From Sessue Hayakawa to Gemma Chan: the State of Asian American Film, and Where it Leaves Film Creatives Today
Before the likes of Lana Condor and Gemma Chan, there was Charlie’s Angels star Lucy Liu and stand-up comedian Margaret Cho. Before the 90s screen legends Lucy Liu and Margaret Cho, there was flapper and fashion connoisseur Anna May Wong. Before Anna May Wong, there was Japanese-American silent film star Sessue Hayakawa.
In Hollywood, Asian-American film stars are few and far in between, most holding enormous talent and, more often than not, unfulfilled potential. Their rise to stardom is by no accident; their careers reflect the constantly changing political context of the United States, but more importantly, they characterize the struggle of actors of color in an industry that so fearfully shuns change. Sessue Hayakawa’s stardom is a textbook case of this: with help from the still-developing film industry and striking, undeniable charisma.
Hayakawa’s rise to fame can be attributed to a few occurrences during that time: In the 1910s, Hollywood was in its experimenting stages, grappling to justify and solidify its legitimacy in American entertainment, long before the era of the five industry-dominating film companies: RKO Radio Pictures, 20th Century Fox, Paramount Pictures, Warner Bros., and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Additionally, the Hays code, which wasn’t introduced until 1930, allowed colored actors to appear in films depicting interracial relationships. The strict ‘moral code’ made it nearly impossible for interracial relationships, LGBTQ characters, and anything remotely sexual to be depicted on television, essentially barring creatives from minorities and open dialogue on sexual education. Coupled with relatively stable relations with the Japanese, Hollywood was in perfect condition for an Asian American star to rise- and it found one in Sessue Hayakawa.
Hayakawa came from a relatively wealthy family in Japan, only coming to America after failing to enroll in the Japanese navy. While waiting for a ride in Los Angeles, he swerved into the acting industry at a local theater in Little Tokyo. There, he caught the eye of producer Thomas Harper Ince, and performed in several films, before catching his break in 1915, The Cheat.
Modern recounts portray Hayakawa's fame as something of a fairytale: the actor was a legend, a visionary; comparable to the beloved film stars Douglas Fairbanks and Charlie Chaplin. While his popularity was certainly comparable, his reputation was far from it. On one hand, his white counterparts were critically lauded for their immense acting talent and charming films, Hayakawa was often pigeonholed into roles of the sexually domineering villain.
His acting talent is often overlooked outside of the film critics’ circle, despite his advanced technique which was generations ahead of its time: he executed intense expressions and minimal movements, not unlike method-acting Marlon Brando who could come decades later.
In the age of ‘Yellow Peril’ and peak anti-Asian sentiment, Hayakawa’s villains fit perfectly.
What producers and audiences didn’t realize was how entranced female audiences were by the actor. “The idea of the rape fantasy, forbidden fruit, all those taboos of race and sex – it made him a movie star,” said Stephen Gong, executive director of San Francisco's Center for Asian-American Media.
While many of Hayakawa’s characters did perpetuate negative tropes, he did try to eradicate anti-Asian sentiment beyond the silver screen. He founded a production company with a million-dollar loan from a friend and was able to produce films with creative freedom and minimal influence from companies. Alongside his wife, who was a pioneer in her own right, Hayakawa produced 23 films in the span of three years.
He managed to create films that carefully balanced American expectations while creating dynamic storylines featuring characters of color. His company made nearly two million dollars in the span of three years and took home several thousand dollars a week during its peak.
It wasn’t just his films- he played golf, drove a gold-plated cadillac, threw extravagant parties at his mansion, and famously stocked a large amount of liquor before prohibition. His lavish lifestyle wasn’t just a way to enjoy the high-class life of film stardom- it was a clever strategy to cultivate an image of class and luxury, not often associated with Asian Americans during his time.
While Hollywood benefited financially from Hayakawa’s popularity for a while, anti-Japanese sentiment near the cusp of World War II drove Hayakawa from America in the early 1920s. After staying in France selling watercolor paintings, Hayakawa returned to Hollywood and resumed a relatively successful acting career, bagging an Academy Award nomination for The Bridge on the River Kwai.
Hayakawa’s legacy is far from simple. While the characters he played imposed harmful images of Asian Americans that still bleed into modern-day films, he was an extraordinary talent who broke new ground for actors of color.
Today, Asian American cinema struggles to solidify itself in mainstream media. While cultural exports from overseas have been able to gain international attention, Asian American films are surprisingly lacking.
Asian Americans are still targeted for their marketability to appease audiences that demand justice for underrepresented communities. Cheap ploys to denounce obvious discrimination and painfully off-color statements on diversity don’t cut it, but movies have to make money, and producers hush the truthful narratives that bring up uncomfortable, but important, conversations to have.
Overseas films and television, whether it be Squid Game and Parasite from Korea or the thriving anime sector in Japan, are the passion projects of directors who are well-reputed in their country. They were given the trust of producers, freedom from government censorship, and an audience willing to be delighted. They didn’t even need to film an Oscar-baited sixteenth-century drama about white characters leading hopeless savages to safety. They tell stories of love for their people, engaging conversations on culture, and with swelling pride, presented with shimmering awards and glitzy red-carpet premieres. They are commended and esteemed- able to draw audiences where Hollywood failed to.
We talk about the film industry as if so much has been achieved- but truly how much ground have we gained? How is it that an Asian American actor in the early 20th century was able to successfully produce several films at his creative liberty, but film producers still refuse to fund scripts with authentic storylines because they may not sell or perform well at the box office?
The outlook of the film industry seems bleak, but Asian American creatives are on the rise. From Crazy Rich Asians stars Constance Wu, Awkwafina, and Gemma Chan, to the well-received rom-com To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before, not all hope is lost in Asian American film.
