Interview #166 — Corrie Chen
by Michelle Law
Born in Taiwan and raised in Australia, Corrie Chen is a highly sought-after, award-winning writer and director whose work spans comedy and drama. She is currently directing New Gold Mountain, a bold new SBS miniseries set in the Australian gold rush from the Chinese-Australian perspective.
Corrie is naturally drawn to stories that explore the themes of identity and belonging. Perhaps it’s something to do with her intercontinental background. She’s still trying to figure it out.
Corrie Chen speaks to Michelle Law about filmmaking, cultural shame and pride, and getting massages from white people.
Few people know this, but you are a pork chop factory heiress! As in, your parents own a pork chop factory in Taiwan. You’ve also spent years working in hospitality. You’re passionate about food and a large part of our friendship is just eating and drinking in silence, as the good lord intended. What role does food play in your life?
Ah yes, my not so secret pork heiress background. Food is so intrinsically linked to my perception of self, it’s quite surprising I didn’t end up in the food industry. In Taiwan, I was raised by my grandparents who were farmers; many of my earliest memories are around rice fields and food markets with my grandma. Food is my access point for my Taiwanese heritage. The smell of coriander, or white pepper, and suddenly I’m six years old again, sitting next to my grandma as she plucks the herbs from its stem. Food is the bridge that guides me back toward the memories of my childhood that feels like it’s fading more and more out of reach with every year I get older. And that terrifies me. Like a lot of Asian families, food is how my parents expresses their love for me. No matter how critical they are, no one packs takeaway containers full of my favourite things like my parents. It’s their love language, and in turn it’s now become mine. To me, making food and sharing food is such an expression of life, love, creativity, and responsibility. I really respond to the way identity drives the culture of food, the way it makes us curious, and how deeply personal and transformative it can be. That is the kind of creative work I believe in making.
As a child, you migrated from Taiwan to Australia with your parents. It was a lonely period in your life, but you found comfort in television and film—from Ghibli classics, to Play School, to the movies you’d make using your Dad’s video camera. What about storytelling, and specifically screen stories, was appealing to you?
Television was my English teacher and my first Australian friend. I was initially homeschooled by my mum who also couldn’t speak English, so I learnt a lot through screen stories—language, emotional and social cues, for better or worse. I grew up being constantly forced to empathise with white screen characters and a culture that was not my own, and I didn’t really challenge that until much later in my life. I now see it’s seeded a lot of unconscious assumptions of other cultures that is specifically through the white lens, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to unpick it and calling myself out. But I don’t regret how much it taught me about empathy. You can never have too much empathy.
When I was twelve, my dad gave me his video camera to take to a sleepover party, with the hope that it would make me more popular at school. It absolutely didn’t, but that night, as my friends and I attempted a shot-for-shot remake of Scream—I felt something slot into place. I realise now that something was the feeling of being heard and seen, and of controlling the story. It’s so obvious I’m almost embarrassed to say it. Of course, I had no self-awareness of this as a teen—I just wanted to do it because I loved the feeling of holding the camera and getting to decide where to point it. I go through so many patches of my life where I feel completely invisible, even now. Making screen stories is an act that allows me to live, to feel. It’s also been the drive for me to really reconnect with my Taiwanese identity and who I am. I am Asian Australian, and the pride I have for it these days is immeasurable.
We’ve known each other for almost a decade now—first as collaborators, and then as friends. I remember after we became proper mates, you dropped the bombshell that I was your first Asian friend. What was your aversion to making Asian pals?
Racism of course! Shame! And self-hatred! Your everyday holy trinity of emotions that destroys first generation migrants on a daily basis. It goes into what I was speaking about before—having grown up viewing films and shows through a white lens, I very quickly learnt the powerlessness of Asians in a white world. Put simply, we do not get to speak. I’m a quick learner, and my desperation to belong meant very quickly I knew to ‘disguise’ my heritage. If I repress it, ignore it, never speak about it, maybe people will think I’m white. Thus for all of my teen years and a lot of my twenties, my closest friends were white.
You’re one of a handful of Asian film directors in Australia; not to mention you’re also a woman, and gay—a turducken of minorities. One day when we were filming Homecoming Queens I was observing you in-between takes; you were setting up the next shot and I had this moment of thinking, ‘Wow! Corrie is ordering around all of these white men!’ It was incredible because I’d never seen that power dynamic before. The industry feels, and often is, insurmountable for minority folks. Where do you find your support and how do you maintain drive to push onwards?
Oh mate. Sometimes I look around my own set at the people I’m supposed to lead and feel overwhelmed myself! There’s always a lot of chat about writer’s rooms being too white—try walking onto a film set of sixty plus people, with maybe one other person of colour if you’re lucky. The film set is a specific world based on the pecking order; thankfully the director is at the top, so I’ve largely had positive experiences. Largely. I have a repertoire of stories I can whip out but it’s too painful to unpick. I really gotta keep my eyes forward, look past the trucks, the white men, the equipment, and just focus inward. Why do I do this and what is the emotion I’m trying to explore and feel? What is real to me? Even though I’m proud to be one of the trailblazers, I’ve never been interested in being the first—I want to be the best. So that’s how I push on. Breaking the ceiling will never be enough for me.
What are some of the most memorable moments you’ve had on set?
Most recently on New Gold Mountain, looking around the set and seeing all the Asian faces— in front and behind the scenes. I came close to feeling like I was in the majority. And this unfamiliar feeling… it was like I fitted in. There was so much I didn’t have to explain. It was really moving. Is this what white people feel every single day? They don’t know how lucky they are. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to feel that again on an Australian set. I really hope I do.
