Jeon Soo-il: HIMALAYA, WHERE THE WIND DWELLS (2009)

전수일: 히말라야, 바람이 머무는 곳

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Himalaya, Where the Wind Dwells:
A Silent Journey Toward the Self

A committed independent film director and a cinematic hero returning after four years of voluntary exile, set against the backdrop of the majestic Himalayas—well, this is more than enough to look forward to the film with great interest.

Director Jeon Soo-il

By this time, Choi Min-sik had already moved past the roles that brought him fame, such as Oldboy and Sympathy for Lady Vengeance, as well as Failan and Crying Fist. His prolonged absence from the screen was a protest against the signing of a free trade agreement that reduced the mandatory screen quota for domestic films, but he surely yearned for new acting challenges. According to malicious rumors, however, he may have chosen this independent film because other productions were not particularly eager to invite the outspoken actor.

Director Jeon Soo-il, however, offered an intriguing task that also held the promise of an actor's "tour de force." For Himalaya, Where the Wind Dwells focuses on the protagonist in a unique way: it places him in an environment where linguistic interaction with other characters is quite limited, as they do not understand each other's words. This time, the co-stars are not all professional actors but local residents—mostly members of the Gurung family—as well as Buddhist monks and shamans.

The fictional Choi, played by the actor Choi, is given an excellent entrance in the film: he rides in an elevator with his back to the door, and when it opens, his colleagues recoil upon seeing who they would have to step in beside. Carrying his packed belongings, Choi is taking his final steps out of the ultra-modern office building that served as his workplace. Not a single word is spoken, yet we can read all the essential information from Choi Min-sik's movements—which is that something must have gone very wrong.

He meets his brother, who is facing a significant headache regarding what to do with the ashes of his Nepalese worker, who was employed illegally and died in an accident. After the next cut, we find ourselves—or rather, Choi—in a taxi maneuvering through the crisscrossing flow of traffic on the streets of Kathmandu. Then, an opened suitcase in a transit hotel reveals the reason for his journey: inside lies an urn wrapped in a cloth.

Only a short flight separates us from the next scene, in which an agile Sherpa, with a metal suitcase on his back, pushes upward into the mountains, while Choi lags further and further behind. He likely set out on this journey on a sudden whim, as his city suit and shoes sliding on the stones may be appropriate for a solemn task of remembrance, but are entirely unsuitable for the environmental conditions.

Choi would be hit by even more misfortune if there were any, but since there is none in the barren landscape, he is instead struck by altitude sickness, causing him to reach his destination in an unconscious state. During his recovery, he gets to know the worker’s family and their living conditions are revealed to him; he simply cannot bring himself to disclose the true reason for his arrival. He lies, saying the husband is well, and hands over his "deliveries": a soccer ball for the son and money for the wife. Yet he does not depart; instead, he lingers in the village like a tourist, enjoying the hospitality of the locals.

Choi Min-sik

From the very first frames, Director Jeon precisely conveys the man's aimlessness and loneliness, which is only aggravated by the discovery that a continent separates him from his wife and child. We learn nothing of the past or the reasons; instead, the existential loneliness of the urban man is drawn with increasing sharpness against the mirror of the familiar, mutually caring relationships of the locals living in inhumanly difficult conditions. There is no doubt that our hero must undergo a spiritual journey to find his way back to himself.

What the film achieves magnificently is a portrayal of reality without mystification. A series of moments from everyday life unfolds before us, in which Choi becomes involved as much as possible. His observant eye notices childhood joy, adult sorrow, anxiety, the vulnerability of old age, general interdependence, and strange local customs and rituals. As viewers, we see all of this through his eyes—and this, at the same time, constitutes the entire plot of the film. Dialogues are scarce, as Choi can only exchange a few English words with a young boy. The locals do speak with one another, but Choi understands them no more than they understand him. Thus, only non-linguistic forms of communication remain: music, gestures, and body language.

