Park Hoon-jung: THE TIGER: AN OLD HUNTER'S TALE (2015)

박훈정: 대호

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

The Tiger: An Epic Duel Between
Two Lords of the Mountains

I was initially very hesitant to watch this film. Having caught a glimpse of a scene where an oversized, blatantly virtual tiger bounced around like a wuxia warrior, slaughtering half an army, I was sufficiently deterred. Yet, the word of the film's general success and my boundless respect for Choi Min-shik piqued my curiosity. Ultimately, I was glad that I could see this popular work as a bonus addition to my selection at the opening screening of the festival.

Despite having ambivalent feelings even after the screening, I was very pleasantly surprised. It is a cliché that films truly live on the big screen rather than on matchbox-sized monitors, but for this film, that is doubly true. The Tiger is intentionally grandiose, requiring a monumental scale for its message—encoded in the visuals—to truly resonate. Everything is elevated to a higher dimension where it is not just primary reality that exists, but the symbolism of things. Accordingly, the stunningly filmed natural landscapes rise from being a mere tourist-vignette of Korea’s geography to becoming symbols of the primordial power and order of the natural world. The silent mountains become petrified deities; the fog, rain, and snow become their emotional expressions.

Director Park Hoon-jung

The tiger is an integral part of this world—a unique concentrate of it. He is not merely a common predator but a mythological being. The film’s most remarkable achievement is elevating this royal creature into a protagonist with an independent personality and consciousness. This is where the virtuality of the execution finds its meaning: the nearly unreal size and the tiger’s reactions would not have been possible with a real animal. The animators and VFX specialists did an incredible job. This tiger is truly the Lord of the Mountains, an undeniably divine being, though of the cruel variety. His gait, his gaze, and the realistic matting of his fur almost make one forget that what we are seeing is pure illusion.

The plot runs on two main threads. The primary story feels like a duel between two lonely adversaries in a Western, racing toward an inevitable final showdown. The lives of the tiger and the hunter (Choi Min-shik) are tragically intertwined. Even under the pressure of starvation, the hunter remains a man who respects nature. The tiger, who owes his life to this attitude, recognizes this—though it is not enough for forgiveness. If the tiger is the expression of nature’s primordial order, then the hunter’s character rises to become a symbol of human wisdom. The tiger takes his revenge on the hunter while simultaneously bowing before his humanity. The hunter suffers his losses knowing that, despite his pain, they are inevitable stages of atonement. The final confrontation is thus no longer between enemies, but between two tormented beings sentenced to eternal loneliness, who ultimately exist only for each other.

This law is ignored by the other hunter leading the group (Jung Man-sik), who seeks revenge for a serious loss. However, his hatred leads to blindness, the price of which is always failure. While the figure is tragic, he cannot quite fulfill the directorial intent of elevating him to a hero.

It is admirable how many ways Koreans find to take revenge for their historical grievances. The other plot thread leads to the Japanese occupation in 1925. Although collaborators assist the occupiers, the Japanese ultimately leave the scene as a defeated army. No military force can withstand the grit of Korean resistance. This adds another layer of interpretation: the tiger is clearly a symbol of Korea itself, a mythical expression of the nation, while the hunter represents the indomitability of independent national existence.

However, heroization is dangerous territory. In small doses, it is uplifting; in large doses, it becomes a source of humor. The film constantly dances on a high wire. It mostly succeeds, with only a few noticeable stumbles. One such stumble is the exaggerated mask of the blinded hunter, where claw marks look as if they were carved in with a concrete drill, and his death scene, where the script fails the director. Amidst bloody, low-angle shots intended to magnify his stature, the simple question "Are you okay?" addressed to him suddenly elicits laughter.

I also felt the direct acknowledgment of defeat placed in the mouth of the Japanese military leader was a slip. While this likely satisfies the Korean soul, it pulls the film’s elevated tone back down to earth. The audience is not foolish; they understand what they are seeing without such bluntness.

The heavy irreality of the final sequences also requires the audience’s acceptance. Our minds and hearts react differently to the sight of the hunter—who could barely stand a moment ago—crawling up a vertical snowy peak, followed by soldiers struggling up a 90-degree incline. We shouldn't even ask how the tiger got up there. Fortunately, we willingly accept the surreal location for the sake of the mythological conclusion, which fits perfectly with the film's core theme. The closing images bid farewell with beauty and peace.

Because the story focuses on the duel between the tiger and the hunter, individual characters are somewhat sketched. Nevertheless, we see lasting performances. Jung Man-sik remains authoritative as the vengeful hunter, and Kim Sang-ho’s comedic figure is memorable. Sung Yoo-bin’s adolescent rebellion is authentic, and his scenes with his father are emotionally rich.

As for Choi Min-shik, everything he touches turns to gold. It is difficult to put into words the acting prowess that radiates from the screen in every moment. In reality, we see nothing more than a grumbling old man who can barely move, yet every gesture and every look has weight and significance. His pain is human; the strength derived from his loss is superhuman. Without him, this film simply would not be what it is.

