Dayton Library celebrates AANHPI heritage month events
The New Lebanon Branch, 715 W. Main St., will host a Thursday Matinee screening of 'Minari' (2020, PG-13) on May 1, from 2-4 p.m. The film follows a family of South Korean immigrants adjusting to rural life in 1980s America. (Adults only.)
The romance book club 'Between the Sheets' will meet at the Miami Township Branch, 2718 Lyons Road, on Saturday, May 10, from 1-2 p.m. They will read 'Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors' by Sonali Dev, then discuss it. (Adults only.)
Half of America can't name a famous Asian American actor or event, survey finds
Guests can learn about hula culture at the Olohana Polynesian dances over two consecutive Mondays. (All ages.)
May 12, 7-8 p.m., at the Miami Township Branch, 2718 Lyons Road.
May 19, 7-8 pm, at the Huber Heights Branch, 6243 Brandt Pike.
Teens will be invited to make mandalas at the Southeast Branch, 21 Watervliet Ave. on Tuesday, May 27, from 4-5:30 p.m. A mandala is a style of geometric art that is significant to many Eastern religions. (Teens only.)
Kids will learn about the art of folding paper at an origami paper craft event at the Trotwood Branch, 855 E Main St. on Thursday, May 29, from 4-5 p.m. (Registration required. First through fourth grade.)
How a canoe helped turn Hawaiian culture into a source of pride and even influenced Hollywood
There will be special storytimes to honor AANHPI heritage.
On Friday, May 2, and May 30, from 10:30-11 a.m. at the Trotwood Branch, 855 E Main St. This is for preschool and kindergarten-aged kids.
On Saturday, May 3, from 10:30-11:30 a.m., at the Huber Heights Branch, 6243 Brandt Pike. A family storytime.
On Wednesday, May 7, 11-11:45 am, Huber Heights Branch. For little kids ages 3-5.
To learn more, click here or call the Library's Ask Me Line at (937) 463-2665.
The library asks anyone who needs a sign language interpreter, assistive device, language translation, or accessibility services to call the Ask Me Line at (937) 463-2665 or click here. This is so they can get the service ready ahead of time.
Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Los Angeles Times
27 minutes ago
- Los Angeles Times
South Koreans are obsessed with Netflix's ‘K-pop Demon Hunters.' Here's why
SEOUL — When South Koreans start to obsess over a movie or TV series, they abbreviate its name, a distinction given to Netflix's latest hit 'K-pop Demon Hunters.' In media headlines and in every corner of the internet, the American-made film is now universally referred to as 'Keh-deh-hun' — the first three syllables of the title when read aloud in Korean. And audiences are already clamoring for a sequel. The animated film follows a fictional South Korean girl group named 'HUNTR/X' as its three members — Rumi, Mira and Zoey — try to deliver the world from evil through the power of song and K-pop fandom. Since its release in June, it has become the most watched original animated film in Netflix history, with millions of views worldwide, including the U.S. and South Korea, where its soundtrack has topped the charts on local music streaming platform Melon. Fans have also cleaned out the gift shop at the National Museum of Korea, which has run out of a traditional tiger pin that resembles one of the movie's characters. Much of the film's popularity in South Korea is rooted in its keenly observed details and references to Korean folklore, pop culture and even national habits — the result of having a production team filled with K-pop fans, as well as a group research trip to South Korea that co-director Maggie Kang led in order to document details as minute as the appearance of local pavement. There are nods to traditional Korean folk painting, a Korean guide to the afterlife, the progenitors of K-pop and everyday mannerisms. In one scene, at a table in a restaurant where the three girls are eating, viewers might notice how the utensils are laid atop a napkin, an essential ritual for dining out in South Korea — alongside pouring cups of water for everyone at the table. 'The more that I watch 'Keh-deh-hun,' the more that I notice the details,' South Korean music critic Kim Yoon-ha told local media last month. 'It managed to achieve a verisimilitude that would leave any Korean in awe.' :: Despite its subject matter and association with the 'K-wave,' that catch-all term for any and all Korean cultural export, 'K-pop Demon Hunters,' at least in the narrowest sense, doesn't quite fit the bill. Produced by Sony Pictures and directed by Korean Canadian Kang and Chris Appelhans — who has held creative roles on other animated films such as 'Coraline' and 'Fantastic Mr. Fox' — the movie is primarily in English and geared toward non-Korean audiences. But its popularity in South Korea is another sign that the boundaries of the K-wave are increasingly fluid — and that, with more and more diaspora Korean artists entering the mix, it flows in the opposite direction, too. Those barriers have already long since broken down in music: many K-pop artists and songwriters are non-Korean or part of the Korean diaspora, reflecting the genre's history of foreign influences such as Japanese pop or American hip-hop. 