The mundane joys of people watching have seldom been caught onscreen as effectively as they have in the opening sequence of Past Lives, the lauded directorial debut of playwright Celine Song. Entering the film from the perspective of two unseen, unnamed narrators, we’re immediately tasked with guessing the relationship dynamics between three people sitting at a New York bar; a Korean man and woman, and one White American man, all in their late thirties. Is the American a tour guide for this couple, or is he the woman’s romantic partner, escorting her as she meets up with an old friend? The joy of the people watching game is that there is no definitive answer to the fictionalised, romanticised lives that can be dreamt up – and the masterstroke of Song’s screenplay is that, despite its emotional directness, there is still ample room to reinterpret character dynamics up to and including the devastating final moments.

Past Lives may chart nearly a quarter of a century, from the turn of the Millennium to the present, but it doesn’t have the epic scope of a decades-spanning drama; people grow up, change jobs, and fall in and out of relationships, but those are the only humble signifiers of the passage of time within this intimate tale. Opening in Seoul in the early 2000’s in the briefest of the three chapters, we’re introduced to schoolkids Na Young (Seung Ah Moon) and Hae Sung (Seung Min Yim), two kids who are constantly at the top of their class – in fact, we’re introduced to them at the sign of the first crack in their friendship, when Hae Sung beat Na Young in a test for the first time. The incident leads Hae Sung to refer to his peer as a crybaby, a term he will return to when they meet again many years later, the memory growing so hazy for both over the intervening years, that they both believe this to have been a recurring nickname.

As a child, Na Young remarks that she’ll probably marry Hae Sung one day, but soon forgets him after the family emigrates to Toronto and she changes her name to Nora. Sometime in the early 2010’s, Nora (now played by the excellent Greta Lee), reconnects with her friend and very brief flame via social media; reminiscing about their past, it quickly becomes clear that they’re romanticising relatively mundane childhood memories largely due to how vastly different their lives have become since then. Hae Sung (now played by Teo Yoo) found himself searching for his childhood crush after military service, whilst Nora had established herself so well in New York that she hadn’t once stopped to think about her former life. She quickly becomes smitten again when their Skype conversations become a daily ritual, a stretch of the movie which feels more poignant in a post-COVID world. Yes, this act takes place around 2011/2012 – with the era-appropriate MacBook software to prove it – but the sight of a relationship blossoming entirely online, the two souls unable to meet because of restrictions in their lives, becomes more of a universal experience when viewed through a contemporary lens. 

Perhaps this is why such a straightforward tale of “the one that got away” has become so resonant; we all lost a year of our lives in which communication with loved ones was relegated entirely to a laptop screen. Nora’s inability to maintain a virtual connection with Hae Sung, something which I imagine would previously have been criticised as nothing more than a forced narrative obstacle, plays out differently in a world that has gone through lockdowns. There’s nothing more painful, it turns out, than remaining in constant touch with loved ones you have no way of physically meeting up with. 

Song’s film is very loosely autobiographical, with the specific details drawn from her life bearing a closer resemblance to Nora’s relationship with her American husband Arthur (John Magaro) rather than those with the childhood sweetheart who helped inspire the tale. In interviews, she tends to describe the story as a “mystery” rather than a tale of lost love, which is the key to why the story is so impactful; the details are heavily specific, but the reflection on life’s big what-ifs that this invites audiences to ponder on makes it considerably more universal. Things could be a lot different now if we didn’t spend a year stuck indoors.

The final chapter of Past Lives, which circles back to the opening scene, is the one that most directly grapples with the paths not taken in life – and whether the story which sounds the most narratively satisfying (in this case, childhood sweethearts reuniting) translates to a deeper connection outside of the initial hook. It’s here where the film succeeds at its improbable balancing act, being emotionally forthright whilst keeping character dynamics completely unknowable; Magaro is particularly unreadable, with Arthur’s response to seeing this long-lost couple reunite ambiguous and ever-evolving, purely through expressions alone. You can project any interpretation you want onto the film’s interpersonal relationships, even as the ending suggests a definitive reading of the central dynamic at first glance. I suspect repeat viewings will only make this even more of a rewarding mystery, unable to be defined in the same way twice, but able to be appreciated all the more.

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Written by Alistair Ryder

_{View of the Arts is a British online publication that chiefly deals with films, music, and art, with an emphasis on the Asian entertainment industry. We are hoping our audience will grow with us as we begin to explore new platforms such as K-pop / K-music, and Asian music in general, and continue to dive into the talented and ever-growing scene of film, music, and arts, worldwide.}