Mi-ja searches for the inspiration to write her first poem

Poetry (시) – ★★★★★

Poetry (시)

Poetry (시)

The search for inspiration is one that all artists must undertake. Often the inspiration comes from a source of beauty or passion, yet in the ever-developing world such notions can become subsumed beneath the financially-driven cynical lifestyles that people seemingly strive to achieve. This quandary is a frustration for Yang Mi-ja (Yoon Jung-hee (윤정희) as she struggles to find illumination for her poetry class. As a grandmother searching for beauty, Yoon Jung-hee gives an astonishing critically acclaimed performance that earned the Best Actress award at The 2010 Daejong Film Awards and  The  37th Annual Los Angeles Film Critics Association. Her performance, as well as the wonderfully understated script and direction by auteur Lee Chang-dong, makes Poetry (시) one of the most delicately – even ‘poetically’ – constructed, character driven pieces of realist cinema of the year, and is an incredible achievement.

Poetry tells the story of Yang Mi-ja (Yoon Jung-hee (윤정희), a grandmother who scrapes by working as a part-time care worker and claiming social benefits. Mi-ja has a slightly eccentric and cheerful disposition, and has the ‘veins of a poet’ according to her daughter. Seeing an advert for a poetry class at her local cultural center, Mi-ja jumps at the chance to express herself through the art form. However, despite all her attempts, she is unable to begin writing. This is compounded further as Mi-ja visits the hospital and discovers she has Alzheimer’s disease. With dementia setting in, she finds that writing becomes even more frustrating as simple words begin to elude her. Furthermore, Mi-ja is the guardian of her grandson Jong Wook (Lee David (이다윗), who has little tolerance and even less respect for her. Upon discovering that Wook has been involved in a serious crime, Mi-ja must endeavour to resolve the conflicts within her life and unveil an inspirational beauty in order to write her first poem.

Mi-ja searches for the inspiration to write her first poem

Mi-ja searches for the inspiration to write her first poem

Poetry begins (and ends) with the gentle flowing of water, which is a perfect allegory of how the narrative is presented. The gentle ‘flow’ of the narrative is expertly conveyed by director Lee Chang-dong, who never emphasizes plot points but merely allows them to subtly enter the life of his central protagonist, such as when the body of a young girl is slowly and delicately washed ashore to become a defining event. The decision to use hand-held techniques, while adding to the realism, is also similar in nature to the movement of the water and on occasion appears voyeuristic, as if the camera itself is the spirit of the young girl watching Mi-ja. Through Mi-ja, Lee Chang-dong explores a variety of societal and cultural issues that enter her world, though never in a confrontational manner and all while she strives to find inspirational beauty. For example, at Mi-ja’s poetry class the students share their experiences of a moment of happiness. Each tale is simultaneously sorrowful and poignant, such as finding love in an extra-marital affair, highlighting the differences between social expectation and reality. For Mi-ja, her diagnosis as an Alzheimer’s patient is blunt and borders on rude, while it’s entirely possible the appointment was forgotten shortly after leaving the hospital. Mi-ja’s part-time job as a carer is also illuminating in portraying the plight of the disabled and lonely. But by far the most pressing concern for Lee Chang-dong is the nature of crime and punishment expressed through Mi-ja’s grandson.

Mi-ja's grandson Wook displays little remorse for his crime

Mi-ja’s grandson Wook displays little remorse for his crime

Wook – and his friends – have committed a crime, and as with the other events in Poetry, there is no revelation in regards to this new information. Instead, the father’s of all involved invite Mi-ja to meet for lunch in order to discuss a settlement so that charges are never filed against their children. Again, director Lee Chang-dong subtly enters this event within the narrative, but the nature of the crime is so serious, that the objective way in which the conversation transpires and lack of any emotional display emphasises the abhorrent and selfish nature of all involved. The notion of such settlement is common practice in Korean culture, and Lee Chang-dong expresses his disgust for it through Mi-ja as she silently stands and exits the room. Compounding the act further is that the young criminals have no remorse. Everyone continues as if nothing has happened. Mi-ja however is weighed down by the issue, internalizing her frustrations while continuing on her quest to understand beauty in a world she sees precious little of.

Mi-ja must understand the 'essence' of her subject

Mi-ja must understand the ‘essence’ of her subject

Yoon Jung-hee is truly wonderful as Mi-ja. She conveys the subtle elegance of a woman striving to achieve something noteworthy in her life, but being coerced into events beyond her control that halt her from doing so. Jung-hee’s strength, eccentricity, resilience and ambition are poignantly conveyed by the veteran actress who fully deserves her accolades. Mi-ja is a woman of modest means, yet is inspirational to those around her in attempting to articulate beauty within a poem. Her decisions that lead to the discovery of her subject are incredibly poignant, and her understanding of the beauty within inspires her to write a heart-wrenchingly beautiful and eloquent poem that lingers long after it has been recited.

Mi-ja is a courageous and resilient woman

Mi-ja is a courageous and resilient woman

Verdict:

Poetry is an incredible film. The script, the direction, and the acting come together perfectly to create a wonderfully subtle and elegant narrative about a woman on a search of discovery, yet the understated social commentary that is interwoven organically within it elevates the film even higher. Poetry is, without doubt, a must-see film.

★★★★★

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Soo-ha and Hong-yeong share a tender moment

The Harmonium in My Memory (내 마음의 풍금) – ★★★★☆

The Harmonium in My Memory (내 마음의 풍금)

The Harmonium in My Memory (내 마음의 풍금)

Nostalgia is a difficult balance to achieve in film. If done overly reverentially, it can easily fall into the realm of cliché and ‘camp’; if not revered enough, then the purpose of placing the narrative within the era is rendered obsolete. Romance fits much more neatly into nostalgic territory than other genres due to notion that the past was a time of innocence, enhancing the ‘purity’ of the love portrayed and removing the cynicism that comes with age. The Harmonium in My Memory (내 마음의 풍금) does all this and more, conveying a well-balanced nostalgic love story set in a post-war 1963 village that never becomes trite or sentimental.

