Lim Chan-sang: THE PRESIDENT'S BARBER (2004)

임찬상: 효자동 이발사

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

* Warning: This post contains spoilers! *

The President's Barber:
A Bitter Allegory of the "Cunning Fear"

It is by no means rare for Korean films to refer back to a legendary (mostly American) predecessor. The President's Barber does exactly this, evoking Forrest Gump not only in its perspective and atmosphere but also by repeating its pseudo-documentary technique at one point—inserting the protagonist into actual historical newsreel footage.

While Forrest Gump views history through the eyes of a somewhat simple-minded young man, director Lim Chan-sang (who also wrote the screenplay) presents events through a double filter: the father's story is narrated by his son. This approach carries two potential layers of distortion. The first stems from how the father perceived and understood the world, while the second arises from the son—who, though narrating as a grown man, gathered his memories as a small child. Thus, these memories are seared with the father's reactions, his explanations, and how the boy saw his father.

In both films, this unique perspective becomes a source of humor, though Lim's film explores much greater extremes and can be described as a highly bizarre comedy, completely lacking the lightheartedness that permeates Forrest Gump.

Although the opening title warns that we are seeing a fictional story with invented characters, the film’s historical tableau faithfully charts the history of South Korea’s recent past—specifically the period between 1960 and 1979, covering Park Chung-hee's rise to power, the preceding elections, and the duration of his presidency.

Historical evaluations frequently point out the profound ambivalence Koreans feel regarding this era and President Park's legacy. Despite being a heavy-handed dictator, he was later ranked among the three greatest heroes in the nation's history, largely due to the economic success achieved under his leadership. The film mirrors this duality: it candidly depicts the bloody mechanisms of the dictatorship, yet it does not portray the President—played by Jo Yeong-jin—as a repulsive tyrant.

The film's protagonist is Song Han-mo, who initially positions himself well geographically by operating his barbershop in the immediate vicinity of the Blue House (the presidential palace). Hanmo does not dwell much on world affairs; he simply relies on the opinions and guidance of the loudmouths in his environment. He even acquires a wife in a rather "practical" manner that today might be termed assault. The first shock to the audience occurs when we see Hanmo attempting to get his laboring wife to a hospital amidst the chaos of a breaking uprising. It is unsettling how the director could create a comedic scene based on situational humor while live ammunition is mowed into protesters. Here, one might think that the aforementioned double filter is the explanation—that we are not seeing mere gratuitous dark comedy, but rather the son remembering the story of his birth as told by his father.

The first part of the film is chilling not necessarily because of the concrete events, but because of how Song Kang-ho portrays the constant psychological "state of alert" of his character. This stems from the intimidation felt by the average person of that era, who never knew at what moment they might slip up in front of those in power, their servants, or potential informants. The privileged position he gains as the President’s barber only intensifies this constant tension. This vulnerability occasionally degrades Hanmo (and all "subjects" like him) into a completely infantile state when the terror of the despots seeks to humiliate or annihilate their personality (as seen in the military drill scene).

It never becomes clear how much Song Han-mo truly understands of everything he witnesses over the years. What we see in him is primarily a change in temperament; Hanmo never reaches the point of rebellion, but his mood becomes increasingly overcast. Despite a shop providing a satisfactory living and his proximity to the hearth of power, according to the nature of autocracies, no one is safe. An act of current politics tramples into the life of Hanmo’s family, directly endangering his son's life. The film uses an absurd situation to show how "cunning fear" nullifies normal human roles (as the father’s servility makes him an active participant in handing his son over to the police) and renders solidarity between common people impossible (despite being an old acquaintance, the man Hanmo entrusts his son to betrays them).

The most difficult scene to unravel is the interrogation of the child, the very fact of which is an absurdity. It appears as though they are treating him gently; in fact, a massive party ensues where everyone seems to be having a good time amidst flashing lights, including the boy, who fails to grasp what is happening. While one can see the senseless indulgence of power and the "voluntarily, with relish" sickness of its servants in this scene, this far from provides a satisfactory explanation. We are clearly seeing a symbolic scene, which is also a turning point in the film. While up to this point one could watch the film simply as the biography of Barber Song, what follows leaves no doubt that it carries hidden, allegorical meaning. I struggled to understand this, thinking I might lack some specific knowledge of a Korean trait. Thus, I researched more thoroughly until I found a surprising but very plausible approach in a brief university paper by Clark W. Sorensen. [1]

Psychology recognizes so-called culture-bound syndromes—illnesses that occur only within specific nations. Among these is a somatization disorder unique to Koreans called hwabyeong (anger illness). This is a mental disorder that arises when people are forced to suppress their anger felt toward situations or phenomena perceived as unjust, unfair, or dishonest. Among the many therapeutic possibilities for this disease, which causes a thousand symptoms, is han-puri—the replacement of negative emotions with positive ones in the hope of release, loosening, unfolding, and forgiveness. The cultural roots of han-puri run deep in Korea, reaching back to shamanism, but also touching upon Christianity.

