By Corina Knoll       Photographs by Eric Sueyoshi

TOP TO BOTTOM: C.S. Lee shows his dramatic side. • Lee as Vincent Masuka and Michael C. Hall as Dexter. • The cast of Showtime’s “Dexter.”

“I thought he was Chinese,” he says, his voice incredulous. “His character’s Chinese! I swore to God he was Chinese.”

Actor C.S. Lee is having difficulty digesting the fact that Rex Lee of HBO’s “Entourage” is a fellow Korean American.

Ahh, but it’s all a bit ironic, since the former Lee is himself often mistaken for Chinese, the ethnicity of his character Harry Tang on NBC’s “Chuck.” And the 35-year-old spends the other half of his working days playing Japanese American Vincent Masuka on Showtime’s “Dexter.”

But really, ethnic background aside, what Lee really wants to be playing right now is the back nine. Which is why he’s here at Majestic Golf Land on the corner of Melrose and Vermont in Los Angeles. A driving range on the edge of Koreatown, it’s the closest thing to a fairway he can get if he needs a quick golf rush. Not far from his home in Silver Lake, this place has become one of his favorite haunts, thanks to the automated machine where a new ball magically rises on a tee after every swing.

“Golf is a meditation for me,” Lee says as he situates his blue suede Pumas on the artificial turf, then nestles a Calloway driver next to the ball. “It’s a good way to get focused.”

The swing that comes next is far from smooth, and his ball goes hurtling to the right. It’s not pretty.

Lee doesn’t flinch. He’s only been playing for a year. He has never taken lessons, just watches the Golf Channel. He plays two or three times a week and doesn’t use a cart, preferring to walk the course and think about his next shot.

As a kid in Vancouver, Wash., Charlie Soong Lee preferred a sport at the other end of the spectrum: football. He played running back all through junior high and as a freshman for Hudson’s Bay High School.

“Then my sophomore year came around, and I was like, ‘Hey Ted, you grew! Wow!’ ‘Oh hey Bill, you grew too!’”

Relegated to playing quarterback for the JV team, Lee started looking into other activities. All signs pointed to the stage, especially since he had become an art house film buff. It also didn’t hurt that his school had a decent theater program, and that even jocks were known to juggle acting with practice.

His first play was Larry Shue’s “The Foreigner,” and he played a Ku Klux Klan member with no lines.

“At the end, we’d come out for the curtain call, I take off my hood and people would say, ‘Heeeey,’” he says, laughing.

Lee ended up getting a full scholarship to study theater at Cornish College of the Arts in Seattle. His father, a mechanic, and mother, a seamstress, were relieved they wouldn’t need to help with tuition, but were anxious about his career path. Then Lee announced he’d be heading to Yale to pursue an M.F.A.

“They know Yale,” he says. “That gave them a little more comfort.”

Afterward, he headed to New York to join the theater scene. Odd jobs like temping and catering helped him pay rent, but after a few years, he managed to scrape by on commercial and TV gigs in addition to getting work in regional theaters.

“He has great dramaturgical instincts.,” says playwright Sung Rno who worked with Lee on several occasions. “He’s really concerned about the overall story, rather than just how it’s affecting him.”

At the same time, Rno says Lee is “someone you’d want to hang out with in a bar.”

While Lee enjoyed his time in New York, the romance of the struggling actor’s life began to wear thin a couple years ago when he started thinking about a stable future and a family.

That’s when he landed “Dexter.”

Based on the novels by Jeff Lindsay, the critically acclaimed one-hour drama follows the life of a serial killer who works for the Miami Police Department. Lee snagged the role of Vincent Masuka, a forensic expert who gets giddy at the sight of a corpse and loves deadpanning sexual innuendo.

“I’m used to playing oddball characters ‘cause I’m sort of goofy-looking, and I guess I attract those roles,” Lee says. “I don’t mind it. For me, it was a blast to play a character who was excited to see a dead body.”

At first only given a few lines, Vincent was made a series regular and appears more often in the second season, which began Sept. 30.

That’s become a pattern with Lee whose role on “Chuck” — a sitcom about a store computer geek turned secret agent — is said to be expanding as well. Apparently, his take on annoying co-worker Harry Tang who’s all about bureaucracy is hitting home runs with producers.

Lee may be attracting attention now that he’s on the small screen, but his former professor Hal Ryder says Lee was someone to notice long ago.

“When people are good actors, but not on TV, the media doesn’t care. It’s slightly amusing because he’s been working in really major professional theater for a very long time,” says Ryder who remembers Lee as a serious student with a sense of humor.

“He floored us all with his professionalism, and he always had a great instrument as an actor. … I’m glad for his fame and whatever fortune comes with that, but really the thing that makes me the proudest is what a solid human being he is. His generosity with his classmates, his sharp eye and understanding of what others were going through, and his consideration for everyone he worked with.”

The professor’s words ring true today as Lee thoughtfully processes a journalist’s question, then makes sure to ham it up for the photographer by placing a golf ball in inappropriate places — all of it done with a sense of ease and no shortage of laughter.

