Not Your China Doll: The Wild and Shimmering Life of Anna May Wong
by Katy Gee Salisbury
Penguin Random House
Published March 12, 2025
Author Talk March 22, 2025
Katie Gee Salisbury’s Not Your China Doll offers a compelling and insightful portrait of Anna May Wong, the first Asian film superstar, who stood in the bright lights of Hollywood long before Lucy Liu, Ali Wong, or Constance Wu were born. Wong, a one-time flapper and silent film star, reinvented herself several times over the course of a career that spanned decades. In her fight against racism and misogyny, she developed a unique style all her own, defying the odds in an industry that sought to keep her down.
Born to Chinese parents in Los Angeles, Anna May spent much of her childhood working in her family’s laundry business. Despite being born on U.S. soil, she was not considered a citizen, and she longed to become a movie star. She would often skip her Chinese language lessons to creep around the film sets that came to Chinatown, dreaming of a future that seemed out of reach. These dreams existed in the shadow of the Chinese Exclusionary Act and the Hays Code. As a public we seem to love stories of real-life heroes overcoming immense odds, yet Wong is rarely at the forefront of these narratives.
Her first big break came in the form of the experimental film The Toll of the Sea. Meant to showcase what color film could do, it was not expected to be a major box-office success, which allowed Anna May to be cast as an unknown. Her talent quickly caught the attention of actor/producer Douglas Fairbanks, the “King of Hollywood,” who cast her in the role of a Mongol slave in The Thief of Bagdad, hoping her exotic looks and ability to cry on cue would captivate audiences. She almost outshone costar Mary Pickford, and with that success, her career was launched.
As her popularity grew, however, the roles she was offered did not. Though she received hundreds of fan letters, more than many of her white counterparts, the restrictive Motion Picture Production Code—also known as the Hays Code—stood in her way. The code’s rigid rules stated that no movie made in the United States could “lower the moral standards of those who see it,” which meant that even an interracial kiss would have been deemed indecent. Anna May found herself constantly passed over for white actors in yellow-face, biding her time in stereotypical roles of villainess, slave, or hapless victim. She joked, “When I die, my epitaph should be: I died a thousand deaths. That was the story of my film career.”
“In not so many words, happy endings could not be permitted to someone like Anna May Wong, a woman of color,” Salisbury writes.
Wong traveled the world in search of roles that offered more diversity, from pre-WW2 Berlin to the UK. It took three years for Hollywood to take notice of her again. She reinvented herself several times, saying, “Someday someone will write a story demanding a real Chinese girl—then perhaps I'll have my chance.”
Although Hollywood sidelined her, the public’s admiration for Wong never waned: She was even voted “World’s Best Dressed Woman” by the Mayfair Mannequin Society—a remarkable achievement for an Asian woman of her time. And when The Good Earth, the wildly popular novel by Pearl S. Buck, was adapted into a film, it seemed like Wong would finally get her chance to play a Chinese woman. She was passed over in favor of Paul Muni and Luise Rainer, both of European descent, who would play the roles in the dreaded yellow-face. Wong was offered the role of the maid, and with this slap in the face, she left for China.
The Chinese people were angered by the roles she had played, feeling they had been portrayed poorly, and did not provide the warm embrace she expected. There she met Warner Oland, the actor who played the popular Charlie Chan character. Though of European descent, he was embraced by the Chinese public for bringing dignity to the role. Inspired, Anna May pitched the idea of a female Charlie Chan to Paramount, and though it was a B-movie, the film marked a new chapter in her career. She finally began to create the roles she had always wanted.
Salisbury’s exhaustive research and captivating storytelling give us a deeper understanding of Wong’s journey. “She learned to never allow others to define her. Instead, she claimed her own identity,” Salisbury writes. “She was neither a flapper nor a mythical Chinese maiden. She was simply an American who cherished both her Chinese heritage and her independence as a twentieth-century woman.”
By the 1950s, Anna May’s health had deteriorated, the result of her long battle with alcoholism. Her star had faded, and she had retreated into isolation, ashamed of the toll her health had taken on her looks. Still, she was preparing for a comeback with Flower Drum Song. Tragically, she passed away from a heart attack just a week before filming began.
Not Your China Doll is a testament to Anna May Wong’s resilience and fearlessness, providing a fresh perspective on the barriers she broke and the legacy she left behind. Salisbury’s careful research and engaging prose reveal a woman who fought for her place in a system that was not built to allow her to succeed. As a half-Asian citizen of the United States, I cannot help but reflect on her courage. Making a name for herself at a time when my very existence would have been deemed illegal, Anna May Wong’s story is one of what is possible when a star so bright learns to flow like water, weaving through a system meant to block her way. Not Your China Doll honors her unwavering journey and reminds us all of the power of determination.