'Once a cultural creation acquires a universality, you can't just confine it to the borders of the country of origin, which is where K-pop is today,' said Kim Il-joong, director of the content business division at the Korea Creative Content Agency, a government body whose mission is to promote South Korean content worldwide. 'Despite what the name 'K-pop' suggests, it is really a global product.' In 'K-pop Demon Hunters,' Zoey is a rapper from Burbank. In addition, the soundtrack was written and performed by a team that includes producers, artists and choreographers associated with some of the biggest real-life K-pop groups of the past decade. Streaming productions are increasingly flying multiple flags, too: Apple TV's 'Pachinko' or Netflix's 'XO, Kitty' are both American productions that were filmed in South Korea. But few productions have been able to inspire quite the same level of enthusiasm as 'K-pop Demon Hunters,' whose charm for many South Koreans is how accurately it captures local idiosyncrasies and contemporary life. While flying in their private jet, the three girls are shown sitting on the floor even though there is a sofa right beside them. This tendency to use sofas as little more than backrests is an endless source of humor and self-fascination among South Koreans, most of whom would agree that the centuries-old custom of sitting on the floor dies hard. South Korean fans and media have noted that the characters correctly pronounce 'ramyeon,' or Korean instant noodles. The fact that ramyeon is often conflated with Japanese ramen — which inspired the invention of the former decades ago — has long been a point of exasperation for many South Koreans and local ramyeon companies, which point to the fact that the Korean adaption has since evolved into something distinct. It's a small difference — the Korean version is pronounced 'rah myun' — but one that it pays to get right in South Korea. The girls' cravings for ramyeon during their flight also caught the eye of Ireh, a member of the real-life South Korean girl group Purple Kiss who praised the film's portrayals of life as a K-pop artist. 'I don't normally eat ramyeon but whenever I go on tour, I end up eating it,' she said in a recent interview with local media. 'The scene reminded me of myself.' South Korean fans have also been delighted by a pair of animals, Derpy and Sussy, which borrow from jakhodo, a genre of traditional Korean folk painting in which tigers and magpies are depicted side by side, popularized during the Joseon Dynasty in the 19th century. In the film, Derpy is the fluorescent tiger with goggle eyes that always appears with its sidekick, a three-eyed bird named Sussy. Though they have long since been extinct, tigers were once a feared presence on the Korean peninsula, at times coming down from the mountains to terrorize the populace. They were also revered as talismans that warded off evil spirits. But much like Derpy itself, jakhodo reimagined tigers as friendlier, oftentimes comical beings. Historians have interpreted this as the era's political satire: the magpie, audacious in the presence of a great predator, represented the common man standing up to the nobility. The movie is peppered with homages to Korean artists throughout history who are seen today as the progenitors of contemporary K-pop. There are apparent nods to the 'Jeogori Sisters,' a three-piece outfit that was active from 1939 to 1945 and is often described as Korea's first girl group, followed by the Kim Sisters, another three-piece that found success in the U.S., performing in Las Vegas and appearing on 'The Ed Sullivan Show.' Longtime K-pop fans might recognize the demon hunters from the 1990s as S.E.S., a pioneering girl group formed by S.M. Entertainment, the label behind present-day superstars Aespa and Red Velvet. (Bada, S.E.S.'s main vocalist, recently covered 'Golden,' the film's headline track, on YouTube.) For a long time, South Korean audiences have often complained about outside depictions of the country as inauthentic and out of touch. Not anymore. 'Korea wasn't just shown as an extra add-on as it has been for so long,' Kim said. ''K-pop Demon Hunters' did such a great job depicting Korea in a way that made it instantly recognizable to audiences here.'