The spiritual transformation is a slow process, and thus the film also flows forward slowly. Its greatest flaw is that it moves far too slowly; despite all the weight and expressive power of Choi Min-sik's presence, he is often condemned to idleness. The film is unable to saturate the scenes intended to depict internal changes with dramatic tension; consequently, what we see takes on an illustrative character. This is somewhat true for the symbolic and surreal sequence of images that brings about the physical and spiritual catharsis—from falling ill to "rebirth." Nor is the viewers' involvement aided by the fact that certain strange rituals, which the film deems important to show, remain entirely unintelligible to a viewer unversed in the local culture.

Himalaya, Where the Wind Dwells, as a living space and spiritual medium, is not devoid of the picturesque in its visual world even now; nevertheless, the grimmer, more barren landscapes dominate, authentically reflecting the protagonist’s internal spiritual desolation and the arduous nature of the locals' lives. In the film's wordless silence, almost entirely lacking background music, the sounds of nature and the camera's angles are eloquent—such as in one of the final scenes: a tunnel-like passage leads toward something while also conclusively separating him from what Choi leaves behind.

Despite the clearly graspable message, the film leaves behind a mixed impression, as it depends entirely on the viewer's momentary capacity for empathy and endurance whether, after an hour and a half, they leave the screen enriched by a spiritual experience or burdened by the resentment caused by an overwhelming sense of boredom.

Yang Yun-ho: FIGHTER IN THE WIND (2004)

양윤호: 바람의 파이터

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Fighter in the Wind:
Reclaiming a Legend for the Nation

The life story of Choi Yeongeui is a peculiar one. The world knows him better as Masutatsu Oyama, the founder of Kyokushin Karate. To complicate matters, the film is about Choi Bae-dal—so how do these names connect? The literal translation of his Japanese name refers to the ancient kingdom of Chosun, or ancient Korea (Baedal). While his Japanese name is never uttered in the film, he is called by the Korean translation of that name: Choi Bae-dal. Whether this was a nickname from his youth or a cinematic bridge to avoid using a Japanese name, the film successfully navigates this identity crisis.

This is significant because we are once again facing a film built on Korean national identity. For a Korea that has found its international standing through economic prosperity, finding spiritual and national self-confidence is a far harder task. The country's history is often one of blood and tears, culminating in the ultimate humiliation: the Japanese annexation and the temporary disappearance of the nation-state. It is no wonder that reclaiming national pride is a primary mission. Every element that contributes to redefining national identity—whether a spiritual value or a heroic life rooted in Korea—is vital. This task is often performed alongside (and sometimes as a subtle revenge against) the two regional rivals: Japan and China.

Yang Dong-keun

Fighter in the Wind was released in 2004, on the tenth anniversary of the Master’s death, hitting two birds with one stone: honoring an international martial arts legend while "reclaiming" him for Korea.

While the film feels like an authentic biography, it is actually based on a Japanese manga, Karate Baka Ichidai (The Life of a Karate Fanatic). Since the manga itself was a dramatized version of Choi’s youth, it is nearly impossible to verify where reality ends and fiction begins.

Masaya Kato

The film sets its frame in 1938. The 15-year-old boy, dreaming of becoming a pilot, sneaks from occupied Korea to Japan. A significant time-jump takes us to 1945, where we see Koreans tied to execution poles for refusing kamikaze missions. Bae-dal's clash with an arrogant Japanese officer—the film's antagonist—serves as a pivotal moment of resistance. Whether authentic or not, the script brilliantly captures a moment that makes Korean hearts swell with pride.

However, historical records suggest a different path. Choi came from a noble family and was fascinated by Bismarck’s unification of Germany, dreaming of becoming the "Bismarck of the East." He chose Japan as his new home to pursue his dream of flying. Historical accounts suggest he may have even volunteered for special military service, driven by the desire for career advancement in a society that looked down on Koreans. The film skims over these complexities, focusing instead on his struggle as an outcast and his eventual turn toward karate.

