Before lighting up the screen in Hello Love Again — the highest-grossing Filipino film of all time — actor and screenwriter Mark LaBella had an unexpected journey. From serving as a doctor and U.S. Navy officer to becoming the lead in one of the most moving stories in recent Asian cinema, he recalls in an interview the pivotal moment that changed his life: running out of a gym in Chicago, nearly naked, in the middle of winter. That impulsive act led him to embrace his true passion — telling stories that represent, move, and inspire, especially through his experience as a Filipino-American.
You’re best known for your breakout role in “Hello Love Again,” but before that, you took a very different path in medicine. What made you decide to pursue a career in acting and screenwriting, and how does your medical background influence the work you do today?
It all started with me sprinting half-naked out of a downtown Chicago LA Fitness—in subzero temperatures.
Honestly, I’ve always been a storyteller—I just didn’t know it could be an actual career. As a kid, I didn’t build spaceships or castles with my Legos—I built sets. My Lego people weren’t astronauts or knights, they were actors. I’d invent entire storylines and direct them from the floor of my bedroom like I was running my own tiny Hollywood backlot.
But I come from a first-generation Filipino American family, where medicine is the gold standard. There’s a proud legacy of Filipinos in the U.S. medical field dating back to WWII, and I really wanted to make my family proud. So after serving in the U.S. Navy, I went to medical school.
Everything changed during board exam season in Chicago. Someone stole all my stuff out of my locker at LA Fitness—my laptop, iPad, med school books, even my winter clothes. I walked out into freezing temperatures in a tank top and short shorts, and my schoolmate Dr. Toni Espina—who’s now one of the best doctors in Milwaukee—had to come rescue me. I was broke, overwhelmed, and honestly at a breaking point.
That’s when my roommate said, “Why don’t you try background work on Chicago Fire? They’re casting real doctors.” I went. On my first day, they gave me lines—and it sparked this fire that was always in me.
But it wasn’t until I won my first big screenwriting award that it all truly clicked. Right after that, I was hired by my first production company. I remember getting my first check for thousands of dollars just to write—and thinking, wait… I can actually do this!
Medicine and the military gave me discipline and the ability to sit with people in their most vulnerable moments. But storytelling? That’s where I come alive. Writing, acting, producing—it’s not a detour. It’s me coming home to who I’ve always been.
“Hello Love Again” was a milestone in your career, becoming the biggest Filipino film of all time. How did this experience affect your outlook on the film industry and your own role in it?
“Hello Love Again” changed everything. It wasn’t just a milestone in my career—it was a personal one too. It meant something to the little boy in me who grew up in San Diego, never seeing anyone who looked like him on screen.
I still remember the first time I saw Paolo Montalban as Brandy’s prince in Rodgers & Hammerstein’s Cinderella. It lit something up in me. I thought, Wait… he looks like me. That was the moment I realized how powerful representation could be. I wanted to see more people like him—like us—in stories that weren’t just about trauma or pain, but about love, joy, and the full range of being human.
Years later, I was delivering babies during an actual earthquake in the Philippines. I carried a fanny pack full of supplies—my own sterile needles, gloves, sutures—because the moms I was helping couldn’t afford them. And I remember thinking: there are still so many stories that haven’t been told. Stories that come from a place of service, resilience, and hope. Stories from our perspective. That moment made something click again—I may not be the flashiest or most bankable name in Hollywood, but I have something meaningful to say. And I just want to make that little kid proud.
Growing up, I clung to shows like “Living Single” and “Family Matters”. They didn’t have Filipinos, but those were the characters I saw myself in—kind, flawed, real. As one of the few brown kids in a mostly white school and neighborhood, I held on tight to anything that made me feel seen, even if it was just a glimmer.
So how did “Hello Love Again” affect my outlook? It reminded me exactly why I tell stories. It proved that our voices—Filipino voices, immigrant voices—can resonate across cultures. That there’s finally space for people like us. And if I can help even one little Filipino kid feel like they belong in this industry, or on that screen… then honestly, I’ve already won.
You’ve worked with some of the biggest names, including Shemar Moore in “S.W.A.T.” and Elodie Yung in “The Cleaning Lady.” What’s the energy exchange like between you and other big-name actors? Do you have any special memories from those experiences?
My first day on “S.W.A.T”. as a recurring guest star was wild—in the best way. I was nervous, obviously. It’s a huge show. Big cast. Big energy. But the moment I stepped on set, someone asked, “Wait—are you Filipino?” And it kind of snowballed from there. Turns out Kenny Johnson is married to a Filipina, Hannah is half-Filipino, and the entire team had such positive experiences working with other Filipino artists. They said we’re known for being hard-working and kind—and honestly, that just made my heart swell.
