“The modern loss of faith does not concern just god or the hereafter,” writes Byung-Chul Han, the Korean- German phenomenologist. “It involves reality itself and makes human life radically fleeting.” Heady stuff, but such reflection comes naturally for 35-year-old actor Steven Yeun, whose roles often confront the darkest corners of human nature. Han is just one of the many figures who populate Yeun’s bookshelves, and Yeun revisits him often to deepen his understanding of life, reality, and art.

I meet Yeun at Maru Coffee in Los Feliz to discuss his new film, Burning. He arrives dressed as his character, Ben, might have—black sweater, slim jeans, and black loafers, casualness belying celebrity.While Ben might or might not be a serial killer, Yeun is warm and funny, possessed of a disarming authenticity. Our conversation ranges from nostalgia for our Midwestern childhoods to the intersection of filmcraft and philosophies of life.

Burning, from writer/director Lee Chang-dong (Poetry, Secret Sunshine) is a master class in ambiguity. Based on Haruki Murakami’s short story “Barn Burning,” the film follows Jong-su (Yoo Ah-in), a poor aspiring novelist whose lonely life is kindled by the amorous attentions of Hae-mi (Jong- seo Jun), a spirited woman who loves pantomime and yearns to satisfy her “great hunger”—an existential desire to know the meaning resonant in all things. When Hae-mi leaves for Kenya in search of that understanding and returns to Korea accompanied by a new lover, the wealthy and mysterious Ben (Steven Yeun), Jong-su resigns passively to his demotion to third-wheel.

In one of the film’s most elegant sequences, the three spend an evening smoking pot at Jong-su’s farmhouse. Hae-mi undresses and dances hypnotically as the sun sinks below the horizon. Later, Ben confesses to Jong-su that he has a passion for setting fire to greenhouses. The next greenhouse he plans to burn, says Ben, is very close to Jong-su.

Shortly thereafter, Hae-mi goes missing, and Jong-su suspects Ben’s burning of greenhouses to be a metaphor for serial murder. He takes to stalking Ben, intent on learning the truth. The plot unfolds and Jong-su grows reckless. The truth recedes into ambiguity.

Burning is not slow but patient, precise. Many scenes contain loaded silences, as if we’re always on the verge of revelation. Lee Chang-dong’s filmcraft is a refreshing contrast to much of American cinema. Does Yeun see anything distinctively Korean in the patience of Lee’s method? “Patience isn’t the virtue of Korea per se,” says Yeun. The barista drops off our tea in unadorned clay mugs, and he thanks her, smiling broadly. “I would actually argue against that. Korea is fast. You see this when you look at mainstream films that America rarely gets, rather than the art house stuff. The top tier always has auteurs, like Bong Joon-ho, Park Chan-wook, or Na Hong-jin. They have the luxury of patience.”