This process may be the explanation for the film’s peculiar solutions infused with humor, which the director applies when evoking the most tragic situations. While we may still call what we see a dark comedy, the goal is far from entertainment (this also applies to the aforementioned labor/uprising scene).

Yet, the end of the "soft" sequence of scenes is the same as the original event: the son—who, alone in the film, had bravely spoken out and demanded the truth—becomes paralyzed.

The second half of the film is a "Canossa walk," in which the father carries his son on his back from doctor to doctor in the hope of a cure. What a child means to a parent needs no explanation, but we can safely expand the image: if we interpret Hanmo as a representative of his generation, then the weight of the entire next generation, embodied in his son, and the possibility of their healthy life, is loaded onto his shoulders. It is no coincidence that so much emphasis is placed on choosing the child’s name at the beginning of the film. The father finally decides on Nakan, which predestines a happy, peaceful, and long life for the young man born exactly on the day of the April Revolution.

In this context, it is easier to interpret why they must travel this arduous path and find the guardian of withdrawn wisdom, from whom they receive the "diagnosis" that reinforces the broader interpretation: the ascetic can heal the boy's body, but only the father can mend his soul.

The sage’s difficult-to-interpret words then assign a task to the father: "On the other side of the river, a large snake has turned into a dragon, and the child manages to struggle with the burden of its claws. When the dragon dies in a few years, it will be bid farewell in a car covered with chrysanthemums at its funeral. Carve out the dragon's eye and boil it with the dried chrysanthemum."

It is possible that the dragon's eye itself carries symbolic meaning (as the dragon is a symbol of higher power in both its good and evil forms), but it is certain that the chrysanthemum is a symbol of wealth and long life, and in Korean (kukhwa), it also signifies the national flower.

The moment of enlightenment comes for Hanmo after many years, when the instructions given by the healer coincide with the President's death. Hanmo must face his own fear when he gazes into the dragon's eye. But he does it, and by doing so, he regains his lost dignity.

What the film does from this point on is unprecedented. Director Lim links the deeper layer of interpretation to frantic, laughter-inducing sequences actually visible on screen. Hanmo does not become a hero, yet—in a literal sense—the key to the solution is suffered through his own body. The dictator stubbornly remains at his side until Hanmo "gives birth" to the "solution" that leads to the fulfillment of the ascetic’s prophecy. Hanmo will no longer be a plaything of power, even if his "insolence" entails retaliation, which simultaneously brings liberation.

Director Lim Chan-sang

Lim Chan-sang’s film is marvelous. From the initial, perhaps not particularly interesting events, he imperceptibly slides the film into an allegory of the victorious struggle fought by the Korean people. Despite all its profanity, the film evokes an uplifting feeling. Beside the director, Song Kang-ho contributes most to this, as his acting possesses a strange secret and magic through which he can ennoble his simple characters, stumbling through everyday life, into something sublime. In the role of the wife, Moon So-ri unfortunately only gets to flash her talent in one or two scenes. However, the child actor playing the son growing up throughout the story, Lee Jae-eung, remains memorable.

According to Sorensen’s writing, the film is full of small elements that only a domestic audience can fully enjoy, as they are lost in translation to other languages. One such example is the honorific term used for the dictator in the aforementioned disciplinary scene, "yongan," which Hanmo suddenly cannot interpret, as it is primarily used in historical dramas to mean "the King's face."

The film even finds the time to insert the "interlude" of the Vietnam War into the story, illuminating the true nature of the relationship between American and Korean soldiers. Jingi, the barber’s assistant (Ryu Seung-soo), returns from the "great adventure" having lost his illusions.