After a smoke break with a pack of American Spirit, he’s back to the tee. He admits to being fanatical about golf, having already played a round at 6 a.m. today in Griffith Park.

Settling into his stance again, Lee says, “Golf is a lot like acting. You’ve got to stay focused, be in the moment, and you have to be disciplined.”

Then he cracks a shot that sends the ball soaring straight toward the 250-yard marker. “There’s one!” he says. “That’s what makes you come back — when you hit those.”

Lee’s clearly learned what works for him: Just keep swinging.

By Michello Woo
Photo by Eric Sueyoshi

Thirty minutes before show time, an emergency arises. One of the models doesn’t have the right size shoes. Two badge-wearing girls huddle over a clipboard and then frantically plow through boxes in search of a solution.

“Where are the shoes? We can’t find the shoes!” one cries.

“Are they black and white?” the other asks.

Watching quietly, Joy Han turns behind her, opens a shoebox sitting on a table and lifts out a pair of chunky white platforms.

“Try these,” she says, holding them by the heel straps. The model tries them on, looks satisfied and scurries into the rehearsal lineup.

Done.

It’s a high-heeled circus backstage at Smashbox Studios in Culver City, Calif., where Los Angeles’ Fashion Week is taking place. Han, creator of the ultra-hip label Voom by Joy Han, is about to unveil her 2008 Spring/Summer collection. Swarming inside the white tent are producers, stylists, makeup artists, assistants and PR people, all with very important missions.

“First looks, please!” yells a man wearing a tight black shirt and a headset, dodging a jam of reporters and TV cameras.

“Hair person! I need a hair person!” someone blurts from the dressing area.

The designer, dressed whimsically in a yellow polka-dot top, skinny jeans and a floppy black hat, stands poised and undeterred. She calmly surveys the room as her models get powdered, hair-sprayed and pinned.

“This is already my fourth time doing this,” explains Han, who happens to be celebrating her 37th birthday today. “I know what I’m doing.”

Over the past decade, Han has gone from a soft-spoken aspiring designer from Seoul to one of the hottest names in the L.A. fashion scene. She’s known for creating vintage-inspired ensembles with splashes of bold colors. Think ‘50s pinup girls meet Roy Lichtenstein’s pop art. Today’s show has a school-girl-gone-insane feel. Wedged in the models’ high-coifed hair buns are giant Lego blocks, alarm clocks and 3D glasses.

The quiet star of the backstage frenzy, Han is a portrait of confidence. She dishes about an incident that happened earlier in the day. Through some mix-up, a model who was never booked happened to show up. She got her hair and makeup done with the other girls, but show organizers soon discovered she wasn’t on the list.

“We had to let her go,” Han says candidly. “It was pretty crazy, but that’s the business.”

Minutes before show time, the models get ready to step out onto the runway. Han does some final fiddling with their outfits, straightening collars, tucking in tank tops and tugging at belts.

“Thirty seconds!” a producer yells. Suddenly, hip-hop beats blare.

It’s on.

The First Stitch

Born and raised in the bustling city of Seoul, Jonghee Han spent many of her childhood days in her mother’s bridal gown boutique, located just below her family’s loft. She’d watch carefully as the patternmakers and seamstresses transformed rolls of fabric into stunning creations.

One afternoon, when she was 7, Han took some fabric, a pair of scissors and a needle and thread, and created a miniature version of one of the gowns for her doll. Her mother was shocked. It was a near-perfect replica.

“She was like, ‘Wow, what did you do?’” recalls Han, sitting in her vintage boudoir-inspired showroom on the 12th floor of the California Market Center, overlooking the crowded streets of downtown L.A.

She developed a discerning eye for beauty early on as her mother, who was also a judge for the annual Miss Korea pageant, would invite the swimsuit-clad contestants over to the boutique to practice their runway walk. “I’d tell my mom, ‘Oh, she’s not pretty. She’s not a good one,’” she says. “I could pick out who was going to win.”

During her teen years, Han entertained the idea of becoming a singer or dancer (“I always wanted to do something exciting.”), but eventually set her sights on a career in fashion design. At the age of 24, her mother sent her to Utah to attend an English language school. There, she befriended a fellow Korean student named James Kim. They later fell in love and married.

After finishing school, Han packed her bags and moved to California, where she enrolled in the fashion program at L.A.’s American InterContinental University School of Design. Back then it was almost trendy for Korean and Korean American girls to go to fashion school, so she did what she could to distinguish herself from the pack.

“I didn’t want to go to school with a lot of Koreans and get all spoiled and go to clubs every night,” she explains. “I had enough of that in Korea. To be successful, you have to be very motivated.”

With limited English skills, Han threw herself into her studies, staying after class every night to perfect her pieces. Teachers were amazed by her dedication and sharp pattern-making abilities. When her mother was struggling financially, she ended up winning a full scholarship. Everything seemed to fall into place.

At the end of her four-year program, she wanted to throw all she had learned into the school’s much-anticipated graduation fashion show, titled “Va Va Voom.” Han’s collection was bright, sexy and fun, epitomizing her signature style. The audience loved it. That night, she was awarded the grand prize: Best in Show.

