It is difficult to think of a person whose mannerisms, hair style, clothing, facial expressions, and even name have been copied to such a large extent as Bruce Lee (1940-1973). Arguably the most recognisable face of the past century, Lee is known primarily for his on-screen martial arts prowess. But Lee was much more than an entertainer; throughout his adult life and acting career he tried to impart something of the philosophies of the Far East, whether in his appearances on the American television show Longstreet (1971-1972), or in his last completed film Enter the Dragon (1973). It is the latter which introduced Lee to Western audiences on a wide scale, cemented his place in cinematic and cultural history, and changed action films forever.

Although Lee was born in the United States, he grew up in Hong Kong, and appeared in numerous films there as a youth. It was in Hong Kong that he began to study Wing Chun Gung Fu under the auspices of the master Yip Man, despite his fellow students demanding that he should not be taught because he was not pure Chinese (Lee had some European ancestry). Returning to the US in his late teens, he spent several years educating himself, developing Jeet Kune Do (his personal eclectic approach to combat), and teaching martial arts to Hollywood stars. He also sought to land significant parts in American film and television, but struggled to find meaningful roles in an industry that perpetuated stereotypical images of Chinese.

In the early 1970s, Lee decided to try acting in Hong Kong. The result was a trio of films which caused him to acquire immediate and massive renown in Asia: The Big Boss (1971), Fist of Fury (1972), and Way of the Dragon (1972), the last having been written and directed by Lee himself.

It was on the strength of this new-found fame that Hollywood took a more serious interest in Lee, and which led to Enter, the plot of which is rather simple. Lee, a member of the Shaolin Monastery, is solicited by a British intelligence agent to take part in a martial arts tournament held by the drug smuggler Han, where he is supposed to observe and report any illicit activity upon which governments may act to shut down Han’s operations. Of course, Lee takes things much further and, by the end of the film, has used fists and feet to defeat Han and dozens of his bodyguards along the way.

At ease in both East and West despite experiencing racism in both Hong Kong and the US, studious of ancient Chinese wisdom and modern American self-help books alike, Bruce Lee’s attitudes to life mirrored his approach to both martial arts and cinematic art

It is not important to recount the plot of Enter in detail, because it is largely irrelevant, and not as significant as the scenes featuring Lee’s explosive physicality. The film lends itself open to criticism on this point, but there is little difference between this action-serving plot and the similarly contrived narratives of innumerable musicals or westerns, in which the songs or climactic gunfights are the only memorable features. However, unlike most westerns or musicals, Enter is infused with philosophical ideas. For while Lee did not direct Enter, he was heavily involved in various aspects of production: the fight scenes were choreographed by him, he made script changes to include more accurate and more philosophical content, helped select certain cast members, and even chose the film’s title.

Lee’s involvement means that Enter is not easily dismissed as a mere action flick in the way that some of the James Bond films can be (screenwriter Michael Allin, who knew little of Gung Fu, wrote the original Enter script as a homage to Bond films). Granted, Enter does not evince the sort of craftsmanship that is traditionally associated with great cinema. But what is not in doubt is that the philosophy of Lee and his own inspirations are visible throughout the film, elevating it above the genre.

“Compared to a good kung fu film,” said the great German filmmaker Werner Herzog, “someone like Jean-Luc Godard is intellectual counterfeit money.” It is unclear if Herzog had a specific film in mind, but one could do much worse than Enter. The opening dialogue between Lee and a Shaolin monk reflects ancient Zen Buddhist doctrine. A scene in which Lee deflects a confrontation with an arrogant fighter is based on a 15th century samurai tale, signalling Lee’s disapproval of pointless violence. Lee was aware of his potential to “aestheticise violence”, as he put it, but he believed that cinema could be an educative force, and that art was a path to enlightenment and liberty.

But the martial demonstrations of Lee are philosophical in a way that a purely Western film could never be. Because Gung Fu and many other martial arts of the Far East incorporate Confucian, Taoist, and/or Buddhist principles in both theory and practice, they are philosophy made manifest. “Gung fu,” wrote Lee, “can be said to be the Chinese attempt to discover the mysteries of nature”. Thus, like the martial arts themselves, Lee’s films often exhibit both verbal and physical expositions of philosophical ideas. This would have been taken to new heights in Game of Death, which was to have been Lee’s second directorial effort, but he died before the project could be completed.

Granted, Enter does not evince the sort of craftsmanship that is traditionally associated with great cinema. But what is not in doubt is that the philosophy of Lee and his own inspirations are visible throughout the film, elevating it above the genre.

The unification of pen and sword has a long tradition in Far Eastern cultures, and it is not unusual to find historical figures linking thought and action. The 15/16th century Chinese thinker Wang Yang-Ming, for example, was both a military general and a philosopher. The 16th/17th century samurai warrior Miyamoto Musashi advocated that one train oneself in both the literary and martial arts. One can find analogous ideas in the lives and opinions of ancient Western thinkers, but Lee was well aware that modern Western philosophy was dominated by abstract thought. He had studied the subject (along with psychology) at university and was a voracious reader; his library contained more than 2,500 volumes, some of them quite rare. Indeed, so interested in books was he that at one time he considered becoming a secondhand bookseller.

