Dong-shik succumbs to temptation

The Housemaid (하녀) (1960) – ★★★★★

The Housemaid (하녀) 1960

The Housemaid (하녀) 1960

Few films can claim to be the driving force of a cinematic movement. Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane (1941); Jean-Luc Goddard’s A Bout de Souffle (1960); and in Korea, Kim Ki-young’s (김기영) 1960 classic The Housemaid (하녀).

The Housemaid is a simply incredible film that eloquently captures Korean society and culture on the brink of change, struggling with the traditional and the modern in ways both subtle and overt. The duality and oppositions within are portrayed through every shot, every frame, every protagonist, and yet despite the enormity of metaphors and allegories present the central story is a simple domestic affair that threatens to engulf everything. This in effect emphasizes the ambiguity of identity that has so plagued Korean history and culture through the various cultural, political and religious colonialist acts, in part coining the term ‘han’ – the sense of deep-rooted sadness and injustice – which also features in Kim Ki-young’s seminal tale.

The Housemaid features piano teacher Dong-sik (Kim Jin-kyu (김진규), a married man who is nonetheless highly admired by his all-female class. When student Miss Kwan writes Dong-sik a love letter, he is so appalled that the student is fired from her factory job and forced to return to her countryside hometown. Despite this, Dong-sik begins teaching the her best friend, Jo Kyeong-hee (Um Aing-ran (엄앵란), piano lessons at his middle-class home. His wife (Ju Jeung-ryu (주증녀) works from home as a seamstress and takes care of their son Chang-soon (Ahn Seong-gi (안성기) and polio-suffering daughter, leaving little time to cook and clean. In need of a domestic help, Dong-sik asks Miss Jo for assistance who in turn recommends her friend to be their housemaid (Lee Eun-shim (이은심). Problems arise however when Miss Kwan, so humiliated by the scandal of rejection, commits suicide. In shock, Dong-shik returns home where the housemaid takes advantage of the situation to seduce him, sending the entire household into the depths of scandal.

The housemaid eavesdrops on Dong-shik's piano lesson

The housemaid eavesdrops on Dong-shik’s piano lesson

While the 1960s were a tumultuous period for a large number of cultures as left-wing ideology became increasingly more prevalent, the era was especially difficult for Korea. With the Korean War ending in a ceasefire only years prior and the following protests against dictatorship, Korea was struggling to find identity amongst the conflict between the traditional and the modern, the influx of Americana, the growing women’s rights movement, the gulf between social classes, and the drive to rebuild itself – all of which are present within The Housemaid.

The film is somewhat of a male fantasy-turned-nightmare, where a successful happily married man is admired and sought after by young women, resisting temptation until he is virtually forced into adultery. The gender politics within The Housemaid  are fascinating, presenting a huge shift in gender power as active and passive roles are reversed. The young women are all highly aware of their sexuality and power, and use them to achieve their goals; Miss Kwan takes the initiative in scribing a love letter for Dong-shik declaring her feelings, while Miss Jo regularly visits his house for personal one-on-one piano tutorials. Such lessons convey Dong-shik’s subconscious desire for Miss Jo as he continually touches her hands while playing, indicting him for his flirtatious manner. The housemaid keenly observes this behaviour, and manipulates the situation for herself by wearing wet clothing and seducing him with her uncovered skin. Dong-shik is consistently represented as a passive male, a victim of fate often ascribed to female roles, with the one instance of active fortitude in admitting his affair resulting in further passivity and his ultimate downfall, seemingly punished for his guilt and honesty. Yet despite the reversal, names are never ascribed to either the housemaid nor the wife as they are expected to merely perform the roles they inhabit, which the narrative wonderfully subverts as both women forcibly change the labels imposed upon them to varying degrees of success.

Dong-shik succumbs to temptation

Dong-shik succumbs to temptation

Lee Eun-shim gives an absolutely masterful performance as the housemaid, akin to Glen Close’s Alex Forest from Fatal Attraction (1987) only 27 years prior and without the Hollywoodized set-pieces. Lee Eun-shim’s performance was so enthralling and captivating that Korean audiences, in what must surely be the one of the biggest mis-readings of a film in cinematic history, despised her character so much that Lee Eun-shim was ultimately forced to never act again. Such a travesty is undoubtedly due to the fact that The Housemaid was vastly ahead of its time in depicting a strong female protagonist wronged by a successful man during a period when patriarchy was absolute, perhaps even militant, as the encroaching women’s rights movement began to surface in Korean culture. As the titular housemaid, Lee Eun-shim openly smokes, is unafraid of vermin and uses violence to dispatch them, is aware of her sexuality and powers of seduction, and crucially to the narrative she is highly aware of her entitlement after the affair has begun and the scandal should the information be made public. While she does indeed become psychotic she only does so as a result of the manipulation by middle-class Dong-shik and his wife, who abuse the young housemaid into a state of confused mental instability, actions for which the audience of the time never held them to account. Such an empowered representation in 1960 is an incredible achievement, and one that is impossible to understate.

Traditional married life becomes under threat through infidelity

Traditional married life becomes under threat through infidelity

Dong-shik’s family are representative of a typical middle-class household, with their newly built two-story abode. The use of mise-en-scene within the house is sophisticated, with doors emphasising exclusivity and isolation while the stairs serve as a hub or nexus point between the traditional culture and  roles on the lower level, and the modern ideology on the second floor. Dong-sik’s family occupy the lower arena, conveyed through his wife’s traditional hanbok clothing and her seamstress occupation, while the housemaid performs her duties. The wife’s dedication and purity are such that she even has the ability to foresee the future, albeit through metaphor. It is very much a patriarchal zone where Dong-shik is respected, and in his absence son Chang-soon arrogantly attempts to emulate the ideology through rudely barking orders at the housemaid. Upstairs however is a rather different domain in which roles are reversed, women are empowered, and Dong-shik’s subconscious desires are realised. In his study room he provides flirtatious piano lessons for Miss Jo, who actively sought his guidance. In the adjacent room is the housemaid’s quarters where he seduced, and later at the behest of his wife told to return. In contrast to the traditional billowy hanbok, the housemaid wears a tight black dress that attempts to convey her devious sexual empowerment, particularly in the final act when her mental instability becomes untenable.

The stairs pose a unique challenge to Dong-shik’s polio-suffering daughter who struggles to traverse the hub on her crutches, an allegory for her generation in which young women of her generation struggle to find their identity between the roles expected and those desired.

The features within the mise-en-scene, notably doors and stairs, highlight isolation and ideology

The features within the mise-en-scene, notably doors and stairs, convey isolation and ideology

Verdict:

The Housemaid is a landmark piece of filmmaking, one that captures the considerable array of socio-cultural anxieties of the era through the protagonists and mise-en-scene with incredible sophistication years ahead of its time. The narrative is timeless and enthralling in depicting the breakdown of family through betrayal, while the gender politics and debates within are captivating. Such recognition is not stated in terms of national cinema, but as a classic on the global stage as The Housemaid deserves acknowledgment on an international scale as an incredibly significant contribution to world cinema.

