrew, who introduced me to the thrill of all things Bond when we were in sixth grade. Not the least of those thrills, for me, came from the movies’ soundtrack albums, and it was not long before I had amassed a complete collection of them. Of course, Barry’s exotic musical stylings were far from an appropriate accompaniment to my sedentary 12 year old lifestyle, but they did provide an alluring avenue of escape.

As a result, during a time when other kids my age were following the top forty, I was absolutely immersed in Bond music, listening to those vinyl albums over and over through headphones, absorbing every note. I think that this experience not only conditioned me as far as the specific tones and moods that I respond to in movies, but also influenced me greatly as a musician, determining the kinds of progressions, melodies and chord styles that I would be drawn to when writing songs. Lately, however, it has mostly been useful for allowing me to identify one of Barry’s compositions even when its nothing more than a looped fragment played under someone singing in Cantonese, or an isolated horn stab buried within an old trip hop track.

Anyway, this longstanding relationship of mine with Barry’s music means that the news of his death brings with it an occasion for more than casual reflection. But, while other tributes rightly focus on the man’s many high profile accomplishments, I thought I would instead laud him for his somewhat more subterranean contributions to international pulp cinema. Even though they are contributions that he very well may not have been aware of making.

Little Devil (Hong Kong, 1969)

The Cantonese language film Little Devil (aka The Devil Warrior) is exactly the type of estrogen-driven martial arts melodrama that was rapidly going out of style in Hong Kong in 1969, thanks in no small part to the efforts of Shaw Brothers and male-fixated directors like Chang Cheh. It stars Bo-bo Fung and Nancy Sit, two teenaged actresses who were among the brightest of 1960s Cantonese cinema’s galaxy of female stars, and was directed by Chan Lit-Ban, who helmed an impressive number of wuxia films during the period, most of which starred Cantonese box-office queen Connie Chan. While it makes a few nods to the bloodier, more brutal style of action that was being trademarked over at Shaw, such emulation is clearly not the film’s reason for being. Instead it offers an agreeable dose of comparatively reserved old-school charm.

Clearly not aspiring to break with tradition, Little Devil ponies up with all of the curiously gender-bending role assignments that we’ve come to expect from old school wuxia films. Bo-bo Fung is cast as the male hero, and Nancy Sit, while cast as the sweetheart of Fung’s character, spends much of her time onscreen masquerading in male guise. Thanks, however, to the typically chaste representation of romantic relationships between men and women in Cantonese films of this era, those inspired by this scenario to hope for any suggestion of girl-on-girl action will be gravely disappointed.

It seems that the family of Chui Yuk-wah (Sit) do not approve of her relationship with wandering orphan Yeung Siu-fung (Fung), and so the young Siu-fung is forced to sneak into the family’s villa under the cover of darkness in order to see her. In the course of doing so, he witnesses Yuk-wah’s father –- one of those empire-lusting clan leaders without whom wuxia cinema would be completely adrift -- murdering a pair of his rivals. Siu-fung is then discovered by the father and himself murdered, his body left in the snow. What the villain most likely had not counted on, however, is the proximity of a snow-dwelling sorcerer called the Sound Demon (at least according to the Hong Kong Film Archive's synopsis of the film), who takes Siu-fung’s body back to his cave and revives him with his magics. If you have seen more than a handful of these type of films, you can probably guess what happens next: Siu-fung grows to manhood under the tutelage of the Sound Demon, in the process gaining the special kung fu skills that will aid him in his quest for vengeance against his sweetheart’s old man.

During Little Devil’s first section, the combination of its bright primary color scheme and the artificiality of the small interior sets used to represent its Wintry, snow-bound settings lend a sort of storybook feel to the action. Once Siu-fung has left the Sound Demon’s cave in search of revenge, however, its middle section drifts toward more prosaic wuxia film territory, marked by the typical fights set in tea houses and alongside country roads. The film’s climax then sends us hurtling back into fantasy land for a final duel between the Sound Devil and Yuk Wah’s father, most memorable for the former’s employment of a nuclear-strength, bellowing laugh that works against his foes in much the same manner as the “Ghostly Laughter” seen in Shaw’s later Holy Flame of the Martial World.

All in all, Little Devil is not defined by it’s fantasy elements, which seem more than anything else to be simply a means to an end, plot-wise. Because of this, those hoping for the kind of crudely realized WTF moments you’d find in more overtly fantastic wuxia films (like the aforementioned Holy Flame) will probably find it to be a bit of a disappointment. But for those attuned to the kind of cozy, low-key pleasures that the sincerity and quaintness of a film of this type can offer, there is definitely a suitable rainy afternoon’s entertainment in store. I also have to say that it’s a real kick to behold the spectacle of armed men cowering from the diminutive and baby-faced Bo-bo Fung, who was just sixteen at the time and not yet fully out of the shadow of her former role as Cantonese cinema’s answer to Shirley Temple. (To her credit, though, she does do the menacing glare really well.)

Needless to say, I’d love to see these old Cantonese films get even a fraction of the attention worldwide that the output of the Shaws, and even the Taiwanese film industry, do. As the products of a scrappy and underfunded local industry, they not only provide a necessary part of the overall story of Hong Kong cinema, but also carry an enormous amount of underdog appeal. Granted, they’re an acquired taste, but I think that, if their existence were more widely known, there are a lot of people out there who would gladly do the work. That said, Little Devil might not be the best place to start, but it will definitely add a modicum of richness to the dedicated viewer’s ongoing discovery of classic Cantonese cinema as a whole.

