My brush with fame: Leslie Cheung (3/4/2021)

(3/4/2021)

​Online Concert in Memory of Leslie Cheung on the 18th anniversary of his passing (d. April 1. 2003).

Actually, I do not know Leslie Cheung (張國榮) well, although our paths did cross. When his career took off in Hong Kong, I was toiling in Toronto doing something fraught with difficulties, totally thankless and, certainly, not very rewarding financially ... starting a national Chinese language television station on a shoestring. When you're young, naïve and full of impossible dreams, you'll do the darndest thing. But that's another story. Today, I'll talk about my remembrance of Leslie Cheung.

For those who have never heard of Leslie Cheung, I'll provide the following short introduction. Leslie Cheung was simply one of the most popular and iconic singer-actors in Hong Kong during the 1980s and 1990s. His unforgettable performance as the opera singer in Chen Kaige's masterpiece "Farewell My Concubine" established him as a serious actor. Leslie had a handsome face and was, therefore, a heartthrob for his female fans. He came out, however, as a bisexual person and was having a long-term homosexual relationship. On April 1st, 2003, Leslie jumped off a tall building and ended his life. Now, onward to the story of my encounters with Leslie Cheung. It started with me finishing school in Canada. 

(From Farewell My Concubine)

After graduating from McMaster University with an engineering degree in 1977, I returned to Hong Kong upon the expiry of my student visa. Although I had applied for immigration to Canada, the process would keep me in Hong Kong until the end of 1978 or early 1979. When I saw an ad from RTV (later ATV) hiring production assistants, I decided to apply and see where it would lead. It was not something I went to school for, but I had grown up watching movies getting made in a film studio. My uncle's (mother's younger sister's husband) father was a film studio boss. Many famous Hong Kong movie stars of old came from his National Studio (國家片場). 

In Hong Kong's television industry of those days, production assistant (PA) was the euphemism for a slave. You did anything your boss told you to. If anything went awry, you're the goat. "No" and "can't" did not exist in your vocabulary. Once, my producer was in charge of a dance-a-thon; I was on my feet for three days straight, outlasting all the dancers. You had no home and no family, no weekends and no holidays. You didn't eat, drink or sleep if you didn't have time. You only had your job ensuring programming went on air on time, on budget and without a hitch. And the salary wasn't enough to pay for bus fare. I later had a single business lunch in China that cost more than twice the monthly pay of a PA. Many PA newbies did not survive past the first week. Those who did were probably deranged (and what does it say about me?). Most TV producers started their careers as PAs. If you could survive and thrive as a PA, you could probably succeed in anything, anywhere. I built a national TV station from scratch in Canada with a shoestring budget and ran it under very adverse conditions.

They did not give orientations at RTV, unceremoniously tossing me into a production team desperately needing a PA. Given the job description, we can expect PAs not to last very long. They would get promoted, or they would quit, usually without notice. My group was composed of three producers and three PAs. We produced five half-hour youth programs each week. The show was titled "New Generation" (新一代). One of the hosts became very famous. He is Lawrence Cheng (鄭丹瑞). We worked closely together for almost a year. Another host became the top-billing actress in a well-known comedy with the Hui brothers, The Contract (賣身契), but I didn't hear much more of her afterwards. Her name is Tiffany Bao (鮑翠玲). My direct superior, producer-director Philip Chow (周偉材), would go on to head the Commercial Radio Hong Kong organization (香港商業電臺). Bravo! 

(Lawrence Cheng)
​
Incredibly, my most awesome experience at RTV happened on my first day. I did not know anyone yet. No human resources staff showed me around or introduced me to people. I was still finding my bearings. When lunch hour struck, I went to the canteen and ate lunch by myself. It turned out the canteen was not popular and was the eatery of last resort. Their only other customers were the staff of a variety show's studio shoot, occupying two large tables. I sat at the opposite corner of the room, not bothering anybody when something strange happened. 

(Deanie Ip)

A young woman walked over and, without introducing herself or saying hello, pointed at me and warned, "Young man, do not marry before thirty." This weird woman was the star of the variety show "Have a Laugh with Deanie" (德嫻笑一笑). Her name is Deanie Ip (葉德嫻), who would become a big movie star and eventually win the Venice Film Festival's Coppa Volpi for Best Actress for her performance in "A Simple Life" (桃姐). On the day we first met, she was already the star of her own show, and I was a lowly PA on his first day at the job, with poor odds I could last the week. Completely on her own initiative, with absolutely zero staring or ogling on my part—​​I was minding my own business chewing a piece of rubbery chicken—​she sashayed across the breadth of the room to befriend me in such a strange manner, and we became fast friends. I did not heed her admonishment, and we can guess what happened.

All the producers and PAs at RTV worked out of a large room, so everyone knew everyone else, even if they had never worked together on any projects. After settling down at my job, I noticed a skinny young man in bell-bottom pants and platform shoes frequently wandering into the producers' room. He was a contract artiste, an euphemism for any lowly contract performer who was not a star. RTV had many contract artistes who would never make it in the show business. I didn't know any of them, and when we needed someone from the list, it was usually for something inconsequential. So, when I started calling people from the list, they would have all kinds of excuses to avoid showing up, such as being in the hospital, getting married, or someone in the family died; this is no joke. I would get so frazzled I'd say, "I don't care if your father died. If you don't show up for work, you will never work at the station again." It sounds harsh, but someone taught me to say it. He said people would walk over me if I acted too Canadian—​Canada was a very different place in the seventies. In any case, the artiste would show up; no one died. Everyone had a good laugh. Lying was natural; it was not personal. No one harboured hard feelings. The show must go on. It was business as usual.