Minor flaws aside, director Park Hoon-jung offers an unparalleled spectacle and provides useful lessons regarding the meaning of our lives. I am glad I saw it; I believe we all left the opening screening of the 9th Korean Film Festival with that same feeling.

Kwak Jae-yong: TIME RENEGADES (2016)

곽재용: 시간이탈자

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Time Renegades:
A High-Stakes Bridge Between 1983 and 2015

I find myself in slight disagreement with director Kwak Jae-yong, who suggested in an interview that fate ordained him to be a director of melodramas. Strange as it may seem, after watching Time Renegades, I came away with a completely different impression.

Following an eight-year professional excursion to Japan and China, Director Kwak returned to the domestic Korean market this April with this film. To many, he is best known as the director of My Sassy Girl—a massive global success that, despite its popularity, never quite resonated with me. However, with this latest work, he has completely won me over.

Director Kwak Jae-yong

Time Renegades is a surprising creation. While one could cite an endless list of Korean directors who flout genre conventions or mix seemingly incompatible styles with effortless grace, this film feels fresh in its approach. This remains true even though the pairing of melodrama and thriller is not a new invention; the director himself references the ultimate precursor, Alfred Hitchcock, whose films often blended romantic passion with suspense.

The plot follows a unique temporal overlap—the original Korean title literally meaning 'Time Renegades' or 'Those who have broken away from time'—in which a 'time bridge' is formed between two men in 1983 and 2015. They experience each other’s realities through their dreams. One is a teacher, the other a detective; the latter uses his investigation to piece together past events step by step.

For more than two-thirds of its runtime, the film is an incredibly taut, exciting, and complex investigation that often leads into gripping dead ends. It provides everything necessary to keep our attention and emotions at a high tension. It has been a long time since a film has left such a lasting physical impact on me, persisting even after the credits rolled.

The film blends the "bearable" naturalism of murderous cruelty with mystical déjà vu experiences, all woven into a complex narrative tapestry of tender emotions and the charm of everyday romantic life. At times, it perhaps becomes a bit too intricate, as the full scope of the story isn't always easy to follow in every detail, and the film’s relentless pace leaves little time for reflection. The superb editing gives the film an excellent rhythm, and the visual world uses a lavish toolkit to distinguish between the two time periods with meticulous detail. A special mention must go to the spectacular technical solution used in a climactic scene where the two timelines are visually flipped into one another.

The cast is uniformly excellent. The male leads, Jo Jung-suk and Lee Jin-uk, deliver powerful performances, showing emotions as nuanced in their relationship scenes as they are forceful during the action sequences. Yet, even their performances are arguably eclipsed by Im Soo-jung in her dual role, portraying two nearly identical women living in different eras. She embodies kindness, charm, and beauty, but her lightness is underscored by both humor and strength.

Jo Jung-suk and Im Soo-jung

Lee Jin-uk and Im Soo-jung

Jung Jin-young

Jung Woong-in

Among the supporting cast, Jung Jin-young stands out as the police commander—perhaps the film’s most intriguing figure. His backstory justifies his somber and mysterious presence, and I could easily imagine him suddenly appearing on the "dark side." Jung Woong-in is equally strong, imbuing his character with a full personality despite his limited screen time. His brief conversation in the prison is particularly memorable.

I would encourage the director to venture into the thriller genre more often; he navigates the film with such a steady hand—at least until the villain's identity is revealed. At that point, however, something happens that led to a rather jarring result for me. The thriller, which had been galloping along perfectly, suddenly tries to inflate the villain’s persona into something too large, losing its sense of proportion and, inexplicably, its genre. While the director may not have intended to evoke zombie cinema, he succeeded nonetheless. The demonic being, becoming nearly indestructible, borders on the comical in this depiction. Yet, the execution remains so serious that I cannot imagine the black humor was intentional—especially since this sequence leads to the tragic end of one of our sympathetic heroes.

While the thriller-dominated portion—which comprises nearly the entire film—successfully integrates melodramatic elements, the final melodramatic conclusion feels somewhat detached once the thriller ends. Although these final scenes are perfectly watchable, this segment feels over-explanatory and excessively lengthy, perhaps in an attempt to balance the genres. This leaves the viewer with the sensation of having suddenly stepped into a different movie. It suggests that the experiment of blending thriller and melodrama has not yet reached full cohesion—but in my estimation, an 80-90% success rate is by no means a poor result.

PARKing CHANce: V (music video, 2013)

PARKing CHANce (박찬욱, 박찬경): V

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

V: A Playful Gothic Fantasy
by PARKing CHANce

The collaboration with singer Lee Jung-hyun in Night Fishing (where she played the shamaness) was so successful that the directing duo PARKing CHANce—Park Chan-wook and Park Chan-kyong—did not hesitate for a moment when she invited them to direct her music video. This marked an exciting genre-excursion into the realm of music videos—a perhaps unexpected but joyful development in Park Chan-wook’s body of work.

