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Swordsman II The Hong Kong Film, Entertainment, and Gender

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I must make a leap into popular culture, for in this discussion of the body, we can’t help but be reminded of the Michael Jackson scandal. Jackson, with his sense of style, soft voice, and mysterious cosmetic and surgical alterations, balances on the line of gender much like the character Fong. Similarly powerful financially and just as elusive to the mainstream confines of gender, it was no surprise that Jackson was regarded as a monster when accused of child molestation — an abjection would have been more precise. The authorities even went so far as to require that Jackson reveal his genitals, insisting that it was crucial evidence to the conviction. In light of our discussion, it seems the stakes in disrobing Jackson were less an attempt to convict him than a way to satisfy the public’s conviction about his mysterious sexual identity. Although Jackson’s refusal cost him a substantial settlement, the secret of his identity and his body remain intact.
— Rolanda Chu

In Swordsman II, the Fong character, whose gender identification is in question, is played by Lin Ching-Hsia, an actress extremely well known to Hong Kong film culture as female. In fact, she has been the quintessential Hong Kong leading lady for over fifteen years. Oddly enough, Lin has recently been cast more than once in drag-engaged roles, through her collaborations with Hong Kong writer/director/producer Tsui Hark. Tsui's clever usage of Lin moves beyond the dynamic of Kuhn's "view behind," functioning instead as what I would term a "view outside." The purpose here is not to see behind the garb, but to look beyond the narrative completely, in order to know it is Lin Ching-Hsia, the famous Hong Kong actress. In Lin's previous drag-engaged roles in Dragon Inn (1987) and Peking Opera Blues (1986), the narrative utilizes the knowledge of the view outside as part of the plot's elaboration. In these two films, the visual cue, which triggers the audience's recognition of Lin in character in drag (and one need not be familiar with the actress Lin in order to recognize the conventional signs of gender articulated by her face), is all that is necessary to convey that what is being presented to us is a female character in the film who has had to dress in male garb for some reason or another. This visual cue of the female Lin personage as actress is extremely effective — no other narrative elaboration is necessary.

In Swordsman II, the workings are calculatedly different. Once again, the visual cue of Lin Ching-Hsia is used for the viewer, but the designated gender roles of the narrative are not as they were in the above examples. Instead of being cast as a female character, she is to play a character who is initially male. The fact that this male character is castrated and is to transform into a woman through the course of the film makes this view outside all the more interesting. The utilization of the view outside in this scenario encourages the viewer to perceive the male Fong character as a woman. Thus, the spectator is deliberately set up to misrecognize, to mistake Fong's identity of gender as female, just as the Ling character does in the narrative. Because we can view Fong as Lin Ching Hsia, the famous Hong Kong actress, rather than as the castrated power-mad masculine Uncle, the plausibility of a romance between Ling (male) and Fong (understandably female) is relayed clearly. The identification is clear, but the traditional boundaries of appropriateness and gender are exceedingly blurred.

The East Is Red

Kuhn points out the bounds that are being traversed in gender misrecognition: "Discourses on gender identity and sexual difference hold together a range of notions centering on biological sex, social gender, sexual identification and sexual object choice. The incorporation of these in constructs of gender identity is a historically grounded ideological project whose effect, it has been argued, has been to set up a heterogeneous and psychic construct as a unitary, fixed and unproblematic attribute of human subjectivity. Within this ideological project, subjectivity is always gendered and every human being is, and remains, either male or female ... ideology gender identity is not merely absolute: it also lies at the very heart of human subjectivity. Gender is what crucially defines us, so that an ungendered subject cannot, in this view, be human."⁹

In this very concise summary of the ideological project of gender, Kuhn brings to the surface a very keen suggestion: that the ungendered subject is not human.

Barbara Creed’s article "Horror and the Monstrous Feminine," from Fantasy and Cinema (BFI 1989), edited by James Donald, discusses what Julia Kristeva terms abjection: "that which does not respect borders, positions, rules, that which disturbs identity, system, order." In general terms, Kristeva is attempting to explore the different ways in which abjection, as a source of horror, works within patriarchal societies, as a means of separating the human from the nonhuman.¹⁰ Although Creed uses Kristeva's ideas in a discussion of the modern horror film text, she describes a monster grounded in notions of abjection, particularly in relation to many abominations, including corporeal alteration.

