Filmmaker Beth Harrington’s encounter with the work of Frank Matsura at the Washington State History Museum in 2002 proved transformative, igniting a decades-long fascination with the Japanese immigrant photographer whose images captured a unique spirit of the American West. While visiting an exhibit featuring lesser-known contemporaries of Edward S. Curtis, Matsura’s photographs “just leapt out” at Harrington, possessing a “completely different character” that resonated deeply. Matsura’s charisma and profound connection with his subjects shine through in his evocative black-and-white imagery, which documents the diverse tapestry of life in Okanogan, Washington, during the early 20th century. His subjects included both white settlers and Indigenous peoples of the Colville Indian Reservation, individuals with whom he forged genuine relationships, often playfully posing alongside them.

Matsura lived and worked in Okanogan County from 1903 to 1913, succumbing to tuberculosis at the young age of 39. Despite the thousands of images he left behind, details of his life remain scarce, yet his impact endures, with communities he documented still cherishing his memory. “Frank Matsura is just somebody that you fall in love with,” Harrington remarked, explaining the genesis of her feature-length documentary, Our Mr. Matsura, completed in 2025 after she relocated to the Pacific Northwest from Boston in the early 2000s. The title itself reflects the multifaceted perception of Matsura, suggesting that each viewer finds their own "little window" into his character, forming a collective understanding through these individual impressions.

The film’s resonance was palpable at a screening last September at the restored Omak Theater, where an audience of approximately 300 gathered. Douglas Woodrow, a lifelong resident of Okanogan, shared his early exposure to Matsura’s work through the local newspaper, which frequently published his photographs of the past. As a child in the late 1950s, Woodrow would cycle to the locations depicted in these images, marveling at the changes over time and imagining the grandeur of structures like the Bureau Hotel, which, though destroyed by fire in 1924, once lent an air of elegance to the otherwise unassuming town.

Woodrow’s re-engagement with Matsura’s legacy occurred decades later when he began volunteering with the Okanogan County Historical Society. There, he discovered a forgotten collection of unprocessed photographs in a “literal shoebox.” These images, when sequenced, chronicled the 1910 construction of the Conconully Dam, an early project by the Bureau of Reclamation on Salmon Creek. This discovery "just lit me up," Woodrow recalled, leading him to present these historical photographs to community groups, marking his initial foray into preserving Matsura’s work.

His dedication extended to a journey to Tokyo, Matsura’s birthplace, accompanied by Tetsuo Kurihara, a Japanese photographer he met during Kurihara’s research trip to Okanogan. Back in Washington, Woodrow spearheaded efforts to honor Matsura’s legacy, including the establishment of an interpretive site near the photographer’s former studio and the creation of a walking tour featuring 21 mural-sized reproductions of his photographs. Woodrow highlighted Matsura’s remarkable social mobility, noting his ability to be included in virtually all community events across social strata, from tribal members to newly arrived businessmen, miners, and saloon patrons.

Randy Lewis, a Wenatchi elder and member of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation, is among the many descendants of Matsura’s subjects featured in Our Mr. Matsura. Lewis has actively participated in regional screenings of the film, including a unique “barn screening” in Winthrop, Washington, followed by a traditional salmon bake. His family’s story exemplifies the enduring connection to the world Matsura documented. The film includes a photograph of Lewis’s great-uncle, Sam George, with his family in a buckboard wagon, which Lewis described as the "F-250 of the time." This photograph held profound significance for George, who, in his final years, would gaze at it, using it to recall the names and birthdays of everyone depicted, a practice that helped keep his mind engaged.

Sam George lived to be 108, his life beginning in 1860, prior to the official establishment of the Colville Indian Reservation in 1872. He witnessed significant historical shifts, including the reservation’s reduction, the allotment era, and the influx of prospectors and homesteaders. His family, like Lewis, maintained traditional seasonal fishing practices, including a platform at Celilo Falls, a culturally vital site that was ultimately submerged by the construction of The Dalles Dam in 1957, forever altering one of the continent’s richest fishing grounds.

Matsura arrived in the region during a pivotal cultural transition, a period when, according to Lewis, both Native and settler cultures were undergoing evolution. "We were into a new century, and he was capturing that," Lewis observed, emphasizing that Matsura’s work focused not on decline but on the continuity and vitality of life.

Our Mr. Matsura transcends its focus on the photographer, offering a profound portrait of Okanogan County itself, illustrating the rugged, isolated beauty of a landscape largely unchanged since Matsura’s time. Jean Berney, a long-time rancher and farmer near Conconully, describes her home as a place “off the beaten track for a lot of people.” An enrolled member of the Colville Confederated Tribes, Berney married into a non-Native cattle-ranching family and subsequently built her own successful herd, earning national recognition as a conservation-minded rancher and dedicated supporter of the 4-H program.

Her ranch was once the site of the Conconully Naturpathy Institute, also known as Casselmann’s Sanitarium, where Dr. Casselmann, a German immigrant, treated tuberculosis patients starting in 1906. It is widely believed that Matsura was among these patients, with the region’s dry climate possibly being a factor in his relocation. Berney often contemplates Matsura’s experiences in this challenging terrain, musing on whether he ever discussed his condition with Dr. Casselmann and the duration of his illness. These unanswered questions underscore the poignant mystery surrounding Matsura’s life and the limitations of our historical understanding.

Harrington’s documentary joins a growing body of scholarship dedicated to Matsura. This includes the diligent work of volunteers at the Okanogan County Historical Society and the contributions of Michael Holloman, a tenured art professor at Washington State University. Holloman co-curated an exhibition of Matsura’s work at Spokane’s Northwest Museum of Arts and Culture in 2023 and is set to publish Frank S. Matsura: Iconoclast Photographer of the American West in 2025. Holloman, an enrolled member of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Indian Reservation, advocates for the spirit of Matsura’s engagement, 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 The American Experience was curtailed last summer due to federal funding cuts affecting the long-running PBS series. Nevertheless, Harrington remains optimistic about the film’s ability to reach audiences through festivals, streaming platforms, and special screenings, such as the one held in Omak. While acknowledging the increased challenges, she emphasizes the immeasurable value of such stories, 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 received heartfelt thanks for mirroring the trust Matsura cultivated with his subjects over a century ago. She, in turn, expressed her gratitude, highlighting that the film’s narrative extends beyond Matsura himself to encompass the enduring community effort to preserve his memory. “The story is not just about Frank and his charisma and his incredible body of work,” she concluded, “It’s about the way people uphold his memory and still talk about him 112 years after his death.”