Jung Doo-hong

The film focuses heavily on the chaotic post-war period in Tokyo, dominated by the Yakuza and American occupiers. The most beautiful "script" is written by fate: a lost and confused Choi finds guidance from a fellow Korean. In the film, this is Bum-soo (played by the charismatic Jung Doo-hong). Following his advice, Choi retreats to the mountains for two periods of insane training (14 and 18 months). Immersed in Zen and martial arts, he eventually finds himself.

Yang Dong-keun, who portrays Choi, truly comes into his own in these scenes, and the film accompanies the frantic struggle Baedal wages against his own self and the forces of nature with picturesque visuals. The actor is consistently stronger in the action sequences, in which he can truly showcase Choi's greatness. He appears somewhat more uncertain in the intimate scenes played with his love interest, and in situations of subjugation, I did not feel that fire smoldering within him even at a low simmer—a fire that should have been burning all along to eventually flare up so intensely. What was perfectly achieved, however, is that despite his savage appearance, the film managed to depict the soul-ennobling effect of his stay in the mountains through a kind of physical refinement of Baedal, naturally with the effective contribution of the cinematographers' vision.

The second half of the film is even richer in action, as we follow the process of Bae-dal visiting Japanese martial arts clubs, challenging their warriors or accepting their challenges, and winning his bouts one after another. Since these are full-contact duels—meaning real physical contact performed with full force—Bae-dal's path is accompanied by both the inflicting and enduring of injuries. Along with this comes increasing popularity, which also triggers wicked machinations to stop the seemingly invincible "outsider."

Amidst the crunching sound of breaking bones, we receive a genuine surprise: a touching love story unfolds before us, primarily thanks to the phenomenal performance of Aya Hirayama.

Aya Hirayama and Yang Dong-keun

Among the supporting characters, we also find some memorable ones, particularly Lee Han-sol, with whom Bae-dal fights a duel with a fatal outcome. This is another thread built on elements of reality, as Choi truly did kill a street troublemaker who drew a knife against him. He was acquitted, as shown in the film, and the penance he underwent by visiting his victim's family is also authentic; he actually served them for months and earned their forgiveness.

Lee Han-sol

Director Yang Yun-ho also plays with Western tropes. Bae-dal’s path is shadowed by a great rival, leading toward an inevitable final showdown. Kato (Masaya Kato), the Japanese "steward" of karate, is not purely evil; he recognizes a worthy opponent but is blinded by Japanese superiority. The tension between them serves as a clear message for the Korean audience: Bae-dal must prove that, despite being looked down upon, he is equal—or better—than his rival. In accordance with classic Western tropes, we see the adversaries appear in either black or white clothing. Masaya Kato, who provides a powerful portrayal of Kato, makes the soul of the martial artist believable even within his meticulously elegant figure. However, during the great confrontation, the director could not resist the temptation and made the parallel with Western showdowns obvious for a moment. Although the effect elicits a smile, it feels somewhat out of place within the overall atmosphere of the film. On the other hand, the sight of Bae-dal eclipsing the defeated Japanese warrior and lining up the opponent's own entourage behind himself speaks louder than words. 

Director Yang Yun-ho

The core tenets of Oyama's teachings permeate the film; most of them are voiced, fortunately not in a didactic manner but integrated into real-life situations. Yet, the film remains somewhat remiss in illuminating what exactly distinguishes Kyokushin Karate from other branches of karate. That is to say, it is present in the film, but deciphering it is not evident; it requires a basic proficiency in the subject.

An interesting fact regarding the film's background is that another actor was originally set to play the leading role, and a press conference announcing the film was even held with his participation. However, Jung Ji-hoon (Rain) was forced to withdraw from the production; nonetheless, in news reports about him, we can see how he went through the journey of preparing for the role, including winter training in the Japanese mountains. Evidently, Yang Dong-keun also successfully completed this grueling process.

