This isn’t a piece about Bruce Lee flicks or mixed martial arts, but, rather, the mythology that inspired them. It’s about the irresistible allure of a technique with the power to transform anyone into a killing machine of undiluted harmony.

Understand, when I say kung fu, I do not mean the Chinese martial art. Kung fu is the name by which I call all Asia’s ancient methods to transcend human weakness and awaken a secret power slumbering within the soul.

Why call it kung fu, you ask? Why not just say martial arts?

A martial art is a style of self-defense. Kung fu represents a realm of our collective imagination. A master of kung fu is capable of volumes more than thwarting a gang of attackers. He runs across the surface of a lake, water rippling symmetrically beneath graceful strides. He glides unseen through the aether, exploding all at once upon his enemies with the deadliness of a grenade, silent as gentle rain. And regardless of his age, a master of kung fu grows more potent with each thought.

Whether portrayed by legends of centuries past or screenplays of modern vintage, a master of kung fu is usually humanized in two ways: as either an eccentric old man or a young novice. As an old man, the master is an incarnation of the art, which makes him seem indestructible; his idiosyncrasies the only evidence of mortality. This makes him a shabby protagonist. It is the young novice who calls to our imagination.

What makes the novice so universally enthralling is that he or she can be anybody.

Anybody + discipline + sensei = kung fu master.

That is a huge part of why kung fu is so special: It’s like a super power that’s only a montage away.

“Are you clumsy? Slow? Eight years old? Bad credit? No credit? No problem.”

A few years and a parcel sum of broken bones is all that stands between you and kung fu mastery. No meteorites or radioactive spiders needed; you can do this at home.

Maybe that’s the reason we love kung fu so much in the U.S., because its implicit egalitarian theme is that hard work delivers; that, or the totally sweet battles.

However, often de-emphasized in American adaptations, is discipline of the mind. It’s understandable that this element of kung fu mythology gets little more than lip service in our pop culture; there’s no fight scene to be had. The problem is exacerbated by an overuse of temptation as a vector for approaching the subject of mental discipline. More specifically, forbidden love plots. This is a mistake.

The mind of a kung fu master is far more dangerous than his fist, and far more interesting. In it, peace and violence form a reconcilable dualism. An environment of chaos is organized into fluid motion. The slice of a second is 1,000 years wide.

That’s why I love kung fu: Because, although we can look on as the master waylays goon after goon, we can only speculate as to what takes place within his militarized, yet tranquil mind.

With such a lush mythology to draw upon, it compounds my frustration each time Hollywood spoons us garbage such as “The Last Airbender,” assuming that visuals are an acceptable substitution for true creativity. We have come a long way, though. Steven Seagal, Jean-Claude Van Damme and Chuck Norris are found in the punch lines of jokes far more often than the credits of modern cinema. Why is that?

Because, in this country, we vote with our spending — just ask the people at Nissan. Even though we habitually ignore almost everything else in our culture, we are incredibly efficient when it comes to communicating about art.

Taking those two things as true, I believe our collective taste is improving. Stories exploring fresh territories in the vast design space of kung fu — “Batman Begins,” for example — have become solid moneymakers.

Mindless action flicks dressed up as kung fu consistently flop. I think this is because, deep down, we know there’s a lot more to kung fu than just martial arts, and we’re using our dollars to express our expectations. Keep up the good work, America.