Concentric: Literary and Cultural Studies 36.2 Sept. 2010: 213-241 Farce, Pathos, and Absurdity in Stephen Chow’s Film Comedies: From Beijing with Love and CJ7 Reconsidered* Eric K.W. Yu Department of Foreign Languages and Literature National Chiao Tung University, Taiwan Abstract The hugely popular Hong Kong film comedian and director Stephen Chow Sing Chi enjoyed international box-office success as well as critical acclaim for his Kung Fu Hustle (2004). Despite its lukewarm reception in the West, his latest film CJ7 (2008) has been compared to Charlie Chaplin’s classic The Kid (1921). This paper explores the seldom-discussed Chaplinesque aspect in Chow’s oeuvre, arguing that how to evoke pathos while preserving the funniest ingredients of farce has in fact been an artistic obsession for Chow for years. Focusing on Chow’s early work From Beijing with Love (1994), a daring blend of farce and pathos, and CJ7, his latest endeavor to “seek joy amidst sorrow,” this paper examines Chow’s major comic devices, including the significance of absurdity created by situational humor, and probes into the curious interaction between low comedy elements and narrative techniques which elicit emotional responses beyond belly laughs. How can pathos be created in a generally low comic climate without appearing to be playful insincerity? How can pathos so created be prevented from developing into sentimentality, an easy target for burlesque? Such are the questions in film aesthetics addressed by the present study. Attending to the dissimilar reception of CJ7 in Greater China and the West, this paper also seeks to explore how cultural differences might have complicated Chow’s recent attempts to cater his works for a more global audience. Keywords Hong Kong cinema, film comedy, pathos, absurdity, gag structure, Stephen Chow, Charlie Chaplin, From Beijing with Love, CJ7 * I wish to thank Vivian P.Y. Lee as well as the anonymous readers for their insightful comments. In a closely related essay of mine titled “007 in Late Colonial Hong Kong: Technology, Masculinity, and Sly Humor in Stephen Chow’s From Beijing with Love,” I try to develop some ideas missing here to follow up on their kind suggestions. 214 Concentric 36.2 (Sept. 2010): 213-241 In a BBC interview conducted shortly before the 2005 release of Kung Fu Hustle in the UK, the renowned Hong Kong film comedian and director Stephen Chow Sing Chi acknowledged that one of his favorite comedians of all time is Charlie Chaplin (Brett). Although there is nothing particularly Chaplinesque in Kung Fu Hustle and most of Chow’s box-office hits, that Chow named Chaplin as a major comedy influence is quite telling in retrospect. Chow is never shy to mention his humble origins in public; his characters either come from the margins of society or lose their privileged status temporarily and learn through suffering and humiliation. Chow’s lower-class background partly explains why he has been drawn to Chaplin, whose films abound in struggling, disadvantaged protagonists. Perhaps even more importantly, like Chaplin, Chow was sensitive to charges of crudity and triviality in his early career and has struggled, most notably since King of Comedy (1999), to aspire to respectability by infusing seriousness and meaningfulness into his works.1 Critics have found affinity between Chow’s CJ7 and Chaplin’s slapstick tragicomedy The Kid (1921), though Chow’s professed inspiration came from Steven Spielberg’s ET: The Extra-Terrestrial (1982) (Douglas). While Chaplin succeeded in elevating his features chiefly by pathos and social satire, Chow’s solutions are more precarious and complex. According to his long-time collaborator Lee Lik-chi, what Chow pursues in films like King of Comedy is a higher comic style which “finds humor in pathos and seeks joy amidst sorrow” (qtd. in Shi and Liu 224).2 Chow’s early screen image as an opportunistic and streetwise prankster epitomized by the “tricky expert” in Tricky Brains (1991), however, is scarcely conducive to the spirit of tragicomedy. Nevertheless, the bumpkin figure in films like Love is Love (1990) already reveals a more innocent side of Chow’s comic persona capable of sympathy if not also of other delicate emotions. Beginning with Chow’s directorial debut From Beijing with Love (1994), how to evoke pathos in a 1 In King of Comedy, Wan Tin-Sau, the protagonist played by Chow, uses the Chinese translation of Constantin Stanislavski’s An Actor Prepares as his Bible. His high seriousness about acting even as an extra makes him a laughingstock, a pitiable character inviting pathos. Besides, having to make a choice between a very successful actress who offers to help with his career and a prostitute who loves him, Wan makes the “morally correct” decision to abandon the former in order to take care of the latter. Although Chow is never a Marxist promoter of “class consciousness,” his sympathy for the underprivileged is beyond doubt. 