There I was, slouching in my A-620 Spiritual Spa Massage Chair, with my mutt Punkspleen snoring at my feet and my pet chimp Lien muttering insanely to himself in his cage. It was Thursday night, my gal Cathy Pacific was wandering around in an existential haze on Green Island, and the grandkids were loitering outside a PartyWorld KTV emporium somewhere in the city, so I was alone with my pets and catatonic after hours of flicking between Taiwanese cable news stations and CNN.
I had been watching the local stations for incredibly penetrating analysis on the Olympics, and for relief glancing at CNN to watch the advertisement for Business Traveler, a magazine show hosted by the rejuvenated — and freshly rehabbed — Richard Quest (welcome back, old chap, I missed you).
Turning back to the Taiwanese end of the channel spectrum, I mis-hit the remote control and landed on HBO. And here’s the strange thing: The movie that was playing had an Olympic connection.
It was Munich, which starts with Palestinian terrorists killing Israeli athletes at the 1972 Games and continues with Israeli agents hunting down those responsible.
Hmm. Hardly the curtain-raiser that would have been selected if Beijing had an agent in the HBO programming department. Said agent might have chosen Chariots of Fire (there’s a Jewish athlete, but he isn’t killed), The Cutting Edge, or even Cool Runnings, a comedy very loosely based on the Jamaican Olympic bobsled team.
Then I thought some more. Munich was directed by Steven Spielberg who, as we all know, pulled out of the Beijing Olympics as an artistic adviser, leaving fellow director Zhang Yimou (張藝謀) to carry the propagandist’s burden.
Coincidence?
Maybe. Still, give HBO some credit. At least they didn’t screen Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympia. That would have been just a little too in-Beijing’s-face.
Coincidence or not, screening Munich on the eve of the opening ceremony is a bit like the American athletes picking a Sudanese refugee to carry the team flag.
You can just imagine it. The team leaders sit down with coffee and donuts and have this conversation:
Group: “What single symbol can we employ to irritate the Chinese authorities without wearing protest clothing while leaving no room for an official backlash?”
Astute individual: “Give Lopez the flag.”
Group [whooping noises]: “Yeah, yeah, that’ll kick ass.”
Pity the Taiwanese team hasn’t got an equivalent to Lopez Lomong. But I am dying for one of our archers, taekwondo athletes or tennis players to win gold so that we can see them tearfully watch the Chinese Taipei Olympic flag as it is raised to the tune of the National Flag Anthem at the medals ceremony.
Now that would confuse the poor Chicoms in the crowd. Not because their fantasy of Taiwanese subjugation would have been interrupted temporarily by bizarre pseudo-national symbols, but because, unlike all the other athletes, the Taiwanese will passionately salute this non-flag as their tears cascade onto the podium.
Eventually I fell out of my massage chair and forced myself over to the computer — and regretted it, because within minutes I spied a bowel-cleansing photograph of Aussie ex-swimmer Ian Thorpe, former US secretary of state Henry Kissinger and Taiwan hater Jackie Chan (成龍) attending the — brace yourself — What Makes a Champion forum.
Can you just imagine how priceless their conversation would be? Actually, you don’t need to, because the Taipei Times’ man in Beijing sent me a tape of the exchange.
Thorpe: Hello Mr Kissinger, I’m Ian Thorpe. I’m delighted to meet you.
Kissinger: It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ian my boy. I have long admired from afar your classic Antipodean swimming career, but I have even more admired your cutting-edge photo shoots in minimalist garments that push the fashion envelope. It’s Dr Kissinger, by the way.
Thorpe: Oh, ah, ha ha. I hope you can forgive me, but I can’t seem to recall what made you a champion.
Kissinger: Well, I helped to open China to the rest of the world after a long period of unearned and ruinous isolation. I also won the Nobel Peace Prize after bombing the crap out of Cambodia.
Thorpe: Wow! That’s very different to doing laps.
Kissinger: You bet your Suez Canal it is.
Chan: Why isn’t anyone talking to me? Watch how fast I can move my hands!
This jovial repartee reminds me of one of Colonfucius’ (肛夫子) old ditties targeting obsequious advisers to the emperor, which I very loosely adapt and translate thus:
One of the champions has gone metrosexual
Second shapes up as a strutting war criminal
Last of the three is artistically marginal
None of this trio is model material.
Old Jackie, for his part, hasn’t made a half-decent film since Drunken Master II in 1994. In fact, the only memorable performance Jackie has delivered since that opus was when he drunkenly stormed the stage during a concert by Taiwanese singer and old buddy Jonathan Lee (李宗盛) in Hong Kong a couple of years ago.
Chan chided the audience, demanding he be allowed to sing, and then did so to the embarrassment of all and sundry. Some of the Hongkies in the audience spewed abuse at Jackie so withering that no one can blame the guy for kissing China’s lam pa since then to salvage his career on this side of the Pacific.
Well, maybe add to that the credit card firm Visa, which saw fit to have the fading genius feature in a cheesy series of commercials featuring “stunts,” mugging, lame gags and a reluctant-looking Yao Ming (姚明).
Anyway, on to the business end of this column: The opening ceremony.
I didn’t watch the whole thing because my pet chimp Lien kept banging his head against the bars and had to be sedated.
For the most part, what I did see was quite impressive. The depictions of ancient Chinese history and culture were predictably spectacular and well choreographed.
But I have to admit, dear reader, that I was terribly disappointed not to see a musical version of the Cultural Revolution, with chanting crowds and feces flying through the air at some poor intellectual tied to a stake wearing a dummy cap and insulting slogans on a board hanging around his neck.
In fact, the overall muting of revolutionary passion and elevation of feudal times was noteworthy. For reminders that China is still a country run by scumbags, instead we were treated to way too many shots of grisly old men in the stands.
The Taiwanese got a bit of a cheer when they entered the stadium, and President Hu Jintao (胡錦濤) managed a bit of applause, though he looked in need of a blood transfusion. And just as Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) Secretary-General Wu Poh-hsiung (吳伯雄) and his fellow China toadies stood up, my feed froze.
But I have to say — and this might explain Lien’s violent behavior — the opening shot of China’s minorities, including Aboriginal shills from Taiwan, rushing to the end of the arena with a Chinese flag then saluting the damn thing was enough to enrage any Taiwanese patriot, or humanist for that matter.
Oh, and Jackie Chan sang a cheesy duo with a token ethnic Tibetan. Some of you might be pissed off at this one-time idol getting in bed with the Chicoms over Tibetan issues so soon after denigrating Taiwanese democracy. But please be charitable: At least he wasn’t drunk.
Got something to tell Johnny? Go on, get it off your chest. Write to dearjohnny@taipeitimes.com, but be sure to put “Dear Johnny” in the subject line or he’ll mark your bouquets and brickbats as spam.
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