In a political climate as antagonistic toward immigrants as any I can recall, deeply personal stories like Karla Murthy’s The Gas Station Attendant remind us of the hardship and passion required to make it in the United States. One would hope these films are treated as stories of survival rather than stories of exceptionalism. The framing device of Murthy’s film—an extended phone interview with her father, H.N. Shantha Murthy, during the nights he manages a gas station—turns this immigrant story into a recounting of how far he has come, yet how restless his existence remains despite the proverbial “American Dream” having touched him a few times.
The narration and editing only offer surface-level exposition of the immigrant experience: the “striver” mentality, the identity crisis, and the ripple effects of the passive-aggressive stereotyping common in the United States. These are themes any immigrant from the Global South would immediately recognize. Murthy’s narration feels rudimentary, never moving past obvious symbol-object connections, making this essay film feel more like an academic thesis than the work of a seasoned artist. What elevates The Gas Station Attendant is a litany of home-movie footage that juxtaposes life in America with her father’s stories of his life in India (of which there is no material). He recounts having to sleep on the streets while working in restaurants in Bangalore and other cities; we then see him sleeping in his car between late shifts at the gas station. It’s a different kind of struggle, but the leap to the “First World” feels tangibly disappointing.
The film’s most potent moments occur when the story is framed less as an immigrant narrative and more as a tale of a familial relationship. Murthy’s mixed Indian and Filipino heritage is unique, but it isn’t deeply explored beyond home movies and photos of her mother and sisters, which paint a picture of a family more in the spirit of the American “melting pot” than most. Murthy’s relationship with her father is sweet and open, filling the movie with a rare warmth that comes from sincerity and a willingness to share vulnerable moments. If the immigrant experience says anything about the fabric of this country, it is found in those moments of exposure, where the country feels open to opportunity but is hiding many webs and many spiders.
Murthy’s editing utilizes extensive voiceover and archival footage to supplement the filmed material. There isn’t much of a definable rhythm or structure to the sequencing; instead we have the phone conversations between Murthy and her father as a compass for what comes next. Certain segments, such as Murthy’s explanations of her college years and reasons for leaving home, feel awkwardly placed. Similarly, the unsubtle markers of newsreel audio—drifting in to accompany video of Gandhi’s funeral with commentary on who Gandhi was—suggest a lack of confidence that the audience would understand these images.
Its perspective on the immigrant experience rings as intended for those who have never met an immigrant or remain skeptical of their place in this country. Even with the sense that Murthy doesn’t fully trust her own images to convey ideas, it resonates as a deeply personal story. The Gas Station Attendant carries the significant weight of relaying an important message about the American immigrant experience within a dangerously regressive political climate.
The Gas Station Attendant opens in theaters on Friday, June 12.