True to form, they do not deny their roots; we are once again sailing in horror waters, though this time not over the deepest abysses. The playfulness of the song and choreography, combined with the fairy-tale atmosphere of the visuals, is more "chilling" than truly "frightening," while remaining infinitely entertaining. It’s a full moon; our driving hero, played by Jin Goo, is led by fate (or misfortune) to crash his car into a tree in a dark forest—only to notice a peculiar building where, of course, they are waiting for him (or anyone who happens to wander by).

The ghost castle comes to life with Cocteau-esque effects, capturing the boy whom the bride wants for her own. Surreal and Baroque-rich images of a dollhouse and life-sized spaces alternate amidst beautiful costumes and sets, blending eroticism and humor.

Our hero wants to escape; whether he succeeds will be revealed at the end of the story. Or not.

PARKing CHANce: DAY TRIP (2013)

PARKing CHANce (박찬욱, 박찬경): 청출어람

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Day Trip:
A Lyrical Journey into the Heart of Pansori

This is the first time I find myself writing about a film without access to its exact dialogue, yet no overview of Park Chan-wook’s short films would be complete without this beautiful work. While the lack of translation is a pity, the imagery is so powerful that it almost entirely compensates for it; the film remains perfectly intelligible even without subtitles.

Song Kang-ho, Jeon Hyo-jung, Park Chan-wook and Park Chan-kyong

Day Trip is once again a project by PARKing CHANce, the creative duo of the Park brothers. It was produced as a commercial film sponsored by Kolon Sport. The outdoor apparel company launched a series of events celebrating its 40th anniversary with the "Way To Nature" film project. However, this fact is only relevant regarding the film's production background, as there is absolutely no trace of overt branding within the movie itself.

That said, the slogan "Way to Nature" may have served as inspiration. We already saw in Night Fishing how skillfully the directing duo handles Korean traditions. The same happens here, albeit in a completely different theme and mood. The horror-inflected playfulness of previous films has vanished, leaving behind only raw dramatic power. We see a pair consisting of a silver-haired old man and a young girl. Despite his urban suit, the old man is a somewhat mythical figure, while the girl is a very contemporary youngster. Master and apprentice journey toward the mountains, and along the way, the girl bursts into tears, devastated by her recent third-place finish in a pansori competition.

The old master leads her to the Namsan Mountains. For foreign viewers unfamiliar with Korean traditions, it is important to know that pansori—a traditional narrative singing style—involves a ritualistic preparation known as a 100-day retreat. During this time, practitioners retreat into nature to practice their craft amidst its soundscapes. This period not only aids in developing their self-awareness and stage presence but is also when they acquire their distinctive, husky voice; they would sing with such volume and strain that their throats literally bled.

While that physical extremity is not the focus here, the girl must grasp a fragment of the old man’s wisdom. It is no exaggeration to say that the frames capturing this moment of understanding—and the acquisition of knowledge—are of cinematic significance. Few have managed to portray the fusion and simultaneous rivalry between man and nature, the true roots and primordial power of tradition, with such breathtaking beauty and dramatic intensity.

The film is a lyrical depiction of the transmission of knowledge between generations and the peaceful departure of the elder generation once their task is complete.

The white-haired old man is played by none other than the legendary Song Kang-ho, who underwent extensive makeup sessions to authentically portray a character much older than himself. The role of the apprentice was won by 15-year-old Jeon Hyo-jung after a meticulous casting process, and her pansori singing is a magnificent experience.

PARKing CHANce: NIGHT FISHING (2011)

 PARKing CHANce (박찬욱, 박찬경): 파란만장

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Night Fishing:
Ancient Rituals through a Modern Lens

Premiering in January 2011, this 33-minute masterpiece won the Golden Bear for Best Short Film at the Berlinale just one month later. In this instance, Park Chan-wook serves as co-director, sharing credit with his brother, fellow filmmaker Park Chan-kyong. The duo made their debut here under the incredibly witty moniker PARKing CHANce.

The film became an immediate sensation primarily due to its technical background: it was the first work by a renowned director to be recorded entirely using an iPhone 4. While this claim requires a slight asterisk—as supplementary lenses (hardly high-tech tools themselves) were occasionally attached to the phone—the core concept was financed by KT (Korea Telecom), the device's local distributor. Thus, the first of Park Chan-wook's brand-promotional films was born. However, there is no need to fear a mere commercial; the director's creative freedom remained entirely untouched by sponsors, resulting in a sovereign work of art.

In the case of Night Fishing (original title: Paranmanjang), this technical curiosity is forgotten almost as soon as the first frames appear, because what unfolds is far more captivating. Yet, the technical aspect remains noteworthy as it perfectly captures a duality so characteristic of South Korea: the most cutting-edge technology serving the preservation of the most ancient values. The film’s visual framing suggests we are participating in a form of time travel. While the translation of the grotesque singers' lyrics is unfortunately absent from the subtitles, it likely contributes significantly to the interpretation. We see the UhuhBoo Project, who previously composed music for Park Chan-wook’s Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance. This creative indie band's other recordings are well worth a listen.