2 While working at TVB, Lee scripted and directed the 1989 TV series Final Combat (Gaishi haoxia) and The Justice of Life (Ta laizi jianghu), inaugurating Chow’s rise as a star comedian in the screwball mo lei-tau, or “nonsense,” style. Lee has not only directed a number of Chow’s earlier films but also co-directed with Chow From Beijing with Love, God of Cookery (1996), King of Comedy, and Shaolin Soccer (2001). The last film witnessed a serious conflict between Lee and Chow and their ultimate split. Yu / Farce, Pathos, and Absurdity 215 film which retains the funniest ingredients of farce seems an artistic obsession for Chow and has also complicated his more recent efforts at pleasing non-Chinese audiences. This paper focuses on From Beijing with Love, arguably the most successful of Chow’s early attempts in this regard, and CJ7, his latest endeavor, also by far the most Chaplinesque of his works inasmuch as it deals directly with the question of how to survive poverty with a sense of humor while maintaining one’s dignity and integrity. CJ7’s reversion to such an “old-fashioned,” presumably anachronistic, theme has received very different responses from Chinese and Western audiences, and it makes an excellent case demonstrating how cultural differences might come to bear on film comedy reception. Drawing examples from the two films, I seek to analyze the comic devices used by Chow, especially the importance of absurdity in situational humor and the interaction between low comedy elements and narrative techniques which elicit emotional responses beyond belly laughs. With respect to CJ7, I also try to explore the translatability of some of Chow’s comic strategies which have worked well with the audiences in Greater China. Preliminary Clarifications and Three General Theories To talk of low comedy or farce invites considerable confusion. A number of closely related and potentially conflicting criteria need to be clarified. Referring mainly to Hollywood comedies since the 1990s, Philip Drake notes that the phenomenal success of films “featuring physical gags, pratfalls, jokes about bodily functions and the loss of bodily control has been [seen as] part of an increasingly prevalent ‘dumbed down’ sensibility in popular culture that embraces stupidity at the expense of more cerebral pleasures” (187). Drake’s compact statement, symptomatically, lumps together at least three pairs of opposition, namely, vulgarity versus propriety, dumbness versus intelligence, and puerility versus social sophistication. Apparently, Stephen Chow’s humor, sometimes vulgar and occasionally childish, is seldom outright dim-witted. The silliest moments in Chow betray a worldly knowingness. With respect to language, Chow typically adopts a register of Cantonese that is widely used by contemporary lower-class Hong Kong people even when he is acting in a period piece, but he would create new meaning out of common parlance and borrow outmoded expressions and mannerisms from the Cantonese-speaking cinema of the 1950s and 1960s. This sociolinguistically “low” language choice goes well with Chow’s constant emphasis that he comes from the working class, and the linguistic intimacy and demotic spirit therein partly 216 Concentric 36.2 (Sept. 2010): 213-241 explain his mass appeal in much of the 1990s to a local audience including many less educated filmgoers.3 What has upset viewers with a more “refined” taste is probably not the lowness of speech as such; in any case, much of the linguistic coarseness is gone when Chow’s dialogue is dubbed into Mandarin Chinese or translated into English subtitles. Perhaps it is naked vulgarity in Chow’s films, particularly those collaborated with Wong Jing, that has offended some critics. Witty wisecracks and inoffensive mo lei-tau, or “nonsense,” humor based on verbal slapstick or outlandish incongruity aside, fairly explicit sex jokes, phrases alluding to indecent “three-letter words,” and gags pertaining to genitalia, excretory processes, and other forms of crudity are not hard to find in Chow’s early works.4 It is important to note that vulgarity is not a mere question of subject matter. Refinement in film comedy often implies a more euphemistic way of presentation which must avoid certain locutions and iconographic details currently considered impolite or taboo according to the “educated” taste.5 While coarse obscenity in a film comedy, for many viewers, is barely redeemable, pratfalls, pranks, lunacy, and knavery typical in farce could be rendered more acceptable when given due moral, thematic, narrative, or other justifications. As the great masters of slapstick have proved, a film containing raw physical humor and boisterous tomfoolery is not necessarily artistically inferior. Chaplin’s The Tramp (1915) is a case in point. The protagonist of this Essanay two-reeler is a flawed