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If you’ve seen more than one kung-fu flick, than you’ve likely seen everything that The Legend of Chun-Li has to offer, right down to the structure of its vengeance-minded narrative. The revenge narrative is a popular one in kung-fu cinema because it’s so primal; the basics are easily relatable and touch instinctual nerves deep in human subconscious, yet there’s also enough room to invent, innovate, spin out whatever craziness or thematic heftiness one cares to. Done poorly, though, this same structure can come off as a series of tread-bald cliches. Justin Marks’s screenplay is an especially enervated example of the latter. Everything that happens is straight from stock: Chun-Li is driven by revenge for the disappearance of her father, she trains with a mysterious yet wise mentor who teaches her that her anger is a hindrance, she methodically dispatches the henchmen of her mortal enemy (a sneering, Snidely-Whiplash type) before engaging him directly for a final, decisive battle.
This is screenwriting via Mad-Lib - all that’s needed to make a passable timewaster is to plug the right actors into the roles and bam! Instant movie. With that in mind, the mind reels at the epic miscasting here. The supporting roles are fairly well-handled - when in need of a Big Scary Black Henchman, there are few in Hollywood bigger or blacker than Michael Clarke Duncan, and Robin Shou as Gen the mentor can at least conjure up memories of Mortal Kombat. But what to make of Neal McDonaugh, sporting an Irish lilt that’s too bizarre to be anything other than genuine, as soulless (literally, thanks to a weird ritual shown in flashback) industrialist Bison? I have nothing against Mr. McDonaugh, but he isn’t exactly the first person I’d cast as a heartless, conniving force of evil, and he looks adrift in the role, letting an ironic toothy grin do most of the work for him. Similarly, if I was looking for someone to play the fiery, muscular Chinese warrior referred to in the film’s title, inflection-challenged Smallville beanpole Kristen Kreuk wouldn’t enter into the conversation, yet here she is, struggling mightily (and failing) to appear angry and imposing. And the less said about Chris Klein’s tone-deaf, Pia-Zadora-bad performance as a macho Interpol agent, the better; in lieu of genuine swagger, Klein exudes smarm in levels toxic to rats and babies.
With a dull script and dull actors, it’d be surprising if the direction wasn’t tailored to match. Andrzej Bartkowiak, who between this and Doom seems dedicated to carving out a career making the worst video game adaptations available, displays little of the dark visual panache that distinguished his esteemed work as a cinematographer or even his lame-but-stylish first couple features as a director. He directs anonymously, as though any semblance of personality or distinctiveness will upset the franchise overlords. The Legend of Chun-Li has an enervated quality to it, like it’s doggedly marking time in between fight scenes.
But what of the action? People who would bother seeing this aren’t interested in plot, character development or delicacy - the target audience member for any prospective Street Fighter film is someone who likes to see people get thumped but good. The Legend of Chun-Li can’t even get that part right; while the opening battle between Chun-Li’s daddy and a bunch of Bison henchmen kicks off the film the right way, there’s precious little else that’s memorable. Midway through, there’s a battle in a bathroom that inches towards the goofy brutality that should have been the script’s stock in trade, but Marks just as quickly slinks back from the edge, preferring instead to treat his B-movie as though it were Shakespearean tragedy. Too much of the film boils down to indifferently staged scenes of scowling actors flailing at one another; wasted opportunities fall to Earth at every turn, but the Chun-Li/Vega duel being especially impotent. Clarke Duncan at least appears to be having fun as a chuckling, death-dealing man-mountain, but his enthusiasm does little to curb the drabness around him.
It’s as though the morose tone of the narrative infected the cast and crew - either that, or all involved parties knew they were mere cogs in a marketing-synergy machine, cranking out hollow product like sausage, and rebelled by putting forth the bare minimum of required effort. The Legend of Chun-Li is the kind of film where a major character can be caught in a massive explosion that destroys an apartment, only to show up later unhurt without anyone bothering to ask how said character escaped fiery doom. Nobody asks because nobody cares. That holds true for both sides of the camera.
- Steve Carlson (0 comments)