Martial Arts Films Revisited (1): The Karate Kid

The Karate Kid has the distinction of being that rare 80's movie that can be called a classic. A mix of charm, charisma, talent and just the right amount of chutzpah that could allow a totally predictable film to become one of the most beloved martial arts movies of all time. But then, is the film utterly predictable, as the folks at Rotten Tomatoes would have us believe? Granted, the film cannot escape its 1984 environment: teenagers blasting a boombox on the beach, arcade hangouts in the valley, Mrs. Laruso's generalization that all California girls are blonde and, who could forget Daniel's excited interjection that "it's the eighties?" But perhaps, like the futuristic novel of the same title as the year of the film's debut, The Karate Kid was not only timely, but timeless as well.

While the film, as such, might be formulaic and even a "seen-it-done-before" saga in the tradition of Rocky, it is also, as Roger Ebert put it "an exciting, sweet-tempered, heart-warming story with one of the most interesting friendships in a long time." More than its reflection of the human condition, namely the need for guidance and self-sufficiency, The Karate Kid was groundbreaking in its approach to the telling of a martial arts story. That was neither formulaic nor predictable, especially in the world of martial arts cinema.

The film took two people, the underdog and the master, and thrust them into a development of character not seen before in this genre. Noriyuki "Pat" Morita as the calm, resilient and ultimately indomitable Mr. Miyagi set a different standard to follow from older portrayals of masters on film. He was human. He had been a war hero, had loved one wife and exhibited a genuine concern for the welfare of the young Daniel. He could even get drunk on occassion and lament his loss. On the other hand, he could also party it up; always in his dignified way, of course. Up until The Karate Kid, this kind of master was all but unheard of in martial arts movies. They were either supernaturally supreme forces of good, and asexual to boot, or cruel bastards with a twisted sense of training like PaiMei in Kill Bill, Volume 2. Mr. Miyagi was as modern and refreshing as he was traditional and admirable.

Then there's the curious case of Daniel Laruso, a skinny, undisciplined and lost underdog, trying to find his way. Can you imagine Bruce Lee playing someone with no training whatsoever? Neither can I. And even JetLi in his younger days did not portray the luckless, weak fighter even though he may have played the outcast. But Daniel's character brought an old truth into the limelight, turning it into a novel idea: the true master should train and guide the lost soul trying to find its way. Conversely, a seeker of true training in the way should find a master worthy of his title, someone who embodies the true philosophy of the arts.

The film was also refreshing in its approach to the theme of revenge, a theme all-too-prevalent in kung fu films and samurai movies of the Sonny Chiba variety of older generations. It even set a precedent for the decade and a half of martial arts movies to follow. That, however, was a miss, as (except for the other films in the Karate Kid franchise) most of those were cheesy movies with lame plots whose true appeal was in having martial artists play the lead roles. A seemingly good approach, except that some of these wonderful warriors were terrible actors. There were exceptions, of course, as there always are, but that is beside the point.

It's no wonder that The Karate Kid has become a classic even outside the genre. It explores themes of loss, redemption, vengeance and forgiveness and even enlightenment from a fresh perspective centered around a solid, if unconventional friendship. To use an 80s euphemism, this movie was, and is rad.

"The Sword That Kills, The Sword That Gives Life"

A double-edged sword is a dangerous weapon. On the surface, the danger is obvious. A double-edged sword can kill not only the enemy, but its wielder as well. But, what if the wielder and the enemy are one and the same? What if the warrior's worst enemy is not on the outside but rather within?

A warrior's worst enemy is, in effect, himself. It is himself he must defeat on a daily basis: his undisciplined nature, his rebellious temper, his dishonorable qualities, his lusts, his own violence. So, he has been granted a different kind of double-edged sword: the sword that kills, the sword that gives life. With it he can kill, though not without tremendous pain, that which plagues him, that which haunts him, that which insists on claiming him as its slave. The sword that kills can kill his darkness, eradicate his terrible fears, destroy his inner demons.

But the sword that kills is not enough. Otherwise we have nothing but a dead warrior, spent and decrepit, useless to any but vultures. So the sword that kills becomes the sword that gives life, investing the warrior with new strength, a newfound vigor. Investing the warrior with integrity, and showing him the way to true enlightenment. This life-giving sword (whatever name it may be given) becomes the warrior's trusted tool and his most powerful ally. It teaches him to die to his rampant darkness and embrace a new light.

