Written by Chuck Norris
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| See here and here |
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| Bruce Lee e Taky Kimura |
«Três dos alunos de Bruce Lee, Joe Lewis, Chuck Norris e Mike Stone, ganharam entre si todos os principais campeonatos de Karaté dos Estados Unidos. Joe Lewis foi o grande Campeão Nacional em três anos consecutivos. Bruce Lee trata e ensina estes rapazes quase como um pai faria com o seu filho pequeno, o que pode ser algo desconcertante de se ver. É como entrar num salão do Velho Oeste e ver o pistoleiro mais rápido do território ali especado com a arma cheia de marcas. Nisto, chega um tipo pequeno e simpático que lhe diz: “Quantas vezes tenho que te dizer que estás a fazer tudo mal?” E o outro escuta atentamente».
(In
Sportsweek do Washington Star, de 16 de Agosto de 1970. Tradução de MBD).
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| Ed Parker and Chuck Norris |
«Originário
da China, o Karaté Kenpo desenvolveu-se sob a égide de William Chow, um dos
cinco indivíduos que aprendera Kosho-Ryu com James Mitose, que, por seu turno, em 1942 abrira um clube de defesa pessoal em Honolulu. Ed Parker, por sua
vez, fora discípulo de William Chow, até ao momento em que ele próprio,
incorporando técnicas do boxe americano e da luta de rua, reelaborou o Karaté
Kenpo numa linha totalmente inovadora. Desse processo viria ainda a participar
o cantor, músico e actor Elvis Presley, já que, após haver praticado o Karaté
Shotokan e o Karaté Shito-Ryu, aderira, em 1960, aos inéditos e fluidos
movimentos do Karaté Kenpo de Ed Parker.
Mas essa relação não ficara por aqui, dado o determinante papel de Ed Parker na escolha dos guarda-costas de Elvis, também conhecidos pela "Máfia de Memphis", que disponham de pistolas nos sovacos, em coldres fáceis e coisas do género. Não há dúvida de que o fascínio do "Rei do Rock" pelas artes marciais, desconhecido do público em geral, também permitira o financiamento de vários dojos ou escolas em Memphis. Todavia, a "sua contribuição económica mais importante foi para o TKI (Tennessee Karate Institute), no qual muitas das grandes estrelas como Dominique Valera, Joe Lewis, Chuck Norris e Bill Wallace puderam receber e dar aulas". Por conseguinte, este "dojo converteu-se num importante centro de experimentação e desenvolvimento de novas disciplinas como o Kickboxing ou o Full-Contact, ambos de raiz claramente americana" (cf. "Elvis, El Pionero en La Sombra", in Dojo, La Revista de las Artes Marciales, n.º 340, pp. 10-12).
Miguel Bruno Duarte
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| See here, here and here |
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| Bill Wallace e Chuck Norris. See here |
«Era, antes de mais, o rapaz mais talentoso que eu já alguma vez vira… Além disso, tinha uma qualidade distinta: o dom da imitação. Bastava que tão-só observasse Joe Lewis ou Chuck Norris a executar uma técnica para logo a duplicar. À primeira, tão bem quanto eles. À segunda, um pouco melhor! À terceira, mudando a técnica dando-lhe uma forma mais perfeita».
Ed Parker (In «Campeones Amigos e Alumnos de Bruce
Lee: Mike Stone y Chuck Norris», in Dojo, n.º 329, p. 20. Tradução de MBD).
«Eu odiava o boxe naqueles dias quando ele [Bruce Lee] me preparou de tal forma que cheguei a apreciá-lo. Ajudou-me a entender por que deveria praticar com diferentes instrumentos de boxe, como o saco de fundo duplo, o saco de velocidade, o saco pesado, os focus, etc.».
Joe Lewis (In «Campeones Amigos e Alumnos de Bruce Lee: Joe Lewis», in Dojo, n.º 330. Tradução de MBD).
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«Antes de ingressar no mundo da
chamada sétima arte, Chuck Norris dirigia três escolas de Karaté, quando uma empresa lhe propusera o seguinte: Chuck venderia as suas escolas à
empresa e, em contrapartida, veria o seu nome vinculado a uma cadeia de 1000 escolas espalhadas por todo o País, que a empresa trataria de assegurar. Ora, fiando-se na virgem, um tal negócio abriria falência em apenas dois anos,
deixando o próprio sem uma única escola.
Entretanto, começara a dar aulas particulares a personalidades ligadas ao mundo de Hollywood, como Steve McQueen, que no lance o incentivara a ingressar no mundo da representação cinematográfica. Contudo, não dispunha sequer de dinheiro para então poder frequentar o curso de 600 dólares que porventura o lançaria num meio tão incerto e complexo como aquele em que James Coburn, Lee Marvin e James Garner eram já proeminentes figuras de renome internacional.