Jung Ji-hoon Rain

Bae-dal's story in the film ends before he founded his own dojo in reality; therefore, there is no mention of Kyokushin Karate's conquest of the world. There are glimpses of the struggles from the karate master's later life that grew into legends, such as his fights against massive bulls. An uninitiated viewer, however, might remain somewhat uncertain as to whether the combat shown in the finale actually took place. Therefore, the documentary made about the master excellently complements Fighter in the Wind and provides answers to the questions that arise.

The film fully accomplished its mission; Korean viewers flocked to see it in massive numbers. Word also spread throughout the world that the master, previously believed to be Japanese, was actually Korean; thus, they could look upon a new hero in the Pantheon of Korean talents with pride. Choi Bae-dal visited Korea again several times, where he received state recognition as early as 1967.

Hong Ji-young: WILL YOU BE THERE? (2016)

홍지영: 당신, 거기 있어줄래요

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Will You Be There?:
A Gentle Journey Through Time

We are looking at a romantic story to its core, this time embedded in the world of time-travel cinema. Although the events revolve around a tragedy, do not expect a harrowing experience. For some, the film might feel a bit light because of this, while others will likely find it all the more endearing for the same reason.

The opening scenes, intended to explain how our protagonist acquires the pills that enable time travel, promise something slightly different from what follows. The steady dramatic pace remains, but fortunately, the heavy mysticism with which director Hong Ji-young portrays an elderly Cambodian man—so earnestly that it borders on unintentional comedy—fades away. It is indeed difficult to watch those moments without a slight smile.

Humor subtly weaves through the entire film, making excellent use of situational comedy. This provides a fantastic playground for the two leads, who are actually playing one person: the younger and older versions of the same man meet to change a fatal accident from the past. Actors Kim Yun-seok and Byun Yo-han seize this opportunity brilliantly, maintaining their dramatic weight throughout. The same can be said for Kim Sang-ho, who plays the best friend. In the role of the girl, Chae Seo-jin is a wonderfully charming and kind presence; she was simply born to be a romantic heroine. Her older self is brought to life by Kim Ho-jung.

Byun Yo-han

Kim Yun-seok

Kim Sang-ho

Chae Seo-jin

It is worth highlighting that the film offers a complete visual experience; Hong Ji-young’s sensitive cinematic vision is truly captivating. She also wrote the screenplay, which is an adaptation of the novel of the same name by French author Guillaume Musso.

Director Hong Ji-young

The story, while oscillating between timelines, moves forward linearly. The greatest thrill for the audience lies in contemplating how altering elements of the past might affect the future. Although there is no shortage of twists, events follow one another smoothly—perhaps too smoothly—constantly signaling that we don't need to be worried to death.

The final sequence again feels somewhat detached from the rest of the film. The resolution is a bit too trivial, serving the sole purpose of navigating quickly toward a reassuring conclusion.

All that said, Will You Be There? offers a pleasant and entertaining experience for anyone who chooses it.

Benson Lee: SEOUL SEARCHING (2015)

벤슨 리: 서울 캠프 1986

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Seoul Searching:
1980s Nostalgia and the Quest for Identity

The central conflict of this film is far from unfamiliar to us. Due to the historical and economic storms of the past century, millions of Hungarians emigrated to various corners of the globe. The situation of the Korean diaspora is remarkably similar; there are roughly seven million ethnic Koreans living outside the peninsula. While the vast majority reside in neighboring China and Japan, this film focuses on those living in the United States, South America, and Europe. More specifically, it explores a unique dilemma: how the motherland and the primarily second-generation Western youth can relate to one another.

Director Benson Lee

Director Benson Lee has direct experience in this field. As a Korean-American, he was part of a short-lived experiment in the 1980s where the Korean government organized summer camps for overseas youth who knew precious little about their ancestral home. Whether voluntarily or under parental pressure, these teenagers embarked on a journey back to Korea to find their identity.

The film's opening sequence, which evokes the Korean War, reveals that the summer camps ultimately failed because, despite noble intentions, Korea simply didn't know how to handle the cultural and behavioral mixture these visiting youngsters brought with them.

