Film Name: 生死决 / Duel To The Death / 生死決
It’s truly hard to imagine that the same Cheng Siu-tung who directed “Duel To The Death” in 1983 went on to make “Its Love” in 2011. And let’s not forget his work on “A Chinese Ghost Story” and “Swordsman 2″—my absolute favorites. My deepest impression of him is as a martial arts choreographer; whenever his name appears in that role on a film’s credits, you can count on the action sequences being top-notch.
Beyond the White Snake legend, his other works clearly showcase Cheng Siu-tung’s innovative spirit and boundless imagination. His storytelling prowess and narrative structure are truly extraordinary.
This “Duel to the Death” was filmed in 1983, following 1982’s “The Shaolin Temple” and “The Thousand Faces of Dunjia.” These form a contemporary series, which I personally see as a transitional period from Taiwanese wuxia to Hong Kong wuxia. Cheng Siu-tung’s film in particular already carries a hint of the new paradigm Tsui Hark would later pioneer.
The film flows exceptionally smoothly with a tightly paced rhythm.
It opens with a climactic fight sequence that succinctly establishes the premise and sets the theme. One protagonist, Bu Qingyun, is portrayed by Liu Songren. His appearance is strikingly impressive—he looks remarkably youthful here, far more handsome than in his 1994 film “Xia Yi Jian Qing Tian.” Though his smile reveals faint crow’s feet at age 34, he stands tall and graceful in his white robes. His dialogue with the Shaolin monks immediately evokes the tension and melancholy of an impending duel.
The other protagonist, Miyamoto Ichiro, is portrayed by Xu Shaoqiang. Xu possesses a distinctly masculine countenance, radiating the fiery spirit of a warrior. Yet, in his scenes playing with children or drinking and reveling with fellow disciples, he can display a gentle smile, revealing the warm, mundane joys of life. Instantly, he can transform into a gladiator who views death as nothing.
The director’s mastery is undeniable. With a swift shift in tone, Miyamoto’s master dies to prove his resolve, directly inflaming Miyamoto’s death-defying determination for the duel. In contrast, Bu Qingyun, visiting his master before descending the mountain, expresses confusion and distress over the notion that a martial contest must be fought to the death.
These two men differed fundamentally in their very essence. On the surface, Bu Qingyun seemed to be at a disadvantage compared to Miyamoto Ichiro. Yet this perspective aligns profoundly with the worldviews of their respective cultures. Japanese warriors are sworn to die for their cause, driven by an unwavering resolve to achieve their objectives at any cost. Chinese martial arts, however, emphasize the realm of spirit and the principles of benevolence and righteousness, often stopping short of complete victory. Victory or defeat cannot always be judged by appearances alone; to see beyond this is true enlightenment. Thus, though Bu Qingyun appeared scholarly and refined, his chivalrous spirit remained undiminished. Crucially, he never wavered in his resolve to continue, remaining steadfast even when the female lead repeatedly urged him to withdraw. In this light, he stood on a higher plane—truly worthy of the title “Sword Saint” and the very essence of chivalry.
The middle plot is glossed over, A minor conflict introduces the heroine, whose appearance is remarkably commanding—vigorously heroic yet retaining feminine grace. The production’s costumes, set design, and color palette demonstrate genuine artistry, a quality later amplified in “A Chinese Ghost Story.” It clearly inherits the finest traditions of Taiwanese martial arts cinema, pursuing harmony within understated elegance—a stark contrast to the later, intensely vibrant visual style of the “Old Monster” Xu.
Villains are inevitable, and the director’s imagination is quite wild from the outset. The host of the tournament is a madman who conspires with the enemy’s highest command solely to restore his family’s reputation—a twist I hadn’t anticipated.
The director’s imagination regarding Japanese ninja techniques is nothing short of brilliant. During the screening, I heard women giggling—some might find it exaggerated now, but this was 1983! To pull off such a design was incredibly bold. There’s even a full-frontal nude scene (the old monk dared not look, but I was utterly stunned and didn’t get a clear view). Of course, early Taiwanese wuxia films like those by King Hu also employed such elements. It must be said that directors back then were bold in pushing boundaries. Beyond that, the fight sequences are utterly captivating—flowing like clouds and water, brimming with effortless grace and aesthetic beauty. The ethereal lightness of the martial arts is especially mesmerizing. The most dazzling moments are when Miyamoto Ichiro uses aerial momentum to leap toward the lake center and Bu Qingyun’s dragonfly-skimming sword strike. Though Bu Qingyun seemed slightly outmatched at first, he swiftly hooked the sword with his toes—utterly dashing, a stroke of genius. Another standout sequence is Bu Qingyun’s pursuit of ninjas through the forest, where he propels himself through the trees with masterful momentum. Compared to later films featuring characters soaring skyward or traversing vast distances with bamboo gliders, this is far superior. On a tangent, the bamboo forest scene in “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” is also brilliant— I went back to watch it again, and sure enough, it was directed by Cheng Siu-tung. This is precisely why I prefer Hong Kong wuxia films—purely in terms of action sequences, early Taiwanese productions feel somewhat stiff.
Of course, the female lead’s death was predictable and didn’t add much tragic depth to the film. Her connection with the male lead was limited to sparse dialogue, mostly about martial arts or duels. Only their solitary stroll through the ginkgo grove hinted at mutual affection. Yet within the film’s overarching narrative, this couldn’t be elaborated upon. Compounded by her father’s mental instability and the weight of national loyalty forbidding betrayal, death became her only resolution.
This is a realistic drama with minimal sentimentality and sparse romantic subplots. A sense of desolation permeates the entire film. Both protagonists possess remarkable self-awareness—their swordsmanship is exceptional, and their character is noble. Neither side is swayed by prejudice, and they seamlessly unite against common foes, progressing step by step in their alliance until they ultimately reduce the villains and their cohorts to mincemeat. Yeah. That’s why I say the heroine had to die—there was simply no place left for her.
Uh, sorry for the sudden shift in tone—this is such a serious drama.
The ending mirrors the beginning: tense at the start, heroic at the close. Yet no matter how much they admired each other, the duel was inevitable. Bu Qingyun lay covered in blood, his right arm severed at the shoulder, fingers missing from his left hand. The once-great Sword Saint could never wield a sword again. Motoi faces the East Sea, pinning his foot with his sword—a death as tragic as it is heroic. Bu Qingyun ultimately spares his opponent’s life; otherwise, this heartbreaking scene wouldn’t have unfolded. But that’s precisely what true heroes who respect each other do. Among the films I recall, only Zhao Wenzhuo’s “The Blade” can rival this one.
A great film demands great music. Ye Zhen-tang’s songs permeate this work—so old I couldn’t find the titles—perfectly matching its tone. Even as pure background music, they convey tragic grandeur. Online sources mention another track, “Look Up and Walk On,” but I have no recollection of it. Could it be from Memoirs of a Geisha?
Overall, it maintains the traditional Chinese martial arts tone—orthodox and solemn. Had it been adapted from Gu Long or Jin Yong, the ending would undoubtedly have been different. Though the director introduces a pet parrot midway, it lacks the carefree spirit of the martial world compared to Tsui Hark’s work. But this is by no means a flaw. The martial world should embody this facet—it isn’t solely about laughter, splendid attire, gallant steeds, jade-like beauties, or dashing heroes. More often, it should reflect the helpless melancholy, the tragic resolve of severing one’s own arm, the sorrow of fading beauty, and the wounds of bloody turmoil.
This is the wuxia that belongs to Cheng Siu-tung, uniquely his in 1983. It’s a fine film, and having seen it in theaters leaves me thoroughly satisfied.
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