Yun Hong-yeon (Jeon Do-yeon (전도연) has a difficult life in her rustic farming village in Gangwon province. With an absent father – as most men never returned from the war – Hong-yeon must help her mother raise three younger siblings. At 17 she is the eldest in her middle school class, and as the new term begins she and her classmates await the arrival of their new teacher, 21 year old recent graduate Kang Soo-ha (Lee Byeong-Heon (이병헌). Hong-yeon is instantly smitten and is desperate to get attention, yet Soo-ha begins to develop an infatuation with another teacher, the elegant  Yang Eun-hee (Lee Mi-yeon (이미연).

Hong-yeon meets Soo-ha on his first day, and instantly falls in love

Hong-yeon meets Soo-ha on his first day, and instantly falls in love

The decision to film The Harmonium in My Memory in film stock used in decades past is a masterstroke, adding authenticity to the nostalgic vision of first love through the grainy textures. Additionally, ‘내 마음의 풍금’ directly translates as ‘The Organ in my Heart’ and as such music from the era plays a pivotal role in articulating the love held within the protagonists, as well as signalizing exchanges of affection. Director Lee Yeong-jae (이영재) employs sumptuous use of mise-en-scene in portraying the rural lifestyle in the early ’60s, with a romantic verve that captures the innocence and fellowship of the community but never shying away from the difficulties. In fact, Lee Yeong-jae conveys nostalgic comedy within such hardships, such as Soo-ha telling his students to wash more than once a month, and Hong-yeon changing her siblings soiled clothes in class. Generally Lee Yeong-jae allows the combination of these elements to dictate and present the narrative, competently directing but never really conveying an authorial style.

Eun-hee captures Soo-ha's heart with music

Eun-hee captures Soo-ha’s heart with music

All of these cinematic features are amalgamated in order to portray the innocence and naivety of ‘first love’, and in that respect The Harmonium in My Memory succeeds incredibly well. The delicacy and poignancy of ‘first love’ is all the more endearing as for most of the narrative the love is unrequited. Hong-yeong loves Soo-ha, yet Soo-ha loves Eun-hee, and the ways in which they attempt to woe their targets is both touching and comedic. Hong-yeong in particular is very amusing as she works hard in class, presents anonymous gifts, and communicates with Soo-ha through the use of her daily journal which evolves into a diary/love letter. Her naivety is endearing such as when Hong-yeong writes spiteful remarks about teacher Eun-hee and her age, causing Soo-ha to become conflicted. Similarly, Soo-ha’s attempts for Eun-hee are also romantic and enchanting, using music to overcome the initial awkwardness between them and creating indecision for Eun-hee. The loves, and rejections, are subtly and organically portrayed by the excellent cast, especially Jeon Do-yeon who displays incredible talent conveying a shy but headstrong young woman in 1960s Korea. Lee Byeong-Heon is also wonderful in playing an emotionally charged young teacher desperate for love.

Soo-ha and Hong-yeong share a tender moment

Soo-ha and Hong-yeong share a tender moment

Verdict:

The Harmonium in My Memory is a wonderfully endearing romantic tale of the hurdles and triumphs of ‘first love.’ The nostalgia is perfectly balanced throughout and lends an incredible innocence and delicacy to the narrative through the subtle use of film stock, mise-en-scene, and music from the era. As nostalgia and innocence are so integral to the narrative, director Lee Yeong-jae does not provide an in-depth examination of relationships. Rather, he opts to convey the time of love before serious complexity enters, making The Harmonium in My Memory a light-hearted and touching love letter of the awkwardness, naivety and innocence of first love.

★★★★☆

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Byeong-woo's ambition makes him a hot property

Suicide Forecast (수상한 고객들) – ★★★☆☆

Suicide Forecast (수상한 고객들)

Suicide Forecast (수상한 고객들)

South Korea has the unfortunate statistic of having the highest suicide rate among all 30 OECD countries. Over forty people a day take their own lives, and the reasons behind such tragedy are complex to say the least. As such, suicide often features within Korean films although it tends to occur organically in the narrative,  due to mistreatment or illness for example. Enter Suicide Forecast (수상한 고객들), a film that places the intentions of suicide as the central concept of the narrative. Bizarrely, Suicide Forecast promotes itself as a comedic exploration of the macabre subject matter, yet in reality it’s more of a dramatic foray. While examining the oft-ignored subject of suicide through film is to be commended, the rather superficial nature of the narrative renders Suicide Forecast somewhat impotent.

Bae Byeong-woo (Ryoo Seung-beom (류승범) is a retired professional baseball player, now working in the world of insurance. He is ambitious and driven, yet his constant desire for money upsets his girlfriend Lee Hye-in (Seo Ji-hye (서지혜) resulting in a break-up. Simultaneously, Byeong-woo is accused of helping a client commit suicide and fraudulently claim life insurance through exploiting a loophole in the contract. As he reminisces about his position in life, Byeong-woo recalls that two years prior he, in order to become the best salesperson, sold life insurance policies to four suicide survivors. According to the contract, should they die within two years of signing the contract they will receive nothing; but with the deadline approaching, Byeon-woo must try and convince the policy holders to switch to a retirement plan or else the company will lose a fortune. Yet upon meeting his clients – unemployed divorcee Oh Sang-yeol (Park Cheol-min (박철민), widowed mother-of-four Choi Bok-soon (Jeong Seon-kyeong (정선경), poverty stricken young musician Ahn So-yeon (안소연, Younha (윤하), and Tourette’s suffering beggar Kim Yeong-tak (Im Joo-hwan (임주환) – Byeong-woo’s selfish motivations begin to change.