While not explicitly stated, the story initially unfolds from the perspective of the motherland’s locals. We see the arriving teenagers as stereotyped, occasionally caricatured figures—a reflection of the shocked and horrified faces of the Koreans who must have observed these "oddities." The camp is a parade of 1980s Western alternative subcultures: loudmouths, provocative women, sexual liberation, cliques, punks, hip-hop heads, and a pervasive presence of alcohol. Even today, the Korean soul hasn't entirely shed the reserved nature shaped by centuries as the "Hermit Kingdom." In 1986, despite decades of cultural influence from the American military presence, Korea was far from the reality we know today.

What unfolds is a romantic comedy, "Korean style": a high dosage of both humorous and emotional ingredients, with the linguistic humor being particularly entertaining. We gain deeper insight into the lives of three selected boys and three girls, as well as the Korean teacher in charge of the campers. The film subtly but accurately introduces significant Korean issues—the scene set in the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) and the meeting with a biological mother are both exceptionally well-executed.

The film is fast-paced, and although the background stories of the numerous characters are only sketched out, the director expertly delivers moments that hit the audience emotionally. The individual fates outline the entire spectrum of problems faced by those living abroad in a precise yet unobtrusive manner. Through the youth, we also get a glimpse of the parents' generation. This is especially interesting because the first generation, trying to integrate into foreign societies, still carries the essence of their "Koreanness," often leading to conflicts with their children who grew up with Western values. The film sensitively portrays the realizations and understandings gained during the camp that ripple back into parent-child relationships.

Naturally, both the youth and their teachers step-by-step shed their initial mutual alienation. Through considerable struggle, they find a common language. Most importantly, a mutual respect is born that looks beyond cultural differences. The film does not portray failure; this time, everyone leaves enriched. The noble character of the locals is revealed, while the "raging youth" gain a human face—becoming respectful in a way that is mutually recognized. One might criticize this as over-idealization, as the camps likely would have continued if everything had always gone this smoothly.

However, there is a further element that gives meaning to this idealization. The connections formed in the camp are not just between the motherland and the individuals, but also network-like among youth from various national backgrounds. The film accurately shows—since we are in the world of teenagers—that the first conflicts arise along the fault lines of youth subcultures. To help this "party-to-party" progression, we are treated to an excellent musical backdrop, including tracks by The Clash and Spandau Ballet. Thus, the youth experience not only the unifying bond of their Koreanness but also a broader, global sense of humanity through the breaking down of prejudices—all in the era before the internet. By the end, stereotypes melt away and subcultural costumes are shed. Simple, clear-faced young people head home, having formed lasting friendships and romances. The world is beautiful, and life is worth living. (We wouldn't mind having that 80s vibe back...)

The protagonists are primarily Western-born or raised Koreans. Not all of them are professional actors; interestingly, some were discovered via YouTube. Justin Chon (familiar from the Twilight Saga) stars alongside Jessika Van, Teo Yoo, Esteban Ahn, Rosalina Lee, and Kang Byul, while the teacher is played by Cha In-pyo.

The film had its world premiere at the 2015 Sundance Film Festival, where all three screenings were met with standing ovations.

Kang Woo-suk: SILMIDO (2003)

강우석: 실미도

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* Warning: This post contains spoilers! *

Silmido:
When Reality Outruns the Imagination

It is hardly an original realization that life often simply overwhelms human imagination. Yet, this cliché inevitably comes to the minds of travelers who, looking down from planes departing Incheon, point to the uninhabited Silmi Island and learn its history. The remnants still found on the island are mementos of a far wilder story than anything E. M. Nathanson, author of the novel that inspired The Dirty Dozen, could have ever devised.

A total media blackout surrounded the true events until 1990. Although the 2003 film Silmido directed the public's attention toward the history of Unit 684, it took another three years for the government to issue an official statement. This was linked to a lawsuit filed by the families of the unit's members against the government—a case they eventually won, resulting in a state settlement.