For lack of a better term, the film is often labeled as "fantasy-horror," but this is far from the truth. While the directing duo utilizes the chilling visual language of horror—depicting nature with unforgettable mystery—what we ultimately see is largely not a product of fantasy. Rather, it is a real-world community ritual practiced to this day. Embedding this into a narrative and unfolding its inner power is a testament to the duo’s brilliance.

The release of natural forces is triggered by sounds evoking the magical bamboo flute (manpasikjeok), and the events within the film strictly follow the order of a shamanic funeral ritual. Thanks to the directors' playfulness, we might initially believe the protagonist, setting out for a night of fishing, is part of a ghost story. Only later do we realize that we are seeing the circumstances of the fisherman's death from the perspective of the shamaness’s "journey"—her trance (gyeong)—during which she receives the soul preparing to depart. This is signaled by a role reversal expressed through the swapping of clothes, as well as the separation of the process via black-and-white recording, where only the "flowers of death" remain in color. The process of possession is grotesque, and the directors convey this excellently, managing to elicit a smile even amidst the impossible struggle—there is no tragedy so dark that it lacks a comedic edge.

The shaman’s transformation occurs during the trance, reaching its fulfillment in the re-living of the near-death experience, using tools that imitate the circumstances of actual death. In this state, the shaman becomes a medium for the deceased, interpreting their thoughts, feelings, and last wishes for the relatives. However, the shaman’s task is more than that. According to Korean shamanism, the state of a soul departing from life is extremely confused, filled with disappointment, despair, and aimless rage. The fundamental function of the ritual—which can last for days—is twofold: to calm the soul of the deceased, creating peace and sending it on its way by releasing spiritual knots, and to protect the living from the released harmful forces.

The first stage of the ritual also flickers through the film, as relatives and acquaintances present gifts and sacrifices to win the favor of the deceased while recalling important events and good deeds of their life. The main stage of the ritual begins after this, forming the most emphasized part of the film. The soul sets out on its journey of departure, symbolized by a stretched white cotton ribbon (gil-da-kkum). Obstacles must be overcome on this path, signaled by the shamaness’s hesitations, and progress requires the help of the community. Although not shown in the film, this help often arrives in a profane form, such as monetary donations placed on the ribbon—after all, the shaman must make a living. However, the Park brothers focus on the ancient essence of the ritual rather than its degraded forms. The images are primordial, showing the psychological impact of the ritual with stunning force. The sight of blades cutting a path through the ribbon and the exertion involved authentically portray the difficulty of the transition.

The final sequences surely hold a more specific meaning for Koreans than what we can decipher without their cultural knowledge. The end of the shaman’s journey leads to a still slightly ominous but calm water surface, which peacefully fades into the Korean landscape before shifting to painted depictions of people from the distant past. This simultaneously points to the ritual's roots reaching into the depths of time and to the fact that, like those who went before us, we will all become a part of this. But it also raises the question: is what we have experienced merely a tradition fed by the past, or does it hold validity for our present?

In the role of the fisherman, Oh Kwang-rok struggles with the unexpected catch, while the shamaness is played by Lee Jung-hyun. Her performance is particularly interesting; beyond bringing to life one of the most ancient figures of human belief—the mythical and mystical priestess—she is also known as the "Queen" who introduced techno to Korean pop music.

Even those who usually dislike horror elements should set aside their reservations for this film, as they are in for an unforgettable experience. The extraordinary expressivity of the short film is due to the rare artistic eloquence of the Park brothers. For those interested in ancient religious traditions, Night Fishing is essential viewing.

Park Chan-wook: CUT (short film, 2004)

Three... Extremes / 쓰리, 몬스터 (Story 2)

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Cut: The Director’s Nightmare
and the Anatomy of Hypocrisy

Three renowned directors with unique visions—one Japanese, one Chinese, and one Korean—were invited to create short films for an anthology titled Three... Extremes. Beyond the number "three," the keyword here is "extreme," and the directors fully lived up to that promise. Park Chan-wook contributed to the fray with a brilliantly executed psychological horror designed to fray the nerves.

By this time, Park had already completed the first two films of his famous "Vengeance Trilogy," and it seems he was deeply preoccupied with every aspect of the revenge theme. Cut is built around this core, yet its philosophical, sociological, and psychological approach feels perhaps even more concentrated than in his feature-length works.

Director Park Chan-wook

Cut allows for multiple layers of interpretation. The surface layer tells the story of a film director and his wife who are taken captive by an "extra"—a background actor who worked on every one of the famous director's films but failed to achieve even a modicum of recognition. His fundamental grievance is the pre-ordained structure of the world, which separates the lower classes from the privileged wealthy with impenetrable walls, leaving those below with nothing but a frustration inherited from generation to generation.