In the days after the show, Han was gushing with pride until she picked up a copy of the school magazine. Smiling on the cover was the show’s first-place winner, a white student. Han’s picture was buried somewhere inside the black-and-white pages.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” says Han, who believed race played a part in the editorial decision. “I was young and really afraid. I wanted to go back to Korea. I was like, I know I’m good, but if other people don’t think I was good, what’s the point?”

Though for Han, one thing did come out of the win: A teacher came up to her and suggested that if she ever launches her own line, Va Va Voom might be the perfect name for it. That has a nice ring, Han thought.

Sewing A Brand

After graduating in 1998, Han worked for a private label company that designed styles for mass-market retailers such as Rampage, Bebe and Arden B. A couple years later, she and Kim decided to open their own shop on Melrose. Called James & Joy, the hip boutique carried a mix of trendy clothes and accessories and one-of-a-kind vintage pieces.

Branching off of the store’s success, the husband-and-wife team opened a second Melrose boutique, Voom. Working in a studio above the shop, Han began introducing her designs to the public, stocking a small number of pieces under her own label. Customers devoured the bright art-deco prints, swingy baby-doll silhouettes and fun details.

Han describes Voom by Joy Han, which began mass production in 2005, as having a “twisted vintage” feel: “I always try to think of what’s going to make clothes look fresh and modern, rather than making stuff your grandma would wear,” she explains. Not one to follow trends, Han says she aims to create “new classics,” so that women can wear them any time, any season.

One day, Han walked into the ultra-hip shop Fred Segal in Santa Monica wearing a pair of wide denim gaucho pants she designed. One of the store’s buyers asked her where she bought them. When Han told her about her label, the buyer asked, “Why don’t you sell here?”

Suddenly, Voom by Joy Han emerged as one of Hollywood’s “It” labels, attracting a celebrity clientele. When Paris Hilton was spotted wearing the popular ‘bird dress’ (a chic vintage-like mini-dress embroidered with two little songbirds), Han sold more than 3,000 pieces of the same design. Since then, Han has dressed the likes of Eve, Avril Lavigne and Jennifer Love Hewitt. Eva Longoria reportedly owns a Voom by Joy Han silk headband in every color.

“Before, I never knew how important it was to have celebrities wear my stuff,” says Han, whose dresses retail for about $150 to $300 each. “I didn’t even take pictures when they came in. Maybe I wasn’t a very good business person. Now, the PR company will call me and say, ‘Jessica Alba is going to the store. What do you want us to show her?’ That’s what’s going to make us money. It’s all about marketing.”

Displayed along the shelves of her showroom is a roundup of magazine pages featuring the label. In Life & Style, Heidi Montag of “The Hills” shows off a Voom by Joy Han retro-print empire-waist dress. In In Touch Weekly, Vanessa Minnillo is decked in a Voom by Joy Han floral number.

Leading a tour of the label’s headquarters, Han walks past racks of the latest samples, some accessory displays (she’s working on adding jewelry pieces to the line) and a collection of denim swatches.

In a room filled with mannequins, patternmakers work on the latest designs. The staff includes Han’s older sister Jinhwa, who once worked at their mother’s bridal boutique.

“Joy is very easy to work with,” she says. “She explains things very well.”

Kim, who says his job is to “follow and support” Han, enjoys working side-by-side with his wife. “She is very hardworking and has a good energy,” he says.

Han’s laundry list of responsibilities include holding fittings, casting models for the runway shows, overseeing the production of the pieces, traveling across the country to attend various trade shows, and, of course, designing. Each season, she creates more than 40 different styles. The label is now carried in more than 600 specialty boutiques across the globe, including Korea, Japan, Indonesia, Singapore, France, Bermuda and Greece.

Han recently launched a mass-market label called Va Va, which is expected to hit the junior section of department stores such as Macy’s. One of her long-term goals is to create high-couture pieces and show them on the New York runways.

“Maybe one day, when I don’t have to think about money, I’ll make something really crazy,” she says with a smile.

Walk Of Success

Back at Smashbox Studios, Han’s models step onto the runway wearing fire-engine-red boleros, stripe mini dresses, high-waisted yellow shorts, black vinyl jackets and ultra-shiny satin slips. The audience is packed with socialites, industry folks, a handful of celebrities and notebook-toting fashion writers, who will sum up the show with lines like “Voom made audience members think ‘va-va voom’ as soon as the bold outfits took the stage” (Hollywood Today).

Sitting near the front is Han’s mother, Junok Choi, who smiles while holding a video camera. “Joy has always been talented,” she says proudly.

After showcasing more than 50 looks, the models make way for the cheery designer, who’s ready to take her walk of glory. Strolling down the runway, she claps and waves as the crowd roars.

Following her is a model carrying a birthday cake. Cued by the deejay, the 50 Cent hit blares: “Go shorty. It’s your birthday. We gonna party like it’s your birthday.” Han turns to the model and laughs.

Later on, Han will say that the show was a success and that her phones are ringing off the hook with sales inquiries. She’ll mention that there’s no time for a break — L.A. Market Week is up next.