In Swordsman II, Fong does not simply make a smooth and easy transition from male to female. The supernatural change demands that he endeavor exactly a corporeal altercation of castration, and because she/he lingers in this "borderless and disturbing" in-between space of masculine and feminine while in transit, the final transformation does not make Fong a bona fide woman. Instead, Fong becomes the undifferentiated abject, a monster — and even worse, a "monstrous feminine."¹¹

As I have stated before, the viewer is set up to want the Ling and Fong characters to be together. If the utopian prospect is of a vision at least momentarily of the fluidity of gender options, then the most radical dynamic of pleasure put forth in Swordsman II is the prospect of loving the monster: the taboo of embracing the abject.

At the end of the final bout between Fong and Ling, despite the fact that Ling knows that the person before him is the notorious transformed Fong, he jumps to embrace him/her, risking his own life to exclaim that he wants him/her to be Cici, and that he wants to have spent the night with Fong — monstrous feminine or not. This exclamation by Ling could also be read as his needing to settle the score: if he had slept with her, he could achieve a certain resolution — he would know the truth of Fong's body, the truth of a differentiated body making the love relationship a lot easier to swallow. After all, as Kuhn points out, "what is at stake in the expression of the dualism of appearance and essence is a fundamentalism of the body — an appeal to bodily attributes as the final arbiter of truth."¹²

Nonetheless, Fong hurls Ling back up to safety, and falls to his/her own destruction (although not ultimately, as there is a sequel ... ), taking the secret of whether they did or did not spend the night together with him/her, leaving Ling to truly remember him/her as undifferentiated and monstrous, and to continue to love and feel remorse for his/her death for the rest of his life. Of course, the viewer knows the truth of Cici, the stand-in, and this knowledge may be read as the patriarchal safety net from consummating relationships with monsters. However, it can also be read as heightening the impact and reception of Fong's finale, functioning as Fong's "ace" in refusing resolution for Ling, as well as refusing closure for the audience. By not spending the night with Ling, we too know not the truth of Fong's concealed body. We too are left forever with the undifferentiated abject.

THE SECRET OF THE BODY

This concept of the secret of the body is further explored in the film's sequel, The East Is Red. The sequel picks up the story four months later, at the site of Fong's death scene, Black Cliff. A Spanish general named Golida, with a Chinese government official named Koo, has come to look for a sunken Dutch ship. It is rumored that Fong never really died, and while at Black Cliff, both of the men are curious to see Fong's grave for themselves. They meet an old and mysterious gray-haired person (gender is not conveyed), who claims to be the warden of the Black Cliff and leads them to the grave. Koo expresses doubts about Fong's death and wants proof in the form of the corpse. Before further discussion, Golida and his men explode the tomb with gunpowder. When the coffin is opened, the Spanish general begins to disrobe the corpse with his sword. Golida reveals that he was never interested in the sunken ship, and is really after the mythical sacred scroll, believed to hold the secret to Fong's power.

In Swordsman II, we learned that the valuable sacred scroll and its secrets have been inscribed on and pointedly hidden in the inside of Fong's gown. The significance and power of the much sought-after and excessively protected "sacred scroll" can thus be read as an articulation of the truth of the fundamental body. To attain the scroll would require the undressing of Fong. This cleverly set up circumstance not only allows one to attain the scroll on the robe by stripping the clothes off the body, but the act yields an opportunity to read and differentiate the sight of the exposed body. Thus, in The East Is Red’s opening scene described above, Koo's assertion that seeing is believing is not far from the truth. If bodily attributes are the final arbiter of gender, Golida's attempt at learning the "secret of Fong's power" is almost achieved as he attempts to disrobe the corpse — not by attaining the scroll but through disclosing the secret of Fong's visible body.

The East Is Red

Pious and upright, Koo opposes Golida's desecration of the corpse, and manages to stop Golida with the aid of the old warden, who exhibits great fighting abilities. The secret remains hidden, and Koo and the enigmatic warden are left to speak privately. Koo expresses his suspicion that the warden is actually Fong, and says that he would die for a glimpse of Fong's true face. The warden removes a mask to reveal the face of Fong. Since the final battle (of Swordsman II), Fong has been invisibly in seclusion and anonymity. Koo informs Fong that while she/he has been hiding, many others pretending to be Fong have continued to wreak havoc in the world. Fong vows to put an end the misuse of her/his name and has Koo lead her/him to the frauds.