Byeong-woo's ambition makes him a hot property

Byeong-woo’s ambition makes him a hot property

Suicide Forecast is similar in nature to the family-friendly films of Jim Carrey, such as as Liar Liar (1997) and Mr. Popper’s Penguins (2011). Ryoo Seung-beom is never as flamboyantly excessive as Carrey, but the generic career-man-learns-the-importance-of-compassion is present and as predictable as ever. Carrey however always brings charm and charisma to such roles conveying that his protagonists are never bad but misguided, features which Ryoo Seung-beom (류승범) is considerably lacking in Suicide Forecast to the point of being incredibly unlikeable. Byeong-woo may well be the top salesperson but his arrogant, selfish, inconsiderate and disrespectful manner are difficult to ignore. The premise is sound and has plenty of potential – that a man fixated by consumerism must seek out and stop those intent on suicide, learning something in the process – yet it takes a long long time before Byeong-woo’s character remotely alters due to the plodding second act. His clients are all interesting and compelling protagonists, each with their own hardships that are conveyed poignantly but never slip into sentimentalism. It’s a real shame that these characters were not developed further than the relatively superficial portrayal of their lives, as they are the foundation upon which the narrative is formed. While the subject matter may be somewhat macabre, the narrative consistently attempts to inject light-hearted comedy moments to halt the descent into bleak territory. The jokes generally succeed although they tend to highlight further character flaws in Byeong-woo, and as such the comedy is often flat.

Byeong-woo is shocked by his client's lifestyle

Byeong-woo is shocked by his client’s lifestyle

Suicide Forecast is competently directed throughout by Jo Jin-mo, particularly in the more dramatic sequences in the third act as time runs out. It is here that the acting capabilities of all the cast are displayed, especially Ryoo Seung-beom who conveys intensity as he struggles to reach his clients in time. The predictability, and the lack of character development (and thus empathy), does slightly undermine his performance however. Additionally, Byeong-woo’s instant transformation of character from shrewd insurance salesman to compassionate friend requires something of a leap in disbelief considering his earlier behaviour. Despite the cliches, the finale is touching with the moral message that – given a chance and encouragement – those suffering from the hardships of life can shine. It must also be noted however that the bizarre incorporation of Byeong-woo’s former career as a professional baseball player is forcibly shoehorned into the film, and serves to dramatically detract from the core plot.

Byeong-woo races against time to save his clients

Byeong-woo races against time to save his clients

Verdict:

For tackling such an important and delicate issue within Korean culture, Suicide Forecast must be commended. The potential of a comedy-drama exploring such themes is enormous, which perhaps explains why the narrative appears to be intimidated by the subject matter and the ‘comedy’ aspect tends to fail. The suicidal client’s are compelling despite their general lack of depth, and the predictable finale is still heart-warming. Suicide Forecast is an interesting take on a pertinent and often ill-judged element of society that, while cliched and predictable, offers a poignant reminder that greed and consumerism does not equate to happiness.

★★★☆☆

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The dischevelled Dae-su is joined by Mi-do on his quest for revenge

Old Boy (올드보이) – ★★★★★

Old Boy (올드보이)

Old Boy (올드보이)

Old Boy (올드보이) has the double-edged distinction of being most international audience’s first introduction to Korean cinema, and ironically, their only frame of reference. Thus any film viewed after such an inauguration is compared with Park Chan-wook’s (박찬욱) seminal work regardless of genre, which is clearly an injustice to all involved. And yet, it is difficult to completely judge those who make the comparison, as Old Boy  is simply phenomenal.

As the extremely drunk Oh Dae-su (Choi Min-sik (최민식) is arrested one night in 1988, he little realises that his every action is being watched. Released from the police station and apologising for missing his daughter’s birthday, Dae-su is suddenly snatched from the street and wakes up in an apartment – where he will spend the next fifteen years in captivity. Without warning, Dae-su is released from his incarceration and must discover who imprisoned him, and more importantly, why. He is joined on his quest for revenge by Mi-do (Kang Hye-jeong (강혜정), a sushi waitress who takes pity on his plight. In following the trail of clues Dae-su finds his tormentor Woo-jin (Yoo Ji-tae (유지태) but the burning desire for answers stays his hand. As the mystery unravels, Dae-su is confronted by an awful truth, that will lead to a shocking final confrontation with his nemesis.

Dae-su is incarcerated for 15 years

Dae-su is incarcerated for 15 years

The centerpiece of Park Chan-wook’s vengeance trilogy (preceded by Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance (복수는 나의 것) and followed by Sympathy for Lady Vengeance (친절한 금자씨)Old Boy stands out as one of the most innovative and technically proficient thrillers of all time. If it was ever in doubt before, Old Boy cemented Park Chan-wook’s status as an auteur due to his incredible vision and flair for violent and macabre subject matter. His technical prowess appears effortless. Initially the hand-held documentary-esque drunken antics in a police station add realism as well as Dae-su’s appalling character traits. Yet this is seamlessly sutured with conventions ascribed to fantasy, thriller and action as Dae-su evolves during the course of the film. Shots, such as Dae-su emerging from a suitcase in a field – later revealed as a roof – continually astonish and excite. Tracking shots of action sequences are equally enthralling as Dae-su takes on an entire gang in the narrow confines of a corridor. The level of creative confidence also extends into the mise-en-scene, particularly in regards to colour and patterns. The striking reds hint at the danger to come, while the eerie purples (accompanied by the maze-like pattern formed of triangles) are the calling cards of the mastermind behind the events.

The dischevelled Dae-su is joined by Mi-do on his quest for revenge

The dischevelled Dae-su is joined by Mi-do on his quest for revenge

Praise must also be generously given to the narrative, co-written by Park Chan-wook and Hwang Jo-yoon. The central concept is reminiscent of The Prisoner (1967-68), yet from there the ideas generated are original, shocking and downright bizarre. Yet fundamentally, the emotional core of each protagonist is placed front and center giving exceptional substance to the stylised visuals. Each character is incredibly compelling, neither good nor bad but an amalgamation of a variety of neuroses. In presenting such complex character studies to the screen, all the actors deserve recognition. Chief among them is Choi Min-sik who gives a towering performance as Dae-su. His physical transformation is startling, not only in terms of his musculature but also his tired and dishevelled face that conveys the seriousness of his situation without uttering a word. His erratic behaviour is entrancing and performed with real conviction, from his television style speech patterns, his difficulty in entering the modern world and the frustration of unlocking memories within himself. Similarly Yoo Ji-tae is wonderfully sadistic as the antagonist of the film. Woo-jin’s arrogance and sheer audacity radiates with every movement, yet amazingly is far from villainous due to the incredible depth of character. His own torment, and the unbelievable lengths he goes to in displacing them, are profound and convincing despite the extremities that occur.