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| See here |
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| See here and here |
Chuck Norris criou, de facto, um guião para
um filme intitulado Good Guys Wear Black
(1978), levado a cabo por uma produtora que realizara o filme por um milhão de
dólares, arrecadando, alfim, vinte oito milhões em moeda americana. Em termos
de experiência cinematográfica, Norris somente houvera até aí contracenado com
Bruce Lee em The Way of the Dragon
(1972), no papel secundário de um vilão americano versado em Karaté, contra
quem o «Pequeno Dragão» travaria um combate até à morte nas ruínas do Coliseu
de Roma. Além disso, seria esta a
primeira película de Hong Kong a ser rodada na Europa pela produtora de Bruce
Lee, a Concord Films, em que Raymond Chow, famoso produtor asiático e fundador
da Golden Harvest, entraria justamente com o capital, enquanto Siu Loong, por seu turno, investiria todo o seu talento e carisma no plano da grande acção
e representação cinemáticas.
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| See here |
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| Chuck Norris, Bruce Lee e Raymond Chow |
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| See here |
O acordo estabelecido permitiria à nova estrela do Sudeste Asiático ser, pela primeira vez, o argumentista, o produtor, o director e o actor principal. Quanto ao roteiro original, acabaria, no entanto, por não ir ao encontro do filme tal como hoje o conhecemos, possivelmente devido à carência de fundos da empresa investidora. Aliás, vários seriam ainda os possíveis nomes previamente escolhidos para o título do filme, entre eles Bambu, O Herói de Bambu ou O Conquistador da Montanha de Oiro com um Bambu. No fundo, tratar-se-ia originalmente de uma película de elevado conteúdo filosófico, em que a principal personagem, calcorreando o Novo Mundo na época do Velho Oeste, ver-se-ia por vezes confrontada a bater-se vitoriosamente contra os americanos a fim de conquistar a "Montanha de Oiro", conforme reza uma expressão chinesa ocasionalmente empregue para designar os Estados Unidos.»
Miguel Bruno Duarte
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RECOGNIZING YOURSELF
Some people, mostly close friends and family, call me
Carlos, and it doesn’t bother me in the least. The simple truth is that
throughout all my childhood, all the way up to when I got married, my name was
Carlos. That’s what everyone called me, from my mother to the teachers at
school to all my friends. My birth certificate reads “Carlos Ray Norris.” The
Carlos comes from the Reverend Carlos Berry, my family’s local minister back in
Ryan, Oklahoma; Ray was my father’s name. I came by the name Chuck while I was
in the air force. One of the guys in my barracks in boot camp asked me what Carlos
meant in English. I told him it was the same as Charles, and he immediately took
to calling me Chuck. The nickname somehow stuck. I don´t remember ever giving
much thought to that slight change in my name. It didn´t seem all that
important, and when I came back from my tour of duty in Korea I brought home
the new name in addition to my gi, my black belt, and my new sense of myself,
which came with having achieved the black belt.
So I suppose you could say that that first black belt drew
a kind of dividing line across the early period of my life. On one side was a
young man whose future was still primarily in other people’s hands – parents and
teachers, employers and high-ranking officers, all kinds of people telling him
what to do – and on the other side was a young man who’d finally learned to
take hold of his future. Or maybe that´s an exaggeration: I’d say only that by
the time I came back from Korea, I d’seen that it was possible to take hold of
may life. I’d taken one step and was eager for more.
It didn´t take long. Within a few years I had my own
school, with a sign outside reading “Chuck Norris Karate.” Then, in 1964, I began
competing in karate tournaments. My goal was simple: to win tournaments and get
public exposure in order to attract more students. I was twenty-four years old
when I started and was thus older than most of the other competitors, and, of
course, I was unknown. I’d drive to the site of the tournament, usually piled
into a car together with a group of my students, get on the line with the
others, sign my name and register, and then pay my fee to enter the
competition. By the time my name was called, I’d be concentrating, visualizing
my next fight, so I never really heard whatever response those early crowds gave
my name. Some people in the stands always applaud every name, just to be polite,
and sometimes my students or other friends or family would call out
encouragement to me, but I don´t think I ever heard them or was really aware of
the sound – at least not in the beginning, by which I mean the first few years.
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But the time did finally come when the response to my
name being called was audible, even to me, even through my wall of solid concentration.
People knew who I was, strangers I had never even seen let alone met were
applauding my name. It´s a strange sensation, and since I’ve always been shy
and retiring, it wasn’t easy to get accustomed to. And then the moment came
when that first unknown someone stepped forward out of the background and asked
for my autograph. I can´t remember the first time that happened, but it was back
when I was known only as a martial artist. Fans would come up before or after a
match and ask me to sign the program or my school’s patch or any piece of paper
they happened to have, and, although I was sometimes embarrassed by the
attention, I was always pleased. And I’d sign “Chuck Norris”, which was the
name of an up-and-coming karate champion, a well-known instructor with his own
school and a following of black belts.