Time Magazine
20 hours ago
- Time Magazine
The Best K-Dramas That Are Not on Netflix
For better or worse, Netflix is the king of the global K-drama phenomenon. The streamer has invested billions of dollars in South Korean TV—even if the people really driving K-drama's success appear to see little of it—and in return, 80% of subscribers watch Korean content as the streamer garners a bevy of awards for its trouble. Yet, as Netflix rushes productions an focuses on sequels, sometimes prioritizing celebrity over quality, other streamers have swooped in to fight for their piece of the pie. Which might come as a surprise to some fans, with Disney and Prime Video consistently going minimal when it comes to marketing their K-dramas in the West. But if they won't tell you about the surprisingly great K-dramas that aren't on Netflix, by gum, we will. Given the rate at which Disney spews out content, it's no surprise that Hulu and Disney+ dominate this list, though there's a surprising amount of platform diversity as Prime Video and even Tubi capitalize on our continuing enthusiasm for South Korean media. That said, one streamer that doesn't appear is Viki—a platform devoted entirely to Asian content. An argument could be made that it deserves its own list. However, a clutch of issues, including limited versatility regarding devices and a hard-to-justify cost for general viewers in a sea of streamers offering a broader array of content, makes it increasingly hard to recommend. We also excluded shows that, while not Netflix originals, are consistently available to watch on Netflix (most notably, My Mister and Reply 1988, both justifiably regarded as two of the finest K-dramas). Those limitations don't even remotely dent our options though. The titles listed below evoke the K-drama at its best—exploring the depths of human emotion, the power of community, and the importance of truth—and, in many ways, a level of quality that's become harder to find. Moving (Hulu; Disney+ outside the U.S.) You can't discuss the best K-dramas without including Moving. At the height of superhero fatigue in 2023, Kang Full—adapting his 2015 webtoon—fashioned a fresh take by asking: What if super powers sucked? Gone is the tired exceptionalism of American superheroes as Kang places them on the fringes of society. A desperate, frightened group pursued by a government that perceives a threat in their otherness. On a personal level, Moving's allegory of superpowers as disability—cemented by disabled superhero Lee Jae-man (Kim Sung-kyun)—is an overdue approach to the genre. From a broader K-drama perspective, its focus on bringing people together, on empathy, and on dispelling the perceived barriers of our differences—led by literal power couple Bong-seok (Lee Jung-ha) and Jang Hui-soo (Go Young-jang)—elevates it above the stumbling output of the MCU and Netflix's cynical attempt to capitalize on its success with the mostly horrid The Atypical Family. As I wrote in 2023, it's almost unfair to call Moving a superhero show. It's a category of television unto itself. Revenant (Hulu; Disney+ outside the U.S.) 2023 was a big year for Disney and K-drama—and this list, it turns out. Before Moving became a word-of-mouth sensation, Revenant offered a tour through the greatest hits of South Korean folk horror to remind us what we're missing as western horror increasingly shifts to hastily-assembled franchises like the Conjuring universe and relying on jump scares alone. You know you're in good hands when Kim Tae-ri's on-screen. Revenant doubles that surety by casting her in dual roles, as the troubled yet sensitive Gu San-yeong and the demon possessing her. Together with folklore professor Yeom Hae-sang (Oh Jung-se), San-yeong comes to understand both her own grief and the trauma death leaves behind as Revenant embraces the quiet, brooding dread that makes Korean horror genuinely unnerving. Masterly performances and production make Revenant an unnerving gem. The sympathetic eye it casts over lost