Filmmaker Beth Harrington’s discovery of Frank Matsura’s photography at the Washington State History Museum in 2002 marked the beginning of a deep fascination with a photographer whose work possessed a "completely different character" from his contemporaries. This Japanese immigrant, who lived and worked in Okanogan County, Washington, from 1903 to 1913, left behind a profound legacy captured in thousands of black-and-white images. Matsura’s photographs are distinguished by his palpable charisma and his intimate connection with his subjects, a diverse community that included both white settlers and Indigenous peoples of the Colville Indian Reservation. His approach was uniquely personal; he often included himself playfully in his compositions, fostering a sense of shared experience with those he documented.

Despite the richness of his photographic output, biographical details about Matsura’s life remain scarce, with his death from tuberculosis at the young age of 39 in 1913 marking the end of his brief but impactful career. Yet, over a century later, the communities he so vividly portrayed continue to hold his memory dear, a testament to the lasting impact of his work and his gentle spirit. Harrington, who moved to the Pacific Northwest from Boston in the early 2000s, spent nearly two decades unraveling Matsura’s enigmatic legacy before completing her feature-length documentary, Our Mr. Matsura, in 2025. The film’s title reflects Harrington’s belief that "everybody has a point of entry" into understanding Matsura, with each viewer finding a personal connection through his evocative imagery.

The enduring affection for Matsura was evident at a recent screening of Our Mr. Matsura at the restored Omak Theater, where an audience of approximately 300 gathered. Douglas Woodrow, a lifelong resident of Okanogan, shared his childhood memories of seeing Matsura’s photographs regularly featured in the local newspaper. As a boy in the late 1950s, Woodrow would cycle to the very locations depicted in these historical images, marveling at the transformations and imagining the grandeur of structures like the Bureau Hotel, a once-elegant three-story building that burned down in 1924. His return to Okanogan decades later led to a deeper engagement with Matsura’s work, particularly when, as a volunteer for the Okanogan County Historical Society, he unearthed a "literal shoebox" of previously uncatalogued photographs. These images chronicled the 1910 construction of the Conconully Dam, an early Bureau of Reclamation project, sparking in Woodrow a renewed passion for Matsura’s archival contributions. His subsequent efforts to present these photographs to community groups marked his first significant undertaking in preserving Matsura’s legacy.

Woodrow’s dedication extended to a journey to Tokyo, where he visited Matsura’s birthplace alongside his friend and fellow enthusiast, Tetsuo Kurihara, a Japanese photographer he had met during Kurihara’s research trip to Okanogan. Back in Washington, Woodrow spearheaded initiatives to honor Matsura’s memory, including the installation of an interpretive site near his former studio and the creation of a walking tour featuring 21 mural-sized reproductions of his photographs. Woodrow emphasizes Matsura’s "extraordinary social mobility," noting that he was a ubiquitous presence, photographing "just about everything that happened in town, by all the social strata"—from tribal members to burgeoning businessmen, miners, and saloon patrons.

Among those featured in Our Mr. Matsura are descendants of Matsura’s subjects, including Randy Lewis, a Wenatchi (P’Squosa) elder and member of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation. Lewis has been instrumental in organizing regional screenings of the film, including a memorable "barn screening" in Winthrop, Washington, followed by a traditional salmon bake. His family’s history serves as a poignant example of the enduring legacy of the world Matsura captured. The film includes a photograph of Lewis’s great-uncle, Sam George, with his family in a buckboard wagon, which Lewis refers to as "the F-250 of the time." This photograph held deep personal significance for George, who, in his final years, would gaze at it, using it to recall the names and birthdays of everyone depicted.

Sam George’s long life, spanning 108 years, encompassed immense societal shifts. Born in 1860, before the official establishment of the Colville Indian Reservation in 1872, he witnessed its subsequent reduction, the era of land allotment, and the influx of prospectors and homesteaders. His family, like many Indigenous families, maintained traditional seasonal fishing practices, including a platform at Celilo Falls, a vital hub for sustenance and culture until its inundation by The Dalles Dam in 1957. Lewis reflects that Matsura arrived in the region during a critical period of cultural evolution for both Native and settler communities. "We were into a new century, and he was capturing that," Lewis observes, highlighting that Matsura’s lens focused not on decline, but on the continuation of life and cultural vitality.

Harrington’s documentary is as much a portrait of Okanogan County as it is of Matsura himself, depicting the region’s isolated and rugged beauty, a landscape that has remained remarkably unchanged since Matsura’s time. Jean Berney, a third-generation rancher and farmer near Conconully, describes the area as "off the beaten track for a lot of people." A member of the Colville Confederated Tribes who married into a non-Native cattle-ranching family, Berney has achieved national recognition for her conservation-minded approach to ranching and her dedication to the 4-H program. Her land once hosted the Conconully Naturpathy Institute, more commonly known as Casselmann’s Sanitarium, established in 1906 by German immigrant Dr. Casselmann to treat tuberculosis patients. It is widely believed that Matsura himself may have been a patient, drawn to the region’s dry climate as a potential therapeutic measure.

Berney often contemplates Matsura’s experiences in this remote landscape, wondering about his interactions with Dr. Casselmann and the duration of his illness. "We wonder about Frank and everything that happened a long time ago, and we can’t ask," she laments, underscoring the poignant silences in the historical record.

Our Mr. Matsura contributes to a growing body of work dedicated to the photographer. This includes the diligent efforts of volunteers at the Okanogan County Historical Society and the academic contributions of Michael Holloman, an art professor at Washington State University. In 2023, Holloman co-curated a significant exhibition of Matsura’s work at Spokane’s Northwest Museum of Arts and Culture, and in 2025, he published Frank S. Matsura: Iconoclast Photographer of the American West. Holloman, an enrolled member of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation, draws a parallel between Matsura’s approach and the contemporary need for connection and resilience, stating, "We need people to be like Frank right now, to engage multiple communities and be able to find life, vibrancy, in a world that is in transformation and change."

The intended wide release of Our Mr. Matsura on PBS’s The American Experience was regrettably impacted by federal funding cuts that led to the cessation of the long-running series. Despite this setback, Harrington remains optimistic that the film will find its audience through film festivals, streaming platforms, and special community screenings, echoing the success of the Omak event. She acknowledges the challenges ahead, stating, "There’s a lot of worthy things that we can’t put a dollar value to… These stories… we’re poorer for them when we don’t have them."

During the Omak screening, Harrington expressed her gratitude for the community’s acknowledgment of her efforts to "mirror" the trust Matsura cultivated with his subjects over a century prior. However, she was quick to return the compliment, emphasizing that the film’s resonance lies not solely in Matsura’s charisma and remarkable body of work, but equally in "the way people uphold his memory and still talk about him 112 years after his death." This enduring connection between the photographer and the community he documented highlights the profound and lasting power of his photographic legacy.