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

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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.