Against All Odds: My Story (19 page)

Thankfully the producers also hired Jonathan Harris, a voice and drama coach, to help me with my lines. Jonathan had starred in the television series
Lost in Space.
A very proper man, who enunciated every word as though he were reciting Shakespeare, Jonathan worked with me eight hours a day for three weeks. He spent more time teaching me how to speak than he did helping me learn the script dialogue.

One day Jonathan came over to me, put his fingers in my mouth, and stretched it wide open. “Open your mouth, open your mouth!” he screamed.

“Jonathan, you're the only man in the world who could do that to me and get away with it,” I said when he finally let go.

“I know,” he said with a smile.

Even though I didn't always enunciate the way Jonathan desired, at least I learned all the dialogue in the screenplay, including an eight-page scene that called for me to debate the merits of the Vietnam War with James Franciscus. The shooting schedule called for this scene to take two days of filming. It was a very difficult scene for me because I had to sit through all of it without moving.

I asked Jonathan to talk to the director and make certain that the scene was filmed toward the end of the schedule, so I would have a chance to get comfortable in the role. Jonathan agreed.

When we started shooting, however, the schedule got turned upside down. James Franciscus had signed to do another film and would be with us for only two days. Consequently, the director decided to film my scene with James on the first day of shooting; worse yet, he demanded that the scene be shot in one day instead of two.

I had my lines memorized, but on the night before shooting, I was so nervous that I had trouble getting to sleep. The following morning, when we started filming the scene, I discovered, to my horror, that James had rewritten his lines in the script. I had memorized my speech and the cues that led into it. When he started saying things that weren't in the script, I had a terrible time trying to ad-lib and splice in my replies. Worse, I realized that his character's argument was making sense, and that I was not winning the debate as I was supposed to.

To add to my difficulties, the producers invited a reporter to interview me during the lunch hour. The reporter wrote that I was apprehensive and nervous on the first day of shooting. He was dead right!

We started filming at 7:00 AM and finished at 4:00 AM the following morning. Twenty hours of straight shooting on my first day before the cameras! I felt as though someone had thrown me into the ocean with chains on my feet and told me to swim ashore. It was a horrendous experience, but I reasoned that if I could survive this first scene, I could survive the film.

Although I was insecure at the start of filming, I knew that negative thinking would be destructive. Negative thoughts bring negative results, just as positive thoughts encourage positive results. I said to myself
, I'm going to do the very best I am capable of doing and not worry about the difference in experience between the others and me.

When the film was finished, everyone congratulated me on doing a commendable job. When I look back on the picture now, I realize that they were just being kind because I was not a very good actor. But it was the best I could do at the time. The movie was successful despite my lack of experience because I created an image people enjoyed seeing.

It was with a great deal of trepidation that I invited Steve McQueen to attend a screening and give me his reaction. Afterward we had dinner together. “It's not too bad,” he said. “But let me give you some advice. You are verbalizing things on the screen that we have already seen. Movies are visual, so don't reiterate something verbally that the audience already knows.”

“Next time let the other actors fill in the plot. When there's something important to say, you be the one to say it. Believe me, audiences will remember what you said. But if you just talk for the sake of talking, they won't remember anything.”

He gave me an example of what he meant. In
Bullitt
, he had a scene with Robert Vaughn in which he was to respond with a long speech. Steve read the speech and realized that it was too wordy. He approached the director, who asked him what he would like to say. Steve crossed out the long speech and wrote one line: “You work your side of the street, and I'll work mine.”

“Everyone remembered that line,” Steve said. “That's what you have to do in your movies. Read your scripts carefully, and if you don't like some of your lines, go over them with the director. Try to convince him to let you say as little as possible, and make your lines memorable.” An example of this is Clint Eastwood's “Go ahead, make my day.” Everyone remembered that line, a song was written about it, and President Reagan even included it in a speech.

“Put as much of yourself into the character as possible,” Steve advised. “We all have multiple aspects to our personalities, and you have to draw on them, the light or humorous side as well as the dark and aggressive side. By using those facets of your personality, your character will become more real to you and the audience. Always remember that the real star is someone the audience identifies with.”

Steve's encouragement meant the world to me, and over the years I've tried to follow his acting advice. It works!

Despite their enthusiasm for
Good Guys Wear Black
, the producers had problems finding a distributor since none of the studios had faith in the film's box office potential. In desperation, the producers decided to distribute the film themselves. They borrowed money, rented theaters for a flat fee for a week or so in small towns, and pocketed the box office receipts.

I traveled to the openings of the film, from small town to small town. I did interviews at schools, with the local newspapers, on local television, and with anyone who would talk with me. We started in Texas and traveled throughout Oklahoma, Tennessee, and other parts of Middle America. After a few weeks on the road doing ten or twelve interviews a day, I had learned to recount the plot of the film in anything from thirty seconds to three minutes, depending on how much time I was allowed.

Each night after the show, my brother Aaron and several of our black belt students collected the receipts from the theater owner. Since we had basically rented the venue to show our own movie, the money taken in through ticket sales belonged to us.

Many critics panned the film, saying I should get back to teaching the martial arts because I sure wasn't an actor. Such comments really hurt me because I felt I had done the best I could. I told Steve that I couldn't understand what the movie critics expected. “I'm not trying to win an Academy Award,” I said. “I'm just trying to make a film people will enjoy.”

