Jang Yong-woo: A DREAM COMES TRUE (2009)

장용우: 돌멩이의 꿈

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

A Dream Comes True:
An Out-of-Tune Genre Mix

After watching this film, an image flickered before me: like when heavy rain soaks through layers of posters pasted on top of each other, and bits of an older one begin to peek through from beneath the top layer, creating a new, somewhat confusing third image. On the surface, we are presented with a pleasant romantic comedy, yet it doesn't exist in its pure form because elements of a tragic melodrama bleed through it. Why screenwriter Miho Nakazono wanted to force this direction upon a story that could have stood on its own feet remains a mystery; had the rom-com been allowed to flourish in its pure form, we would likely have seen a better result. As it stands, however, every character is smeared with a bit of a tragic past. Furthermore, the cinematic execution of the accidents occurring before our eyes doesn't help matters, as director Jang Yong-woo achieves the opposite effect: instead of shocking us, they are more likely to provoke laughter.

Director Jang Yong-woo

The entire film feels like a performance on an out-of-tune instrument; even though we hear it is off-key, it isn't entirely unenjoyable—in fact, at times, what we hear is quite interesting. A third-rate, penniless, and debt-ridden comedian, who also suffers from a gambling addiction, unexpectedly finds himself in a position where he must escort a young boy—who has just lost his father—to the mother the child has never met.

Accompanying the child is a metal briefcase locked with a code, presumably containing money. The story holds no surprises; naturally, an emotional bond grows stronger between the boy and the man during their travel adventures. As expected, a female character also appears, making it seem likely that our protagonist’s fate will be resolved through her. However, the writer-director’s will dictates otherwise—a conclusion that, while saving the film from the usual clichéd happy endings, hangs off the story with a questionable result... well, let’s just say that not every genre-mixing can be called a success.

The male lead, Cha In-pyo, is capable of enriching the figure with deeper shades alongside scenes encouraging comedy, and perhaps the inherent kindness radiating from him is the film's greatest appeal. The character of his female co-star, Kim Hyo-jin, possesses more inconsistencies; although we are introduced to her as a washed-up, alcoholic actress, she suddenly becomes a completely sober assistant to the man-and-child duo. The little boy, Chae Geon, is very cute, especially in the cheerful scenes, but he fails to solve the opposite situations convincingly—and this might not be his fault, as the film itself doesn't strive to achieve authenticity there. Interestingly, this film is also part of the SBS Telecinema series, whose installments are broadcast on South Korean and Japanese television after their theatrical release.

This film can safely be crossed off your "must-watch" list; I would only recommend it if you truly have a completely useless summer afternoon on your hands.

Ounie Lecomte: A BRAND NEW LIFE (2009)

우니 르콩트: 여행자

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

A Brand New Life:
A Poetic Journey from Abandonment to Hope

I could say "all's well that ends well"—reflecting on how the third film of the weekend finally brought a truly magnificent cinematic experience.

Ounie Lecomte’s film is a breathtakingly beautiful work, with the unique quality that while watching it, the thought that you are viewing a "movie" never even crosses your mind. The story and the manner of its execution draw you in with such elemental force that the screen practically swallows you, making you a participant in events that flow slowly, with unstudied simplicity and everyday naturalness.

Director Ounie Lecomte

Lecomte incorporated her own life experience into the film, which was overseen by none other than Lee Chang-dong as producer. It is as if his signature poetic realism shines through this story as well, and if that weren't enough of a hallmark of quality, the lead actress provides an absolute guarantee. She is none other than Kim Sae-ron, who was exactly nine years old at the time of filming—the same age as the protagonist, Jin-hee, whom she brings to life.

The film's Korean title is Journey, referring to the "merciful" lie Jin-hee’s father uses to mislead her, hiding the fact that the beautiful clothes and the cake brought as a gift serve a journey that is strictly one-way. Due to the father’s new marriage, Jin-hee has become superfluous; therefore, he drops her off at a church-run orphanage, where the goal is for children to find a "brand new life" with adoptive families, primarily from abroad.

