BEING THERE : Only Yu

As a 27-year-old Chinese-American woman, I’ve been mistaken for a Japanese tourist, a Vietnamese refugee or, most irritatingly for both of us, my sister Jennifer. But nothing had quite prepared me for the Telluride Film Festival.

“Go,” commanded my friends, when my short film, “Sour Death Balls,” was accepted. “Who knows what good may come out of it? Besides, it’s the best festival. It’s beautiful up there, and the people are so friendly.”

They certainly were. When I entered the hospitality room, a smiling staffer came up to greet me. “I loved your film,” she said.

“Thank you,” I replied, in what I hoped was a modest tone.

“They screened it yesterday for the staff,” she continued. “And I just cried and cried.”

This sounded odd, since my film is a montage of people’s reactions to the world’s sourest candy. Not exactly hankie material. I must have frowned, because the woman quickly added, “Don’t worry. I think ‘The Joy Luck Club’ will be a huge hit.”

This took me completely by surprise. “I’m not involved with ‘The Joy Luck Club.’ ”

She stared at me. “Oh. You’re not?”

We laughed over the mix-up, and I went on my way, amused by what I thought was an isolated case of mistaken identity.

Some time later, a man crossing Telluride’s only real street waved to me as if he were an old friend. “You were wonderful in ‘The Joy Luck Club,’ ” he raved. “June was my favorite character.”

“That wasn’t me,” I began to explain.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “How embarrassing. Were you Rose?”

Similar scenarios began to occur at the rate of about once every 15 minutes. A sidelong glance, a whisper, followed up with: “‘Your performance was just exquisite” or “I loved your film,” which I knew by then was not mine. During my four days in Telluride, I collected dozens of heartfelt compliments for the actresses in “The Joy Luck Club.” One man asked me to sign his program. “What name would you like?” I asked. Most people seemed to think I looked like June, probably because I was wearing my hair in a similar style. Other than that, the likeness was lost on me. It became tiresome to explain who I really was, so after about the 46th time I simply began taking credit for everything.

“You were superb in ‘The Joy Luck Club.’ ”

“Thank you.”

“What else have you acted in?”

“Nothing, actually.”

“Really! Isn’t that marvelous!”

At the opening cook-out, festival photographers snapped my picture dozens of times. Hearing the clicking of cameras as I guzzled wine and gnawed ungracefully at barbecued ribs, I hoped “June” wasn’t a vegetarian teetotaler. I imagined them later, poring over their contact sheets, scratching their heads and wondering, “Which one is she?”

When I walked down the street, even Oliver Stone, executive producer of “Joy Luck,” raised a hand in a friendly wave, then lowered it doubtfully as he squinted at me.

Then “Sour Death Balls” finally showed at the festival. The staff passed out sour death balls to the audience after the screening and I was delighted by the sight of pucker-faced moviegoers spitting the candy into metal trash cans. Some people noticed me watching. “That’s her!” they cried, exposing green tongues. “She’s the one responsible!”

I thought my identity crisis was coming to an end. Then, on the last day of the festival, a tall, blond man with a $1,750 “patron” pass slung around his neck approached me. “I loved your film,” he said.

“Thank you,” I answered warily.

“No, thank you! Your performance was brilliant.”

I sighed. “Actually, I’m not in ‘The Joy Luck Club.’ ”

“Oh, I know that,” he interrupted. “I’m talking about ‘Farewell to My Concubine.’ ” He went on to compliment me on my English, and asked me if I needed representation when I made the switch to American films.

So my friends were right. Lots of good came out of going to Telluride. I showed my film, saw some great movies, met lots of friendly people, and I may even have landed an agent.