Sadly, many fail to see beyond the sword that kills. They use it not to put an end to their soul's darkness, but to feed it, a-la-SoulEdge, and turn it against other, weaker fighters whom they perceive as enemies. They never find the sword that gives life, for they shun its light, choosing instead to envelop it in their despicable darkness, corrupting its true nature. They spurn a Kenshin-like redemption to continue in their Battousai conquests, not knowing that they have become nothing more than shadows.

Fractured Relationships

I had never broken a bone before. I don't even remember spraining an ankle, though that probably happened at least once. So, it took me a few seconds to realize what had just occurred when the other student's foot made contact with my hand. Even upon impact, it seemed to me things were fine, or as fine as they could be. It was not until the pain did not allow me to jump into a 360 degree kick, or to kick or punch at all for that matter, that I understood something had gone horribly wrong. Then I remembered I had heard a snap-crack sound. Then my hand throbbed and I could neither stretch nor bend my fingers. Then I remembered why I usually don't train with lower belts, especially younger ones. After giving the kid (he was about 18) a sound yelling for asking if I was okay, I remember only pain.

If I had had any sense at all, I would have gone to the hospital immediately. But, no, mr. macho had to prove he could take it. He had, after all, fought on one leg and kicked with that same one after his shin had been hurt at that tournament when he was nineteen. But, alas, I am no longer 19, and even if I were, the trauma from a triple fracture is enough to stop the most dogged of masochistic athletes.

Instead, I stayed on and let the instructor massage the injury, trying to see whether the bone had really been broken. A move I now regret, I mean, duh, the bone was worse than broken. As the RNs told me the next day: "Yeah, it's broken; triple fracture. The secod, third and fourth metacarpals were all but slashed. How did you this?"

How, indeed?

As a teenager, the colorful lure of tournaments with their endless displays of showmanship attracted me so much that I would have risked almost anything to win one. And, in fact, did.
Bloody noses, strained muscles, a cut neck, you name it, I went through it. To the point that I almost lost my left eye once because my opponent had neither the decency nor the common sense to clip his toenails. He cut a tiny "y" shape right above my eyelid. For more than a week, my eye seemed to have swollen to the size of an orange. And the bleeding, thankfully stopped by my master's wife, was enough to make me want to cry. But I didn't; I couldn't.

Of course, this had some good points too. After all, I grew stronger than most of my peers and could still boast, if I so wished, about being tougher than many of the other martial artists I've come across, though I don't look it. But I no longer subscribe to the "that which does not kill you makes you stronger" mantra. What would be the point? The arts are not about finding new ways to die. Nor are they about finding new ways to kill. It is in the way that they can guide us toward achieving true mastery of ourselves, true mastery of our character and our own senses that their true value lies.

Breaking my hand did not spiral me headfirst into an abyss of depression or self-pity not because I am accustomed to injuries or because I have a masochistic streak I need to satisfy. Rather, my coping with this time as an opportunity rather than a crisis is due to devoting countless hours of training to both body and spirit in the application of the way. In reality, I no longer care for tournaments, especially as their motivation increasingly departs from the true path. This has a lot to do with me not wanting to get hurt, but also, after seeing what can happen and the kind of damage I can inflict if I wish, it has a great deal with me not wanting to hurt others either.

On the Current State of TaeKwonDo (4)

