There is an old adage in architecture: “form follows function.” A building can be beautiful, but its design should always have a purpose. Kogonada’s debut film is completely consistent with this guiding principle. Columbus is as breathtaking of a film as you will ever see, but it is not a sensory overload like, say, 2001: A Space Odyssey, or an immersive experience like In the Mood for Love or The Tree of Life. Instead, you have to engage with it, and take the time to soak in all the details. It’s like looking at a painting in a museum, or looking at an impressive building.
The plot is a simple one. Jin (John Cho), flies in to Columbus, Indiana, where his architect father has fallen into a coma while visiting the town to give a lecture. There he meets Casey (Haley Lu Richardson), a young local girl who happens to be an “architecture nerd”. As Jin waits for his father to awaken, he explores the city with his new companion – almost like a Lost in Translation set in the rural midwest. Cho is fantastic, but Richardson sneakily steals the show. In every role I’ve seen her in (whether it’s a hospital patient or a Hooters waitress), she brings the likeability and sweetness of a girl-next-door, paired with a keen intelligence and thoughtfulness.
Richardson shines as a working-class girl with brains, talent, and a big heart. Casey wistfully dreams of much more than the small-town life she’s resigned herself to, but faces the realities of her situation and responsibilities with a quiet resolve and a cheerful smile. Jin is the opposite – a world-weary, international traveler who finds himself in the middle of nowhere, out of obligation to his father, towards whom he is filled with a lifetime of resentment. Their clothes and outward appearances are a reflection of where they are in their personal journeys. Jin is impeccably dressed in navy blue slim fit suits and dress shirts, though over time he begins to dress down as his walls come down – first losing the suit jacket, then going to a polo, then a t-shirt. Casey’s simple country girl wardrobe, on the other hand, is much more repetitive, consisting mainly of baggy t-shirts and shorts, but by the end she starts wearing dresses and much more put-together, elegant outfits.
A true auteur, Kogonada wrote, directed, and edited this, but the story of Kogonada himself is a fascinating one. He was an acclaimed video essayist and critic who appreciated the visual aesthetic of cinema, from Kubrick to Ozu to Linklater (whose influences are all apparent in Columbus). After being called out by someone saying that it’s easier to critique a film rather than make one, Kogonada put his money where his mouth is and made this incredibly thoughtful and obssessively detailed film. One imagines that the courageous step that Casey takes at the end was similar to Kogonada’s as a first time filmmaker.
Architecture is the medium through which Jin and Casey develop their relationship, and also the means by which Kogonada communicates to his viewers. As much as Casey is interested in architecture, Jin hates it. For Casey, modern architecture represents the promise of a future brighter than what Columbus can offer. She is surrounded by ever-present symbols of her dreams and goals, of the fulfillment of her untapped potential. For Jin, architecture is intertwined with his father, so Jin has always remained willfully ignorant and even disdainful of it. As Casey’s love of architecture begins to seep through to Jin, they’re able to bridge their differences and help each other get to the places they need to be,
The dazzling array of modern architecture we see on the screen is more than just a collection of pretty buildings. Kogonada gives us some hints as to how he wants us to watch his film, through his dialogue. One rather philosophical conversation between Casey and her librarian colleague (Rory Culkin) centers around short attention spans being a matter of interest. Are we losing interest in the things that matter? It’s a thought-provoking inquiry when watching a deliberately-paced movie like Columbus.
When Casey first meets Jin, they walk by the First Christian Church, and she explains to him that the front of the church was designed to be ”asymmetrical but still balanced” – which perfectly describes their own their relationship, as well as being a recurring pattern in how Kogonada frames much of this film. At their second encounter, Casey shows him her second favorite building in Columbus, the Irwin Conference Center, one of the first modernist banks in the country. When he asks her why she likes it, she goes into “tour guide mode” and tells him about its history, but Jin stops her and says, “Do you like it intellectually, because of all the facts?” When he presses her, Casey replies that she thought he didn’t like architecture, and he says that he doesn’t, but he wants to hear more about what moves her. This feels like Kogonada telling us that as beautiful as buildings, or even films, are, it’s not the technical aspects that he’s iterested in, but the feelings and emotions they evoke in us. It’s a simple philosophy, but one that can be easily lost while looking at imposing modernist buildings or gorgeous shot compositions.
And boy, does Kogonada have an eye for composing a shot. There are incredible wide-angle shots, elegant lines and angles, exquisite framing, and a sleek, glassy texture to the film. The patience and stillness of each shot in some ways makes it feel less like a film and more like a series of stunning photographs. Like a good architect or photographer, Kogonada is in complete control of drawing the viewer’s line of sight. There is an unforgettable long take in a hotel room, where the camera never moves, using mirrors, doorframes, lines, and frames-within-frames in a way that portrays the changing boundaries of intimacy and distance.
Along with the hard lines, we see glass and mirrors everywhere too. The mirrors symbolize reflection, of course, but glass, while ubiquitous in modern architecture, functions as a wall, a barrier that you can see through to the other side of the world. It’s particularly resonant that Casey is so drawn to them. This also ties in to Kogonada’s use of sound and silence. Each phone call we see is completely one sided, and we can’t artificially hear the voice on the other side like in most movies. When Casey is telling Jin about what “moves” her about the Irwin Conference Center, we can’t actually hear what she is saying. The viewer is inside the building, looking out at Casey smiling as she describing the building she is so passionate about. At the very end, when they are saying goodbye in the car, we also see their lips move, but we’re outside the car, and can’t hear the words, which feels appropriate. We get to fill in the blanks ourselves, with what is personal to us, and what might move us.
In a film that is so much about absence (there is so much that we don’t get to see, like Jin’s dad, or what is going on with Casey’s mother), Casey and Jin also fill in the blanks for each other. They both are able to see certain things about the other that they can’t see themselves. The sexual tension between the two, and even the racial and cultural differences, are acknowledged, but they are able to move past it. Despite some light flirting, the possibility for romance is consciously shelved by both sides for the sake of their friendship, accompaniment, and support for each other, which they both recognize as far more important.
Columbus is an elegant, minimalist film with the stunning architecture lending to the gentle, spellbinding feeling we have throughout. The city of Columbus, with its real life modern architecture, is the cliched third “character” that gives the film such a sense of presence. Like a samurai sword, it is only effective in the hands of a capable master. There is depth and meaning that can be unpacked from the cold, hauntingly beautiful exteriors. As Jin’s dad would say, Columbus is modernism, with a soul.
