Review: A Complicated ‘Yankee Dawg You Die’ at East West Players
- Mayank Keshaviah
- Jul 17
- 4 min read
Lincoln Perry, better known as Stepin Fetchit, is a complex and controversial figure in Hollywood history. While he appeared in 44 films between 1927 and 1939, and became the first Black actor to earn $1 million (about $25 million today), he was also accused by Black leaders of hindering African American advancement because of the racist stereotypes he perpetuated on screen. Yet, in 1976 he was given a NAACP Image Award, and in 1978 was elected to the Black Filmmakers Hall of Fame. So, it’s complicated.
A similar complexity of representation, race, economics and old Hollywood is explored by playwright Philip Kan Gotanda in “Yankee Dawg You Die.” The show premiered in 1988 at Berkeley Rep, with a staging at Los Angeles Theatre Center (LATC) a few months later. The 1980s setting of the show is represented courtesy of Jason H. Thompson’s pre-show video projections of RC Cola and Calvin Klein jeans billboards on Yuri Okahana-Benson’s oblique quadrilateral set design.
As the lights come up on a balcony in the Hollywood Hills, Vincent Chang (Kelvin Han Yee), a veteran thespian in the twilight of his career, sips a drink at an industry party and casually banters with Bradley Yamashita (Daniel J. Kim), an up-and-coming Asian American actor looking to take Tinseltown by storm and change the narrative.
These two men who might otherwise be allies, in a Hollywood that was even more homogeneous and less open to diversity in 1988 than it is today, quickly turn on each other. Vincent defends his career choices, proud that he has never turned down a role and that he even earned an Academy Award nomination (for a role whose lines include the play’s title).
Meanwhile, Bradley accuses his older counterpart of selling out and setting back younger actors like him with his “Charley Chop Suey” movies, going so far as to deem Vincent “a Chinese Stepin Fechit.” It’s old vs. young, assimilation vs. representation, “Oriental” vs. “Asian.”
At one point, Vincent says, “An actor must be free, Bradley.” Free to make his own career choices? Sure. Free to be comfortable in his own skin and represent his culture in an accurate, non-stereotypical way? Also yes. So, it’s complicated. Or as any actor learns early in improv class, “yes, and….”
Though the context and character profiles in this play are set up for clear dramatic conflict, the dialogue often veers into didactic debate, punctuated every so often by memory monologues that reveal each character’s backstory.
Woven into their conversations are numerous references to the careers of Asian and Asian American actors of the past, which, when combined with the beautifully animated projections of those actors, make those stretches of the play feel more like a documentary.
While such “educational” moments don’t fully land dramatically, director Jennifer Chang succeeds admirably in creatively staging a Godzilla fantasia, and in juxtaposing the actors against live video projections of themselves, à la The Wooster Group.
Chang’s desire to revive this work as part of the Asian American theatrical cannon is laudable, as the underlying issues remain sadly relevant. However, after 37 years, the text reads as considerably less edgy and its cultural references feel dated.
They might have felt different in 1988 to Yee, who originated the role of Bradley, and now has the unique opportunity to play his counterpart Vincent. Yee exudes the charm and confidence of an experienced player, while allowing the insecurities beneath his genteel façade to surface in moments of defensiveness. Kim admirably provides a vivacious foil to Yee in the garb of a young man filled with idealism and righteous anger.
The design team assembled by Chang is equally solid, crafting a mise-en-scène imbued with movie magic. In addition to the set and video projections, Ivy Chou’s ‘80s wardrobe feels authentic without being kitschy, and Glenn Michael Baker’s properties allow Chang to bring to life the Godzilla sequence in a way that would make the creators of Robot Chicken proud.
The journeys taken by these two actors at opposite ends of their careers explore the central question — and even yearning — within the piece, which Gotanda succinctly expresses in a repeated line that thematically bookends the show: “Why can’t you see me as I really am?”
History may not repeat itself exactly, but it certainly rhymes.
East West Players’ “Yankee Dawg You Die” continues through July 27 at the David Henry Hwang Theater, 120 Judge John Aiso St., Los Angeles (in Little Tokyo), with performances Mondays and Fridays at 8 p.m., Saturdays at 2 p.m. and 8 p.m., and Sundays at 5 p.m. For tickets and information, call the box office at (213) 625-7000 or visit EastWestPlayers.org. Run time is 90 minutes with no intermission.
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