Writing Analysis
Asian Rage In Netflix’s “Beef”
And things you might have missed if you’re not Korean American
Netflix and A24’s show, BEEF, follows two miserable people escalating a simple road rage incident into a months-long Tom-and-Jerry love-hate affair. While their cars never actually make contact, Amy (Ali Wong) and Danny (Steven Yeun) find a mutual comfort in their inability to let it go. In each other, they find a way to express their long-suppressed dissatisfactions with life, Amy as a successful entrepreneur trying to sell her company so she can finally rest with her family, and Danny as a contractor ever-struggling to get business off the ground so he can afford to bring his parents back to America.
BEEF is easily accessible to those of us who have felt frustration for reasons we can’t quite articulate, for those of us who have to suppress rage over something we ourselves acknowledge is not that big a deal.
It’s also a beautiful portrait of Asian America, the universe that exists within the broader universe of America. Writer Lee Sung Jin not only captures the outer setting of Korean churches and Asians in White-dominated professional spaces but also what lies beneath the waters within each of his characters. The characters’ decisions are their own, yet informed by their cultural backgrounds. Thus, Lee captures the quiet grief and rage of people of Asian descent living in America, that feeling of screaming on the inside while smiling and being polite on the outside.
The Invisible Tiger Mother-in-Law: Fumi
Fumi, Amy’s mother-in-law, is ferocious. When she’s not coddling her precious adult son, George (or Joji), Fumi seems to make it her life’s mission to make Amy miserable. The house Amy designed is never posh enough, and she’s way too harsh on her daughter, June, Fumi’s granddaughter.
At the same time, when Fumi’s not around her family or art enthusiasts who know her as the wife and muse of the late artistic genius Haru, Fumi is just another invisible middle-aged Asian woman, the kind that gets overlooked by waiters, the kind that never gets a call back from any of her “friends.”
Whether her prickly personality led to her isolation or the other way around, we’ll never know. As we find out later, Fumi is broke and desperately needs her bread-winning daughter-in-law’s career to work out so that she can borrow money from her. Fumi’s own insecurities and the stress of managing her dwindling funds — the result of a paltry inheritance left behind by her successful husband — might be causing some of her aggression towards her daughter-in-law, who actually had to make her way from the ground up.
The Ageist Korean Bully: Isaac
Korean culture is big on deference towards your elders, whether they’re a year or a decade older than you. Deference on the basis of age is baked right into the language: women refer to older women as unni and older men as obba, and men refer to older men as hyung and older women as nuna. (There are more titles if they’re even older, or in different settings like the workplace.)
As with anything, taken too far this inherently beautiful value of respecting the elderly becomes unhealthy, leading to ageism — but not in the way we experience it in the West. Here in the West, we tend to overlook old people, thinking of them as outdated, useless, and a burden (to oversimplify). In the East, ageism goes the other way, with people bullying those who are younger than them. Some particularly enthusiastic or insecure people bark at you if you don’t refer to them by their “appropriate” titles — even if they’re only a couple of months older than you.
Isaac is one of those particularly insecure people. He’s a charismatic asshole, a disarming blend of pitiable losers and charming bosses. You know he’s crossing boundaries, that he’s being unreasonable, yet you end up following orders because somehow despite his criminal record, you trust he knows what he’s doing. He’s very persuasive that way.
One tool he uses is his infectious pride in Korean culture. It’s true that Koreans should have pride in their culture; our history and traditions provide wisdom, comfort, power, and beauty. But Isaac and Danny are a little too patriotic. While this manifests as outright anti-White racism for Danny (which I suspect is born not from genuine hatred but from resentment bred by insecurity), it manifests as ageism for Isaac.
With his infectious patriotism, Isaac makes Danny and Danny’s younger brother, Paul, proud to be Korean. He sprinkles in Korean with his English as signs of affection and endearment. More importantly, he uses Konglish (Korean mixed with English) as a shibboleth: a password or secret handshake to signal they’re part of the in-group — or rather, that he admits them into his group.
But Isaac also wields that patriotism as a weapon, again using language. Isaac makes it clear he is the hyung, big brother; Paul is the maknae, the gender-neutral youngest of a group. That positions Danny beneath his hyung but above the maknae: Danny has to follow orders from Isaac and keep Paul in line. Paul lashes out, telling them they can’t keep bullying him because they feel miserable about how their own lives turned out. But time and time again, Paul bows his head, apologizes, and falls in line with his hyung’s.
Isaac has to rely on his self-serving patriotism because he doesn’t have much else going for him besides his ego. He’s already been busted once, and he isn’t able to maintain the loyalty of non-Korean henchman the same way he keeps his younger cousins ensnared. Though he carries himself with swag, even he must know he’s not much of a looker. And despite his hustling shenanigans, he still seems to be broke. At least broke enough to be committing crimes. Isaac’s self-serving patriotism, his ageism, is one of the few tools he has to wield power.