Kim Sae-ron guides us through every stage of the young girl’s psychological drama with perfect immersion and authentic honesty. Her performance possesses a thousand emotional nuances, allowing her to cover the vast arc from initial angry protest and stubborn resistance to the eventual understanding and acceptance of her situation. Possessing realizations that would burden even an adult, Jin-hee finally boards a plane (just as the film's director did in real life) to land, after a solitary journey, with her new French parents, who await their unknown adopted child at the airport with hopeful curiosity. It is chilling to consider the weight of the life experiences Jin-hee and children with similar fates already possess as they reach the threshold of their new lives.

The portrayal of the orphanage residents is richly detailed, and the film glimpses into the fates of several children, bringing either disappointment or the fulfillment of childhood hopes. The relationships between the children are simultaneously sources of survival and new trauma; they help each other integrate into this temporary community, but since this is only a transitional phase in all their lives, each parting brings fresh pain. The director also senses with great delicacy the participation of the adult caregivers in this process—a role that is not unloving, but rather consciously and wisely restrained, yet emotional bonds inevitably emerge.

Ounie Lecomte’s subsequent private life story followed an interesting path. In her new French family, her father held a ministerial post; Lecomte graduated as a fashion designer and also took on several film roles. She returned to Korea in 1991 to star in a story about an adopted child searching for their roots, but the film was never completed. However, in reality, she managed to establish contact with her biological parents. Later, she participated in a screenwriting workshop, during which she eventually wrote the script for A Brand New Life in 2006.

The film received numerous accolades, winning the Best Asian Film award at the 22nd Tokyo International Film Festival and the Jury Prize in 2009 at the Cinekid Festival in Amsterdam.

Ahn Sun-kyoung: A BLIND RIVER (2009)

안선경: 귀향

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

 * Warning: This post contains spoilers! *

A Blind River:
An Absurd Journey into
the Trauma of Motherhood

There are days when one misses the mark twice (though luckily, not by much). I felt that a good film could compensate for the sense of void left in me by Kim Ki-duk’s Amen. For some reason, fate led me to A Blind River, and regarding the theme, I found myself jumping from the frying pan into the fire. While Kim Ki-duk wavered around the acceptance of motherhood, director Ahn Sun-kyoung’s film chooses the torture of a young mother’s cesarean section as its opening, immediately presenting a rather direct message: the girl is stretched across the operating table like Christ on the cross.

We learn little about how this introductory sequence connects to the main plot, which follows a young man adopted by Australian parents thirty years ago. Our protagonist, played by Park Sang-hun, tries to find his biological mother with the help of his Korean girlfriend. The boy has struggled with serious identity problems since childhood; thus, searching for his roots is also a path toward inner peace. He cannot accept his girlfriend’s offer to start a family together, even rejecting her help. Following the only existing, uncertain lead, he sets out alone to the place recorded in the documents as his birthplace.

Director Ahn Sun-kyoung

However, the story unexpectedly shifts dimensions, and we suddenly find ourselves in another universe. We receive little help from director Ahn Sun-kyoung as to what is actually happening; she treats the subplots of her film as if she were assembling a mosaic whose pieces refuse to fit together. Yet, one can sense the intention to form a grand tableau, primarily about the vulnerability of women, but she fails to find the appropriate tools for it.

Lucas Fedora (born Seong-chan) dismisses his girlfriend by saying he needs sleep. This sentence could suggest that the story of his upcoming journey is dreamlike, though we receive no further clues for interpretation until the very end. At the same time, the director was clearly captivated by Albert Camus’ tragedy The Misunderstanding, which she squeezed into the film without any scruples. Our protagonist arrives at a rather grim and run-down motel at the edge of the world, which, similar to Camus’ story, is operated by two lonely women. Behind the past and the hallucinations of the exhausted mother and her psychologically burdened daughter lurks some dark secret tied to a child. We have fallen into the world of the absurd, where we lose our real-world anchors: can all that is happening before our eyes truly occur? Lucas, though he does not reveal himself to the women, believes he has found his mother and sister, who do not recognize their lost relative in him. The boy cannot know that no male guest’s life is safe in the hands of these women. Furthermore, parallel to the ominous atmosphere of the motel, we follow—in an absolutely realistic portrayal—the story of another young mother giving birth in a different motel, yet there is no precise indication of its temporal or causal relationship to the absurd tale. Are we watching the story of Lucas’s birth unfolding simultaneously? The motel narrative is filled with symbolism that is at times too direct, at times difficult to decipher, and at times completely lacking any foothold for unraveling. Mystery, mysticism, and the absurd mix but do not blend, resulting in moments that are strikingly effective yet border on the ridiculous.

