Mark Labella

You’ve had such an unconventional journey from medicine to acting and filmmaking. What was the turning point that made you fully commit to the entertainment industry?

Honestly? Some people break into this industry through connections. Others through an unhinged amount of delusion and stubbornness. I’m firmly in the latter camp.

I didn’t grow up with a foot in the door. I grew up as the weird only child who used Lego bricks not to build spaceships or castles—but sets. I’d block scenes with Lego people and pretend I was the writer/director. I was that kid.

But for a long time, I assumed people like me didn’t get to tell real stories. So I went into medicine. And I loved it—still do. Mostly because I got to help people. But somewhere between 36-hour hospital shifts and collapsing in bed with my scrubs still on, I’d be secretly Googling “how to write a screenplay” like I was sneaking forbidden porn.

It started with acting. That was my way in—and a way to process trauma and emotion when I didn’t yet have the words. But once I finally started therapy (shoutout mental health!), and started to heal—really heal—I realized I didn’t just want to perform stories. I wanted to create them. From scratch. From the mess and beauty of my own life.

So I became obsessed. I devoured every screenwriting book I could find. I binged podcasts, printed award-winning scripts and studied them like patient charts. I spent more time at the WGA library than I did hanging out with friends. I’m on a first-name basis with the librarians.

I entered every screenwriting competition I could find, took classes I couldn’t afford, and got really good at hearing “no.” And weirdly? I loved it. Every “no” was like a dare. I got to say, “Cool. Watch me anyway.” Where are those people now? Behind the rest of us who chose to lift each other up instead.

Slowly, the yeses came. And eventually—one big yes. The kind that made me believe I wasn’t crazy for trying.

Then the pandemic hit. I was working 19-hour days, trying to save lives—sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. And somewhere in the chaos, something in me shifted. Life doesn’t wait for you to feel ready. I didn’t want to look back and wonder, “What if I’d gone for it?”

So yes, I still volunteer for medical missions. I’ll always believe in that part of myself. But my heart? It’s in storytelling. There are plenty of Filipino doctors in the world—but not many who tell stories of the world and things I’ve seen, the people I’ve met around the world. I’ve seen a lot of life. And that’s why I write. Because I know people. Because I know how much it costs to care.

To any young writers out there? Live. Go out and live. Travel. Mess up. Volunteer. Fall in love. Hold someone’s hand when they’re dying. You don’t need more screenwriting tips on TikTok. You need life.

Hello Love Again has broken records and resonated deeply with audiences. What do you think made this story so powerful for both Filipino and international viewers?

It resonated because it was honest. It wasn’t watered down to “appeal globally”—it was unapologetically about Filipino immigrants. And in that cultural specificity, it somehow became universal. Everyone knows what it feels like to long for home, to want a second chance at love and a new home .

I’ve never brought this up in previous interviews… But honesty wasn’t just on screen for me—it was suddenly demanded of me in real life.

While the cast was doing promotions, I was late joining the circuit because I was in Austin at the Film Festival, celebrating one of my scripts there. That’s when my husband, Marvin called and told me something had come up in the interviews—that our marriage was now public knowledge at a taping in one of Philippines’ highest rated show, ASAP.

And the truth is, I hadn’t even told some of my very conservative, very faithful family yet. Some of my closest friends in the Philippines didn’t know.

If I didn’t have my psychiatrist and the cognitive processing therapy I’d been working through, I don’t know where I’d be. But it gave me perspective, and when I finally caught up with the team in Cebu for the mall tour there… my hometown, in front of thousands at a mall tour—I decided to take control before the pre-taped episode came out. I introduced Marvin not as my “friend” or “co-star,” but as my husband. And instead of rejection, I got applause. I received messages from gay people who were inspired by us finding our “forever person,” our one and only person and living our truths openly and authentically with the recognition of our government.

That moment taught me something: honesty is terrifying, but it’s also where connection lives. It’s why Hello, Love Again worked. And it’s why my next project, Nurse the Dead, means so much to me. It’s inspired by the invisible service of Filipino nurses. Did you know we’re only 5% of the nursing population in the U.S., but nearly 30% of nurse deaths during COVID were Filipino? That’s the sacrifice no one talks about.

So whether it’s love, grief, or identity, I think audiences respond to what’s specific and true. That’s the mission I’m still on—from Hello, Love Again to Nurse the Dead, and every story I fight to tell.

You’ve worked on hit shows like S.W.A.T., The Cleaning Lady, and Criminal Minds. How have those experiences shaped you as an actor?

My first day on S.W.A.T.? I was just trying not to trip over the C-stand or say “sorry” too many times. (It’s a compulsion.) But then someone surprised me with a gift written with the word “Kaibigan.” That moment stuck with me. They didn’t just appreciate the talent and work ethic we bring, they saw the heart. The kindness. The pride. That set made me feel seen not just as an actor, but as a Filipino-American.

