Chapter 41: Bas’ Bottom Bitch (Patreon)

Chapter 41: Bas’ Bottom Bitch

Korea Town, LA. September 2008.

[“Bitch, do you see us?”]

“Ya! You bundeggi bastard, no cussing in my dojang!” Oh Dae Su, my tetchy taekwondo teacher, had been fed far too much gochujang with the spicy tongue lashing he was raring to give me. 

Not the best first impression to give my newest colleague. “Should we maybe go through your lines some other time?” Michael Jai White was looking a little green at Oh Dae Su’s blue language and my red face as we went over the choreography for Black Dynamite.

“No, big man. You stay! Show me again why good fighter like you make martial arts into silly dance for your movie.” When Oh Dae Su found out that I’d be doing my first film that featured some actual kicks and punches being thrown, he was adamant to meet the man who would choreograph the fights since he had exactly zero intention of letting me embarrass the name of his gym.

Luckily for him, Michael was perfectly happy to accommodate my request. Unlucky for him, I’d be spending the majority of my time on screen scurrying around in platform boots.

“Trust me, sir. I get where you’re coming from, seriously, more than you know. There’s so many times when I would do what would work in real fighting - and it just wouldn’t work.” 

“Show.” At his one word demand, the two career martial artists didn’t even take one second to start sparring.

Hwip! Fists went flying, cutting through the air with speed. Pap! Boney knuckles met calloused palms as strikes hit. Tss! They spat with exertion as they blocked painful strikes from the other’s shins, knees, and elbows. 

All the while, the only body parts of mine in motion were my feet as I practised my heel-toe, heel- toe high heel shoe walk. ‘70s fashion and I had a love affair for every part of the outfit except for the stilts they pretended to call shoes. Not even my hard-fought gymnastics earned balance was going to keep me upright without a little stomping practice. 

Impromptu decision on my part, but Jin-Hee, Oh Dae Su’s daughter, ad made the rookie mistake of leaving her heels in the public shoe cubbies. 

“How we’re exchanging blows now? That’s real.” Michael and my master separated for a moment. “In movies, most of this looks like crap. Sometimes, the better we want it to look on screen, the worse we have to fight.” Michael posed with extreme exaggeration, overextending his stance and raising one bulky arm up to the sky, ready to chop down. “HIYAAH!”

The grimace on Oh Dae Su’s face wasn’t because of the volume. “This make no sense.” 

[“You know what don’t make no sense? Is the service ‘round this motherfucker!”] I delivered my lines as Michael continued to deliver the lowdown on hokey Hollywood fight scenes. 

Combined with my continued cursing, Dae Su was hitting the limit faster than the dainty Jimmy Choo wedges my clumsy hoofing was threatening to tear apart. 

“Very little we can do about it, unfortunately. Legends like Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan set the gold screen gold standard, so it’s basically become our job to try to live up to that. Because if we don’t, audiences walk out of theatres. Plus, it’s also the nature of Black Dynamite the movie. At the end of the day, it’s a satire of those old 1970s black exploitation action films. So it’s all a lot of silk shirts, street justice, and as much corny kung fu that we can fit into ninety minutes.” Not to mention the gratuitous nudity. This was going to be my first R-rated film, no point telling my teacher that now - he was already on the verge of a heart attack. 

I was saving that juicy little morsel for the premiere. 

“Aish… okay. So I will not watch for the fighting. I only buy ticket if the acting is good. Is it?”

“Considering I’m headlining the whole thing, I hope so.” Then they both turned to me while I strutted around like I was auditioning for America’s next top model. “As for him though… despite his pretty limited screen time, at least until the third act, he’s still got a pretty tough job. Bas’ character is conceptualising two specific stereotypical tropes of this sort of movie. First: he’s playing the cliche enemy to friend role. Secondly: while also balancing that with being the token good white boy, to really ham fist the joke moral lesson of interracial unity. I mean, my character is going to be duelling the president of the USA with nunchucks because there’s a racial conspiracy that the government is using one of the African-American community’s favourite beverages to assault us by shrinking our…”

“Bundeggi.” I clarified using a Korean expression. “Don’t worry about my performance. I’m going to be to this movie what Eminem became to hip Hop. Corporately marketable.” 

“As long as we’re selling tickets, man.” Definitely worth a watch even without me in it. But my presence gave WB the kick in the bell-bottom trousers to agree to a theatrical release deal that the movie originally wouldn’t have had. “How about you give the old boy here a quick preview? Run that first line by us again.”

Channelling my most jive-worthy urban accent, [“bitch! Do you see us!?”] I wailed with the ferocity of a Karen confronting customer service. 

Suddenly I was seeing stars. Not because I’d gone lightheaded from the glory of my acting. But because Dae Su had crept up behind me and swept my legs for swearing again. 

Whump! My back landed hard on the mats as my feet flung wildly towards the ceiling. You’d think his daughter’s heels would have also flown off, but by now, Uhu super glue should be approaching me for any minute for my next endorsement deal with how tightly they were stuck on. 

“After lunch, I give you soap instead of toothpaste to wash your mouth. Now come, iron lady not here anymore, so I must feed you. You also, big man.”