★★★★★

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Yoo-suk and Ae-yeon form a bond during a botched bank heist

Couples (커플즈) – ★★☆☆☆

Couples (커플즈)

Couples (커플즈)

Intertwined tales of romance between couples seemingly unconnected from each other has become a regular feature of the romantic-comedy, although few contain the charm of Love, Actually (2003) which arguably kick-started the current trend. While by no means a perfect film, Love, Actually succeeded in depicting a variety of couples from disparate socio-economic backgrounds, representing the various problems they face within a highly romanticized London during Christmas time.

The holy trinity of compelling couples, romantic city and endearing holiday period are notably absent from Jeong Yong-ki’s (정용기) Couples (커플즈). Aside from a handful of humorous moments, Couples is lacking in both comedy and more importantly romance due to the shallow and contrived protagonists and events within.

Yoo-suk (Kim Joo-hyeok (김주혁), a tea shop owner, is incredibly sad following the sudden disappearance of his fiancee Na-ri (Lee Si-yeong (이시영) two months prior. Worse still he used all means available in order to buy a house for their future, which is increasingly bleak as creditors close in and minor accidents result in threats of legal action. Desperate, Yoo-suk hires private investigator and best friend Bok-nam (Oh Jeong-se (오정세) to find Na-ri. Meanwhile Yoo-suk forms a relationship with traffic officer Ae-yeon (Lee Yoon-ji (이윤지) during a botched bank heist, herself a recent singleton from a lying ex. Bok-nam manages to track down Na-ri and becomes infatuated with her, but her gold-digging ways have resulted in a new partner, gangster Byung-chan (Kong Hyeong-jin (공형진).

Yoo-suk and Ae-yeon form a bond during a botched bank heist

Yoo-suk and Ae-yeon form a bond during a botched bank heist

If the above synopsis sounds unnecessarily contrived, then you’d be right as Couples quite literally includes all manner of bizarre set-pieces for the sake of comedy which rarely pays off. Worse still, there is no attempt to portray events such as bank heists, near-miss car crashes, involvement with private investigators and gangsters and so forth with any originality which further emphasises their manufactured inclusion within the narrative. Such scenes also detract from any notion of romance as the inorganic nature of the multiple plot strands conveys a lack of genuine connection between the couples, and as such renders them all as unconvincing or compelling.

Director Jeong Yong-ki is competent throughout, however his decision to craft the narrative as non-linear is highly problematic as the editing between different couples and timelines destroys any sense of romance that has been conveyed prior. Worse still are the inserts of interviewed couples which add nothing to the film and quickly become an annoyance, as often the couples interviewed have only a minor connection to the main story and are included for the sake of cheap comedy, such as tripping and pulling a women’s skirt down.

Where Couples does succeed is in the initial portrayal of Yoo-suk and Ae-yeon. Ridiculous scenarios aside, the slow and occasionally humorous moments that occur are endearing, with sharing their tales of heartache further solidifying their romantic development. Private investigator Bok-nam is also comical, fancying himself as a Humphrey Bogart/Batman-esque sleuth who is routinely foiled and humiliated.

Bok-nam tracks down the gold-digging Na-ri

Bok-nam tracks down the gold-digging Na-ri

In terms of performance, the central couple played by Kim Joo-hyeok and Lee Yoon-ji are by far the best in the film and provide the most naturalized portrayal of romance – a portrayal which is later wholly undermined by the narrative in a clearly desperate endeavor for a conventional finale. Oh Jeong-se overacts his role as Bok-nam, however his style is suitable given that his entire character is a parody of masculinity and as such offers moments of comedy. Ironically for a film titled ‘Couples’, Bok-nam is the only protagonist not included in one – his unrequited infatuation notwithstanding – which is a real oversight. Lee Si-yeong is woeful as gold-digging Na-ri. Her overacting is frustratingly annoying, while her consumerist character is represented as so entirely selfish and ignorant that her quest to find real love is unengaging due to the lack of empathy. Instead Na-ri functions as a prize, a villainous woman who must be tamed by a man. This role is bestowed upon Kong Hyeong-jin as gangster Byung-chan, who performs his stoic character competently despite the lack of screen-time.

Gangster Byung-chan falls for Na-ri despite her love of money

Gangster Byung-chan falls for Na-ri despite her love of money

Verdict:

Couples is a lackluster addition to the romantic-comedy fold, due to the highly contrived narrative and absence of genuine emotion throughout. While certain scenes – notably portraying central couple Yoo-suk and Ae-young – are endearing they are halted from development through the decision to craft the film as non-linear and randomly including interview scenes from couples who have merely a passing reference to the main narrative. As such, Couples is for die-hard rom-com fans only.

★★☆☆☆

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Min-woo is a successful author with an idea he can't conceptualize

M (M (엠)) – ★★★★☆

M (M (엠))

M (M (엠))

Identity and memory are complicated postmodern concepts to convey cinematically. Michel Gondry’s sublime Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) is perhaps the most renowned mainstream production to interrogate such abstract subject matter, conveying the importance of love, loss and memory as fundamental in the creation and evolution of identity. Without them, Gondry posits, a person will forever be trapped in an identity loop where choices and mistakes are destined to be repeated.

M (M (엠)) also explores such abstract themes and, thanks to artistic auteur Lee Myeong-se (이명세), in a postmodern art-house style. The result is one that instantly polarizes audiences between those with expectations of mainstream conventions and those with an appreciation of art cinema; the former will dislike the absence of structured storytelling and unconventional visualization, while the latter will find enjoyment in the colours, mise-en-scene, and technical innovation.

Min-woo (Kang Dong-won (강동원) is a successful novelist, struggling to write the amazing idea locked within his brain that he can’t fully recall. Plagued by insomnia, Min-woo suffers from hallucinations and stress – when he does sleep, he is hounded by nightmarish dreams. The boundaries between reality and his subconscious blur constantly as Min-woo is confronted by images and scenarios both new and  vaguely familiar, all the while stalked by love-stricken Mi-mi (Lee Yeon-hee (이연희). Finally confronting each other in a bar, Min-woo tells Mi-mi his idea but awakes in his apartment with no recollection. Pushing away his faithful wife Eun-hye (Kong Hyo-jin (공효진) with his erratic behaviour, Min-woo attempts to track down the mysterious Mi-mi within the surreal landscape in order to unlock the story seemingly trapped within his subconscious.

Min-woo is a successful author with an idea he can't conceptualize

Min-woo is a successful author with an idea he can’t conceptualize

The visuals within M are astounding and a testament to the creative flair of Lee Myeong-se, who constructs and frames locations with phenomenal artistic skill. Each venue is masterfully created to portray the wildly different emotions within the subconscious of Min-woo. A street scene, which serves as something of a nexus point within the film, is constructed akin to a Parisian boulevard with the placement of sunlight and the camera filters working in conjunction to convey a beautifully romantic setting, emphasizing the purity of the love Mi-mi exudes despite her stalking. Conversely the employment of shadows and darkness adds genuine horror to scenes within Min-woo’s apartment as insomnia and nightmares take hold, while the alley leading to Lupin’s bar is reminiscent of Ridley Scott’s dystopian Bladerunner (1982).