Ultimately, the film presents a strange, circular portrait of reality in which everyone feels miserable. If the subject is a woman, the exclusive problem is sexual vulnerability, unwanted pregnancy, and the psychological misery following the forced abandonment of a child. If it is a man (and we find none other than the protagonist), he either suffers from a mother complex and an identity crisis, or he abandons the girl he got pregnant, or he receives a brutal, animalistic portrayal—like the man in one unrefined scene who, upon seeing a woman sitting on the street, immediately attacks her with predatory sexual impulse. There is no doubt that the film focuses on a very serious social problem, but it feels more like a compulsion to meet the director's own preconceptions rather than a thorough intent to explore the issue.

The film is essentially a cinematic adaptation of Camus’ tragedy placed within a frame story. Director Ahn clearly unfolds the improbable motel story with great pleasure and a peculiar sensitivity, creating a strong visual world and atmosphere. This is enhanced by the magnificent performance of Park Ji-yeon, who plays the younger, psychologically disturbed woman; almost every moment of her acting is unforgettable. Standing out even among these is her final scene, in which (SPOILER ALERT!) the lighting and smoking of the last cigarette is, without question, Oscar-worthy. In a sense, the actor playing the male lead was in a more difficult position, as he had to navigate both realistic and absurd environments, a hurdle Park Sang-hun cleared well.

The director often gifts the viewers with painterly sequences; the visual composition of the boy leaving the girl in a yellowing field is particularly beautiful, as is the dramatic, soul-painting power of the black rock mountains. Despite its numerous problems, the film does not leave a bad impression—though, admittedly, not a very deep one either.

Kim Ki-duk: AMEN (2011)

김기덕: 아멘

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

* Warning: This post contains spoilers! *

Amen: Kim Ki-duk’s
Experimental Journey Through Europe

In 2011, Kim Ki-duk returned with two unconventional works: Arirang, a documentary processing his personal and artistic crisis, and Amen, a low-budget, independent drama.

There is likely no director who doesn't wish to experiment or at least strive to hold the entire spectrum of filmmaking in their hands. In Amen, Kim Ki-duk fully indulged this desire. While it is natural for him to work from his own screenplay, in this instance, he also took on the roles of cinematographer and editor, and even stepped into the shoes of the male protagonist himself.

The film deviates from his previous body of work in several respects. The story is set in Europe, with its distinct cultural environment. Although there is no shortage of beautifully composed visuals, the painterly quality of his earlier films is present only in traces. Amen is permeated in every fiber by a spirit of cinematic experimentation, and somehow it is this resolve—paired with a "cinephile" enthusiasm—that makes the film watchable, though no one should expect a lasting, monumental experience.

Kim Ki-duk and Kim Ye-na during the presentation
of the film at the San Sebastian Film Festival

The protagonist is a Korean girl who arrives in Paris. She is presumably looking for her lover, whom she cannot find at the given address. From that point on, following information gathered through intercoms, she sets off on the trail of a male street painter, traveling across several iconic European tourist destinations (Venice, Avignon). The search itself—though a primary motif—becomes almost secondary; the focus is much more on the girl’s solitary journey and isolated struggle. It is very difficult to determine whether the events are real or merely projections of her internal fears. The story, which begins as a romantic drama or a study of isolation in a foreign culture, soon reveals itself as a crime story when the girl, sleeping in a train carriage, is robbed and raped by a strange man wearing a gas mask. Her reaction—or rather, a reaction that does not follow the logic of real life—pushes the narrative into an irrational plane. The "silent" protagonist is not unusual in Kim Ki-duk’s films, and we encounter one here as well. The girl can clearly speak, as she cries out her lover's name several times into the un-echoing spaces of the cities, and we hear her speak in multiple languages during intercom conversations. The renunciation of communication is part of the directorial concept, exacerbated here by the fact that, aside from her mysterious follower, the girl interacts with almost no one throughout the film. There is also a strong reflection on certain cinematic precursors, such as Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc, built almost exclusively on close-ups.