souls, however, is what truly makes it an unusual joy. Light Shop (Hulu; Disney+ outside the U.S.) Speaking of sympathetic horror, Kang Full continues his reimagining of well-trodden genres as explorations of marginalization in 2024's Light Shop. Ju Ji-hoon and Park Bo-young lead an ensemble cast as Kang proposes that the fear with which we regard the creatures that populate our horror stories is really a manifestation of our own unchallenged biases. It's not as original an approach as Moving, but if that series is a bombastic allegory for the treatment of those who exist outside of perceived norms, then Light Shop is a quieter rejection of the othering of those we don't immediately understand. In a murky, haunted alley through which both the living and dead must travel, Jung Won-young (Ju) and his titular light shop serve as a beacon that literally shines a light on how unremoved we are from the spirits. The only difference between us and these creatures we fear, Kang suggests, is that we get to leave the alley once we exit Jung's sanctuary. Marry My Husband (Prime Video) Amazon has been quietly outstanding with its infrequent Korean originals. No Gain No Love and the recent Good Boy are a measure of that. But it's Prime Video's time-travel revenge-romance that, despite its crummy title, is most notable. In a hackneyed genre in K-drama, Marry My Husband blends a welcome self-awareness of its own goofiness with a rare modern deployment of a She's All That makeover to overcome the usual K-drama cliches where it counts. When Kang Ji-won (Park Min-young) discovers her layabout husband Park Min-hwan (Lee Yu-kyun) in bed with her best friend Jeong Su-min (Song Ha-yoon), plotting what to do when Ji-won finally succumbs to the terminal cancer she's been battling, Min-hwan murders her. At the same moment, she transports into her past self—complete with thick-rimmed glasses and a ponytail so you know she's not secretly a smokeshow—from where she plans to visit her cancer upon Su-min and carve a better life after ruining her and Min-hwan by inciting the stress that made her sick in them. That might sound like a typically sadistic revenge thriller a la The Glory. Marry My Husband, however, is surprisingly subtle in exploring and ultimately challenging Ji-won's twisting morals, making her a far more sympathetic protagonist, and is relatively sensitive around the subject of health. It also has a great cat. The surest sign of Marry My Husband's quality is that it already has a Japanese remake, released on Prime Video in June. Blood Free (Hulu; Disney+ outside the U.S.) Ju Ji-hoon turns up again in Lee Soo-yeon's near-future Korea dominated by AI chatbots and synthetic meat. CEO Yun Ja-yu (Han Hyo-joo) navigates the political and corporate pitfalls of her synthesized flesh empire, protected (and kind of turned on) by superman bodyguard Woo Chae-woon (Ju), a former naval officer with his own mysteries to solve—including the mystery of his cold heart. As the controversy around her cheap, 'blood free' meat threatens corporate and political interests across South Korea and puts Yun's life in constant danger, both are forced closer together with both romantic and tragic consequences. Lee is the mind behind the criminally underrated Stranger (which you can find, yes, on Netflix). Her output since, including Stranger's second season, has been tepid. But in Blood Free, she rediscovers some of the chemistry and fun that made her crime caper so watchable. Whether all that fun is deliberate on Lee's part isn't always clear, but Blood Free is a goofy and surprisingly watchable sci-fi bodyguard thriller. Live (Tubi, CJ ENM Selects—accessible via Prime Video, including a 7-day free trial) K-dramas have a habit of lionizing the police without nuance, but Live presents a more complex picture as it follows young people exiting a punitive job market to train as police officers—led by Bae Sung-woo as their troubled instructor Oh Yang-chon. The first half-hour of Live is genuinely