MINARI: FILM REVIEW
I have been waiting to watch Lee Isaac Chung’s Minari since I heard of its release last summer, as I read it was a “classic” immigrant story, but one executed like never before. However, I think to describe Minari in such a way dispels a false perception, that it, like many other Asian-American films, speaks for a whole group of people — Asian-Americans and immigrants alike. Minari is excellent, not due to the story’s classic-ness, but because it cuts through broad visibility and portrays a very specific experience — one rooted in Chung’s inherent understanding of the dynamics between self and family, of attempting to call a piece of land you were not born in “home,” and of building a life that feels grounded — no matter how foreign that concept sometimes feels.
Minari revolves around a Korean-American family, consisting of Jacob (Steven Yeun), the father, Monica (Han Ye-ri), the mother, and their two kids, David (Alan Kim) and Anne (Noel Cho). David is only 7 and has a heart murmur, while Anne is only a little bit older. The Yi family uproots their life in California to move to Arkansas, so Jacob can pursue his dream of cultivating his own farm. To reconcile the move, Monica invites her mom, Soon-ja (Youn Yuh-jung), to stay with them, as she lives in South Korea.
Minari is loosely based on writer-director Lee Isaac Chung’s childhood, as his family moved to Arkansas to make a living off of farming when he was young. Jacob’s desire to cultivate his own farm stems not only of the pursuit of the American Dream, but also to fulfill a sense of duty as a father, and as a man. His struggle to provide for his family is the basis of his largest insecurity and comes at the cost of his family and even his marriage. In a scene that ultimately tests Jacob and Monica’s marriage, he is asked to choose between the family and the farm. He chooses the farm. However, viewers understand that this decision is not one prompted by a lack of love for his family, but rather a desperate need to prove to himself that he can be their caretaker and achieve success from the bottom up.
The need for Jacob and his family to ground themselves in American soil is a reflection of their instance to plant their feet in this country — to own a piece of land that’s just theirs, to grow food that is their own, and to sell their produce to local Koreans. However, little by little, the family inevitably engages in slow assimilation. They go to a white church in hopes of meeting new people. They allow David to have a sleepover at a stranger’s house. Jacob is forced to learn how to let go of some of his pride.
While Minari often highlights Jacob’s struggle to provide, Monica is the one that must remain extremely resilient. Worry often crosses her face, as she can see Jacob’s pride begin to overshadow familial values and prays her mom’s stay can ease those tensions. David’s heart murmur is a constant source of stress for Monica, as she seems to bear most of the emotional burden of hoping his heart doesn’t suddenly give. Out of all the characters, hers is the most expressive — a passing glance or elongated gaze tells all.
Growing up as a first-generation immigrant, I saw my childhood largely through the eyes of David. In Minari, one of the premiere scenes shows a fight between Jacob and Monica, where each dissect the sacrifices each have made. Not knowing what else to do, Monica and David quietly fold paper airplanes that say “stop fighting,” and fly them across the common room. Although I don’t think I treated my grandma with the same disrespect as David did, I never felt an inclination to learn Chinese when I was younger — not even to talk to relatives who only how to speak Mandarin. While David and Anne face microaggressions from kids at the church, they simply shrug them off. After all, they’re just kids. These microaggressions, however, plant a seed in their Asian-American experiences that they will inevitably reflect on later on.
Minari ensures that every generation of the immigrant story is told. Chung’s careful crafting of each character’s narrative reflects that immigrant stories are not singular — even within one family, experiences vary between different generations. David, the American-born son who has never been to Korea, initially rejects Soon-ja’s behavior and presence. He asks her if she can make cookies, and she says no, she can’t. David is baffled. How can a grandma not know how to make cookies? He actively lashes out at her, even though Soon-ja has traveled all the way from South Korea to see him. Meanwhile, his sister, Anne is mature far beyond her age. She takes on parental responsibilities, taking care of David and her grandma when her parents can’t. Their difference in age is only few, but the gap between their understandings of Korean family values is stark.
Soon-ja, who is of the oldest generation in Minari, constantly feels the need to help around the house. She never has a moment of rest, even when her age demands it. My grandparents are the same way. Although I only have fuzzy memories of their sparse visits to the States, my grandma would always be in the kitchen helping my mom cook dinner or tidying around the house. When I think of Asian grandmas, I don’t think of leisure — I think of energetic souls in an elderly body.
Minari captivates because it is an honest portrayal of the immigrant experience of every generation — of planting your feet in the ground on soil that you feel like was not made for people like you. While many reviews try to praise Minari for its universality, there’s an element to that compliment that implies that only when an Asian-American story can entertain white people as well, is it well executed. As an Asian-American, I think Minari’s incredulous feat is its ability to portray my gray-area experiences growing up in the States that I never thought could be humanized on screen. For the first time, I saw my Asian-American experiences as they are — and not how I want to remember them as.