Unit 684—the name is telling, referring to April 1968, the month the detachment was formed. This was one of the most tense periods between North and South Korea. In January of that year, the most serious incident occurred: Northern commandos infiltrated the South with the intent of assassinating the president. Although the Blue House raid failed, the ensuing gunfight resulted in a high number of military and civilian casualties.

Following the principle of "an eye for an eye," the South decided on a forceful response. Under the auspices of the Air Force, they created Unit 684, whose covert mission was to liquidate the Northern leader, Kim Il-sung. Such a task was essentially a suicide mission; success required super-soldiers who were exceptionally motivated and trained far beyond average standards.

But who could be motivated by such an insane task? Only those who could be rescued from a living hell or the shadow of the death penalty by "volunteering." This offered not only the chance of mercy but the opportunity to live out the rest of their lives on a heroic pedestal. Thus, thirty-one men with troubled pasts—social outcasts to a man—found themselves on Silmi Island, along with a military training team that had also largely volunteered.

Sol Kyung-gu

What follows is the ruthless process of creating super-soldiers: a soul-crushing, body-breaking cycle of destruction and rebuilding through selected cruelties. The training sequences—taking place in mud, snow, air, or underwater—unfold like a frantic military action film, trampling over the bodies of those lost along the way. We hurtle toward the climax, where, after two years of physical and mental torment, we see 24 commandos with crazed eyes and ultimate determination, ready to pounce on their target. Simultaneously, we witness a parade of acting talent, as the elite unit members are portrayed by such significant actors as Sol Kyung-gu, Jung Jae-young, Kang Si-nil, Kang Sung-jin, Lim Won-hee, and Uhm Tae-woong.

Then, something utterly absurd and unimaginable happens: the order arrives to abort the mission. As relations between the two countries began to thaw and hardline political stances softened, the bloodthirsty elites were replaced by more diplomatic figures. The leader of the detachment—having endured two years of torture—is faced with the fact that the entire secret mission has suddenly become "uncomfortable" for the reigning political leadership.

Here, the film switches tracks from an action-drama to something closer to a psychological drama. We follow the unit members through the stages of realization leading to a fundamental question: since we have stood in the way of power to the point where even our existence must remain a secret, is there any chance of escape?

The order from Seoul plunges the military leaders on the island into a moral dilemma as well. The film highlights the unspoken, impossible bond forged between superiors and subordinates during the years of torture—a hard-won mutual respect where the "scum of society" regained a human face, and the trainers, despite their cruelties, involuntarily shared in the sub-human living conditions.

Ahn Sung-ki

The commander of the special mission, who dominates the island as a charismatic military leader, is portrayed by Ahn Sung-ki. His performance is most impactful when his character’s strength fails him, and he cannot grapple with the task imposed upon him due to moral considerations, ultimately shifting the burden onto others.

The final stage of the true events presented a difficult task for the filmmakers. While there were a few survivors among both the soldiers and the trainees, reliable information about the actual motives for the breakout remains scarce. The heroic ending chosen for the film is largely supported by the fact that the masters of political games played unscrupulously with human lives. No human being could experience a more terrible punishment than the attempt to erase all traces of their existence from the book of life. Possessed by this terrible realization, our super-warriors—now becoming sacrificial heroes—embark on their final, desperate struggle.

For the sake of historical accuracy, it should be noted that the four surviving rebels were sentenced to death and executed in 1972.

Director Kang Woo-suk

Under the direction of Kang Woo-suk, the members of the unit do not dissolve into a faceless mass. Many characters are given distinct identities, and the human games within and between the groups help the audience engage deeply with the story. Although the film never leans toward a documentary style and its ending cannot fully resist the temptation of heroic movie clichés, it nonetheless matures into a powerful manifesto against the implementation of political delusions. Silmido not only evokes the best genre precursors (such as Oliver Stone’s Platoon) but stands its ground honorably in competition with them.

In South Korea, this became the first film to attract more than 10 million viewers to the cinemas.