In ‘Crazy Rich Asians,’ Asian America Forges its Own Shackles
The message of this “racially inclusive” film reveals the limitations of Hollywood representation and respectability politics.
In Asian American circles, few movies from the past decade have been as hotly anticipated as Crazy Rich Asians. It boasts the first all-Asian cast in a major Hollywood film since 1993’s The Joy Luck Club, including such names as Constance Wu of Fresh off the Boat, Ken Jeong of Hangover fame, Silicon Valley’s Jimmy O. Yang, and Michelle Yeoh of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. For Asian America, a group typically relegated to depictions as unattractive math nerds or exotic kung fu masters, it’s easy to see why Crazy Rich Asians is heralded as a cultural triumph. Many of us wanted to watch this movie take off, and to carry with it our aspirations of entering the U.S. mainstream at last.
Sure enough, there is something about Crazy Rich Asians that speaks to many Asian Americans. Every scene is exaggerated, yet essentially accurate: Rachel Chu, the Queens-raised young adult, mustering her best Mandarin to appeal to the elders; Eleanor Young, the tiger mother, as family enforcer; all the unwritten laws, like how the entire room immediately rises from their seats upon the arrival of the matriarch, Ah-Ma. All of these details make clear that Crazy Rich Asians is, unlike most similar works, a movie for the children of immigrants — not a generic American audience, nor for Asians observing from abroad.
Unfortunately, this is about all the “progress” the movie makes in terms of bringing an authentic Asian American lens to the silver screen. Upon closer examination, the way in which the film speaks to its audience, far from being subversive or even progressive, is one that reinforces the status quo of American racial hierarchy.
Capitalism with Chinese Characteristics
The movie opens with a barrage of wealth porn, as Nick Young whisks Rachel away to Singapore in a private first-class suite—and we, the audience, are taken along for the ride. We witness Rachel and her college friend Peik Lin entering the Youngs’ unimaginably lavish estate; Nick’s wealthy cousins posing for Vogue in million-dollar earrings; a bachelor party atop a spiffed-up freight ship. These exotic thrills overwhelm us with awe and give us a taste of the good life, lowering our critical guard for what’s to come. Distracted by the novelty of seeing Asian faces onscreen, we find ourselves warming up to some of the most powerful people on Earth.
For Asian Americans, this first half of the film presents an enticing fantasy of what life could be like—not just one of luxury, but freedom from the marginal status we currently occupy in white America. However, by propping up the Youngs as the embodiment of that freedom, the movie suggests a specific means to that end: Asians must become the rulers of global capitalism. Never mind that this economic structure requires the systematic trampling of the vast majority of society, including and especially other Asians—Singapore itself is home to 1.3 million foreign workers, largely dark-skinned people, who perform the low-wage drudgery that enables the royalty to live in unconscionable splendor.
At the same time, the Youngs are, as far as capitalists go, not the crass, tasteless variety; they’re not just crazy rich; they’re the right kind of rich. Art deco designs line their homes, jazz bands grace their soirées, and a venerable family history secures their right to rule—the Youngs entered Singapore essentially as settler-colonizers in the 19th century, when it was, to use Peik Lin’s derisive characterization, “nothing more than jungle and pig farmers.” These are not the Gateses, Trumps, or Buffetts of the world; these are F. Scott Fitzgerald’s untouchable Buchanans.
When we talk about whiteness, what typically comes to mind is a person’s skin color or country of origin. But whiteness as a social construct has historically been highly malleable; there was a time when even Irish and Eastern European immigrants to the U.S. were not considered white. Whiteness has always been in dialogue with class, culture, and geopolitics. The Youngs and their circle may not be white in skin tone—though, as many commentators have noted, the cast is conspicuously light-skinned for a film set in Singapore—but in almost every other way, they are truly the white people of Asia; perhaps whiter, in their mannerisms, their tastes, and their history, than any actual white people most of us interact with today.
Manufacturing the Model Minority
Of course, as the Youngs are technically the antagonists in this story, it would be unfair to take their values to be those of the movie overall. To get at the film’s core message, we have to look to its protagonist Rachel, ostensibly a hardscrabble American immigrant who courageously battles the Singaporean aristocracy.
