Filmmaker Beth Harrington first encountered the evocative work of Frank Matsura in 2002, during a visit to the Washington State History Museum in Tacoma. Amidst an exhibition of Edward S. Curtis’s contemporaries, Matsura’s photographs immediately seized her attention, revealing a "completely different character" to the images she had just seen. Matsura, a Japanese immigrant, imbued his striking black-and-white portraits with a palpable charisma and a profound connection to his subjects. His lens captured a diverse cross-section of Okanogan, Washington, and the Indigenous people of the nearby Colville Indian Reservation, often posing playfully alongside the individuals he photographed, a testament to his deep rapport.

Matsura lived and worked in Okanogan County from 1903 to 1913, succumbing to tuberculosis at the young age of 39. Beyond these biographical details and the thousands of images he left behind, much of his life remains undocumented, a historical enigma. Yet, more than a century later, the communities he documented continue to hold his memory dear. Harrington, who moved to the Northwest from Boston in the early 2000s, found herself drawn to Matsura’s captivating legacy, dedicating nearly two decades to its exploration before completing her feature-length documentary, Our Mr. Matsura, in 2025.

The title of Harrington’s film, she explained, reflects the idea that "everybody has a point of entry" into understanding Matsura’s life and work, with each individual impression contributing to a collective sense of who he was. This sentiment resonated deeply with attendees at a screening of the film last September at the restored Omak Theater, where an audience of approximately 300 gathered to celebrate the photographer’s enduring impact.

Douglas Woodrow, a lifelong resident of Okanogan, shared his childhood fascination with Matsura’s photographs, which frequently graced the pages of 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 time had wrought. He particularly recalled imagining the grandeur of the Bureau Hotel, a majestic three-story structure that burned down in 1924, believing it had once lent "a bit of elegance in an otherwise dusty little town."

Returning to Okanogan years later, Woodrow found himself re-engaging with "Frank," as he and other local enthusiasts affectionately refer to Matsura. His volunteer work with the Okanogan County Historical Society led him to discover a "literal shoebox" filled with unprocessed photographs by Matsura. 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, Woodrow recounted, "just lit me up," inspiring his initial Matsura project: presenting these unearthed photographs to community groups.

Woodrow’s dedication extended to a pilgrimage to Matsura’s birthplace in Tokyo, accompanied by his friend and fellow enthusiast, Tetsuo Kurihara, a Japanese photographer he had first met in Okanogan during Kurihara’s own research trip. Back in Washington, Woodrow tirelessly worked to preserve Matsura’s legacy, spearheading initiatives such as the creation of an interpretive site near the photographer’s former studio and the development of a walking tour featuring mural-sized reproductions of his work.

"His social mobility was extraordinary," Woodrow observed, highlighting Matsura’s ability to transcend social boundaries. He photographed virtually everyone in town, including tribal members, newly arrived white businessmen, miners, and saloon patrons, indicating his inclusion in "just about everything that happened in town, by all the social strata."

Randy Lewis, a Wenatchi (P’Squosa) 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 community screenings of the film, including a memorable "barn screening" in Winthrop, Washington, followed by a salmon bake. His family’s story exemplifies the enduring legacy of the world Matsura captured.

The film includes a poignant photograph of Lewis’s great-uncle, Sam George, with his family in a buckboard wagon – what Lewis humorously calls "the F-250 of the time." Lewis shared that this photograph hung in his family home during his time as caretaker for George in his final years. George, he recounted, would often gaze at the photo, using it as a mental anchor to recall the names and birthdays of everyone in the wagon, a practice that he believed "kept his mind going."

Sam George lived to be 108 years old. His birth in 1860 predated the establishment of the Colville Indian Reservation in 1872, and his exceptionally long life spanned significant historical shifts, including the reservation’s reduction, the allotment era, and the influx of gold-seekers and homesteaders. He and his family, including Lewis, maintained their traditional seasonal fishing practices, including a platform at Celilo Falls, until its inundation by the construction of The Dalles Dam in 1957, which submerged one of the continent’s richest fishing grounds.

Matsura arrived in the region during a period of profound cultural transition. Lewis noted that both Native and settler cultures were evolving as the new century dawned, and Matsura was there to document "life going on," rather than focusing solely on the "death toll of the Indians."

Our Mr. Matsura is as much a portrait of Okanogan County as it is of the photographer himself. Harrington’s film vividly portrays the isolated and rugged beauty of a landscape that has remained remarkably unchanged since Matsura’s time. Jean Berney, a third-generation rancher and farmer near Conconully, described the area as "off the beaten track for a lot of people," yet undeniably beautiful. Berney, an enrolled member of the Colville Confederated Tribes, married into a non-Native cattle-ranching family and established her own successful herd, earning national recognition as a conservation-minded rancher deeply involved in the 4-H program.

Her ranch was once the site of the Conconully Naturpathy Institute, more commonly known as Casselmann’s Sanitarium. Dr. Casselmann, a German immigrant, began treating tuberculosis patients there in 1906, and many believe Matsura himself may have been a patient, drawn to the region by its dry climate, which was often prescribed for respiratory ailments. Berney often reflects on Matsura’s journeys across this challenging terrain, musing, "Did he ever talk to Dr. Casselmann about his condition? How long was he sick? We wonder about Frank and everything that happened a long time ago, and we can’t ask."

Harrington’s documentary joins a growing body of scholarship dedicated to Matsura. Volunteers at the Okanogan County Historical Society have meticulously preserved his work, while Michael Holloman, an art professor at Washington State University and an enrolled member of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation, has been instrumental in bringing Matsura’s photography to wider attention. Holloman co-curated an exhibition of Matsura’s work for Spokane’s Northwest Museum of Arts and Culture in 2023 and published the book Frank S. Matsura: Iconoclast Photographer of the American West in 2025.

Holloman articulated a profound connection between Matsura’s life and contemporary needs, 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 wide release of Our Mr. Matsura was initially planned for The American Experience but was impacted by federal funding cuts that led to the cancellation of the long-running PBS series. Despite this setback, Harrington remains optimistic that the film will find its audience through film festivals, streaming platforms, and special screenings, echoing the success of the Omak showing. However, she acknowledges the increased challenges ahead.

"There’s a lot of worthy things that we can’t put a dollar value to," Harrington stated, emphasizing the immense cultural and historical impoverishment that results from the loss of such stories. "These stories… we’re poorer for them when we don’t have them."

During the Omak screening, Harrington was thanked for "mirroring" the trust and rapport that Matsura himself had cultivated with his subjects over a century prior. Yet, the filmmaker was quick to deflect the praise, underscoring that the narrative is not solely about Matsura’s charisma or his remarkable body of work. Instead, she asserted, "It’s about the way people uphold his memory and still talk about him 112 years after his death." This enduring connection, woven through generations, is the true testament to Frank Matsura’s lasting impact on the communities he so vividly documented.