We sat at a real picnic table in the middle of a fake sidewalk on a mocked-up New York City backlot set in Los Angeles. I thought this was the coolest thing in the entire world. The big-time talented CEO looked kind of like the older brother of someone from college—tall, skinny, sunken eyes peeking out from under the brim of his blue Dodgers baseball hat. And dude had a huge personality. For the first fifteen minutes, he talked nonstop about movies, his love of nice furniture, and the greatness of Los Angeles culture.
Then he pivoted to discussing his huge film company, and all the fantastic deals and relationships he had with other huge film companies all over town. “By the way,” he threw in, “none of my interns get college credit. I really don’t like all the paperwork.” With access to the entertainment industry like he was describing, who needed credit? Not realizing that what he was proposing was—how you say—illegal, I agreed to this unpaid, uncredited “internship,” and he hired me on the spot. I would start the following week.
I felt like I had hit the jackpot. I pictured the enormous bustling office I’d be working in and could practically smell the freshly printed pages of all the scripts he bragged about producing.
The job itself wouldn’t involve the most glamorous work, but even getting people coffee, answering phones, and running errands would offer me the chance to learn about the industry I was passionate about joining. And who knows, maybe if I truly crushed it, a promotion could eventually be within reach?
The following week, I swaggered into the office for my first day. It was not what I was expecting. This guy’s colossal “media empire” took up exactly one small, square room, with a tiny single window awkwardly positioned in the corner. Against the far wall, someone had shoved a very uncomfortable-looking couch that I suspected to be very expensive because of how hideous it was. That’s it? I thought. Yo, this is only about twice the size of my dorm room. Even the Panoch has six windows.
The other intern （yes, there were only two of us） filled me in: The CEO who interviewed me was a trust fund kid from Beverly Hills. His dad was a big-time executive at the studio who had gifted his son the production company. Though the office real estate was small, this guy did have a first-look deal with a massive production company that spanned the remainder of the building’s first floor. I was just five minutes into my new internship and was already learning a ton about bravado and nepotism. I was also in awe. People spend entire lifetimes building a career in the hopes of setting up a production company at a major studio. This dude got one as a gift from his rich dad. In my head, I started to call my new boss Captain Moneybags.
* * *
My first assignment for Captain Moneybags was to come up with a list of male and female actors to star in a horror movie remake. He gave me a set of instructions to guide my search: “Find me people who are known and accessible: someone who’s hot—but not, like, DiCaprio hot. We need to be able to afford the person.”
This sounded like a fun challenge. As an aspiring actor, I would get a taste of what life was like on the other side of the table: What exactly does a producer look for when casting a film? Hot, but not “pricey” hot. Interesting. I spent the next two days pulling together a pile of thirty headshots of actors who worked regularly, had a good following, and, per Captain Moneybags’s guidance, weren’t too expensively famous.
I pulled a chair up to Captain Moneybags’s desk and handed him the stack of photos. He thumbed through them, making comments I’d have expected a cartoon version of a movie producer from the 1930s to make. “Nice teeth,” he said, pointing to a headshot with a perfect smile. “This kid’s got nice teeth.” On to the next photo. “This one is a bit round in the face but there’s somethin’ about those eyes. Keep him in the pile, he’ll shed a few pounds for us.” It was jarring to hear a producer talk about prospective hires like a used car salesman assessing a new stock of vehicles. It was also a great eye-opener in the commerce of Hollywood: We sell actors, not cars, but in both, you’re on the hunt for the right body, age, make, and model.
Captain Moneybags flipped to the last headshot. It was the actor Joseph Gordon-Levitt. At the time, Joseph was on the popular sitcom 3rd Rock from the Sun. He was obviously very talented, and I put him in the pile because he probably didn’t earn a superstar’s paycheck yet. Hot, but not expensive hot. In other words, perfect.
Captain Moneybags looked at Joseph’s headshot, and in his 1930s cartoon producer voice said, “What the fuck is this kid… fucking Asian?” Joseph was talented, respected, and in our price range. Was he Asian?
“I… don’t know. Does it matter?”
Captain Moneybags quickly snapped back. “Of course it fucking matters! He looks Asian,” he said. “I don’t want any Asians in my movie, Kal. Bring me good. White. American. Kids!”
I took the pile of headshots back to my desk. CM’s assistant didn’t react at all, which told me this was all perfectly normal. I was completely baffled and phenomenally curious. Did it cross Captain Moneybags’s mind that the person sitting across from him was not a “good white American kid”？ I neither knew nor cared if Joseph Gordon-Levitt was Asian. Why did Captain Moneybags? Moreover, why was he so angry about it? I wanted to understand what went on in the minds of powerful producers. Specifically, in that moment, I wanted to understand: Were they confused, racist, or both confused and racist?
I let Captain Moneybags cool down for the rest of the afternoon. Before he left for the evening, I asked why it mattered if Joseph Gordon-Levitt was Asian. He answered simply, “Asians don’t watch movies.”
I didn’t even know how to dissect that thought. First, confusion: I’m Asian American. I watch plenty of movies. Second, solidarity: I know lots of other Asian Americans. They also watch plenty of movies. Third, logic: You know why we Asian Americans watch movies? For the same reasons non–Asian Americans do—because movies are awesome.
I followed him down the hall, pushing once more, asking what he meant. As we approached the sleek glass door to the outside, Captain Moneybags shrugged. “Look at the data, Kal. Asians don’t watch movies.”
There was data on this shit? Now we were getting somewhere. I took advantage of my access to studio files by staying at the office long into the night, thumbing through a thick manual with raw data on the business of filmmaking. Around 2:00 a.m., I came across a chart that broke down moviegoing audiences by race and ethnicity. Next to “Asian Americans,” there was just an asterisk.
I flipped to the appendix to see what it meant. As I read, a smirk crept across my face. The asterisk didn’t mean that Asian Americans don’t watch movies. The asterisk meant that Asian Americans weren’t asked if they went to the movies in the first place. That’s like senior year of high school, when Most Likely to Get Caught in an Auto-Asphyxiating Accident Philip Goldstein lamented to everybody, “Most girls don’t actually want to go to prom,” even though he never bothered to ask any girls to go with him. Captain Moneybags didn’t actually have data to back up his claim.
I sensed a massive opportunity here. My excited mind wandered. Once Captain Moneybags learned about the glitch in the data, he’d be able to make better creative decisions. He’d probably go ahead and cast Joseph Gordon-Levitt in his movie, which would open at number one at the box office. It would make hundreds of millions of dollars and his company would expand. What phenomenal success! Naturally, I would be promoted to junior creative executive, reaping the benefits of a six-figure salary, beefed-up résumé, and more creative input. Maybe I could even get a Panoch of my own. All because I did this research for him and made these helpful recommendations.