As a fellow Asian American who has grown up watching our representation on screen evolve, I must say that “Interior Chinatown” is a show that leaves me feeling a bit torn. On one hand, it’s fantastic to see such a unique take on the struggles and triumphs of Asian American life in the 90s, a time when our presence was often limited or stereotyped. The performances are commendable, especially Yang’s nuanced portrayal of our protagonist Willis, who grapples with his identity in a world that seems to be against him.
A peculiar twist underlies Hulu’s Interior Chinatown. The main character is Willis Wu (Jimmy O. Yang), a humble waiter yearning to be the hero, yet feeling trapped in being just a supporting character in someone else’s tale. Surprisingly, this very show seems like his opportunity to break free – to write his own script, to claim his own fate, and create his unique role amidst a world that persistently tries to force him into stereotypical roles.
However, it seems that the only method Interior Chinatown appears to employ for self-expression is by stuffing him into another mold – this time as a representative for someone else’s cultural examination. It’s a larger box, offering more space for creativity and witty introspection. Yet, it’s still just a container, favoring the neat structure of its own narrative arc over his individual identity.
The cleverness is fun to start, though. “The person in the first scene of a procedural is either a victim or a witness,” Willis muses to a friend in the opening minutes — and lo and behold, he becomes the latter just minutes later when he spots a woman being abducted in an alley. Simultaneously intrigued and intimidated by the sense that this might be his opportunity to become part of the action, he reports the incident to Lana Lee (Chloe Bennet), a police officer he happens to have a crush on. Before long, the unofficial partners are tugging at a thread that could wind all the way back to the unsolved disappearance, some dozen years prior, of Willis’ older brother (Chris Pang).
The debut film, attributed to Yu and helmed by Taika Waititi, employs every trick in the book to draw our focus towards the fact that Interior Chinatown is not simply narrating a story but is a story about the types of narratives that are commonly shared. Similar to WandaVision or Kevin Can F Himself, it utilizes the visual vocabulary of television to comment on its own medium.
In this portrayal, detectives Green (Lisa Gilroy) and Turner (Sullivan Jones), who are the main investigators for the case, are not merely arrogant police figures; instead, they’re the central characters of a crime series titled Black & White: Impossible Crimes Unit. This is because he is Black and she is white, as suggested by the title. The show even includes its own title cards, music cues, and atmospheric lighting reminiscent of Law & Order. Whenever they enter a room, the camera focuses on them, often pushing Willis to the background or entirely out of the frame when not doing so.
In other places, you’ll notice references ranging from Wong Kar-wai to Bruce Lee. If Willis’ Chinatown appears like a generic film studio set designed to mimic any Chinatown in the United States, that’s exactly the intention. The series “Interior Chinatown” skillfully navigates between the stereotypes that diminish characters like Willis and those he aspires to surpass, using a witty, humorous approach to challenge them. In one instance, Willis encounters an obstacle preventing him from entering a police station, as if by some unseen supernatural barrier, because he doesn’t fit in there – there’s no place for a random Asian man to casually appear and start investigating. It isn’t until he presents himself as “Delivery Guy” that he is allowed entry, having discovered a way to exploit a tiresome cliche for his advantage.
While the storyline’s self-referential nature attempts to hide its shallow core, it falls short, as the characters lack depth, barely surpassing the stereotypes they are meant to subvert. In Yu’s novel, a second-person narrative format bridged the gap between reader and protagonist who grapples with defining himself, often uncertain even of his own identity: The repeated use of “you” placed the audience squarely in his perspective. Unfortunately, the series fails to create a similar bond. Though Willis’ thoughts are extensively narrated (in first-person) to bring us closer, he remains an onscreen character we observe from afar, more defined by what he lacks than by his true personality.
After viewing approximately the third 40-minute episode out of five provided for critics, from a ten-episode season, it appears that the show’s self-referential style conflicts with its own storyline. Instead of enriching our comprehension of this universe, it creates a barrier, preventing us from connecting with characters or stories we might otherwise grow fond of naturally. Yang delivers a commendable performance in the lead role. He convincingly transitions between light comedy, sincere heroism, and even action hero status, complete with his own impressive kung fu scene in the premiere. Additionally, Ronny Chieng appears to be enjoying himself immensely as Fatty, Willis’ charmingly carefree best friend/roommate/coworker. However, the nuances of their relationship are not fully developed in a series that typically excels at expressing emotions rather than truly embodying them.
The brief, poignant scenes showcasing the complex yet loving relationship between Willis’ elderly parents, Lily (Diana Lin) and Joe (Tzi Ma), are weakened by a script that prioritizes breaking stereotypes over delving into the intricate depths of its characters’ emotional landscapes. It appears that Lana’s romantic entanglement with Willis is more about questioning if she could be attracted to someone like him, rather than exploring what might attract them to each other. Despite Bennett’s efforts to add layers of complexity to Lana’s character, her most defining trait at the midpoint of the season is her secrecy surrounding her past.
In a more palatable way, the thin development of characters could be less aggravating if the overarching perspective felt more distinctly sharp. However, there’s a rationale for why Interior Chinatown is situated in an inconsistently defined 90s setting. Its portrayal of the position Asians hold in popular culture appears to be rooted in a time when the concept of an “Asian role” was limited by works like Fresh Off the Boat, Shang-Chi and the Legend of Whatever, Crazy Rich Asians, or Everything Everywhere All at Once (which also starred Yang, Chieng, and Pang) or even those like The Acolyte and Crazy Ex-Girlfriend that didn’t focus on Asianness but provided non-stereotypical roles for Asians.
It’s true that old assumptions die hard, that there’s still room for more varied or more nuanced or just plain more onscreen depictions of Asian Americanness, that even now (maybe especially now) we’re dogged by the fear that whatever progress we’ve made could be undone again. And on a more practical level, I’ll allow that Interior Chinatown might have some new tricks up its sleeve for the back half of the season; a development involving Turner, in particular, left me wondering if the show’s true ambitions might be bigger and weirder than it initially let on.
It’s less impactful for a cultural critique when it appears to be responding to events from two decades past instead of addressing current discussions. While Interior Chinatown aims to represent progress and give characters like the Willises their moment, so far, it has only transformed him into another symbol. In the initial part of the series, he represents an age-old wound, a visual representation of an ongoing battle, and a beacon of hope for a future filled with light. However, it still needs to evolve significantly before it can portray him as a fully realized human being.
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2024-11-15 20:27