awful, so be warned there is, not unusually for K-dramas, a rough patch to endure before the series hits its stride. Once it does, through a relatively honest look at both the fallibility of authority and the moral ramifications of power, somehow paired with all the usual trappings of K-drama as the show interrupts its procedural with a not always believable romance subplot with the patented K-drama melodrama that goes with it, Live becomes the ne plus ultra of Korean police dramas (that aren't on Netflix) and one of the most underrated K-dramas of the past decade. Rookie Cops (Hulu; Disney+ outside the U.S.) If that all sounds a bit too high-brow, Disney's second Korean original 2022's Rookie Cops eschews all sense of realism for a more typical K-drama approach (including an out-of-nowhere confirmation of the afterlife). In the bright and breezy romance, Ko Eun-kang (Chae Soo-bin) joins Police University—which does not sound like a real thing—to follow her first love, only to discover once she arrives that there is, in fact, more than one boy in the world. If Live's romantic subplot felt tacked on, presumably under the duress of K-drama expectations, here the police plot is simply a vehicle to smush K-drama characters' faces together. That might sound like a knock, but Rookie Cops is a surprisingly spry police procedural even if that aspect is not the main attraction (so to speak). It might not have much to actually say about the police, but it sure is fun. Argon (Tubi, CJ ENM Selects—accessible via Prime Video, including a 7-day free trial) It's a rare K-drama that remains timely beyond its initial run—if at all. But in a post-truth world, and as journalism faces unprecedented challenges under corporate interference and political malfeasance across the globe, Kim Ju-hyeok's final drama before his untimely death in 2017 isn't just a reminder of how transformative good K-drama can feel, but also a peek into what now feels like an idealized rendition of the profession. HBC intern Lee Yeon-hwa (Chun Woo-hee) is re-assigned to Kim Baek-jin (Kim) and his struggling investigative program, Argon. Kim's dedication to the truth has left his career stalled, as he butts heads with his network's corrupt higher-ups and their big-city friends. But when a coveted lead anchor role opens in the network, and as he slowly trains up the idealistic Yeon-hwa as a moral successor, he starts to understand how profoundly sick his city, and his network, has become. If you're getting whiffs of 2015's Spotlight, that's not an accident. In another drama, Yeon-hwa and Baek-jin's relationship would flourish into a problematic workplace romance. Argon, a mostly romance-free series, isn't interested in that, letting Chun and Kim anchor a rare Korean glimpse of journalists as anything other than unscrupulous, which both tragically caps Kim's career and speaks of Chun's to come. Soundtrack #2 (Disney+) We started with the bombastic in Moving; let's end with something quieter. 'Hidden gem' is an overused term when media is more accessible than ever—though streamers' unwillingness to market non-English media in the U.S. does lend a bit more credence to the term. Buried deep in Disney+'s catalogue, and unluckily releasing in the wake of Moving, Soundtrack #2 (2023) is a stand-alone sequel series that improves on its predecessor, 2022's Soundtrack #1, in every way. A sweet, tender story about the rocky road to rekindling romance sees struggling music-lover Do Hyun-seo (Keum Sae-rok) finding her way to doing what she loves—in more ways than one—when she's hired as a piano tutor for a YouTube mogul who happens to be her ex-boyfriend, Ji Su-ho (Noh Sang-hyun). That is, if their history doesn't get in the way. This is a K-drama, so of course their history is going to get in the way. Soundtrack #2 squeezes a lot of heart into its six-episode run and, though it may not be the most original K-drama, it serves as a perfect primer for those discovering more of what K-dramas have to offer.