In this case, he is even infuriated by the subversion of the "cinematic justice" stereotype, which portrays the poor as good and the wealthy as evil—because the captured director is, by all accounts, a genuinely good man. The extra is a psychopath, so he devises a morbid test to examine his dilemma. The director is given a choice: either strangle the child in the room, or, for every moment of hesitation, the extra will cut off one finger of the director’s wife, who is a concert pianist.

Embedded in this absurd situation is their polemic—presented with a dryness that stands in stark contrast to the horrific circumstances—in which roles are reversed: the extra dictates, and the director tries to produce an adequate "performance" through the various stages of the madman’s demands.

We gradually descend into deeper circles of hell, learning secrets about the seemingly idyllic marriage and the extra’s other actions of the day. Naturally, at the moment of the seemingly inevitable end, something happens that perfectly twists the story. By then, it has long ceased to be just a socio-drama; it has become a parable carrying deep psychological problems regarding relationships and individuality, not devoid of sexual undertones. Meanwhile, Park Chan-wook, speaking through the director, voices sharp criticism regarding the "soap opera" female ideal represented by the wife, while male society does not escape exposure either.

Park Chan-wook opens with a female vampire scene; we soon learn that the fictional director is filming a movie titled Live Evil and enjoys incorporating the backdrop of his private life into his work. Just as the title Cut refers both to the removal of fingers and a cinematic command, the duality of reality and fiction dominates the film, reaching its culmination in the final scene. It is difficult to decide whether the physical world is truly reality or if we have been seeing the projection of "live evil" from the very first moment.

The film is not without humor, though it manifests in an increasingly chilling manner. The story unfolds amidst grandiose sets that are exact replicas of the director’s extravagantly designed apartment. The black-and-white checkered floor serves as a chessboard for the game being played but also evokes the iconic "Red Room" from David Lynch’s Twin Peaks. Within this space, Park Chan-wook dreamed up stunningly executed visual elements that characterize the "playing field" assigned to each character. The entire visual world is, as expected from Park, exquisitely aesthetic.

In the role of the director, we see Lee Byung-hun, who is convincing in his initial "I find no fault in myself" state and particularly powerful in the scenes of mental collapse. The extra is played by Im Won-hee, whose performance is entirely free from the stereotypes of depicting the "insane." He is excellent in the humorous scenes and truly terrifying because he approaches the execution of barbaric ideas in the most mundane manner. In the role of the wife, Kang Hye-jung performs a difficult task; bound in a fixed pose, she can only act with her face, yet she delivers a full-valued, memorable performance. Im Won-hee, as the stranger, perfectly exhausts both tenets of the absurd: he provokes laughter while being frighteningly ominous.

Interpretations and Spoilers

(Only read further if you have seen the film!)

Inevitably, several questions arise: Why don't the events take place in the director's actual apartment? How and why do they end up in a film studio? Why is there no blood when the fingers are cut? Where do the bonds holding the director lead? We only see them stretching upward into infinity. Why does the wife appear like a marionette? Who is pulling the strings?

Possible Answers: If we consider the director's usual method of operation, we are seeing a "film version" of his private life in the studio; we are on a set the entire time, even if the crew is invisible. This explains the sudden revival of the already-dead extra just to ask a question: "What do you think about this, for example...?"

However, the deeper problem is the choice between the child and the wife. If we view the story as a parable, the entire sequence is the symbolic projection of an internal struggle. The extra—who was in every one of the director’s films yet remained forgotten—is perhaps his own embodied conscience. This is why he polemicizes with him with such strangely calm didactics. The sadistic game with the fingers might be the venting of ten years of unacknowledged hatred. The "good man" is revealed to be a hypocrite: love covers hatred, the idyllic relationship is empty, and both parties have long sought satisfaction elsewhere.

The husband feels that the superficial emptiness of the woman has taken over his life. This explains the wife’s marionette pose, in whose rigidity she is finally vulnerable to the husband’s decision. If the husband kills the child, the empty existence represented by the wife continues to flourish. If he does not, the woman’s world collapses.

But who is the child? The extra says he just stumbled upon him and brought him along. In his "confession," he says he killed his wife and wanted to kill his son but couldn't. This boy might be the child of the conscience—the child who represents our innocent self, the potential of our full human being. The conscience could not destroy this, so it offers it as a choice: will you sacrifice your true self to maintain your false present?

In the end, the director’s consciousness splits, which Park Chan-wook illustrates by doubling the surrounding space—reality and the film set blur. He speaks to the child while, in reality, he is strangling his wife. The parable always has a moral message, but Park Chan-wook doesn't close the story; instead, he shows that the evil within us can rise again at any time. "The world is full of things you can't escape... no matter how hard you fight... there are things you are forced to do."

If previously women following "soap opera values" were criticized, now it is the turn of the men. The hand of the "master of the house" tightens around the throat of the real woman while he tells his imagined wife, "I love you, honey!"