But for now, Han simply embraces her moment in the spotlight. Today, in the always-surprising circus that is the L.A. fashion scene, she is the star.

Effortless Elegance

For designer Jenny Han, it’s all about the details. “I notice every last stitch, seam and button,” says the 35-year-old up-and-comer, whose signature label made its runway debut last month at Fashion Week in Los Angeles. “I’ve been known to buy something just because of a button. Things like that are what make a garment special.”

Launched in 2004, her brand is for women who want to embrace their femininity. Think silk babydoll dresses, satin jewel-collared blouses and tops adorned with crepe rosettes. What you wear, she believes, can have the power to make you feel gorgeous. “Growing up, clothes ruled my life,” says Han, an Orange County native who has frequented boutiques and flea markets across the globe. “They encouraged me to use my imagination and have an opinion and a point of view. They gave me confidence.”

Favorite designers: Prada, Chloe, Lanvin, Rochas and Balenciaga.

Sketch artist: “I love seeing something start from a scribble or a sloppy sketch, to seeing it get sewn in the assembly line in the factory, to hanging in the front window of a store.”

Not part of the crowd: “I don’t like trends. There is nothing interesting or sophisticated about being obvious.”

The Modern-Day Atelier

In the mass production of garments, the artistic intricacies of style can get lost. That’s when Jussara Lee steps in. Having launched her own ready-to-wear label in 1991, the Brazil-born designer segued into made-to-order, hand-tailored clothing. Her New York flagship store is stocked with rolls of fabrics, trim and button selections so that clients can handpick little details to create a garment that’s totally unique. Clients often come in for two fittings before the piece is ready to take home.

“My goal is to strengthen the craft of hand-tailoring and, through that, add some substance to people’s wardrobes,” says Lee, 40. Her jackets, trousers, cardigans and vests exude a charming old-world style. Each garment is given a personal touch. On the labels, the name of the person who sewed the item is included.

Her inspiration: “A smile can be very inspiring. I usually admire the work of painters, sculptors, writers and musicians, rather than designers.”

On the next big trend in fashion: “I am the last one to care about trends.”

Clothing With a Conscious

A brand for the true “urban nomad” — one who moves through life on subways, bicycles and foot — Undesigned by Carol Young sticks to the philosophy that clothes are meant to be lived in. The 35-year-old Angeleno creates handcrafted apparel using eco-friendly fabrics such as soy, bamboo, hemp and polar fleece made from soda bottles.

The label evolved from her master’s thesis project at Cornell University, where she researched sustainable clothing design. She was particularly roused by the possibilities for “undesigned” recycled fabrics in everyday wear: “I realized there’s a glut of used clothing that is sent overseas, but ends up devastating local textile and apparel economies in Third World countries,” she says.

In addition to her eco-friendly ideologies (She donates all fabric scraps to local children’s arts programs and various nonprofits and schools), women delight in Young’s seasonless pieces, which come in clean, modern and flattering silhouettes. “I enjoy the process of making clothes and testing them out,” she says. “It’s like being a live experiment.”

Her favorites: “During my pregnancy, I lived in my Bamboo and Soy C-Sleeve Reversible Bubble Tunics, which are super comfy, yet stylish.”

Her inspiration: “Life,” she says. Besides designing, some of Young’s hobbies include yoga, hiking in Los Angeles’ Elysian and Griffith Parks, visiting museums and spending time with her husband, Peter, and new baby, Hugo.

It Started with a T-Shirt

Julie Park and Vanessa Vogel set out to create the closet staple that every woman could embrace — the perfect T-shirt.

Mission accomplished. Using a special fabric imported from Italy, the L.A. duo manufactured a collection that was soft and luxurious, delicate, yet durable. In 2004, ParkVogel was born.

Today, the company has expanded to include a cashmere line, cozy intimates and a collection of jersey knit separates made of eco-friendly Swiss cotton. Its mission is to produce affordable pieces without compromising quality.

Park, a graphic artist turned fashion designer, says the brand is for people like herself, those who have an eye for style, but don’t need to chase every latest trend. “I’m not a teenager anymore,” says Park, 39. “I’m not a huge bag and huge sunglasses type of woman. Our pieces are simple and wearable and timeless.”

Favorite designers: “I’ve always been a big fan of Jill Saunders. And I love [Martin] Margiela’s odd style.”

Positive feedback: “People will write to us things like, ‘Why is ParkVogel so addictive?’ Comments like that make my heart jump a little.”

By Corina Knoll and Brian Shin
Photographs by Eric Sueyoshi

Five years have passed since Justin Lin’s “Better Luck Tomorrow” made noise in the industry. Snatched up by MTV Films at Sundance, the 2002 flick about the double lives of honors students caught the eye of the likes of Roger Ebert — and created national dialogue due to its all-Asian American cast. Lin, who had maxed out credit cards for the venture, went on to direct the major studio films “Annapolis,” and “The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift.”