Her gas-masked attacker, however, follows in her footsteps, and the camera becomes subjective; from then on, we see the girl mostly through the eyes—or rather, the "peeping"—of the gas-masked man. A bit of playfulness fits into this voyeuristic observation through the intentionally "amateurish" use of a handheld camera, evoking moods typical of horror films. At the same time, the attacker transforms from a frightening figure into a protective one, smoothing the girl’s path toward her final decision. We circle through several stations of this journey, occasionally with self-repeating sequences, and finally, European Catholicism appears as a terminal element, leading our heroes to a statue of the Virgin Mary and Child. The film, which until this point worked only with ambient soundscapes, receives a powerful musical score from here on. The symbolism of the story is difficult to follow, not because of its complexity, but because of its lack of refinement; like the film as a whole, it is characterized mostly by inconsistency. The movie gets stuck somewhere on the border between the rational and the irrational. Its characters are annoyingly unrealistic in the real world, yet not abstract enough to be interpreted within a purely symbolic field. Consequently, the film often turns into self-indulgent "artistry" and irritating navel-gazing, remaining the director's private affair.

Although the lead actress tries to realize the director’s visions with great sensitivity—and without Kim Ye-na’s tension-filled performance, the film would be simply unwatchable—even she cannot quite handle the problematic interpretations of love and motherhood presented in the story. It remains on the side of the contrived and the fabricated, much like the film itself.

Overall, I recommend Amen to those who wish to fully possess the entire Kim Ki-duk filmography, or to "insiders" who are intrigued by how a brilliant director consciously takes the risk of making "professionally amateur" steps into territories he wishes to explore, creating the "student film" of his life.

Yoon Jong-bin: THE UNFORGIVEN (2005)

윤종빈: 용서받지 못한 자

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

The Unforgiven:
A Silent Scream from the Barracks

We are presented with a military film that features no weapons, no training montages, no shooting ranges, and no battlefields. There are no outstanding achievements, no medals, no brotherhood or team spirit; we find not a trace of heroism. Instead, we follow our soldiers in their dormitories, restrooms, or during the "leisure time" spent within the confines of the barracks. We see them in wretched situations, participants in idiotic, one-sided communication, pathetically repeating like automatons: "I am Private X." There is no personal space, no intimacy; personality has ceased to exist, and both body and soul have become tools for vulgar amusement.

We barely sense the presence of officers in this closed world; the characters of our story are all common soldiers, which might lead us to think they are all in the same boat. This is only true insofar as they all walk the same rugged path during their mandatory service—or more accurately, they crawl from the status of a "green" recruit, subordinate to everyone, through several ranks toward the long-awaited status of a soldier about to be discharged. This reaches the highest level of the hierarchy available to privates, measured in time served. However, the already strictly hierarchical structure of the army is further complicated by the Confucian principle of authority, which demands unconditional respect not only for those of higher rank but also for those who are slightly older or began their service earlier.

It requires little imagination to see how such a world becomes a breeding ground for the power games and abuses that routinely emerge in closed communities, and why a single promotion feels like a small salvation. The director, Yoon Jong-bin, experienced all of this firsthand, and his film is a cry for help from the young men forced into this diabolical situation. I wrote "cry," but it is more of a silent scream. At a slow pace, through a multitude of everyday scenes—at times flirting with documentary realism—the daily lives of a military unit unfold before us. We experience the events through flashbacks in the memories of our protagonist, Lee Seung-young (Seo Jang-won), who is currently on leave.

As a frightened recruit, he too faces humiliating initiations and the vile games of his superiors. However, Seung-young is lucky: a former schoolmate, Yoo Tae-jeong (Ha Jung-woo), is a senior member of the unit and protects the shy but internally resistant boy from the others. This protection, however, ends with Tae-jeong’s discharge, and our hero must slowly stand on his own feet. Admittedly, he does not do so in the way we might have expected; his internal resistance wanes, and he increasingly adapts to the local power dynamics.

This transformation changes his relationship with his protégé, the somewhat slow-witted and constantly clumsy Heo Ji-hoon (played by Yoon Jong-bin himself), whose traits make him the perfect tool for the cruel games of "comrades" who dominate the weak. It is only a question of time before Seung-young’s patience—driven by his desire to fit in with the others—runs out, and it happens at Ji-hoon’s most vulnerable moment. The consequence is a tragedy that forces Seung-young to face his own role. During his leave, he desperately seeks out Tae-jeong for help, but the man is already living his civilian life, and the two friends find themselves talking past each other in a peculiar way.