So, I observed with interest this young man traipsing with some regularity into the producers' room, politely accosting everyone and chatting up the variety show producers and PAs. Some producers didn't think much of such behaviour because if all the artistes did the same, the producers and PAs wouldn't be able to work. By showing up even when he didn't have a job, the young man made sure all the producers and PAs remembered him and knew he was dedicated and available. His name is Leslie Cheung. For a long time, he did not get any breakthrough jobs. But he never gave up.

In late summer of 1978, Commercial TV (佳视) went bankrupt. Their Wuxia master director, Siu Shang (萧笙), joined RTV, taking along his protégés, one of whom was Virginia Lok (樂易玲), who would eventually become the top executive of TVB, the only major broadcaster in Hong Kong after the demise of ATV. Virginia was a hot babe then, and they sat right behind my group. Director Siu was a master of his arts, no question about it. One of my fellow PAs immediately jumped ship and joined Siu Shang. His name is Siu Hin Fai (蕭顯輝). We were good friends. He urged me to leave our group as well. I did not because I knew I was immigrating to Canada by early 1979. Siu Hin Fai gave me a parting gift—​a book on Chinese Mythology. I still have the book with me. He would follow Siu Shang to TVB and become a successful executive producer of many popular shows.

I never met most of these friends again after I left Hong Kong, except for Brenda Lo (盧葉媚), a well-known Hong Kong musician and variety show producer at RTV, who came to Toronto and worked at my station for a short while (Brenda and Leslie were, of course, old friends), fellow PA Celfen Leung (梁蘊紅) and Siu Hin Fai, my old colleague at "New Generation." Siu Hin Fai returned to my life after many years in a strange twist of fate, but the twist ended badly for him. He passed away alone at home at the early age of fifty from a stroke. Unfortunately, the incredible story of what happened between us cannot be told here for privacy reasons.

In my opinion, Leslie Cheung's first breakthrough was his starring role in Siu Shang's first Wuxia series at RTV (浣花洗劍錄). You probably won't hear people make such a claim, but Leslie was a nobody before the show. Out of the blues, he was the star occupying top billing of a Wuxia series directed by a well-known master and aired during prime time. He also sang the theme song. We now know this is no accident. Suddenly, people in Hong Kong knew who Leslie Cheung was. I know I took notice. Leslie certainly grabbed the opportunity and kept on making his steady ascent. Leslie was, in my opinion, probably the only one among his peers during those heady days of Hong Kong filmdom to possess natural star quality. Sometimes, it's lonely at the top, and the higher you rise, the harder you fall.

In the summer of 1997, I was back in Hong Kong to witness the handover ceremony of the British government returning Hong Kong to the People's Republic of China. I was also preparing to set up a company in Guangzhou as a subsidiary of ACE, one of the largest television and telecommunications technologies companies doing business in China. A friend, Roks Lam (Hong Kong radio jockey of golden oldies), got in touch and invited me to have dinner with him. His wife at the time was a senior producer at RTHK (Government-owned media), and they were having dinner with a famous executive producer, Manfred Wong (文雋), and his actors who were doing their rounds to promote a new release. I was indifferent to Hong Kong movies in those days and did not know the beautiful girl beside me at the table was Shu Qi (舒淇). 

(Shu Qi)
​
... It's almost as embarrassing as not knowing I spent an entire evening chatting with Chiang Kai-shek's grandson, Chiang Hsiao-yen (蔣孝嚴). After dinner, the whole group went to their favourite watering hole to have drinks. Shu Qi, miffed at not getting my attention, left early (just kidding; she probably wondered what this guy was doing here?). Guess who we bumped into on the street? Yes, the star of our story, Leslie Cheung. He was a superstar, yet he knew everyone in my group except little old me. He was with friends, and we went our separate ways. 

At the end of the evening, when Manfred asked for the bill, the maître d' came over and discretely whispered Leslie had picked up our tab. According to people in our group, it was typical of Leslie. The next time I heard of Leslie Cheung was the shocking news of his demise. You'd think someone who had succeeded as he had, with all the fame and wealth a lot of people could only dream of, for which or much less some people would sell their daughter or kill their brother, he had no other choice but to take his own life. 

My favourite Leslie Cheung film is Rouge (胭脂扣). I like the original song, too. It was written by Leslie's mentor and music director of RTV (when I worked there), Michael Lai (黎小田). Michael was a La Salle alumnus (I'm a true blue La Sallite, attending the school from primary one to form seven). The song is, however, sung by Leslie's co-star and another Hong Kong singer/actress superstar whose life was tragically cut short, Anita Mui (梅豔芳). She passed away from cancer only nine months after the passing of Leslie.

(Scene from Rouge with Anita Mui and Leslie Cheung)
​
Excerpt from Vincent
​
"For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night
You took your life as lovers often do
But I could have told you, Vincent
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you."