Near the beginning of “Everything Everywhere All at Once,” Michelle Yeoh’s character makes a slip of the tongue, then insists to her daughter that she knows the difference between “he” and “she” in English.
Sitting at the San Francisco premiere at the Castro Theatre, I gasped in recognition. It’s the sort of accidental mix-up someone Chinese could make; in Mandarin, the third-person pronoun —ta— sounds the same when spoken.
The grammar lesson that Yeoh, who plays the harried Evelyn, mentions in passing subtly portrays the cultural, linguistic and generational gap with her daughter. It’s a moment of nuance, even as the movie rockets through the multiverse in which the pair face off in a battle for humanity.
March also saw the release of “Turning Red,” the poignant Pixar movie about a teenager who transforms into a gigantic red panda if she gets wildly emotional; “After Yang,” about the breakdown of an android companion; and “Pachinko,” the lushApple TV+adaption of Min Jin Lee’s multigenerational best-seller.
And it’s not evenAsian/Pacific American HeritageMonth yet! I’m thrilled by the multitude of stories emerging in 2022, part of a wave of movies in recent years by Asians in the diaspora.
Though set in a speculative universe, so much of “Everything Everywhere All at Once” felt familiar to me too. Actor Ke Huy Quan — who plays the hapless husband, Waymond — also appeared in “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom” and “The Goonies,” two classic 1980s films from my childhood. Later on, withfew opportunitiesfor roles that went beyond Asian stereotypes, he stepped behind the camera before making a comeback in this movie.
At 50, he’s a little bit older than me, and I loved seeing him all grown up. In a zany martial arts sequence, Waymond flings about a leather fanny pack, knocking over security guards. It resembled the one my father used to have, and during the pandemic, Ibecame a fantoo.
Then there was the blunt way that Evelyn talks about her daughter’s weight, which reminded me of a Chinatown source who once greeted me by saying, “Vanessa, you are getting more and more beautiful. You are fatter!”
I politely thanked him and busted out laughing afterward with my husband.
I attended the movie with Asian American friends, the first time since before the pandemic I’d entered a theater, and it felt like a joyous return to normalcy, albeit one with N95 masks. I realized how much I’d missed the pleasure of laughing and cheering along with strangers, after more than two long years when we did without.
When I asked my friends what they related to in the movie, one mentioned Evelyn’s struggles as a member of the “sandwich generation,” caring for her irascible yet frail father and her troubled daughter at the same time. I am juggling life with three generations under one roof too.
另一个朋友指出,伊芙琳最终底片lecting her own well-being, which also rang familiar. Research has shown that it’s a commonissue for women, who bear the brunt of caregiving.
Author and academic Viet Thanh Nguyen has talked about the difference between narrative plentitude and narrative scarcity: Are you used to seeing people who look like you in a variety of roles, from hero to screwup to villain and everything in between? Asian Americans, he argues, have lived in an economy of narrative scarcity, with the same handful of tropes reproduced again and again.
Such stereotypes flatten and dehumanize us, contributing to anti-Asian violence that surged in recent years after former President Donald Trump and his associates blamed China for COVID-19. This xenophobia goes back to when the first Asian immigrants arrived in this country.
And yet, every community, every person is more than the sum total of their oppression. If their victimhood gets overemphasized, they become symbols of another kind.
Evelyn is a hero who fights in dazzling action sequences, but she and her family alsosing karaoke— moments of joy amid their struggles.