Brief Synopsis: Based on Kevin Kwan’s novel, the Cinderella of our story is NYU economics professor Rachel Chu, who is in a wonderful relationship with a charming, handsome prince named Nick Young. Oh, but something seems to have slipped Nick’s mind: the Young family is the wealthiest, most powerful family in Singapore. While attending a wedding in Singapore, Rachel is thrown into a world beyond her understanding — lavish parties… a taxidermy tiger lunging from the corner of the hallway… the blooming of a tan hua flower, which occurs only one night a year. However, the most imposing aspect of the wedding is meeting Nick’s mother, Eleanor. It’s clear Eleanor does not approve of Rachel. The reasons are plenty — from being a mere Economics professor to not understanding certain Chinese customs — but most of all, Rachel is an American. (In other words, she’s not Asian enough. Oh, the irony.) No matter what Rachel does, she’s  playing with a losing hand. If Nick chooses Rachel, he loses his family; if they break up, Nick will resent his mother. No matter what, Rachel is trapped in a Cinderella story, except Eleanor is the one holding the glass slipper.

Any other year Black Panther would have won this category for its numerous achievements, but I had to give the award to Crazy Rich Asians because I personally relate to all of the adjectives in that title. (Someday I’ll be Asian enough to duck-dive into my own vault of gold, just like Scrooge McDuck — that’ll prove I’m not crazy.) My sincerest wish is that 50 years from now, Crazy Rich Asians isn’t the kind of film that is an outlier for Asian-American representation, but as it stands right now, the novelty of an all-Asian cast in Hollywood is very refreshing. (Fun fact: In my lifetime, Crazy Rich Asians is the first Hollywood all-Asian cast. The last one? The Joy Luck Club in 1993. That’s depressing.) And the best part is that Asians are just (relatively) normal people — no karate kicks, no prostitution, no science and/or computer wizards or other related mystical arts, no ancient gurus or sages or monks, and no bad Asian drivers (because they all have chauffeurs). No, in fact, Crazy Rich Asians is a love story! A love story that teaches us that love means never having to say you’re white. (That was a play on words in reference to Love Story...I stand by it. Yep. Totally do.)

Okay, enough jokes… Crazy Rich Asians means a lot to me because it’s the first time I left a movie theater thinking “…finally. Someone gets it.” After decades of whitewashing and stereotypes, there is a movie out there that tried to open the door for Asian-American stories in Hollywood and it succeeded. (Fun fact #2: The novelist behind Crazy Rich Asians, Kevin Kwan, was approached by a producer who wanted to turn the book into a film… but Rachel Chu’s character would be white. To which Kwan was properly horrified and promptly sold his book rights for 1 dollar just so he would have control over the casting process.) It’s not a perfect film by any means, nor does it encompass all Asian-American experiences, although that would be incredibly unrealistic expectations for one film to address every nation, ethnicity, social class, and family background. However, Crazy Rich Asians does capture an essential struggle with the Asian-American identity, which is feeling like we’re constantly being asked to prove our Asianness or our Americanness — by choosing one or the other. At its basic level, Crazy Rich Asians is about a woman placed into a situation where she is told (explicitly and implicitly) that she does not belong and is forced to choose between two identities (elitist Singaporean or uncultured American), but finds a way to embrace both. That’s something I definitely relate to, feeling like I fail to meet societal expectations of being Asian or being American. Which may sound like it’s a very individual issue, but when terminology like Model Minority, Bamboo Ceiling, and the Invisible Race are commonly used to describe 7% of the country’s population that I’m a part of, well... it’s nice to know I’m not alone.