Similarly the technical prowess within M virtually demands recognition for the innovations displayed. Camera angles and movements allow the audience to experience the disorientation felt by Min-woo, resulting in both having difficulty in perceiving dreams from reality. When Min-woo meets Mi-mi in Lupin’s bar their conversation alternates between moving and still images that capture the moments they share, as if being monitored as well as emulating photographs from a date. The meeting between Min-woo and his agent and later his father-in-law are absorbing as the camera zooms into a painting that emulates the restaurant itself; the painting-within-a-painting becomes a painting-within-a-film-within-a-painting becoming a wonderful visual device that expresses Min-woo’s confused perception.

The visual devices within M are highly innovative

The visual devices within M are highly innovative

The focus on artistic and technical merit results in lack of attention on the narrative itself, with the trajectory often not strong enough to link scenes and propel the film forward, instead relying on the suspense and mystery of the visuals to connect scenes. This is unfortunate as the narrative is highly compelling when given attention yet this occurs randomly and infrequently, detracting from the drive for resolution.

This criticism can also be applied to the performances of the central cast, often employed as a focus for the mise-en-scene rather than their acting ability. This particularly applies to Kang Dong-won as Min-woo, as his character is constantly a conundrum due to the various extremes of emotions that he portrays. As such it is problematic to form an empathic bond with him, made more difficult during moments of over-acting. Lee Yeon-hee however is incredibly endearing as Mi-mi, exuding innocence and demure femininity with confidence. Her stalking is cute rather than creepy through her wonderful mannerisms, and her battle with the shadows is full of suspense and horror. Despite the small screen-time given to Kong Hyo-jin, as Min-woo’s wife Eun-hye, she competently portrays an ignored housewife.

The street 'nexus' is highly romantic while Mi-mi's stalking is sweet natured

The street ‘nexus’ is highly romantic while Mi-mi’s stalking is sweet natured

Verdict:

M will undoubtedly not appeal to fans of structured mainstream films, with its abstract exploration of memory, loss and identity. For those interested in more artistic and experimental filmmaking, is a visual tour-de-force with incredible expression of colour and technical confidence. The poignancy of Min-woo’s journey through his subconscious is acute, and serves as a wonderfully thrilling and romantic addition to auteur Lee Myeong-se’s filmography.

★★★★☆

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Doo-heon is drawn back to the syndicate through his best friend's death

Hindsight (푸른 소금) – ★★★☆☆

Hindsight (푸른 소금)

Hindsight (푸른 소금)

Gangsters attempting to retire from a life of organised crime is an oft-explored subject within the gangster genre. Leaving the syndicate prompts an array of scenarios. Is it possible to live a ‘normal’ non-violent life? Can the vacuum of power be fulfilled without anarchy? Perhaps most importantly, can the organisation allow the risk of a member, who is privy to countless illegal activities, to live?

Hindsight (푸른 소금) attempts to address such hypothetical questions as second-in-command Doo-heon (Song Kang-ho (송강호) retires from the syndicate he co-founded to open a restaurant. While the premise has potential and action sequences convey directorial flair, the cliches, absence of identity and lack of narrative cohesion make Hindsight quite a disappointment.

Doo-heon (Song Kang-ho) lives in the laid-back port city of Busan, studying the culinary arts in order to open his own restaurant. He retired from a Seoul criminal syndicate he co-founded years earlier, turning his back on his former violent lifestyle yet is still friendly with members of the organisation. Doo-heon’s new carefree life has led to forging a friendship with a fellow student in his cooking class, a young and feisty woman named Se-bin (Sin Se-kyeong (신세경), who often jokingly chastises him for his poor abilities in the kitchen. However things change when word of his best friend, and head of the criminal empire, dies in an accident. As the former second-in-command Doo-heon can lead the syndicate, yet other mob bosses have other ideas and order their mole – Se-bin – to kill Doo-heon.

Doo-heon and Se-bin become close during their culinary class

Doo-heon and Se-bin become close during their culinary class

Hindsight‘s real title ‘푸른 소금’ directly translates as ‘blue salt’, both of which are continually referenced through the film. Blue filters and metallic mise-en-scene are often employed by director Lee Hyeon-seung (이현승), conveying the cold and harsh, yet futuristic and stylish, lifestyle of gangster Doo-yeon and his associates. It is through such scenes that Lee Hyeon-seung excels, conveying the isolated sophistication with confidence and the action sequences with real skill. His vision in the final confrontation is also of note, employing blue filters to a stand-off in a field of rice paddies that is visually impressive.

Where Hindsight falters is through ‘salt’, a device so overused that it quickly becomes tiresome and is symbolic of the abundance of cliches and narrative shortcomings. Salt is constantly employed in an unsubtle fashion in order to develop the relationship between Doo-heon and Se-bin, but the references are often inorganic and highlight the artificiality of the plot device. When Se-bin constructs ‘salt bullets’ for her targets the predictability becomes painfully clear while a leap in the suspension of disbelief is required for the narrative to remain logical and enjoyable. This unfortunately also applies to the narrative as a whole which contains vast plot holes, thoughtless characterization, and a lack of synergy between the disparate parts. While the amalgamation of different genres is one of the highly entertaining features of Korean cinema, in Hindsight it serves to remove any sense of identity and narrative cohesion. When the gangsters search for Doo-hyeon – an easy task considering he stays within his apartment – any sense of threat posed by the assassins is destroyed by the overly-long focus on his relationship with Se-bin. When Se-bin’s dual identity is revealed, a bizarre MTV style montage of her dancing with a friend appears rendering the drama moot. Director/screenwriter Lee Hyeon-seung seemingly can’t decide if Hindsight is a gangster film or a love story, with the rigid narrative framework and lack of editing between the two worlds also largely responsible for halting the suture between them.

Doo-heon is drawn back to the syndicate through his best friend's death

Doo-heon is drawn back to the syndicate through his best friend’s death

Characterization and performance are further issues within Hindsight. Much has been said regarding Sin Se-kyeong’s acting skills, with critics claiming she ‘holds her own’ against screen legend Song Kang-ho. While she certainly gives a competent performance, Hindsight is very far from Song Kang-ho at his best. His character schizophrenically flits from overly kind middle-aged man to psychotic maniac, further adding to the lack of cohesion between the romantic and gangster genres within. To his credit Song Kang-ho is charismatic in both capacities, which unfortunately emphasizes the wasted potential of the premise. Sin Se-kyeong has similar problems portraying Se-bin, a cliched female protagonist who is stereotypically beautiful-yet-damaged, one minute stone-cold killer and the next sweet and innocent. Despite this, she performs the role ably.