Sek Kin 1913 - 2009

I've learned via a post over at Soft Film that Sek Kin -- a man whom I like to think of as the Amrish Puri of Cantonese cinema, and who is known to millions as "Mr. Han Man" from Enter the Dragon -- has passed away. For me Sek's villainous portrayals have provided the high points of more films that I can reliably remember, and he will be greatly missed. To read some of my previous posts regarding the man, click here.

Feeling link-ish

Over on Tars Tarkas’ blog, Tars has posted a very handy overview of the Cantonese “Jane Bond” films of the 1960s, a great resource for anyone interested in that genre of delightfully rough-edged but nonetheless charming costumed heroine movies, many of which have sadly been lost to the ages. In addition to his own well-researched words on the subject (which include a review of Connie Chan’s Lady Black Cat), Tars has also linked to a number of other reviews, including ones written both by myself and by my pal Dave over at Soft Film.

And speaking of Soft Film: I’ve mentioned over one million times now my fondness for old school fantasy wuxia films in which people are shown shooting cartoon lightning bolts out of their hands, and Dave has posted a sizeable clip from the 1964 Cantonese wuxia Buddha’s Palm that consists of pretty much nothing but. I especially loved how the actors are underselling the move in this example, being all like, “Ho hum, just hold up your hand and apparently someone’s going to draw some kind of a cartoon ghost or something coming out of it in ‘post’, or whatever we call it here in 1964.” Of course, this movie should not be confused with the Shaw Brothers’ 1982 film Buddha’s Palm, which also has lots of people shooting cartoon lasers out of their hands, as well as a dragon that looks like a muppet.

Elsewhere, though I normally only pimp my own writings on Teleport City on this blog, I just have to steer you toward Keith’s just posted review of Manos: The Hands of Fate. Keith here has the last word on this badfilm classic, as well as the first, and… well, to tell the truth, he’s actually managed to use pretty much every word that could conceivably be dedicated to Manos in the course of this tour de force. Essential reading, for sure.

And finally, while it might be considered unusual to link to a post that I have not actually read, in the case of my linking here to MemsaabStory’s review of Azaad there is a method to my madness. You see, I am planning to watch and review Azaad myself in the near future, and Memsaab’s coverage of the films she reviews tends not only to be very thorough, but also to include all of the best possible screen captures, a fact which in the past has discouraged me from even bothering to review movies that she has gotten her greedy masala-loving hands on first. So, as of now, I am doing my best to avoid her review of Azaad, because it really sounds like my kind of picture. I mean, from just the tiniest peek I took at Memsaab’s write-up, I can see that it involves Dharmendra dressing up like Zorro, as well as at some point wrestling with a stuffed dog and – no no no no! I’ve already heard too much! LALALALALALALA! Not listening!

The Black Rose strikes again, again

I originally wrote my review of Chor Yuen's The Black Rose for my website The Lucha Diaries back in November of last year. I then posted a revised version of it on Teleport City's Jet Set Cinema in March, though it ended up getting a bit buried. Now it's been posted as a full feature review over at Teleport City with the addition of a number of screen caps. That's all good with me, because, as far as I'm concerned, the film is a criminally under-recognized (in the West) classic of Hong Kong cinema that is also woefully unavailable, and, as such, it would be impossible for it to be over-hyped or exposed. Check out my full review here.

Bat Girls, Blue Falcons and Black Roses

Yesterday I posted images of some lobby cards from my pal David Wells' collection for the super boss looking Josephine Siao film Blue Falcon. Now David -- who is also the webmaster of the Connie Chan appreciation site Movie-Fan Princess -- informs me that he will be sharing further treasures from his vaults via his brand new blog Soft Film (in fact, he's already got some images up of flyers and a soundtrack EP from another crazy-looking Siao vehicle, Lady Killer aka Bat Girl.) These will include posters, lobby cards, leaflets, handbills and other ephemera documenting the vibrant pop cinema of 1960s Hong Kong. There will definitely be some revelations here for those whose awareness of HK film from this period doesn't go beyond the output of Shaw Brothers or Cathay.

Though it means that my lazy ass is losing a source of non-labor intensive content for my own blog, I'm excited about this development, because I'm dying to see all of the insane stuff he's had locked away.

http://softfilm.blogspot.com/

Pictures from awesome looking movies that you will probably never be able to see: Blue Falcon

David Wells over at Movie-Fan Princess occasionally likes to torture me with tantalizing glimpses of incredible looking old Hong Kong movies that have long been lost to history. This time I decided to share the pain. Below are scans of lobby card images from David's personal collection from the 1968 Cantonese film Blue Falcon, one of the wave of "Jane Bond" films that swept HK during the mid sixties, in this case starring Josephine Siao. All I can say is: Waaaah!

(Click images to enlarge)

ohhh....

Yesterday I posted about the apparently potty-mouthed French electropop singer Yelle and linked to the video for her song "A Cause Des Garçons", which shows her singing to a bunch of dancing household appliances. Ever since then I haven't been able to stop thinking that I've seen that somewhere before. Today it dawned on me:



Yelle, Connie Chan may look sweet in her movies, but I doubt that she'd take too kindly to you biting her style like that. It's best that you just start funneling all of your royalties and concert proceeds to her right away before there's some kind of ugly, cross-generational international incident involving various combinations of kung fu, lawyers and awkward but charming interpretations of the watusi.

MLF?!

You may not have heard of her, but if you're a bad guy, Suet Nei is probably going to kill you. In my latest contribution to Teleport City , I take a fond look at the Dark Heroine Muk Lan-fa films, a series of wild and violent "Jane Bond" entries from the swinging Cantonese cinema of the 1960s.