Of all the tenets of TaeKwonDo, the easiest to understand is probably courtesy. After all, who would argue that opening the door for someone, holding the door for an elderly passenger on the bus, or not yelling at or being condescending with a clerk is wrong? We ALL know how to be courteous, right? Although you wouldn't know from the way people behave toward one another nowadays.
The other four are either harder to understand (in the case of indomitable spirit) or tougher to accomplish or embody.
Integrity, for instance, who even knows what it means to have wholeness of character and an unwavering commitment to honor and truth anymore?
Perseverance, on the other hand, is not hard to understand but is difficult to achieve, especially for those of us who are masters of procrastination. Unless, of course, persisting in doing nothing is our way of not giving up on not doing the things we should, no matter what. Conversely, what happens when perseverance is misunderstood and we refuse to give up, even with our hand fractured in three places?
Self-control should be easy, right? Wrong! After all, we often find that the toughest behavior and habits to control are our own. Self-control is a paradox; while it is good for society and the individual, it seems to contradict human nature. Much discipline, and extensive hours of training are required to reach a satisfactory level of self-control.
Then there's the notion of an indomitable spirit...whatever the hell that means. It seems that people with an indomitable spirit are those who embody the above qualities and then some. They tend to be calm, strong, gentle people with a fierce warrior inside of them. The indomitability of their spirits consists not in sheer rebellion, but in the knowledge of that warrior inside them and their total control over him. They know the true definition of strength, and the true definition of freedom, which, as Robert Frost put it is "moving easily in harness." Their restraint is admirable, but awaken the fierce warrior and you had better run for cover, fast.

On the Current State of TaeKwonDo (3)

There are three different kinds of instructors: The Anything-goes-as-far-as-fighting-is-concerned stern but undisciplined master reminiscent of Genma Saotome in Ranma 1/2; the lenient, gentle teacher who one can tell must have been a superb student and might even be a champion but as a leader, he needs all the help he can get; the teacher who has all the qualities of a leader, is disciplined, knows how to keep the class engaged but for the life of her cannot be consistent and simultaneously cannot stop her workouts from being repetitive.

But, there is only one kind of instructor worthy of being a master.

In my lifetime, I have met few, either personally or through their writing, who could be described as true masters.

The first was my own master, a man by the name of Carlos Garcia who had been a world champion. He was a 5th degree TaeKwonDo black belt who could also boast a black belt in HapKiDo and extensive knife, stick, and sword-fighting training. Now there was a man I am still proud to regard as my master. He was consistent, friendly, valued tradition, had a gentle spirit that belied a powerful warrior. Most of all, he was considerate and respectful of his students, without being a pushover. He taught us well and taught extensively in every aspect of the art, but above all, he led by example.

Another was a master I first met as a child: my mother's HapKiDo instructor, a young man named Sean who never allowed full-contact sparring but whose self-defense techniques and calm way of disarming someone with a gun were incomparable. Needless to say, my mother learned much from him and I learned much from her.

Still another, was an elderly Karate/TangSooDo master who had bricks broken over his still-hard abdomen. He had known Bruce Lee personally and greatly admired his spirit. His children were sent to Korea and Japan to study under admirable instructors.

And how could I forget Morihei Ueshiba, Gichin Funakoshi, Scott Walsh, Dave Lowry and countless others who, though I never met, are as friends to me through their writings and philosophy as well as, in the case of the former two, their lasting legacy to the martial arts?

Of course, what really sets these masters apart is not their superb fighting ability, their stamina or even their tremendous discipline. Rather, it is their indomitable spirit and their love of the martial arts and the traditions that birthed them, which place them a cut (or a chop) above the rest.

On the Current State of TaeKwonDo (2)

The poomsae (or kata, by their Japanese name) seem to have gone the way of the telegraph and the typewriter at most modern TaeKwonDo schools. It seems to be widely accepted, if not the norm, for most black belt instructors at various dojang to shrug their shoulders when asked if they know any of the colored belts poomsae. Even worse, some will shrug when asked if they know their own forms. As if it were irrelevant to know and understand the sequences and movements our masters have dutifully set down over the years for our benefit.

This lack of interest, undoubtedly a product of the information age's super high speeds, extremely quick text messaging, I-want-it-and-need-it-now-so-I-won't-wait-mentality and influx of internet everything from immediate access to information to free pornography, is exacerbated by the covert public acceptance of the modern American's short attention span. Additionally, certain masters' not having the strength of character necessary to let the undeserving students go, but rather exhibiting a willingness to cater to their whims is nothing short of detrimental.

Maybe many do it out of nobility: perhaps with their guidance the student will realize his true potential and change his ways. Others, however, are evidently in search of monetary gain only, falling prey to the exploitation of their art for nothing more than commercial pursuits.

The economic reason, though, is understandable and makes us sympathize. Another, baser reason, however, is shunning poomsae, and traditional training in general, in favor of spectacle. All it seems students, and some instructors, want to know, is to learn to spar. Nothing else. Oh, they'll learn and teach blocks and kicks but only with the intent to use them in sometimes frivolous tournaments, or worse, on the street to show off.

