Simu Liu talks new projects, his new venture capital fund, and his mission to advocate for Asian representation

“F1 is a lightning rod for the rest of the world,” Liu says, “so whether it’s meeting potential investors or doing a lot of networking, the root of that is that I’ve always believed that Singapore was going to play a crucial role in the growth of my career,” he shares when asked how he found the city so far. 

Business is not unfamiliar territory for Liu—his business school background and forays into angel investing had laid the groundwork—and he has a clear purpose to pursue. This commitment to uplifting his community serves as his North Star, guiding him through every endeavour.

For much of his career, Liu has been dedicated to telling authentic stories about his community. Yet, long before he had the platform to do so, his journey was marked by struggles. As outlined in his memoir We Were Dreamers: An Immigrant Superhero Story, his story is one of resilience, deeply rooted in his experience as a child of Chinese immigrants navigating the cultural and generational expectations placed upon him. 

His memoir traces the origins of his family–from his parents’ teenage years during China’s Cultural Revolution and overcoming immense odds to study engineering in Beijing and his early childhood, in which he was raised by his grandparents in Harbin, China, while his parents pursued graduate degrees in Canada. At five, Liu moved to Canada, and it wasn’t long before he felt the full weight of his parents’ expectations. In the early years, as he writes in his memoir, he embodied the “model-minority Asian excellence” his parents desired. He was a “willing participant” in daily IQ tests, piano lessons, and Mandarin classes, all while quietly grappling with the mounting pressure to meet his parents’ ever-growing expectations.

But then puberty hit. And he began to push back against the rigid expectations his parents had set for his success while seeking the validation he desperately craved at home. In doing so, a rift grew between them, at times spiralling into emotional and physical abuse—details he recounts in raw, heartbreaking detail in his memoir.

Reflecting on these challenging years, Liu explains, “My parents were both electrical engineers. They left China because of their academic achievements. They were incredibly smart people, and I think they passed not only those values but also those expectations on to me.” As an only child, he felt all the pressure of their accomplishments funnelled into an expectation that he would not only follow in their footsteps but somehow surpass them. “Growing up with that expectation constantly on my shoulders, I was always expected to get good grades, to be fully engaged in the path they had chosen. And I could only use their blueprint for success.”

Liu has since reconciled with his parents, who now appreciate his passion for acting. Just hours after our interview, they were set to check in at Marina Bay Sands hotel for the remainder of his stay in Singapore.

Growing up as the “butt of his classmates’ jokes”, Liu details in his memoir how he “always dreamed of being popular—like a class comedian or a star athlete who was universally admired.” His need for acceptance, coupled with the pressure to meet his parents’ lofty expectations, became a powerful internal conflict that drove much of his youth. While his friends sought out resume-boosting jobs, Liu rebelled in his own way—by taking a job as a model at Abercrombie & Fitch. “I both resented and admired this white bastion of male beauty, and wanted nothing more than to be ogled and pined for,” he writes. It was a form of defiance, challenging the moulds that were carved for him, particularly as “Asian men were frequently undateable—pretty much exactly what my parents were trying to make into.”

On this path of self-discovery, he pursued various facets of the arts throughout his school years, starting a boy band and becoming a “pretty good singer and hip-hop dancer” by his senior year. However, it wasn’t until he discovered tricking—an acrobatic form of martial arts—that Liu found a deeper connection to his creative ambitions.

Back then, he noted that many of the prominent members of the tricking community were stuntmen in television and film. “I figured it was just a fun thing to daydream about as I pursued a successful career in business,” he writes.

But corporate life, as it turned out, wasn’t the path to his success that his parents had envisioned. After graduating, Liu landed a job as an accountant at Deloitte—a position that seemed stable and prestigious on paper but left him feeling desperately unfulfilled. “Anyone who knows me would have said ‘that’s a very ill-advised career for you,’” Liu recalls. Yet he was still “trying to toe the line and be a good son and do the thing my parents had instilled in me, which is get a stable job.”

It all came to a head when Liu was fired from Deloitte, a moment he describes as both devastating and liberating. “That day was just the hardest day. Everything that my family had invested in me had culminated in such a critical failure,” he remembers, citing how his firing was largely due to his decision to skip work and be an extra on the set of the American science fiction film Pacific Rim.