The same cannot be said for the array of gangsters, all of whom are woefully underdeveloped. In addition to the overabundance of criminals, they are also subjected to a disproportionate amount of screen time compared to Doo-heon and Se-bin equating to a severe absence of threat and drama with the various betrayals and murders that ensue.

Se-bin is ordered to kill Doo-heon

Se-bin is ordered to kill Doo-heon

Verdict:

Hindsight (푸른 소금) is a problematic entry into the gangster genre due to the lack of cohesion between the disparate genres in conjunction with simplified and underdeveloped characterization. As such the film’s identity and the narrative direction are often highly ambiguous, despite the competent direction particularly in regard to the action sequences, that make Hindsight an occasionally stimulating but rather flawed addition.

★★★☆☆

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Seok-hwan cuts a swathe through gangster to uncover the truth

The City of Violence (짝패) – ★★★☆☆

The City of Violence (짝패)

The City of Violence (짝패)

Postmodern representations of action narratives and violence are big business. Arnold Swarzenegger’s films in the late ’80s wisely parodied his hyper-masculinity for comedic effect, while Quentin Tarantino virtually single-handedly made such depictions popular within the gangster genre in the ’90s. More recently, director’s such as Stephen Chow (Kung Fu Hustle, 2004) and duo Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor (Crank, 2006) have capitalized on the eccentricities of the genre, exaggerating them to insane levels for innovative and entertaining set-pieces.

Ryoo Seung-wan (류승완) has built a solid reputation and loyal fan-base through his own reverential-yet-playful productions, representing the oft-explored areas of brotherhood, the gangster/police officer dichotomy, and ultra-violence. All his auteuristic traits are present within The City of Violence (짝패), a film that initially starts slowly but becomes a riveting action-thriller in the final act.

When prolific gangster Wang-jae (Ahn Kil-kang (안길강) is murdered by a group of young local thugs, his oldest and dearest friends reunite for the funeral, including Seoul detective Tae-su (Jeong Doo-hong (정두홍) and hot-headed gangster Seok-hwan (Ryoo Seung-wan (류승완). Alongside crime kingpin Pil-ho (Lee Beom-soo (이범수) and math teacher Dong-hwan (Jeong Seok-yong (정석용), the group reminisce about their childhood and lament the loss of their old friend. Yet something about the attack feels wrong to Tae-su, and he begins an investigation into his friend’s murder but encounters more questions than answers. Joined by Seok-hwan, the pair punch and kick their way through an army of miscreants to finally get the truth.

Tae-su suspects foul play, and investigates his friend's death

Tae-su suspects foul play, and investigates his friend’s death

The narrative of The City of Violence is far from original, depicting the gathering of a group of friends that have drifted apart since their inseparable childhood. Tae-su also fits within the archetypal mode of the outsider-hero, returning to his former home to instill justice within the populace. In portraying such overly familiar themes director Ryoo Seung-wan is highly reverential, conveying confidence and a measure of comfort through the postmodern nostalgia value. This approach is also detrimental however as the lack of parody equates to a level of seriousness that detracts from the enjoyment, while the distinct absence of inspiration and ingenuity produces a rather bland and predictable plot. Considering the immense success of Friend in 2001 which explored similar themes in incredible depth, the choice to focus so reliantly upon stereotypical protagonists without self-parody is puzzling. The first and second acts are quite dull due to the often plodding predictability, although conversely pleasure is often derived in this fashion through conventions such as the hard-boiled cop, the flamboyant kingpin, the hot-headed sidekick, and so forth.

Where Ryoo Seung-wan’s directing skills shine are in the tremendous final act, in which Tae-su and Seok-hwan fight a veritable army of gangsters. The extreme-violence is beautifully choreographed and almost balletic, while on a technical note the camera-work, framing and editing are sublime. The reverence to the action films of Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan are clear as the duo battle an assortment of foot-soldiers wearing clothing associated with a particular gang – baseball players, chefs, b-boys and so on – crafting action sequences akin to the old 1990s computer game era. This motif is further reinforced as Tae-su and Seok-hwan must fight ever more challenging opponents that lead to a showdown with the big boss, similar in nature to the martial arts tournaments as in Enter The Dragon (1973). Ryoo Seung-wan’s wisely injects tongue-in-cheek humour throughout the proceedings as the duo, tired and beaten, must continue to soldier on producing some wonderfully comical moments.

Pil-ho is the local kingpin vying for power

Pil-ho is the local kingpin vying for power

In addition to directing Ryoo Seung-wan also performs as Seok-hwan. While his role is generally quite limited, he nonetheless conveys the hot-tempered protagonist well and is responsible for some astounding action and his skill is impossible not to commend. Similarly Jeong Doo-hong as Tae-su is incredibly gifted in his physical prowess, performing highly entertaining displays of martial arts. The stoic nature of his character is also conveyed competently through his no-nonsense attitude and dark clothing, archetypal but enjoyable for that very reason. The most grandiose archetype is bestowed upon Lee Beom-soo as crime boss Pil-ho, conveying his vicious nature and lust for power with conviction. His wonderfully tailored suits express his need for approval and acceptance just as much as his cowering to bosses from Seoul, making Pil-ho the most compelling and three-dimensional protagonist within the film. The bloodthirsty motivations, in conjunction with the camp facade and troupe of bodyguards, are a testament to classic Bond villains and make Pil-ho a protagonist that’s easy to love to hate.

Seok-hwan cuts a swathe through gangster to uncover the truth

Seok-hwan cuts a swathe through gangsters to uncover the truth

Verdict:

The City of Violence is an unapologetic homage to classic action films and while there is a certain level of nostalgia and enjoyment to be had, the film suffers from predictable, bland and uninspiring first and second acts. The final act is where the skills of the director and cast shine however, crafting an incredibly entertaining and postmodern finale that finishes on a high note and will have action fans wondering why the entire film doesn’t convey the same passion and finesse.

★★★☆☆

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Min-yeoung and boss Byeong-hoon observe their latest scenario

Cyrano Agency (시라노;연애조작단) – ★★★☆☆

Cyrano Agency (시라노;연애조작단)

Cyrano Agency (시라노;연애조작단)

The perils of dating have long been a feature of the romantic-comedy, perhaps portrayed more than any other area of the relationship status-quo due to the high probability of farcical foolishness that will ensue. Attempting to appear suave, beautiful, intellectual, sophisticated, rich, cultured – the possibilities are endless for misunderstandings and comedic confrontations. The Will Smith starring Hitch (2005) took an alternative approach to the tried-and-tested formula, featuring a ‘date doctor’ to help fumbling men stop self-sabotaging their amorous advances.

In Cyrano Agency (시라노;연애조작단) this premise is expanded from a solitary ‘date doctor’ to a troupe of actors, who study and research the targets of smitten clients and prepare scenarios, rehearse lines of script, and employ every romantic cliche at their disposal for a successful matchmaking  service. The name is, of course, taken from the famous play Cyrano de Bergerac, and while the idea of displaced romance is present and the film is quite charming, it suffers from misplaced melodrama, lack of depth and a finale that is incredibly bitter-sweet.