The Cleaning Lady was a dream. It felt like being at a titan’s birthday, except with boom mics and better lighting. Miranda Kwok, our  showrunner, is now a dear friend and mentor. That set was one of the first times I felt what it meant to tell a Filipino story for everyone. It was powerful.

Criminal Minds was quieter, more intimate, but then Aisha Tyler walked in, and I swear I forgot every line I had. She’s just… cool in a way you can’t teach. I was also juggling a lot behind the scenes at the time—developing Crab with my team, running between sets and strategy meetings, trying to figure out whether we should go fully indie or partner with a bigger company. We ultimately chose to collaborate with a studio not because it was easier, but because it gave all of us—the whole team from day one—a shot at something bigger.

To me, that’s what shaped me as an actor and filmmaker. Not just making it alone, but bringing your people with you and celebrating them. Every set I’ve been on, I’ve tried to soak up what I can: how to lead, how to collaborate, how to stay grounded in the work when everything else feels like chaos. And also, how to eat pancit without getting it on your wardrobe. I’m still working on that part.

You’re also an award-winning screenwriter and producer. How does your creative process differ when you’re writing a script versus stepping into a character as an actor?

Honestly? They’re not that different. Whether I’m writing or acting, it’s still me: my lived experience, my heartbreaks, my grief, my wins. Every story I create, every character I play, has a piece of my heart stitched into it somewhere. And sometimes, that piece hurts. The tears you see on screen? Not fake. Those are real. That’s the job. You bring your truth to the surface and hope someone out there feels less alone because of it.

I actually do worse when I can’t connect to the character. I’m not good at playing “generic guy #3” with a one-liner. I’ve stopped auditioning for commercials because, let’s be real, I’m not a walking jawline with a six pack. Let the pretty people have that gig. What I have is something else… my heart. And it’s a kind heart, even if it’s been through the wringer (and one that’s been kinder to others than itself). But pain doesn’t scare me. I’ve learned how to make it funny. I’ve learned how to make it useful. That’s what storytelling is.

Producing is honestly a lot like medicine. There are formulas. Protocols. Emergencies. And people screaming for snacks. But at the end of the day, it’s about care. Taking care of your team. Taking responsibility. Putting others before yourself. Whether it’s a hospital floor or a film set, you show up with empathy, with stamina, and with the ability to hold chaos in one hand and a vision in the other.

That’s my creative process. Whether I’m typing the words or living them out loud, I just try to tell the truth, mine or someone else’s, and do it with as much humanity and humor as I can.

Your upcoming project CRAB sounds intriguing. Can you tell us a little about the story and what drew you to co-write and produce it?

Yes! And just to clarify, I’m not co-writing CRAB—I created it, and I’m the sole writer. It came from a place so personal, I don’t think anyone else could have written it. That said, I’m incredibly grateful to be co-producing it with people I trust. Integrity matters.

CRAB was born out of real heartbreak—some of the deepest I’ve experienced in my career. Just when things were finally starting to go right, a few people from my own community—people I once trusted—worked hard to pull me down. It rattled me. I kept asking, “Why would someone do that?” And the answer hit me like a slap: crab mentality.

It’s something we Filipinos have been warned about our whole lives. The idea that if one crab’s about to escape the boiling pot, the others pull it back down. It sounds like folklore, but it’s very real. There are actual academic papers written about it. And it wasn’t just pettiness—it was unprocessed generational trauma. Competition in a system that’s taught us there’s only room for one.

So I wrote about it. I turned my pain into a psychological thriller. One mansion. One death. And a group of brilliant Filipino and non-Filipino doctors—all haunted by ambition, regret, and each other. Crab is about what happens when people who are supposed to heal are the ones hurting each other. And how intellect, ego, and emotion explode when trapped in a high-stakes pressure cooker.

But it’s not just a whodunit. It’s a why-dunit. It’s about confronting our internalized sabotage, our survival instincts, and asking: can people conditioned to pull each other down actually work together to survive?

I’m so thankful for the people who lifted me up when others tried to tear me down—Drea, Jelyn, Jeff, Christian, Ben, Livi, my family at Sun and Moon, my family at Kapamilya like Leo, Mico, Kriz. They reminded me that yes, Crab mentality exists… but so does community. So does healing. And this film is proof of that.

I hope CRAB entertains, absolutely. But I also hope it stings a little—for the right reasons.

Mental health advocacy seems to be a cause close to your heart. How has your personal journey influenced your commitment to this mission?

The stories I write, whether they’re funny, messy, or painful, are really just love letters to people who feel like they’re barely holding it together. I hope they make someone feel less alone. I hope that, for even just an hour or two, they offer a little relief. A little light. A little breath.

But healing? That’s real work. And it’s not glamorous. It’s slow, unfiltered, behind-closed-doors work. It took me years to understand that trauma doesn’t always look like collapse—it can look like perfectionism. Over-performing. Fawning. I used to bend over backwards to make everyone else comfortable, even when it meant abandoning myself.