I worked hard to prove they were right about us. I showed up prepared, respectful, and fully locked in. I wanted to earn my spot—not just for me, but for my team who helped get me there. Michael Gemballa, one of the supervising producers, ended up becoming a mentor to me, and we still keep in touch. That means a lot.
Working with Elodie Yung on “The Cleaning Lady” was another highlight. She’s just incredibly grounded and generous. My on-screen wife, Amielynn Abellera—who’s now killing it as a series regular on “The Pitt”—was also amazing. We had such a great time filming together that Elodie actually gave me her number after and said, “Let’s stay in touch.” And we have.
The truth is, I didn’t meet people in this industry through parties or fancy networking events. I met them on set—through work. Through showing up, doing my job well, being kind, and keeping the energy light but focused. I try to bring a little bit of joy and professionalism into every room I walk into. That’s something I take seriously, especially as a Filipino actor, because I know I’m not just representing myself. I’m representing my community.
And maybe the best compliment I’ve ever gotten is that people WANT to work with me again. That’s what I’m most proud of.
In addition to being an actor, you are also an award-winning screenwriter. How do you balance these two aspects of your career and how do they influence each other in your creative process?
The hardest part of being a doctor, for me, was learning how to create emotional distance. I struggled with that. I couldn’t turn off the empathy—and while that made medicine tough, it became my greatest strength as a screenwriter and an actor.
As a writer, empathy is everything. You have to love and understand every character, even the ones who make awful decisions. And it’s the same with acting. You’re not just stepping into someone’s skin—you’re defending them, finding their humanity, even when it’s buried under layers of pain or bad choices.
I’ll be honest—there was one role I regret. It was a stage play, and I just couldn’t connect with the character. He was selfish, cruel, and manipulative. And I let my judgment get in the way. I didn’t do the work to really understand him, and that’s something I still carry with me. It taught me never to approach a character with judgment again.
Now I play criminals, flawed people, complex people—like the ones I’ve portrayed on “S.W.A.T.”—and I always start from a place of curiosity and compassion. I’d say I’m 99% there on the empathy front… except for that one guy in that one play. Still working on him. (Sorry, dude.)
So for me, screenwriting and acting don’t compete—they inform each other. Writing helps me dig deeper into characters, and acting helps me keep my writing honest. They’re two sides of the same story.
You were born in the Philippines and have a unique connection to your home country. How do your Filipino roots influence your work and the way you connect with your audience?
Being Filipino influences everything I do—but not in some big, dramatic, let-me-hold-the-flag kind of way. It’s quieter than that. It’s in how I treat people on set. It’s in how I lead with empathy, show up prepared, and try to bring kindness into every room. That quiet sense of resilience, of showing up for others without needing applause—that’s something my culture gave me.
I did my pre-med at George Washington University, and then finished medical school in the Philippines using my G.I. Bill. I honestly thought I was setting myself up for something like Doctors Without Borders—real, hands-on medicine in places that needed it. If I was going to be a doctor, it wasn’t going to be for the title. It was going to be for service.
And funny enough, I feel the same way about storytelling. To me, it is a form of service. It’s a way to share perspective, to offer healing, to show people they’re not alone in what they’re going through. And the values I carry into that work? They come from being Filipino. And from being a proud American. And a Navy veteran. And a slightly over caffeinated human being who just really cares a lot for people.
Filipinos have this way of holding joy and struggle in the same breath—we laugh at the worst possible moments, we crack jokes through heartbreak, and somehow we keep moving. That’s the spirit I bring into the work. Whether I’m playing a criminal on screen or writing something deeply personal behind the scenes, that duality is always there.
At the end of the day, I just hope that spirit translates. That when people see something I’ve written or performed, they feel a little more seen. A little more understood. And maybe, if I’ve done my job right, they even smile.
In addition to your artistic career, you are dedicated to medical missions around the world. What was it like helping deliver babies during an earthquake in Cebu? What lessons from that experience do you carry with you today?
When I was doing my clinical rotations at Cebu City Medical Center, I walked around with this oversized fanny pack like I had time-traveled straight out of the late ’80s. But it wasn’t a fashion choice—it was survival. I used my own money to fill it with basic supplies—sterile needles, lidocaine, syringes, tape—things we take for granted in the U.S., but that many of my patients simply couldn’t afford. I’d haggle for prices at the market like my life—or someone else’s—depended on it. Because sometimes, it did.
