Beef and the Anti-Rom-Com
It is no secret that the 2023 miniseries Beef has accrued an impressive array of awards. It has already secured eight Emmys, three Golden Globes, and very recently, SAG Awards for both of its lead actors, Steven Yeun and Ali Wong. What is it about Beef that makes it so exceptional?
Officially, the series created by Lee Sung Jin has been classified as a black comedy, a comedy-drama, and even a tragicomedy, but I argue that its appeal and acclaim speaks to its own genre: the anti-romantic comedy. The anti-rom-com is a humorous portrayal of the dark side of love, a dissection of the specific and myriad ways in which people both viciously wound and achingly need one another. Love is couples therapy and catfishing, chaotic crimes and crying uncontrollably in church. Classic rom-coms can often ring hollow to real life; anti-rom-coms are relatable precisely because of their subversion of these tropes.
Take Danny and Amy’s first interaction, which seemingly has the ingredients of a stereotypical “meet-cute:” boy meets girl, and they bicker with an intensity that could easily become the chemistry of enemies-to-lovers. But in this particular meet-cute, girl is the stressed-out breadwinner of a struggling marriage and boy is returning hibachi grills that he recently used to attempt suicide. As the show progresses, the pair is never quite romantically involved, but they do become deeply bonded. I believe their relationship is comparable to that of BoJack Horseman and Diane Nguyen: a dysfunctional coupling of two people who are significantly flawed and equally traumatized.
Aside from the romantic part of the equation, how is the comedy element subverted in this genre? The usual outrageous antics and awkward situations are present, but are intensely amplified. Danny’s car gets vandalized, and so he retaliates by pissing on Amy’s floor; Amy gets caught sending underwear pictures to the guy she is catfishing, but then also gets caught masturbating with a gun. Embarrassing moments are pushed beyond quirky relatability, all the way to the point of ugly vulnerability, as evident in portrayals of Amy’s sexuality and Danny’s mental health. These scenes are simultaneously funny, sad, humiliating, and relatable. In all, the show embraces discomfort to the fullest and boldest extent, to the point of near absurdity, and that is what makes it so ingenious.
There is one final rom-com staple that Beef expertly inverts: the grand gesture. If love leads us to do crazy things, so too does hate—sometimes with even more determination, as Amy and Danny’s rapidly escalating revenge war demonstrates. Beef trades handwritten love confessions displayed on doorsteps for spray-paint insults scrawled on trucks, interrupting wedding vows for sabotaging business panels, kissing in the rain for tripping on poisoned berries in the wilderness. At some point, the hatred behind these two evolves into a deeper connection, but what is the precise nature of their relationship by the end? Contrary to the rom-com canon, it defies the traditional heterosexual partnership, and in fact wholly transcends any conventional negotiation of clearly-defined labels. Yet even without these cultural constructs, Lee succeeds in crafting a portrayal of healing through raw intimacy, down to the final shot of two bodies wordlessly embracing in a hospital bed.
To be clear, I adore a good rom-com as much as the next girl—To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before will always hold a fond nostalgia for my fourteen-year-old self. In my opinion, the difference between the rom-com and the genre of Beef lies in its primary intention; where the former aims to entertain, the latter boldly aspires to create art. (If you are unsure what I mean, just consider the title cards for each episode: the jarring visual art, the dramatic music, the cryptic and almost poetic episode titles.) These genres overlap in many ways—their emotional impact, their engaging nature—and there can certainly be elements of each in a given work. However, the difference ultimately lies in their license of interpretability, namely how deep below the surface the analysis lies. Rom-coms wear their hearts on their sleeve, while shows like Beef perform open-heart surgery and hand the audience a scalpel.
Part Two: Recommendations
In addition to my analysis of Beef, I would like to offer some film recommendations that I see as extensions of the anti-rom-com genre, each in their own ways, which also—in the spirit of Beef’s success—spotlight some incredibly talented Asian actors and filmmakers.
Directed by and starring James Sweeney, Straight Up (2019) is a treatise on platonic love, with fast-paced intellectual dialogue that is somehow still realistic in portraying the run-on debates of two equally pedantic twentysomethings. The nature of the bond between Todd and Rory (Katie Findlay) oscillates between best friends, soul mates, and old married couple, while notably never becoming sexual, for reasons specific to both characters’ needs and desires. Although the grand gesture is at play towards the film’s conclusion, it is all at once awkward and wholesome, and the actual ending offers a slight twist that is a fitting resolution to an indie film full of hipster drama and cerebral humor.
Alice Wu’s The Half of It (2020) is a refreshing film that tells a sapphic coming-of-age story through a spin on Cyrano de Bergerac. This letter writing/mistaken identity trope has become popular in the teen rom-com subgenre, but Wu expertly unravels it, capturing adolescent yearning with a resolution that is open, not forcibly tied up. Accordingly, triumph lies not in an outcome of romantic success, but in our brilliant protagonist Ellie Chu (Leah Lewis) finding the intrinsic courage to pursue her own desires.
Shortcomings (2023), Randall Park’s directorial debut, features an unhappy couple who decide to take a break from their relationship. Miko (Ally Maki) moves across the country to pursue her career, while Ben (Justin H. Min) is left behind to flounder romantically and personally. Befitting of the genre, Ben’s ultimate journey is toward letting go of the rom-com mentality and learning to accept that “getting the girl” would only cause more misery and mutual dissatisfaction.
Finally, Jessica Yu’s Quiz Lady (2023), a personal favorite, is the hysterical yet heartwarming story of two sisters, polar opposite in personality, who embark on a quest to win a trivia game show. Awkwafina and Sandra Oh are, as expected, hilarious, but even more notably, this movie places a singular spotlight on familial love; indeed, the fraught yet fierce sisterly bond between Anne and Jenny is the most significant relationship in the show (bar Anne’s pet pug), and there are zero romantic subplots, no love interests to be seen. Some of the bizarre events of this film are definitely more in line with Beef’s insane antics, but its emotional realism is on par with the aforementioned indie offertings, and overall it is unexpectedly moving.
These four films have varying degrees of action and general insanity, but in my opinion each have their own idiosyncratic charm. They challenge the rom-com in innovative ways, by expanding the type of love represented and upending established narrative conventions, and by ultimately embracing the gorgeous, gory messiness inherent in love and human relationships.