To see pachinko is to have an audience with something deeply sacred and profound. Adapted from Min Jin Lee’s best-selling novel of the same name, Apple TV Plus’ most ambitious project yet is a sublime epic that challenges cultural identities, national histories, and intergenerational remembrance and grief.
The eight-episode series follows Sunja through the upheavals of her life in the 20th century, beginning with her birth in the southern coastal city of Busan during the Japanese colonization of Korea. An extraordinary boldness and veracity of vision reverberates through every layer of Pachinko: its story is searingly human, its cast is thoughtful, and the project boasts an impressive multinational team of producers, consultants and crew. Even details like the subtitles—yellow for Korean dialogue and blue for Japanese—inscribe cultural nuance and complexity, inviting a less-familiar viewer to actively engage with the text.
Pachinko will no doubt resonate differently with different viewers depending on their proximity to the show’s historical context, but ultimately this is a story in search of a spiritual answer – one that will remain indelibly etched in a viewer’s mind.
Directed by Justin Chon (Blue Bayou, Gook) and Kogonada (After Yang, Columbus), the series hops between early 20th-century Korea and 1980s Japan, taking many other detours. We meet a whole range of characters from Sunja’s life: her parents, suitors, children, sisters-in-law and brother-in-law, boarders living in her parents’ house and grandson Solomon Baek. Sunja’s character is played by three phenomenal actresses: Jeon Yu-na (in her childhood years), Kim Min-ha (in her teens), and Academy Award winner Youn Yuh-jung (in her later years). Pachinko also stars Lee Min-ho (Koh Han-su), Anna Sawai (Naomi), and Jin Ha (Solomon Baek).
The non-linear construction of time in the pachinko series marks a marked departure from Lee’s novel, which progresses chronologically, making this adaptation a radically different project. Some of Pachinko’s leaps between past and present play out majestically, fleshing out themes of displacement, cultural identity, death, migration, longing, and ambition. Being able to witness the full breadth of the story, it’s easy to grow fond of Pachinko’s characters and understand the past strife that both burdened and enlightened them.
In these better juxtapositions, Pachinko’s achronological movements infuse the present with the seriousness of the past and the sanctity of the great stories of yore. For example, a bowl of Korean white rice (“nuttier” and “sweeter”) that sunja eats while visiting the home of another Zainichi lady suddenly takes on ancient meanings: a resonance of childhood, the generosity of a grain seller, and that Parting gift from a mother. With the knowledge of past events through the insertion of scenes, these meanings are touched with the sacred sorrow of all that has been loved and lost, but also soothed by the comfort that memory brings.
At other moments, however, the question arises as to whether these time jumps decenter Sunja’s experience in favor of television tension and interrupt the emotional journey a viewer might have with Sunja. Pachinko might have worked better if it had been stingy with the number of cuts between past and present, allowing viewers to linger with the characters and grow with them. An episode to the later part of the series also takes a historical detour that feels particularly disjointed with the rest of the story. But those bumps don’t take away from Pachinko’s shine – the sheer power and dynamism of its story drives it emphatically from beginning to end.
In addition to dealing with time, pachinko is also a meditation on land. Solomon Baek, Sunja’s grandson, is well groomed and American educated, caught between multiple identities and cultures. Despite having a string of successful businesses to his name, he is denied a raise and promotion – and the respect that goes with it – at his New York financial firm. In order to impress upper management, he accepts the challenge of acquiring one last tiny piece of land on a lot in Tokyo earmarked for future hotel development. He is unfazed by the “one landowner” attitude.[ing] the entire deal as a hostage” – an elderly Korean Zainichi lady, grandmother Han. She refuses to sell her home on the site and turns down repeated offers from developers.
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A bird’s-eye view of giant construction cranes and equipment already in place shows the ground being leveled all around. The area has turned a drab brown, poised for the development of Tokyo’s skyscrapers and towers, untouchable proof that the machines of cosmopolitanism and capitalist progress are alive and kicking. We learn that Grandmother Han – who moved to Japan in 1929 – bought the property in 1955 for 4,000 yen. In addition to telling stories about his grandmother and their similar cultural backgrounds to break the ice, Solomon tries to charm grandmother Han with rare gifts and a raised offer of one billion yen, but she remains stubbornly unwilling to sell the house . He assures her: “Grandmother, you won. Today you ensure great wealth for your children and their children.” Solomon’s colleague, the bold Tom Andrews, cannot understand this and calls grandmother Hans’ plan a “little piece of shit”. Another colleague, Naomi, tactfully suggests, “It’s not about the money, not about her.”
Grandmother Han painfully tells Solomon that her children, born and raised in Japan, “don’t even know the language their mother dreams in.” The Japanese occupation of Korea ripped the rug from under her feet, forced her to move to Tokyo, and then segregated her native Korean language from her children and descendants. If land is the beginning of belonging, then colonization is the traumatic breach of this principle: the colonized becomes an exile in their own homeland. For the elderly Korean woman who refuses to sell her home in Tokyo, holding onto this piece of land in her colonizer’s land is therefore a radical act — it’s a redeeming rebellion, a reclamation of space born from the ashes of personal and national tragedy .
In many ways, the enormity of the Pachinko series extends far beyond the small screens we watch it on. It speaks to – and challenges – our cultural moment. Pachinko is a (long overdue) redefinition of what “tentpole” content from a major streamer can be: whose story they tell, where they’re from, and who should have more seats at the table. Given the international resources, vast global reach, and creative expression that a streaming platform like Apple TV Plus offers, Pachinko has the qualities to become the new standard bearer of what a show on a streamer can be. With Pachinko, Apple has woven an extraordinary project that will hopefully announce many more.
Pachinko launches March 25 on Apple TV Plus.