전수일: 히말라야, 바람이 머무는 곳
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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
