In the vast landscape of Hollywood’s recent offerings, a plethora of (finally well-made) films and tv shows targeting Asian-Americans has emerged. They span across all genres: romantic comedies (Crazy Rich Asians), coming-of-age stories (Everything Everywhere All at Once), Marvel films (Shang-Chi), and action comedies (The Brother’s Sun). But there was one show that was a cinematic anomaly in 2023: Beef. I have an affinity for films / tv shows that are unpredictable and offer something that has never been seen before. I have an even deeper appreciation for those that intricately weave narratives around the unique challenges of the Asian-American experience. Created by Lee Sung Jin, Beef accomplishes both of these feats.
The film seamlessly transitions between drama and comedy for the first seven episodes, maintaining a subtle yet discernible dark undertone that lingers in the background. This shadowy essence manifests itself through its evocative title cards, somber soundtrack, and the restrained yet palpable sadism embedded in the cousin’s (played by David Choe) temperament. Episode 8 then begins with a declarative shift in mood, as if the show itself is giving the audience a “Get ready to be really uncomfortable” warning, setting the stage for a thrillingly distressing ending. I honestly had no idea how the show would end, and no one would have predicated the gruesome death in the penultimate episode (you know what scene I am talking about). Lee’s interview with IndieWire captures the tonal fluctuation the best: “I [told Netflix] the tone of ‘Beef’ is 35 percent Paul Thomas Anderson-slash-‘Sopranos’ comedy, where you’re laughing at the broken psychology of people, plus 35 percent ‘White Lotus’ propulsion-slash-Netflix watercooler moments, plus 30 percent Ingmar Bergman-slash-Hirokazu Koreeda warm, melancholic pathos.”
Lee manages this tonal juggling act while deftly exploring weighty themes of familial expectations and the complex pursuit of success. In contrast to Everything Everywhere All at Once, which tackles similar themes but paints a picturesque finale reuniting the family in bliss, Beef takes a departure towards a more grounded and honest reality. It delves into the stark reality that the trauma faced during adolescence becomes indelibly etched into one’s daily existence, persistently influencing the ebb and flow of everyday life. Amy (played by Ali Wong) is at the height of her entrepreneurial career, yet such success has not been enough to repair her relationship with her parents that suffered throughout her childhood. Her pain permeates throughout her professional and personal life, showing no signs of healing. And then there is Danny (played by Steven Yuen), the son of blue-collar Asian immigrants who navigates the precarious balance of making ends meet while shouldering the financial responsibility of caring for his family. He occasionally veers into morally ambiguous territories and dabbles in small-time schemes, but all with the goal of doing what he thinks is best for his family. The viewer is confronted with the notion that one might perpetually grapple with a sense of indebtedness to their family, irrespective of one’s accomplishments, or lack thereof. The narrative dispenses with the neatly packaged happy endings, exposing the raw truth that sometimes, there isn’t one.
Though Beef resonated with me so much given its thematic elements, I also loved how, like any exceptional work of art, the brilliance also resided in its attention to details. We see it in the stucco and invariably rectangular two to three-story Los Angeles “dingbat” apartments, emblematic of the hard-edged reality for the middle to lower class earners living in them. The dichotomy extends to the depiction of Korean churches and expansive white homes in Orange County, bathed in the soothing blue warm skies. In tandem with the visual representation of Southern California, I also really resonated with the rock soundtrack that took center stage. The emotionally charged vocals in Hoobastank’s The Reason or Incubus’ Drive evoke a nostalgic comfort for Danny and Amy, individuals unmistakably shaped by the cultural landscape of the 90s. The song becomes a sonic vessel for the series, aligning seamlessly with the emotionally vocal nature characteristic of late 90s rock. Rock singers from this period were renowned for baring their souls, wearing their hearts on their sleeves as they passionately sang their hearts out. It provided a cathartic release for emotions long confined within, emotions that serve as a poignant echo of the protagonists’ feelings throughout the series.
While “Beef” employs the backdrop of Asian-American life to weave its narrative, the challenges confronted by its characters are universal. Rage and trauma coalesce into a looming darkness, concealed and feared, lacking a proper outlet for expression. The series unfolds as a chronicle of what transpires when this darkness becomes too overwhelming to bear and is finally released. Despite ensuing chaos, this release also begets something great — a shared connection. Danny and Amy are on completely different ends of the socioeconomic spectrum, yet they find solace in discovering someone else navigating the same emotional terrain. Such a serendipitous connection is how I feel about Beef. It resonates with a depth that feels personal and unprecedented, and is the best thing I have seen in a really long time.