But what kind of resistance does Rachel put up, exactly? As soon as the wealth porn subsides and Rachel fully realizes the challenge ahead of her, she sets out on a specific task: to earn the respect of the Youngs and their elite circle. At the bachelorette party, Nick’s ex-girlfriend Amanda conspires with other women to shake Rachel’s confidence: they make a series of snide comments about her, and, in Godfather-like fashion, plant a dead fish in Rachel’s bed, beneath a line of bloody text calling her a “gold-digging bitch.” Rachel’s reaction to all this is one of classic American grit: after burying the fish in the beach, she vows to continue smiling and acting normally. With the help of Peik Lin and Nick’s cousin Oliver, she arrives at the wedding sporting a sparkling new dress, brushes aside other courtesans to pose for a photo, and schmoozes with the Malay princess Itan in her exclusive front row. Rachel’s insistence on suffering countless acts of humiliation and rejection, and rebranding herself as a new socialite, stands for a yearning not unlike one that Asian Americans feel in real life: to be accepted by society’s elite; to become one of them.
These efforts culminate in one of the final scenes, when, over a game of mahjong littered with powerful symbolism, Rachel reveals to Eleanor that Nick proposed to her, but she turned him down. And why is that? Is it because she wants to live a life free from the clutches of overbearing in-laws? Because she insists on her right to determine her own future, independent of the dictates of Eleanor, Ah-Ma, and the whole regime? No; it’s because, Rachel declares, “I don’t want him to lose his mom.” She proceeds, adamant on claiming the throne of virtue:
I just wanted you to know: that one day — when he marries another lucky girl who is enough for you, and you’re playing with your grandkids while the tan hua’s are blooming, and the birds are chirping — that it was because of me: a poor, raised by a single mother, low class, immigrant nobody.
Thus in the span of a few minutes in a gambling house, Rachel convinces Eleanor that she is the daughter-in-law sought by the Young family elders — someone who will put family, husband, and tradition above self. Soon after, Eleanor approves their marriage and the movie ends in celebration.
It is in this latter half that Crazy Rich Asians reveals its true ideology. It’s the story of a Stanford-pedigree, rags-to-upper-middle-class Asian American woman peddling respectability politics — the kind of politics in which we promise to be upstanding citizens who play the cello, get into Yale, and uphold family values, never disrupting the rhythm of polite society. This liberal assimilationist approach has been tried for decades in the U.S., and what do we have to show for it? Today, Asian Americans are considered respectable, yet not respected; either fetishized or emasculated, but rarely loved; approaching, in some contexts, the status of honorary whites, yet still perpetual foreigners.
Beyond Representation
To do better, we have to move beyond thinking of our goal in terms of mere representation. In every area of social and political life, movements originally intended to improve the lot of marginalized groups are regularly co-opted by the powerful, under the vague banner of “inclusivity.” Representation in the existing order is not subversive; in fact, it lends a certain legitimacy to our own shackles. This is why asking “Are we represented?” or even “How are we represented?” often brings a toothless analysis of a work of art or literature. A more useful notion might be that of struggle: which culture, class, or other social group do we struggle against, and how?
To the extent that Crazy Rich Asians depicts any sort of struggle, it’s one in which the petite bourgeoisie tries to obtain the recognition of the haute bourgeoisie. On top of that, the movie depicts the enemies of Asian Americans as other Asians overseas — not, apparently, the white society we face at home. It’s worth noting that the other blockbuster “diversity” film of the year, Black Panther, suffers from a similar problem. As philosopher Christopher Lebron notes,
In 2018…we are given a movie…where the only redeemed blacks are African nobles. They safeguard virtue and goodness against the threat not of white Americans or Europeans, but a black American man, the most dangerous person in the world.
For a racist, capitalist America, these sorts of films are the furthest thing from threatening. Fortunately, better examples can be found just a bit outside the mainstream: in the recent film Sorry to Bother You, low-wage workers at a call center in Oakland rise up against their bosses and demand better conditions, with an Asian American man leading the charge to unionize and strike. Joined by masses of disgruntled (and largely Black) workers, they successfully revolt against an eerily Amazon-like corporation and the modern police state.
Sorry to Bother You offers an insightful lesson: A truly radical film must correctly identify the oppressors and depict deliberate, organized, mass struggle against them. It also demonstrates how racial struggles can be revolutionary: rather than showing individuals triumph through personal grit, a truly liberating work would introduce the notion of solidarity between marginalized people, leading to mass action.
Crazy Rich Asians does just the opposite, encouraging minorities to learn how to cope with oppression on their own. Ultimately, the film embodies an ideology that ruling elites are all too happy to embrace: a select few people rule the world, while the rest of us have to learn to get along with them; some cultures are truly valued, while the rest of us can only hope to become more like them. As Asian Americans, we ought to reject this assimilationist consensus. Rather than strive for respectability, we should endeavor to be dangerous.