In so doing, we forget two of the most important lessons we have ever been taught: "the greatest victory is the battle not fought," and, borrowing from LiMuBai in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, who was also borrowing: "to start with, you must learn to hold [a sword] in stillness." Stillness, after all, is what we want to achieve, quieting the violence that plagues our society so perversely.

On the Current State of TaeKwonDo (1)

"You made the right choice," a student recently declared after finding out I had chosen TaeKwonDo as my martial field of expertise. "That's the correct art to go for," he added, "modern American Karate just doesn't cut it."

Perhaps he was right. Not about one art being superior to the other, but rather, different. Suited more to the agressive, violent lifestyle we are indelibly thrust into in this time of gang warfare, inner city strife, ghetto protocol and life-endangering altercations on a daily basis. Perhaps a martial way that a friend once called 'the closest thing to street fighting without losing the artistic aspect' is what has been lacking. Perhaps it is something else entirely, something that is not only missing from our daily lives, but from the arts that purport to guide us on a path to the Way as well.

In speaking about modern, Americanized karate, the boy touched on a vital issue. After all, how modern, how culturally assimilated can our art become before it falls into the traps of commercialism and the equivalent of publicity stunts? Nowhere is this more evident than in the modern state of TaeKwonDo. Granted, it has always been an adapting, ever-growing art whose charm lies in its embracing of change. However, the embracing of modern concepts, newer forms, and seemingly better ways of attracting students never used to mean the shunning of tradition.

It seems TaeKwonDo instructors have all but forgone their roots and true training in favor of a more lucrative strategy: immediate gratification of students' penchant for hurting others. Sure, we seem to say, train with us so you can learn to kick someone's ass. Never mind the consequences, never mind that you should not be beating people down on the street for no apparent reason and especially never mind the discipline we should be instilling in you. All we want is to make money, and in turn help you win fights.

There are, of course, exceptions. But the true master, the one who wants his or her students to succeed beyond the ring, to build a better, more peaceful world as the TaeKwonDo student oath goes, has become a rarity. Oh, one can still find a few, but it is almost like looking for a Miyagi-like needle in a Cobra-kai haystack.

To be fair, martial arts instructors should be able to make money from their talent, but should not make it the sole objective of their training. Sadly, the few (or perhaps the many) that still adhere to the master's code of life seem to wither away into obscurity, while the more economically motivated seem to amass a greater following.

There is still hope, though, insofar as there are still teachers who are motivated by a desire to impart wisdom upon ready vessels and to instruct them in the way, whether it be the way of the flying foot and the shattering punch or the way of the empty hand. Teachers who are motivated by factors other than just monetary gain, but truly vested in their students' overall well-being.

Poetry Series (9)

Cartas sin terminar,
Tinteros vacios,
Bugambilias apretadas en un libro de poesia.
Te: frio en la taza, pequeña y frágil,
Mezcla de lágrimas y sonrisas.
Una rosa marchita.
Vida sin inocencia,
Amor sin correspondencia,
Dulce amargura.

Unfinished letters,
Empty ink-holders,
Bougainvilleas pressed in a book of poems.
Tea: cold in the small, frail cup.
Mixture of tears and smiles.
A withered rose.
Life, without innocence,
Love without correspondence,
Sweet, bittersweet bitterness.

Bryan Maldonado

Little Evening Out (#1)

The blood is still fresh on my knife. I don't like cleaning it immediately after an assignment. I like the ancient, acrid smell of blood. It gives me peace. I am never truly home until I see it's dark red splendor coating the cold sharpness of my weapon. The sweat is still fresh on the back of my neck. I realize I'm panting now. I've been running for what seems like hours. I'm burning up despite the snow on the ground. My ears still resonate with the barking of vicious dogs. They were the first to go. I led them to a secluded mountain path, gutting them without mercy.

The purity of fresh-fallen snow, considered sacrosanct by some, is only made more beautiful by the brilliant drops of scarlet blood. Dog blood is dirty, though. It stinks; I need the strength, the passion, the tranquility that only human blood can bestow. So, I do what I must. And I enjoy my job, which, I hear, is a rare thing these days.

