Bong Joon-ho: BARKING DOGS NEVER BITE (2000)

봉준호: 플란다스의 개

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Barking Dogs Never Bite:
Bong Joon-ho’s Satirical Debut

While eagerly awaiting the release of Bong Joon-ho’s latest film, Snowpiercer, I thought it was time to catch up on a piece of his filmography I hadn’t seen yet.

"Barking dogs never bite"—let’s see what Bong Joon-ho, as a first-time director, made of this proverb. It wasn't easy, but I tried to watch the film as if his later masterpieces, such as Memories of Murder, The Host, or Mother, didn’t even exist yet.

It is hardly unexpected that Bong Joon-ho, who holds a degree in sociology, provides us with a deep sociological dive, yet surprisingly, he does so here in a light, comedic guise. Of course, we won’t be slapping our knees constantly, but the numerous slapstick gags, situational comedy, and stylistic parodies provoke irresistible laughter, as the director doesn't hesitate to deploy them.

At the same time, the core story reflects strongly on Korea at the turn of the millennium. A decade after the collapse following the 1990s banking crisis, a welfare world is being built which, alongside its many unusual novelties, still carries the legacies of the past.

The residents of our massive, minimalist apartment complex indulge in nouveau-riche whims, flouting all prohibitions: they keep small dogs as status symbols. Meanwhile, in the basement of the block, the building’s janitor casually cooks up stray or deceased pets for lunch while entertaining passersby with ancient horror stories.

Our protagonist (played by Lee Sung-jae) lives his frustrated life as a university lecturer in this world, enduring the humiliating situation where his pregnant wife is the true breadwinner of the family. In a completely male-centered, Confucian society, a man without a position or the ability to provide for his family becomes nothing; his self-esteem vanishes, and he can expect neither appreciation nor respect from others. He needs money to climb the social ladder, because in this world, that only works through bribery. His colleagues pass him by one after another, while he struggles helplessly, stuck at a lower level. Is it any wonder he is pushed to the edge by the constant barking? The barking of the little mutts, and the barking, condescending orders of his wife.

After an introduction utilizing a few thriller elements—where our protagonist sets out to "eliminate" the problematic dogs—the story takes a truly comedic turn when his wife returns home with a poodle-like furball. I won't spoil the jokes from here, but I’d like to mention a few interesting points.

Bong Joon-ho doesn't stop at firing off jokes; he also brilliantly references film history. In the hallways of the apartment block, we witness a chase scene captured in a long shot that feels just like the ones we saw from Buster Keaton and his ladylove on the decks of the ship in The Navigator. Behind the dog-obsession, he sensitively sketches the outlines of the owners' lives, making us feel how these love-starved souls cling desperately to a four-legged creature. One such emotional outburst eventually brings the solution to the story—because here, there is still a chance for reconciliation, and a little corruption for the sake of a successful life and compromise still seems acceptable.

While we see a quite ingenious way of hiding bribe money, the film also glimpses into the circle of those unable to meet the requirements of change—the outcasts—emphasized as a recurring motif in the image of a mother begging on the subway.

The film’s naive, kind bookkeeper, who dreams of a better life and fame, is played by Bae Doo-na, who already brings to life a multi-faceted character—at times humorous, at times determined.

A special mention must go to one of the film’s great genre-parody scenes, in which the director has the janitor recount a legend reminiscent of the "Mason Kelemen" folk ballad (the building sacrifice myth). Both the visual execution and the acting are masterful. Bong Joon-ho demonstrates his mastery of black humor and horror, and Byun Hee-bong’s storytelling is simply brilliant.

Barking Dogs Never Bite is great entertainment, high-quality cinema, and the signature of a charismatic director—who has since created works of film-historical significance—is immediately felt.

Kim Ki-duk: PIETA (2012)

김기덕: 피에타

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Pieta:
A Masterpiece on a Drawing Board?

This post is not so much a formal review as it is a reflection on my immediate impressions—and as such, it contains SPOILERS.