Though it felt like a monumental setback at the time, it ultimately “freed me from all of that expectation and weight,” he recalls. “From there, it led me to saying that I’m just going to give [acting] a try.” But what followed was far from easy. Over the next few years, Liu faced considerable hardship, often teetering on the brink of poverty as he struggled to find stable work in the industry.

Determined to break into acting, he took on small roles and bit parts, including a cameo in Avicii’s I Could Be The One music video, various commercials, and short films. Many of these roles, unfortunately, leaned into caricatures and stereotypes. “As much as I … want to slap my younger self for it … playing into stereotypes was a necessary part of the job,” he writes in his memoir. These early experiences would come to shape his understanding of representation and the need to fight against the narrow, often harmful portrayals of Asian characters on screen.

By 2012, however, Liu had already crafted his own superhero story—one that defied the industry’s limited imagination for Asian actors. Crimson Defender vs. The Slightly Racist Family, a short film Liu wrote, directed, and starred in, was created as part of an annual programme by his acting union in Toronto.

While it was no blockbuster, the film allowed Liu to write his own narrative, creating the kind of Asian superhero role he dreamed of playing long before the world was ready for his MCU character.

Nearly a decade later, that dream would be realised when he was cast in the groundbreaking role of Shang-Chi in Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, catapulting him to international stardom. “How do you quantify the odds of becoming Shang-Chi? There’s only one Shang-Chi. Only one Marvel superhero that they gave to the [Asian American community],” Liu reflects, shaking his head in disbelief. “The fact that for whatever reason at that point in time … it was me. It’s just crazy.”

Before his Marvel breakthrough, Liu had already established himself in Canada, portraying the estranged prodigal son Jung Kim on the sitcom Kim’s Convenience, which he describes as his “little break before my big break.” The show, centred on a Korean-Canadian family running a convenience store in Toronto, features parents Appa and Umma, along with their daughter Janet. It became a cultural touchstone, especially after its debut on Netflix.

“I think what Kim’s Convenience did for so many Canadians who weren’t Asian is it normalised the immigrant experience. It gave them a reference point and familiarity when they saw an Asian family on the street,” he says.

As the show gained popularity on Netflix, its impact became even more widespread. “It showed the world what an immigrant family in Canada looked like,” Liu posits. “We became little Canadian pseudo-celebrities. Armenian, Indian, Pakistani, and Middle Eastern families would come up to us and say how the dynamics between Appa and Umma, Appa and Jung, mirrored their own families. What I learned was that, in many ways, we’re all the same—it just takes specificity to get there.”

Now, with the benefit of hindsight and a burgeoning career that allows him to pick his roles carefully, Liu looks back on his past work with a sense of understanding. “In the past, the way that you’ve seen a lot of Asian representation in movies that were not written by Asian people, ran the risk of stereotypes. That kind of stereotype intrinsically comes from not being the master of your own narrative,” he explains.

As an actor and producer, Liu is now more determined than ever to be in control of his story and take on the inevitable responsibility of representation. “As an artist, you have to try to do good work … [which] can be reflected in a multitude of different ways … It can be portraying really specific Asian characters with a lot of nuance. It can also be breaking a door down and being in a space we originally weren’t.”

His role as Ken in Greta Gerwig’s Barbie—the only role he had to audition for after Shang-Chi, as Gerwig insisted that everyone audition regardless of their fame—is a prime example of this evolving representation. 

“I don’t want to speak for her, but I don’t think Greta ever set out to cast an Asian Ken,” Liu says. “At no point was she like, ‘I’m going to have one Asian, one Black, and one white Ken.’” Instead, Liu’s casting came as a natural fit and proof of his ability to transcend stereotypical roles and exist in spaces that were once inaccessible to Asian actors.

Landing the role, not just as any Ken, but as Ryan Gosling’s rival, was a victory that resonated deeply. “It’s incredibly meaningful. For Asian people, when have we ever felt like we could stand head to head, and eye to eye with Ryan Gosling? He’s a very handsome man,” he shares with a laugh.

