Today, you could go to theaters for a DIY double-feature that nicely encapsulates the range of Colin Farrell. All you need do is pair The Batman — in which a barely recognizable yet nonetheless riveting Farrell plays the dastardly Penguin — with After Yang, in which the Irish actor plays a father rocked by ennui and grief. In the former, you see the alluring mischief that made Farrell a sought-after bad boy/hunk in the 2000s. In the latter, you see how his growth as an actor has developed with restrained yet poignant performances in arthouse films like The Killing of a Sacred Deer and The Lobster.
But while The Batman aims to pull you to the edge of your seat, After Yang pushes us — gently but firmly — toward self-reflection on the meanings of life, love, death, and memory.
Written and directed by Kogonada, After Yang is adapted from Alexander Weinstein's short story "Saying Goodbye to Yang." In a not-so-distant future, artificial intelligence is so commonplace that "technosapiens" are a household fixture. These androids look like humans and when "dead," can decay. But they are also machines, manufactured to expand on the virtual personal assistants we know today.
Yang (Justin H. Min) was purchased to be a big brother to an adopted Chinese daughter named Mika (Malea Emma Tjandrawidjaja). Her parents Jake (Colin Farrell) and Kyra (Jodie Turner-Smith), hoped Yang would give their child a connection to her Chinese heritage through "fun facts" and lessons in history and philosophy. But when Yang abruptly powers down, they realize how much they relied on him as a part of their family.
A sci-fi film in content but not spectacle, After Yang weaves into its world not only androids that look indecipherable from people, but also clones, conspiracy theorists, and a mapping of consciousness. This last element is where Kogonada dips into more traditional science fiction visuals, unfurling a virtual galaxy where memories spread out like a constellation of stars, which can be visited with the blink of an eye. While Jake seeks to get Yang repaired, his journey takes him into a deeper understanding of this world and of the son he is destined to lose. There's no suspense about whether Yang will die. Early on, it's clear there's no coming back for him. But rather than focus on the hurt and rage that comes with grief, Kogonada explores a quieter kind of reflection.
And so a machine teaches a man how to be human.
This is not a film of gnashing teeth but of nearly whispered conversations about butterflies, tree grafting, and tea leaves. Each contains hidden depths, touching on mortality, family, and memory. The poetry in these scenes is bolstered by a tender piano score and a color palette of hazy golds and teals. The ensemble's performances are in sync with the muted aesthetic, made up of longing looks and hushed tones. Their initial ennui folds into regret folds into mourning folds into resignation, smoothly. So smoothly that the film's ending seems almost cruelly abrupt.
Within this placid atmosphere, Kogonada paints the quiet agony of humanity. Until Yang's unexpected shutdown, Jake is so focused on his work selling tea leaves that he takes his wife and child for granted, always expecting there to be a tomorrow where they can make up time. Having to grapple with the loss of Yang, he can't help but reflect. And so a machine teaches a man how to be human.
It's a lovely story, thoughtfully unfurled. Already, critics are hailing After Yang as one of the year's best, noting that Farrell's nuanced and haunting performance is subtly sensational.
Yet there's something about After Yang that left me unmoved, unmoored, and underwhelmed. It's that I am not on Kogonada's wavelength. Not right now.
Grief is often rendered in film as an intense emotion, exhibited through yowls of agony, rending of clothes, and collapsing in despair. But grief is a cacophony, made up not only of soul-shuddering keening, but also barks of dark laughter, curses to the skies, and soft sighs of sorrow. At this point in my journey, my grief is loud. Even when it gives me a break from the howling, I can hear the rumble in the distance if I sit still long enough. So, while I sat and watched Jake and his family gently grapple with mourning, I was able to admire the artistry of the cast and its creator. I was able to enjoy the visual splendor of Yang's world in its golden memories and elegant metaphors. But I wasn't able to connect to it. My grief is too restless to allow for that.
I can see why other critics have been singing Kogonada's praises since After Yang's debut at the Sundance Film Festival, but I can't join the full-throated chorus. My throat is too raw from crying.
Which is to say, your mileage may vary with After Yang. It's undeniably a meditatively made film, lush in beauty, mood, and meaning. Its futuristic world is one of bliss and ennui, familiar yet strange. Its cast is splendid, whether doing an intense and eccentric dance number or whispering about ramen and parenthood. Min brings a radiance to Yang that makes him shine even in snippets of memory. The supporting cast, which boasts Haley Lu Richardson, Clifton Collins Jr., and Sarita Choudhury, likewise turn in performances that are alive but subdued. Yet it's Farrell who smoothly dazzles as a lost man, navigating home through existential dread.
In short, After Yang is a great movie. But like the carefully brewed cups of tea that the movie's hero favors, you really need to be in the mindset to savor it.
After Yang is now in theaters and streaming on Showtime.
Topics Film