I knew watching this film wouldn’t be easy. While no work by Kim Ki-duk can be described as simple entertainment, the title itself suggested a particularly heavy theme, and the swirling news left no doubt that we were in for a grueling cinematic experience.

Director Kim Ki-duk

I once heard a foreign film scholar say that the level of immorality in Bad Guy affected them so deeply that they couldn't watch another Kim Ki-duk film for years. Another critic suggested that the director has a penchant for kitsch. Both thoughts have occupied my mind for a long time, and I haven't yet found a comforting answer within myself.

Usually, I am not bothered by the pushing of extremes, especially when it serves the exploration of our human nature. Regarding Kim’s films, I have long held the view that the plot is merely a loose framework for posing a fundamental question—and we shouldn't hope for much if we aren't satisfied by the pleasure of unraveling a twisted parable.

Yet, Pieta felt different from his previous works. It stirred ambivalent feelings in me even while watching. I noticed that I wasn't swept away by the "magic of cinema"; instead, I watched the film as if observing a vivisection through a glass wall. Or rather, as if witnessing the birth of a hellish machine, where every gear fits perfectly on a designer’s table.

The characters of this parable represent our most ancient archetypes: Mother and Child. As such, they should be saturated with the deepest emotions. All of this is present in the film, but the strings are tuned far too tight. At this point, the work turned inside out for me: the Pieta—that universal, timeless, living allegory of motherhood—crystallized here into a cold, mentally modeled objectivity. A perfect, admirable, but lifeless object. The parable did not lift off the ground; it clung to the sterility of the drawing board.

Despite the multiple twists regarding who is actually lying on the sacrificial altar, the story bypasses the heart and agitates only the mind. If this was the director’s intention, then we are seeing a masterpiece. Yet, this story haunts me like a monster in the corner—something you can get used to living with, but never truly desire.

The way the characters were grown beyond human proportions resulted in a sense of emptiness for me. The over-dramatization made it feel as if the characters should have been named 'Evil' or 'Pain.' They came from nowhere and led nowhere; in this sense, their sudden emotional shifts felt unearned. Furthermore, the nauseatingly didactic "flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood" ordeal only worsened the effect. Due to its clichéd nature, the characters' motives failed to evoke genuine shock, as we didn't experience them through the characters but were given them ready-made by the director.

In Bad Guy, I could accept the premise that a desire for another person could be so overwhelming that it explains (if not excuses) the brutal possession and eventual destruction of the object of adoration. Pieta is a similarly inverse story: here, the magnitude of maternal love is manifested in the cruelty of revenge. We never truly learn how many children are on the mother's list of losses. However, her revenge employs a method so inhuman that it twists motherhood itself out of its human essence.

If the cruel usurer is not her real son, then her use of motherhood as a weapon—ruthlessly exploiting the tragedy of maternal deprivation—makes her even more diabolical than the boy, questioning the very core of what motherhood means. If, however, she is truly taking revenge on her own abandoned son, the situation shatters the last fuses of human morality: we would have to recognize the embodiment of infinite maternal love and the monster who deals a doubly destructive blow to her own child in the same figure. Either way, the "Pieta" mother figure finds no human empathy or understanding.

And what of the boy? Can the mother’s past sin or the state of motherlessness explain his gargantuan, self-serving brutality? If not a spark of humanity is visible in the grown man, what strings resonate within him at the appearance of a being claiming to be his mother? The boy's "becoming human" is perhaps even less credible than the mother's "becoming a devil." Even if we grant him vulnerability, the double betrayal he suffers remains a shock to the system. The dead sacrificial child of this Pieta is not innocent; his diabolical soul rests in the arms of a diabolical mother.

