Filmmaker Beth Harrington’s discovery of photographer Frank Matsura’s work at the Washington State History Museum in 2002 proved to be a pivotal moment, igniting a passion that would culminate in a feature-length documentary decades later. Amidst an exhibit of Edward S. Curtis’s contemporaries, Matsura’s photographs "just leapt out" at Harrington, possessing a "completely different character" that captivated her. Matsura, a Japanese immigrant who lived and worked in Okanogan County, Washington, from 1903 until his death from tuberculosis at the young age of 39, left behind thousands of striking black-and-white images. His work, characterized by a profound charisma and a deep, personal connection with his subjects, captured a diverse spectrum of life in the region, from white settlers to Indigenous peoples of the Colville Indian Reservation.

Despite the scarcity of detailed biographical information about Matsura’s life, his presence and impact resonate strongly within the communities he documented. Over a century after his passing, his memory is cherished, and his photographs continue to offer intimate glimpses into a formative period of the American West. Harrington, who relocated to the Northwest from Boston in the early 2000s, spent nearly two decades delving into Matsura’s enigmatic legacy before completing her documentary, Our Mr. Matsura, in 2025. The film’s title itself reflects the multifaceted way people perceive Matsura, suggesting that "everybody has a point of entry" and a "little window into who he is," fostering a "collective sense of who he is because of those little impressions."

The documentary’s premiere in September drew approximately 300 people to the restored Omak Theater, highlighting the enduring local interest in Matsura. Douglas Woodrow, an Okanogan native, recalled seeing Matsura’s photographs frequently in the local newspaper during his childhood in the late 1950s. His youthful explorations of the locations depicted in these historical images revealed the dramatic changes that had occurred, sparking his imagination about the former grandeur of structures like the three-story Bureau Hotel, which succumbed to fire in 1924, once providing "a bit of elegance in an otherwise dusty little town."

Returning to Okanogan years later, Woodrow found himself drawn back to Matsura’s work. While volunteering with the Okanogan County Historical Society, he unearthed a "literal shoebox" of uncatalogued photographs by Matsura. These images, when pieced together, 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 recounted, and he began presenting these photos to community groups, marking his first significant project dedicated to Matsura’s legacy.

Woodrow’s dedication extended beyond local archives; his fascination led him to Tokyo, where he visited Matsura’s birthplace alongside his friend and fellow enthusiast, Tetsuo Kurihara, a Japanese photographer he had initially met in Okanogan. Back in Washington, Woodrow actively worked to preserve Matsura’s memory by establishing an interpretive site near the photographer’s former studio and initiating a walking tour featuring mural-sized reproductions of 21 of his photographs. Woodrow observed Matsura’s "extraordinary" social mobility, noting his ability to be "included in just about everything that happened in town, by all the social strata," from tribal members to miners and businessmen.

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 been instrumental in organizing regional screenings of the film, including a "barn screening" in Winthrop, Washington, complete with a salmon bake. His family’s connection to Matsura’s work offers a poignant testament to the continuity of life and memory in the region.

The film prominently features a photograph of Lewis’s great-uncle, Sam George, with his family in a buckboard wagon, which Lewis humorously likened to "the F-250 of the time." He shared that this photograph hung in his family home during his years as caretaker for George in his final years. Lewis recounted how George would "be sitting there staring at that picture," using it to recall the names and birthdays of everyone depicted, a practice that "kept his mind going." Sam George lived to be 108, his life spanning a period of immense change in the region. Born in 1860, prior to the official establishment of the Colville Indian Reservation in 1872, he witnessed its subsequent reduction, the allotment era, and the influx of prospectors and homesteaders. His family, including Lewis, maintained traditional seasonal fishing practices, including a platform at Celilo Falls, a site of immense cultural and economic importance that was ultimately submerged by the construction of The Dalles Dam in 1957, destroying one of the continent’s most vital fishing grounds.

Lewis noted that Matsura arrived in the reservation during a period of significant cultural flux, when both Native and settler communities were undergoing profound transformations. "We were into a new century, and he was capturing that," Lewis stated, emphasizing that Matsura’s focus was not on the decline of Indigenous populations but on "life going on."

Harrington’s documentary is as much a portrait of Okanogan County as it is of Matsura himself, capturing the enduring, rugged beauty of a landscape that has remained remarkably consistent since the photographer’s era. Jean Berney, a seasoned rancher and farmer near Conconully, described the area as "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 later established her own successful herd, earning national recognition for her conservation efforts and dedication to the 4-H program. Her land once hosted The Conconully Naturpathy Institute, known locally as Casselmann’s Sanitarium, where a German immigrant treated tuberculosis patients starting in 1906. It is widely believed that Matsura himself may have been a patient, with the region’s dry climate potentially being a draw.

Berney often contemplates Matsura’s experiences traversing the rugged terrain. "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," she mused, highlighting the profound sense of loss surrounding the gaps in Matsura’s personal history.

Our Mr. Matsura joins a growing body of scholarly and appreciative work on the photographer, building upon the efforts of dedicated volunteers at the Okanogan County Historical Society and the academic contributions of Michael Holloman, a tenured art professor at Washington State University. Holloman, an enrolled member of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Indian Reservation, co-curated a significant exhibition of Matsura’s work for Spokane’s Northwest Museum of Arts and Culture in 2023 and is the author of the 2025 publication, Frank S. Matsura: Iconoclast Photographer of the American West. Holloman advocates for a spirit of engagement akin to Matsura’s, 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 unfortunately curtailed by federal funding cuts to the long-running program last summer. Despite this setback, Harrington remains optimistic that the film will find its audience through film festivals, streaming platforms, and continued special screenings, such as the one held in Omak. She acknowledges that the path forward will be more challenging but emphasizes the inherent value of preserving such stories. "There’s a lot of worthy things that we can’t put a dollar value to," Harrington observed, "These stories… we’re poorer for them when we don’t have them."

During the screening in Omak, Harrington received heartfelt thanks for "mirroring" the trust that Matsura cultivated with his subjects over a century prior. However, the filmmaker was quick to deflect the singular praise. "The story is not just about Frank and his charisma and his incredible body of work," she asserted. "It’s about the way people uphold his memory and still talk about him 112 years after his death." The enduring community connection to Matsura’s life and work, as evidenced by the ongoing efforts to share his story, underscores the profound and lasting impact of his photographic legacy.