character, still rather remote from the “gentleman-poet-dreamer” who will rise to prominence in Chaplin’s mature phase. As a compulsive trickster, the “Little Tramp” is given to sadistic pranks. Clumsy and inattentive at his work in a farm, he takes enormous pleasure in repeatedly stabbing the backside of a fellow workman with a pitchfork and in mischievously dropping a rotten egg on a minister’s prayer 3 With recourse to Bakhtin’s idea of the carnivalesque, Linda Chiu-Han Lai argues that Chow’s verbal humor is not only deeply rooted in the Cantonese slang of Hong Kong but celebrates “that aspect of humanness often suppressed or condemned by social etiquette, norms, and rationality, as well as pedagogic programs delimiting proper civic conduct that are geared towards effective government” (Lai 244). 4 “Three-letter words” in Chinese are equivalent to “four-letter words” in English, i.e., foul language having mainly to do with sex. Citing the joke about a piece of used toilet paper in Tricky Brains involving Chow and his usual sidekick Ng Mang-tat as a prime example, David Bordwell comments that such popular Hong Kong comedies represent “vulgar cinema at its most gleefully appalling” (172). It should be added that Bordwell’s main target here is Wong Jing’s oeuvre, not Chow’s comic performance as such. 5 Concerning sex humor, Freud has written that we “could never bring ourselves to laugh at the coarse smut; we should feel ashamed or it would seem to us disgusting.” Yet “when we laugh at a refined obscene joke, we are laughing at the same thing that makes a peasant laugh at a coarse piece of smut” (Freud 121). Yu / Farce, Pathos, and Absurdity 217 book. Still, he commands our respect due to his surprising valor and resourcefulness in rescuing the female lead Edna; his genuine love for her, ultimately unrequited as she is above his station, may also touch our hearts. When Edna is reunited with her well-dressed, handsome fiancé, the tramp tries hard to hide his heartbreak, and gives the couple blessings before departing. The ending is free of sentimental self-pity: waddling down the road alone, our clownish hero suddenly improvises a ballet step and moves on eagerly. The pathos created naturally within a comic climate and the underlying optimism essential for human survival transform this knockabout short into a masterpiece of film art that is at once funny and serious, physical and cerebral.6 Some jokes and gags in Stephen Chow are considered rather “low-down” not so much because they are silly or vulgar but that they are deemed too mean or aggressive. Some of his other comic devices, by contrast, are quite elaborate and unobjectionable. To better appreciate the complexity and ambiguity of Chow’s evolving comic style, we need to equip ourselves with some basic concepts about mirth creation. The following three theories borrowed from Western scholars will be useful for a deeper discussion of Chow’s works. However, as I will demonstrate when addressing the totally dissimilar reception of CJ7, sometimes cultural differences might complicate the application of such general theories, however flexible they are as heuristic tools. The first theory to be introduced is known as the “superiority theory”: we laugh at the blunders and infirmities of others, such as in the classic example of watching someone slip on a banana peel. Self-aggrandizement and sometimes self-righteousness are involved. When we see characters suffering from the “gotcha” tricks of a prankster like Chow’s “tricky expert,” we may laugh wickedly at the victims and admire the clever ruses. And when we see that a prankster’s malicious scheme fails and he or she is trapped, we may laugh out even louder, because what happens can be taken as poetic justice (“it serves him/her right”), as though we were entirely innocent of gloating over others’ misfortune earlier. The worst humor, in Simon Critchley’s words, “seeks to confirm the status quo either by denigrating a certain sector of society, as in sexist humor, or by laughing at the alleged stupidity of a social outsider” (12). Fortunately, not all jokes and comic events are a matter of derision pure and simple. Besides, a fundamental principle of comedy dictates that victims of trickery and violence will not suffer too seriously, or we are left with pure malice and the fun is gone. In spite of abundant pratfalls and tit-for-tat pranksterism, even slapstick, supposedly the lowest form of 6 In Kenneth S. Lynn’s interpretation, Chaplin’s message is that “as long as you can count on humor, you must not entirely despair of life” (161). 