The film offers two different answers to whether the time spent in the army can ever be truly processed. The director approached this heated topic with immense courage; in South Korea, which remains de jure at war, questioning the two-year mandatory service is taboo, and portraying the military in an unfavorable light is certainly not rewarded. Nevertheless, the film became a massive success because it unflinchingly presented the traumatic life experience that almost every Korean man acquires during his service. Following the film, a significant social debate emerged regarding the issue of conscription.

Director Yoon Jong-bin

Interestingly, this feature-length, extremely low-budget production was the 26-year-old director’s thesis film. Yet, there is no trace of "student-level" work here; we see a film that maintains tension throughout. The performances are excellent: Ha Jung-woo’s portrayal of both the military and civilian versions of Tae-jeong is fascinating. Seo Jang-won’s delicacy and internal resolve as Seung-young are equally convincing. While his "corruption" is perhaps less vividly portrayed, he is powerful again in the tormented scenes during his leave.

The biggest surprise is the portrayal of the fumbling, annoyingly inept Ji-hoon, played by none other than the director, Yoon Jong-bin. In his excellent performance, the boy’s loneliness and his desperate clinging to his "real-world" life deeply touch the viewer.

The Ministry of Defense, however, was not moved by Director Yoon’s sensitive performance; they filed a lawsuit against him after the film’s completion. Yoon Jong-bin admitted that he had misled the Ministry when requesting permission to film in a real barracks, describing the plot only partially as a "touching friendship between two fellow soldiers."

Thanks to its brave and honest revelation of reality and its strong directorial execution, the film was released in Korean art-house theaters and received numerous domestic and international accolades, including being selected for the Un Certain Regard section of the 2006 Cannes Film Festival.

Lee Sang-woo: BARBIE (2012)

이상우: 바비

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Barbie:
The Bitter Reality Behind the Dream

It was the memorable performance by child actress Kim Sae-ron in her previous film (The Man From Nowhere), rivaling that of any adult, which prompted me to watch Barbie. We have grown accustomed to the fact that Korean film titles can often mislead the unsuspecting viewer; a popular or "plastic" title frequently hides a content that is quite the opposite, and Barbie is no exception.

Anyone expecting a lighthearted children’s movie is gravely mistaken. With Barbie, we have entered the world of reality-based films that explore social issues—specifically, that powerful current which is unafraid of ruthless opinion-forming or shattering taboos.

Director Lee Sang-woo’s previous films have focused, without exception, on "delicate" topics—peripheral phenomena that those chasing the dreams of a consumer society prefer to place in the blind spot of their vision. His films, characterized by a ruthless honesty, were born in the realm of independent cinema and have achieved success at Western film festivals. While Lee Sang-woo is also famous for having served as an assistant director to Kim Ki-duk, his films resemble his renowned colleague's work only in the challenging nature of their questioning; stylistically, they are closer to a form of documentary realism than to an aestheticized or moralizing response.

Director Lee Sang-woo

Barbie, however, is not an independent but a commercial film, and naturally, it was granted a significantly larger budget. This provided the director with greater maneuverability, and Director Lee successfully navigated the challenge: he created a film that works within mainstream distribution without making concessions regarding its critical stance.

At the heart of the story, we see a family whose members live light-years away from the world of wealth and well-being. The setup is extreme: following the death of the mother, the daily care of a disabled father and a sickly younger sister falls upon a young girl. This is Soon-young’s life. However, there is another family member—an uncle—who seeks a way out of this impossible situation and finds it in a staggering solution. As a result of his meddling, Steve arrives from America at the small seaside settlement, bringing his daughter, Barbie, with him. Steve’s intention is to adopt Soon-young. Yet, this ostensibly benevolent act stands in sharp contrast to the man's air of superiority and his detachment from every element of Korean reality—and most significantly, from the little girl he intends to take into his family.

Within moments, we find ourselves in an interestingly conflicted field: the world of the young girls. By chance, Soon-young becomes friends with Barbie, but due to language barriers, she cannot make it understood that she has no intention of leaving her family behind. Not so her younger sister, who, even as a child, is a total prisoner of the "American Dream." In her mind, adoption is nothing less than redemption—a direct path to Canaan. Thus, she enters into a struggle with her older sister and does everything to win Steve’s favor, ultimately succeeding.