Woo-jin torments Dae-su with sadistic delight

Woo-jin torments Dae-su with sadistic delight

Verdict:

Old Boy is a monumental achievement not only for Korean cinema, but also in terms of international recognition. It’s little wonder why audiences use it as the frame of reference in comparing other films from Korea despite the unfairness of such comparisons. The innovative narrative and technical prowess, as well as the exemplary performances, serve to make Old Boy a timeless classic and an absolute must-see.

★★★★★

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Bin is traumatized by the loss of his parents

Ghastly (기생령) – ★☆☆☆☆

Ghastly (기생령)

Ghastly (기생령)

It’s a sad trait that in order for one lifestyle to become dominant, the previous one must be demonised. This is acutely the case with religion, as the new philosophy supplants older belief systems by aligning it with barbarism, superstition and the occult in order to acquire more followers. This material is explicitly expressed within horror films, including the incredible The Wicker Man (1973) which demonises paganism, while Poltergeist (1982) conveys the horrors of spiritualism, and even The Exorcist (1973) has its origins in middle eastern practices that must be ‘cured’ by Catholicism.

With Ghastly (기생령) the apparent origin of ‘evil’ is aligned with Korean Shamanism and the practices therein. Yet rather than explore the theology/practices and the tense conflict it creates within the family unit, Ghastly opts for shallow and superficial horror, and is a prime example of how not to construct a horror film featuring lazy filmmaking and a substandard narrative.

Ghastly begins with a gruesome opening scene depicting a married couple cutting off their feet and committing suicide in front of their young son Bin (Lee Hyeong-seok (이형석). With no-one to care for him, Bin’s uncle Jang-hwan (Park Seong-min (박성민) and his wife Sunny (Han Eun-jeong (한은정) are given custody, and move into Bin’s house due to financial difficulty. They are joined by Sunny’s younger sister Yoo-rin (Hyomin (효민), a high schooler who becomes increasingly jealous with the attention bestowed upon Bin. As time passes Sunny finds a Shamanist shrine in the garden shed, and Bin’s behaviour becomes increasingly violent, leading to a showdown to uncover the truth of what happened the fateful night of the Bin’s parent died.

Sunny feels uneasy in the new house

Sunny feels uneasy in the new house

Ghastly opens promisingly enough with a horrific scene of self-mutilation and torture and setting up mystery within the narrative. However the film quickly descends following this, with a by-the-numbers narrative rife with cliches and plot holes by Kim Yoo-ra (김유라), and bland and uninspired direction from Ko Seok-jin (고석진). One of the key elements in any horror film is that the threat of violence/horror must be ‘real’ and impact the protagonist(s) in some manner. Yet aside from the opening and closing scenes, the vast majority of horrific scenes take place within Sunny and Yoo-rin’s minds as nightmares. This completely undermines any tension and suspense generated, although the incorporation of bland generic devices does little to install terror initially anyway. Bin’s grandmother (Baek Soo-ryeon, 백수련) is also portrayed as a source of horror with a truly unenlightened representation, conveying her as a mentally ill and a mindlessly chanting shaman. This extends to the blatant misogyny within the film as only the women are ‘punished’ by receiving nightmares. In regards to Yoo-rin (played by K-pop idol Hyomin), the camera continually fetishises her with tracking shots across her body and the perverse gaze of her step-brother, who later slaps her in the face for verbalizing her displeasure at his glances. Her death is also the most horrific as she is virtually boiled alive (after a shower scene featuring several close-ups on her body) in the bathroom, seemingly ‘punishing’ her merely for being attractive.

Yoo-rin is constantly fetishised

Yoo-rin is constantly fetishised

Director Ko Seok-jin (고석진) is generally competent in conveying scenes of horror and drama, but does little to create suspense that lead to such confrontations. The use of close-ups on severed limbs, and the manner in which they are removed, is effectively filmed and the best example of horror within the film. Yet the protagonists are less than compelling due to their lack of character development. By far the most interesting is Sunny, who is portrayed as kind, thoughtful and only person who appears interested in solving the mystery of the murders. However there is very little mystery to be solved as it lacks depth and the clues are not sufficient enough to add intrigue. The only real major clue to be uncovered is the shaman shrine, yet the finale is predictable far before this event. The finale unfortunately also succumbs to generic conventions in that once the true source of horror is revealed, a flashback is inaugurated to reveal events prior but does little to enhance the narrative.

Bin is traumatized by the loss of his parents

Bin is traumatized by the loss of his parents

Verdict:

Aside from the opening scene and scant few additional sequences of horror, Ghastly is an uninspired and generic example of basic horror filmmaking.  The severe lack of character depth, and the absence of any substantial tangible threat due to its confinement within nightmares, vastly reduces the effectiveness of the danger that actually takes place. The level of misogyny is also appalling as the female protagonists are the cause of events, fetishised and beaten. There are far superior Korean horror films available.

★☆☆☆☆

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Hyeon-seo is taken to the monster's lair

The Host (괴물) – ★★★★★

The Host (괴물)

The Host (괴물)

The introduction of Godzilla in 1954 was a masterstroke. The monster directly tapped into the fears and anxieties of the Japanese populace following the American atomic bomb attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the potential ramifications of the nuclear fallout. The popularity of the iconic character was instant, while the enduring legacy of Godzilla has remained due to the still underlying apprehension surrounding nuclear technology.

