Is love enough? A look at an intercultural marriage

Interview with director Susanne Kim about her film BECOMING KIM, by Maya Reichert

A relationship between people from two different cultures is often more than just a private matter. In BECOMING KIM, Susanne Kim offers an intimate account of her German-Korean marriage and how love, expectations and gender roles are constantly shifting in everyday life. When her husband returns to Korea and the family suddenly finds itself living across two continents, Susanne begins to document her own relationship on film. What initially appears to be a very personal story quickly opens up to a broader question: how does a partnership function when life plans, cultural influences and individual developments are constantly changing?

The film follows a family as they navigate the process of balancing closeness and distance, responsibility and self-determination. It is not just about intercultural differences, but about something fundamental: how do we find our place in a relationship and how do we continually reshape it?

Susanne, your film begins where many love stories end. When did you realise: ‘Now I have to start filming’?

I began this film very intuitively, just as I’m telling the story: Jeong Rae told me on the phone about his plan to open a chicken grill with his mother in Korea. That’s when I said to myself: ‘Now I’m going to make a film about us.’ But I’ve always been interested in how marriages, families and human relationships in general work, and how this supposed microcosm reflects society as a whole. And of course I had a very personal interest in how Korean ideas and role models clash with German ones – in my case, specifically East German ones.

“Kimchi & Potato” once symbolised your bond. When did it become a source of tension?

It had always been a source of tension, but being so young and in love, we simply ignored it at first. I saw us quite romantically as an island. Along the lines of: us as a couple against the rest of the world. But even then, the notions of romance in our respective cultures were worlds apart. And becoming a mother changed a great deal for me.

Over the years, I began to question more and more whether this concept of romantic love isn’t also a tool used to suggest to women in particular: all this work in the home, looking after the children, and also the emotional labour in your relationships – you do it all out of love. That is love. In Korean society, Confucian thinking is rooted in a sense of community. It is not about the individual, but about their role in society. In return, you occupy a specific place within the family that you are expected to fulfil. Doesn’t that also mean, once again, that women are responsible for maintaining harmony? Seen in this light, every philosophy, religion and political ideology has found its own way of conveying to women that it is particularly honourable for them to put their own needs second.

You've made your own relationship into the subject of your film. Was there ever a moment when you questioned that?

My artistic work has always been intertwined with my own life. After all, I spend about five years on every film – and therefore with the people involved. But of course, a film has a narrative structure; characters are developed and story arcs are followed, condensing time into a 90-minute story. When you make a personal film, film and life overlap even more. Anyone who thinks it’s easy to make a film about their own family because they already have a familiar connection is mistaken. Fortunately, I had Emma by my side as cinematographer and Marion as editor. Added to this were the perspectives of Sarah and Heejung, the Korean producers, and also of Jin, our Korean editor. This polyphonic chorus of perspectives was important as a counterpoint to my personal involvement.

What was greater: the fear of losing the relationship, or the need to understand it?

The prerequisite for the film was that I didn’t have any fear of loss. The film gave me the strength to continue grappling with the relationship. Because I felt that we were completely stuck, both as a family and as a couple.

In the film, you question your role as a partner, mother and feminist. Did you ever realise: ‘My own ideas no longer hold water’?

t’s the role of the mother in particular that I’ve always taken issue with: that sheer audacity with which women are expected, after giving birth, to embrace their new role without complaint. As if they’d had no life before. I can honestly say that my daughter is the most important person in my life. But it was never my plan to be her primary caregiver. I really wanted to share that. Jeong Rae, on the other hand, takes the view that the mother is always the most important person for a child.

As a woman, the older generation subtly implies: ‘Why are you complaining? We had to work much harder than you did.’ And, I must admit with a touch of self-criticism, we pass this on. We look at young mothers and say to a friend, with a hint of sarcasm: ‘What on earth are they on about with all this “self-care” and constantly revolving around their children’s needs?’ Here I see this deep-seated pattern of remaining in the private sphere. But also, often, a lack of solidarity amongst women. That has increasingly bothered me. And from the comments on the film, I get the impression that some women think I’m either to blame myself for not managing to live a truly feminist life, or simply believe I’m taking up an uncomfortable amount of space to complain. But I want to consciously question the implications of our own (romantic) choices and establish this connection between the private and the political in my film. We simply fail constantly in the face of our own ideals. There are no perfect solutions.

You appear on camera yourself and work on the costumes and staging. What are you able to convey in this way that wouldn’t be possible through observation alone?

As a director, you have a lot of decision-making power, so I felt it was only fair that I didn’t hide behind the camera, but put myself out there. I wanted to portray myself as the one who is most vulnerable. And I wanted to bring my own sense of humour to the film.

Was it important to you to find a tone that was honest without becoming heavy-handed?

I wanted to work with subjects that are truly quintessentially female. I remember an exhibition opening: I showed collages under the title ‘Becoming Kim – Welcome to my Family’ – some of which can also be seen in the film – for example, this large vase that I’m carrying up a mountain. Its shape is modelled on the Celadon Vase, Korea’s National Treasure No. 97. I crocheted around it using my grandmother’s nylon aprons. Inside the vase are family secrets written on paper, which visitors could throw in during the exhibition. An artist who had also come to the opening said to me: ‘Well, that’s proper women’s art.’ And I simply replied: ‘Yes!’ And now I work with crocheted bonnets, soft, sweeping forms, fruit, food in general, masks, my breasts, vases, aprons, mirrors. Insignia of women’s art, right in your face. It’s fun.

Has making the film changed your relationship?

It’s been quite a while since we finished filming. As things unfolded towards the end, a sense of closeness returned – within the family, but also within our relationship – a greater warmth. But to be honest, I’m good at going with the flow and looking after myself. I think that’s the secret to our marriage (laughs).

What do you believe today: is love enough? And what determines that?

Objectively speaking, love isn’t enough. But you can tick off every box on the checklist – education, family background, income, appearance – and it still doesn’t work out. Love isn’t predictable. Even if it seems that way in our capitalist age: you can read about this in Eva Illouz’s work. But perhaps that is precisely why love is not the best prerequisite for marriage, one might say heretically. It is important to ask: how and from whom did one learn to love? Has one even learnt to love at all? Perhaps it would be better to take a closer look at this before getting married or entering into a relationship of any kind.

What can viewers discover about their own relationships in your film?

I hope they take a deep breath and think: ‘Thank goodness it’s complicated for other people too.’ Often, people put on a show of having a perfect family, relationship or life in general – something nobody actually has. Isn’t that incredibly exhausting?

What’s more, instead of always focusing on what you’re not getting out of a relationship, you should try directing your attention to what you do have. A sort of reflection on why you got together in the first place. This question is particularly interesting in marriages shaken by midlife crises.

What did this film enable you to do that might not have happened without it?

At last I was able to speak to my mother-in-law, Sun Ja, without Jeong Rae having to translate. He’d always been very reluctant to do that. She used the film as an opportunity to tell her son things they’d never otherwise talk about. The film acted as a kind of medium. And she came to visit us in Germany. I’d long wanted Sun Ja to see how we live, where I come from. What’s more, because of our filming, our intra-family, intercultural dialogue hasn’t remained private, but has become a space for political resonance – to borrow that old slogan from the women’s movement here.

We'd like to thank Susanne Kim for this interview!

See all of the screening dates for her new movie BECOMING KIM.