Steve laughed. “Look,” he said, “the bottom line is that if your movies make money, you will continue to work. If you get the best reviews in the world, but your movie bombs at the box office, you will be unemployed. The only thing you have to worry about is the public. If they like your movies, you'll have a long career.”

Steve was right. Despite the critics' sour reviews,
Good Guys Wear Black
did well in the towns where it was shown. So well, in fact, that Alan Bodoh began looking for another screenplay for me. I asked Pat Johnson, another black belt and a close friend who aspired to be a writer, to work on an idea for a script.

“Since you're a world karate champion, let's write a story about a world-class karate fighter,” he suggested. The screenplay Pat wrote, entitled
A Force of One
, was about a karate champion named Matt Logan who heads up a squad investigating a gang of drug lords who are taking over a city. The leader of the gang was played by Bill Wallace, my good friend and the world middleweight kickboxing champion.

The climactic fight scene between us was filmed in a sports arena in San Diego. There were hundreds of extras in the arena, including about thirty tough-looking Mexican-Americans. While Bill and I were fighting, they kept throwing things into the ring, causing us to blow scene after scene. No one wanted to say anything to them because they were spoiling for trouble. Of course, we could have called the police, but that might have caused a real hassle.

I suggested to the director that we stop filming while I went and talked with the rowdy bunch. I sat down in the middle of the group and noticed immediately that several of the troublemakers had guns and knives. But a few of them had seen
Return of the Dragon
and were fascinated by the fight scene between Bruce Lee and me in the Coliseum. They had a plethora of questions, and I answered them all while the director looked on, biting his fingernails.

Finally one of the gang members asked me if I wanted them to put on a real rumble for the film. “Thank you,” I said, “but that won't be necessary. I would appreciate it, though, if you didn't throw things into the ring.” The rowdy guys agreed not to disturb the action again, and we finished the scene without any further incidents.

After
A Force of One
was completed, the producers again had difficulty finding a distribution company. They decided to do exactly what they had done with
Good Guys Wear Black
, basically distributing and promoting the movie ourselves. I started all over again on the same promotional trail, plus some new venues, as well. I had made some friends on my first trek, so it wasn't quite as stressful the second time around, and the critics were a little more responsive to me. But I felt like a Ping-Pong ball getting beaten back and forth.
Good Guys
was still showing in various cities, so I had to fly to one city to promote
A Force of One
and then to another city to promote
Good Guys Wear Black
. I bounced from El Paso, to Detroit, to San Antonio, to Chicago. There were times when I arrived in a city and had to think,
Now which movie am I promoting here?
I stayed on the road nine months with both pictures!

In addition to working the media, I also did martial arts demonstrations in public schools in cities where the movie was playing. That wasn't usually a problem in small-town Middle America, but I wondered if some of the inner-city high schools and middle schools in which I scheduled demos might get a bit more precarious. Would someone in the audience attempt to challenge me?

The demonstrations went off phenomenally well, and the kids in the schools were all polite and receptive. My last demonstration in New York was at an all-girls school, with a student body of more than a thousand young women. I thought to myself,
At least I don't have to worry about any tough guys out there wanting to challenge me
.

I dressed in my white
gi
, did the demonstration on stage, casually mentioned the fact that my movie was playing in the local theater, and concluded my presentation. Everything seemed great. After the performance a large number of teenage girls crowded up around the front of the stage to shake hands with me. As I went down the line, shaking hands, I greeted each young lady. They were laughing and having fun. As I was shaking one young woman's hand, she jerked so hard that I went flying off the stage. I landed on top of the girls and slid down onto the floor as they ripped at my clothes. I felt like a rock star as the school security had to come and help me get out.

I couldn't believe it! The one school that I'd felt safe in, and I'd nearly gotten killed! I sure hope that girl bought a ticket to the movie!

A Force of One
grossed more than twenty million dollars, and
Good Guys Wear Black
earned more than eighteen million, far exceeding any predictions. The producers of my films prospered, as did I. My salary increased from $40,000 to $125,000 for
A Force of One
.

When we did
A Force of One
, the producers had a small office with only one secretary. The staff grew to fifty within two years. By the time we made a third film,
The Octagon
, they had a staff of more than a hundred and had become one of the leading independent studios in Hollywood. My three films alone eventually grossed more than a hundred million dollars worldwide! American Cinema went public with working capital of sixty million dollars. I was proud to be a part of their growth.

But then Michael Leone, who was Alan's boss, told him that he did not want to do any more Chuck Norris films, that karate films were dead. Alan argued with Michael about letting me go, as did David Miller, a vice president at American Cinema. David told Michael, “You're making a huge mistake.” But Michael's decision stuck, and he fired David. My contract was not renewed, and soon after, Alan Bodah left the company as well.

Ironically, the company followed up with three very large-budget films that bombed at the box office. Soon after that, American Cinema experienced financial difficulties and eventually declared bankruptcy.

My feelings were hurt because I thought that Michael Leone and I were friends, but I would soon learn that in the film business, you're a friend only as long as there's a need for you. Exceptions exist, of course, but not many.