Jinho Myung’s Softshell carves up Asian-American early adulthood

Jamie was planning on celebrating her birthday in Thailand with her mom and brother, but her mom died. So she probably has to think of something else.

She tells this to her soon-to-be employer, a previously-peppy zookeeper, who pivots the conversation to whale sharks. Did Jamie (played by Caledonia Abbey) know that a whale shark just arrived at an aquarium in Georgia? Now she does.

Softshell (2024), an arthouse dramedy by writer-director Jinho Myung, follows two siblings as they navigate early adulthood. Jamie’s brother, Narin (played by Legyaan Thapa), is starting work as an assistant jiu-jitsu coach. During one breakfast between the siblings, leaning against kitchen counters, he shadowboxes into Jamie’s face. She just chews. He could end her, he says, and she “wouldn’t have time to be sad” about it. Sibling banter doesn’t have to make sense. They interrupt and stutter over and barely articulate to each other. They don’t have to try; they just get it.

The film had its world premiere on Oct. 6, 2024 at the New/Next Film Festival, presented by Baltimore Public Media. This year’s festival took place over four days at the historic Charles Theatre. The premiere featured a post-screening question and answer with Myung, Abbey and cinematographer Rhys Scarabosio.

Jamie and Narin are Thai-American New Yorkers in their 20s. Jamie is done with school. Narin speaks Thai. Jamie is learning. They have a pet chameleon. Their mom’s death catapults them into adulthood. The film doesn’t dwell on this. In fact, on the subway, a homeless man plays bongos on her urn.

There are more awkward, vaguely threatening encounters with different white men through the rest of the film. David, Jamie’s partner who suggests she “be less quiet” during sex, is white and a seafood chef at a Thai place. When Jamie tells her brother this, he lets out an awkward laugh, an unspoken “sheesh, what do you figure his type is?” And, when Jamie calls the hotel’s front desk for something they don’t have, the clerk delivers it in person, thinking she’s a girl alone in a room. The portrayal of creepy white men is driven almost to impressionistic absurdity, a mimesis for how overbearing and carnivorous their words are to women.

While Jamie and Narin are making different lives for themselves, they also look after and make time for one another. A pivotal trip to Georgia, done on a no-questions-asked kind of whim, takes up a chunk of the second act. There, they watch a colossal whale shark split entire schools of fish. By bizarre chance, they meet Ken, an old Korean-American man with a Southern voice who likes to fish and shoot. He teaches the siblings. He’s a seasoned American. He’s a human whale shark, settled in the sea.

He’s also a real person. During the question and answer portion, Myung admitted that he found Ken’s small-time fishing vlogs on Instagram Reels and just had to reach out. Myung himself cameos in a one-off comic relief scene: an uncomfortable date with a white, K-pop superfan. The actor who portrays David is a real chef at one of New York’s few three-star Michelin restaurants, explained Myung. As for Abbey and her candid awkwardness as Jamie — part of what makes her such a convincing lead — she mentioned during the session that Softshell was her first acting gig ever.

Jamie is compelling as a protagonist because she’s trying to work out how to live correctly. She apologizes to her partner for giving bad head. She compulsively plays a pixelated, monotonous life-simulation video game. She doesn’t swim for long in the hotel pool, and, when she’s in her towel, Narin interrogates why she won’t get back in the water. And, although softshell turtles are considered invasive pests by the zoo, Jamie rescues one from an Asian supermarket. She identifies with it, this thing that can hardly swim, so she brings it home to take care of it.

Human appetite and pity contend with each other in this film. The film gradually lays bare its questions. What makes it okay to gut a lobster but not other animals? Is it possible to change the fate or nature of a thing? Can Jamie decide her place in the social food chain? Be a whale shark? Is swimming supposed to be natural for humans? Does she belong? Is she going to get found out? Consumed? Fetishized? Loved?

Softshell doesn’t just deal with the sea. We see, in contrast, a much drier class of life: snakes, reptiles, chameleons and snake plants. This is Narin’s territory — in one striking shot, he wears a green hoodie and walks through aisles of green houseplants. Additionally, early on, we see Jamie take care of her pet chameleon. It’s one of the few moments she’s in her unlit bedroom and not playing the video game. Reptilia is a simple, subtle and softly healing motif for the siblings’ roots. 

The film and its bizarre visuals will take some effort to work out, but, even without cracking it, its denouement will take you on what feels like a night ride home from the airport. You’ll be spent from the trip, a little hollow, foggy-headed but relaxed — not home yet but knowing it’s just a nap away.

Unlike whale sharks, Softshell doesn’t take up a lot of space. But it does tell the naturalistic, singular, tropeless story of two new adults, one of whom takes a bit more time to find her way. We’re given a narrow, editorialized vision through tight shots and a camera that locks in on its subjects for as long as possible. It follows people’s faces and moves up and down with their heads. It zeroes in on a bowl of cheerios, a crab cracked open and boiled, and a noiseless jiu-jitsu shuffle. Once an image has done its part, though, the film moves on; we don’t return to the siblings’ work lives. Instead, we move onto the next setup, the next symbolic cue, the next quiet beat of change.

Softshell invites us into its cramped apartment of a world. It opens its front door, arms full of stuff, with an awkward kick and boot to cushion the door from slamming. Some shots start blurry and take time to come into focus. That may be due to the use of handheld camera on 16 millimeter film, reproducing the modest colors and grain of classic Asian cinema. It may also be mirroring the film’s language of revelation. The camera stares at characters before it faithfully represents them. Things are blurry before they strikingly clarify. It’s obscurantist. It’s a little judgmental. It might reinforce stereotypes (about homeless people, K-pop fans) as much as it criticizes white people who objectify Asian culture and identity.

Still, the film asks for our patience. There are not only touching moments of regret and redemption and plenty of offbeat humor but also instances of grotesque, climactic evil. Each character captures our sympathy at certain points and provokes our frustration and pushback at others. Sometimes, its language loses focus, obscured by cigarette smoke, scarcely getting its words out, much like Jamie’s beginner attempts at Thai. But Softshell is also a story about love and cruelty and seafood for everyone to enjoy. It’s part dramedy, part slice-of-life, part surrealist and part crustacean horror. It’s for siblings, for Asian-Americans, for humans, and for all of us brand-new adults.