Byeong-hoon (Eom Tae-woong (엄태웅) is the head of a failed acting troupe consisting of feisty female advisor Min-yeong (Park Sin-hye (박신혜), researcher Jae-pil  (Jeon Ah-min (전아민) and chameleonic Cheol-bin  (Park Cheol-min (박철민). In order to generate money for theatre productions they create the Cyrano Agency, an organization where the actors use their talents to help lovelorn men match with the women they desire, with an impressive 99% success rate. Yet complications arise when Sang-yong (Choi Daniel (최 다니엘) arrives asking for assistance in wooing the beautiful rebellious Hee-joong (Lee Min-jeong (이민정) – the former girlfriend of Agency boss Byeong-hoon. Will Byeong-hoon put his personal feelings aside and complete the contract, or steal Hee-joong for himself?

Min-yeoung and boss Byeong-hoon observe their latest scenario

Min-yeoung and boss Byeong-hoon observe their latest scenario

One of the strengths of Cyrano Agency lies in the highly charismatic opening sequence, in which the acting troupe help to woo a barista for a client. The team train their love-stricken patron to act cool and aloof akin to romantic actors, and stage an array of cliched devices – making the the target jealous, playing soundtracks, and even employing a ‘rain machine’ for a melodramatic finale – offering a wonderfully postmodern and comedic portrayal of love. The directing and editing are highly competent during this sequence with both parties fully aware of the conventions of the romance genre, simultaneously revering the material through dramatic framing and parodying through overt melodrama. Unfortunately, after such a strong opening, Cyrano Agency falters. The whimsical tongue-in-cheek nature initially conveyed is jettisoned in favour of genuine melodrama, and the change in tone detracts from the overall enjoyment as the comedy quickly deteriorates. The premise certainly has potential, as next target Hee-joong is also the former girlfriend of boss Byeong-hoon, with his subconscious sabotage of scenarios initially humourous but quickly becoming petty. Bizarrely, the relationship – both past and present – between Byeon-hoon and Hee-joong is foreground, emphasising their intertwined destiny as they continually encounter each other and in doing so reveal the love they both still clearly share. As such, client Sang-yong is somewhat of a footnote in the proceedings and the notion that Byeong-hoon would continue to help match him with together with Hee-jong is odd at best.

Hee-joong’s role is incredibly underdeveloped and passive, merely serving to be pretty and to act as the prize in the relationship tug-of-war. Such a misogynistic representation is exacerbated by the insincerity of Sang-yong as he has fallen in love with her image, rather than her personality. This is ultimately the major failing point of Cyrano Agency, as while the narrative portrays the facade of love it never truly explores it, despite given ample opportunity when the team encounter heart-broken former clients. This leads to an incredibly bitter-sweet finale as Hee-joong, finally with knowledge of the agency and Byeong-hoon and Sang-yong’s role, makes her choice.

Hee-joong becomes the next target

Hee-joong becomes the next target/prize

The shift in focus on the love triangle from the earlier team dynamic further alters the pace and tone, relegating members of the team to almost cameo sized roles rather than supporting ones, an unfortunate choice considering their impact in the early stages. Despite this, the actors perform their roles well particularly Park Sin-hye as Min-yeong, conveying strength and passion in each scene. As Cyrano Agency becomes an unrequited love triangle, acting duties generally fall to three core performers. Eom Tae-woong is the most notable conveying his internal conflict between his own desire and his job well. Lee Min-jeong is competent as Hee-joong, although the limiting role is responsible for her restrained performance. Choi Daniel unfortunately suffers the most due to the somewhat schizophrenic nature of protagonist Sang-yong. Sang-yong flits between moment of grandiose kindness to liar, from sensitive romantic to criminal, even causing one of the team members from the Agency to comment that something is amiss with their client. The distrust and insincerity conveyed again undermine the notion that Byeong-hoon would attempt to pair Sang-yong with the woman he is seemingly destined for.

Byeong-hoon rehearses the script with client Sang-yong

Byeong-hoon rehearses the script with client Sang-yong

Verdict:

Cyrano Agency is an enjoyable take on the romantic-comedy genre, particularly the wonderful opening sequence that plays with notions of romance in a postmodernist fashion. The decision to deviate from such a winning formula is puzzling, as the focus on a love triangle and the insincerity of the love portrayed albeit not explored, detract from the pace, tone, and promise offered in the first fifteen minutes. That said, fans of the genre will no doubt be appeased by what Cyrano Agency offers, although many will be perplexed by the bitter-sweet nature of the finale.

★★★☆☆

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The pieces of Geum-ja's plan assemble with incredible imagery

Sympathy for Lady Vengeance (친절한 금자씨) – ★★★★★

Sympathy for Lady Vengeance (친절한 금자씨)

Sympathy for Lady Vengeance (친절한 금자씨)

Vengeance and violence are a seemingly masculine arena cinematically, with narratives propelled by testosterone-fueled actions by those who have suffered injustices. Such passionate reactionary violence is often ascribed to traditional patriarchal roles of ‘the father’ and ‘the lover’, identities which become destabilized through loss and demand retribution. Yet women, who have just as equal a stake in such gendered roles, are often marginalized.

With Sympathy for Lady Vengeance (친절한 금자씨) auteur Park Chan-wook (박찬욱) finishes his celebrated Vengeance trilogy in incredible style, featuring a woman as the central protagonist to create an altogether different approach to the concept of revenge. The result is a fascinating and riveting film that depicts a more calculating and intelligent form of vengeance than displayed by Dong-jin in Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance (복수는 나의 것) or Dae-su in Old Boy (올드보이), constructing a unique and magnificent character in the form of Lady Vengeance herself Geum-ja (Lee Young-ae (이영애).

20 year old Lee Geum-ja is arrested and sentenced for the kidnap and murder of a young boy, shocking the nation due to her tender age as well as for her unparalleled beauty. Yet unknown to the public is that while Geum-ja was an accomplice in the kidnapping, she was forced to take the blame for the murder otherwise her own daughter would be killed by the real criminal – Baek Han-sang (Choi Min-sik (최민식). During her 13 year jail term Geum-ja plots her revenge, forging connections with other prisoners and garnering a reputation for her unbelievable kindness achieved through acts of underhanded treachery. Finally released, Geum-ja begins her preparations in earnest and, joined by her estranged daughter Jenny (Kwon Ye-yeong (권예영), tracks down the man responsible for their separation in order to exact their vengeance.

