It’s no surprise that John Woo hates violence. His films teeter into bullets and bloodshed the way Sam Peckinpah operates his slaughters in “The Wild Bunch.” The action sequences unfold so much more above a certain ‘cool factor,’ and become a sort of operatic dance between two gunfighters who like to duel in akimbo. His formula is more or less the same, usually involving two men rearing each other’s head into a neon-laced Hong Kong; Woo’s equivalent of a Scorsese Mean Street.

Growing up in the slums of the small island of Hong Kong beside a Communist China in the 50’s, Woo was raised on the bread and butter of Mao Zedong’s unstable revolutions. As a young boy, he witnessed the many riots, crimes, murders, and poverties of his broken neighborhood. The effects wore strong in him, as it would in any child. As a filmmaker, his viewpoint a little awkward; it is neither pro nor anti violence. Instead, his message is as blunt as a Kubrick picture. He dislikes the carnage of humanity, and so his stories branch out onto a kind of stretch of land situated between a saloon and a town church. On one side is the lawless outlaw, and on the opposite end, the lawful sheriff. His style and motive is distinctly clear: to end the violence, the ladder must somehow prevail.

The bad guys in “The Killer” are done to lesser effect, and quite possibly for a reason. They have no likeable spirit, and neither do they have that hard antagonism we would usually expect from a movie filled with a plethora of guns. Instead they wear oversized sunglasses and grin as if mimicking an Ian Fleming creation. And at one point, the evil head honcho manages to crack a rather funny joke: “Sometimes, I forget to act human.” But ironically, the most important line any of them actually get to say is something that greatly outlines the movie’s definition. It has been said that “The Killer” was dedicated to Martin Scorsese, and like the flawed Catholic heroes in a lesser New York City, the bad guy screams out, “What’s the matter with you? You’ve got a serious case of conscience!”

And “The Killer” is less about evil men, and more about heroes who want to don a cape and do something decent for a change. And the story is sporadically quick to acknowledge their situation: having a conscience in their line of profession is like taking a voluntary walk on the plank. There are two contrasting men: a hitman and an undercover cop. The hitman develops a heart too soon and wants to walk away from “the life,” while the cop is old-fashioned: he just wants someone to trust. The men parallel one another. The hitman likes to use an automatic handgun conveniently loaded with clips filled with explosive bullet heads, and the cop prefers his trusty standard issue six-shot revolver. In one instance, they find a common ground: “I notice that we both use guns for a living.” Through the hinting in their dialogue, they may or may not have met each other in a previous life.

The undercover cop, Inspector Li (Danny Lee), is Buddhist, cocky, and is as determined as any actor tackling an Al Pachino role. His complaint of the day comes from the annoying fact that no one else trusts him, except for a long-time partner of his named Sydney (Kong Chu). But the local Hong Kong PD has good intention for not favoring Li; he relies too much on split-second instinct, as illustrated during an undercover operation where he ignites a moonlit shootout. Casualties occur, including a woman with a weak heart. When hard pressed about the outcome of the operation, he argues, “How was I supposed to know she had a heart condition?”

The hitman, Joe (Chow Yun-Fat), is a questionable Christian, ambidextrous, and believes in the possibility that God may in fact exist. And if that’s true, then he’s condemned himself into a life of sin. His enlightenment comes when he accidentally blinds a young restaurant singer named Jennie (Sally Yeh), whose eyes got too close to his muzzle flash during a well-choreographed action sequence. He feels remorse, and learns to see life in another light, “I used to think everybody deserved to die. Now I believe everything has the right to live.” But the door isn’t quite closed yet. He sparks a relationship with Jennie, who can barely see but can make out simple shadowy outlines. She can’t make out who Joe is except for that he resembles an ink blotch, which is convenient so she can’t recognize him as the hitman who blinded her in the first place. And like a ticking time bomb, a serious dilemma is slickly inserted as a first-rate sub-plot: Joe has to make one last hit in an effort to raise money for Jennie’s eye surgery---something that needs to be taken care of in no more than one month, or else she’ll be completely blind forever.