Ironically, a similar fate was to occur with neighbouring South Korea. In 2000, the American military dumped 20 gallons of formaldehyde into drains which flowed directly into the Han River, the source of drinking water for the entire population of Seoul. The enormity of the public outcry was such that the U.S. military gave it’s first public apology since the Korean War, yet it did little to assuage public opinion. Enter The Host (괴물), a film that – similar to Godzilla – uses the true story as a basis for a narrative which introduces a monster into the midst of Seoul, amalgamating the fears, angers and anxieties of the society into the monstrous beast. ‘괴물’ is translated as ‘monster’, the source of the horror. However, far more interesting (and multi-layered) is the English title ‘The Host’. ‘The Host’ refers to the Han River which harbours the monster, but is also symbolic of Korea for ‘hosting’ the U.S. military (arguably another source of ‘horror’ due to creating the monster and perceived imperialism). The multi-layered title is reflected within the narrative, and it is such complexity that makes The Host one of the best science-fiction films of all time.

The 'average' Seoulite family

The ‘average’ Seoulite family

The Host depicts the dysfunctional Park family, who are more a collection of individuals due to their differing personalities and interests. The slacker of the family, Gang-du (Song Kang-ho (송강호) works at a convenience store with his diligent father Hee-bong (Byeon Hee-bong (변희봉) on the banks of the Han River. Living with them is Gang-du’s daughter Hyun-seo (Ko Ah-seong (고아성) a middle school student who dislikes her father’s laid-back attitude. One day whilst serving customers, a mutated amphibious fish monster emerges from the river wreaking havoc. Gang-du and an American soldier bravely try to stop the monster from eating people, but during the struggle the soldier is gravely injured as the monster tries to consume him. Wounded by Gang-du, the monster runs back to the safety of the Han River and snatches the unaware Hyun-seo on the way. With Hyun-seo believed dead, the Gang-du is joined by his salaryman brother Nam-il (Park Hae-il (박해일) and archer sister Nam-joo (Bae Doona (배두나) in mourning. However, the American soldier is reported in the media as having a new strain of disease due to contact with the monster, and the military immediately incarcerate and quarantine the entire Park family against their will. That night, Gang-du receives a phone call from Hyeon-seo who is trapped in the monster’s sewer lair, and as the military refuse to help, the Park family resolve to escape their imprisonment and find Hyeon-seo before it’s too late.

Gang-du and Hyeon-seo run from the monster

Gang-du and Hyeon-seo run from the monster

Director Bong Joon-ho (봉준호),  who also co-wrote the film with Ha Joon-won (하준원), Joo-byeol (주별) and Baek Cheol-hyeon (백철현), has crafted a magnificent and multi-layered film that examines an incredible array of socio-cultural anxieties within Korean society. The Park family are a microcosm for the disparate identities and labour forces within Korea. Grandfather Hee-bong represents the hard-working older generation; Gang-du exemplifies the manual labour force; Nam-il constitutes the university-students-turned-office workers; Nam-ju represents women in Korea, hesitant to display their power and talent; and Hyeon-seo embodies the innocence of the younger generations. As such the family unit is allegorical of Korea itself, emphasising that for the family/Korea to succeed in killing the monster and saving their daughter/youth, they must forgo their differences, come together and work as one. The ‘monster’ the family must defeat is somewhat ambiguous. The mutated animal is the most obvious example, yet the media is equally as monstrous in inspiring panic throughout the citizens of Seoul, reports which are ultimately lies. Behind those lies are the American government and military who use the panic to their advantage, expanding American influence/imperialism and releasing ‘Agent Yellow’ (a not-so-subtle reference to toxic Agent Orange) into the atmosphere, which does little except to add further poison to the atmosphere. Korean society is also interrogated by depicting bribery and the traitorous actions of office workers due to their escalating debt. Director Bong Joon-ho (봉준호) continually references the multitudinous ‘monsters’ the family confront through a variety of representational devices, serving to add astonishing political and socio-cultural depth within the narrative.

Hyeon-seo is taken to the monster's lair

Hyeon-seo is taken to the monster’s lair

The blending, and subversion, of genres is seamless. Most science-fiction films tend to refrain from fully revealing their antagonist until the final acts, surrounded by darkness to both convey suspense and hide the limitations of CGI. Not so in The Host, which has one of the most staggering introduction sequences ever constructed for a monster, all during the bright daylight hours. The rampage is truly astounding, and Bong Joon-ho employs a variety of techniques in capturing the the monster’s behaviour and the panic of the crowd. The actors are, as one would expect from such highly talented individuals, perfect in capturing the essence of their respective protagonists, conveying powerful performances that virtually command attention and empathy. With so many narrative devices included, it’s astonishing how each protagonist also manages to evolve throughout the film, leading to a socialist-esque finale in which they all overcome their flaws to fight as one with the proletariat landing the final blow.

Gang-du squares off against the monster

Gang-du squares off against the monster

Verdict:

The Host is an incredible film, and highlights the sheer talent and innovation of all involved. While it is unashamedly mainstream, the film never falls into cliche or parody as is often the case in the genre. Instead, The Host employs layers upon layers of political and socio-cultural subtext that adds phenomenal depth to an already highly entertaining premise, and cannot be recommended highly enough.

★★★★★

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The intimacy is created through honest action, rather than empty promises

Poongsan (풍산개) – ★★★☆☆

Poongsan (풍산개)

Poongsan (풍산개)

There has been a noticeable ideological shift in the representation between North and South Korea in recent cinematic productions. While the late ’90s inaugurated a period where the differences between the people were rendered moot (as exemplified by Shiri (쉬리)JSA – Joint Security Area (공동경비구역 JSA)  and Taegukgi (태극기 휘날리며), the past few years have appropriated a nihilistic approach that represents both sides as equally corrupt. The Front Line (고지전)Dance Town (댄스 타운) and even insanely popular TV drama City Hunter (시티헌터) have all subscribed to such representations, depicting government and military officials, and even citizens, as either equally underhanded or worse than their northern counterparts. Poongsan (풍산개) joins this trend, examining the lives of those caught between the ideological conflict in an interesting, albeit haphazard, style.