Geum-ja has become cold and calculating during her incarceration

Geum-ja has become cold and calculating during her incarceration

Park Chan-wook displays a more artistic and surreal depiction of revenge in his third installment, producing stunning imagery of Geum-ja’s quest that emphasizes her beautiful image in conjunction with her lethal internal motivations. Crucially the director never shies away from employing such cinematic playfulness with feminist discourses, overtly conveying Geum-ja’s intelligence in regards to patriarchy and image. Once released from prison Geum-ja purposely applies red eyeshadow and dons dark and seductive clothing, consciously aware that her natural image promotes innocence and purity, features she does not want nor feels she deserves. As such she challenges cultural stereotypes of attraction, subverting patriarchal notions of ‘virginal beauty’ as Geum-ja’s intelligence and violent desires are foregrounded. She is an expert at manipulation in this regard earning the trust and respect of men and women through her subversion of image, allies whom she acknowledges with indifference once they are indebted as her single-minded lust for vengeance is absolute. In achieving revenge Geum-ja is keenly aware of the power necessary, and her methods lead to acquiring a ‘pretty double-phallus’ in the shape of an incredible firearm that is two guns merged into one handle. Park Chan-wook’s wonderful visual style continually yet subtly conveys his lead protagonist as a powerful, intelligent, and highly efficient woman making Geum-ja an acutely compelling character.

That is not to say Geum-ja is lacking in emotion – far from it. She is constantly aware of her role in the murder of a young boy, willing to do anything for forgiveness that can never come. The burden of guilt portrays Geum-ja is a tragically flawed character as she seeks to dehumanize herself and reject intimacy due to her self-hatred. The brilliantly comical reappearance of Geum-ja’s estranged daughter Jenny forms a wonderful partnership in which to explore their neuroses of guilt and abandonment, and the roles of parent and child.

The pieces of Geum-ja's plan assemble with incredible imagery

The pieces of Geum-ja’s plan assemble with incredible imagery

The responsibilities of a parent toward their child are intriguingly explored throughout Sympathy for Lady Vengeance, as Park Chan-wook poses a supremely difficult question – what actions would a parent take if they confronted their child’s murderer? The director expertly conveys the poignant moral conundrum that brilliantly evolves Geum-ja’s personal desire for justice into a communal one, a desire for vengeance that is consciously wrong legally and morally, yet desired all the same. As has become a feature of his, Park Chan-wook depicts such incredibly serious subject matter with a sharply dark-humoured edge that makes the events that unfold all the more captivating, and thrilling, to experience. Despite simultaneously conveying the evolution of revenge as well as narratively veering in an alternate direction, the director never loses focus of Geum-ja’s role as strong methodical woman desperate for retribution and forgiveness, attributes she alone – despite (rejected) offers from patriarchy and religion – must achieve. As such, Geum-ja is one of the most enthralling and compelling representations of women to appear on celluloid.

Lee Young-ae is absolutely superb as Geum-ja, inhabiting the role so completely it is impossible to imagine another actress in her place. The extremely broad range of emotions that are required are wonderfully performed, from moments of quiet manipulation and rage-fueled violence, to tender moments of reconciliation and forgiveness, and fully deserves the various awards for Best Actress bestowed upon her. Choi Min-sik is given a marginal role as the malicious Baek Han-sang, yet during his short screen-time he conveys the depravity, and the sheer terror, required. Other supporting performances are generally fleeting, however it is highly enjoyable when cameo roles featuring actors from Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance and Old Boy appear.

Geum-ja prepares to take her revenge

Geum-ja prepares to take her revenge

Verdict:

Sympathy for Lady Vengeance is an incredible final installment to the Vengeance trilogy, presenting an entirely different notion of revenge through one of the most compelling female protagonists in cinematic history. Park Chan-wook’s beautifully creative vision, as well as Lee Young-ae’s captivating performance, make Sympathy for Lady Vengeance an enthralling exploration of vengeance and feminism that demands repeated viewing.

★★★★★

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Bang-woo and Hyo-gwan attempts to crack the codes

Moby Dick (모비딕) – ★★★☆☆

Moby Dick (모비딕)

Moby Dick (모비딕)

Conspiracy theory films, and the inherent shadowy figures that operate within and/or behind the government, are a fun and exhilarating sub-genre that express audience distrust of institutions as well as emphasizing their impotency. They also have an uncanny knack for tapping into social anxieties. With the Bourne series (2002-2007) the post-9/11 ‘Patriot Act’ was vehemently scrutinized, as the shadow operatives abused the use of satellites and phones in targeting alleged terrorists. Similarly Enemy of the State (1998) portrayed senior members of the NSA murdering senators and civilians alike to expand their power base and withhold information.

Moby Dick (모비딕) is concerned with the conspiracy theories that plague the South Korean government, a premise with huge potential due to the often tumultuous relationship with the North. However, due to the bland and uneven narrative and direction, central protagonists that lack charisma or intelligence, and most importantly the distinct lack of threat posed by the shadow organisation, Moby Dick largely fails.

Lee Bang-woo  (Hwang Jeong-min (황정민) is a newspaper reporter constantly waiting for the next big scoop in order to become renowned. When a bridge explodes and the government quickly blames the incident on North Korean spies, Bang-woo decides to visit the scene and bribes his informant for extra details. Shortly thereafter Bang-woo is visited by his young friend Yoon Hyeok (Jin Goo (진구), on the run for desertion, carrying a bag full of official documents and disks. Examining the paraphernalia Bang-woo realises there’s much more to the explosion, and other mysterious events, then previously thought and puts together a team of reporters – polite rival Son Jin-gi  (Kim Sang-ho (김상호) and code cracker Seong Hyo-gwan  (Kim Min-hee (김민희) – to uncover the secrets of the shadow government organisation whose symbol is ‘Moby Dick’.

Bang-woo begins to understand that other forces are at work

Bang-woo begins to understand that other forces are at work

Moby Dick is directed by Park In-je (박인제) competently, and the potential of the notion of a shadow government has incredible potential for a thrilling, gritty tale of political espionage. However the  narrative is often in complete disarray and lacking in focus that any sense of compulsion, and worse still immediacy, are completely lost. The opening shot of Moby Dick is the televisual image displayed from a CCTV camera as a bridge explodes; this in itself forces audience detachment from the severity of the cataclysmic event as the impact and ramifications are unseen, and considering it is the catalyst for the entire film is a rather odd form of representation. What follows is a supremely dull first act as protagonists are introduced sporadically and lacking in motivation. Bang-woo is a woefully underdeveloped protagonist who routinely displays naivety and idiocy, and aside from curiosity and selfish desire has little motivation for investigating either the explosion or the conspiracy. He is utterly inept at investigation and continually places himself and his colleagues in danger needlessly, yet his impotency is dwarfed by the unbelievable inefficiency of the covert group signified by the white whale. The syndicate are effectively reduced to hired thugs rather than efficient spies, who even display street signs highlighting that they are in residence – in crowded public areas no-less. Supervising the group is a mysterious man in a suit who, bizarrely, sits at a desk in an empty room the size of an entire floor in a building. Such a cliche again adds nothing to the threat apparently posed by the covert operatives who consistently appear unsure of their next move, from the illogical indecision to not ‘eliminate’ the reporters to seemingly random discussions regarding exploding planes and nuclear armament.

