by Olivia Vald

Kogonada’s Columbus lingers on the question, “Are we losing the interest of everyday life?” It is a quiet, meditative film that builds meaning not through twists or dramatic turns but through attention to details that often slip past us. Lines, shapes, silence, and repetition guide the story as much as dialogue, creating a film that feels less like it is telling us something and more like it is inviting us to notice.
From the opening, Kogonada establishes this rhythm through framing. The camera holds on small objects in homes or on buildings in Columbus before turning to the characters. These choices slow the viewing, emphasizing stillness, composition, and form, asking us to look at what usually fades into the background. This struck me because when I usually watch a film, I am not inclined to focus on editing, movement, or composition. My attention tends to go more toward characters and dialogue. Columbus makes form impossible to ignore. Its pacing and images quietly insist that we attend to space, rhythm, and atmosphere as much as to story.

That story begins with two strangers linked by circumstance. Casey, played by Haley Lu Richardson, is rooted in Columbus and tied to her mother, who is struggling with addiction. She insists she cannot leave, even though she dreams of a wider world. John Cho’s Jin arrives reluctantly, pulled there because his estranged father has fallen ill. He resents being stuck in a place that means nothing to him and speaks openly about his disconnection. At first, their roles seem fixed: Casey longs for more but stays still, while Jin wants escape but cannot move.

What unfolds is not a romance in the conventional sense but a relationship defined by honesty and attention. Their conversations are blunt but never unkind. Casey admits, “You grow up around something and it feels like nothing.” Jin pushes back, questioning her choices. The beauty of these exchanges is their simplicity. Lines like “I love being with you” or “Thank you for being here” carry weight without embellishment. The stillness of the camera mirrors this restraint. Long takes hold their silences, making space for moments another film might rush past.

Kogonada reinforces these dynamics through blocking and composition. In an early moment, Casey and Jin share a cigarette while walking on opposite sides of a fence. The medium tracking shot moves with them, the fence serving as a quiet but effective marker of distance while their words bridge the gap. A similar effect appears later during the “your mother, does she do meth?” scene, when they stand on opposite sides of a car. The framing is symmetrical, with the car splitting the screen, a visual reminder of connection and division at once. Even the film’s coloring, often gray, shadowed, or washed in muted light, adds to this atmosphere of melancholy, letting small moments of intimacy stand out more clearly.

Repetition and symmetry structure the film on a larger scale as well. Shots of hallways and doorways appear throughout, creating patterns that feel both architectural and symbolic. This rhythm carries into the final sequence, which lingers in static shots of the city itself: the top of a bridge, the highest points of buildings, the familiar kitchen of Casey’s mother’s house. These images allude to the ordinariness of Columbus, a reminder that the place remains unchanged even as its characters move forward.

This symmetry is emotional as well as visual. Kogonada often mirrors shots to underscore parallels: the professor looking out at the yard, then Jin doing the same; close-ups of objects in the home that return later, connecting people through spaces. These echoes reinforce the film’s central theme of noticing, how repetition sharpens difference and how small details accumulate meaning.
What makes Columbus distinct is the subtlety of its approach. Themes of family, responsibility, longing, and disconnection are never spelled out or dramatized in heavy conflict. They arrive quietly, through atmosphere and rhythm. Watching it felt less like being told a story and more like being asked to pause, to find resonance in what might otherwise seem ordinary. The gray skies, the rain, the sharp lines of a building, the space between two people walking on either side of a fence—all of these become meaningful because the film lingers long enough for us to see.

Ultimately, Columbus is not about resolution but about presence. Jin and Casey’s connection lies in their shared act of noticing: each other, their surroundings, and themselves. Their lives do not transform dramatically, but something shifts in the balance between them. The film leaves us not with closure but with a sense of symmetry, a recognition that small choices matter and the overlooked can hold meaning. In its quiet subtlety, the film stays with you.