I was known for my kicks, particularly my famous spinning
back kick. I was also known for my stamina and my stoicism, characteristics
that may have attracted special attention because I was often competing against
younger men. And I was also known for others traits and attributes. Along with
applause, I began getting something else back from the spectators around me: a
reflection of my personal self, a new “portrait” of the man known as Chuck
Norris, a portrait I didn´t always recognize at first glance.
I didn´t always recognize it because I hadn´t been
aware of creating it. I´ve never been flamboyant or showy. In point of fact, I
don’t think I’ve ever done anything on purpose to make myself stand out, but
there I was in that spotlight. I had wanted that attention, of course – I had
set out to get it – and by winning tournaments I was indeed attracting new students,
which had been my original goal. But I was also becoming a public figure, at
least within the world of the martial arts, and that was something I hadn’t
planned on or even anticipated. People saw more than my kicks and my stamina
when they watched me compete: They saw my movements and “read” them in ways I
hadn’t anticipated.
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| See here |
What was to me
only another kick, just part of my arsenal, was to them an expression of my
character, a window onto some aspect of the person I am. If I joked with a
competitor before a match or said something self-effacing, it would come back
to me as part of that new public image: I learned I was considered forthright
and easygoing. Some fighters, of course, exploit the situation and put on a
show of being bellicose maniacs in order to intimidate their opponents and delight
their fans while outraging others. It had never occurred to me to act a part or
to change myself to augment my public persona; I was just being me (and trying
not to get my nose broken too many times).
That period was an important lesson to me. I’ve always
tried to live by my ideals, to live up to my ideals, to be the best I am
capable of being and then to go beyond that. I looked on those ideals as being
central to taking control of my life, to taking positive steps to achieve my goals. My ideals were also important to me as a teacher, since I wanted to give
my students, especially the young ones, a valid and enduring role model, something
they could look up to and believe in. In response to my fans, to the fact that
people were watching me, I realized that I was coming to stand for something
and that I was in control of what that something would be. In truth, I alone
was responsible for what it would be.
There’s a Zen saying according to which knowledge is
the reward of action. My actions in karate tournaments rewarded me with a kind
of self-knowledge, or at least an awareness of what that self had promise of
becoming, and by the time I officially retired from tournament karate in 1974,
after a decade of active competition, I had crossed what might be considered another
line in my life. On one side was a man eager to achieve success; on the other was
a man whose idea of success had expanded, a man eager to explore all
possibilities.
But there is another truth that must be said. I
reached that line in my life also by the way of hammer blows, by way of passing
through a personal gauntlet of crises and pain. You can read in a book that “the
way to true understanding must lead through personal experience and suffering,”
and you nod your head in silent agreement; but when you’re in the middle of
that very real suffering, you may decide that you’d just as soon do without any
“understanding” that might be coming your way on the other side. My brother
Wieland’s death in Vietnam affected my sense far more than any applause or
glowing write-ups. My affable character and lightning-quick back kicks had been
unable to do anything to protect him when he most needed it. I hadn’t been
there, and for a long time after his death, I didn’t want to be anywhere at
all.
There were also personal problems, both with my business
and my family. I reached a time when I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a husband anymore
– after all, I’d gotten married when I was just a kid and had never known any
other life. I was weary of the constant struggle of running a business. For a
short while I lost sense of who I was and what I really wanted to do. When I
wasn’t actively fighting off negative thoughts, I was bored and restless.
Then Steve McQueen asked me why I hadn’t tried acting,
and the result was a new career.
It certainly wasn’t easy, and certainly didn’t happen
overnight. Becoming Chuck Norris the actor seemed to mean leaving behind the
karate expert and the teacher. My famous stoicism was itself a drawback. I had
taught myself to quietly endure pain and tension, anger or elation, without
giving away even the faintest expression of those emotions. Success on the mat
often depends on hiding all such emotions from your opponent; success in acting
usually calls for just the opposite, the visible and believable expression of
one’s emotions. When I started my career as an actor, I suddenly had to learn
how to bring all those feelings to the surface and then manipulate them. It was
hard and more than a little disconcerting.
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| Chuck Norris and Steve McQueen |
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| Steve McQueen, Bruce Lee and Fumio Demura. |
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| Chuck Norris, Fumio Demura and Noriyuki "Pat" Morita. See here |
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| See here |
Eventually, however, I found a way to use my skills as
a karate expert in the creation of movies, and I did so by realizing that
conflict is usually the basic essence of a dramatic scene, and conflict was
something with which I was abundantly familiar. I also learned to apply my
visualizing techniques to acting; just as I had visualized a math, I learned to
visualize each scene of a film.
