Chapter 112 – Is Your Father Bruce Lee?
As soon as the young man introduced himself, Wayne couldn't shake the odd feeling that something was… off. A subtle dissonance he couldn't quite name.
"...I was born in California. I'm half Chinese, half American. My father is Chinese, my mother American. I just finished filming Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story..."
The moment he mentioned he was of mixed Chinese-American heritage, everyone in the room frowned slightly. It wasn't racism—it was simply an unspoken rule in Hollywood.
"Alright, Mr. Lee." John, though it felt a bit impolite, raised a hand to interrupt the introduction. "You said you're half Chinese?"
"Yes, I know it doesn't show," he said, pointing at his face. "My father gave me a Chinese name—Li Guohao. I know it's a mouthful, so most friends just call me 'Lee.'"
Wayne's head buzzed. Now it made sense—the mixed heritage, the American face, the surname Lee...
"Wait... is Bruce Lee your father?" The question blurted out before he could stop himself.
Wayne was genuinely curious—how had the son of a legendary martial arts icon ended up auditioning for his film? Asian-Americans, especially at this time, were at the bottom of the social ladder in North America—sometimes even below Black Americans in terms of cultural acceptance.
Culturally reserved, rarely loud or confrontational, Chinese immigrants never played the protest game or organized zero-dollar looting sprees. But Bruce Lee—he was different. One of the few Asian stars North America truly acknowledged. His kung fu was legendary.
And now here was his son—American-looking, steeped in Hollywood—and yet he was here, auditioning like any other aspiring actor.
When Wayne uttered the name Bruce Lee, everyone looked up—even John and Schwartz turned curious, and the usually quiet DC Comics executive, Jonathan Keller, perked up with gossip-hungry eyes.
"Yes, he's my father," Li Guohao—Brandon Lee—shrugged, his expression guarded. Clearly, he'd been through this conversation many times. Everyone wanted to dig into the "mystery" behind Bruce Lee's death, his legacy, his influence.
A global kung fu icon, a philosopher, a legend—Bruce Lee's name still held weight, especially in the West, where mystery and myth surrounded his sudden passing.
"He was a great action star," John said with genuine admiration, his tone suddenly much warmer. Such was Bruce Lee's influence. "Though, honestly, you don't look Asian at all. So how did you hear about Joker?"
"My agent submitted my name. He thought I fit the profile for Arthur." As he spoke, his expression shifted, a wide grin stretching across his face—laughing loudly, yet laced with sorrow.
"Not bad!" Wayne interrupted, clearly intrigued. He handed over a script page. "You've got five minutes to prepare. Then perform this scene."
Unlike Cage's previous monologue, this was the subway scene—Arthur laughing uncontrollably, then getting assaulted. A deceptively simple scene, but emotionally vital. This was where Arthur's descent began—the prelude to his first act of violence, the turning point.
"Start whenever you're ready."
Wayne tilted his head, watching Brandon Lee through the camera monitor.
Brandon closed his eyes for a moment in concentration, then dragged a chair over and sat. When his eyes opened, he exploded into wild, erratic laughter.
"Ahahaha! Ahahahaha!"
Even on the monitor, his acting chops were clear—solid fundamentals, controlled emotion. With full Joker makeup and costume, the effect would likely be even stronger.
He suddenly mimed reaching for something—perhaps trying to explain himself—only to get "punched" to the ground. Curled up on the studio floor, his expression contorted, laughter continuing through clenched teeth.
"Ahahaha… ahaha…"
"Alright, that's enough." Wayne knocked on the desk gently and shook his head with a trace of regret.
Brandon's performance had been strong. Very strong. But it wouldn't matter.
They all knew it—this role had been out of his reach from the start. The audition had been more a formality, a respectful gesture.
"You can go now. We'll inform your agent within three days."
"Thank you."
From Wayne's regretful expression, Brandon knew the truth. He was out of the running—and he understood why.
"What a shame," Jonathan Keller, the DC executive, murmured once Brandon had left.
"We can't take that risk, Mr. Keller." Wayne turned to explain in a quiet voice. "This is a $60 million film. He may not look Asian, but North American audiences... you know how unpredictable they can be."
Wayne hated it, truly. Brandon Lee had the look, the performance, even the right physicality—tall, lean, expressive. But in Hollywood, decisions weren't just artistic—they were statistical.
North American mainstream audiences were notoriously xenophobic. Even British actors were often met with disdain. And in the '90s, the idea of casting an Asian (or even half-Asian) actor as the lead in a blockbuster? Commercial suicide.
Every producer knew: if you wanted to make a profitable Hollywood blockbuster, your protagonist had to be American—and preferably white.
Anyone who tried to buck that trend… usually failed. That wasn't personal. That was the market.
Even decades later, as of 2021, Wayne had seen for himself how few foreign films had made significant box office gains in North America. Barely a handful had even crossed the $100 million mark.
Still, he scribbled something on the notepad beside him—Brandon Lee.
The young man had talent. Maybe not now, maybe not here—but one day.
"Schwartz, bring in the next one," John said, flipping through a thick stack of résumés. Plenty of names remained, each young actor hoping to be the face of The Joker.
And though Cage had left a lasting impression, none of them could afford to assume the role was locked down—not yet.
It was becoming increasingly clear: even if another actor's performance came close to—or even slightly surpassed—Nicolas Cage's, they still couldn't outcompete him for the role. That was the weight of relationships, of connections. Favor counted.
One after another, hopeful actors walked in, gave their brief introductions, performed a few scenes, and left. The endless procession made the atmosphere dull and tiresome. None of the performances truly stood out—they were decent, but none had that electric spark.
Then came a familiar face.
"Hello, Director Garfield!"
Wayne immediately recognized him.
"Hello, Mr. Nicholson. No need for an introduction—there's no one here who doesn't know who you are."
Holding Jack Nicholson's résumé, Wayne rubbed the space between his brows. This was a veteran actor, one who had famously already played the Joker.
"Thanks," Nicholson said with a confident smile. "Shall I begin right away?"
Wayne nodded, handing him a page from the script. "Here's the scene. Begin when you're ready."
It was a brief, emotional segment—Arthur confronting Thomas Wayne, bitterly accusing him of never offering warmth or kindness.
Nicholson read the page silently for a moment, then launched into the monologue.
"Why would you say that to me? I don't need your lies. I know—it's strange. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. But why is everyone always so rude? I don't know why you are the way you are. I don't want anything... maybe just a little warmth. Maybe a hug. Dad...!"
As soon as he began, the three men behind the table exchanged glances and slowly shook their heads. It wasn't that Nicholson's acting was bad—it was polished, practiced, and technically sound. But the tone was all wrong.
Nicholson had slipped into the same mindset and interpretation he used back in Batman (1989). Every line was delivered with a whimsical, chaotic energy—amusing, eccentric, and entirely out of sync with this version of Arthur Fleck.
Still, no one interrupted him. They let him finish the monologue, then offered polite applause.
"Mr. Nicholson," Wayne said with professional courtesy, "thank you for coming in today. We'll inform your agent of the results within the next three days."
"Thank you."
After Nicholson left, John turned to Wayne and said what they were all thinking. "He's not right. He's still stuck in his old Joker. That version just doesn't fit with what we're building."
Wayne nodded in agreement. "Anyone else?"
"That was the last one for this role," the casting director replied.
Wayne pushed back his chair and stretched his arms, letting out a long sigh as his joints popped. After sitting in that chair all day, he felt rusted, aching.
"Alright then," he said. "Let's move on to the auditions for the supporting roles. Pick up the pace."
(End of Chapter)