Time Magazine
a day ago
- Time Magazine
The True Story Behind Hawaiian History Epic 'Chief of War'
Jason Momoa stands on a double-hulled canoe, steady as the Pacific Ocean heaves beneath him. His hair is bound in a taut knot, a cape of ti leaves in muted green draped over his broad shoulders. The camera catches light as it splinters across the cresting waves. In one fluid motion, he dives, vanishing beneath the glittering surface. The quiet ruptures into struggle as his character Ka'iana, a revered Hawaiian chief, lassoes a shark—man and predator locked in a primal dance of survival. It's a feat of strength and a statement of defiance from a warrior unafraid of whatever the ocean, or the future, might summon. This opening scene, mythic as it is visceral, sets the tone for Chief of War, Apple TV+'s sweeping nine-episode retelling of Hawaii's unification. It was a period, beginning in the late 18th century and culminating in the early 19th century, defined by fierce battles, shifting alliances, and the arrival of Western forces that forever changed the islands. Beyond starring in the show, Momoa co-wrote, produced, and directed an episode of the series, which debuts Aug. 1 and also features Luciane Buchanan, Temuera Morrison, Te Ao o Hinepehinga, Cliff Curtis, and Kaina Makua. On a balmy July afternoon, two weeks before Chief of War's premiere, Momoa sits with co-creator Thomas Pa'a Sibbett at the Four Seasons Resort O'ahu at Ko Olina, the sea glinting beyond the balcony. For years, the two immersed themselves in Ka'iana's story of survival, betrayal, and fight to shape a culture on the edge of transformation. Momoa, this time dry and at ease, lets his shoulder-length hair fall in loose waves around his sun-burnished face. In a Hawaiian-print shirt and white trousers, he's quick to smile as he explains how a project this personal, and this sweeping, demanded patience. 'When you have something that's very dear to you and you want to make something on this level, you need to get all your ducks in order,' he tells TIME. Aquaman's success in 2018, he explains, elevated his career to the point where this series became possible. 'We would never be at this level, so you just kind of got to wait for that,' he adds. It also required a creative team prepared for the weight of the story. That meant, alongside close collaborators like producer and director Brian Mendoza, having the industry capital, experience, and trust to tell a story of this scale on their own terms. 'This is our lineage. If we mess it up, we're not going home. There's a lot at stake to get the authenticity right.' For Momoa, 'home' has layered meaning. The son of Joseph, a Native Hawaiian painter, and Coni, an artist largely of European descent, he was born in Honolulu but mostly raised by his mother in Iowa while spending several summers in Hawaii with his father. Sibbett, also of Native Hawaiian heritage, grew up steeped in Polynesian traditions, where art and dance shaped his identity. The pair previously collaborated on the 2018 thriller Braven, the elegiac 2022 Western The Last Manhunt, and the 2023 sequel Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom, but Chief of War is their most ambitious partnership yet. It has the scale of an epic while remaining deeply rooted in Native Hawaiian language, culture, and history. The idea for Chief of War first surfaced when Momoa and Sibbett were approached about telling the story of King Kamehameha I, who united the Hawaiian islands into one kingdom in 1810. But instead of centering solely on the legendary ruler, they chose a more complex figure as their entry point into Hawaiian history. Ka'iana, the first Hawaiian chief to travel beyond the islands, understood the intricate politics at home yet returned with knowledge from beyond the reef, becoming one of the king's key allies. 'Thomas came in with the idea and told me about Ka'iana, which I had no idea about,' Momoa recalls. 'But I thought, this is going to be amazing. It's just great storytelling—a great tale.' A life pulled by two tides The unification wars of the late 18th and early 19th centuries reshaped Hawaii. For generations, rival chiefs, known as 'ali'i', ruled the eight main islands like self-contained kingdoms, forging and breaking alliances through marriage, diplomacy, and warfare. Then came the foreign sails. British and American traders disrupted the delicate balance, foreigners ' muskets and cannons tipping the scales of battle. Measles and other diseases they brought with them swept through villages, thinning populations in waves. Amid the upheaval, King Kamehameha I saw uniting the islands under one rule as a way to shield Hawaiian culture from the varied threats posed by Western cultural influence. The wars began in the 1780s. After an early victory in 1782 at the Battle of Moku'ōhai, fought near Hawai'i Island's Kealakekua Bay, (the future) King Kamehameha I turned his gaze outward. In 1790, his forces invaded Maui, leading to the bloody Battle of