        

Kim Ki-duk called his film a committed humanist work in the age of economic crisis. I still have much to ponder on that, as I don’t immediately see the connection. The fundamental problem of the film does not belong to the jurisdiction of Mammon. While the almighty power of money lingers in the background, the plot isn't in symbiosis with it. The boy isn't brutal out of necessity, but for self-indulgent pleasure. Interestingly, while the characters in Park Chan-wook’s revenge films groan under socio-economic pressure and remain infinitely, fallibly human—allowing us to empathize with them even in their darkest moments—a certain icy coldness radiates from Kim Ki-duk’s film.

The film's oppressive, claustrophobic atmosphere is very strong, and the acting is excellent. Jo Min-su, in the role of the mother, has a convincing power in her stubborn silence and crazed persistence. I was also pleased to recognize Lee Jung-jin in the male lead, who provides a dramatic performance diametrically opposed to the honest, natural police officer he played in the TV series The Fugitive: Plan B.

Yeon Sang-ho: THE KING OF PIGS (2011)

연상호: 돼지의 왕

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

A Trembling Reality:
Why The King of Pigs is More
Than Just Animation

Ever since I saw the first trailer, I had been eagerly anticipating this film; it carried the scent of something truly extraordinary. Now, under the immediate impact of watching the full feature, I must say I was not disappointed in director Yeon Sang-ho’s work.

Director Yeon Sang-ho

In the first moments of sobering up from the experience, the thought struck me that it had been a long time since I’d seen a work of such sweeping momentum. The story grips you from the very first frame and does not let go until the final second. The tension never wavers for a moment. The result: a gut-wrenching, unsettling experience that haunts the viewer long after.

The keywords for the phenomena explored by the film are violence and hierarchy. We witness the meeting of two men who, after fifteen years, recall their shared school past, in which a third boy played a definitive role. The school is little more than a battlefield for a savage struggle for existence, where roles are assigned by physical dominance embedded in a strictly fixed social hierarchy. The "Dogs" always humiliate the "Pigs"—in this case, our two protagonists, who endure their assigned roles with a growing inner rage but a resignation born of predestination.

The term "school bullying" seems quite euphemistic to describe the violence raging among these youths. Yet, the apotheosis of aggression is most embodied in the boy who takes the vulnerable kids under his wing, thereby becoming the King of Pigs. He becomes their leader and teacher, their savior and role model, kneading every bitter experience of his young life into a singular philosophy.

A dark vision of society emerges from the boys' differing family backgrounds—a world ruled by vulnerability to rigid hierarchical relations and a system of interconnections where nothing is what it seems and every segment is infected.

The fates of the three boys are individual responses to this reality. We witness peculiar twists of fate driven by deep human needs such as hope, understanding, and faith and trust in another—elements that could have been the keys to their survival. But all of these were distorted at their very roots. We watch as the men’s reminiscence becomes a clarification of cruel secrets carried for decades. No one should expect redemption; here, the Fates (Parcae) do not spin the threads of human destiny—they ruthlessly grind them down.

Up until now, the reader might have felt we were discussing a conventional live-action feature film. The most exciting riddle regarding the movie is that this impression indeed remains with the viewer, even though we are watching a feature-length animation. The characters and backdrops create an extremely realistic impression; while their craftsmanship cannot be called "coarse," nothing is polished smooth or shiny. A recurring motif permeating the film is the sight of characters with contours trembling from rage, suppressed aggression, and humiliation—and this trembling almost transfers to the audience. the characters are nuanced and possess great expressive power. It is an interesting choice that the creators paired female voices with the school-age versions of the male protagonists.

At the same time, the film almost falls captive to this realism; consequently, we barely see the additional possibilities offered by animation, aside from a few brief visionary scenes. This—though mostly in hindsight—raises the question of why the creators opted for animation in the first place, as an extremely powerful work could likely have been born from this story using traditional live-action tools. However, this thought does not even occur to us while watching, and the question takes nothing away from the value of the film—especially considering that, once again, a high-quality work was born within the constraints of a relatively low budget.

All in all, those who take on the challenge of watching this film can expect one of the most powerful cinematic experiences in recent times.