Lee’s perspectives on filmmaking resembled his position on the martial arts. In both acting and in the martial arts, he strove for a combination of instinct and control: “natural unnaturalness or unnatural naturalness”, as he described it in an illuminating interview he gave for the Pierre Berton Show in 1971. In the martial arts he utilised whatever he thought would enhance unarmed combat: fencing techniques, the footwork of boxer Muhammad Ali, the exercises of the Pakistani wrestler Gama, and so on. In films he was influenced and inspired by numerous sources, from American comedian Jerry Lewis to Japanese actor Shintaro Katsu (of Zatoichi fame).

In the martial arts he devoured books on the subject, did not hesitate to criticise what went before, and pushed boundaries. In film he read books on cinematography and filmmaking, was critical of the cinema of both Hollywood and Hong Kong, and aspired to make films of higher quality than what had been produced in the past.

His first endeavour at direction was Way of the Dragon, an unusual production in that it was the first Hong Kong film to be shot in the West. Lee also commissioned a film score, an uncommon procedure at the time. And he was also the first Hong Kong director to view rushes in colour. Lee eschewed cinematic tricks which attempted to mask the fact that the actors were not experienced martial artists, and his martial feats are usually bereft of the magical or fantastical. He thus brought a new level of realism to the martial arts film. Of course, there is a difference between the more flamboyant and theatrical displays of Lee onscreen and his techniques off camera, but not so much that one cannot learn from watching him.

As Matthew Polly perceptively notes in his useful biography Bruce Lee — A Life, the duel between Lee and Chuck Norris in Way of the Dragon is not a random assemblage of flailing fisticuffs, but a Jeet Kune Do tutorial.

Something similar could be said about a melee in Enter, where Lee moves effortlessly from barehanded combat to fighting with staff, sticks, and eventually the nunchaku, demonstrating the ultimate fighter’s ability to battle with whatever weapons are available to him. Lee’s fluidity and skill is visibly genuine, so much so that, rather than speed up his moves to suggest quickness, Enter director Robert Clouse had to speed up the camera to 32 frames per second (instead of the usual 24) in order to capture his movements.

Lee was not the first person to infuse philosophy into a martial arts film — King Hu’s meditative A Touch of Zen had been released in 1970-1971. Nor was Lee the first fighter who wished to strip combat of its inefficiencies — the 16th century Chinese general Qi Jiguang, for instance, also condemned flowery posturing that was useless in actual battle. But neither before nor since has there appeared such a charismatic figure who straddled continents and disciplines in the manner of Lee, and it was because of this, coupled with his indomitable convictions and unrelenting desire to succeed, that he was able to reach millions around the world.

At ease in both East and West despite experiencing racism in both Hong Kong and the US, studious of ancient Chinese wisdom and modern American self-help books alike, Lee’s attitudes to life mirrored his approach to both martial arts and cinematic art. His interviews and private letters are suffused with philosophy. He aspired to perfection, and was not satisfied with mediocrity. He looked to himself for inspiration, rather than others: “The sacred journey is taken alone. Each man must seek out realisation himself. No master can give it to him.” And Lee had little interest in commercialism or identity politics. He married a white American girl, took as his students Americans of different ethnicities, and transcended styles and races. He considered himself, above all, a human being. In Way of the Dragon one can find a Chinese character saying that he doesn’t want to learn foreign fighting styles, but Lee chides him, saying that it doesn’t matter where knowledge comes from so long as it is helpful.

Since Bruce Lee’s demise, a number of Chinese actors have come to the fore. Jackie Chan and Sammo Hung, both of whom had small roles in Enter, have achieved considerable popularity in the West, as have others such as Chow Yun-Fat, Donnie Yen and Jet Li. All of these are talented individuals who have appeared in some fine films, but one wonders if any of them would have achieved such success if Lee had not destroyed the derogatory stereotypes of orientals that pervaded Western cinema.

Lee once opined that he could not possibly become an idol for the white man, but in this he was quite wrong. Unfortunately, he did not live to see the release of Enter, or witness how his stature would go beyond cinema and race. In 1995, the city of Mostar, which had witnessed intense ethnic warfare during the Bosnian War, erected a statue of Lee to symbolise the overcoming of ethnic divisions. “We will always be Muslims, Serbs or Croats,” said one of the originators of the idea, “But one thing we all have in common is Bruce Lee.” Boxers such as Sugar Ray Leonard have studied him. Film directors such as John Woo have been influenced by him. Bodybuilders such as Arnold Schwarzenegger have admired him.

Countless people have taken up the martial arts after being inspired by him; mixed martial artists often speak of Lee as the godfather of the Ultimate Fighting Championship. His likeness has appeared in video games and comic books — Marvel legend Stan Lee referred to him as a superhero without a costume. This wide-ranging influence is akin to that of religious figures. Not for nothing did the musician RZA say that, for him, Lee was a minor prophet.

It is therefore not a simple matter to categorise Lee as a martial artist, an actor, a film director, or a teacher. In the 2nd century AD, the Stoic philosopher Epictetus wrote that “the subject-matter of the art of living is each person’s own life.” Thus, in line with the title of a book about Lee, it would not be inappropriate to describe him as an Artist of Life.

The author is an antiquarian and freelance writer.

Published in Dawn, ICON, May 12th, 2019