Rival Jin-gi joins the team using his own informants

Rival Jin-gi joins the team using his own informants

In terms of character Moby Dick has a highly skilled assortment of actors that are unfortunately never given adequate screen-time or dramatic scenes in which to display their skill. Hwang Jeong-min is noteworthy in this respect as he has little opportunity to perform his talents, as Bang-woo is a shockingly ignorant protagonist who is also very rude and unlikeable. Quite how he isn’t killed by the organisation immediately after emerging as a threat requires genuine suspension of disbelief, although the incompetency of the covert operatives helps in this regard. Instead the violence seems reserved purely for Kim Sang-ho as Son Jin-gi who is beaten and tortured, which appears to be his only function in the narrative. Furthermore Kim Min-hee is incredibly underutilized as Hyo-gwan, conveniently appearing when the screenwriters are in need of someone or something to propel the stalled narrative forward. The same criticism also applies to Jin Goo as Yoon Hyeok who could have functioned as a Jason Bourne figure, yet after his initial purpose of providing classified documents he strangely fades into the background. All the actors do the best they can in such limiting roles, yet the absence of character development and the lack of cohesion between them is detrimental to them all.

Bang-woo and Hyo-gwan attempts to crack the codes

Bang-woo and Hyo-gwan attempts to crack the codes

Verdict:

Moby Dick is a squandered opportunity, with talented actors and a fantastic premise that are let down through a narrative that lacks direction and focus. While it is generally competently directed, there is unfortunately no escaping the narrative inconsistencies, absence of character development, or lack of threat posed by the shadow operatives, all of which require a real leap in the suspension of disbelief in order for Moby Dick to remain plausible – or, for that matter, enjoyable.

★★★☆☆

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The relationship between Hee-jin and Hyeon-sik becomes obsessive

The Isle (섬) – ★★★☆☆

The Isle (섬)

The Isle (섬)

Director Kim Ki-duk (김기덕) has, like Alfred Hitchcock before him, a reputation for misogyny and misogynistic violence. And, again as with Hitchcock, Kim Ki-duk locates such archaic principles within patriarchal figures and psychologically disturbed men, simultaneously presenting and critiquing the gender inequality within a socio-cultural context. For feminist film critics the submersion of violent sexism within such protagonists serves to absolve the directors of the ‘pleasures’ derived through representations of violence against women, displacing their desires and naturalising sex and violence as one and the same. Accusations such as these aimed at Kim Ki-duk are largely founded due to the release of The Isle (섬).

The Isle is an art house film that, due to the nature of violence, sex and animal cruelty within, has been the subject of controversy ever since its inception and the resultant vomiting and fainting of foreign critics. As such The Isle joined – or rather, was a founder of – the list of films unfortunately promoted as ‘extreme’ Asian filmmaking. For his part, Kim Ki-duk claimed that the film is simply another representation of his obsession with ‘han’ – the feeling of oppression, isolation, and injustice – and the love that can blossom under such circumstances.

Hee-jin (Seo Jeong (서정) is the patron of a fishing resort deep in the Korean countryside, owning several floating huts on a portion of a river. As a mute, she silently ferries customers from the shore to the huts and takes care of any requests ranging from snacks to coffee, and even sex. This service is also supplied by the ‘coffee girls’ from the local brothel whom she also reluctantly ferries, and Hee-jin’s life of servitude continues in this monotonous fashion. Her interest is piqued however when murderer-on-the-run Hyeon-sik (Kim Yoo-seok (김유석) arrives to rent a hut, in need of solitude to lay low while police officers attempt to track him down. Tormented by his past deeds Hyeon-sik attempts suicide yet is stopped by Hee-jin and the pair begin to develop a relationship, one that becomes incredibly intense and obsessive through the bizarre games they play, and actions from which threaten to engulf them both.

The cinematography in The Isle emulates traditional paintings

The cinematography in The Isle emulates traditional paintings

The Isle is best viewed as an art house film, as the symbolism and cinematography are sumptuous throughout. The composition of shots, particularly of the landscape, are quite beautiful and exemplify Kim Ki-duk’s former calling as an artist. The incredible scenery is matched by the isolation conveyed by the fishing huts and Hee-jin’s meagre existence, while the surreal other-worldly weather instills sadness and longing. Within this framework are Hee-jin and Hyeon-sik, two protagonists akin to wandering lost souls in the ethereal landscape that lack purpose or direction, giving the lake a purgatorial sensibility. As with other Kim Ki-duk protagonists, Hee-jin is mute and utilises her physicality to convey her psychological state which publicly tends to represent that of a stereotypical meek woman in patriarchal culture; she serves patrons snacks, coffee and sex without question, acting as ‘servant’ and ‘whore’, an apparent victim of the indomitable phallus. Yet Hee-jin’s genuine character is revealed when abused, as when her earnings from sleeping with a customer are thrown into the water, she calculatingly stabs him in the dark of the night with her own, arguably much more dangerous, penetrative device. Interestingly, Hee-jin’s employs her ‘detachable phallus’ in order to save Hyeon-sik as she startles him during a suicide attempt, an act he repays in making models from wire. The Isle is ultimately concerned with the articulation of archaic notions of gendered ‘power’, and a relationship that develops between a man and a woman in such an unequal vacuum; when Hee-jin expresses kindness and innocence Hyeon-sik responds through attempted rape.

The infamous fish hook scenes also exemplify gendered notions of power. Afraid of being arrested by police and with no other utensils available, Hyeon-sik swallows fishing hooks and pulls sharply. In doing so Hyeon-sik self-mutilates his orifice of power – his commanding, masculine voice, which ironically had been somewhat castrated by his (coded-feminine) sensitivity. Concurrently, when Hee-jin is threatened by Hyeon-sik’s departure, she places the hooks within her vagina and pulls sharply, self-mutilating her orifice of power – her ability to engage in sex, intimacy, or procreation. Both protagonists are subconsciously aware of their gendered abilities, and employ them for selfish results. The self-mutilation also allows for striking imagery as they are reeled in by the fishing rod, symbolically drawn to each other through pleasure and pain. Viewed in this symbolic art-house context, The Isle is an interesting exploration of the inequalities of gender in Korean society, and hardly necessitates the vomiting and fainting that so afflicted foreign critics.

The relationship between Hee-jin and Hyeon-sik becomes obsessive

The relationship between Hee-jin and Hyeon-sik becomes obsessive

In terms of performance The Isle conveys an array of emotional and neurotic states through the physicality of the actors, while verbal exchanges tend to be fraught with lies, pain and cursing. Seo Jeong is incredibly intense as Hee-jin, with facial expressions full of rage, jealousy, angst and heartache all portrayed with vehemence. However Hee-jin’s actions are often perplexing at times with motivations that are difficult to comprehend, which adds to the assumption that she may well be mentally ill or suffering from a prior trauma. Kim Yoo-seok as Hyeon-sik also exhibits such a difficulty in suspending disbelief, as he initially is kind and sweet-natured yet later becomes an abhorrent example of misogyny and chauvinism. Despite this, Kim Yoo-seok’s performance is competent in portraying the murderer whose morals dissipate. Both protagonists are flawed and psychologically unbalanced, yet still attempt to create the idealised perception of a couple in establishing a relationship and moving into a house (fishing hut) in the countryside.