While the film attempts to hide specific references to real-life figures, besides the President (Jo Yeong-jin), two figures from the power rivalry raging within the Blue House are accurately identifiable. The internal struggle between Cha Ji-chul (Jang Hyeoksoo in the film), head of the presidential security service, and Kim Jae-gyu (Park Jongman in the film), head of the Korean CIA, eventually led to Kim killing both the President and Cha. We see them portrayed by two excellent actors; Park Yong-soo is able to convey the growing madness of the CIA chief in his few scenes, driven there by the manipulator head of security. In the role of the latter, Son Byung-ho shaped this cold-blooded, ruthless figure with bone-chilling authenticity—a less elegant but even more corrupt version of which he would later bring to life to great admiration in the 2019 TV series Welcome 2 Life.

Among numerous excellent supporting actors, we can also thank Oh Dal-su for a great character.

Due to the film's peculiar style, it may be polarizing for viewers, but I absolutely recommend watching it.



____________________________________________________________

[1] Clark W. Sorensen: The President's Barber, Modern Korean Society, December 12, 2015

Kim Do-young: KIM JI-YOUNG, BORN 1982 (2019)

김도영: 82년생 김지영

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Kim Ji-young, Born 1982:
The Silent Scream of a Generation

We see the hurried, routine movements of never-ending housework in an apartment on one of the upper floors of a modern, high-rise housing estate. Then, for a few minutes of rest, the young woman escapes to the balcony. A beautiful, young face stares expressionlessly into the great empty void; her eyes close as she seeks inner peace, but a voice suddenly calls out from the room: "Mommy!" And on the face of the woman turning back, a warm, maternal smile already shines.

The opening credits follow.

The theme chosen by director KIM Do-young—who is a woman herself and was not afraid to stir up a hornet's nest—could not be introduced more precisely. The film's latent backstory leads back several years. CHO Nam-joo, a screenwriter for a former TV series, wrote a novel fueled by her own life experiences, which was published in 2016. In Korea, this is considered the first feminist literary work, sparking a vivid debate on social media. Some welcomed it, but the vast majority rejected it with indignation. However, in May 2018, the leader of the Justice Party gifted the book to President Moon Jae-in with a recommendation, causing interest to explode. Since November 2018, the novel has sold more than a million copies.

A year later, in October 2019, the film adaptation was released, reviving the old debates. Yet, the changing times and the shaping of people's perspectives also aided in rethinking these issues.

After the opening credits, we see the husband, who is seeking help from a psychologist for his wife, although we are not yet informed about the nature of the problem or why he is doing so. The situation itself is extraordinary, as we know from many other sources that in Korea, it is still not a generally accepted practice to consult a professional for mental health issues. Later, we learn that his wife is depressed, and her condition is accompanied by a strange symptom: she occasionally speaks in the voices of other people without being aware of it.

The subsequent scenes of the film provide a catalog of the sexist manifestations raining down on young mothers and women in general. Men shamelessly make comments about them, calling women who stay at home to raise their children "parasites" and "do-nothings," and as we learn from the wife during a family dinner, even doctors are no exception. However, we are observing the life of a modern family where the man does not resemble the aforementioned peers. He helps with childcare, attends to his wife with loving care, and feels antipathy toward the bigoted, prejudiced thinking of his male colleagues. He seeks the help that can lead his wife out of trouble and understands that roles can occasionally be reversed—a man can also be a stay-at-home father if his wife's professional fulfillment and career require it.

But before we reach that point, we first receive a detailed portrait of both their families. There is the man's stubborn, old-fashioned, aggressive mother, whose thinking is entirely captive to the most traditional, hierarchical extended family model. In this family, they live the life inherited from their ancestors without question, and the mother, with foolish confidence, strives to destroy any differing aspirations. Every word of hers is a poisoned sting, which she directs with a certain relish toward the weakest link: her youngest daughter-in-law.

The woman's family is far more complex. Extremes can be measured against the mother as a point of origin, for here too, the view of men's greater value and subsequent privilege is present, but not unchallengeably—the mother herself is already rebelling against it, and the youth are brave enough to make it a subject of ruthless humor. In this family, the most important realizations are born, and they prove capable of helping one another.

Director Kim Do-young

The film introduces us to the order of workplace hierarchies through the depiction of different timelines, showcasing a serious collection of inequalities and tasteless quips. Alongside these, it presents the strategies that enable women's survival in a humiliating environment that continuously discriminates against them. Finally, the mention of the illegal sex market infiltrating workplaces via hidden cameras is not omitted, nor are the sexual abuses faced by young girls in public places.

