Patrick Adiarte, a familiar face from some of television’s most iconic series, has passed away at the age of 82. His death quietly closes a career that stretched from Broadway to prime-time classics, leaving behind performances that generations of viewers still remember.
According to The Hollywood Reporter, Adiarte died in a Los Angeles–area hospital. His niece, Stephanie Hogan, confirmed that pneumonia was the cause. Even in his final moments, he remained close to the city where he had spent much of his career building a legacy that intertwined acting, dance, and music.
Anyone who watched television in the 1970s likely saw him in one of two massively popular shows. His most memorable role was Ho-Jon on “MAS*H.” Ho-Jon, the soft-spoken Korean orphan, won viewers’ hearts with his gentle nature and loyalty. Over seven episodes in the first season, he shared scenes with Alan Alda’s Hawkeye and Wayne Rogers’ Trapper John, bringing moments of pure humanity to the chaos of wartime medicine. Even with limited screen time, Adiarte gave the character depth and dignity, making him unforgettable.
A year earlier, he had also appeared in one of the most famous arcs of “The Brady Bunch.” In the trilogy of Hawaiian vacation episodes—centered around a cursed tiki idol—Adiarte stepped into the story with charm and energy. The episodes remain among the most rewatched and nostalgic in the show’s history.
But long before he entered millions of American homes through the TV screen, Adiarte had already built a career most performers only dream about. Born in Manila on August 2, 1942, his early life was shaped by survival. During World War II, he and his family were imprisoned by the Japanese. While attempting to escape, he was only two years old when he was injured by a grenade explosion. Experiences like that can alter any childhood, but his family kept moving forward. They relocated to New York in 1946, and ten years later became U.S. citizens after his father—an Army Corps of Engineers captain—was killed.
In New York, everything began, including his journey into the performing arts. His talent emerged early. He landed roles in the Broadway productions of “The King and I” and “Flower Drum Song,” two landmark musicals that, even with the limitations of their era, brought Asian performers onto center stage in American theater. Adiarte was not just talented—he was striking. His dancing was fluid, precise, and expressive enough to make choreographers remember him.
This success carried him into the film adaptations of the same productions, where he appeared alongside major stars like Yul Brynner. For a young Filipino immigrant who had survived war, his path was extraordinary.
Television came next. He appeared in “Bonanza,” “Hawaii Five-O,” “Kojak,” “High Time,” and the comedy “John Goldfarb, Please Come Home.” He worked consistently, carving out opportunities in an industry that offered few roles to Asian actors during those decades.
Then, unexpectedly, he opened another chapter—music. Adiarte joined NBC’s variety show “Hullabaloo” as a dancer, showcasing his versatility yet again. He even had a short pop music career, including the single “Five Different Girls,” which earned him attention in teen magazines.
Later, after decades in the arts, he transitioned into teaching. Dance remained his passion, and he poured that passion into instruction, including classes at Santa Monica College. He taught not just technique but experience—showing younger generations what resilience looks like when paired with talent.
His personal life carried both joy and loss. He married cabaret singer Loni Ackerman in 1975, and after years of navigating the unpredictable life of performers, they divorced in 1992. His sister, to whom he was very close, passed away in 2016. In the end, he is survived by his niece and nephew.
What stands out most when looking back on his career is how many eras he touched. The Broadway of the 1950s. The influential musical films of the 1960s. The golden age of prime-time television. Variety shows, pop music, crime dramas. Few performers move through so many worlds with such consistency.
Even after decades on screen and stage, he never lived loudly. His legacy is quieter, steadier—built on craft, professionalism, and the dedication of someone who showed up again and again to do the work. He created moments people remember, even when they didn’t know his name. He was the kind of performer who elevated every scene, even without being the center of attention.
Careers like his matter. They shape the path for performers who come next. They expand representation long before the word “representation” became a cultural demand. They help audiences form emotional connections with characters—like Ho-Jon—who bring heart into stories shaped by war.
Patrick Adiarte didn’t need superstardom to leave a mark. He built a life that spanned continents, genres, and generations of entertainment. He survived a war, crossed an ocean, stepped onto Broadway, danced on national television, acted in America’s most iconic series, taught his craft, and lived with the quiet discipline of an artist who loved what he did.
Eighty-two years is a long life—and he lived his fully, complexly, and with an undeniable impact on American entertainment. His passing closes a chapter, but the work he left behind—his musicals, his roles, his characters—continues to live exactly where he placed them: in the memories of anyone who ever watched and felt something because of him.