Behind-the-scenes motives come together from small mosaics, eventually pulling the veil off the true purpose of the adoption. The film, which until now hasn't strayed far from the tropes of family drama, touches upon the essential question at this point: how is it possible for the transaction between Steve and the uncle to take place? What drives this young Korean "nobody" to betray his closest relative? Will his future life be happy once he acquires the desired goods? What might be going through the American’s mind when he thinks of Korean (Eastern) people? What will happen to Barbie, who arrives with a pure soul and leaves as a member of a criminal conspiracy? And how will Soon-young survive, realizing that although these events crashed down upon her against her will, she still played a part in something terrible happening?

The film’s greatest virtue is that it leaves us alone to answer these questions. At the same time, it lays down several guidelines—somewhat didactically—to steer us toward the "correct" answer (observe, for instance, the imagery of national flags; the American flag is still waving in the hand of the departing younger sister). Perhaps this strong directorial intent also causes the film's greatest weakness: the characters are drawn with excessively thick outlines. Every character is somewhat "one-dimensional," and as a result, they lack the deeper internal struggles that could bring them closer to us. While the unscrupulous uncle (Lee Chun-hee)—driven by an aggressive desire to escape deep poverty—is given a few opportunities to show faint shades of complexity, it is particularly painful that one of the key figures, Steve (Earl Jackson), becomes almost a caricature due to an unfortunate, overacted performance and awkwardly written dialogue.

The character of the Korean father is much more fascinating. Although the unusual acting task might have prompted actor Jo Yong-suk to lose himself in the meticulous portrayal of the symptoms of disability, he still movingly conveys the paternal realization that his child is in danger, along with the panic stemming from his helplessness. This makes him almost the only "normal" figure in the film, creating a strange contrast with a reality in which this man is considered the "simpleton."

The children’s performances provide a flawless experience. Interestingly, alongside the magnificent Kim Sae-ron, we see her real-life younger sister, Kim Ah-ron, in the role of the younger sibling; her performance is in no way inferior to Sae-ron’s. Cat Tebow’s portrayal of Barbie’s inner struggle is equally sensitive.

Lee Sang-woo is not only a director but also an actor, appearing in almost all of his films. Here, he steps into the skin of a hotel guest, authentically portraying a vulgar, drunken customer who doesn't shy away from child solicitation.

Barbie is a movie I recommend to any viewer interested in a director's challenging, provocative vision of his own society—one he warns against becoming complicit in the selling out of its own values to foreigners for the sake of primary material interests.

Jang Jin: MY SON (2007)

장진: 아들

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

My Son:
A Story of a One-Day Miracle

Director Jang Jin is one of the most fascinating figures in the Korean film world. As a high school student, he initially prepared for a career in music, then fell in love with the theater; after performing in numerous roles, his name eventually rose among the most prestigious theatrical directors. His path to cinema led through writing, as almost all of his stories—both for stage and screen—are born from his own pen. Moving between the genres of melodrama and gangster films, he has experienced both failure and success, yet his unique voice contributed significantly to the flourishing of Korean cinema in the 1990s.

My Son is a 2007 production, centering on a father. The story finds a rather extreme life situation as its starting point: our protagonist is a robber-murderer sentenced to life imprisonment, having already served fifteen years of his sentence. Yet, in the initial prison scenes, we see a calm man who has come to terms with his fate, applying for a reward offered for good behavior. Although he isn't even sure of himself, perhaps that is exactly what convinces the committee: he is granted a single day to visit his son, whom he last saw as a small child.

The film is the story of this extraordinary meeting, with all its awkwardness, suspicion, and the unspoken desires of both the man and his son. It isn't difficult to predict that these two people will eventually reach a moment of emotional connection. While the film moves along this well-trodden path with unsettling routine, fortunately, it deviates in the manner of its portrayal. The unusual silence and starkness of the situations lend a sense of realism to an otherwise unrealistic scenario. The use of narration to voice internal feelings acts as a sort of Brechtian alienation effect, protecting the film from the looming temptation of sentimentalism. The director’s wry humor also makes an appearance through the inclusion of "genre-bending" animated sequences.

Director Jang Jin

Jang Jin plays with us quite skillfully, seemingly bringing the meeting to its conclusion. At the railway station, however, it is not just the tracks that diverge; the story itself switches to a different line. At this point, the director strikes the deeper chords of melodrama, and the acceptance of this twist depends entirely on the individual viewer's "emotional capacity"—as many may find it uplifting, while others might see it as deeply kitsch.

