How often do you hear the phrase “representation matters”? Chances are, we’ve all heard it at least once. While it’s important to acknowledge such a phrase in order to combat social injustice, it’s brought up so often that we tend to brush it off as something ubiquitous. The truth is, we all know that representation matters—but knowing and feeling the reality of this statement are two different experiences.
Marvel’s first Asian superhero movie, Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, has already brought a significant sense of pride to the Asian-American community through authentic storytelling and cultural representation. Of course, one might argue that a number of movies with Asian leads already exist in the history of film. But what we need to remember is that films starring characters such as Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan have been centred around aspects of otherness, such as broken English and cultural eccentricity. Even the comic version of Shang-Chi involves a sinophobic, problematic depiction of Fu Manchu, Shang-Chi’s father. His character was particularly prevalent as an image of yellow peril to evoke anti-Asian sentiments.
In my own life, seeing negative stereotypes on-screen only enforced the internalized racism I harboured. How could we expect representation to matter when the most frequently seen portrayals of Asians in films were wise old men or nerds? For these reasons, I was hesitant to step into the theatre, but within the first ten minutes of the film, Shang-Chi smashed right through my apprehension.
I immediately felt a sense of attachment to Katy upon seeing her struggle to connect with her cultural identity. Katy and her brother embrace an American lifestyle, a stark contrast to their grandmother and mother. The depiction of this multi-generational immigrant family and their individual struggles is one that many viewers can understand.
For the entirety of the film, Katy has numerous family expectations to meet. Her grandmother wonders when she will get married, and her mother harps on her for her job as a valet. She consistently mentions that she cannot speak Chinese fluently, which many Asian parents push for.
In my case, I was lucky enough to be taught Korean at a young age and maintain connections to my roots (thanks for sending me to Saturday Korean school, mom). Despite this, I knew there was a barrier between myself and others. For many of us, this barrier exists in every possible way—physically and emotionally, in school and at home. The fact that I couldn’t speak English until I was seven—and then faltered with Korean fluency thereafter—didn’t help my case. When my parents ate kimchi stew for dinner, I ate mac and cheese. When I brought Korean food to school, I was told that it looked and smelled weird.
What makes me most upset about these experiences is knowing that they’re not uncommon. Being caught between two cultures makes us feel like there’s no way to win. No matter what, we’re left in the middle as the Other, which brings us to the ultimate question: who are we?
Even Shang-Chi undergoes a loss of identity and is told to “stop hiding,” and Katy refuses to pursue new things for fear of failure. When we are continuously told that our efforts aren’t good enough, that we aren’t good enough, we stop trying to be ourselves.
In many Asian cultures, contributing to our family’s legacy is what makes us our family’s pride. The movie alludes to these social conventions in Asian cultures, such as when Katy spots a young Asian woman studying on the bus and states, “That is exactly the kind of girl my mom wishes came out of her vagina.” While this line was written for comedic purposes, the underlying message is that Katy feels the inevitable pressure to live up to her family’s expectations. I myself wonder if my parents would’ve been happier if I was a STEM major rather than an arts student. Would they have been prouder if I wanted to become a doctor? Were they disappointed when I wasn’t feeling too sure about law school anymore?
Whether or not we stray from the paths onto which our families guide us, the focus on heritage in this movie reminds us that we have thousands of people supporting us. Hearing the characters say, “You are a product of all who came before you. A legacy of the family, the good and the bad,” and “Names […] connect us not only to ourselves but to everyone who came before” truly reminded me of how much appreciation I have for my identity now. This is why true representation matters—it teaches us to love ourselves.
It teaches us to love others, too. I found the main antagonist, Shang-Chi’s father, the most human character of all, blinded by his visions for his family. The grief of losing his wife eventually leads to what one might call his downfall.
At one point, Wenwu tells Shang-Chi, “Throughout my life the Ten Rings gave our family power. If you want them to be yours one day, you have to show me you’re strong enough to carry them.” The ten rings being given to Shang-Chi seconds before Wenwu’s death proves that Wenwu chooses to hand over everything to his son—what many Asian parents consider the best gift they can offer to their children: a legacy. So, is it truly a downfall when he committed the biggest act of service for his son?
Shang-Chi goes a long way in representing interpersonal dynamics and values in Asian cultures. It’s not simply an action movie, but an opportunity to learn to appreciate what makes us us. With all this in mind, there is still a long way to go in terms of diversity and representation. Shang-Chi is simply a first step forward, and I can only hope that one day, the world will view this film not just as the Asian superhero movie, but as a superhero movie.
