Performing Kung Fu with the Shaolin Monks

Half an hour into the show and it is fair to say that the 1,600 people packed into the Liverpool Empire have never seen anything like this before in their lives. A host of Buddhist monks, brightly-coloured in their orange tunics, are causing sheer mayhem on stage, and those who have paid to watch sitting below have no idea where to fix their astonished gaze next.

To the right a number of monks are enacting a series of sword duels so precise in detail and practice that one, slight slip would lead to serious injury. To the left another monk is seemingly being tortured, bound and held while his captors smash planks of wood - we’re talking planks here, not slithers - against his torso, legs and arms. In the centre another clutch of monks are in the throes of an energy-sapping, high-octane series of kung fu fights, kicking and chopping, somersaulting and screaming. This is Bruce Lee meeting Jackie Chan to music and lights, whilst all around them an intense battle rages on.

Suddenly, from the left of the stage, a monk is chased mercilessly by a new, bigger member of the invading army. In and out of the trees they bob and weave until the aggressor comes face to face with one of the Emperor’s top guards. This would be a fight to the finish, between a man who had been practising kung fu since early childhood and a pale, forty-something mercenary from the strange north who, having been made to look more like his fellow soldiers from the invading army, resembled Fu Man Chu on a seriously bad hair day. The mercenary uttered a terrifying, blood-curdling scream and launched himself at the monk as the two fought for their lives. Only one of them would be standing a couple of action-packed minutes later.

Well, here we go again. It is another truly bizarre situation to find myself in, the first westerner ever permitted to perform kung fu with the Shaolin Monks in their stunning “Wheel of Life” stage show that toured Britain. I had been invited to join the monks for a week leading up to their first performance in Liverpool, to discover their purpose, and to be taught kung fu to the extent that I would feature in the highlight of their show, the famous Shaolin Monk battle scene.

It seemed a bit of a long shot to me, but on hearing of my plans a week earlier the twenty, shaven-headed monks, responded with a resounding round of applause and promises that they would whip me into shape. I only hoped the “whipping” part was metaphoric.

So just who are the Shaolin Monks? Fifteen hundred years ago, shortly after the Shaolin Temple was founded in the central Henan Province of China to worship the Chinese form of Buddhism, the discipline of martial arts was applied as a manifestation of their religion and an effective form of self-defence to protect their temple against invading warlords. Kung Fu, which translated means “skill from effort,” was born, a set of eighteen different fighting actions utilising almost every part of the body. Combined with the use of weapons made from simple farming tools, Kung Fu provided a means of exercise and meditation at first, but then proved equally effective when applied as self-defence.

Fifteen hundred years later I found myself with the Shaolin elite, a group of soldier monks who could kick your head off with a flick of their flying feet if they chose, but instead, as befits young men authorised by the First Abbot of the Shaolin Temple, the Venerable Shi Yong Xin, and supported by the Henan Provincial Government, greet you with the warmest of smiles, a number of nods of the head, and a series of pronouncements all babbled in Mandarin.

In rehearsals at the Bow Studios in East London not involving the battle scene the monks went about their extraordinary business, demonstrating their breathtaking kung fu skills with their hands and legs, or enacting their piece de resistance - chi kung. The art of “chi” is the placement of all your energy and oxygen into the part of the body where the point of impact would be. One of the monks, for example, can quite happily impale himself upon sharp spears and be hoisted high above his colleagues’ heads, returning back to the ground with nothing more than a few minor dents in his skin. Another monk lies on a rack of machetes, with a bed of nails on his chest. A second lies on top of him, with a large, stone slap on his stomach. A third then proceeds to smash the slab with a sledgehammer.

And so it goes on. Yet another monk can do the most perfect hand stand on just two fingers. Within a year he expects to be able to do it using just one finger from one hand. Zhu Zhan Kui is the largest of the monks, and the man who takes most of the wooden staves and even iron bars to the body. He took me aside, just before I was about to start learning my own kung fu act, to show me his chi.

Closing his eyes he initiated a long series of deep breaths, seemingly circulating his air first up and then down his body. Then he braced himself as another monk clouted him full across the face of his back with a plank of wood resembling a caveman’s club. Zhu’s expression remained impassive as the wood shattered into two pieces. As an encore he proceeded to strike himself hard, and I mean very hard, across his forehead using a metal bar. Then, and this should bring tears to the eyes of any male reading this, he widened his legs and took the full force of another wooden stave on his crotch. By rights he should have doubled up in pain and spent at least the next quarter of an hour rolling about the floor red-faced, and in a foetal position. Instead, he picked up the now two halves of the plank and threw them to the side.

“Now,” Zhu said, without a flicker of humour in his face. “It’s your turn.” I’ve had better offers recently than this, but was not about to argue with a man who appeared to feel no pain from anything, just as long as he steered a wide berth from my genitals. I was almost glad when he whacked me across the back a couple of times, not hard enough to break the wood, but with just enough pressure for it to hurt and for me to realise how badly it could go wrong.