However, the conclusion of the story points beyond the father-son problem, offering a more universal encouragement to the issue raised by the listless lifer in the opening frames: the most agonizing thing in existence is when a person can no longer wait for anything in their life.

Since we cannot ignore that we are watching the film through European eyes, the individual, seemingly "exotic" flavors must be highlighted. By this, I mean the attitudes and relationships that appear unintentionally in the life situations depicted. The care for a mother suffering from dementia, the decisions made by the youth, and the human connections seen in prison all offer lessons, even if they might not fully represent the entirety of Korean reality.

The film is carried by Cha Seung-won’s performance in the lead, who shapes a very exciting character. In the face he shows to the world, we see a soft-featured, innocent-eyed, almost sympathetic man struggling even in his restrained manifestations; the darker character of the criminal only surfaces during the narration of his internal thoughts. Ryu Deok-hwan, in the role of the son, is a worthy partner, capable of subtly portraying the ambivalent feelings raging within the nearly grown young man.

Ahn Gwon-tae: MY BROTHER (2004)

안권태: 우리형

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

The Weight of Unequal Love:
Ahn Gwon-tae’s My Brother

Once again, we have a film that is quintessentially Korean. This is neither a positive nor a negative statement; it merely indicates that, as with so many other Korean films, weighing strengths against weaknesses becomes wonderfully irrelevant while watching. The story, or rather the manner of its execution, grips the viewer and carries them emotionally until the end, even if we clearly perceive the flaws or half-measures along the way.

The story follows a classic melodramatic setup, but the central triangle is formed by the members of a broken family: a single mother and her two sons. The entire film is essentially a flashback, unfolding from the opening scene. We experience the past events and the final conclusions through the perspective of the younger brother. The head of the family left after the birth of the first child, unable to bear that his son was born with a cleft lip—a "disability" in his eyes. At the time, the mother was already pregnant with the second child, and after his birth, she fought a perpetual battle to sustain the small family and provide for the surgeries awaiting the older son.

Yet, the conflict doesn't ripen due to financial hardships, but because the mother’s love, distributed unequally between the two boys, forces them onto divergent paths. The older brother groans under the weight of the constant sacrifices the family makes for him. He is the "weak" one, for whom only constant high performance and exemplary behavior offer a chance for advancement. The mother directs all her attention toward him, observing with inexplicable blindness the struggles of the younger son. The younger brother vents his deficiencies and frustrations through increasing aggression, essentially dominating his older brother and taking revenge for his own exclusion by repeatedly humiliating him. The film is, in fact, his "coming-of-age" story, where several low points and an ultimate catastrophe bring about change.

Won Bin és Shin Ha-kyun

Initially, the characters are somewhat cliché-ridden, but their portraits are occasionally enriched by beautiful and true moments. At the same time, the story moves toward its climax in a fairly predictable manner. The film's conclusion is its weakest point; it over-explains the moral at great length and without much subtlety, directly aiming for the tear ducts of susceptible viewers.

Aside from the ending, the film remains highly watchable and genuinely touching. The performances of the two actors playing the brothers play a particularly large role in this. The younger brother is brought to life by Won Bin, who, in the skin of the brawling, loud-mouthed, and unscrupulous sibling, often overacts using boisterous methods. Interestingly, however, it is precisely through this that he makes us feel the presence of his true, love-starved being throughout. In his moments of resistance, his fascinating, determined gaze and the stubborn resolve radiating from him remain memorable. On the other pole, the older brother is played by Shin Ha-kyun (whom we previously saw as the green-haired hero of Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance) using the opposite acting toolkit. His subtle gestures and hidden feelings are obvious but must be read from his slightest tremors. His rebellion, however, is resolute; while physically maintaining the character's weakness, he still displays great inner strength. In the role of the mother, Kim Hae-sook also manages to step out of her narrowly defined frame, and we see her true face especially in her moments of cheerfulness.

Director Ahn Gwon-tae

A virtue of the film is its gritty portrayal of the environment; it unflinchingly shows the internal hierarchies of school gangs and the presence of criminal syndicates in the adult world. Among the supporting cast, we find excellent performances, particularly Jo Jin-woong in the role of the intellectually disabled Du-sik.

This film is director Ahn Gwon-tae’s debut, and all things considered, it is a likable and promising work.