ONE OF Hong Kong's most famous faces, Eric Tsang Chi-wei, looks more than happy with himself. The one-time professional soccer player, one-time kung fu stuntman, occasional movie director and all-time, big-time Hong Kong movie and TV star, stands centre stage in front of the hot lights of TVB's Studio One, hands behind his back, rocking gently on his heels displaying his trademark super-wide grin. Why's he grinning? Because he and his two younger sidekicks, Jerry Lamb Hui-ung and Chin Ka-lok, are making six up-and-coming stars look stupid.
The cameras zoom in on contorted faces of bright young things. As their agony intensifies, the grin expands across one of Hong Kong's most famous countenances. One by one, the beautiful people chew. The gaggle of TVB contract starlets, ex-beauty queens and movie heroes lose their cool. They are munching sushi, which unbeknown to them, is laden with hellishly hot Japanese wasabi mustard. The guys cry, the girls shriek and they all look like they want to spit. But they can't. Not for reasons of good taste, of course. No. Spit the wasabi and you lose the game.
Game? Yes, game. And there is big money to be won. Eric widens. Another profitable day at the office.
Little Eric is big; in Hong Kong entertainment terms, he's about as big as they come. One-time professional soccer player, one-time kung-fu stuntman, occasional movie director and all-time, big-time movie and TV star, this is his domain - as unlikely as the setting may be. This is Movie Buff Championship. And this is serious.
'I feel happy doing this show,' he declares later with what seems like sincerity. 'You can see what fools they all make of themselves. Because the prizes are so big they play for real.' Tsang presides as the 800-strong studio audience thrills to the wasabi unlucky dip. Another round of the slapstick Olympics involves a toaster and a pair of contestants. Tsang's two stooges hold the toaster rigid on a table; the two players put their arms around each other and stand over it. Ringmaster Tsang drops a piece of bread inside and pings the machine's button. The toast leaps skyward, and the two contestants arm-in-arm have to catch the flying bread . . . between their faces. Heads fly, skulls crash, cheeks collide. The result? An hilarious piece of television.
But Tsang is under no illusions as to its disposable nature. 'People watch it while they eat their rice,' he confesses some time later. 'Turn away, turn back, it's finished.' But he remains proud of something he regards as his product. 'A few years ago the stars would think' - he puts on a theatrically camp voice - 'I am an artist',' he says. 'And they would win things like kitchen extractor fans. Cheap things. But now people really want to come on the show. They want to win.' As any regular viewer will tell you, the ultra-popular game show is enthralling television. Its populist humour, irreverent delivery and, most of all, its expose of Hong Kong's top entertainment names combine to make it a winner. But why do the precious darlings agree to such full-frame humiliation? The answer is simple. And very Hong Kong. At the end of the night's zany antics at TV City, if one of the starlets is lucky, they will walk out with something like $1 million in cash and prizes. Who wouldn't want to play? Hurrah for them if the show means a career break, a starring role or even an audition. But what is Tsang doing here? Is the superstar not bigger than his environment? The creation may rely on its cavorting contestants, but it needs the famous face and the rapid wit of its anchorman to bring it all off. He makes the stars look ridiculous, he makes the audience scream with appreciation, and he makes everyone laugh.