In the end, I also didn´t have to leave my experience
as a teacher. Actually, you could say that I just expanded my classroom, since
my goal as an actor has come to be much the same as my goal as a karate
instructor: to give young people in particular a positive image they can
believe in and follow. And, of course, I was the same person as an actor as I was
in real life. Unlike many people going into show business I never considered
changing my name. It wasn’t just because I didn’t want to lose any fans; I knew
that as an actor I would always be Chuck Norris.
I based my version of a true American role model, a
hero, on the movies I’d watched as a kid, in particular the Westerns starring
John Wayne. In the 1970s, when I started my career in films, there weren’t many
heroes of that type on the screen; it was instead a troubled period of grim
skepticism, a time without heroes, precisely because no one seemed to believe
in anything anymore.
Except for me. I believed in what my life had taught me, in the knowledge I had been awarded through action and in the understanding I had come by through experiencing and overcoming pain and loss. Nothing has ever happened to me that could make me ever doubt the validity of what I was taught as a child, regarding both the larger ideals of this country and the smaller ones – the opportunities available to anyone who honestly strives to achieve his goals. Then, as now, I believe in those ideals, and I used them to break the long silence of the 1970s.
My first films were not well received by critics, and
even now I wince when I see myself in some of those early pictures. Some people
dismissed them as “chop-socky” flicks, which they really weren´t, although it
took time to make that clear to everyone.
While the critics may not have enjoyed my first films,
the American public certainly did. The films made money, and I knew from the
response of my fans that I was getting my message across.
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| Camila Griggs, Chuck Norris, Maria Louise Weller. See here and here |
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I had always wanted to do something in honor of Wieland. I had always wanted to in some way make a valid response to his death. The time finally came in 1983. Even then, a full decade after the end of our involvement in Vietnam, few American film makers dared touch the subject of the Vietnam War. They were still divided or fearful of treading on divisions still existing among Americans. I believed otherside, and I had something I wanted to say.
The resulting film, Missing in Action, was an enormous success. I´ll never forget going
to an opening in a theater in Westwood, California. At the climax of the film,
the entire audience came to its feet, applauding and cheering. That film´s
sequel was not long in coming, and it, too, was enormously popular. I knew
people were listening to what I was saying.
After Missing in
Action 2, I made Code of Silence,
and with that film I finally won applause even from the major critics (and the
reminder from Burt Reynolds that “you’re only as good as your last film”).
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| See here |
Just as I never thought of altering myself to match my
public persona when I was a karate competitor, I’ve never considered doing anything
to change my image on screen. I perform only parts that fit what I believe in.
Aside from my personal ideals and taste, I do this because I know that kids
make up a large percentage of my fans, and they pay little attention to the
name of the character I’m supposed to be playing and see me only as Chuck Norris.
They recognize my face and expect me to act in a certain way. I have no
intention of disappointing them.
Kids are by no means my only fans, of course, and I
also try to provide meaningful entertainment for adult audiences. Many adults
in America need someone with whom they can identify, someone self-reliant and
unafraid, someone who is symbolic of what we all know to be right. At least for
a period of the film, they can revel in the character’s efforts to combat
wrong; and his eventual success, his victory over evil, may well serve to give
people a needed boost and perhaps also a gentle reminder of our shared ideals.
Many of the young people who watch my films today have
no idea that I was once a karate teacher and champion. They think I’m just an
actor who’s good at martial arts. And these days, of course, I’m probably best
known for my television series, Walker,
Texas Ranger, and I know that some of its fans don’t associate me with the
martial arts at all; they see different aspects of my character. There are some
differences in the character I play on television: in a sense, Walker can be
seen as a further refinement of the character I’ve been playing over all these
years, reflecting changes in myself as an actor and a person. But that
character is still me, and if audiences see his movements, his gestures, as
expressions of a point of view, of a moral stance, they’re absolutely right.
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For that is only a reflection of Zen, of the central
meaning of action, of what we actually do with our lives and how we deal with the
people around us. I’ve had the pleasure of hearing myself applauded, first as a
karate competitor and then as a symbol. Such applause is available to all of
us, for all of us can control the image we project to others, whether on a
movie screen or across a room. By treating other people with respect, by
controlling our actions and words, we convey an outward image of our inner selves.
If we are honest, that image will be true. You should recognize yourself in the
image others have of you; it should be an image you yourself would respect.
As I say, some of my old friends and family still call me Carlos. It’s a form of affection, a gentle reminder that they knew me “way back when,” back when few people knew who I really was, including even myself.
(In Chuck Norris, The Secret Power Within – Zen solutions to real problems, Broadway Books, New York, 1997, pp. 169-177).
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See here and here |
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