The Taiwanese American’s latest feature, however, is a return to his small-budget roots as well as his “Better Luck Tomorrow” family. Co-written with Josh Diamond, “Finishing the Game” follows the audition process of the search for Bruce Lee’s replacement so that 12 minutes of footage featuring the icon can be made into a movie. Screened at Sundance this year, it was released in theaters last month.

KoreAm caught up with Lin and actors Sung Kang and Roger Fan at media arts center Visual Communications (where much of the filming took place) in Los Angeles to get the scoop on what it was like to reunite with the cast and crew of their landmark film, the role of Asian Americans in Hollywood today, their martial arts skills (or lack of) and the intense professionalism of porn star Ron Jeremy.

KoreAm: You three have worked together since “Better Luck Tomorrow,” but this film was very much a return to your indie roots. What was this particular experience like?

Justin: I’ve had the pleasure of working with Roger and Sung in studio films, and we would have moments where we’re in Philly or Tokyo walking around and we’re like, “I can’t believe three years ago you were sleeping on my parents floor where we’re shooting and now we’re per diem.” It’s really a great journey when you can share with people you’re growing up with.

Coming out of film school and trying to prove yourself as a filmmaker, it got to a point where it had to be a credit card journey. And kind of by necessity, we met each other. Not having money was really tough but the great thing is people only come on for one reason, which is the project. Because at the end of the day, Asian American cinema is still kind of Third World. We still can’t make our movies on a level playing field with other independent films. We’re not even “low budget.” So to get everyone back together, it had to be something that everyone believed in. And now that we’re five years older, to be able to find that space and that time to spend together, it’s more of a privilege.

Roger: Just being able to work with Justin and Sung again, it really frames it very clearly that in order for Asian Americans to have a real legitimate cinema, there’s no other way than to do it ourselves. With Justin and Sung, I’m an integral part of something I feel is really meaningful. When I go back to Hollywood, I feel like a tool. A very specific tool in a very Oriental way.

Sung and I have been acting professionally for like 13 years. You start off and you have these ambitions to be like a Matt Damon or a Ben Affleck. And in your gut that’s how you feel — you feel like you have the ability to be even Tom Cruise, in terms of that desire. But you get your feet wet and see how the business works: Hollywood has a very specific vision for an Asian American guy. And if you continue down that path, you can have a career, especially if you look like what Hollywood wants an Asian American guy to look like. But is that really fulfilling? “Finishing The Game” talks about certain levels of denial — you find yourself sort of denying certain aspects of yourself to legitimize your existence.

KoreAm: Can you talk about your own auditioning experiences?

Sung: I’ve had situations like, “Show us your stuff,” and you say, “What are you talking about?” And they just assume that you know martial arts. But it’s a decision you have to make. Do you feed yourself or not? I think some people give actors beef if they take a stereotypical role, but if you need to provide for your kids and this is your source of income, what do you do? Either way, I don’t think it’s right or wrong.

Justin: Unfortunately, those are the opportunities when you’re talking the context of mainstream. The idea of colorblind casting doesn’t really exist. You have to go in there and really push for it and ask, “Why don’t we cast this African American, Latino or Asian American?” And they always say this, which bugs the sh-t out of me: “Think about that white kid in middle America Kansas. Is he gonna be able to relate with the Asian face?” And you’re like, “Dude, I’m Asian American, and I can relate to the white face!”

I realize it’s a multibillion-dollar business and it’s not their place to take chances or do charity work. They just want to keep making money. So organically, they just end up doing what they think works.

From “Better Luck Tomorrow,” I was able to get into a lot of rooms with people who greenlight projects. I would pitch them the general idea for “Finishing the Game” and every one of them loved it. At one point, I got an offer for like $12 million. I was so excited, finally we get to make an Asian American film and we got a big budget! But you keep talking and you realize, oh sh-t they keep referring to “Kung Fu Hustle,” “Shaolin Soccer” — they want to make it into a kung fu movie.

It’s up to us to broaden that. That’s what’s so great about independent cinema, not just in an Asian American context, but the fact that you can try things that the mainstream is not willing to do.

I know today that I am a better filmmaker than I was five years ago. I have more perspective, more choices. And anytime I have more choices, I feel like I’m growing. So I’m excited for the future.

KoreAm: Roger and Sung, do you feel like you have more choices now? It’s a little bit different when you’re on the other side of the camera.

Roger: As much as I’d like to say yes, I think the reality is probably more no. As an actor you only really become an asset when you become a star, in terms of a brand. Meaning if you say the words “Roger Fan,” it kind of embodies a feeling. And until you can get to that level in Hollywood, you’re kind of a liability.

I have a body of work that I’m humbly proud of because of the people I’ve gotten to work with. But at the end of the day those are not necessarily the rules that Hollywood plays by. Your value really comes down to brand. Like if I had 5 million friends on Myspace and that really can convert to tangible dollars, they don’t really care what the color of my skin is.

There’s a lot of great things going on but in terms of the eyes of Hollywood there isn’t a lot of difference in terms of perceived value between me and the guy who just started last week.

But I can’t expect anyone to give me anything. At the end of the day you just have to keep going on your own.

