The synaptic threads of one’s memory compose themselves like dark, dense forests; at least, that is what director Kogonada seems to suggest in his latest feature, After Yang. The titular Yang (Justin H. Min), a “techno-sapiens” that was purchased by a well-to-do family to help their adopted daughter connect with her Chinese heritage, has a forest that can be accessed virtually by his “parents,” Jake (Colin Farrell) and Kyra (Jodie Turner-Smith). When Yang breaks down, Jake begins investigating Yang’s forest, a forest illuminated by the glowing grid-like structure of Yang’s programmed consciousness, soon coming upon brief moments of Yang’s recorded experiences. In doing so, Jake’s perception of his family, his art, his humanity, and even his own memory is irrevocably altered.

Like in Kogonada’s prior feature, Columbus, After Yang sees the South Korean director using the film medium to ruminate on different art forms, and this is how he reveals character. Whereas Columbus explores our relationship with architecture, After Yang touches on the various art practices that Yang’s three family members are compelled to, whether it is Jake’s fondness for the craft of tea, Kyra’s hobby of insect collecting, or their adopted daughter Mika’s (Malea Emma Tjandrawidjaja) impulse to sing. In reflecting on their moments with Yang, in which the “techno” ever so gently coaxes them to divulge their passions openly, the family rediscovers what it means to be an artist, what it means to perceive our world, and what it means to be alive.

Kogonada’s biggest strength as a filmmaker is his ability to align himself with his characters, and to demonstrate with his craft that he too is as invested in these soul-nourishing searches as they are. After Yang is a deceptively succinct film, breezing by in just over 100 minutes, but the great chasms it opens in you—the heady notions it leaves in your head—are substantial and lingering. The nature of our reality, our intrinsic connection to nature, what an “end” of life really means—all of these questions are philosophized over in Kogonada’s film, but no obvious conclusions are drawn, meaning the film will continue to germinate in you after the credits roll. At the same time, there is nothing condescending or overly pretentious at play. In one scene, Yang helps Mika contextualize herself as a child of adoption by explaining to her the significance in the process of grafting branches from one tree on to another. The metaphor is obvious, but the place where it comes from so good-natured and pure that it cannot be something just disavowed.  

Kogonada again takes up editing duties in After Yang, but, unlike in Columbus, his approach to storytelling this time around is much more elliptical and mood-motivated. This isn’t to say After Yang feels free form—After Yang feels as polished and as calculated as any of Kogonada’s video essays—rather, that it seems to intravenously connect itself to the life force that beats below the film’s surface. On the surface, cinematographer Benjamin Loeb conjures up gorgeous visuals, using lush green colour palettes and rich textures to keep you immersed and swimming amongst the film’s brain matter. After Yang is technically a sci-fi, and while it doesn’t do anything in terms of utopian world building that we haven’t seen before, it wisely plays to its strengths, which are adding recognizably “futuristic” elements only in service of recognizably universal themes.

On a meta level, After Yang works because it also suggests the character of Yang stands as an analog of Kogonada himself. Like a director, Yang demonstrates an active interest in exploring the worlds of his family members, and he tries to encourage in them their most genuine selves. It is also telling that Yang enjoys capturing images of his family members, both with the old, analog camera he is shown favouring, and with his internally “recorded” memories. Indeed, After Yang might prove most transcendent as a commentary on the role of art itself—the role of art in helping us find meaning and weight in our transient existences. Because while Yang will eventually decompose and while even his fabricated existence is temporary, what he has documented—his memory—will continue to exist, evolve, and vitalize future generations. The forests of our memory, of our lineages, of our culture, they’re the warm hugs that will always cradle us.