Liu highlights that Asian characters are often made to play “low status characters.” He expounds, “To exist in a space where we wouldn’t have otherwise gotten the opportunity—where Ken could have been played by anyone—that was very meaningful to me. [It allowed me] to break into rooms that people wouldn’t expect Asian people to be in,” he says.

Despite the breakthroughs for Asian artists in North America, Liu believes the communities are getting accustomed to seeing their own achieve significant success and representation in the media. “We’ve never had it before,” he observes, noting that this unfamiliarity sometimes translates into a lack of wholehearted support, “I think we’re still getting used to seeing the level of success and representation that we have.” He recognises a desire for representation and opportunities, but also a subtle undercurrent of what he describes as “tall poppy syndrome”.

“We want to see people do well,” he suggests, “but we don’t want to see people do so well.” This manifests in a reluctance to offer unwavering support, especially during challenging times.

Liu says he experienced this firsthand–which isn’t hard to believe, given the online critique about him–as had his friends in the industry. He feels that support often flows freely during moments of triumph—big premieres, award nominations—but wanes when things get tough. “It’s one thing to support when it’s easy; It’s another to support when it’s hard,” he says with a sigh. 

Now more than ever, while the community is finally breaking ground in representation, he stresses the need for encouragement and acceptance. “We need that push and that wave of positivity,” he urges, “to say ‘we’re behind you, whether you make a perfect movie or not’”. He longs for the day when the community would embrace their artists unconditionally, celebrating their successes and offering solace during setbacks.

“I don’t think we’re there yet, if I'm honest,” he says in between pauses, as if weighing his words. “And I say that as somebody who is a literal Marvel superhero. I’ve really felt that the greatest criticisms and the most hatred and kind of negative energy actually comes from within the community.”

With a shrug, he adds, “It’s the reality of the times, and where we’re at. Maybe 20 or 30 years from now, it’ll be different. But for now, it’s been tough.”

With rumours swirling about the release date of Shang-Chi 2, Liu remains busy with a host of myriad other projects. This year alone, we’ve seen him in Netflix’s sci-film Atlas alongside Jennifer Lopez, adventure film Arthur the King co-starring Mark Wahlberg, and Jackpot! with Shang-Chi co-star Awkwafina. Next year, he’ll unveil another slate of films, including the survival thriller Upcoming.

But Liu’s pursuits extend beyond acting. As he sits for hair and makeup, he’s multitasking—reviewing self-tapes for actresses auditioning for a new TV show he’s producing. It seems he has his finger in every pie. His creative output spans beyond film; two years ago, he released his debut EP, Anxious and Avoidant, which aligns with a lifelong passion that predates his acting career.

“Before I wanted to be an actor,” he reveals, “I wanted to be a pop star in a boy band.” While those boyband dreams might have faded with time, his love for music never did. “I taught myself to sing at 14 years old, and would write songs for my girlfriends,” he says, subtly cringing at the memory. “It doesn’t matter if a million people listen to it or 100,000 people listen to it,” he shares. “It is something that I got to do, which is really fantastic.”   

As the interview draws to a close, the conversation returns to his VC fund. “We’re working with a company called X&,” he explains, “which is basically white-labelled venture capital for celebrities like Kevin Hart, Steve Aoki, and Keisuke Honda, a Japanese football legend who lives in Singapore.” He is excited to join the ranks of other high-profile investors like Giannis Antetokounmpo, who are also working with X&. “What they’re really good at is identifying the mission statements of each individual celebrity and building funds around us that can amplify our core messaging.” 

Liu sees this as a natural extension of his mission to champion representation and uplift his community. “Just as there are Asian American actors and actresses that are struggling to be seen,” he says, “there are also Asian and Asian American founders and entrepreneurs that are struggling to get their businesses off the ground.”

Liu is now actively fundraising and building a network of investors who share his passion for representation and community empowerment. “One of the things that I want to put my mark on is this world of startups,” he declares. “I want to uplift Asian American artists ... and founders,” he affirms, “and that falls into my wider mission statement of just uplifting our community in general,” he concludes.

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