Patrick Adiarte — a familiar presence in some of television’s most beloved classics — has passed away at 82. His death marks the quiet end of a decades-long career that stretched from Broadway to Hollywood, leaving behind a legacy built on grace, versatility, and a series of performances that touched multiple generations.
As reported by The Hollywood Reporter, Adiarte died in a Los Angeles–area hospital. His niece, Stephanie Hogan, confirmed that pneumonia was the cause. Los Angeles had long been home for Adiarte — the city where he spent much of his life performing, teaching, and shaping the arts in his own understated way.
To anyone who watched television in the 1970s, his face is instantly recognizable. His most memorable role was Ho-Jon on MASH* — the soft-spoken Korean teenager whose gentleness and loyalty grounded the chaotic world of the 4077th. Across seven episodes in season one, he shared scenes with Alan Alda’s Hawkeye and Wayne Rogers’ Trapper John, offering moments of warmth in a series defined by the absurdity of war. It would’ve been easy for the character to fade into the background. But Adiarte gave Ho-Jon quiet depth, turning him into a figure fans remember to this day.
A year earlier, he made a splash in one of The Brady Bunch’s most iconic arcs — the Hawaiian vacation trilogy. In those now-famous episodes, where Bobby Brady finds a cursed tiki idol, Adiarte appears in the sun-drenched storyline that has been replayed endlessly in syndication, becoming one of the show’s most nostalgic moments.
But Adiarte’s career didn’t begin on TV. Long before he appeared in millions of homes, he had already lived a life more dramatic than most roles he would ever play.
Born in Manila on August 2, 1942, his early childhood was shaped by war. He and his family were imprisoned during the Japanese occupation. When they attempted to flee, a grenade explosion burned young Patrick, who was just two years old. It was a devastating beginning, but the family pushed forward. In 1946, they moved to New York, searching for a new start. Ten years later, they became U.S. citizens — a bittersweet moment that followed the death of Patrick’s father, a captain in the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.
New York became the launching pad for his artistic path. Adiarte’s talent showed early, and by his teens he was performing in Broadway’s original productions of The King and I and Flower Drum Song — two landmark musicals that helped bring Asian performers into mainstream American theater, even within the limitations of their time. His dancing stood out: fluid, elegant, and precise, the kind of artistry that choreographers remembered instantly.
His skill carried him to Hollywood, where he appeared in the film adaptations of both musicals. Sharing the screen with stars like Yul Brynner, he carved out space in an industry that did not offer many opportunities for Asian actors of that era.
Television soon followed. Over the years, he landed roles in Bonanza, Hawaii Five-O, Kojak, High Time, and the comedy film John Goldfarb, Please Come Home. His career was steady, disciplined, and built on showing up and doing the work — no scandal, no ego, just professionalism.
Then, in yet another shift that showcased his versatility, Adiarte stepped into music and variety TV. He danced on NBC’s Hullabaloo and even released a pop single, “Five Different Girls,” which earned him a burst of teen-magazine attention.
Eventually, he moved into teaching dance, sharing his experience with students at places like Santa Monica College. For him, teaching wasn’t a fallback — it was a continuation of the craft he had committed his life to. He passed on not just technique, but resilience — something he had embodied since childhood.
His personal life contained its own chapters of love and loss. He married cabaret singer Loni Ackerman in 1975; the two eventually divorced in 1992. His sister, to whom he was deeply close, died in 2016. He leaves behind his niece and nephew, who remember him not just as an actor, but as family — gentle, warm, and steady.
What stands out, looking across his life, is how many worlds he bridged. The golden age of Broadway. Mid-century Hollywood musicals. Iconic ’70s television. Variety shows. Pop music. Teaching. Very few artists move so fluidly through so many corners of entertainment.
And yet, Patrick Adiarte never became a loud celebrity. His was a quieter legacy — one built on consistency, discipline, and the kind of presence that elevated every project he touched. He brought representation to screens and stages before it was a cultural conversation. He left audiences with characters that mattered, especially Ho-Jon, whose gentle humanity left an imprint on a show built around war.
He didn’t need superstardom to make an impact. His life — stretching from war-torn Manila to Broadway lights to American living rooms — was a testament to resilience, talent, and staying true to the work.
Eighty-two years is a long life. His was lived with purpose, artistry, and quiet influence. And while his passing closes the final curtain, the performances, characters, and moments he gave the world remain exactly where he left them — alive in the memories of everyone who ever watched and felt something because of him.