218 Concentric 36.2 (Sept. 2010): 213-241 film comedy, can be valued, as Steve Neale and Frank Krutnik argue, “for the populist foundation of its aesthetic in a relentless aggression against narcissism, vanity, snobbery, and pride” (24). However impure our pleasures may be when seeing characters being punished and dishonored, we are assured that no great harm will be done. More importantly, when observing them suffer from blunders, pranks, and mishaps time and again, our sympathy will be aroused, which may displace the baser kinds of sadistic pleasure.7 Traceable to Herbert Spencer and popularized by Sigmund Freud, the “relief theory” explains laughter in terms of a sudden release of pent-up psychic energy. Jokes dealing with obscenity and other taboo subjects make us laugh, for under the pretence of “play,” as opposed to sober reality, our repressions are temporarily lifted.8 The great appeal of Chaplin’s tramp and Chow’s trickster kid derives from the fact that they defy social conventions and challenge authorities, performing with extraordinarily quick wit and gusto what we ourselves cannot and dare not do in our lackluster docile lives. The difference is that Chaplin’s social outcast exhibits more naiveté while Chow’s prankster is much worldlier and always triumphs even if he might have to be humiliated and reformed in the middle of the story. So far as pathos is concerned, I would like to introduce a special kind of relief of an entirely different nature: when seeing an inept and unfortunate protagonist confronting a series of big troubles, we are worried about his or her fate (hence a tension is built up); when the threat is suddenly averted or the problem solved, we feel immediately relieved. For want of a better term, let us call this “sympathetic comic relief.” The joy so experienced is evidently more altruistic and thus sounder morally. I presume Chow’s ideal of “finding humor in pathos and seeking joy amidst sorrow” is akin to this kind of humor, though how far he himself has achieved it remains disputable. Finally, the “incongruity theory” maintains that humor is produced, as Critchley puts it, “by the experience of a felt incongruity between what we know or expect to be the case, and what actually takes place in the joke, gag, jest or blague” (3). In Jerry Palmer’s formulation, two processes must be conjoined: “1. the sudden 7 Incidentally, a vexing problem for some reviewers of Chaplin’s The Great Dictator (1940) is that, precisely because of the effective burlesque, Hynkel, the Hitler figure in the film, is much more human than Hitler himself. In Chaplin’s portrayal, Hitler has become, as Kyp Harness aptly phrases it, “a small, crass, ridiculous, mediocre loser whose ideas were crackbrained and absurd” (174). Paradoxically, the more successfully the dictator’s heroic image has been undermined, the more readily viewers might pity his miserable avatar. 8 Freud’s theory is actually more complicated. For him, in the so-called “tendentious jokes,” “fore-pleasure,” or pleasure drawing from “the sources of play upon words and of liberated nonsense,” helps us fight against suppression, “lift[ing] deeply-rooted inhibitions and repressions” and in so doing initiating “the larger release of pleasure” (164-68). Yu / Farce, Pathos, and Absurdity 219 creation of a discrepancy, or incongruity, in the joke narrative; 2. a bifurcated logical process, which leads the listener [or viewer] to judge that the state of affairs portrayed is simultaneously highly implausible and just a little bit plausible” (96). In fact, many of Chow’s “nonsense” comic actions are hardly devoid of meaning but entail what Palmer terms “the logic of the absurd”: intriguing incongruity is presented, which, no matter how ridiculous or illogical it may seem at first sight, could be made perfect sense of in an albeit abnormal or insane way. A good example that can be explained with reference to all three theories introduced above is found in the party scene of From Beijing with Love, where Chow’s Ling Ling Qi, or “007,” happens to be standing in front of a serving table. When a waiter asks what Chow would like to have, Chow declines to be served and, to our great surprise, draws his own huge pork knife to carve an enormous piece of pork for himself. The viewer will burst into laughter since it is highly implausible that a man so faultlessly attired would bring the lowly utensil of a pork vendor into a fancy party, not to mention using it to chop up meat for himself. This breach of decorum and the mere look of Chow drawing the knife from the sheath hidden under his shiny white jacket are quite beyond the film audience’s expectation. Even more surprising is his easeful and self-assured manner. Yet this ludicrous act is more than “a little bit plausible” if we remember early in the film Qi has claimed to be a “swordsman” and insisted on carrying his pork knife as though it were a sign of honor for a knight-errant. This gag involves conceptual incongruity as well as deviation from social norms, and our response can be a mixture of derision and admiration. Qi’s unconventional behavior confounds our common sense and may be dismissed as sheer silliness, hence the butt of