But then Joe is like so many other characters in archetypical Woo fashion. He’s betrayed, double-crossed by his own employers and is left to fend for himself. And the story is also like many other stories common in Chinese tradition. It’s more about friendship and honor. Joe is befriended by Frank –his stiff comrade in arms, Inspector Li is paired with Sydney, Li and Joe develop an unlikely bond, and so on. And in an apartment complex with a Mexican-standoff mimicked in so many other movies, the two leads refer to one another as Mickey Mouse and Dumbo (they never know each other’s true names), as if they have known one another in a past lifetime. Because Woo is Christian and was raised in a country dominant with Buddhists, it’s only appropriate that Li and Joe don’t argue their differences regardless.

Jean-Claude Van Damme once called John Woo the Martin Scorsese of Asia. And like any other doppelgangers out there, a Scorsese must always have his Deniro. For Woo, the choice is Chow Yun-Fat, whom he admiringly describes as being tall, elegant, and romantic –qualities sorely required for both skilled and suave handling of a gun. His appearance is no less than the Bruce Willis of sorts, albeit that Yun-Fat is more in tune to the more frenzied Hong Kong action style. But that’s understating his persona. He's got that unforced smile of success, has nearly idolized screentime in his pictures, and maintains a soft brown complexion. The violent akimbo ways of wielding duel pistols has made him a nearly legendry icon. His presence is no less than his Li Mu Bai in Ang Lee’s “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” a character that is the basis of what Chow Yun-Fat really stands for as an actor: tall, elegant, and romantic. He’s practically the international Steve McQueen. Just…plain…cool.

The action is surely the highlight of the film, even if it’s sidestepped by the brimming character development. John Woo has developed a following of cult worshippers and loving admiration in the States, and when a producer questioned whether or not Woo could film an action scene, the pop-culture filmmaker himself, Quentin Tarantino was noted to have replied, “Yeah, and Michelangelo can paint ceilings!” His style is, to put it in only one sentence, as fast and brooding as P.T. Anderson’s camerawork when telling one of his stories, except that Woo’s solely applies to the action scenes. Whip-pans swerve the camera according to the toting of gun barrels, and slow motion is used either to capture a hero’s stance of reckoning, or a bad guy’s bullet-riddled death. The editing and choreography is Jackie Chan-ish in most techniques; there are just so many ways props can be manipulated, and even more of how different guns can trigger a variety of ways to coin that old Arnold Schwarzengger saying: “Hasta la vista.” The good guys escalate the body count, and the henchmen flood in so many aplenty, that you start to wonder how in the hell the bad guys replenish their source of such dedicated extras. And “The Killer” can go down in history for using shotgun powder for cauterizing a wound.

When Chow Yun-Fat pulls off his signature stunt of sliding backward while riding on his back, and taking out three baddies with his duel handcannons all at once, we know we're seeing something really special. The viewer is treated to the creativity in each action secene, not the technicalities of pyrotechnics and electronic blood squibs. Woo's skill has surely been upgraded since "The Killer" and more so from the earlier "A Better Tomorrow," and a vast majority of the people who respect his work could whisper to you that his "Hard Boiled" is much more action packed (which it surly is). But the thing about "The Killer" is that it doesn't need most of the action witnessed in other Woo films. It's got the rationale of one of those cheaper ‘wuxia pian’ films where character is prime. The gunfights elevate themselves into character development.

As a poor and talented young boy in a post-revolutionary China, Woo started off on a rocky path. He joined a group of radical intellectuals who were basically self-appointed film critics. They did what all critics could do best: wrote unkind reviews and trashed many studio releases (something not uncommon in today’s world). Oh yes, they were radicals all right, and swore that they’d change the face of the industry they so grew to hate.

Eventually, he got a job working as an assistant director to the famous Chang Cheh, a man who has scored about a hundred wuxia films under his name before passing away last month. Cheh can be credited for launching modern Hong Kong cinema, and can long be remembered as the grand master of Asian cinema swordplay, with films that were pulped in agile swordsmen and loyal heroes of Chinese folklore. His films revolve not around action that drives the story, but characters that propel the action. The swordsmen in his movies were noble and deftly skilled fighters who had a lot more character than they did moves. As a mentor, he was no doubt a profound inspiration to Woo, who is in most ways his fully accomplished apprentice. And John Woo is still that faint radical he used to be. That minor oath he made to his former buddies is more of a realized pact.

He’s replaced the swords with guns.


Recommended: Yes