Poongsan tells the story of an unnamed man who regularly risks his life by crossing the De-Militarized Zone at the request of families on either side. He becomes know as ‘Poongsan’ (Yoon Kye-sang (윤계상) after the brand of cigarettes he smokes, and passes letters, videos, trinkets, and in special cases, people. Concurrently South Korean agents are pressuring a high ranking North Korean defector (Kim Jong-soo (김종수) for information, which he claims he cannot provide without his girlfriend In-ok (Kim Gyoo-ri (김규리) who still lives in The People’s Republic. The agents charge the DMZ runner with finding and retrieving the woman, yet on their dangerous return an unshakeable bond forms between them. On their arrival in the South,the double-crossing South Korean agents and North Korean spies vie for control over the lives of the defector, his girlfriend and the runner, leading to a deadly showdown.

Poongsan and In-ok cross the DMZ to the South

Poongsan and In-ok cross the DMZ to the South

While directed by his protege Juhn Jai-hong (전재홍), Kim Ki-duk’s (김기덕) indelible stamp is firmly cemented in Poongsan due to his dual role as writer/producer. The nameless DMZ runner, who never utters a word of dialogue during the entire course of the film, has more than a little in common with the lead in prior film 3-Iron (빈집). ‘Poongsan’ never talks, rather allowing his actions to convey his personality and pure intentions. If there is an ‘enemy’ in the film it would be ‘words’. The spies within the film continually offer empty promises and the rhetoric they spout is interchangeable. Worse still is that once the rhetoric has finished, both sides engage in horrific barbarous torture methods that reveal a twisted sadism within the agents. Even the past times of the agents are the same; the southern agents visit a hostess bar for the northern prostitutes, and the northern agents frequent a bar for southern working girls. The high ranking North Korean defector is portrayed similarly, initially conveying love and adoration for his girlfriend which later reveals itself as passive-aggressive misogyny. His vital report is also of note, as the defector understands the nature of his situation – once his document is submitted, his own life will be forfeit despite the security insisting otherwise. Only the silent ‘Poongsan’ and In-ok are represented as innocent and genuine, the true victims of the ideological warfare that continues to divide the populace.

Poongsan, In-ok, and the defector are caught between agents from both countries

Poongsan, In-ok, and the defector are caught between agents from both countries

As is often Kim Ki-duk’s style, the narrative veers in different directions unexpectedly yet still serves to emphasise the underlying socio-cultural critique. A wide array of alternating generic features are employed to this end, however they tend to distract from the deconstruction of the north/south opposition rather than enhance it. In addition, leaps are taken with suspension of disbelief in several areas. For example, the romance between ‘Poongsan’ and In-ok begins organically enough yet somehow jumps into a timeless intimate love; similarly, ‘Poongsan’ is a veritable one-man army who seemingly recovers from grave wounds with ease. The final showdown involves the highly idealised event of locking both factions of agents in a room to settle the dispute once and for all, which is an interesting premise yet merely serves to highlight their cowardice and lacks intensity. As the chief protagonist, Yoon Kye-sang (윤계상) gives a competent performance as ‘Poongsan’, a difficult task given the inherent stoicism. Unfortunately ‘Poongsan’ is, in the latter half of the film, relegated to being a supporting actor as the political themes take precedence.

The intimacy is created through honest action, rather than empty promises

The intimacy is created through honest action, rather than empty promises

Verdict:

Poongsan is a very interesting nihilistic examination of the north/south divide, one that embraces wholeheartedly the similarities between both sides in an incredibly pessimistic context. The deconstruction of the agencies of both countries, and the use of language as a tool/enemy is wonderfully executed and brings a new dimension to the political debate within the cinematic realm. The lead protagonists however lack the depth required for them to be believable and fully attract empathy, and in addition to other frivolous/whimsical uses of generic conventions and audience disbelief, detract from the construction of this statement. Poongsan will no doubt be hailed in future discussions of Korean cinema as a film that brought a new dimension to an old debate and is an entertaining, though occasionally disjointed, film.

★★★☆☆

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Sun-woo's arrogance leads to his downfall

A Bittersweet Life (달콤한 인생) – ★★★★★

A Bittersweet Life (달콤한 인생)

A Bittersweet Life (달콤한 인생)

Contemporary action heroes are markedly different from their forebearers. Fragments of the stoic hard-boiled masculinity of the noir 1930s, the rebellious ‘anti-hero’ escapades of the ’60s, and the hyper-masculinity of the ’80s amongst others still exist yet are characterised by more psychologically flawed and vulnerable protagonists. The psychosis of the contemporary action hero is propagated further by his/her unfettered arrogance which often serves to be the source of their appeal; they may be murderous unhinged individuals, but they conduct violence with such swagger and confidence that popularity is undoubtedly assured. The most recent incarnation of James Bond, played by Daniel Craig, is a prime example of such characterisation and differs incredibly from previous actors rendition of the spy. Such traits are of fundamental significance in Kim Ji-woon’s (김지운) A Bittersweet Life (달콤한 인생), an amazingly stylised action noir thriller that boasts an incredible performance from leading man Lee Byeong-Heon (이병헌).

Kim Sun-woo (Lee Byeong-Heon) is an enforcer for ruthless gangster and hotel owner Mr. Kang (Kim Young-cheol (김영철). Sun-woo is the epitome of diligence and loyalty, protecting his boss’ interests above all else including beating lower-tier gangsters that visit the establishment to cause trouble. Before a business trip to Shanghai, Mr. Kang orders Sun-woo to watch his young girlfriend Hee-soo (Sin Min-ah (신민아) for fear she is meeting another, younger, man. If Sun-woo confirms his suspicions, he must ‘take care’ of the situation. Yet when Sun-woo meets Hee-soo he is captivated by her, and cannot fulfill his obligations when her affair is discovered. Enraged, Mr. Kang orders his men to punish Sun-woo, setting in motion a series of events that tests both men to their limits.