Sung: After “Fast and the Furious,” I definitely made some relationships within Universal. So there are people that are rooting for me, and that’s pretty amazing. I’ve met casting directors that I would’ve never met. So I think from five years ago there is a progression, but in terms of jobs being offered left and right, I think it’s still early. But I’m optimistic because I think our careers have just begun. Thirteen years into it and for some odd reason I feel like this is my first year in the game. And life is long. Every five years that goes by I feel like I know less and less, and I’m very optimistic about five to 10 years from now. Because I was talking to Roger the other day and I don’t think I’ve even played a man-man yet. I’ve played an adolescent man and a guy who is just about to be a man, but I have yet to play a father or a young father.

Roger: Grandfather!

Sung: [Laughs] I’m very optimistic about where my career is gonna be 10, 20 years from now. And the thing that keeps me optimistic is that I have this family. [Gestures to Roger and Justin] I think if I were alone in this game I would feel like how am I gonna survive? But —

Roger: — I just realized how negative I was in my response. You know everything Sung says about the future, I concur. If we talk about the present and the past, that’s the reality. But the future? I concur.

Justin: To hear them both, there’s a reality to it. I’ll tell you this, when Sung, did “Fast and the Furious,” at our two test screenings, he tested unanimously as everyone’s favorite character. That’s rare, and “Han” is still one of the highest-rated characters in Universal history. Think back to someone like Brad Pitt in “Thelma and Louise.” His career just went “poof” from that little role. But here, Asian Americans don’t have the same opportunity.

The studios all know Asian Americans, we spend tons of money. Per capita we earn the most, and spend the most. But our spending patterns are exactly the same as Caucasians, so they don’t have to cater to us.

Roger: While the African American, Latino and Caucasian audiences demand to be served, Asian Americans don’t ask for it. They shop at Abercrombie and Fitch after it gets hit with a race discrimination lawsuit. They are there the day after it happens; they’re still there now! [Laughter]

KoreAm: Let’s talk about the film a little bit. In one scene, Sung and Roger are told to brawl as part of the audition, but end up only awkwardly circling each other. What would happen if you two were to square off in real life?

Sung: Same thing. [Laughter]

Roger: I would be afraid to ruin Sung’s hair.

Sung: I know for a fact that neither of us knows any martial arts. We’d just be holding each other rolling around on the ground. Or I would just be holding him.

Roger: It would be the worst fight in the history of humanity.

Sung: That’s such a Van-Damme/Steven Seagal question. [Laughter]

Roger: We’d pull each other’s hair, slap each other’s face.

KoreAm: Famed porn star Ron Jeremy has a cameo in the film. How did he come onboard?

Justin: It felt good to be in a place in my career where if I wanted Ron Jeremy [Pounds desk and laughs], I could get Ron Jeremy. Certain roles, when we wanted somebody we would just call and they would say, “Yeah, we wanna do it!” People are actually returning my calls now. The idea of Ron Jeremy fit creatively — he’s a big part of the ‘70s. He’s a really great guy to work with by the way. Very professional.

KoreAm: Justin, you actually have the rights to Korean filmmaker Park Chan-wook’s “Oldboy.” Can you give us an update on the development of the film?

Justin: I’m probably not gonna make it. Universal had gotten it for me, and I loved the original. But I also knew enough that I wasn’t gonna proceed unless I had the right environment. Because it’s hard — it’s a dark movie dealing with serious issues. I’ve been actually sort of protective of it the last couple years. I have been fighting and trying to get the right people and the right space, but I haven’t been able to put it together.

KoreAm: Last question: Any stories about the vibe on set?

Roger: We did this in 19 days. It was really great just to be able to get together. Stylistically this movie is very different so everybody on set — even the cameraman, who is like a character — we had to all be in sync. And people were goofing off and stuff but knowing where we had to go that was very refreshing.

Sung: It was inspiring. Right here [Points to the lobby] there was a scene with the extras. That took about three days, and I was sitting there and these two college kids with long hair are standing next to me. At the end of the first day, they’re saying “Hey, great to meet you. We’re big fans of ‘Better Luck Tomorrow’ and it’s great to be here.” They actually came from Arizona. They took a bus all the way to L.A. because they read online we were looking for extras.

The next day I see them and ask, “Did you guys have a good time? Where are you staying?” And they say, “Oh, we slept on the bench on Hollywood Boulevard. We don’t really have a place to stay. We just wanted to be a part of this movie.” I’m like, “Why didn’t you say anything? You could have slept here!” They say, “That’s what being young is all about, and we’re never gonna forget this experience — that we got to share this with you.”

Just being able to be an extra meant so much to them. And I wonder if, 10 years from now, we’ll bump into each other. Maybe they’ll be out of film school as directors or whatnot. Those little things mean so much. And, you know, that’s the spirit of “Finishing the Game.”

 By Tonya Maxwell           

The season of my mother’s cancer was filled with fearful things. Infections that nearly turned septic. Chemotherapy needles. A fog that settled over her mind, wrought by pain and drugs. Every week a new challenge more brutal than the last.

