Crazy Rich Asians

Don’t try to tell me it’s just a movie, because it’s not.

I haven’t read any think pieces on Crazy Rich Asians yet.

I promised myself that I would resist temptation. Quell the urge to click through headlines and instead, show solidarity by double-tapping posts and scrolling on. The goal, however naive—purist, even—was to walk into the theater without outside opinion informing mine. I didn’t even know that this could happen. That I’d been waiting all my life for something so monumental.

All I did know was that it was imperative to buy an advanced ticket before opening weekend. I pre-ordered one (for Thursday, yesterday) with just an inkling of the storyline (gathered only from promo pics and the few chapters I was able to finish in anticipation). And while it’s easy to write this off as blind support for the sake of, well, blind support, this simple act isn’t the same as voting for Candidate X of Party Y just because she’s a woman from Party Y. Buying a ticket meant that I would count, and that hopefully, Crazy Rich Asians would count, too.

That we—spoiler alert! I’m a first-gen Taiwanese-American—have been waiting 25 years to see Asians who weren’t reincarnated of this portrayal by a white actor, or worse, unwritten from our own goddamn story and replaced with yet another white cast. 

The trouble with being the “first” of anything (or in this case, the first in a quarter of a century) is that it bears the burden of having to be so perfect that nothing can shake its ground. For example: Our first black president had to be the best president, and even though he was great, perfectly “just fine“ at worst, he became the scapegoat for all that went wrong (a lot of which was inherited circumstance, for the record). The blowback was detrimental; the proof is in the current regime and the destruction it leaves in its wake.

With that said, I know people wanted the first all-Asian cast to be a Black Panther equivalent. I would’ve loved it to be, too—but Black Panther is what it is, and was able to make the impact it did (and have the reception and recognition) because of all else that preceded it… and I’m not sure that our country (or us, the Asian-Americans, the “model minority.” I’m aware I could be projecting, but I also don’t think I’m entirely wrong) could appreciate and receive a movie of that same magnitude in full.

What we need is representation, slowly but surely until we rewrite the narrative. We need a different point of view that sheds Asians in a new light beyond the same rotation of actors, playing the same few roles. I’m tired of the same stereotypes most of Hollywood casts (when it chooses to): the obedient sex kitten, the martial artist, the FOB who’s the butt of every joke, the “good” immigrant. And the flagrant as this version of the Chinese was, I appreciated it so, so deeply. Just to be seen in a new light was everything. One that was front and center, in power.

That first scene of the movie (and book) alone says it all.

This isn’t to say that the movie’s portrayal of “crazy-rich” Asians (crazy, as a modifier, to be clear) was perfect. It’s a humorous novel that rides on another set of stereotypes (one non-Asian-Americans aren’t familiar with, though), toned down from Kevin Kwan’s version for the silver screen—and we have to remember that much before judging it harshly. Still, I can’t help but cringe at the idea that the American-Taiwanese girl was the moral center for “good” because in every US film that involves someone foreign, there’s the stipulation that “American” is automatically “better.” Worse, there’s no acknowledgment of why Asia is so guarded against outsiders. Asia was invaded and pillaged by the so-called “West;” then later, turned into an easy mark. How can you expect its people to receive with open arms?

See? A burden of being the “first” in 25 years. I shouldn’t have to expect the filmmakers to be responsible for the level of heavy history, especially for a rom-com—but because it’s directed by Jon M. Chu, because it features an all-Asian cast, because I’m protective of how we, the people who look at like me, are me, are perceived—I almost can’t help but be critical. I’m not saying that the trials and tribulations of Constance Wu’s character, Rachel Chu, are a blatant exaggeration because they’re not: the story is fiction, but it’s based in some semblance of truths. Truth without context, though, can be dangerous for the ignorant.

Still: seeing an Asian-American girl as the protagonist and experiencing her reality was a first for me, and affected me more than I thought it would. You could tell me that Crazy Rich Asians is just a movie but it’s not: I still can’t verbalize (coherently, much less eloquently) how I feel having left the theater. For the first time in my entire life, I saw people who looked like me. Stories, similar to mine, albeit grand to my simple life. There, on screen, in a major motion picture, were the foods I loved but was ashamed to as a child in her lunchroom amidst classic PB&J sandwiches; traditions I followed but found embarrassing amongst my classmates; familial dynamics that only a Chinese-American could ever understand, and empathize. Larger than life where the values I was most proud of, now for everyone to see: how the Chinese are taught to work hard and play harder; provide everything for their children; put family first; and above all else, respect the matriarchy.

And woven into the Hollywood love story was the experience of Rachel, as the Chinese-American girl. I could never articulate all that I felt growing up because I thought I was alone, but all throughout the film I felt pangs of me toos. I understood the feeling of not belonging. I’ve been neither here nor there my whole life: always “too Chinese” (just by appearance) for my white classmates, but not Chinese enough (as in: ability to speak the language fluently, understand culture) for the people who looked like me.

To them, I’m a twinkie. Banana. ABC, or, American Born Chinese. (Which is how I settled on “A Bit Coquettish,” by the way; it was for the acronym).

This stream of consciousness isn’t about me, though. (Perhaps another time, when I can find the words to verbalize how this movie made me feel seen, and more importantly, like I wasn’t alone after all). It’s about this movie: how it was equal parts heart-warming and eye-opening—which was just what we, collective American and Asian-American we needed so that one day, people won’t regard the two as different, where the latter “isn’t really” the former. And that thank goodness, it was a solid film. I loved Crazy Rich Asians for both what it represented and for what it was at the surface level, too.

It was fabulous in every sense of the word: a modern-day Great Gatsby, with the clothes, the settings, the people. Oh, that cast…! Crazy Rich Asians had nothing to do with me personally, and still I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride. (I suppose this is what sports fans feel when they use “we” to describe their favorite football team.) Here they were, my people. Finally seen as who they/we are but aren’t given the space-—nor the permission—to be (in mainstream media and in real life), for better or worse: powerful, ruthless, glamorous, beautiful, sexy (“masculine,” for the men; independent and assured for the women—in direct opposition to our portrayal as weak, effeminate/subservient sex kittens),  family-oriented, hard-working, fun.

It was so much than just a movie with an all-Asian cast.

It’s the beginning of a movement.

.   .   .

xx