Kepaniwai, where the waters of ʻĪao Valley were said to run thick with the dead. Five years later came the decisive Battle of Nu'uanu on O'ahu, where warriors were driven over the sheer Pali cliffs, securing his dominance over the most populous islands. By 1810, Kaua'i's King Kaumuali'i ceded his domain without bloodshed, and Hawai'i was politically unified for the first time. Unity came at a cost. Though King Kamehameha I strategically embraced Western weapons, trade, and advisors to defend his kingdom, unification also opened the islands more fully to outside influence. In consolidating power, he also set in motion a deeper entanglement with foreign interests, one that future generations would struggle to control. Over time, new legal systems, private land ownership, and economic pressures weakened Hawaiian sovereignty, laying the groundwork for the kingdom's eventual overthrow in 1893. That year, Queen Lili'uokalani was deposed by the Committee of Safety—a group of mostly American businessmen and sugar planters—partly enabled by the presence of U.S. Marines. Ka'iana's life unfolded along these shifting fault lines. Born around 1755 into a vast web of royal lineage that stretched across Hawaii, he was connected to nearly every major ruling family of his time and became the first Hawaiian chief to voyage beyond the islands. In 1787, he sailed to China, the Philippines, and the northwest coast of North America. In Canton, he was received as a dignitary, and honored with livestock, tools, and European goods. When he returned to Hawaii in 1788, Ka'iana brought back these gifts and also foreign knowledge of ships, weapons, and military tactics that made him invaluable to King Kamehameha I. For a time, Ka'iana was among the king's most trusted war leaders. But by 1795, as King Kamehameha I prepared to invade O'ahu, Ka'iana was excluded from the key war councils, a warning that his life potentially hung in the balance. Choosing defiance, he broke from the king and joined O'ahu's defenders under his cousin Kalanikūpule. Ka'iana was killed early in the Battle of Nu'uanu, near a stone wall close to what is now Queen Emma's Summer Palace. Hundreds of his warriors also fell. Was their cause a betrayal, or a principled stand against a ruler whose ambitions threatened to consume their way of life? Some historians see him as a visionary who glimpsed a future Hawaii caught between two worlds; others view him as a tragic figure undone by the violent tide of change. In his lifetime, he was celebrated as the 'Prince of Kaua'i,' the first Hawaiian to witness the wider Pacific world and return to tell the story. But in the end, he could not escape being swept away by the very forces he sought to understand. Speaking the language of the ancestors Chief of War does not shy away from the darker truths of unification: the bloodshed, the betrayals, and the sacrifices made in the name of survival. It also reveals a Hawaii rarely seen on screen—sacred heiau temples, the fierce precision of Kapu Ku'ialua martial arts, and the intricate systems of alliance and influence that shaped the islands long before Western ships broke the horizon. One way the series honors its roots is through its embrace of the Hawaiian language. Much of the show, including its first two episodes, is spoken in ʻOlelo Hawai'i, the lyrical native tongue of the islands. 'The truth is, to hear and to know someone's language is to know the people and the way they think,' Sibbett says. 'It was integral.' Reviving the language was a profound challenge. Generations ago, colonizers suppressed the teaching of ʻOlelo Hawai'i in schools, and the number of fluent speakers declined sharply as English became the language of business and governance. It wasn't until the '70s that a revitalization movement began, documenting native speakers and teaching the language to new generations. For Chief of War, the casting process required extraordinary care to find actors who could master ʻOlelo Hawai'i. 'I was probably the worst at it, but we worked really hard,' Momoa admits with a laugh. 'Even if I was directing, my language coach was literally off camera, and he was the deciding factor of whether I could move on [from a scene].' That same reverence for authenticity extended to the series' soundscape. Hans Zimmer, whose unforgettable scores for Gladiator, The Lion King, and 2021's Dune have helped define entire cinematic eras, was a top choice. But landing this particular composer seemed unlikely to the creative team, at first. To persuade Zimmer, Momoa and Mendoza staged what Momoa calls a 'Hail Mary' pitch. They took a small catamaran out to O'ahu's North Shore, where the actor donned a makeshift cape and helmet and filmed striking imagery—a 'bunch of awesome little motifs,' as he puts it—meant to capture the tone and spirit of the series. They quickly cut the footage into a rough trailer, layered it with Zimmer's music they already loved, and sent it along with the script, hoping to give him a visceral sense of what the project would feel like. When they finally called Zimmer for the meeting, Momoa braced for rejection. 