Most days I stay to take pride in my work, relishing every moment. But today I ran. I ran so fast I couldn't tell whether JeanLuc had stayed behind. Today I saw him again, though I was sure our paths would never cross again. JeanLuc had no idea who he was. I'm sure JeanLuc will be fine; he doesn't know him, after all. But he sure as hell remembered me. The latent fire behind his gaze told me everything. So I ran, leaving JeanLuc behind.

The sweat has gone cold on my back. Shakes overtake me. I am no longer running. Tonight, at Little Evening Out, I'll ask JeanLuc what my father said after seeing me for the first time in eight years. That is, if JeanLuc is still alive.

I stop at a nearby alley to clean my knife. The hoboes don't approach me. I know they can see it in my eyes: they know as well as I that I'd sooner kill them than talk to them. In the distance I can just make out JeanLuc's car, screeching to a halt behind his father's restaurant: Little Evening Out. He walks out, walks in, walks out again, as if nothing had happened. He's gotten another assignment.

My cell phone vibrates. It's JeanLuc's dad, Emille, wondering where I've been. One of the other waiters is sick, can I take his shift? What do you say to a man who pretty much holds your life in his hands? I will make it there as soon as I can. I can hear him him smiling. He has another assignment too, JeanLuc should explain when he gets back.

The smells of cheesecakes and flans being prepared, the braised rabbit almost cooked to perfection, and my favorite rustic desert: a cherry clafoutis are overpowered by an aroma that my nostrils know is soon to come. The enticing, metallic aroma of blood.

Rant # 2

I hate the expressions "overexaggeration" and "overexaggerated," especially when the 'x' is pronounced as a sibilant 's'. Of course, I hate this construction in its other forms as well. As if something cannot be hyperbolic, or even preposterous, enough if it's just exaggerated. No! There is no longer any emphasis if it is not overexaggerated. Admittedly, it is often only used by teenagers and YouTube commenters who know no better. But, think about it, they'll grow up set in their ignorant ways, possibly changing the language for the worst. Or am I 'overessageratin'?

What I know about...(# 1 in the Rants Series)

What I know about Reggaeton is that it combines the worst elements of reggae with the worst of rap. Both are neither music nor poetry, and yet they're really lucrative for their proponents as both. Maybe I'm jealous my poetry doesn't get as much attention as some crappy rap "song" but that stuff really doesn't deserve the place it's been given.
Reggaeton is no more than repetitive garbage used to foil the sexual frustrations of its interpreters. And then people have the nerve to call it "Hispanic Music;" well I, for one, don't consider it music, much less would I want to be associated with it through my ethnicity. It makes Hispanics seem like dull, uncouth, misoginistic perverts, and I want no part of it. Though this is classist, only classless, tacky, ghetto Hispanics find this atrocious rubbish attractive.
Then there's rap, which these days is more of the "gangsta" variety than anything else. Adolescent misfits listen to it, emulate the hip-hop "culture" and fry their brains in the process. Maybe, at first, it was a move for independence...it is now the most ironic conformity.
And since when does the word "gangsta" mean cool? And why in the world would anyone want to "lean like a cholo?"
Cholo- Peruvian derogatory term for Inca descendant. Chilean racist comment. Chicano word for gangster-a parasite that destroys a society while destroying himself without any means of escape. Limited resources, limited skills, a painful past and a history of violence.

Poetry Series (2)

Close the door to yesterday.
It's gone.
Forever disappearing in
Recesive memories.

My heart's not ready, not yet.
Listen: crickets tuning strings.

I like the way you walk,
The way you walk to meet your friends.
To meet your friends with such a happy gait,
With such a happy gait as if to say,
As if to say:
"Hey world, they're mine
And I theirs!"

Poetry Series (1)

We just talked, on the phone, yesterday.
You mumbled incoherencies...
Were you drunk?

Don't go yet!
Wait till sunset!
Maybe we could share that eternal moment
A few seconds.

Poetry, hardest of all arts,
Comes to me, comes to you:
Why is the sky blue?
Why do leaves fall?

Blood goes cold...
Like autumn wind.

Play the lute strings,
Play.

Ancient notes cry out.
Ancient languages of origin
Die.