Eventually, I had to learn boundaries. To stop apologizing for who I am. To stop trying to fix myself for people who had no interest in seeing me whole. To step away from people who don’t mean me well or can’t be trusted. If you don’t like me? That’s okay. We don’t all need to be in each other’s lives.

What I can control is my energy, my peace, and who I give access to. And let me tell you, I’ve learned to stay far away from the Crabs, the Negative Nancys, and the gatekeeping Debbie Downers… the ones who treat this industry like it’s some elitist VIP club. Miss me with that. I believe in open doors. In welcoming people. In lifting others up. And if that’s not your energy? Kindly exit stage left.

That’s why I treasure people who tell me the truth. The ones who hold up a mirror with love and honesty. That’s how we grow. That’s how I grew.

Mental health isn’t a trend to me. It is survival. It’s taken years of therapy, hard conversations, and support systems to unlearn the idea that I have to earn my worth. And now, through my work, I want others to know: you’re allowed to take up space. You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to feel everything… and still move forward.

Having lived and worked internationally, how has your Filipino identity influenced your work and the stories you want to tell?

I was that immigrant kid—the only Filipino in the room. First in Jersey, then a few at St. Columba Catholic school. And I was an only child. My mom worked double shifts to keep us afloat, so most of the time, our apartment was quiet. Just me, the TV, and whatever story I could imagine to fill the silence.

We didn’t have much, but I had this deep sense that I didn’t quite belong. I didn’t sound like the other kids. I didn’t see myself on screen. And I think that’s why I care so much now about making sure people feel welcome— because I know what it’s like to feel invisible.

Filipino culture shaped that in me. We have this instinct to care for others, to make people feel seen. Even if we’re struggling, we’ll still find a way to offer you a plate of food and a seat at the table. That kind of love: quiet, generous, no-questions-asked is something I try to carry into every room I walk into and every story I tell.

Whether I’m writing, acting, or producing, I lead with that same heart. My sets feel like community. My scripts are filled with people who are messy and funny and tender and flawed—just like all of us.

And yes, if you stick around long enough, there will probably be karaoke.

With so many accomplishments under your belt, what’s one challenge you’re still learning to navigate in your career?

I’m still learning how to ask for funding and not feel weird about it. I know my value. I know the value of the stories I tell. But coming from a background where money was tight and respect had to be earned the hard way, I don’t take investment lightly.

To me, money isn’t just numbers. It’s trust. It’s belief. So when someone backs a project of mine, I carry that responsibility like it’s sacred. That’s probably why I’ve hesitated—I’ve always wanted to make sure I could guarantee a return.

But the truth is, no one can guarantee anything in this or any industry. What I can guarantee is work ethic, integrity, and a relentless drive to deliver something meaningful—something that makes everyone involved proud they said yes.

Outside of acting and writing, what’s something about you that might surprise your fans?

I totally get the word “fans,” and I appreciate anyone who shows up for my work—but personally, I’ve always felt a little weird using that word. It just feels too one-sided. I see the people who support me as friends, chosen family, community. People I’d share a meal with, cry with, laugh with, build something with.

So maybe that’s the surprising part—I don’t really want to be admired. I want to be connected. I want to grow with people, root for them the way they’ve rooted for me. We’re all figuring life out together, no one’s above or below.

Also, FUN FACT: I am married to a royal celebrity chef!!! @Chefmarvz used to cook for actual kings, queens, prime ministers, and yes, Mariah Carey. So if you support me long enough, don’t be shocked if you end up at our table with a steaming bowl of sinigang and a very emotional conversation about life, love, or lumpia.

Finally, what message would you like to share with aspiring artists who come from non-traditional backgrounds like you did?

Humble yourself and do the work. To improve. To be better. I came to Hollywood with ZERO connections. To afford school again to improve my craft, I cleaned toilets, I managed retail, but I always kept my integrity.

Support one another. For real. Cheer for your friends. Speak their names in rooms they’re not in. And when that crab mentality nonsense shows up: cover your ears, protect your peace, and keep it moving. Not everyone is ready to grow. But you don’t have to shrink to make haters comfortable.

And to reiterate… LEARN.

Get serious about your craft. Don’t skip the work. I didn’t just wake up one day and say, “I think I’ll be an actor. Then I’ll write and produce.” I studied. I trained. I took classes. I did student films for copy, credit, and the occasional soggy sandwich. FOR FREE! I learned by doing, failing, trying again. That’s the part no one sees! But it matters.

The people you come up with? The ones grinding beside you in the trenches? Hold on to them. Build with them. Argue, cry, debate, call each other out, but keep coming back and doing the work together. That’s how you grow. That’s how you last.

And don’t EVER let anyone tell you you’re too late, too different, or too far outside the mold. The mold was boring anyway. Tell your story. And tell it your way.