The fictional character Long Duk Dong (played by actor Gedde Watanabe) is an Asian exchange student caricature—a socially and sexually inept loser—who appears in John Hughes’ 1984 comedy Sixteen Candles. He is most remembered for his creepy one-liners such as: “Ohh, no more yanky my wanky. The Dongle needs food!” For years, Asian men had been fighting this racist on-screen stereotype, and Asian American youth in the ’80s later complained of being called “Donkers” in school as a result of the Long Duk Dong character.
Around the time of his Emmy win Yang began working on a movie called Tigertail. The idea was inspired by a visit to his ancestral home of Taiwan with his father for the first time as a 30-something adult. “It all started flooding in,” Yang tells Newsweek. “I wondered what it was like for my parents growing up there, because they never told me about it and I never asked.”
This script eventually became his directorial debut (streaming on Netflix on Friday), a poignant multi-generational love letter to all Asian immigrants. “It’s heavily fictionalized, but it was inspired by my own relationship with my parents,” the director says. “I cannot express how much it means to me because it’s clearly the most personal thing I have ever done.”
Spanning continents and decades from 1950s Taiwan to present-day New York City, Tigertail follows the story of Pin-Jui, an impoverished young Taiwanese factory worker who makes the tough decision to leave his homeland and the woman he loves in search of better opportunities in America (Actor Hong-Chi Lee plays the younger Pin-Jui, while Tzi Ma portrays the character as a older man).
To Yang, Tigertail is a quintessential Asian American movie. It explores some journeys that our immigrant parents took, but also some journeys that our generation has taken, he says. “You see my dad’s character in Taiwan. You see his transition to living in the Bronx. You see him being a little mean to his daughter after a piano recital. Disappointing your parents after a piano recital is a quintessential Asian American experience.”
The film perceives the world not as a series of conflicts to be overcome, but as a series of learning experiences to be had, understood through the tales of those who raised us. It believes in people, in hardship and the ability to close the distance between immigrants and their first-generation children. “Part of the movie’s message is that it’s a two-way street,” Yang says. “It’s me trying to emphasize with my parents and understanding why sometimes they don’t share what they’ve gone through.”
Tigertail is so empathetic and big-hearted that the constant intertwining of Mandarin, Taiwanese and English becomes second nature. Yang hopes the film will inspire Asian American viewers to unearth their identities—the journey he went through creating it. Like many Asian children growing up in the West, the director attempted to hide that part of himself to assimilate in Riverside, California.
“There weren’t too many Asian kids, you don’t want to be the odd person out. I felt like I was a pretty bad Asian American,” he says. Yang’s journey of cultural self-discovery came in his early 30s: “It’s an ongoing process. I started trying to learn Mandarin because I don’t speak it. That’s the path I’ve been on.”
Self-reflection and tranquility are sprawling themes of the somber film, portrayed in an older Pin-Jui’s stoic regret. It also looks at the story of Asian American fathers that’s largely unexplored in Western depictions, along with the complicated cost of betting on the American dream.
Tigertail undoubtedly is made for a universal audience, but immigrants and their children will have a special connection to it. “I sort of realized the most powerful thing you have as a creator is your point of view,” Yang says, “It’s whatever unique perspective you have on the world and expressing how you see the world through your work. And I realized a huge part of who I was is my heritage.”
Asian American representation in the mainstream media experienced a watershed moment in 2018, when Jon M. Chu’s Crazy Rich Asians became a global phenomenon. The film was the first major Hollywood project with a predominantly Asian American cast in quarter of a century, after 1993’s The Joy Luck Club. Its worldwide box office gross of $239 million enforced the idea that diversity could be both popular and financially viable.
Crazy Rich Asians was released as Yang was writing his film, and as his script incubated, progress accelerated. Bong Joon-Ho’s acclaimed Parasite won best picture at the Academy Awards and Lulu Wang’s The Farewell won a Golden Globe. “It was a different climate three years ago. You’re trying to make a movie that’s largely in Taiwanese with no huge stars in it. It almost seemed like an insane choice to make for your first movie,” Yang says.
Tigertail is a progression of Hollywood’s new willingness to tell stories about the Asian American experience. It was only around five years ago that Yang developed a television pilot about a white father and son because he was afraid Asian faces would never get made. Now he says white guys are sending him scripts with Asian protagonists because they believe it could sell better. “You know how crazy that is? That is so crazy.”
As a self-proclaimed optimist, Yang believes Asian American representation is just in its infancy. “We’re not competing against yesterday’s market price in my opinion. We are talking about the entire history of films and entertainment,” he says. “In that world, certainly Asian Americans still have a long way to go.”
“We’re going to have to work a lot harder to get to where we need to be. It’s going to take people like Justin Lin, Jon Chu and Lily Wong to keep creating. I truly hope it isn’t a fad, it isn’t a thing, that if a couple of Asian American movies don’t do well, they just shut the door.”
He adds: “To me, we just need the persistence to keep going. I hope to be part of that.”
Tigertail premieres Friday April 10 on Netflix.