In the past, you’ve described yourself as a ‘reluctant’ screenwriter. What do you mean by that?
I have a pretty tumultuous relationship with English. I was very bad at it for a long time, and had to get a lot of special help. I didn’t really become fluent until I was a teenager and my writing was incredibly bad until later in high school; it’s my primary language, but it’s not my first language. I’m constantly trying to navigate this reminder that I’m ‘other’. Upon leaving film school, I somehow convinced myself I wasn’t a writer. I couldn’t possibly be a writer! Cause ESL! Shame does fucked things to people’s heads. So for a few years in my mid-twenties I actually stopped writing. I’m quite ashamed of that time—it really coincided with me losing my voice and my identity. Writing still doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m so confident and full of myself in my craft in so many ways but you pick at a grammar mistake, I’m immediately riddled with insecurity and it’s like I’m a FOB kid in a white primary school again. That’s what the ‘reluctant’ refers to; writing is an act that’s painful, raw and exposing, but I suppose that’s what makes it worthy. It infinitely makes me a better storyteller.
Food is so intrinsically linked to my perception of self, it’s quite surprising I didn’t end up in the food industry.
There have been some big conversations around cultural diversity in the film industry in the past twelve months. As an activist, what are some tangible changes you’d like to see in order for the industry to become more racially equitable?
I don’t know if I can describe myself as an activist. It makes me uncomfortable, as I see the real work activists actually do and I don’t feel like I do nearly enough. I exist in the industry. Is that activism? I don’t know. I used to think the mere existence of me on a set was a political statement, but now that feels self-serving and gratuitous. Just because I’ve been allowed into the room doesn’t mean the barriers are broken. If anything, I suspect it actually strengthens it.
When I was a little younger, I was more gung-ho and happier to speak on behalf of all minorities in the industry. I thrived on being the ‘only’. It made me feel fucking powerful and special. That feels so naive and silly now. It plays into upholding the pre-existing power structures. The lure of power diminishes in my eye with every passing day. I don’t need it anymore, now I’ve seen how much it can blind people. All I want is respect. I’m no longer looking to the powerbrokers of this industry to listen and evolve—I hope they do, but I can’t keep investing emotional energy in them changing. Other people’s behaviour is uncontrollable. What I can control? My own choices and the work I make. We need more than the small handful of faces determining the Asian Australian experience on Australian screens. We are not a monolith, and the individuality of everyone’s experiences should inform how we see ourselves. What’s exciting is that the talent is there, especially in writing. I don’t want to be the ‘only’ in a room anymore. It’s terribly lonely. I look at Hollywood and their Asian community—the breadth of talent, how vocal and unafraid they are at holding their white counterparts accountable AND how much they defend each other. I can’t wait for us to have that here and I’m inspired by the younger generation.
Most of your 2020 was spent in lockdown in Victoria. But you were also very busy during that period. Can you talk about some of the projects you’ve been developing?
My feature film, set across China and Australia, that I dearly hope to be directing this year. An ABC show I’m co-creating/co-writing. An insane Shakespeare adaptation I’m co-writing with your good self. And in amongst all that I was prepping to direct New Gold Mountain.
Tell us about New Gold Mountain! How is it going to be ground-breaking, and how was the shoot?
Look, groundbreaking is an overused PR word, and I was raised by parents who taught me to be suspicious of excitement—but certainly, there is a lot to love about this show. Visualisation of this particular narrative has rarely been done before, and I think that is the thing we cannot forget. This is the Chinese Australian story that must be told. I wanted to reclaim the image of the ‘Chinaman’ in the Australian landscape. There’s power in the uniqueness of the stories of the Chinese diaspora all around the world and that is what makes this show incredibly original. That blend of ‘East’ and ‘West’ is the secret weapon of this show, and what will be so memorable. I’m really proud to be the person to portray and find the balance in that aesthetic. It’s really fucking cool.
What’s next for you creatively—in the immediate future, and in the long term?
I love and will always love immigrant stories, but the older I get the more it feels like a burden to speak for a whole community. In my work, I’m trying to understand who I am for myself, individually. Specificity is what makes emotions authentic. The space I hope to carve out is one where I can just be… a whole human. Every space I step into is one where I’m defined by my many Otherisms. I’ve become so good at being a chameleon, adopting the specific part of my identity that is required of me at the time (Woman! Queer! Asian! Millennial!) But that’s the life of an immigrant—you’re constantly living in a place that doesn’t allow yourself to be complete and true. And it feels like a void. I want to carve out a space in this industry that is uniquely my own. I want to explore what happens beyond the immigrant narrative. I guess that’s my own way of peering into the future.
Do you have any advice for emerging filmmakers?
Don’t be afraid to have something to say about the world. Something. Anything.
What are you reading?
Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong—albeit slowly, as it’s so searing and confronting. I often find myself feeling dizzy because I’ve stopped breathing whilst reading certain paragraphs.
How do you practice self-care?
Cooking. Watering and polishing my indoor plants. Watching baby wombats drink milk and groundhogs chomp crunchy vegetables on Instagram. Getting massages from white people.
What does being Asian Australian mean to you?
I’m Taiwanese, I’m Chinese, I’m Australian. But at the same time, I’m none of those things. Every single one of those cultures will forever remain at once foreign and familiar to me, memories I’m constantly recontextualising. That dichotomy is the lens I see everything through. I suspect I’ll spend the rest of my life restlessly searching for the feeling of home.
I used to think the mere existence of me on a set was a political statement, but now that feels self-serving and gratuitous.
Find out more
Interview by Michelle Law
Illustrations by Lily Nie