For me, a new worry came with a handful of words she spoke one afternoon. She gestured to her swollen feet and said a few sentences in Korean, her native language, one I cannot understand. Suddenly everything felt unstable: not only months of being a caretaker, but even the decades we spent being the most important person in the other’s life. Lying in her own bed, she slipped to another time and another country, and I could not follow. I felt like a fraud of a daughter.

Please don’t fall further from me, I thought.

She never wanted me to learn Korean. I grew up in a small Indiana town and she was determined I not be marked by anything that made me different. She didn’t want me ever to know her struggles as an immigrant.  

Her Hangeul brought to mind some of the bruising arguments we had when I was young, the kind I imagine plague many foreign-born parents and their American-born kids.

“You don’t know me at all,” she would calmly say.

“Yeah, well, you don’t know me either!” I would yell.

But I like to think that somewhere during our long goodbye, my mother, Chong Hui Maxwell, and I each learned a few things about the other. I only wish I had been wise and patient enough to tell her how much I appreciated her sacrifices and loyalty long before her second bout with endometrial cancer, a malignancy of the lining of the uterus. 

The American Cancer Society estimates 500,000 women nationwide have survived endometrial cancer and predicts it will take the lives of about 7,400 women this year. My mother, at the age of 58, is now among that smaller number. She died on Aug. 24 in our home just outside of Chicago.

In large part, it was the cancer that brought us together as roommates nearly five years ago. Back then, she was still in my childhood home in Indiana, and I lived 10 hours away in the mountains of North Carolina, where I was a newspaper reporter.

She called me at work in 2002 to tell me she had gone to the doctor, her voice oddly subdued, hesitant.

“Tonya, I’m sick. I have cancer. I’m so sorry, Tonya,” she said, apologizing as if the disease were her fault, something she did to me intentionally. This was my mother’s way. Never did she want to burden me, even as she faced a monster. 

Immediately, I took leave to return home, spending two months with her as she underwent, and then recovered from a radical hysterectomy. The surgery was unforgiving, wreaking havoc on her hormones and sending her into a bleak depression that was reminiscent of the months following another tragedy from long ago, the death of my father, Dan Maxwell.

He’s been gone more than a quarter century, but even recently, when strangers inquired about my father’s death, Mom would revise history with a little lie. “He had a brain tumor,” she would say curtly, cutting short their curiosity.

For her, the truth was too complicated and heartbreaking and left a wound that never quite healed. 

When my father courted my mother, he was a promising young Army specialist stationed in Korea, personifying all of America’s best dreams. Blessed with Indiana boy good looks and a good career, he also had the gentlest heart my mother ever found in a man. But a decade into their marriage, he plummeted into a mental illness that left him hearing imaginary voices and music. In the winter of 1981, he quieted the piano in his mind by reaching for a handgun stored alongside his hunting gear.

That gunshot haunted my young nightmares, but I was 5 years old and gloriously ignorant of its ramifications. It was my mother who, with little emotional or financial support, faced an empty American dream and an anguished choice: Leave that cold town for Korea to find family comfort along with a place in this world, or stay in Indiana with her young daughter, to make sure that one day, she would find her place in this world.

My mother made her decision, a quiet sacrifice she never flaunted, never even mentioned until I was an adult. As her illness became debilitating, I often considered how she purchased my stability and peace by abandoning her own. I stood by my mother as she battled cancer. She stood by me for a lifetime.

She moved from the house where my father died in 2003, after she finished radiation treatments. We decided to buy a home together near my job in North Carolina. It made good sense on several levels.

Before the cancer, she had worked on the assembly line of a factory that manufactured car parts. But the plant moved to Mexico, causing her to lose both her job and insurance several months before her illness. For a Korean woman in her 50s who had no education, the prospect of finding new work wasn’t promising in that recessed Indiana market. So she looked forward to the move, which promised better weather, an easier job search and my company.

Moving in together was an even bigger boon for me. With her help, we could buy a house, and I was eager for her exquisite Korean dishes and shopping days with my fashion-savvy mom.

But we also saw the potential pitfalls of two hardheaded, independent women under the same roof. She was always my biggest champion and I her most important security, yet we often squabbled about my lackluster housekeeping skills or her unyielding manner. So it was filled with tempered optimism that she came to the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina.

In some ways, the arrangement was better than we imagined. We gave each other high-fives when we installed new storm windows, planted azaleas and decorated the house like a magazine cottage. We doted on our dog during mountain hikes and shared meals she prepared of kimchi jigae, Korean pancakes and dumplings. Then in 2005, we moved to Chicagoland after I found a reporting job at another newspaper. 

Still, the arguments we had during my adolescence lingered, the kind that typically grew from miscommunication and misunderstandings. I was in my late 20s, had already watched her suffer through cancer and loved her fiercely, yet still had learned little about patience.

She taught me that lesson this summer as she lay dying. She had confided to Michael, my boyfriend and support, that she feared becoming a burden to me. He countered with a view she had not considered: The desperately ill have much to offer. Sometimes they can make the people around them feel whole.

