The immigrant experience is certainly not a subject that has been neglected by art, with many works of literature over the past two centuries focusing on the process of leaving one’s homeland in search of a better life elsewhere. There’s a reason these stories resonate with such ferocity – they’re sincere and relatable, since every one of us is likely to have felt the sense of isolation and alienation from our surroundings, even if we haven’t undertaken something as intimidating as migrating to another country, or even region of our homeland. One of the best recent explorations of this subject comes on behalf of Minari, the latest film by the tragically underrated Lee Isaac Chung, who seems poised to finally make his breakthrough her over a decade of residing in relative obscurity as an artist. The story of a Korean film making their way from California (their first home after leaving their native country), to rural Arkansas, is a beautifully-realized odyssey that looks at both the physical and emotional challenges that face those undergoing such an enormous change. Chung is a superbly gifted filmmaker, and Minari is a wonderful work that is well-positioned as one of the year’s most fascinating character studies, particularly in how it negotiates the ambiguities between countries, relying less on cheap culture-shock narratives in pursuit of something far more authentic and meaningful, which has been shorthand for the few films Chung has previously directed that hint at some incredibly rich understanding of the human condition. Minari is quite simply one of the year’s most touching, powerful explorations of family, individuality and identity, and a film that will move even the most cynical of viewers.

Over the past two decades, there has been a revival of attention towards Korean cinema, which reached its peak nearly two years ago with the release of Parasite, which consolidated director Bong Joon-ho as a director who didn’t only represent the brilliance of his national cinema, but elevated him (and by association, many of his peers) to the level of worldwide recognition, where even the most casual viewer was now somewhat interested in stories from outside their comfort zone. This draws attention to films like Minari, which are small and intimate dramas that would barely elicit even the most vague reaction had there not been some interest to seeing these stories represented on screen, which normally comes as a result of someone marginally related achieving some degree of success. The son of South Korean immigrants, and a first-generation Korean-American artist, Chung was making something profoundly personal here, which both stands as an incredible work on its own, and as a film that continues to a long discussion on how we consume stories that may not be directly related to us, but instead give us insights into the trials and tribulations of individuals from groups that we often don’t have much first-hand knowledge about, but which are made so incredibly clear by the work being done by those creating it. Intimate, but yet so extraordinarily resonant in both the themes it looks at, and the manner in which it creates a cohesive, uniting atmosphere out of a story focused on a very particular time and place, Minari is a staggering work, a simple but elegant coming-of-age drama that proves that the most effective stories are often those that appear the most candid and unembellished, making this yet another triumph for the modern movement of independent filmmaking that allows such stories to not only be made, but also seen by as wide a population as possible.

One of the more fascinating quirks of Minari is that, despite its very intimate subject matter, we never feel as if we’re mere voyeurs to the family at the core of the story. Instead, we become part of their clan, passive observers that are invited into their house, and allowed to witness their daily activities, without any sense of intrusion. An enormous part of this comes on behalf of the actors, some of whom are newcomers, others veterans of the industry, or highly-recognizable stars in their own right. Consisting of essentially a cast of only five main characters, Minari succeeds in creating memorable individuals, populating every frame with fascinating figures who aren’t only strong on their own, but are also metaphorical to the wider population. Steven Yeun and Han are the de facto leads, playing the parents to Alan Kim and Han Ye-ri, both of which are just as good (and disprove the taut adage that most performances by child actors are only memorable because of how adorable they are, rather than being worth much as performances). Yeun, who has amassed quite a following already through both his mainstream projects and forays into more arthouse-driven productions (such as the exceptional South Korean drama, Burning, which consolidated Yeun as an incredibly exciting young actor), is the anchor of the film, playing the tenacious father who realizes that he might not be able to pursue his ambitions, even if he is fully committed to doing everything he can. Han is equally as strong as his wife, who is caught between being loyal to her beloved husband, and doing what’s right for her family. The heart of the film is Youn Yuh-jung, who is both the comic relief of the film (stealing every scene she is in with her peculiar sense of humour and incredible empathy), and the emotional crutch. A well-regarded veteran in her home country, Youn is finally presented to an international audience, and this is certainly a terrific way for audiences to become acquainted with one of the grand dames of South Korean cinema. 

However, beyond these spirited performances sits a very strong screenplay, which is clearly drawn from the director’s own experiences. Set in the 1980s (which would roughly line up with the director’s own youth as the son of immigrants), the film looks at a few months in the life of the family, giving us unfettered access into their daily rituals, and how they toil endlessly to make ends meet, while still looking towards the future, since their ambitions are always rooted in working hard today, so that they have an opportunity to rise above it tomorrow – but as time goes on, and the more they become complacent in a paltry but solid existence, the more their insistence on realizing their dreams begins to erode, since everyone tends to prioritize comfort over the challenges of taking a risk, especially when confronted with an entirely new world, and a culture that one simply just can’t penetrate, regardless of how much they attempt to assimilate into it. Unlike many films rooted in the tradition of social realism, Minari is an inherently optimistic film – consider one of the centrepiece scenes of the film (and the moment where the title of the film makes sense), where the young protagonist and his grandmother are standing beside a small body of water, marvelling at the “bowing” of the minari plant, which the old woman remarks is often considered very similar to a weed. The idea of the plant, which is known to be a versatile staple of many Korean dishes, as an analogy for immigrants is quite potent – they may appear in unexpected places, and many not always be fully-accepted, or given their due. However, beneath this misunderstood exterior is a dedication and flexibility that shows that there is always some worth underpinning their existence, and that they should not be underestimated in any way. It’s a beautifully poetic metaphor that we may not realize at first, but gradually come to understand as the film keeps returning back to it, or any of the other wonderfully exuberant analogies drawn between immigrants and the world around them.

Minari is a perpetually optimistic film, one that revitalizes outdated conversations on cultural differences, and energizes the audience with an unseen perspective that is as exciting as it is thought-provoking. Lee Isaac Chung is an incredibly gifted filmmaker, with Minari not being his first film, but rather the one that allows him to lay claim to being an exciting new voice in contemporary cinema, especially considering how much of his career have been about provoking long-held beliefs on cultural difference, and shedding light onto various issues relating to groups that don’t always receive the attention they deserve, at least outside of their native countries. Minari is an essential film – it may be extremely simple in both premise and execution, but this is the kind of film that relies on a straightforward approach, since the most touching moments are those that are more candid and obvious, rather than concealed under layers of overwrought, inauthentic emotion that don’t add up to as much as some would expect. Through mesmerizing performances, a dedicated look into the lives of not only their specific characters (who are clearly plucked from the director’s own past, even if the degree to which this film is autobiographical is still to be debated), but the legions of people they each represent, Minari captures our hearts and shows us something new and exciting, even if it is only an exploration of low-level issues that may not have the importance of other important subjects, but are no less pivotal in portraying the effects of taking the leap into the unknown that comes with being an immigrant. More sympathetic to the common trope of the American Dream than most similarly-themed films (which are normally built on the basis that they’re intended to deconstruct the idealism associated with a life of pursuing wealth and happiness in the proverbial land of the free), but still vehement in showing the cracks in the system, Minari is an absolutely vital film for both the story it tells and the methods it takes to reach that destination, and certainly one of the finer works of social realism produced in recent years, and a singularly unforgettable work that tends to burrow into the mind of every viewer.