JACKIE CHAN PLONKS down next to you in a movie theatre. Do you: A) battle elbows for the armrest; B) play the role of grovelling fan; C) politely inform him that he's chewing his gum very loudly; C) grant him privacy and ignore him altogether. And should it matter that the two of you are watching the 'spectacular gala premiere' of his latest movie, Shanghai Noon, in his hometown of Hong Kong? But don't let me get ahead of myself. When the entertainment editor at the South China Morning Post couldn't make it to the event, I turned on the slavishness to ensure I got the invitation. And despite my determination not to play it up to anybody, three friends heard me say: 'I'm gonna party with Jackie Chan.' Such circumstances must reveal character: I wonder if I'm really a star-lover or, worse yet, a wannabe.
We're at the Convention and Exhibition Centre and amid the red carpet, the paparazzi is playing a game with security guards. One flashbulb in particular keeps forwarding the cordon to give himself a clear shot of the stars but a black-clad goon, every time he paces by, moves it back.
The persistent photographer is obviously from an obscure publication because he isn't occupying prime real estate and he's working alone. The big papers and TV stations all have a spotter who, standing above everyone on a stepladder, trains his mega-watt light on anybody who's somebody, freezing them in their tracks, which, depending on what side of the equator you're from, is reminiscent of night-hunting deer or kangaroo.
Jackie finally arrives in full Western regalia down to the spurs on his boots and the flashbulbs quickly form a hemisphere around him.
Fortunately for the young woman working for a fledgling dotcom, the swarm functions like a meritocracy. Despite barely occupying Jackie's peripheral view, her incessant screams finally pay off when he looks her way.
Multiple times Jackie tries to pull away - he can only give the victory sign and fashion his hand like a pistol and fire it so many times - but he heeds the wails to stay in place beneath the giant cardboard Wild West facade. Is anybody timing this? I abandon the hullabaloo for 'the exciting recreation of the Old West, encompassing an Indian village, a two-storey saloon, complete with bordello', according to the press release.
With a hankering thirst I sidle up to the Cactus Bar but the well is dry. With only Coke and juice on tap, a lack of alcohol might as well have served as the night's metaphor: lest you're jealous of these events that grace the social pages, know that they're a reined-in affair. Even the music is wrong: they're playing Johnny Cash but it's Rawhide not Folsom Prison Blues.