the audience’s laughter; but it could also be considered “cool,” for to boldly transgress propriety like that might well be a secret wish of our own, a demonstration of courage beyond the norm. From Beijing with Love: Gag Structure and Farce Mixed with Pathos Marking his growing maturity in the mid-1990s, From Beijing with Love is one of the funniest and, in a sense, most experimental of Chow’s films. Grossing over 37.5 million Hong Kong dollars, this berserk spoof of the James Bond cycle has also earned Chow and Lee Lik-chi critical acclaim. Abandoning his successful naughty trickster kid persona, Chow approaches the role of a pork-vendor-cum- secret-agent in a much more restrained manner. The Hong Kong film critic Deng Tu claims that Chow’s deadpan performance, more lively and up-to-date, surpasses the 220 Concentric 36.2 (Sept. 2010): 213-241 “Great Stone Face” Michael Hui Koon-Man at his best (177); Lin Li and others praise the film for its timely social criticism and black humor. Presumably because of its stinging satire on contemporary Chinese corruption, From Beijing with Love has been banned in the PRC.9 In what follows I would like to investigate how Chow and his co-director Lee manage to turn what is fundamentally a farce into something more artistically sophisticated by nuanced structuring of comic events and by ingeniously mixing low humor with pathos. The latter method is particularly noteworthy for its experimental daring.10 Critics have regretted that in Chow’s early works various gags are often unrelated to one another and unmotivated, that is, not logically grown out of the story proper. This weakness of fragmentation is actually not unique to Chow or to popular Hong Kong film comedies in general, for as Neale and Krutnik point out, comedy as a genre “not only permits but encourages the abandonment of causal motivation and narrative integration for the sake of comic effect” (31). But compared with many of his earlier films, From Beijing with Love does contain some comic routines which are much better organized. Let me give some concrete examples. One of the most memorable comic events in it has to do with the astonishing functions of Ling Ling Qi’s various gadgets: a mobile phone turns out to be an electrical shaver in disguise; a shaver is revealed as a hairdryer; a hairdryer a shaver; and a shoe doubles as a hairdryer. The gags concerned can be considered “dumb jokes,” because such camouflages are utterly useless as far as Qi’s job as a spy is concerned. In terms of comic organization, however, they do form a neat articulated gag sequence involving the clever play of repetition and surprise.11 We laugh when Qi proudly reveals to his partner Xiangqin (Anita Yuen) that his phone is actually a shaver, stressing that with this device no one will notice he is shaving while participating in a social event. This part can be explained by both the “superiority theory” and “incongruity theory.” We sneer at such an absolutely unnecessary invention, treating Qi’s boast as a butt of fun. The audience’s position of superiority has been built up by a previous gap in which Qi ruins Xiangqin’s cabinet door, mistakenly assuming that someone is hiding inside her apartment. The discrepancy between the phone’s appearance and its actual function as a shaver further affords the pleasure of perceiving surprising incongruity. The “logic of the 9 The effectiveness of the ban is questionable. Nowadays the film is readily available at some Chinese film websites, such as PPS.TV <http://www.ppstream.com/>. 10 I am not suggesting that this film is faultless. Some unnecessarily crude gags are readily found, such as the Q-inspired Da Wenxi (Law Kar Ying) pissing on the wall. 11 Neale and Krutnik call comic sequences involving complex elaboration “developed” or “articulated” gags (52). Yu / Farce, Pathos, and Absurdity 221 absurd,” or “sense within nonsense,” becomes more obvious as the sequence “phone→shaver, shaver→hairdryer, hairdryer→shaver” proceeds. A good sense of coherence and closure is created in this series of gags: the second item of each pair, be it the shape or function, reappears in the first of the next pair, while the real function of the third object as a shaver harks back to the first gag. The common motif of useless disguise is milked by the symmetrical repetition with variation. Owing to the repetition, the second and third gags are more predictable than the first. If the pattern drags on, the sense of surprise will definitely diminish. Instead, in this series the first three closely related gags also prepare for a potentially bigger laugh to come. As sort of a comic pause, Xiangqin asks Qi, tongue-in-cheek, what if his hairdryer is lost, a question entailing half-hearted adherence to rather than outright refutation of Qi’s very “logic of the absurd.” Suspense is created as we are wondering, with Xiangqin, what Qi’s reply will