The animal cruelty has been a source of controversy which are difficult to disagree with, yet such scenes are loaded with symbolism that convey the emotional distress of the protagonists. Frustrations are expressed through the chopping of live fish; the desire to change identity is conveyed through skinning a frog alive; and the reluctance to continue living the same existence is depicted through the stubbornness of a dog forcibly dragged onto a boat despite being petrified of water.

Hee-jin and Hyeon-sik's relationship has a sadomasochistic  edge

Hee-jin and Hyeon-sik’s relationship is both sadomasochistic and erotic

Verdict:

The Isle is an intense art-house film that explores – and graphically presents – misogynistic violence, sadomasochism, and animal cruelty in the foundation of a couple’s relationship where such savage acts and severe gender inequality is considered normal. The controversy it has courted is warranted, more so if not approached with symbolism in mind, yet despite this the social issues presented with stark realism by Kim Ki-duk are damning regarding patriarchy and the treatment of women and as such further instigates an important area of debate. The Isle will certainly not be to everyone’s taste, but if scrutinized for the artistic content and social debates within – rather than the fabricated notion of ‘extreme’ Asian filmmaking – The Isle offers a unique viewing experience.

★★★☆☆

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The weather mirrors the emotionally fraught couple

Come Rain Come Shine (사랑한다, 사랑하지 않는다) – ★★★★☆

Come Rain Come Shine (사랑한다, 사랑하지 않는다)

Come Rain Come Shine (사랑한다, 사랑하지 않는다)

The break-up of a relationship is an oft explored area in television, yet in film the realism of such events tends to be eschewed in favor of either a dramatic arena of affairs and/or substance abuse, or the catalyst for comical shenanigans in an attempt to cope with the loss. The financial motivations behind such decisions are understandable, given that their success is dependent on the detachment from reality and the predictable pleasures they provide. Yet, what of the relationships where the love and passion simply dissipate?

Come Rain Come Shine (사랑한다, 사랑하지 않는다), literally translated as ‘I Love You, I Don’t Love You’, is a mediation on the breakdown of a couple and is a slow, thought-provoking film that poignantly conveys the emotional turmoil they experience during their final day together. The film was (rather unfairly) criticised upon release for the slow paced narrative and the lack of events therein, yet in the attempt to convey realism director Lee Yoon-ki (이윤기) has produced a calm and moderated exploration that deviates from typical audience expectations.

Driving his wife Yeong-shin (Im Soo-jeong (임수정) to Gimpo Airport, Ji-seok (Hyeon Bin (현빈) engages in small talk despite the strangely tense atmosphere between them. After the conversation runs dry, Yeong-shin announces that she is leaving him and will be shortly moving out of their home. Worse still is that she has been seeing another man, a fact she accuses Ji-seok of knowing but ignoring. Bizarrely, Ji-seok appears quiet but unfazed. Days later, Yeong-shin is packing her belongings at home while Ji-seok attempts to make the dissolution of their marriage easier by making coffee, preparing dinner, and helping with the packing. As they awkwardly converse and reminisce over items, Yeong-shin and Ji-seok discover the emotional distress and difficulty in the finality of their marriage.

Yeong-shin announces to Ji-seok that she will leave him

Yeong-shin announces she will leave Ji-seok

The themes of alienation and loneliness are conveyed by director Lee Yoon-ki (이윤기) with incredible sensitivity and confidence throughout Come Rain Come Shine, as he allows the tense atmosphere created by the mise-en-scene to portray the hardship the couple endure rather than relying on melodrama. This focus on realism is enhanced further by his continual use of long takes which makes the tension between the central protagonists palpable. The opening scene in which Ji-seok drives Yeong-shin to the airport is a long take approximately eight minutes in length, conveying the search for small talk and the awkward silences as features of their relationship which now lacks intimacy and spontaneity. The realism conveyed through the voyeuristic gaze makes for slightly uncomfortable viewing due to their lack of communication and the resulting tension, playing upon the audience’s expectations that a confrontation must occur to disrupt the calm yet strained atmosphere. However as the take is so long, Lee Yoon-ki lulls audience into a false sense of stability which then serves to enhance the shock of Yeong-shin’s announcement she will leave her husband for another man.

Later at the house, Yeong-shin packs her belongings ready to vacate and leave Ji-seok. The house itself is  an incredible element of the mise-en-scene due the various floors that are present, with Lee Yoon-ki utilizing it to convey how the couple are exist on different levels, drift apart, and come together. Each floor, and each room, is unique in portraying the internal conflict within both protagonists, such as Yeong-shin’s isolated higher-tiered office compared with the basement which contains memories over which they reminisce, functioning as the foundation for the house as well as their relationship. The lighting within the house is incredible as the muted tones and lack of colour drain the emotion and passion from the environment, painstakingly exemplifying the numbness within Ji-seok and Yeong-shin. In addition the torrential downpour of rain throughout conveys the sadness both within the protagonists and of the event itself, which ironically forces the couple to communicate and spend more time together as nature seemingly desires the pair try once more – a feature that Lee Yoon-ki respects audiences, whether optimistic or pessimistic, to decide for themselves.

The weather mirrors the emotionally fraught couple

The weather mirrors the emotionally fraught couple

The performances of Im Soo-jeong as Yeong-sin and Hyeon Bin as Ji-seok came under scrutiny upon the release of Come Rain Come Shine which, when taken into consideration that melodrama is enormous popular in Korea, is understandable yet unfair. Both high-profile actors are incredibly talented with a catalogue of successful films and dramas, yet Come Rain Come Shine is a drastic departure from the roles – and expectations – of their previous work. The subtlety contained within their facial expressions and mannerisms conveys the abundance of emotional turmoil contained within. Im Soo-jeong initially projects a cold and heartless persona, yet her desire for passion and love from her highly reserved husband and her reluctance to leave tenderly present themselves as the finality of their situation becomes more apparent. Hyeon Bin is also charismatic in his role as while his quiet and humble nature is continually present, the moments in which he is alone reveal the overwhelming sadness that threatens to engulf him. Despite this he feels incapable of changing the situation yet his chivalry and kindness indicate his desperation to resolve the conflict.

The multiple levels within the house are symbolic of the relationship

The multiple levels within the house are symbolic of the relationship

Verdict:

Come Rain Come Shine is a tender, thought-provoking, and sensitive portrayal of the final moments in the break-down of a marriage. Due to the slow-paced and meditative filmic style of director Lee Yoon-ki, the film will not satisfy audiences with expectations of melodrama and comedy, or an amalgamation thereof.  However, the realism conveyed through the masterful use of mise-en-scene and long takes, in conjunction with the subtle and highly poignant performances, make Come Rain Come Shine a powerful film about the tenderness of loss.

★★★★☆

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