Not All Asians Are Crazy Rich: Paul the Korean American Underdog
Is Paul a bum who spends all day playing video games without paying rent, or is he secretly a crypto-trading genius who hustles in silence? Is he a desperately f*ck boy who can’t hold down a job because he keeps flirting with any female who moves, or is he just looking for a genuine connection?
It’s hard to tell — and that’s why he’s such a perfect younger brother character. Just when it seems like he’s too much of a lazy sh*t, or a reckless thief, we see him crack open: in concern for his depressed brother or about how his toxic family brings him down.
And just when it seems like he might be a sweet guy, he calls the woman he just slept with a b*tch.
So is Paul a victim or a hero? A sweet guy or a scumbag? To understand, we need to look at his cultural context.
Paul grew up within the Korean American community: he used to hang out with his family and Danny’s ex, Veronica, and attend Korean church. But now, his closest friends are not even Asian, let alone Korean, and he doesn’t seem hung up on finding a “nice Korean girl” as Danny insists.
So what gives?
Maybe Paul’s repulsion towards his heritage is driven by his repulsion towards his family. Paul seems to believe his nagging older brother and criminal cousin drag him down, and if they’re his closest points of contact with the Korean American community, he might conflate them with Korean people and culture in general. (In real life, I suspect this is what drives so many first and second-generation Asian Americans to reject their Asian heritages, like actively avoiding the “other Asians,” bashing their parents for laughs or otherwise acting more “American.”)
On the other hand, it could be that Paul feels lost within the Korean American community, which is a mix of everything from blue-collar workers to small business owners to upper-middle “elites.” If Paul’s brother and cousin are a hard place, the semi-rich Korean-American kids he used to hang out with who went on to be successful are a rock. We see some of these well-adjusted, semi-successful Korean Americans in Danny’s ex, Veronica. Through the Korean American community, Paul is not only reminded of what he doesn’t want to be (Danny and Isaac), but what he could have been (Veronica).
It makes sense, then, that he chooses to reject the pool altogether, swimming to wider waters with non-Asian friends and lovers. But he can’t seem to escape for long, swimming back and forth, away from and towards home.
Ambivalence towards his heritage and core community reflects throughout the rest of Paul’s actions: he’s sweet one moment and cruel the next. Lazy yet hard-working. Korean yet American. He can’t seem to make up his mind because, at the end of the day, he just wants to belong. He finds hope in his brief fling with Amy — and when he feels rejected, he lashes out, crawling back to his brother and cousin.
The Korean Church Obba Who Plays The Guitar: Edwin the Petty Prince
Edwin is successful: so mild-mannered, so seemingly wise. With his crooning and strumming, he leads the praise team at a Korean church. Not only is he the church’s main vocalist and guitarist, but he also seems to be a role model with his equally sweet and mild-mannered wife, Veronica — Danny’s ex.
There’s this word in Korean: yalmiweo (얄미워). It means love-hate, or maybe admire-envy because it usually refers to someone who’s so perfect you can’t help but admire them even as you seethe with envy. To Danny, Edwin is yalmiweo.
Edwin embodies the Korean church guitar obba. Every Korean church has one. Like guitar obbas in other settings (in college dorms, on camping grounds), the Korean church guitar obba draws all the girls with his sensitive nature. (Why are they always straight?)
Within the context of the Korean church, the guitar obba is also a paradigm of morality, someone who makes you wonder if Jesus played guitar, too. He’s always on time, ready to help out, and knowledgeable about scripture. I knew one Korean church guitar obba who led Bible study at school (as in not at church), and another whose mother was in charge of training us for communion.
Yet, just like every other guitar obba, the Korean church guitar obba has a dark side. Beneath his sweet and generous demeanor is a sneer, a sense of superiority. In most contexts, this manifests as disdain towards your “commercial” music taste, or disinterest when the conversation leaves the realm of Russian literature.
In the context of the Korean church, the guitar obba’s superiority comes from being holier than thou. He knows the scripture better. He doesn’t miss mass like you, no matter who’s sick. The qualities you admire him for being what he disdains you for. He is the master of making passive-aggressive comments under the guise of concern, like when Edwin asks Danny what he’s doing all the way in Orange County. (“Is business slow this time of year?”). Or when he cautions Danny against signing up for basketball (“We’re…” — with a sneer — “pretty good.”).
Again, just like any other guitar obba, this sweet sensitive facade is fragile. It shatters upon any minor infraction upon the guitar obba’s ego. In BEEF, what was supposed to be a friendly basketball game devolves into an embarrassing tantrum when Danny’s team (mainly Paul) starts beating Edwin. Edwin screams four-letter curse words, lashes out at team members, and even kicks over a hapless trash can.
And when parenthood forces him to quit the praise team and strains his finances, Edwin starts fighting with his wife, Veronica.
The Asian BFF/Mean Girl: Naomi
Like the Korean church guitar obba, the Asian BFF (Best Friend Forever)/Mean Girl is full of contradictions. Is she sweet or cruel? Collaborative or competitive?
