When Jackie Chan walked onto the Piazza Grande stage at the Locarno Film Festival, the ovation wasn’t just for a beloved screen presence, it was for a filmmaker who has spent many years reinventing what action cinema can be.
The Hong Kong actor with a global career was honoured at the 78th edition of the Locarno Film Festival with the Pardo alla Carriera, or Career Leopard award. Over the course of a candid, often funny, and surprisingly technical masterclass at the festival, Chan offered the kind of hard-won lessons that resonate far beyond the martial arts genre.
Learning Every Job in the Business
Chan’s advice to young filmmakers at Locarno was characteristically blunt: “If you just learn to direct, not good enough. You have to learn so many things, lighting, camera, editing, stunts, everything. That way, when you direct, you know exactly what can be done.”
This wasn’t theory, it was survival. By the age of 18, Chan had become the youngest stunt coordinator in Asia, a title earned not through connections but through an obsessive curiosity about every corner of a film set. Where many of his colleagues would nap between takes or gamble to pass the long hours, Chan positioned himself behind the camera crew, the gaffer, the dolly grip, anyone who could teach him something.
“I learned where to stand so the camera never saw me. I learned what a 50mm or a 75mm lens could do. I helped carry lights, I fixed dollies. No money, but I learned,” he recalled. That apprenticeship-by-osmosis proved invaluable. He quickly grasped how camera placement influenced stunt choreography, how a lens choice could heighten or flatten the sense of danger, how light could make even a simple fall cinematic.
The accumulation of all these skills gave him an unusually holistic view of filmmaking. “Now, when I make a film, I can do everything myself, write, direct, choreograph, even operate the camera. That’s why, when I argue with a director about a shot, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve done it all.”
Breaking Free from the Bruce Lee Shadow
After Bruce Lee’s death, the Hong Kong film industry was desperate to crown a successor. Producers plastered Chan’s name on posters with taglines like “the second Bruce Lee”, a marketing move that set him up to fail. The first attempt, a remake of Fist of Fury, fell flat. “The script was wrong, the character was wrong. The movie just didn’t work,” Chan admitted. “Even the posters called me Bruce Lee Jackie Chan. But I’m not Bruce Lee.”
Instead of mimicking Lee’s precision and intensity, Chan chose inversion as a strategy for survival. “He kicked high, so I kicked low. He punched strong, I hurt myself. I totally opposite him.” Where Lee embodied near-mythical perfection, Chan leaned into clumsiness, vulnerability, even slapstick pain. He turned mistakes into choreography and accidents into punchlines.
This approach became the foundation of his screen persona, the underdog who wins not because he’s invincible, but because he’s inventive. His choreography, too, followed this logic. “I study every movie. If everyone is doing punch-kick, I think, what else can I do? I use chairs, tables, bicycles. But only if it makes sense in the scene. You can’t just put a prop there, it has to belong to the story.”
That insistence on narrative coherence separated Chan’s action from mere spectacle. The bicycle chase in Project A or the ladder fight in First Strike weren’t just set pieces, they were mini silent comedies, constructed with rhythm and timing more akin to Buster Keaton than Bruce Lee.
Choreography Must Serve the Story
For Chan, choreography is always dictated by context. A film’s period, setting, and characters determine the physical vocabulary. “Project A fighting is old-time style. Police Story is more modern. The Karate Kid is like jazz dancing. Every time, the script tells me what style the action should be.”
He emphasized that consistency is essential. Action, he argued, must follow the same internal logic as the rest of the narrative. “Sometimes the girl is flying in the first scene, but later she runs after the boy and cries. Why not fly? They don’t study the story, so the action doesn’t make sense.”
In his own productions, Chan insisted on direct involvement from start to finish to avoid such inconsistencies. Unlike systems where multiple units handle different aspects of a film, his approach kept choreography aligned with character and story throughout. This, he suggested, is what ensures credibility for the audience.