When Koo asks for a glimpse of Fong's true face, the secret of the body and the dualism of appearance and essence are no longer an elision of gender. Koo doesn't want to know Fong's sex, for he has completely accepted the existence of Fong's abjection. Instead, he wants to catch a glimpse of Fong the monster. If the ungendered subject, as argued by Kuhn, Creed, and Kristeva, cannot be human, and Fong has so stealthily convinced us to transgressively love this undifferentiated monster in Swordsman II, then the argument in The East Is Red must negotiate the extension of this conclusion: is the monstrous abject Fong a human being? The boundaries of identity have been blurred by Swordsman II, and in The East Is Red, Fong essentially has to make the passage back to convince us she is a human being in order to transgress bounds.

The East Is Red explores this realm through a complex narrative use of masks and masquerade. Throughout the film, many of the characters wear masks. The individual currently masquerading in the world as invincible Fong is actually the weak-hearted and fragile Snow, a woman who was once Fong's lover; the beautiful mistress of Snow/Fong is discovered to be a vile and repulsive ninja sent by Mo Yan Lu Chong, the fierce Japanese ruler; he in turn is exposed as a weak dwarf/sorcerer in Mo Yan Lu Chong's armor; an occult leader claiming to be the human link to the ever-powerful Fong proves to be a powerless fraud; and a band of Fong-like robed individuals are actually outfitted prostitutes who obviously hide no secrets in their bodies. The above characterizations foreshadow Fong's necessary passage — although these characters masquerade as dangerous, otherworldly beings far different from their true identities, all ultimately prove their human existence through their mortality.

Fong's unmasking is much more complicated. Fong's anger at being misunderstood and treated like a god drives him/her to murder massively and viciously in order to incur hate. However, rather than leveling Fong's status; as a god, his/her efforts afford even more power. Furthermore, wearing the face of the old warden, dressing in prostitute's attire, and climbing into Mo Yan Lu Chong's armor does not make Fong more common. Instead, Fong continually adds layers that shield rather than expose identity. This ability to put on consecutive masks is also extremely empowering, and Fong's mutability makes a vulnerable human face difficult to imagine. Fong too becomes confused in his/her goals, and the nonhuman god identity reaches a peak of monstrosity when Fong vanquishes the ship of Spaniards and forces them to pray to him/her. As I've said above, Swordsman II has already convinced us to accept this monstrous, abject characterization of Fong — in a sense it's nothing new and hence no longer radical play. However, Fong ultimately does make the identity transgression — becoming "human" — through his/her relationship with Snow.

In Fong's efforts to destroy the godly worship from others, Fong wrongly rejects Snow, for it is Snow's human love, affection, and worship that is the key to proving Fong's humanity. Fong fails to see this until the very end of the film. In the middle of a vicious battle and display of power that inadvertently lead to Snow's death, Fong finally realizes his/her affection for Snow and stops fighting. Showing pain and remorse and finally reciprocating Snow's love, Fong ultimately appears human as she/he tenderly cradles the dead Snow in his/her arms. Examining the notion of entertainment in relation to Swordsman II and The East Is Red, it is not surprising that entertainment is as devalued and silenced as it is. The phenomenal declaration of the "secret" of The Crying Game (Neil Jordan 1992) was invoked not only to maintain the entertainment ("Don't tell, it'll ruin the movie!"), but to silence the discussion of the radical pleasure of blurred and fluid gender options. If Hong Kong films are being gagged and emptied by the mass media, and explained away as "sheer entertainment," it is the surest sign to start looking for plum articulations of unruly delight.

NOTES

9. Kuhn, 52.

10. Creed, 64.

11. Of course, even Swordsman II ultimately complies with the need to destroy and purge the abject in the final purification/confrontation scene, which is complete with a gaping wound shot of Fong's blood-gushing (!) monster body.

12. Kuhn, 54.

Rolanda Chu, formerly a film exhibitor, is coeditor of HK Film Monthly.

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