When Kulap Vilaysack was 14, she took her father’s side in an argument and her mother replied, “Why are you defending him? He’s not your real dad.” Twenty years later, she’s finally ready to explore what that means.
When Kulap Vilaysack was a little girl, her mom revealed to her that Kulap’s father wasn’t her “real dad” during a “vicious fight.” Still traumatized three decades later, Kulap embarks on a quest to find her biological father, camera crew in tow. Her resulting documentary, “Origin Story,” is a mixed bag of heart-on-the-sleeve moments, frequent displays of mawkishness and a permeating whiff of vanity – all of which derail a moving story of reconciliation and moving on.
Co-host of an entertainment podcast, comedic writer/performer and filmmaker, the multi-talented Lao-American Vilaysack enjoys a not-so-modest celebrity lifestyle in Los Angeles (her circle of friends include Sarah Silverman, June Diane Raphael, and Casey Wilson). Prior to having a baby with her uber-understanding saint of a boyfriend, Kulap feels the strong urge to rediscover her identity.
“How can I know who I am if I don’t know who I come from?” she wonders, before traveling to Minnesota and confronting her abusive, gambling-addicted mother. Mom’s shadow hangs heavy over the rest of the doc, which follows Kulap to Vientiane, Laos – and consequently her real dad. After leafing through old photos, the two enjoy a colorful road trip. Their bonding leads to a certain forgiveness, but then further truths surface about Kulap’s upbringing, dad revealing himself to not being that different from mom.
Kulap means “rose” in English – in case you missed it, the star, writer and director of “Origin Story” reminds you of it twice. I’m not entirely sure what the analogy is here – perhaps she blossoms like said flower upon the final revelation – but the documentary certainly could’ve used the natural lightness, vibrancy and tenderness of a rose. As it stands, it repeatedly veers off into heavy self-indulgence. While Kulap’s quest is honorable, she blows it out of proportion.
In one scene, Kulap bangs her fists against the table, then flips her chair and bursts into heaving sobs. Now, I’m not trying to underestimate the gravity of her situation, or judge her emotional reaction – just sayin’, I’ve seen docs with cancer patients who cry less than Kulap does in this extended self-portrait. And what else would you call a doc where its main subject’s celebrity entourage offers forced tidbits of “wisdom”? Sometimes it comes close to feeling like an audition tape, such as in a scene where Kulap listens to her dad’s first voicemail in years over… and over… and over again. And the Oscar goes to…
Cynicism aside, the filmmaker does know how to piece together a documentary, albeit one that’s 20 minutes too long. It’s never unpleasant to look at, crammed with stylistic touches: painterly, picture-book-like interludes; a cascading piano soundtrack accompanied by Vilaysack’s spoken-word-like narration; archival footage; a prolonged split-screen confrontation between Kulap and her father – and so on.
The best parts come in scenes involving Kulap’s mother, who was “born in the toilet.” By turns witty, resentful and guilt-ridden, she dryly wonders if there’s a school for how to raise children. “I think it’s called therapy,” Kulap deadpans.
Vilaysack examines what it’s like to live a lifetime of regret. Her film shows how the seemingly smallest of harsh statements can have a lifetime effect, and how sometimes, people just don’t change. Yet tracing her family tree fails to truly compel; her issues may be universal but seen through her affluent prism they fail to resonate.
Now playing in select theaters