Park Chan-wook: JUDGEMENT (short film, 1999)

박찬욱: 심판

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Judgement (short film, 1999):
Park Chan-wook’s Brutal Anatomy of Greed

Although the story of the design, construction, collapse, and rescue operations of Seoul’s Sampoong Department Store could easily coalesce into a horror-filled disaster movie in its own right, Park Chan-wook uses the 1995 tragedy only as a starting point—a element of collective memory. This disaster, caused by human negligence, remained the world's deadliest architectural failure during peacetime until 2013.

In the opening sequences of Judgement, a bored, slightly drunken man prepares for work amidst the backdrop of morgue cooling chambers while we hear news reports detailing a series of natural disasters. Our protagonist's attention is only piqued, however, when it’s announced that families of those who died in the department store collapse will receive nearly half a million dollars in compensation—a claim the insurance company doesn't even dispute due to the obvious errors leading to the tragedy. At this point, his eyes glue to the screen. We, too, peer into the documentary-style footage of the television broadcast, filled with real images of natural disasters, victims, and a fear escalating to a global scale.

Director Park Chan-wook

However, shutting the world's troubles outside the door, Park Chan-wook moves us into the morgue, where preparations are underway for the funeral of the last victim found: an unidentified girl. The characters of this micro-drama are crowded into a small room: a mourning couple claiming to be the girl’s parents (who have already secured official certification), the mortician, a two-person TV crew, and a detective who arrives later. And, of course, the body. We quickly realize that despite the documentary-like introduction, we are watching a thriller infused with film noir, combining the heated evidentiary debates of courtroom dramas with the investigative brilliance of Agatha Christie set in a single room. Yet, all of this is saturated with incredible black humor, as if Hitchcock had once worked from a Monty Python script.

A twist occurs in the story when the mortician unexpectedly announces that he, too, recognizes his own daughter in the body. Thus, we have a couple and a single man, none of whom have seen their child in years—it seems these are families from which children flee. How can justice be served in such a situation? While the reporter and the detective constantly rival one another, the attempts at proof are not lacking in passion or intimidation tactics. Tiring at the stalemate, the whole company begins drinking, and total chaos seems to take over—Park Chan-wook plays with this visually, showing a stock of beer stored in place of the missing head of a body pulled from one of the refrigerated compartments.

Uncertainty reaches its peak; no one can be sure who anyone is or what they truly want. However, a trivial but revealing question is posed: why does each party want the dead girl to be their own? If they were truly loving parents, wouldn't they hope the body belonged to a stranger, and that their own child was still alive somewhere in the world?

From this point on, motivation is no longer in question; only the manner of exposure remains. But fear not, Park Chan-wook does not run out of ideas. With the appearance of yet another character, the small room becomes a scene of divine judgement, which reality—in all its full splendor—takes possession of at the moment of the great revelation.

The short film is a double triumph. On one hand, it is a ruthless critique of people enchanted by quick riches, who strip themselves of fundamental human values to serve the money-worship of capitalism. In this sense, we see not only a critique of Korean society but a universal critique of capitalism itself. On the other hand, as a testament to Park Chan-wook’s unique filmmaking ability, the mixture of genres melts into a cohesive whole, bearing the director’s unique signature.

The film is ironic but not cynical; bitter but not embittered. Its humor is light but not weightless. Park Chan-wook is capable of moving countless small subplots that provide brilliant sketches of characters (such as the uneasy husband who doesn't seem to fully agree with what he is part of anyway) or the intrusive nature of the media.

The Camera as the Victim’s Eyes in Park Chan-wook’s N.E.P.A.L.

Short Film, 2003

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Why the peculiar spelling of the title? Because it is an acronym: Never Ending Peace and Love—Nepal. Woe to those who find themselves far from the Edenic birthplace of Buddha, and a hundredfold woe if fate happened to cast them into South Korea just a few decades ago.

Chandra Kumari Gurung (Author’s screenshot from N.E.P.A.L.)

Park Chan-wook’s short film, lasting just under thirty minutes, reconstructs the story of a Nepalese woman. It belongs to that genre of documentaries that reproduce events with the help of actors. In the opening scene, we set out to find the protagonist and encounter the real Chandra, allowing us to form an image of her appearance. During the reenacted events, however, she never appears again; yet, an actor does not take over the role. Instead, the camera itself becomes Chandra’s eyes, through which—as if we were looking with her—we witness the events.

(Author’s screenshot from N.E.P.A.L.)

With this, Park Chan-wook perfectly realizes the "if you were in my shoes" state, as every viewer is placed in Chandra’s position while others talk to or about her. This concept, If You Were Me, is the title of the six-part omnibus film that dealt with various human rights issues, supported by the National Human Rights Commission. In 2003, it provided an extremely deep diagnostic report on Korean society. The film has since become a series, with a new collection of short films released under similar titles year after year.

