Score: 4.5 / 5
Who knew Columbus, Indiana, could be so majestic? Apparently Kogonada did, and his directorial debut aims to prove it.
Columbus is an impossibly quiet film with a wisp of a plot. Casey, a recent high school graduate who loves architecture and works in a library, worries about leaving for college because she cares for her mother, a recovering addict. Her home life is flat and hard, and it seems every time she enters the door she's not sure what she'll find. In fact, we aren't either, as each time we enter it, the lighting is drastically changed. Haley Lu Richardson expertly plays Casey, quietly maneuvers romantic feelings and family duty and hard work with enchanting grace and absorbing realism. You don't doubt her for a minute, and she carries an "everygirl" vibe to mesmerizing effect from her opening scene. And her flirtation with Rory Culkin warms the heart.
Over a cigarette one day, she meets Jin, played by John Cho. An American working in Korea as a translator, he has returned to care for (if that's the right phrase?) his father, recently comatose. The plot revolves around their connection, an unlikely pairing of loners navigating a world of silence and introspection. Filled with gentle humor and even gentler poignancy, the film succeeds mostly because the two never overact. Like the architecture they tour, they remain mostly stoic. The sharp lines of Cho's face and the soft edges of Richardson's do not extend to their wit or their affection, qualities that become as visible as the facades they visit.
Speaking of which, the film, shot on location, centers on the fabulous architecture of Columbus in ways that frankly flew over my head. I had to have my date explain modernist art to me after the film, and from what I gather, a lot of the film is a meditation on just that. The plush comfort and style of Jin's hotel room feel intrusive and alien, so he escapes to the outdoors. The practical lines and shelves of Casey's library begin to spatially entrap her. The two embark on a tour of local architecture; the film includes numerous lengthy shots of bridges, alleys, houses, and other buildings that often display more emotion than the leading characters.
Kogonada seems to beg for us to pour our own feelings into these images. A building with glass walls seems open and inviting, but we're voyeuristically spying on its inhabitants just like Casey. As Casey and Jin discuss metaphysical conceits, a tower on a hill points upward to heaven. The characters sit under an angular archway with two arms that don't connect. In fact, some of the images are so descriptive and evocative that the already sparse bits of dialogue often distract from the experience. I was so busy trying to account for their heightened conversational bits that I sometimes lost track of what I could have been feeling. I didn't pour thoughts and emotions into the silent sights of Columbus, something the characters have absolutely no problem doing. The structure of the film and its structural objects reveals that cinema doesn't have to be plotty, detailed, or dressed in convention; sometimes it can just be a way of viewing the world around us.
Columbus is an impossibly quiet film with a wisp of a plot. Casey, a recent high school graduate who loves architecture and works in a library, worries about leaving for college because she cares for her mother, a recovering addict. Her home life is flat and hard, and it seems every time she enters the door she's not sure what she'll find. In fact, we aren't either, as each time we enter it, the lighting is drastically changed. Haley Lu Richardson expertly plays Casey, quietly maneuvers romantic feelings and family duty and hard work with enchanting grace and absorbing realism. You don't doubt her for a minute, and she carries an "everygirl" vibe to mesmerizing effect from her opening scene. And her flirtation with Rory Culkin warms the heart.
Over a cigarette one day, she meets Jin, played by John Cho. An American working in Korea as a translator, he has returned to care for (if that's the right phrase?) his father, recently comatose. The plot revolves around their connection, an unlikely pairing of loners navigating a world of silence and introspection. Filled with gentle humor and even gentler poignancy, the film succeeds mostly because the two never overact. Like the architecture they tour, they remain mostly stoic. The sharp lines of Cho's face and the soft edges of Richardson's do not extend to their wit or their affection, qualities that become as visible as the facades they visit.
Speaking of which, the film, shot on location, centers on the fabulous architecture of Columbus in ways that frankly flew over my head. I had to have my date explain modernist art to me after the film, and from what I gather, a lot of the film is a meditation on just that. The plush comfort and style of Jin's hotel room feel intrusive and alien, so he escapes to the outdoors. The practical lines and shelves of Casey's library begin to spatially entrap her. The two embark on a tour of local architecture; the film includes numerous lengthy shots of bridges, alleys, houses, and other buildings that often display more emotion than the leading characters.
Kogonada seems to beg for us to pour our own feelings into these images. A building with glass walls seems open and inviting, but we're voyeuristically spying on its inhabitants just like Casey. As Casey and Jin discuss metaphysical conceits, a tower on a hill points upward to heaven. The characters sit under an angular archway with two arms that don't connect. In fact, some of the images are so descriptive and evocative that the already sparse bits of dialogue often distract from the experience. I was so busy trying to account for their heightened conversational bits that I sometimes lost track of what I could have been feeling. I didn't pour thoughts and emotions into the silent sights of Columbus, something the characters have absolutely no problem doing. The structure of the film and its structural objects reveals that cinema doesn't have to be plotty, detailed, or dressed in convention; sometimes it can just be a way of viewing the world around us.
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