“It’s taken me ten years to be able to do this,” Zhu explained, matter-of-factly. “And not every monk has the right body to perform chi. Those who don’t become acrobats, or maybe kung fu fighters. If you tried properly now, with no education of chi, you will go to hospital.”

With perfect timing that may well have saved my masculinity, I was hauled away to the main stage to be taught my part in the battle scene. Chen Yan Men would be my opponent, and for the purposes of the lesson, Chen De Feng and the ever-smiling Fu Hung Wei would help tutor me in the finer arts of kung fu.

“This is what we’ll do,” Chen Yan Men explained, as he and Fu Hung Wei proceeded to perform a blur of kicks and chops, ducks and somersaults, snarls and clenched fists, and finally an assault with a large stick. “Now,” the two monks said a couple of minutes later, breathing heavily and sweating. “Please.”

Over the next hour we worked slowly together until we had some semblance of a choreographed kung fu fight. I would chase Chen Yan Men through the woods before sending him flying with a kick to his back. He would rush at me with his own kick that I would block. We would then throw three, square arm swipes at each other, connecting with our forearms, before each would direct another kick to the side. Chen� would produce a reverse kick aimed at my head, but I would duck under his leg before rising and sending him crashing to the ground with another flying kick, impacting between his shoulder blades.

Now I would move in for the kill. Approaching Chen I would throw three fierce forearm smashes across his body, but he would manage to block the first two before ducking below my third. Off-balance, I am kicked to the floor and, while still in the process of getting up, Chen Yan Men would kick my torso hard enough to force me to roll over three times. Again I would attempt to rise, but he would kick me in the chest, lifting me off the ground and sending me crashing to the side.

This has angered me greatly. I am one of the invading general’s chief soldiers, and I do not take lightly to such contemptuous treatment from a Shaolin Monk. Finding a heavy wooden staff lying next to me, I pick it up and run, screaming, towards the solider monk. I attempt to smash it down hard on to his head, but he would move in the nick of time and instead the staff smashes against the floor. I would try for a second time, and this time the monk would dodge the other way to create the same result. My third and final effort would be the strongest of all. Using all my might I aim to split his skull in two, but Chen Yan Men is too quick and moves with a split-second to spare behind me to throw my now off-balanced body to the floor, before kicking me off the stage.

It took an hour to get the moves right, and three further days to bring it up to speed. At first Chen and I performed the scene slowly, but by the end, watched intently by the show’s director, Micha Bergese, who has worked with the likes of The Rolling Stones and Tina Turner in the past, we were kicking and chopping as quickly as was humanly possible. “Show more determination,” Micha shouted at one stage. “Really go for him with the stick.” It was when I smashed the staff into two during one of the rehearsals that I realised just how hard I was expected to send it crashing down towards Chen’s head.

Lunch was always one of the highlights of the day, not least because their own cook brought over from China provided a high-protein assortment of rice and noodles dishes with no meat, alcohol nor monosodium glutamate. It was also the time to talk and relax. To say it was strange to see a few of the monks playing pool, or flicking through a copy of The Sun newspaper, is something of an understatement. It was a quite amazing cultural clash, but one that appeared not to distract the monks.

“In our hearts and minds it is no different travelling abroad or staying in the Shaolin Temple,” Fu Hung Wei explained. “Our mission is to spread Buddhism, and it is an honour to be chosen from the Temple.”

The mission is also to raise funds for the monastery, now that it is no longer state-funded. All profits from the show are fed back for maintenance of the temple. But do kung fu and Buddhism really sit as happy bedfellows in today’s China?

“Of course,” says Chen De Feng, who has joined his two friends for lunch. “Buddism is the root of kung fu which stemmed from meditation. Without religion kung fu cannot exist. China may have changed, but we at the Shaolin temple have not.”

The monks went on to explain their daily existence. They rise at dawn and spend their first hours praying, meditating, chanting and stretching, the latter being the reason why they possess such amazingly supple bodies. After breakfast they practice kung fu, hour after hour. After lunch they return to their kung fu and meditation, and after dinner they work on their daily chores before retiring to their twin-bedded rooms at ten. Hardly rock and roll, but I challenge you to meet a more contented group of people. “We are happy,” Fu Hung Wei said. “And we are fulfilled.”

A handful of western-based actors originating from the Far East filled the few acting parts required in the first half of the show that depicts the story of the Shaolin Monks. Cecil Cheng, for example, was Oddjob’s double in the James Bond film, “Goldfinger,” as well as Spector Agent Number 7 in “Thunderball.”� And my invading general, Jason Ninh Cao, played “Charlie” in Guy Ritchie’s “Snatch.”

“I’m the one who shoots the Vinnie Jones character, “Bullet Tooth Tony,” six times, and still can’t kill him,” Jason explains. “So then he kills me. In my last film role I’m in the company of loads of strippers. Now I’m with the Shaolin Monks. I suppose I’m washing my sins away. The monks are the most relaxed, easy-going people I’ve ever worked with.”

