Always Be My Maybe (2019): The Netflix Rom-Com That Gave Keanu Reeves the Ultimate Cameo and Redefined Asian American Love Stories

In the golden era of Netflix originals, where rom-coms often feel formulaic and fleeting, Always Be My Maybe arrived in 2019 like a breath of fresh San Francisco fog—witty, heartfelt, and unapologetically grounded in Asian American experiences. Directed by Nahnatchka Khan in her feature debut, the film stars Ali Wong and Randall Park as childhood friends Sasha Tran and Marcus Kim, whose lives diverge dramatically only to collide again in adulthood. What elevates this seemingly straightforward enemies-to-lovers tale into something truly special is its sharp cultural specificity, razor-sharp humor, and—most memorably—the electrifying cameo by Keanu Reeves that turned a solid rom-com into a cultural phenomenon. Though Reeves appears for just a handful of scenes, his larger-than-life presence injects absurdity, self-deprecation, and sheer star power, making him the unexpected highlight that fans still quote years later.

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The story begins in 1990s San Francisco, where Sasha and Marcus grow up as next-door neighbors in a vibrant, working-class neighborhood. As teens, they share everything: late-night talks, shared meals of Spam fried rice with furikake, and a budding romance that ends in awkward heartbreak when Marcus pulls away after a tender moment. Fast-forward 15 years, and their paths have diverged wildly. Sasha has become a celebrated celebrity chef, jet-setting and opening high-end restaurants that fuse her Vietnamese-Chinese heritage with modern flair. Marcus, meanwhile, remains rooted in the Bay Area, working as an HVAC technician by day and fronting the modestly successful hip-hop group Hello Peril by night. His lyrics rap about gentrification, Asian American identity, and the slow erosion of the city he loves—lyrics that feel painfully authentic in a San Francisco transformed by tech booms and rising rents.

When Sasha returns home to launch her newest venture, the old spark reignites amid familiar tensions. Marcus, still nursing unspoken feelings, clashes with Sasha’s polished, ambitious world. Their reconnection is messy, funny, and deeply relatable: arguments over cultural authenticity (Sasha’s fusion cuisine draws criticism for “white-washing” Korean dishes), family expectations, and the fear of change. Wong and Park’s chemistry crackles with authenticity—they’ve been real-life friends since the late ’90s, bonding over Asian American theater scenes and shared experiences in Hollywood’s margins. Their banter feels lived-in, not scripted, turning every awkward reunion and heated exchange into gold.

Supporting performances add rich texture. James Saito shines as Marcus’s grounded, no-nonsense father, offering quiet wisdom without the stereotypical accent-heavy tropes that have plagued Asian American roles for decades. Michelle Buteau steals scenes as Veronica, Sasha’s brash, loyal best friend, delivering lines with effortless timing. Daniel Dae Kim appears as a suave restaurateur and potential love interest, while Charlyne Yi, Karan Soni, and Vivian Bang round out a cast that feels effortlessly diverse and lived-in. The film’s Bay Area setting is a character itself—shots of foggy streets, taquerias, and hip-hop cyphers capture the city’s multicultural soul before gentrification fully took hold.

But then comes Keanu Reeves.

The film’s most talked-about moment arrives when Sasha, rebounding from a breakup, announces she’s dating someone new. Marcus, on the verge of confessing his feelings, ends up on a disastrous double date with his hippie girlfriend Jenny (who’s obsessed with celebrities) and Sasha’s mystery man: Keanu Reeves himself. Reeves plays a heightened, hilariously pretentious version of “Keanu Reeves”—a thigh-obsessed, philosophically vapid movie star who floats into scenes with godlike aura, spouting lines like “The only stars that matter are the ones you look at when you dream.” He improvises gems, including listing Chinese dignitaries to prove cultural cred and wearing lensless glasses for pure absurdity (his own idea).

The sequence escalates gloriously: an icebreaker game turns tense, Marcus dares Keanu to smash a vase on his head (which he does, bleeding dramatically), and Keanu retaliates by challenging Marcus to a fight. “I missed your light,” Keanu purrs poetically before the brawl. Marcus punches him—name-dropping John Wick in the chaos—and somehow survives. Jenny stays behind with Keanu, leaving Sasha and Marcus to argue in an Uber that ends in a passionate kiss. The cameo isn’t just funny; it’s subversive. It pokes fun at Reeves’s real-life mystique—the zen master, the nice guy, the action icon—while contrasting his untouchable celebrity with Marcus’s grounded humanity. Wong and Park chose Reeves as their first pick for Sasha’s nightmare rebound: an iconic Asian man who embodies unattainable perfection. Reeves, fresh off John Wick: Chapter 3, squeezed in four days of filming, fully committing with improvised lines and enthusiasm. He even approved the end-credits rap “I Punched Keanu Reeves,” where Marcus boasts about the encounter over Dan the Automator’s beats.

Critics and audiences embraced the film upon its May 2019 release (limited theaters, then Netflix). Rotten Tomatoes gave it a 91% critic score and 84% audience score, praising its fresh take on familiar tropes, sharp social commentary on class, culture, and gentrification, and the leads’ infectious charm. Reviewers called it “barrier-breaking” for centering an Asian American couple in a mainstream rom-com, with Wong and Park proving Asian actors could carry romantic leads without stereotypes. The Keanu sequence was universally hailed as one of the funniest scenes of the year—pure chaotic energy that elevated the film from good to iconic.

Beyond laughs, Always Be My Maybe resonates for its representation. In a Hollywood where Asian Americans were often sidelined as sidekicks or desexualized, here they lead a sexy, funny, adult romance. Sasha and Marcus have chemistry, vulnerability, and physicality—scenes of car sex, honest arguments, and quiet intimacy feel revolutionary. The film avoids exoticizing Asian culture; instead, it normalizes it—plastic-covered sofas, kimchi jjigae as comfort food, family pressure balanced with love. It speaks to immigrant children navigating identity in America, the pain of watching neighborhoods change, and the joy of finding home in another person.

Years later, the film’s legacy endures. It inspired discussions on Asian American visibility, boosted Wong and Park’s careers (Wong’s stand-up specials, Park’s ongoing roles), and cemented Reeves’s cameo as one of cinema’s great self-parodies. Fans still sing “I Punched Keanu Reeves” at karaoke; memes of the vase-smash circulate endlessly. In a genre often criticized for predictability, Always Be My Maybe delivers comfort with edge—proving that love stories don’t need billion-dollar weddings or fairy-tale endings. Sometimes, they just need two people who maybe, always were meant to be.

The film’s quiet revolution lies in its normalcy. Sasha isn’t a doctor or tech mogul; Marcus isn’t a genius hacker. They’re real people—flawed, funny, passionate—whose story feels universal yet deeply specific. Keanu’s cameo provides the perfect foil: a larger-than-life icon who highlights what truly matters—authenticity over stardom, connection over perfection. In the end, Sasha chooses Marcus not because he’s famous, but because he’s home.

For anyone who’s ever wondered “what if?” about an old friend, Always Be My Maybe answers with laughter, heart, and a reminder that the best romances often hide in plain sight. Stream it, laugh, cry a little, and remember: sometimes the one who’s always been there is the one worth fighting for—even if it means punching Keanu Reeves along the way.