Although we know that Korea’s historical existence as a "Hermit Kingdom" has conditioned reflexes of seclusion and a wariness toward the rest of the world even to this day, it is nonetheless shocking how society failed to handle such a trivial problem. Chandra arrives in the country without language skills, and on one occasion, she loses her money and her identification, leading her to a police station. Her ordeal, lasting more than six years, begins here. Shockingly, no one recognizes the fact that they are dealing with a foreigner who is terrified and, in her fear, is trying to explain herself and ask for help by mixing a few Korean words with her native tongue. The representatives of officialdom are characterized by professional negligence paired with personal laziness and apathy; everyone passes on the "troublesome woman." Initially, the police view her as a "dim-witted provincial," shrugging off the fact that they simply forgot about the report filed regarding her disappearance. However, doctors officially classify her as mentally ill, and so Chandra ends up in a psychiatric ward.

Park Chan-wook relentlessly exposes not only personal human habits but professional errors and the general practice of shifting responsibility as well. It is sobering to see how the recognition and treatment of mental illness occurred with a fundamental lack of expertise. Behind the polite demeanor of the nursing staff, we experience a total insensitivity toward a human being who—and this is why it is brilliant that the director uses the camera as a substitute for the subject—seems invisible to those handling her. It is as if they are blind to her true being; they see only what they want to see: a simple-minded Korean. They even give her a domestic name, despite the poor woman’s protests as she constantly repeats her own name and the name of her country.

The film is particularly interesting due to the paradox that it portrays this total insensitivity so vividly. We are inevitably confronted with the problem-sensitivity and attitudes of Korean people on both sides of the camera, and through this, perhaps with the changes that the last decades have brought to Korea. By the year the film was made, it must have been quite jarring for domestic audiences to see that the name of Nepal meant little to people, or that not a single person could be found to translate for the woman—or rather, that it didn't even occur to them to look for one seriously.

Yet, the short film finds room for one more extremely important message: that there are phases of hopelessness where helpful intent alone is insufficient; a degree of expertise is also required to handle it. The small mistake made by the Nepalese man arriving as a savior, which nearly becomes fatal in Chandra's condition, is highly instructive.

Behind a specific story requiring the intervention of human rights organizations, Park Chan-wook’s film outlines the problems of forced labor mobility, the necessity for preparedness in both job seekers and host countries, and the challenge that a shrinking world poses to individuals and nations: the capacity for intercultural understanding and learning.

Chandra’s horror story is presented as a black-and-white film, which only gains color at the moment of her homecoming. Let us hope for a time when every region of the world becomes part of a colorful realm of peace and love, where the individual shades of every "Chandra" are recognized.

Disclaimer: All images from N.E.P.A.L. are property of the respective production studios and are used here under Fair Use for the purpose of criticism and review.

Park Chan-ok: PAJU (2009)

 박찬옥: 파주

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Paju: A Fog-Shrouded Tale of
Guilt and Forbidden Desire

Following Park Chan-ok’s feature film debut (Jealousy Is My Middle Name, 2003), her second project was met with great anticipation. The screenplay for Paju received the Kodak Award as early as 2005, yet the film's production was delayed for several years, primarily due to financing difficulties. It was finally premiered in 2009 at the Busan International Film Festival, and true to expectations, it emerged as an outstanding work that garnered numerous awards.

Paju is a small town near the northern border, mysteriously shrouded in fog. This is where our male protagonist (Lee Sun-kyun) retreats, driven by the self-reproach of having caused a fatal accident. The story unfolds along two threads. The solitary man becomes a teacher at a local church school, where—despite the protests of one of his students (Seo Woo)—he soon marries her older sister (Shim Yi-young). The marriage is not particularly successful, and meanwhile, the younger sister, living with them and blossoming into adulthood, confusedly discovers her growing feelings for her brother-in-law. Behind these private events, the social background emerges: the local administration’s intent to "ghettoize" the dilapidated town, a process aided by organized crime. Our protagonist also serves as the leader of the resistance group fighting these changes.

The unfolding of events is non-linear; the narrative frequently jumps back in time to reveal the precursors to the present. The film’s pace is slow but maintains tension effectively. In reality, we are watching a psychological drama in which two lonely individuals struggle separately within the traps of their feelings and doubts toward one another. Because of this, the ensuing tragic events are met with a double misinterpretation. A "merciful lie" fuels a constant flare-up of suspicion, which remains at war with their mutual attraction. Crime and punishment, a longing for love and a thirst for revenge, forgiveness and exoneration swirl within their decisions. These lead not to a "comedy of errors," but rather its inverse, ultimately prompting the viewer to reflect on the biblical parable of the lost sheep. The film's final scene adds one last twist to all of this, introducing a possible motive—or perhaps yet another illusory interpretation—to the preceding events.

Director Park Chan-ok

The greatest merit of the film lies in its cinematic portrayal of psychological depth. The confused emotions of the female lead appear with a nakedness unusual in Korean cinema, both through the actress’s excellent performance and director Park Chan-ok’s sensitive visual storytelling. Those who have likened this method of internal emotional projection—which breaks through from the depths of the soul primarily through body language—to Ingmar Bergman’s cinematic explorations are indeed correct.