And so to Liverpool. It is decided that a redhead would look mighty odd attacking the Shaolin Temple, so a black hair net is placed on top of my head, and a striking, red bandana. I wear what looks like a silk dressing gown, with matching, wide trousers, and slight, black plimsolls. Jason, my general, applied the make-up, helped by wardrobe supervisor Ally Napier. After a few stretches on stage the monks and I were ready for action.

It was at this point that the evening started to go a little pear-shaped. Chen Yan Men appeared in a t-shirt, jeans and baseball cap. He felt sick, and was unable to perform. It would prove to be an eminently sensible decision. Fu Hung Wei stepped into the fray at the last minute, and the two of us worked frantically on the fight that Chen and I were supposed to perform. After around a dozen attempts Fu said he was confident we could get it right. Getting it wrong in this show spelled only one thing - pain.

After fifteen minutes of the show eight of us gathered at the back of the auditorium ready to charge through the audience and on to the stage to attack the Emperor and the Shaolin monks. I had four flags strapped together on my back, and a large, wooden stick as a weapon which caught the programme seller by surprise when I emerged from the shadows. Jason screamed angrily from the stage and waved us forward. I was almost left behind as my colleagues in crime sprinted ahead, shouting and cursing at the top of their voices. Once on the stage we marched first to the right, and then to the left, wielding our weapons in a threatening manner. It is at this point that I’m supposed to make a quick exit at the back, but in the process of running off a set of flags on another monk’s back stuck into my face and the two of us nearly tumbled as I tried furiously to remove the flags.

Not a great start, although I’m not sure how much of this was obvious to the audience. As the battle began, and I prepared for my cameo fight, a couple of paramedics introduced themselves to me back stage.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, somewhat taken aback by their presence.

“We’ve got to be here because you can be guaranteed there’ll be some accidents,” one replied. “You on next?” I nodded my head.

“We’d better stick around then,” he responded.

�A sweating Fu arrived by my side. He had already seen off a couple of the invading warriors, but he was about to face his biggest test: Fu Man Chu, the mercenary.

“Okay,” he announced, and darted off into the pile of upright wooden tree trunks depicting the forest. Again, I was nearly left behind, but managed to catch him up in the “forest” before kicking him to the ground. I stood in front of him, crouched and ready, before blocking his kick to my sides and directing one back at him.

So far so good. I was concentrating so hard on the fight that I was oblivious to the 1,600-strong audience watching all this and, hopefully, unaware of the western imposter revealing his limited knowledge of kung fu.

Fu and I exchanged blows before I ducked under his swinging leg and sent him crashing to the floor with a high kick. At this point I remembered that I was supposed to be making loud and aggressive oriental noises. Instead, various, farmyard noises began to utter from my mouth. Fu ran at me. I aimed three straight arm blows at him before somersaulting to the stage floor from where I was kicked twice by the Shaolin monk.

I grabbed a nearby wooden staff and charged at him, now furious with intent. Three times I appeared to smash his skull in, but three times I missed. I noticed, by way of passing, that Fu let out a particularly convincing scream on the third occasion of my thrusting stick before he kicked me off the stage. All this took only a few minutes to enact, but at the end I was gasping for breath.

Fu was in a far worse state. It turned out that my third attack with the stick had landed full on his foot, hence his unbelievably realistic scream. The monk could hardly walk at all, yet met my profuse apologies with a smile. “It’s my fault,” he told me, which was excellent to hear bearing in mind what he could have done to me, all in the art of self-defence.

Fu was not the only casualty that night. The paramedics were busy looking at the twelve-year old monk who smacked his head hard on the floor, and the three other monks who had suffered leg, ankle and foot injuries. Poor old Fu had still to perform his acrobatics, and did so without revealing his discomfort until he returned backstage and howled with pain. He could have done with some chi before taking me on, I suppose. By the end of the show, once the monks had revealed their various tricks with concrete slabs, iron bars and spears, and as we reassembled on stage to take the curtain call, the cast more resembled a casualty unit.

Yet the invading warrior with the hair net had survived the night’s work, albeit with an aching leg and a guilt complex over Fu. If he hasn’t broken a bone from colliding with my staff, then I’m a Chinaman. And as the audience at the Liverpool Empire that night will tell you, I’m clearly not a Chinaman.

And so the Shaolin monks travelled on for the rest of the year throughout Britain, safe in the knowledge that their deep-seated traditions and beliefs would stay with them through thick and thin, while the rather clumsy Englishman would not.

As a parting comment I promised I would work on my chi and see if, in time, I would be able to break sticks on my body too. Somehow I can’t imagine turning down a night’s invitation out because I’m staying at home cracking planks against my privates, though.

Maybe I can practice on someone else. Now that’s a much better idea. Any takers?