My fear that the people close to me would make a poor impression on Michael came further true as the three of us walked into the back of the dojang, where Oh Dae Su’s family had finished setting the table. 

“Bas, are those my stilettos?” How rude! She could have at least said hello first.

–

Ladera Heights, LA. September 2008.

[“I’m runnin’ things. I’m runnin’ thaaayaayangs~” I sang deafeningly as I delicately buffed my nails in a barbershop chair. “Cream corn - that’s why they call me that. Smooth.’’ On account of the pallid colour of my skin, the character I was embodying was rather fortuitously named. “I got mo’ measure for yo’ pleasure. Stick with me, baby, and I’ll have you farting through silk.” Hell of an introduction.]

At the very least, the extra hired to play the salon worker standing behind me thought so. Especially when the director had to call cut when she giggled at the line. 

No skin off my pale ass. More takes just meant more improv, which also meant more for the blooper reel.

[“Cream corn. You know why they call me that, don’t you, sugar? Cuz when I cream in you, you’re gonna be poppin’ ‘em out quicker than movie theatre kernels, baby. You can believe that. We’ll be churnin’ our own butter. Do you feel me, miss thang? I’m talkin’ finger fuckin’ lickin’ - d’you know what I’m saying?”]

“Cut.”

“Bas, I’m warning you…” Michael, now decked out in full Black Dynamite regalia (afro-included) threatened to break my bones even as my ridiculous caricature threatened to break his demeanour - if his lips twitching under his thick luxurious porn-stache was any indication. “Stick to the lines in the script and stop jerking off.” Too bad for him. I was a master debater. 

“Fine, fine, have it your way. How about we jump over to the next line and then come back to the first one later?”

This would obviously necessitate more work in post; but the sudden breaks in flow and editing would actually fit the movie better. Less quality, in this context, meant better comedy. 

[I swung round in my salon chair while foppishly fluffing my hair. Most of which was tangled in your auntie’s favourite pink curlers. “Let a sucka mess with me. I’ll jump on him! With the full force of pure-” my chair finished rotating and what colour I had on my face drained as I finally caught, “-Black Dynamite!” Glaring at me through his reflection in the mirror. 

My training with the heels paid off as I successfully managed to keep my platform boots from shattering my ankles. Just like the script called, I hastily leapt out of my seat. This was the last where I stopped swivelling and started snivelling. Now was when I’m meant to run away, but I couldn’t resist throwing one last quip. “Aw, shiet! I ain’t sign up for no mandingo party. I’d best get to steppin’!” Then I booked it.]

When we did actually get around to filming the chase scene, Michael seemed to have a more genuine sense of motivation to catch me. I wasn’t sure if he was even acting anymore. 

Hopping down stairs, and vaulting over toppled obstacles. Sliding under and around people pushing prams, precarious glass panels, and every other chase scene cliche was filmed over and over, repeatedly; in an effort to get as many clashing jump cuts as possible. Right up until we did the last slow motion jump across two buildings - which was in reality just the two of us hurdling over a sky facing camera on the ground in tandem. 

If you couldn’t already tell, this fight scene was both unnecessary and over the top. 

As we circled each other on a barren rooftop. Michael’s fighting style was all yells, lightning fast jabs, and dynamic roundhouses. My job was a bit more up in the air - specifically I was driving myself and the audience dizzy with backflips and double-axle bicycle kicks. And this was all me, no harness. 

They attached the cable to me only for safety. And also for the part in the choreography when I whiffed my strike, allowing Michael the opportunity to counter, subsequently launching me away at a comical (physics defying) distance.

There was a predictable pattern forming with the production of this movie. As with every previous action shot, this scene was filmed again and again and again from numerous angles. Had there been any need to worry ourselves with perfect shot continuity, this sequence would have taken ages to not just film, but practice and prepare. Yet, since we didn’t, we had the freedom to imitate the style similar to impact shots in Indian soap operas - where we played a single slap scene a hundred times from a hundred different perspectives. The only crucial difference being that instead of a palm smacking my face it was Black Dynamite’s boot burying itself in Cream Corn’s inconspicuously padded (read: very sore) stomach. 

As I braced myself one last time to receive Michael’s size 14s on my flexed abs while I flamboyant spun in midair, I had a strange sensation that this particular snippet would be exceedingly popular with the people who truly, honestly hated me. Call it a gut feeling. 

Being an interrogation scene in intent, if not in well-written structure at least, my butt-whooping naturally ended with superhero Black Dynamite dangling me upside down by my feet over the ledge of the roof. 

“Cut. All right guys, pull him up. I think we got it.” Ah, it seems my humiliation was complete. 

The crane attached to the wires that were actually bearing my weight safely lowered me onto the soft, thick crash mats. “Don’t get too comfortable now.” Michael extended his hand down at me, which I clasped, and he easily hauled me up without a hitch. Demonstrating that we didn’t actually need to waste money on the pulley system; he could have just held me hanging all alone. “We’ve still got to film the last stunt.”

“Is the helicopter ready?” Not a real one, obviously. This whole endeavour was extremely low budget. It was just a fuselage that we’d be pretending to drive in the middle of a soundstage. 

“Yes sir. And it only has one parachute.”

Sweet. Guess I’ll die.