Extremely important statements are made in the film, formulated quite directly. Perhaps the most significant among them is that women's lives are worth as much as men's; through the efforts invested in their studies, they have worked just as hard for their advancement as men have. Director KIM Do-young occasionally uses humor to make us understand the absurdity of things. In one scene, a group of women report on the studies they pursued and how they use the knowledge acquired through years of investment. We laugh along with the actress who can only capitalize on her degree through a dramatized performance of Snow White for her child, but we cannot avoid reflecting on how many different failed life plans are sitting around that table.

Despite all this, the film avoids becoming a didactic moral tale, as the invoked phenomena blend into the main current of the story, which concentrates ever more deeply on how the couple overcomes the crisis. The greatest feat is that the wife manages to rid herself of the internalized compulsion to conform, which shackles her true self. She dares to acknowledge the sense of lack she feels regarding the fulfillment of her personality. Healing is simultaneously a process of finding herself, at the end of which—even if in a manner different from the original plans—the self-aware, successful Kim Jiyoung is born.

GONG Yoo, in the role of the husband, portrays a character we still rarely see in Korean films. He no longer represents the paternalistic head of the family providing for his members, but rather a partner who empathizes, thinks alongside his wife, and seeks his own responsibility in the events. We will long remember the scene in which his previously hidden anxiety breaks through the emotional dams.

In the role of the wife, JUNG Yumi displays an interesting duality: her ethereally fragile being remains practical throughout. Her courage is fueled by her sense of responsibility, and her key scene is beautiful—the one in which, in her most lost moments, she summons her old, confident self, whose firm steps the director visualizes for us. These steps set our heroine on the path at the end of which we can meet this confident woman again, now in reality.

The film also shows that not only the couple is changing, but the social environment as well. The wife's younger brother is an important character in this regard; despite his pampered upbringing, he slowly sees through the limitations of his father's thinking and recognizes the unfair neglect his sister suffers. Something is dawning on the father himself, though his wife had to engage in a serious confrontation with him for that to happen. Beyond the micro-environment of families, changes are also inevitable at the macro-level of society; this is indicated by the workplace training sequences, where the males yearning for their prerogatives acknowledge, with a slight wince, that they must switch to a different gear.

Lee Han: INNOCENT WITNESS (2019)

이한: 증인

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Innocent Witness:
Purity in the Midst of a Trial

The simple Korean title, Witness, receives an addition in the English version: Innocent Witness. At first glance, this seems somewhat redundant; after all, what else could a witness be but innocent? Moreover, from the perspective of their testimony, whether they are innocent or not is entirely indifferent. However, the word "innocent" has multiple meanings, and thus, besides guiltlessness, it can also refer to purity and incorruptibility.

The central figure of our courtroom drama is the sole witness to a crime, making her testimony decisive for both the prosecution and the defense. The catch, however, is that the witness is a minor—a 15-year-old girl. Yet, this is not the true difficulty; the challenge lies in her condition: she is autistic, specifically living with Asperger syndrome.

Although we are presented with a flawlessly executed courtroom story, the twists—while interesting—may feel familiar from many other tales. Proving the defendant's innocence or guilt becomes merely a frame for another story: the personal drama of the prosecutor. We could list numerous examples of a talented young professional committed to bettering the world being approached by "dark forces," where the question is whether they surrender or take up the fight against them. What makes this film unique is the building of the connection between the prosecutor and the witness, and all the lessons of this mutual process, which go far beyond their individual story. Much like its famous predecessor, Rain Man, this film is a manifesto for a group of people whom we are not only prone to misunderstand but perhaps never truly get to know at all.

The prosecutor must study autism and discover how to communicate with the girl. The defense lawyer competes for the same goal; although he appears conspicuously clumsy in the courtroom, he starts with an "advantage" on this field, as his brother is also autistic, giving him substantial knowledge and experience in this area. The prosecutor, however, is persistent and relentless for the sake of the goal; he learns and creatively applies what he has acquired. Yet, he does not expect to receive something in return—something he might not have been capable of alone: help in facing himself. Meanwhile, we learn about the autistic girl's fears, behavioral peculiarities, and extraordinary abilities. We see how her environment—the "normal" world—relates to her. The prosecutor's understanding and deep humanity are required for there to be two moral victors at the end of the story. This outcome is predictable, but it is not the film's most important message, as that is packaged within the process itself.

The two lead actors who guide us through this process are true heavyweights. Jung Woo-sung has never had a role that didn't radiate an immensely natural simplicity—from the warrior in Musa through the husband in A Moment to Remember to his current performance, which is once again stunning in this regard. He is capable of conveying complex emotions with subtle nuances. A memorable example of this is how we can read from his facial expression what he truly feels regarding his self-sacrifice for his father.