That day was already chaotic. The other public OB hospital had shut down for its annual deep cleaning, so our hospital was overflowing—three or four women to a single bed, all in labor. I was sweating, running from patient to patient, when suddenly—the world shook.
The ground moved. Chunks of wall crumbled. Part of the ceiling collapsed. I remember standing in the doorway, frozen, adrenaline flooding my system, ready to bolt. Every instinct screamed, Get out. But I couldn’t. I had to take care of my patients. I had to take care of the babies literally on the way. So I did the only thing I could—I prayed.
Then we started moving. We got the mothers down the stairs, still mid-labor. I begged them, “Please, don’t push, don’t even fart.” Not because it was funny—because I we needed to run down the stairs and out of this crumbling building— and no event, not even an earthquake, can stop labor!
Outside, I found one hospital bed. Just one. I quickly asked the man lying on it if he could give it up. And then I just… started. Delivering babies. On the street. Under the open sky. I’d deliver one child, sew up the mother, move her off, and bring the next mama on. One was breech. Debris still falling during the aftershocks. People screaming in the distance.
At one point, Rohan Surve—a brave, kind doctor from India also training in Cebu—turned to me and said, “Mark, do you want me to go back and get more sterile supplies?” And right there, my Navy training kicked in. I told him yes. And he didn’t hesitate. He ran back into a damaged building during an earthquake to help us save lives. I’ll never forget that. Shoutout to Rohan—wherever you are, I know you’re still out there doing good.
That day changed me. It reminded me that service doesn’t always look like heroism. Sometimes it looks like staying when you want to run. Holding a patient’s hand when the roof is collapsing. Making space on one bed for five different mothers. And trusting that what you have—your hands, your heart, your training—is enough.
That experience also made one thing clear: there are still so many stories left to be told. So many lives, perspectives, and truths that rarely make the screen. That’s what I carry with me—not just as someone who practiced medicine, but as a storyteller. Whether I’m acting or writing, that day in Cebu is always with me. It keeps me grounded. It keeps me honest. And it reminds me that sometimes, the most important thing you can do… is stay.
You are currently working on “CRAB”, a project alongside Robert Rodriguez. What can we expect from this new film? What has the experience of collaborating with him been like?
Working with Robert Rodriguez’s company, El Rey, has been one of the most surreal and deeply humbling experiences of my life. These are people I looked up to for years—and now I get to create with them. But what’s made it even more meaningful is that they’re not just brilliant at what they do—they’re kind. Thoughtful. Grounded. I’m working with people who feel like family, and I mean that with my whole heart.
Our film, CRAB, is incredibly personal to me. It’s inspired by a concept that’s often talked about in the Filipino community: crab mentality. The idea that when one of us tries to rise, others—whether intentionally or unconsciously—pull them back down. In the Philippines, this isn’t just slang. It’s something scholars have written about, a phenomenon born from colonialism, systemic trauma, poverty. It’s survival turned sideways.
There’s this brutal metaphor: if you put one crab in a boiling pot, it might find a way to climb out. But throw a few in together, and they’ll claw each other down. No one escapes.
But CRAB isn’t just about the wound. It’s also a prayer. A plea. A dream. That one day, we as a community—Filipinos, yes, but really anyone who’s felt the sting of scarcity, of being pitted against your own people—can rise together. That we can choose healing over hurt. That we can stop surviving at each other’s expense and start building something bigger—together.
Tonally, it’s kind of like a spoonful of sugar with the medicine. The sugar is the psychological thriller—the tension, the mystery, the high-stakes energy of trying to figure out what’s really going on. But the medicine? That’s the part that sticks. It asks: Can we truly come together despite generations of pain and distrust? Can we break free of what we’ve been taught about competition and self-preservation?
And what’s been wild to discover is how universal this story really is. A friend who grew up in the American South told me their family used to say, “monkeys in a barrel.” In Canada, there’s a song called Crabs in a Bucket. And growing up San Diego, we just called it what it is—HATERATION. The wording is different, but the feeling? The struggle? It’s everywhere.
CRAB follows a group of doctors—different cultures, different histories—who all went to medical school in the Philippines, like I did. (I was with Korean, American, Indian, Mexican, Persian, African students there).
They reunite for one night. But beneath the hugs and laughter, one of them is hiding something—a mind fractured, a motive buried. And when the truth comes out, not everyone will make it out.
At its heart, CRAB is about what happens when we stop clawing and start reaching. When we stop seeing each other as threats and start fighting for each other. It’s about choosing to stay in the pot—but not to burn. To pull each other out.
That’s the story I’ve always wanted to tell. And I’m beyond grateful that I get to tell it now—with people who believe in it as much as I do.
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