Sun-woo is an arrogant, lethal enforcer for Mr. Kang

Sun-woo is an arrogant, lethal enforcer for Mr. Kang

As expected from auteur  Kim Ji-woon, A Bittersweet Life is technically fantastic with wonderful framing and composition, and superb use of mise-en-scene. The writer/director combines a multitude of different generic features seamlessly. The elegant gangster inspired ‘La Dolce Vita’ restaurant is exquisitely constructed, with a title that becomes a recurring subliminal pun throughout the film. The ultra-violent action sequences are brutal and shocking in their presentation, often accompanied by noir-esque shadows and suspense. The inclusion of romantic motifs are subtle yet moving as close up shots of minor mannerisms effect Sun-woo, that ultimately lead to his downfall. Sun-woo’s loneliness is consistently emphasised by framing devices that convey his isolation, as do the angled shots that portray the trajectory of his devolution down the gangster hierarchy. Kim Ji-woon’s renowned use of colour is on full display, from the bright white corridors that lead to the deep red and black interior of ‘La Dolce Vita’ to the continued use of bright lights surrounding love-interest Hee-soo. This subtly ties into Sun-woo’s almost obsessive compulsive disorder for switching lamps on and off several times before sleeping, as Hee-soo is constantly surrounded by light and has a penchant for lamps of all varieties.

Sun-woo escorts Hee-soo, whose subtle charms impair his judgment

Sun-woo escorts Hee-soo, whose subtle charms impair his judgment

Sun-woo is an incredibly arrogant and prideful protagonist, wonderfully portrayed by Lee Byeong-Heon. The intensity and conflict from his previous roles serves him well as Sun-woo’s narrative journey takes him from the upper echelons of the gang to crawling on his knees. And yet Sun-woo still refuses to acknowledge his feelings or to apologise, just as Mr. Kang refuses to change his stance to spare his dignity. They are mirrors of each other not just in personality and career but also in their affection for Hee-soo, and it’s ultimately that jealousy that destroys them all including the organisation. The final images of Sun-woo shadow boxing with his own reflection in ‘La Dolce Vita’ are tragically revealing, as his narcissistic spirit is forever locked in an internal love/hate battle with himself and his organisation. The other actors all convey great performances, although they are somewhat underdeveloped. Sin Min-ah conveys innocence and naivety as Hee-soo, and immeasurable sadness when her affair is brought to light. Kim Young-cheol is wonderfully sadistic as Mr. Kang and the mirror of Sun-woo, conveying real internal conflict when giving orders against his protege. As jealous second lieutenant Mun-suk, Kim Roi-ha is delightfully vindictive despite his limited character.

Sun-woo's arrogance leads to his downfall

Sun-woo’s arrogance leads to his downfall

Verdict:

A Bittersweet Life is an incredibly stylised action/gangster/noir thriller that is head-and-shoulders above other recent examples of the genre. As always, director Kim Ji-woon doesn’t disappoint, employing a variety of generic motifs to wonderful effect that keeps the film moving at a brisk pace without detracting from lead character Sun-woo’s development. Lee Byeong-Heon gives a wonderful performance as the flawed anti-hero, and despite his violent tendencies and arrogance is one of the most compelling action protagonists in recent memory. A Bittersweet Life is a premier example of the innovation of Korean cinema, and a more than worthy addition to the genre.

★★★★★

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Man-seok and Song enjoy driving in the snow

Late Blossom (그대를 사랑합니다) – ★★★★☆

Late Blossom (그대를 사랑합니다)

Late Blossom (그대를 사랑합니다)

Love is, if celluloid is to be believed, the realm of young star-crossed lovers and those on the cusp of mid-life crises. The representation of youthful love is often accompanied by the intense passion of the first love, and the parental figures with whom they will undoubtedly clash. Middle-aged representations of love are acutely different incorporating a unique undercurrent of pessimism, the desire to end an elongated period loneliness and be married before the dreaded 40. But what of the eldest generation? By and large they tend to be ignored in the romance genre. Choo Chang-min‘s (추창민) Late Blossom (그대를 사랑합니다) helps to remedy the imbalance, offering deeply poignant and deeply romantic narratives featuring senior citizens.

Kim Man-seok (Lee Soon-jae (이순재) is a foul-tempered and foul-mouthed milk courier who traverses the narrow alleyways of his neighbourhood on  his trusty moped. One winter Man-seok passes Song I-ppoon (Yoon So-jeong (윤소정), a poor woman of a similar age struggling to make ends meet by collecting cardboard and plastic. In spite of his ill-tempered disposition, Man-seok attempts to help her in the difficult icy conditions. Though annoyed, he finds himself drawn to Song and every morning waits to help her and his temperament gradually dissipates. In the same neighbourhood are another elderly couple, Jang Goon-bong (Song Jae-ho (송재호) and his wife (Kim Soo-mi (김수미). Goon-bong works all hours at the local parking lot while his Alzheimer’s suffering spouse stays home. That is, until one day Goon-bong forgets to lock the gate and she escapes, later bumping into Man-seok at the local park which sets off a chain of events that will bring the unlikely quartet together and in the process rediscover themselves.

Man-seok and Song enjoy driving in the snow

Man-seok and Song enjoy driving in the snow

Late Blossom is a delicately crafted, wonderfully poignant romantic tale. Screenwriters Choo Chang-min, Kim Sang-soo, Kim Yong-deok, and Lee Man-hee have carefully constructed an emotionally charged and heartwarming narrative that never feels forced. The way the relationships develop are subtle and organic, employing psychoanalytic depth to each protagonist amid the issues faced by senior citizens. Additionally, the mise-en-scene is sublime. Director Choo Chang-min uses the landscape to great effect, capturing the claustrophobic environment of the run-down old houses and the narrow labyrinthine streets. The town itself is situated on a mountain slope allowing for a variety of angled shots that highlight the change in power status between the central protagonists and the other inhabitants. The framing is also incredibly impressive serving to be both social-realist during the more bleak moments, and whimsically romantic in the melodramatic segments.