'We were ready with this 20-minute pitch, like, 'No, but you have to listen to us… it's so very dear to us, and no one's ever done this,'' he recalls. But before they could even launch into their appeal, Zimmer interrupted: 'When do we start?' The resulting score is lush and layered. Deep percussion, haunting choral chants, and soaring strings lend a sense of gravitas and grandeur to the show's most intimate and epic moments. Zimmer, who composed the show's main theme, collaborated with James Everingham on the broader score, which incorporates traditional Hawaiian instruments like shark-skin drums. The composers also worked closely with Native Hawaiian artist Kaumakaiwa Kanaka'ole to ensure the music remained rooted in cultural authenticity. It becomes a sonic bridge between past and present, helping build a vision of old Hawaii that feels raw, tactile, and alive. A show shaped by fire and sea Filmed across Hawaii and New Zealand, Chief of War is as ambitious in its scope and scale as it is in its storytelling. Guided by cultural experts and consultants, authenticity shaped every frame of the series. 'It felt holistic,' says showrunner, executive producer and co-writer Doug Jung. That ethos, he explains, eliminated 'guesswork' or well-intentioned but inaccurate choices. 'There was always a right way. We aimed for that, while also obviously accounting for modern times.' Entire coastal villages were painstakingly reconstructed using traditional techniques. Canoe builders crafted 47 traditional Hawaiian wa'as—double-hulled voyaging canoes—while more than 42,000 feet of Evolon, a lightweight fabric prized for its strength and versatility in costume design, went into garments that honored the textures and designs of the era, including the feathered capes and cloaks worn by high chiefs. The production was pushed even further for the show's more heart-pounding moments. For one adrenaline-fueled sequence between Ka'iana and King Kamehameha I, played in the show by Makua, the team recreated holua sled racing, a sacred Hawaiian sport. In Awhitu, a rugged coastal stretch of New Zealand, the crew filmed riders launching themselves down mile-long tracks of hardened lava on sleds scarcely six inches wide, reaching speeds of nearly 60 miles per hour before plunging into the Pacific. Much of the sequence was filmed practically, with cameras placed low to the ground to mimic the terrifying velocity and perspective of the riders. Other scenes demanded something even more elemental. On the Big Island, 75 stunt performers gathered on the black lava fields of Kalapana to film one of the series' climactic battles. The land was silent, jagged rock stretching for miles, until Mauna Loa stirred. Without warning, the volcano erupted for the first time in 38 years. For safety, the crew consulted the production's geologist; filming went on as the volcano rumbled in the distance. On the final day of shooting in the black desert, they wrapped production and celebrated with a small party. By the next morning, the eruption ceased. For members of the cast and crew, the timing felt uncanny, as if the island itself was somehow answering back, its living history mirroring the story they were telling. When the past rises like a wave With Chief of War, a story at once intimate and sweeping confronts Hawaiian history in all its peril and beauty, drawing centuries of memory back into the light. 'We wanted the story to feel universal,' Sibbett says. 'It doesn't matter where you're from. We all go through the same things. You can look at this and easily equate it to something like the Iliad of the Pacific. It doesn't have to be seen only as a Hawaiian story, but the texture is Hawaiian. The nuances are Hawaiian.' The series may unfold in another time and place, but it speaks to enduring truths. It resists simple answers and rejects one-dimensional heroes. King Kamehameha I is both unifier and conqueror; Ka'iana is at once loyal and conflicted. Even the foreign sailors—some allies, others opportunists—have nuance and complexity. 'Any time you can present any culture with as full of the spectrum of human experience as you can, it just makes that culture more identifiable,' Jung says. 'You see yourself in it.' At one point during the conversation, Momoa glances at his feet, silent for a beat, lost in thought. Reflecting on the years spent bringing Chief of War to life, his voice softens. Learning the islands' native tongue has, he says, deepened his bond with his lineage. When he walks through Honolulu's Bishop Museum, a shrine to its cultural and natural history, he can read the ancient words etched on its walls with understanding. 'It's slow to happen for me, but I'm always going to continue on [learning],' he says. 'My kids are learning now, and I look forward to growing old and being able to hopefully speak to my grandchildren in Hawaiian, too.'
