The American Dream is inextricably linked to land. Visions of spacious skies and an ever-expanding frontier have driven immigrants to the country for as long as “America” has existed. Lee Isaac Chung’s latest feature “Minari” (2020), which releases Feb. 12, tells the story of a Korean American family who follow this dream all the way to the expanses of Arkansas. Drawing on Chung’s own upbringing in the 1980s, the film paints an intimate portrait of the Yi family’s journey. Nevertheless, the Golden-Globe nominated film transcends the personal to depict universal aspects of the immigrant experience as well as the versatility of the American identity.
“Minari” opens with the Yi family standing in wild fields that stretch to the horizon. Jacob (Steven Yeun), his wife Monica (Han Ye-ri) and their two children, David and Anne (Alan Kim and Noel Kate Cho), have arrived in Arkansas from California. It quickly becomes evident that Jacob has transplanted his family there, to the middle of nowhere, in order to pursue his American Dream: operating a farm that functions as his own Garden of Eden. Whether or not the rest of his family shares this dream is much less certain. As the strain of their new environment takes its toll on Jacob’s relationship with his wife and children, his mother-in-law Soon-ja (Youn Yuh-jung) moves in to help out with the kids and the dynamic of the household shifts drastically as new bonds form while others begin to crumble.
Just as the story of “Minari” is inseparable from Chung’s childhood, so too is my perception of the film entangled with my own experiences as the daughter of immigrants. Much of what I love about “Minari” lies in my ability to see myself and my family reflected in the film despite our dramatically different circumstances. Each scene is rife with detail that speaks to both the authenticity of the director’s vision and to my own life, whether it be the traditional concoctions Soon-ja feeds David to make him strong or the delicate yet methodical way Monica cleans out her children’s ears. Chung communicates the realities of immigrant life with an ease and honesty that is exceedingly rare in American films. Many immigrant stories privilege narratives of hardship without fully depicting all that this complex identity entails. Watching such movies makes me feel as though I’m glancing at shards of broken glass, sometimes catching a glimpse of myself but never seeing the full picture. When I watched “Minari,” it felt as though I had finally found a mirror; I felt understood.
Though the American Dream is tied to land, productivity and ambition, “Minari” actively calls the value of these national touchstones into question. Any breakthrough Jacob makes in his farming comes at the cost of harmony at home; in order to irrigate his crops, he must divert the house’s running water. At one point, Monica accuses him of choosing the farm over their family. Still, Jacob struggles with the desire to feel useful and grapples with the question of how he can best serve his loved ones. By placing financial and familial success at odds, the film examines both what achievement is expected and has the potential to mean in America.
Without the film’s grounding performances, which constitute its emotional core, “Minari” would be a lesser movie. The vulnerability with which Yeun and Han portray a husband and wife with different dreams, as well as the tenderness and mischief Kim and Youn bring to their roles, lend the film its heart. Though the Academy Awards has a troubling history of snubbing Asian actors, one can only hope that “Minari” will be the film that helps them to correct course.
Other than its performances, “Minari” communicates emotion through its score, which is far and away the best of 2020. Composer Emile Mosseri’s music captures the dreamy haze of long summer days, expressing everything from joy to melancholy without a word. Some of the movie’s best scenes rely solely on the score rather than speech, as the camera follows characters roving through the grass and soaked in sunshine, with blue skies and more land as far as the eye can see.
The film’s title, “Minari,” refers to a hardy Korean plant that Soon-ja cultivates on the family farm. As she explains to David, “Minari is the best. It grows anywhere.” Chung asserts something similar about the immigrant experience over the course of his movie. Though conventional American logic may tell us that we need the biggest or best plot of land in order to flourish, “Minari” shows that if we focus on what truly matters we can put down roots anywhere we go.
