Alright, rewind time! Settle back into that comfy spot on the couch, maybe adjust the tracking just so on your mental VCR, because we're diving headfirst into a glorious slice of 90s Hong Kong insanity: Stephen Chow’s 1994 martial arts comedy masterpiece, Love on Delivery (破壞之王, Poh Wai Ji Wong, literally "King of Destruction"). If you stumbled across this gem back in the day, perhaps nestled between Jackie Chan epics and John Woo bullet ballets at the local video rental shop, you knew you were in for something special, something… utterly unhinged.
### From Zero to Weirdo Hero
The premise itself is pure gold: Ho Kam-An (a perfectly cast Stephen Chow at the absolute zenith of his comedic powers) is a meek, utterly unremarkable delivery boy hopelessly smitten with the beautiful judo student Lily (Christy Chung, radiating charm). Unfortunately for Ho, Lily is also pursued by the arrogant karate champion Black Bear. After a humiliating public beatdown, Ho vows to learn martial arts to win Lily's respect and defend her honor. His search leads him not to a wise old master, but to the delightfully fraudulent Tat (Ng Man-tat, Chow’s legendary comedic partner), a convenience store owner who claims mastery of kung fu but is really just a world-class con artist looking for an easy mark. What follows is less a training montage and more a masterclass in glorious absurdity.
### The Unstoppable Force of Mo Lei Tau
You can't talk about Stephen Chow's 90s films without mentioning "mo lei tau" – that uniquely Cantonese brand of nonsensical, anything-goes comedy. Love on Delivery, directed by frequent Chow collaborator Lee Lik-Chi (who also gave us Chow vehicles like Flirting Scholar and God of Cookery), is practically a thesis statement on the style. The gags come fast and furious, mixing slapstick, surreal visuals, rapid-fire Cantonese puns (some inevitably lost in translation, but the energy remains), and relentless pop culture parody. Remember Ho’s training? Forget wax-on, wax-off. Tat "teaches" him techniques based on newspaper dodging and, most iconically, has him fight in a tournament wearing… a Garfield mask. Yes, Garfield. It makes zero sense, and that’s precisely why it’s brilliant. It’s a testament to the film's sheer confidence in its own silliness. We even get visual gags referencing Terminator 2 – because why not?
The chemistry between Chow and Ng Man-tat is, as always, electric. Ng doesn't just play a supporting role; he’s the chaotic comedic engine driving much of the plot. His portrayal of Tat, the cowardly grifter who accidentally creates a folk hero, is pure comedic genius. Their timing is impeccable, turning even simple dialogue exchanges into laugh-out-loud moments. It’s a partnership that defined Hong Kong comedy for a generation.
### Action That Hits (Different)
Now, let's talk action. This isn't the gritty realism of Police Story, but don't let the comedy fool you – the physical demands here were intense. The fight choreography, particularly in the climactic tournament sequence, is surprisingly elaborate, blending slapstick with genuine martial arts parody and impressive (and very visible) wirework. This was the Hong Kong way – practical stunts, performers taking real tumbles (even for laughs), and an energy that felt raw and immediate on that slightly fuzzy CRT screen.
Think about the final confrontation. It escalates into pure cartoonish mayhem, culminating in the legendary "Invincible Wind and Fire Wheel" technique. It’s ridiculous, over-the-top, and utterly unforgettable. Compared to today's often weightless CGI brawls, there's a tangible effort here, a sense of performers pushing physical comedy to its limits. You felt the impacts, even if they were designed to make you chuckle rather than wince. The stunt team deserved hazard pay, even for a comedy! It's this commitment to the gag, executed with real physical prowess, that made these scenes pop.
### A Blast from the Past That Still Lands
Love on Delivery wasn't just some niche oddity; it was a massive hit in Hong Kong back in '94, raking in over HK$36 million and further cementing Stephen Chow as the undisputed King of Comedy. Watching it now feels like opening a time capsule filled with pure, unadulterated joy. Sure, some references might feel dated, and the pacing is relentless in that classic HK style, but the core humour, the underdog story, and the sheer inventive madness hold up remarkably well. The vibrant colours, the energetic Cantopop-infused score, the slightly frantic editing – it all screams 90s Hong Kong cinema in the best possible way. I distinctly remember finding a dubbed VHS copy years ago and being utterly bewildered and delighted in equal measure.
Overall Rating: 9/10
Why a 9? Because Love on Delivery is a near-perfect example of its specific genre: the "mo lei tau" martial arts comedy. It delivers exactly what it promises – nonstop laughs, surprisingly inventive action sequences (albeit comedic ones), and the irreplaceable magic of the Chow/Ng partnership. It’s endlessly quotable (even if just through gestures), wildly rewatchable, and represents a type of filmmaking energy we rarely see anymore. It's unabashedly silly, incredibly clever in its construction of gags, and has a genuine heart beating beneath the absurdity.
Final Thought: Forget complex fighting philosophies; sometimes all you need is a ridiculous mask, a con-artist master, and the sheer comedic will to win. Love on Delivery is pure, concentrated 90s Hong Kong fun, a high-energy sugar rush that still feels fantastic. Turn off your brain, tune in, and prepare to laugh like it's 1994.