Momoa plays to type in a series that’s rich with cultural detail but light on complex characters
Set in 18th century Hawaiʻi, Chief of War offers a fresh angle on a familiar type of historical epic: a tale of feuding royal dynasties, of resistance toward conquest, and of women trying to find routes to power in an unequal society. Co-created by action star Jason Momoa (Aquaman, Game of Thrones), it stands out as a rare big-budget drama told from an Indigenous perspective, covering a period of upheaval between the four island kingdoms of Hawaiʻi, Maui, Oahu, and Kauai.
Working with regular collaborator and co-creator Thomas Paʻa Sibbett (Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom; Braven) and writer Doug Jung (Star Trek Beyond; The Cloverfield Paradox), Jason Momoa shares a co-writing credit on every episode, spearheading a project rich with detail about Hawaiian spirituality, traditions, and politics. With dialogue predominantly spoken in the Hawaiian language, there’s a clear desire to break away from the Eurocentric nature of most historical TV. But when it comes to the show’s protagonist, Momoa seems more interested in playing to his strengths than crafting a memorable character. As the warrior hero Kaʻiana, Momoa plays a version of the same gruff badass he’s been typecast as for much of his career. It’s a puzzling approach to dramatizing a real historical figure, given what we learn about Kaʻiana’s tumultuous life.
Born into Hawaiian nobility, the real Kaʻiana was an influential military leader and explorer, traveling to China and North America on board English ships before playing a pivotal role in Hawaiʻi’s war of unification. Chief of War charts the origins of this conflict, featuring an ensemble cast of chiefs and advisors across the four kingdoms. Among them are the bloodthirsty Kahekili (Temuera Morrison), the idealistic Kamehameha (Kaina Makua), and the quietly ambitious Kaʻahumanu (Luciane Buchanan), a diplomat who comes to prominence via her betrothal to a royal heir.
When we first meet Kaʻiana, he’s living in exile with his wife, Kupuohi (Te Ao o Hinepehinga), and family. Despite his military prowess, he’s grown tired of fighting what he describes as pointless wars. However, his uncle Kahekili forces him out of retirement, convinced that Kaʻiana can help him fulfill a prophecy to unite the four kingdoms. Condensing Kaʻiana’s motives into a rather pedestrian Hero’s Journey introduction, the show casts him as a reluctant leader with the skill and experience to shift the balance of power.
Inevitably, this show is already drawing comparisons to Game of Thrones, the quintessential reference point for action-packed historical and/or fantasy dramas. In this case, the comparisons aren’t entirely flattering. While Thrones certainly had its faults — chief among them its treatment of women and people of color — it thrived thanks to its wealth of strong personalities and complicated relationships. In many respects it functioned as an elevated soap opera, and its most effective successors understand how to pack a similar emotional punch. Last year’s Shōgun was a particularly satisfying example.
Painting a detailed portrait of a specific historical moment, Shōgun set out a multilayered drama whose characters were torn between personal desires and political duties. Like Chief of War, it explored a setting where European colonial power is an outside force, framing its white characters as interlopers with alien values. We see similar themes play out in the interactions between Kaʻiana and his foreign acquaintances, but Chief of War’s writing really doesn’t measure up to Shōgun’s standard. It takes four or five episodes for the cast to evolve beyond basic archetypes like “despotic king” or “loyal son,” in a scenario that deserves far more subtlety.
Thanks to his experiences overseas, Kaʻiana has a unique perspective on the impending threat of colonization, at a time when none of his peers have traveled outside of Polynesia. He’s a big-picture thinker, yet much of the time, his fictionalized personality doesn’t align with what we understand of his impact as a historical figure.
I won’t pretend to be an expert, but we have to assume that Kaʻiana was an eloquent negotiator, armed with the social skills to overcome the language barrier and culture clash of being a lone Hawaiian on board an English ship, forging groundbreaking relationships with foreign traders. In Chief of War, however, he’s a man of few words, in a role that often returns to the comfort zone of Jason Momoa’s signature look (glaring at the camera through his eyebrows) and skill set as an action star. Across the board, Chief of War seems more interested in representing its well-researched cultural backdrop than it is in creating compelling characters. And while it’s cool to see things like Hawaiian lava sledding and traditional combat techniques, it would be cooler still if we learned a similar amount about, say, Kaʻiana’s relationship with his wife.
In later episodes, a sense of encroaching doom begins to take hold. While the possibility of European invasion lurks over the horizon, Kahekili of Maui represents a more immediate threat at home. Using an ambiguous prophecy as an excuse to attack his rivals, he’s depicted as an out-and-out villain. It’s one of those points where great casting makes all the difference, because while some of Kahekili’s followers are basically one-note henchmen, Temuera Morrison makes us believe that this is a very real, very dangerous guy, propelled to greater extremes by the unchecked nature of his power. Best known for his work in Star Wars, Morrison is a prolific New Zealand actor with far more range than he’s been permitted to showcase in Hollywood cinema. His Kahekili somehow comes across as both a dignified elder statesman and a strutting egomaniac, inspiring fear both due to his violent impulses, and because he can’t be reasoned with on any level.
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Picking up steam in the latter half of the season, Chief of War succeeds in bringing Hawaiian history to a wider audience, but it also reflects its creators’ background in blockbuster action storytelling. In projects like Aquaman and Star Trek Beyond, the screenwriter’s job is to deliver straightforward characters and accessible themes, brought to life by charismatic stars. That skillset doesn’t entirely translate to a multi-strand political drama, especially when you pair it with rather workmanlike direction. For all the attention Chief of War pays to the beauty and authenticity of its setting, it doesn’t put enough emphasis on psychological depth. There’s potential for things to expand in future seasons, but for now, Kaʻiana doesn’t quite get his due.
