Jeong Chang-hwa and Five Fingers of Death marked an era when a booming regional film industry and expanding viewership paved the way for transnational collaboration. Directors and actors crossed borders to work in new environments, blending styles and storytelling traditions from different cultures. Does this tradition of border-crossing creativity still resonate today?

Cinema was booming across Asia in the 1960s. The war had ended, and a semblance of stability was beginning to take hold—though the Cold War remained most intense on the Korean peninsula. South Korea was entering its first golden age of cinema, with a creative explosion that produced enduring masterpieces such as The Housemaid (1960) and My Mother and Her Guest (1961). A sharp rise in film production and audience enthusiasm was also evident in other parts of the region. Notably, Hong Kong emerged as a central hub for the Asian film market, supported by expansive studio infrastructure and a vast network of Chinese-speaking audiences.

One of the most prominent genres in Hong Kong was the martial arts film, commonly known as the Kung Fu film. The genre’s origins are often traced back to Burning Paradise, produced in China in 1927. The film follows students of the Shaolin Temple who, after being persecuted, ultimately triumph over the Qing dynasty’s forces. This narrative structure—where a hero endures hardship and ultimately prevails—became a defining template for martial arts cinema. At their core, these were stories of the hero’s journey, following the universal arc of departure, initiation, and return. These heroes were not only masters of combat but also embodiments of justice, duty, and self-sacrifice in service of a greater cause. As such, they held strong appeal for audiences, tapping into patriotic and national sentiments. However, this tradition encountered a significant shift with the rise of the Shaw Brothers studio.

The One-Armed Swordsman

For example, The One-Armed Swordsman (1967), produced by Shaw Brothers Studio and directed by one of its star filmmakers, Chang Cheh, presents a hero who deviates from idealized norms. Notably, his body is deformed—he has only one arm. This marks a significant departure from conventional Kung Fu cinema, where the flawless body and perfected combat skills are often symbolic of moral virtue. The film’s protagonist, Fang Kang, loses his arm in a violent confrontation but is rescued by a woman who shares with him a secret martial arts manual. Despite the loss of bodily wholeness—a foundational element of traditional martial prowess—he trains himself using the manual and ultimately takes revenge. This is no ordinary hero: he embodies a figure who transcends physical limitation to achieve his goals. Yet, his victory carries no triumphant euphoria or moral exaltation. Instead, it is marked by a quiet, introspective melancholy—a subdued calm that seems to emerge from deep, internal wounds.

Losing an arm may seem extreme in a Kung Fu film, where a healthy, disciplined body traditionally forms the foundation for narrative development. Yet this act of bodily harm marks only the beginning. What follows is an escalation of cinematic violence: male bodies are stabbed, punched, broken, pierced with arrows—subjected to increasingly spectacular forms of injury previously unimaginable in the genre. These scenes of bodily trauma are presented not as horror, but as visual spectacle—something for the audience to witness, even enjoy. Without plot resolutions that frame these injuries as meaningful trials on the path to revenge or redemption, such violence could easily be read as a sadistic display of male suffering. In Five Fingers of Death, for instance, Japanese samurais crush Lo Lieh’s fingers—crucial to mastering the secret technique of the Five Fingers of Death. His hands are chained to a tree and brutally beaten as his face contorts in abject pain. Why must male heroes endure such punishment, sacrificing bodily integrity and shattering idealized notions of masculinity?

The Complex Matrix of the Times

The emergence of suffering male bodies was not unique to Hong Kong Kung Fu films. In A Fistful of Dollars (1964)—a film that helped launch a wave of revisionist Westerns, from Spaghetti Westerns to so-called Kimchi Westerns—the figure of the male hero undergoes a significant transformation. The film’s protagonist, known only as the Stranger, is a gunslinger who manipulates a feud between two rival families for his own gain. Played by Clint Eastwood, the Stranger first appears with his face swollen and bloodied, having been beaten by one of the factions. Unlike the virtuous gunmen portrayed by John Wayne or James Stewart, who upheld the frontier spirit and moral clarity of classical Westerns, Eastwood’s character is morally ambiguous and shaped by a world where violence is the dominant currency. The demise of the honorable gunman and the foregrounding of male suffering reach their apex in Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch (1969). The film follows aging outlaws attempting one final heist, and from the outset, a sense of impending doom permeates the narrative. Rather than triumph, the story builds toward a spectacular and inevitable death for each major character. In this world, the fated death—not glorious victory—becomes the appropriate conclusion for men.

Although male characters in both contexts suffer and endure pain, the sociopolitical landscapes surrounding them could not be more different. While the United States was grappling with internal upheaval—marked by civil rights activism, the anti-Vietnam War movement, and the rise of countercultural introspection that questioned long-standing norms and traditions—Asia was still reeling from the trauma of colonialism, while striving to reclaim cultural identity and resist the growing influence of American popular culture. The transnational collaborations between Asian countries like South Korea and Hong Kong, spearheaded by ambitious players such as the Shaw Brothers Studio, emerged within this complex matrix. In this context, cultural products like films function as tools for asserting distinctiveness and negotiating modernity. The image of young heroes—enduring brutal trials, even bodily mutilation, yet ultimately triumphing—resonated powerfully with the desires for resilience, recovery, and self-definition.

The Legacy of Five Fingers of Death

While operating within the established framework of martial arts cinema that chart a hero’s path from trial to triumph, Jeong Chang-hwa softened the genre’s traditionally pessimistic tone and infused it with a modern sensibility. In Five Fingers of Death, his dynamic use of music and fluid camera work captures the hero moving through combat almost weightlessly, as if suspended in air. Though still marked by violence and prioritizing action over nuanced character development, the film constructs a bodily language that elevates the primal and visceral into something spiritual, even philosophical. However shattered, battered, or exhausted, these were celestial bodies—distinctively Asian and unapologetically proud for the audiences. In later years, some Korean films would gain international acclaim for their stylized brutality, crafting a unique cinematic signature through extreme violence, be it in action spectacles or dark noir narratives. Perhaps they owe something to this masterful predecessor, a filmmaker who knew how to blend style and violence into a bold, alternative cinematic vision.