Pushing for the Perfect Shot
Chan explained that the risk involved in his stunts was never improvised but carefully prepared. The fear, he said, was always present, but planning and repetition allowed him to commit when the camera rolled. “I’m scared every time. I sit with the crew, we talk, then when they say ‘Rolling,’ I stand up and jump, don’t think, just jump.”
He underlined that the audience ultimately sees only the result. “The audience doesn’t care about excuses, only if it’s good.” That expectation shaped the way he worked: patience, multiple takes, and long production schedules if needed. Drunken Master II’s climactic fight, which lasts only minutes on screen, required three months of continuous filming. The extended sequences in Dragon Lord stretched to seven months. “A few minutes on screen can be months of work. But that’s how you make something last.” For Chan, durability comes from precision and persistence, not speed. The effort invested behind the scenes is invisible, but it determines whether a sequence will endure as more than just an action scene.
The Value of Creative Freedom
Chan credited much of his success to the working conditions he found at Golden Harvest during the 1980s and 1990s. Unlike major studios today, which he described as tightly budget-driven, Golden Harvest prioritized the finished product over immediate cost control. “Today, studios say, ‘Forty million, no more.’ Back then, I’d say, ‘I need one more month,’ and they said, ‘Go.’”
That flexibility allowed him to extend shooting schedules, rework sequences, and reshoot until the action matched his standards. It also enabled experiments with new forms of choreography that might not have survived under stricter time or financial pressure. “That’s why the old movies are better, they let me finish until I was satisfied.”
Chan suggested that this model of trust between filmmakers and producers was a decisive factor in creating films that went on to achieve both box-office and long-term cultural value. Without it, he implied, his most enduring works could not have been made to the same level.
Reinvention for Survival
Chan explained that his shift was motivated by long-term sustainability. The physical demands of stunt performance, he noted, make it difficult for action stars to maintain careers into later life. “An action star is replaceable. An actor who can fight, that’s rare.”
He began consciously moving toward more dramatic material about 15 years ago, focusing on roles where physical performance was part of the character rather than the sole attraction. The remake of The Karate Kid in 2010 marked a key step in that process. Instead of the young pupil, he embodied the mentor figure. “Used to be, I was the student. Now I was the master. That’s when I knew I could change.”
Subsequent projects such as The Foreigner reinforced this direction, earning him recognition not just for action but for dramatic weight. Chan presented this as an intentional redefinition of his career, designed to extend his relevance in both Asian and international markets. The strategy, he suggested, was not only about aging but about occupying a space in global cinema that others could not easily duplicate.
Bridging Cultures
On international productions, Chan frequently took on a role beyond acting or choreography by ensuring cultural accuracy. He described moments on Hollywood sets where design choices clashed with Chinese traditions, such as the use of white lanterns in a celebratory scene. In Chinese culture, white lanterns are associated with mourning and death. “I wanted to be a bridge between cultures. Small details matter.”
He explained that these interventions were not about artistic preference but about avoiding unintentional mistakes that could undermine a film’s credibility with audiences in different regions. His presence on set allowed productions to navigate cultural sensitivities and maintain authenticity, a factor he considered increasingly important for films aiming at global distribution.
Chan’s emphasis on detail illustrated how cross-cultural collaboration requires practical awareness as much as creative vision. The ability to identify and correct these issues, he suggested, can determine whether a film resonates universally or risks alienating a portion of its audience.
Comedy Without Borders
Chan noted that direct feedback from audiences shaped the direction of his work. He recalled being approached by a fan who praised his film but said she would not allow her children to watch it because of inappropriate language and humor. “From that time, I decided, action without violence, comedy without dirty comedy. That way, everyone can watch.”
This adjustment became a guiding principle for much of his later output. The goal was to create films that appealed across age groups and cultural backgrounds, ensuring accessibility in both Asian and international markets. By removing explicit violence and adult humor, Chan positioned his brand of action-comedy as broadly exportable, suitable for family viewing, and distinct from competitors.
He presented this as a deliberate commercial and creative strategy, a style that balanced spectacle with universality, capable of reaching the widest possible audience without compromising on identity.
Images courtesy of Locarno Film Festival.