After Yang

If you walked into the room during the first three minutes of After Yang, you’d swear you’d accidentally stumbled into a high-budget Gap commercial or a particularly synchronized TikTok challenge. The film opens with a multi-family, intergalactic dance competition where our protagonists—Jake, Kyra, their daughter Mika, and their "techno-sapien" Yang—bust out a tightly choreographed routine in matching yellow outfits. It’s vibrant, it’s rhythmic, and it is a total lie.

Once the music stops, the movie settles into a hush so profound you can almost hear the dust motes dancing in the light. I watched this on a Tuesday afternoon while eating a bowl of cereal that had gone slightly too soggy, and honestly, the damp crunch of my flakes felt like a structural intrusion on the film’s sonic landscape.

Directed by Kogonada (the mononymous filmmaker who gave us the equally architectural Columbus), After Yang is a sci-fi movie for people who are tired of robots trying to take over the world. There are no laser fights here. There’s just a family whose "big brother" android has suffered a core failure, and the subsequent scramble to fix him that turns into a quiet autopsy of a digital soul.

The Architecture of a Broken Brother

The setup is deceptively simple. Yang (Justin H. Min, who is remarkably soulful despite playing a literal product) was purchased "certified refurbished" to help Mika, an adopted child from China, connect with her heritage. He’s a walking encyclopedia of "fun Chinese facts" and a babysitter who never gets tired. But when he shuts down, the family realizes he wasn't just an appliance.

Colin Farrell plays Jake, the father who runs a struggling tea shop. This is "Quiet Farrell," the version of the actor we’ve seen recently in The Banshees of Inisherin, where every wrinkle on his forehead seems to be carrying a different heavy thought. As he takes Yang’s internal memory core to various underground repair shops and museums, he discovers that Yang had a private life. He had memories. He had a favorite song.

What makes this work in our current era of "everything is a franchise" is how small it stays. In a world where every AI story eventually turns into a "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" existential crisis, After Yang asks something more domestic: Do our Alexa devices actually care about us, and would we miss them if they died? It’s a movie about the digital footprints we leave behind and how those 3-second clips of memory define who we were to the people who loved us.

Farrell’s Quiet Renaissance

I’ve been a fan of the "Farrellance" for a few years now. Watching him navigate this near-future world—which looks like a Japanese garden sprouted inside a minimalist IKEA—is a masterclass in restraint. He and Jodie Turner-Smith (playing his wife, Kyra) have this weary, lived-in chemistry that feels incredibly authentic to anyone who has ever had a long-term partner. They aren't fighting; they’re just distanced.

The standout, though, is the relationship between Jake and Yang revealed through "memory files." There’s a scene where they discuss the philosophy of tea—how it isn't just a drink, but a connection to a specific place and time—that is arguably the best thing Colin Farrell has ever filmed. It’s the kind of performance that doesn't need a "for your consideration" clip because the whole movie is the clip.

Then there’s Haley Lu Richardson as Ada, a girl from Yang’s past. She brings a flicker of mystery that prevents the movie from becoming too much of a somber eulogy. The way Kogonada frames these actors is intentional; he treats people like part of the furniture and furniture like part of the soul. Most sci-fi directors want to show you the scale of the universe; Kogonada wants to show you the grain of a wooden table.

A Future That Actually Feels Lived In

Technically, the film is a triumph of "low-fi sci-fi." There are self-driving cars, but they look like cozy, plant-filled lounges. There are video calls, but they appear as holographic overlays that feel more like ghosts than technology. It’s a vision of 2022-and-beyond that feels oddly comforting, even when it’s breaking your heart.

Interestingly, the film’s box office was almost non-existent—it pulled in just over $130,000. It’s a classic "A24" casualty of the streaming era, released simultaneously in theaters and on Showtime during that weird post-pandemic transition where we weren't sure if we wanted to leave our houses yet. It’s a shame, because the cinematography by Benjamin Loeb deserves a screen larger than an iPad.

Turns out, the famous dance sequence that opens the film took the cast weeks to rehearse, and Justin H. Min reportedly had to keep a straight face while everyone else was sweating through their yellow jumpsuits. That bit of trivia makes the subsequent 90 minutes of stillness even more impressive. Kogonada essentially lures you in with a party and then forces you to sit through the most beautiful, meaningful funeral you’ve ever attended.

After Yang is a gentle nudge to look at the people around you before they become nothing more than a collection of digital highlights. It’s a movie about grief that somehow feels like a warm cup of tea. It doesn't provide easy answers about the "soul" of a machine, but it makes a damn good case for the soul of the people who interact with them. If you’re tired of the noise, sit down with this one. Just make sure your cereal isn't too loud.