Goon-bong and his wife appear with dignity in the high-angled shot

Goon-bong and his wife appear with dignity in the low-angled shot

Just as Late Blossom is technically impressive, the acting is also very effective. While all the performances are competent, Lee Soon-jae and Kim Soo-mi are remarkable. As an Alzheimer’s patient, Kim Soo-mi evokes a multitude of emotions which earned her the Best Supporting Actress award at the 32nd Blue Dragon Awards. She conveys empathy, humour, mental illness and in rare moments of translucency, deeply moving sentiment. Lee Soon-jae is also wonderful as ill-tempered Man-seok, who gradually evolves due to his belated encounter with love. The narrative is mostly concerned with his evolution of character, which is a shame considering the additional talent involved, but Lee Soon-jae’s performance is so poignant that the narrative is consistently entertaining. Yoon So-jeong is restrained and subtle as illiterate Song I-ppoon, whose poverty-stricken life has beaten her into despair. Similarly, Song Jae-ho is wonderful as caring husband Goon-bong. His unselfish motivations are perhaps the most romantic within Late Blossom, convey adoration and heartache for his wife.

Man-seok and Song have a birthday celebration

Man-seok and Song have a birthday celebration

Verdict:

Late Blossom is a wonderfully moving film, conveying romance and dilemmas for an often under-represented generation. It is thought-provoking and poignant, eschewing the cliches often ascribed to more generic examples that are arguably naive in their representations of love. That said, the narrative is not equally shared amongst the quartet of protagonists which is a shame, as the character development is somewhat stifled for certain members. However, Late Blossom  is not only an incredible example of the genre, but amongst the best in representing romance for senior members of society.

★★★★☆

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Agent Yu and Northern commando Mu-Young are mirrors of each other

Shiri (쉬리) – ★★★★☆

Shiri (쉬리)

Shiri (쉬리)

There are select few films that can claim they were part of a movement that changed the course of national cinema. Shiri (쉬리) is such a film. With the change from a military to democratic government in the early 1990’s, and the resulting relaxation of censorship, Shiri proved to be one of the first films to tackle the relationship with North Korea that wasn’t represented wholly negatively. The film also proved that Korea had highly capable directors and actors, employing stylised and kinetic action sequences that had been the staple of 1990’s Hong Kong films and utilising them to express Korean socio-cultural anxieties. As such, Shiri became the biggest box office hit of 1999. Furthermore, the film gained international recognition promoting Korea as a country – and a film industry – to watch.

Agents Yu Jong-won (Han Seok-Kyu (한석규) and Lee Jang-gil (Song Kang-ho (송강호) work for the South Korean intelligence agency. Widely respected as the best in the agency, they ultimately fail to protect an arms dealer assigned to their care. The precision and perfection of the assassination leads to only one suspect – North Korean sniper Lee Bang-hee (Kim Yoon-jin (김윤진). Her return is a surprise as Hee has not been active for years after she assassinated a number of high profile government officials. Complicating matters further, a small band of renegade Northern commandos led by Park Mu-young (Choi Min-sik (최민식)  are en-route to the South, amid the backdrop of a football (soccer) game aimed at promoting ties between both people. Agents Yu and Lee are charged with finding and stopping Bang-hee and her compatriots, and uncovering why they have emerged to reek havoc once more.

Agent Ryu (류) must track down elusive North Korean sniper Hee (희)

Agent Yu must track down elusive North Korean sniper Bang-hee

Director Kang Je-gyu (강제규), who also co-wrote the screenplay with Jeon Yoon-soo (전윤수), continually deconstructs the notions of ‘north’ and ‘south’ as oppositional (themes which he would later expand on in the seminal Taegukgi (태극기 휘날리며). Indeed, the title of the film ‘Shiri’ is the name of a fish that swims in the waters between the two countries, completely unaware of the political situation yet living in harmony. The film opens with the brutal military training regime Bang-hee must endure in the North, which are equally horrifying and dehumanising. Rather than representing the assassin purely as a monster, Kang Je-gyu also constructs empathy as she is forced to comply with barbaric demands. After she has infiltrated the South, empathy is invoked further as Bang-hee is a recovering alcoholic with social relationships, even managing her own business, conveying that precious little separates her from those in the South. Her fiancee is the unaware Agent Yu, and their union represents the reunification of both countries more succinctly than any treaty possibly could. Agent Yu must locate Northern terrorist Mu-young, who serve as mirrors of each other in their desire for reunification, albeit under different banners. During one of their confrontations Mu-young reveals his unbridled rage with the South, yet his reasons are not based on political rhetoric – rather, his jealousy of the high standard of living and the decadence within the country fuels his hatred, and in doing so conveys empathy towards his misguided violent attempts at reuniting the regions. While the politicians try to spur reunification through sport, it is ironically the ‘hero’ Agent Yu who destroys the only real way in which the countries can be unified, emphasising that neither side is inherently ‘good’ or ‘bad’ but misguided.

Agent Yu and Northern commando Mu-Young are mirrors of each other

Agent Yu and Northern commando Mu-Young are mirrors of each other

The actors all give good performances despite the tendency of ’90s action films for 2-dimensional characters. Such character development is generally limited in order for north/south relations to be at the forefront of the narrative, however the representation of the romance between Agent Yu and Bang-hee is touching and reinforces that the divide can be overcome with love. Choi Min-sik is by far the most talented and intense actor in the film, and acutely conveys the anger and frustration of those living in the North. His unrepentant attitude towards violence drives the narrative forward at a rapid pace and provides the thrills that lead to the ultimate showdown. The action sequences are kinetic and enjoyable, although they are far removed from the balletic slow-motion action of John Woo. Similarly, the introduction of new water-based super-weapon CTX is somewhat silly, yet it reinforces the notion of the adaptability and free-flowing nature of water in which the Shiri fish inhabit.

The kinetic action sequences are reminiscent of Hong Kong productions

The kinetic action sequences are reminiscent of Hong Kong productions

Verdict:

It is important not to understate the importance and influence of Shiri in Korean cinematic history. While it may not be a ‘perfect’ action film, it helped to insure not only that the national cinema had serious potential but also that a country that had struggled for years following the Korean War could be recognised for its cinematic output. The impact is still present to this day exemplified by the sensational 2009 TV drama IRIS which employed similar themes and motifs. Shiri proved that, while borrowing generic features from Hollywood and Hong Kong, a national cinema featuring national socio-cultural concerns was indeed possible and helped to form the foundation of a cinematic movement.

★★★★☆

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