Grass is an introspective, reflexive, intentionally murky, and character-driven South Korean drama about a woman’s writerly eavesdropping quirks. The film’s lack of action beyond people’s conversations drags things out over time, but a consistently timeless neo-noir aesthetic, organically intriguing conversations reminiscent of Richard Linklater’s Before Sunset, and an embellishing blend between reality and imagination make Grass a well-cut lawn of intimate ideas. In a small 65-minute chunk, director-writer-producer-cinematographer Hong Sangsoo sees a “remarkable” writer, Areum (Kim Min-hee, playing the same-named character as in Hong’s The Day After), use daily conversations heard around her in an intimate coffee shop to craft. Listening to a variety of conversations that eventually dovetail—one between a conflicted couple about their fateful past, that of a homeless artist and his more successful friend, and one of two struggling writers/actors vying for new creative inspiration—Areum weaves their experiences into her own thoughts. As she leaves the café to see her brother, Jinho (Shin Seok-ho), and his girlfriend, her struggles—failing relationships, her hang-ups, and her past—surface, making her writings that much more significant to the goings-on of Areum’s subjects. Although there’s no real focus, watching this group of struggling artists cope with life’s naturally unfolding and depressing curveballs is sincere, thought-provoking, and sufficiently relatable.

There’s so much to love in Grass‘ seasonal lawn. The homeless actor Chang-soo (Ki Joo-bong) says it best: “When the autumn wind blows, there’s nothing like the taste of soju.” In a firmly intimate black-and-white, from the corners of the coffee shop or through its windows, Hong masterfully captures the rise and fall of a group of people all experiencing different rough patches of life as the leaves change and descend to the ground. While the talk of it all becomes repetitive, even for Grass‘s condensed run, each person’s conflict and individual reactions are intriguingly real—and only revealable in such a cramped, forcedly personal space as a back-alley café. For example, the film opens with one of its more dramatic topics: love in the face of death and regret. A couple, Hong-soo (Ahn Jae-hong) and Mi-na (Gong Min-jeung), discuss their past actions that rendered a girl dead: “You’re the reason she died!” Mi-na snaps at Hong-soo, after the two tried civilly divulging their current occupations before slipping into how the death is causing them to drink excessively. With as much restraint and damaged reaction from both parties—Mi-na she yells or Hong-soo tells her “Don’t talk like that, okay?” before scurrying off to smoke a cigarette—Hong captures life’s morosity with and without the fault involved, which intrigues Areum: “Unlike his image on TV, he looks hot-tempered. He must have a reason,” she writes. “Who doesn’t? Who can understand his feelings? Who can know their relationship? Now only the dead woman is of no consequence. The woman torments him, seeking the meaning of that death. And he is scared… [of] finding that awful truth.” With all surrounding characters experiencing similarly emotionally heavy issues (regardless of the situations’ actual intensity), Areum has plenty of room to express herself and grapple with a variety of typical life issues, such as love, longing, morality, and purpose, or distract herself from her own problems.

With everyone across the film’s ensemble experiencing a different obstacle, Areum inadvertently demonstrates why she writes: her insecurities about finding a successful relationship and repeating a familial pattern. When she meets Jinho and his girlfriend, she warns them of a poorly timed marriage: “That’s irresponsible, isn’t it? It’s so irresponsible! Marrying without knowing each other, and then just living. How many people mess up their lives like that?” While she means well, her almost angered yelling at the pair comes off as defensive, mainly as she and Jinho’s parents’ failed off-screen marriage arose: “You don’t know anything about how hard a time they had! It’s better to marry someone who suits you,” says the single lady who just earlier rejected what she thought was one of her subjects’ hitting on her. She sees what’s happened before and fears for her brother’s future with someone who is little more than a stranger. After lunch and a bit more confrontation, Jinho explains to his girlfriend that it’s part of an emotional pattern their family suffers: “She’s [Areum] got a difficult side…. Her relationships often fail in the end. Same with me. All our family’s like that.” By maintaining an observational role with her writerly subjects, she’s free to control her fate and theirs on the page without reminders of her emotional shortcomings—the very issues that, eventually, bond her to her subjects, a group of similarly struggling writers, actors, and/or friends that can make Areum and her ideas feel welcome. Moreover, Grass shapes itself into a self-acceptance piece, a plea to audiences that everyone comfortably fits in somewhere, even if that’s in a cramped café with scarcely any customers. Combined with details of further personality, such as people’s individual quirks, comments about the café’s kind owner, and elegant scoring from classic composers like Jacques Offenbach, Grass is a slice-of-life treat served with timeless neo-noir sensations that blend fact and fiction.

Thus, while Grass‘s cuts aren’t always focused or succinct, its characters, how they and their issues bleed into each other’s lives, and an intimate scope make it a somberly realistic piece to watch in front of the fire. For Korean film fans, Hong-soo fans, and those seeking something more quietly impactful, Grass is a well-crafted flick about life’s many ups and downs—and that having people around you is the answer

Screens Friday, 8/29, 9:15 p.m. @ Harvard Film Archive
Part of the ongoing repertory series: Seasons of Hong Sangsoo Part 1, Summer & Fall