Revisiting Ohara: Pat Morita’s Most Overlooked Role

Television in the late ’80s was crowded with police dramas built on car chases, tough talk, and the familiar rhythm of good guys and bad guys. In the middle of all that noise, ABC introduced something different. The series was called Ohara, and it starred Pat Morita as a soft spoken, introspective Los Angeles police lieutenant who solved crimes with intuition, patience, and a sense of calm that felt almost radical for the era. The show premiered in January 1987 and ran through the spring of 1988, producing thirty hour long episodes that remain a curious and often overlooked part of television history.

Ohara arrived at a moment when Pat Morita was already a household name. The Karate Kid had made him an icon, and audiences knew him for a blend of humor, wisdom, and quiet authority. The series leaned into that persona. Morita played Lieutenant Ohara, a veteran Japanese American officer with two decades of experience in the LAPD. He was compassionate, observant, and deeply human. He welcomed people into his home, cooked for them, listened to them, and tried to understand what pushed them toward trouble. He was a karate master, but he rarely relied on physical force. Instead, he used meditation and reflection to untangle the motives behind each case.

This approach set Ohara apart from the louder, flashier police shows of its time. The series often opened with Ohara in his home shrine, quietly centering himself before stepping into the chaos of the city. The crimes he investigated were not always spectacular, but the emotional stakes were. The show treated its characters with empathy, even when they were on the wrong side of the law. It suggested that understanding people mattered as much as catching them.

The supporting cast added texture to the world around him. Catherine Keener appeared early in the series as Lieutenant Sideris. Robert Clohessy played Lieutenant George Shaver, a younger partner whose cultural blind spots created both tension and humor. Jon Polito and Kevin Conroy each served as Ohara’s commanding officers at different points in the series, grounding the show in the familiar structure of police hierarchy. Meagan Fay, Madge Sinclair, and Richard Yniguez rounded out the ensemble, giving the show a sense of community that extended beyond the precinct.

Behind the scenes, Ohara was notable for another reason. It was one of the first American network dramas to feature an Asian American actor as the lead. Morita was not only the star but also one of the co creators, working alongside Michael Braveman and John A. Kuri to shape a series that reflected aspects of his own identity and interests. The show blended Eastern philosophy with Western police procedural storytelling, creating a hybrid tone that was unusual for prime time television.

Despite its ambitions, Ohara struggled to find a large audience. Viewers who expected a traditional action driven cop show sometimes found its quieter pace surprising. The series experimented with format changes during its run, including adjustments to the cast and shifts in tone, but it never quite settled into a stable identity that could compete with the ratings giants of the era. ABC ultimately ended the show in 1988 after two seasons.

Yet the show left a subtle legacy. It demonstrated that a police drama could be contemplative rather than explosive. It gave Pat Morita a rare dramatic showcase that highlighted his range beyond the comedic roles that had defined much of his early career. It also carved out space for Asian American representation at a time when such opportunities were scarce. Even today, fans who revisit the series often comment on how unusual and refreshing it feels compared to the more formulaic shows that surrounded it.

Ohara may not have become a long running hit, but it occupies a meaningful place in the landscape of eighties television. It was a show that tried to slow the world down for an hour each week, inviting viewers to consider the emotional and spiritual dimensions of justice. In a decade known for excess and spectacle, Ohara offered something quieter and more thoughtful. It asked audiences to believe that insight could be as powerful as action, and that a gentle voice could carry just as much authority as a raised one.

For those who remember it, the series remains a small but distinctive part of the era, a reminder that even in the loudest decades, there were shows willing to speak softly.

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