Coming out of the long weekend, the news looks unequivocally good, even that ironically oft-used word — historic. Early box office numbers of Shang Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings marked the critically acclaimed arrival of the first Asian-led Marvel superhero (actor Simu Liu as the titular Shang Chi) while also obliterating expectations for a Covid-hindered Labor Day weekend. To the internet’s delight, it has overcome what might be considered a gamble for its Asian-focused story and also for Disney’s decision to make it exclusive to theaters for 45 days before bringing it to streaming, a departure from the protocol with previous hopeful pandemic blockbusters (the release strategy was an “interesting experiment,” as Disney CEO Bob Chapek called it, generating an internal mini-controversy when Liu shot back in response).
Amid all that, I wonder how I’m meant to feel. I have yet to see the film, but alongside a built-in instinct (dare I say, obligation) to feel happy and buoyed by this success, one of many small and big breakthroughs in the world of capital-r Representation over the last few years, I, like many others, have felt increasingly ambivalent about the presumed Ultimate Good here. Every now and then someone will write about or tweet that representational politics are in fact a naive lie, or that it will not save you, or that it’s a diversion from real issues or good art. When I interviewed a collection of auteurs about the state of Asian American cinema earlier this year, I actively avoided using the words "representation" or “diversity.”