JK Youn: ODE TO MY FATHER (2014)

윤제균: 국제시장

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Ode to My Father:
A Small Man in the Giant Gears of History

My encounter with this film began with a perplexing difficulty; despite its sterling reputation, my initial interest was dampened several times by the opening scenes. It took three attempts to push past the cliché of the intro and the fact that the film starts with an actor masked as an elderly man in an exceptionally unconvincing way. Even during the first flashback, I had the lingering feeling that I was looking at a poorly concealed miniature model, but fortunately, this sensation soon vanished as the story swept me away.

This is a story where the true protagonist is History itself, and its hero is the "small man" whose life bears its weight. The term "hero" is no exaggeration, for the true heroes of the 20th century were the average people who managed to simply survive it. This is particularly true for Korea and Koreans, who received the most concentrated dose of this soul-testing era.

Director JK Youn

The film presents the events of a life like a grand tableau. Who wouldn't want to leaf through a picture book, even if the images depict tragic events? This characteristic is both the film's strength and its weakness. Since it is built on the protagonist’s memories, it possesses a certain lack of "stakes"—we know that our hero (along with the main supporting cast) is among the lucky survivors of every situation. This takes away much of the suspense regarding his fate, which the director had to compensate for somehow. What keeps the audience's attention awake is the rhythm with which the film alternates between private life and the recreated historical dioramas embedded within. It walks a tightrope between family drama and over-heroized war cinema, but it never falls off. The overflowing sentimentality of the historical stations is balanced by the humor accompanying the fumbling steps of their private lives.

The screenplay selects events that represent profound generational experiences and plunges us into them like the circles of Dante’s Inferno. One scene is more grandiose than the last, though in different ways. We begin in the 1950s, and the first great tableau—refugees fleeing the Chinese occupation of the north—is a striking piece of cinematic crowd choreography. Every frame of the exodus carries elemental power, and since we are talking about film, I must mention that every extra is present with such conviction that it lends the sequence a documentary-like feel.

The 1960s tableau set in Germany is no less powerful, depicting the lives of those who migrated to distant, unknown lands for any work to make a living. The black hell of the coal miners and the tears falling on ebony-black skin glistening with sweat and coal dust are unforgettable, proving even stronger than the images of the ensuing mining accident.

The Vietnam War of the 70s is the next great station, showing—as if in a Korean mirror—the two extremes that M.A.S.H. and Platoon have represented for us until now. The screenwriter weaves these threads together with extraordinary skill, reflecting the overarching motifs of the story in the actions of the now-adult protagonist.

If anyone thinks it finally ends there—that the arrival of quasi-peacetime brings no more suffering—they are mistaken. The film is only just rushing into its most harrowing tableau, whose emotional charge would blow even the strongest fuses. Yet, "only" this happens: they recall the hopeful search for family members scattered to the winds by the division of Korea, the emotional nihilism of frequent failure, and the indescribable euphoria of rare, lucky reunions. The protagonist is made a participant in the 1983 live television broadcast that documented these events. This "reality show" is so intense that it pins the stunned viewer’s gaze to the screen. Meanwhile, we certainly sense the tools the film uses to trigger the tear-jerking effect of re-living this emotional cataclysm, but one would have to be very jaded to hold this against the filmmakers.

At the same time, it is undeniable that the film as a whole plays on the Korean audience’s tendency to feel sentimental about their own fate, using overt heroization and exaggerated melodramatic musical devices. This is heightened by compressing all these historical stations into the life of a single hero, who thus becomes a symbolic figure of the nation’s recent past. Symbolically, the story is dominated by the lost father, to whose noble self-sacrifice the narrative bows, even if the protagonist lived his life under the oppressive burden of it all. The film concludes with a gesture of understanding, reconciliation, and moving forward after enduring to the very end.

All things considered, JK Youn’s attempt to create a new piece of the national cinematic epic can be called a success, especially considering that national identity seems to periodically require such summarizing works.

Hwang Jeong-min, who has already delivered remarkable performances (including roles in the great A Bittersweet Life and My 11th Mother), successfully navigates the challenge of portraying an entire lifespan. His acting is restrained even in heroic scenes, and he heartwarmingly portrays the awkwardness of courtship as well as all the scenes involving his relationship and family members. In the role of his wife, we see Kim Yoon-jin (known to the world from the TV series Lost), whose presence and acting excitingly enrich the usual repertoire of Korean performance.

The film also subtly carries on the tradition of the mandatory humorous character. Oh Dal-soo is the "secret weapon," appearing like a true chameleon as the protagonist's friend throughout different eras, with every scene of his possessing exciting flavors. In many cases, his figure also embodies generational fantasies.

The film uses very small and authentic moments to convey changes in society, sometimes even highlighting them from the spontaneous narrative. Such is the "different kind of Korean" wife, who is almost like a foreigner, or the inclusion of the first actually mixed Korean-Vietnamese marriage in the script. Likewise, we see unexpected cameos: the founder of Hyundai, Jung Ju-young; the first world-famous Korean fashion designer, Andre Kim; and the ssireum wrestler Lee Man-ki—as if to sense that the wheel of history keeps turning, and one should not fear unusual developments.