be. As Neale and Krutnik observe, suspense always implies a degree of predictability (55). We anticipate Qi’s answer to be equally ludicrous but unlikely to be too similar in content. Again we are taken by surprise: Qi picks up one of his shoes and shows us it can also serve as a hairdryer. A greater variation is found as the shoe, unlike the three preceding items, retains its proper function as a shoe. Still, the fourth gag is essentially the continuation of the first three. If we are caught by the surprise of unexpected repetition and laugh even more heartily, the fourth gag has served well as the “caesura” of the entire gag sequence, equivalent to the punch-line in a verbal joke. The fifth gag, in which Qi’s disguised hairdryer runs out of battery, appeals to a more conventional kind of humor but still offers a satisfying sense of ending. A careful scrutiny will show that some comic events in this James Bond parody, no matter how facile, puerile or boorish they might appear in themselves, are meaningfully organized at a macro-narrative level, and together serve larger functions other than simply to draw laughs. To explicate my point, a brief plot summary is in order. The story begins when a dinosaur head guarded by the Chinese Army is stolen. Ling Ling Qi (Stephen Chow), an almost forgotten reserve secret agent leading the life of a lowly pork vendor, is summoned by a high official and assigned the job of recovering the bones. On his mission Qi arrives in Hong Kong and meets with his partner, Li Xiangqin (Anita Yuen). Qi’s superior turns out to be the villainous Golden Gun, who has not only stolen the national treasure but ordered Xiangqin to kill him. Left in the dark, Qi is first attacked by the agents dispatched by Golden Gun’s rival, and then shot and wounded by Xiangqin. Nonetheless, moved by Qi’s good nature and sincerity, Xiangqin finds herself falling in love with him. She decides to ignore her orders and save his life. Finally, 222 Concentric 36.2 (Sept. 2010): 213-241 Qi defeats Golden Gun, reunites with Xiangqin, and happily resumes his humble meat-selling career. As can be seen in this bare outline, the film is an adventure story with a romantic subplot. While the rather straightforward action storyline is easy to handle, how to build up, amid a largely hilarious atmosphere, a serious romantic relationship between an unlikely pair—a laughable bumpkin and a sharp professional female assassin—is no easy task. With respect to characterization, we can discover a subtle recurrent pattern of comic action which helps delineate Qi’s personality, and suggests a certain depth or mystery behind the façade of clumsiness and ignorance. Compared with his role model James Bond, Qi seems to be a pathetic imitation.12 While Bond can charm almost every beauty he desires, Qi must resort to pornographic videos and cheap prostitution. Besides, Qi’s frequent blunders, clumsy manners, and impractical low-tech gadgets provided by Wenxi all make him a laughingstock. Nevertheless, in the film we gradually learn, despite all his flaws and incompetence, Qi has a true heart of gold. Furthermore, he has his own peculiar sense of dignity and great martial arts skills, which allow him to overcome all indignities and eventually save the day. If the absurd shaver-hairdryer gags foreground Qi’s inadequacy, the equally amusing “gun-testing” sequence which appears a little later suggests to the contrary that he might not be as dull-witted as he appears. Pretending to show Qi some real weapons, Xiangqin loads a “Chinese PPK” handgun, puts a silencer on it, and aims it at Qi. Completely unaware of her intention to kill him, the curious Qi looks into the barrel, asking if toilet paper could be used as a filling material inside the silencer. Distracted by the silly question, she does not notice that Qi swiftly dismantled the silencer until she tries to pull the trigger. This motif of failed attack is repeated in a more elaborate way in the articulated gags which immediately follow. As Qi turns around to close the windows, Xiangqin immediately fetches his gun and shoots him. Unexpectedly, the bullet improbably comes out from the back of the gun and hits her upper arm. When Qi turns back and asks her, full of innocent concern, what has happened, she makes the weak excuse that she was “testing the gun.” He tells her his gun does shoot backward and turns around anxiously to find her a bandage. Seizing this moment, Xiangqin tries to shoot him again. This time round, she has taken his warning well and points the barrel at herself—only to discover that the gun shoots forward in a normal way, and the bullet hits her other arm. The worried-looking Qi explains to 12 In one shot Qi is shown watching the Bond film Moonraker (1979, starring Roger Moore). On his desk we see the pirated videotapes of Eon Bonds like Thunderball (1965) and For Your Eyes Only (1981) as well.