It depends: have you offended her recently?
In BEEF, Naomi is not only Amy’s mom-friend, but also, in a strange way, her work cousin. Naomi doesn’t have a profession, but she does have a job: she collects information. Somehow, she has charmed herself into the inner circle of Jordan, the mercurial multi-millionaire to whom Amy is desperately trying to sell her company.
During a play date between their girls, Naomi not only consoles Amy by being vulnerable about parenting (both mothers confide small nuggets of their daughters’ “problematic” behaviors), but she also offers to help Amy seal the work deal with insider information and sweet talking. We don’t see many of the other moms in the neighborhood, but at one point Naomi and Amy make their solidarity explicit: as Asian women, they should look out for each other.
Of course, this solidarity only solidifies after Naomi viciously attacks Amy.
Like with the Korean church guitar obba, the Asian BFF/Mean Girl’s attacks are prompted by threats to their ego. Amy unwittingly steals Jordan away from Naomi, or rather, Jordan replaces Naomi with Amy. Naomi plays it cool at first, staying polite towards both, but she plots in secret to undermine Amy.
Naomi ends up backtracking on her accusations and buddying up to Amy with a profuse apology, but her accusations are largely correct.
How did Naomi piece it all together? Because, as Amy points out, she has time. Naomi listens to everyone, including soft-spoken neighbors and screaming randos (Danny). She not only checks Nextdoor but shares interesting posts. She’s the one who first messaged Jordan the Nextdoor post about road-ragers who ruined someone’s flower garden; she’s the one who invites the original poster over for tea. She talks to Amy’s employee and finds out Amy and George are fighting; she talks to a neighbor and finds footage of the Cho cousins.
If information is currency, Naomi is a clearinghouse. No cent of information circulates in their economy without passing through her first — and she extracts a fee.
Yet, in a vulnerable moment, we see Naomi alone in her walk-in closet. She changes again and again, tossing expensive-looking clothes all about. It’s a rare glimpse of her without any poise, so we assume she’s dressing up to go out somewhere important.
But she doesn’t. She sits on a little ottoman in her closet and stares absentmindedly at the wall. She’s dressed up to go nowhere.
Then she zips herself into a clothes bag that you use to store wedding dresses or expensive suits. From what I can tell, the bag is from Louis Vuitton, all leather and branded. It’s a symbol for how she uses money as armor.
Without any words, we understand what drives Naomi: she wants to be important and seen. But the best she can do is dress in fancy clothes and collect information, even if no one is looking, even if no one is listening.
But let’s peel this back further: why does Naomi feel invisible, even as seems to be everywhere and know all?
Through her relationship with Jordan, we see how Naomi’s reminded of her replaceability: to Jordan, one Asian woman can easily be replaced with another, even if they share almost no other characteristic in terms of career ambitions, manner of speech, friendliness, empathy, or warmth.
But through her obsession with Jordan, we also see something uglier: maybe Naomi wants to be replaceable, because by virtue that means she can replace someone else. In real life, this reflects the strange standoffishness that sometimes occurs between the only two Asian women in the room. I’ve been in situations where the only other Asian woman felt compelled to correct or lecture me in front of everyone else, where she felt the need to declare, “Well, I have a different opinion.” The number of experiences where my interactions with other Asian women were supportive or at least neutral overwhelmingly outnumber these catty situations, but it still occurs.
It’s an uncanny cycle: Naomi’s overlook-ability is what makes it easy for people to open up to her. This information is what makes her valuable. It’s in her best interest to remain interesting enough to keep around yet bland enough to be able to squeeze into any place she wants, including squeezing another Asian woman out of her place.
Asian Representation in BEEF
BEEF could have happened in any other community, in any other country. The story stands just fine without setting it within the Asian American community, yet that setting enhances the theme of the story.
The characters represent so many Asian Americans who have gotten only limited representation in Western media. Somehow we skipped from Yellowface & knife-throwing child gangsters & ruthless doctors to powerful intimidating bullies & anybody-of-Asian-descent-can-be-a-K-pop-star.
But the real Asian American community is a mix of everything from blue-collar workers to small business owners and upper-middle “elites.” A mix of gangsters, hard workers, proud fathers, caring mothers, overbearing families, and nosy neighbors.
The film Spa Night did a good job capturing the crabs-in-an-immigrant-bucket mentality of the Korean American community in particular: sure, everyone wants their congeniality to be genuine, but to some extent, it’s a survival mechanism.
For characters like Danny and Paul, it’s hard to be blue-collar among kids who look like you but actually turn out to be “successful” and on to nice neighborhoods. For characters like Fumi and Naomi, it’s hard to stay relevant in a society where you seem to be easily discardable as an Asian woman. For characters like Isaac and Edwin, it’s hard to be an alpha male, whatever that means.
And all that leads to quiet rage.
