Liquor Store Dreams

The child of parents who ran a liquor store, first-time director So Yun Um is well placed to explore the phenomenon of Korean-American-owned liquor stores in the US. Her feelings including pride, nostalgia, and embarrassment at various points, Liquor Store Dreams turns the camera on to So’s father, who becomes a stand-in for Korean liquor store owners everywhere, with So a representative for their American-raised offspring (her sister refers to the kind of work their parents do as “bitchwork”).

Endearing and disarmingly honest, her father’s story is difficult not to warm to. He reels off the numerous jobs he did upon arriving in the US (“you cannot survive unless you work hard” he declares), explaining how running your own business signifies a step-up from poorly paid labour, even if the hours can seem never-ending - the store is open 15 hours a day, 365 days a year. Small wonder then that the liquor store remains a popular choice for many migrant business owners.

When So weaves in the story of Danny, a fellow liquor store baby, she gains a soulful, dynamic, self-reflective mouthpiece for other second-generation Korean-Americans raised within family businesses. He has a coveted job at Nike, but when his dad dies, he’s called back to help his mum run the store, a role he remarkably takes on with inspiration, not just duty. Where Danny gives the film a narrative arc that follows his return to the store, impressive attempts to revitalise the business and better involve the local community, So’s arc is a more personal one, focused on the dynamic between her and her dad.

In a pivotal, revealing scene that forms a highlight of the film, she plays her dad archive footage from the LA riots, quizzing him on racial tensions between Korean and black communities that for many, reached a peak with the death of black teen Latasha Harlins in 1991. His responses, unsurprisingly favour store owners (he asks why no one seems to notice when Korean store owners are attacked or killed), while hers, remain immovably focused on what she sees as his inability to understand the view of the rioters. She wants to hold up a mirror to attitudes in the Korean community she can’t abide by, and can’t bring herself to empathise with his perspective. He meanwhile wants her to see things as someone behind the counter every day does.

This generational conflict, often tender, charming and moving, gives the film a winning thread of familial interrogation that should make it go over well with audiences, and sits neatly inside its examinations of Korean store-owner representation in Hollywood, how so many liquor stores came to be owned by Korean migrants, and the non-professional migrant experience more broadly.