Jet Li’s sole foray into the Western genre, Once Upon a Time in China and America, is a film that defies easy categorization. It’s a chaotic, hyper-stylized mashup of kung fu cinema and spaghetti Western tropes, yet it’s often overlooked in discussions of both genres. Personally, I think this is a tragedy. The film isn’t just a footnote in Jet Li’s career—it’s a fascinating experiment in cultural collision, a moment when Hong Kong cinema dared to imagine a Chinese folk hero in the American frontier. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it reflects the broader tensions of the 1990s, a time when global pop culture was becoming increasingly interconnected, yet still deeply rooted in regional identities.
Let’s start with the obvious: Jet Li is not a Western icon. His presence in the Old West is jarring, almost comically out of place. But that’s precisely what makes the film so intriguing. Imagine a version of The Magnificent Seven where the protagonist is a Qing dynasty martial artist who speaks in poetic riddles and can disarm a dozen outlaws with a single kick. This isn’t just a genre crossover—it’s a rebellion against the idea that Westerns have to be American. From my perspective, it’s a bold statement about the universality of heroism, even if the execution is occasionally messy. The film’s editing, for instance, is a whirlwind of rapid cuts and zooms that would make a modern action director blush. Yet, I find this frenetic energy oddly refreshing. It’s as if the film is trying to scream, ‘This is not your grandfather’s Western!’ while simultaneously begging you to take it seriously.
What many people don’t realize is that Once Upon a Time in China and America was shot at Alamo Village, the same set that hosted John Wayne’s disastrous The Alamo. This is no coincidence. The film is a cheeky middle finger to the Western genre’s self-seriousness. Instead of epic monologues about honor and destiny, we get Jet Li dodging bullets in a dusty town square while muttering about ‘the will of heaven.’ A detail that I find especially interesting is how the film uses the Alamo’s historical weight to juxtapose Li’s character against the mythos of American frontier legend. It’s a subtle but powerful commentary on how stories of heroism are shaped by the cultures that tell them. If you take a step back and think about it, this film is a microcosm of the 1990s itself—a decade of global experimentation, where boundaries between genres, cultures, and ideologies were being tested in ways we’re still unpacking today.
This raises a deeper question: Why has this film been so easily dismissed? Is it because it’s too loud, too chaotic, too unapologetically Hong Kong? Or is it because it challenges the Western genre’s monopoly on the ‘frontier’ narrative? In my opinion, the latter is the case. Westerns have always been about American exceptionalism, the idea that the frontier was a place of moral clarity and rugged individualism. Li’s Wong Fei-hung, by contrast, is a product of Confucian values and martial discipline. His presence in the Old West isn’t just a gimmick—it’s a provocation. What this really suggests is that the frontier wasn’t just a geographical space but a cultural battleground, one where East met West in a clash of ideals. And yet, the film never dwells on this theme for long. Instead, it leans into the absurdity of its premise, which is both its greatest strength and its most glaring weakness.
There’s a certain charm to Once Upon a Time in China and America that’s hard to quantify. It’s a film that doesn’t take itself too seriously, yet it’s unafraid to throw itself into the chaos. The final showdown, which takes place on the same set that once hosted John Wayne, is a surreal blend of gunplay and kung fu that feels both anachronistic and oddly prescient. In an age where we’re used to seeing martial arts stars in every genre imaginable, it’s easy to overlook how radical this film was in 1997. It’s a reminder that the best cultural collisions aren’t always the ones that make perfect sense. Sometimes, they’re the ones that leave you scratching your head, wondering why no one ever made a sequel. And that, I think, is the true legacy of this film: it’s a testament to the audacity of trying something different, even if the world isn’t ready for it.