Gently, almost imperceptibly at first, our roles began their reversal. The cancer slowly stole the little things that defined my mother; her enthusiasm to tend the garden, her compulsion for clean laundry, her mornings preparing elaborate meals, even her doting on our dog. All of these things I began doing, often with her vigor, wondering if that old adage is inevitable, that we all do become our parents.

Shortly after her diagnosis, I had stopped working, instead focusing on her frequent doctors’ appointments, infections that landed her in the emergency room and the daily worries brought by a terminal disease.

She had always been thrilled to see my name in a big city newspaper. My byline was her triumph: A woman with no schooling can have a child who is paid to write. But in those months of her long illness, we were both happy to let the outside world dissolve away.

“I’m glad you’re home. Stay with me,” she once said, but by then, it was clear to each of us that my place in the world was there, beside her.

For my mother, that statement was her gift to me, a way of saying she would let me take care of her without protesting her loss of independence. Out of that came an intimacy in our relationship that melted away years of differences and on the last day of her life, I like to imagine that this bond helped her die in peace.

On Aug. 24, Mom was restless and had not spoken in days. She had been in home hospice care for a few weeks. I thought she just needed more fluids and better pain management but in retrospect, her kidneys had likely shut down. Social workers came by and asked if we might like music therapy or a chaplain. 

I was leery of another stranger coming to the house. Mom hadn’t even told her family in Korea or friends she was ill. But Michael said Mom would find comfort in a man of God. The chaplain arrived that afternoon.

“Tell me about your mom,” he said as we crowded around my mother.

I told him that she sacrificed for me and never asked anything in return. That few people have endured more hardship.

Born in 1948, she grew up in a mountainous Korean village and though poor, felt charmed until she was about 12, when her own beloved mother died. She always talked about my grandmother with a sort of magic, her conspirator in a rare, epic kind of mother/daughter bond. My mother never expected me to love her like that.

Afterward, young Yi Chong Hui became the woman of the house, rising before dawn to cook for her two brothers and father. She hauled drinking water, washed clothes in an icy river in the winter and walked miles to find medicine for the family. 

But she began dreaming of a big city job that would lift her family from poverty and so, a few years later, stole money from her father’s tobacco harvest and ran away to Seoul. Instead, she found more hardship, in part because she was never educated, barred from going to school by her father.

I told the chaplain about my own father, how Mom came to America both for love and hope that she would find a job that would allow her to send money back home. I told him about my father’s death and how Mom didn’t consider taking me to Korea, fearing I’d be an outcast. How she never remarried, never even dated. How she was demanding of my education. How even, throughout the time we lived together as adults, she would have a hot Korean meal waiting, though I often arrived when most people were readying for bed.

Hours after the chaplain left, Mom quietly stopped breathing, as gently as if she were closing a book. Her face gave no hint of months of agonizing pain. She looked beautiful once again, as though she fell into the most refreshing nap. There is a gift in that too, giving me the memory of a peaceful death.  

And most important, I know that we each recognized something that we had long overlooked in one another. I saw her stoicism, how she endured so much without complaint for me. She saw my dedication to her.

“My daughter. I didn’t know you could care about me this much,” she said to me one day as she sat in bed, her hands on mine. Her mouth was a taut little smile as she pushed back tears. Chemotherapy had already made her scalp smooth, giving her the look of a wise little scholar-monk. “In all of this, we finally see each other.”

Yes, my mother, we do. We too are united in an epic mother/daughter bond. We too are conspirators in our own charmed love story.

Tonya Maxwell is a freelance writer and reporter who lives near Chicago.

Chanel Iman Robinson may only be 16, but this Culver City, Calif., native has already catwalked her way into the hearts of the fashion elite. Having strutted down runways for three years for the likes of Dolce & Gabbana, Oscar de la Renta and Marc Jacobs, Chanel, who is Korean and black, was the only woman of color on Vogue’s May 2007 cover featuring this generation’s future supermodels.

You just finished up with Fashion Week in New York. How was it?

Going from one show to the next was very overwhelming. It’s a lot of fun because I’m one of those girls that likes to stay busy every second of the day. My favorite show was Heatherette. I opened for them. I had so much fun just being myself and doing my walk the way I wanted to.

What goes on in your head when you’re on the catwalk?

I feel the clothes, I feel the vibe of the music. Sometimes I’m concentrating on the clothes and what I’m wearing, seeing what I can do to make people want to buy the product. It’s just like acting. You might not like something, but I’ll make it rock regardless. Even if it’s not cute, I’ll make it cute.

Your mom used to live with you in New York, but recently moved back home. What’s it like being on your own now?

For the most part, I’m working anyway so I don’t have time to hang out with my mom. But we talk to each other every day. Also, mother and daughter need space sometimes. It’s a part of growing up.

Do you ever feel like you’re missing out on the whole high school experience?

My boyfriend goes to Hamilton High [in Los Angeles]. I still get to experience some of that when I go home. I’m going to prom when I get home. I’m still involved with teenage things.

You’re recognized in fashion circles, but are not quite a household name yet. Is that something you want someday?

I kind of do because I want to make it easier for ethnic girls to come in, whether you’re Asian or black or Hispanic or anything. I want to be a part of that new generation.

— Nina Ahn

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