‘Past Lives’ (2023): A Forgiving Cinema
Past Lives recontextualizes what a postromance film can assume by adopting a narrative structure that closely resembles a love story through cultural scrutiny. The mere separation between Nora Moon and Hae Sung–both in physical distance and emotional vu
Nora and Hae Sung, two deeply connected childhood friends, are wrest apart after Nora's family emigrates from South Korea. Decades later, they are reunited for one fateful week as they confront destiny, love and the choices that make a life.
— Official Synopsis
Fear Not, for We’ll Meet Again
“In-Yun” describes a predestined connection, bound by limitless encounters in our lives–both past and present. In Korean, it means that any place in time you meet someone, you’ll almost certainly meet again by pure circumstance. The concept of “In-Yun” reverberates throughout life regardless of barriers, borders, and languages. The phrase itself does not have a definitive definition, instead simultaneously illustrating a joyful and hopeless feeling of longing and fate; its meaning signals infinite possibilities in the past and future, but an uncomfortability in that we may have exhausted every opportunity in the present. Whether a deep friendship or romantic inkling, those we think of long after they have left the prominence of our lives are etched in eternity. “Fear not, for we’ll meet again.”
“In-Yun” in Film
This concept forms the basis of Celine Song’s semi-autobiographical, and directorial debut, Past Lives. The film follows Nora Moon (Greta Lee), an American emigrant from South Korea, and her childhood sweetheart, Hae Sung (Teo Yoo), who are reunited after 20 years for one fateful week in which they confront the truths of life and destiny. While Past Lives cements itself as the artistic embodiment of this intrinsic connection, there are an abundance of examples in cinema noting the subtextual affect of “In-Yun.” Richard Linklater’s Before trilogy (1995-2013), Fatih Akin’s In July (2000), Park Chan Wook’s Decision to Leave (2022), and, perhaps more obscurely, Jaco Van Dormael’s Mr. Nobody (2009), all lead to varying conclusions about the decisions we make and people we meet. While nuggets of “In-Yun” can certainly be found in classical Hollywood cinema, it’s antithetical to the very basis of the cinematic language–negating an idealistic ending.
Derek Cianfrance’s Blue Valentine (2010), starring Michelle Williams and Ryan Gosling, may be the most notable American film that vehemently challenges the perfection of modern romance, shocking viewers with a toxic, ill-fated relationship. Albeit, the film strays towards a more heavily nihilistic tone that is undoubtedly disturbing for a mass market audience. Damien Chazelle’s La La Land, (coincidentally starring Ryan Gosling), however, becomes the Hollywood equivalent of Song’s Past Lives: a recognition of the beauty in blossoming love and unattainable dreams. The mechanisms that inform the story structure differ, but the concept of “Someone in the Crowd,” for instance, are prevalent in both films. Sebastian and Mia’s relationship crumbles under the glitz and glamor of Los Angeles in this lifetime, but the final shot-reverse shot illuminates the lasting warmth they share. Postromance themes found in both La La Land and Blue Valentine depart largely from their cinematic counterparts which feed into unrealistic depictions of a “happy ending.”
Distant Memories
Past Lives recontextualizes what a postromance film can assume by adopting a narrative structure that closely resembles a love story through cultural scrutiny. The mere separation between Nora Moon and Hae Sung–both in physical distance and emotional vulnerability–ensures an avoidance of romanticizing the tired “forbidden affair” trope. The outcome? Just as heart wrenching for the audience. Perhaps, even more devastating for the characters who understand that, with every choice made in this life, they will never be together. Hae Sung attempts to find his childhood sweetheart, Na Young, only to discover that she has changed her name to Nora and lives in America. It’s now 2012, and they reconnect over Skype and pursue a distant friendship. The cinematic language in this second act beautifully captures a fever dream, of sorts. Night and day bleed into one another as the time zones disrupt their individual routines. It’s a vulnerable and meditative balance from cinematographer Shabier Kirchner.
Their words to one another are visually muffled through tactful pans of the New York and Seoul cityscapes as they converse. The use of these intercuts have a profound effect on the experiences of the characters. We might not remember the conversation, but the feeling of longing and of the environment lasts indefinitely. Note how the film opens, as well, this time in the present day. Via an optical zoom from the perspective of random people, we watch as Nora, her husband, Arthur (John Magaro), and Hae Sung sit together awkwardly bantering at a bar in New York. Not only does the position of the camera reflect a distal sentiment between the audience and the “action” of the scene, but the characters themselves seem intentionally removed from the situation. The passage of time and use of deep framing mold the narrative journey into that of a distant memory.
Opportunity Costs
After the opening scene, Past Lives travels to the start of our character’s story in Seoul as Nora’s family prepares to emigrate to Canada in the early 2000s. Nora’s mother recognizes the need to impress positive memories of her home country so that she may retain a sense of cultural identity. To do so, she plans a date between 12-year old Nora and her innocent crush, Hae Sung, whom she describes as “manly.” Their mothers watch as the two explore and climb a statue at a local park–to them, the world remains small and largely undiscovered. In contrast, when Nora and Hae Sung visit the Statue of Liberty in present day New York, it’s not the same; the statue symbolically reflects a sense of unattainability. He maintains his Korean culture while she has largely embraced her American identity (only speaking Korean to her mother and Hae Sung). This is not a statue they can climb together in this life.
Song opposes invalidating her character’s wishes and whether they made the right decision. This refusal to endorse any ideological philosophy permits a nuanced understanding of the complexities of life. It yields a more sincere admiration between the protagonists themselves and from the audience. For Hae Sung, who decides to stay in South Korea, the internal struggle he faces is one of cultural expectations: being a respectable man with a stable career that can support a family. Nora tirelessly grinds in her studies as a writer, dreaming of a future Nobel Prize or maybe even a Pulitzer. In all our time with Nora, she has yet to achieve any of those lofty goals. But there’s still time. Remembering the conversation between their mothers in Seoul, a single phrase protrudes the entire film and long thereafter. When asked why she would want to leave their life in South Korea behind, Nora’s mom explains that by leaving something behind, you gain another.
A Forgiving Cinema
I knew little about the concept of “In-Yun” prior to Past Lives. There are moments from my life that echo like a distant memory. People that I haven’t spoken to in years that cross my mind randomly. Beautifully terrifying imagery forever seared into my psyche. Yet, I’ve always remained internally connected to those people and places. Part of the intent of Past Lives is to offer a name to those feelings. Song’s delicate approach to the material reminds us to forgive ourselves for the path we choose in life. Omitting judgment and carelessness from both the characters and, ultimately, ourselves. The film’s somber end does not encroach on hope; instead, bestowing a sense of optimism in the viewer. Whether in this life or the past, we were able to attain the unattainable. If untrue, we can leave this life, content, knowing that our exit also signifies our ability to gain something we don’t possess.
Past Lives conveys a forgiving cinema.