When Chuck Norris fought Bruce Lee in The Way of the Dragon in 1972, it looked like the clash of two mythic archetypes. For all his power, Lee appeared boyish and almost slight, his body as smooth as marble and clenched with defined muscle like an anatomical illustration – the ascetic young master of Asian fighting philosophies. Norris was bigger, bulkier, shaggier and hairier, and basically more American; he was just as fast as Bruce (or almost), a master of taekwondo and jiujitsu and his own discipline of Chun Kuk Do, but with a body that looked as if an ounce or two of old-fashioned fat – the byproduct of the odd porterhouse steak – would be neither here nor there (although in later years Norris dialled down the red meat).
Norris was a rip-roaring action hero in the stacked form also popularised by Sly, Arnie and later Jason Statham; he was basically in the tradition of occidental action, a western-style fighting man who had also absorbed the eastern arcana of unarmed combat into a persona that was also confident with heavy weaponry. The combination made him a lead like Clint Eastwood’s man with no name (and in fact his 1985 actioner Code of Silence, about a cop on the edge, was originally developed as a Dirty Harry vehicle). But Norris had something rangier and less enigmatic: you could call him the master of his own kind of whitesploitation ass-kicking spectacular.