In the first scene featuring the girl playing the witness, Kim Hyang-gi, the feeling that I was watching an actress briefly flashed through me, but she made me forget this in moments, so deeply did she become one with the character. She portrayed the various symptoms with marvelous precision, as well as the determination with which she wanted to break out of their spell—since many people with Asperger's are aware of their own condition. The exceptionally young actress, who already possesses a significant cinematic background (including lead roles in A Werewolf Boy and Snowy Road), was able to convey the pains of Jiwoo's realizations and the inner strength with which she was able to rise above them in a heart-wrenching way.

Director Lee Han

The supporting actors are excellent without exception. In the role of the prosecutor's father, Kim Jong-soo provides a performance worthy of an award. Jiwoo's mother (Jang Youngnam) also carves into our memory the image of a loving and accepting mother who is proud of her extraordinary child. In the role of the defendant, Yum Hye-ran is convincing in every aspect of the character. Alongside the witness, the defense lawyer—portrayed by Lee Kyu-hyung—also earns the "innocent" label, as his purity and commitment are felt behind his fumbling throughout.

From director Lee Han, we received a smooth, enjoyable film that is simultaneously an extremely disciplined work. It shows exactly as much of everything as is necessary, leaning neither toward thrills nor sentimentality. Instead, we receive a precisely told story (co-authored by Moon Jiwon), with tension well-maintained throughout and images rich in emotion. The film deservedly received a multitude of nominations and awards.

Kim Yoon-seok: ANOTHER CHILD (2019)

김윤석: 미성년

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Another Child:
The Painful Birth of Maturity

Had I not known the director's identity, I would have bet on this being the work of a female director, given the rich arsenal of feminine nuances presented throughout the film. But this was not the case; in fact, quite the contrary, as we have previously seen director Kim Yoon-seok primarily as an actor in roles within decidedly masculine, often grim stories (The Chaser, The Yellow Sea, The Fortress, 1987: When the Day Comes, etc.). This exceptionally rich acting career reached its turning point after nearly a quarter of a century when Kim Yoon-seok stepped behind the camera to create his debut film as writer-director.

The film's original title is 미성년 (Miseongnyeon), which means "underage," but in the context of our film, it primarily signifies "immaturity." This points out how carefully one should handle English titles, as they can lead the original content astray. Another Child suggests that the focus of the story lies in some sort of conflict surrounding or between children, which is partly true. However, what the Korean title emphasizes is far more important: immaturity. The central problem of the film is the investigation of how we can live our lives as mature, adult human beings, or how we can grow into that task.

Director Kim Yoon-seok

How easy it is to grasp and savor the secret pleasures offered by a situation, especially when compensating for a void created by a cooling relationship! And how suddenly oppressive it becomes when being caught forces one to face how many lives are deeply affected by what was thought to be a lighthearted game!

The characters of our story form two very different families. The male member of a well-to-do couple (portrayed by the director, Kim Yoon-seok, himself) strays and pursues a secret affair with a female member of another, broken family (Kim So-jin). Each family has a teenage daughter (Kim Hye-jun, Park Se-jin) who attend the same school and come into contact due to the revelation of the secret relationship. Initially, of course, their interaction is extremely hostile, exacerbated by the social divide between them. They are forced to face a shocking fact: not only did their parents stray, but as an irrevocable consequence of the liaison, the arrival of a baby is expected.

Soon, everyone must face the new situation. The adolescent girls carry a double burden; understanding and emotionally processing the situation would be difficult enough to accelerate their own process of becoming adults, but on top of this comes the experience of discovering their parents' true personalities—which can hardly be called a cloudless revelation.

However, despite their prominent central position, the two girls are not the only focus of the film; we receive a portrait of the other characters that is just as nuanced. There is the unhappy mother-figure of the "complete" family (Yum Jung-ah), who tries to master her own emotional misery with a deep breath and, gathering strength, starts toward something amidst the ruins. There is the spineless father, who has no idea what to do with the situation he created and only wants to flee from himself and everyone else. There is the mistress expecting the child, whose fatal naivety led her once again into an irresponsible relationship, and who feigns emotional blindness to deflect the unfolding chaos. Adults by age stand opposite their children, but the real question is: who proves to be more mature—the parents or the daughters?

The beauty of this film is that no character remains static; everyone ascends a step higher on the path of self-knowledge and the recognition and understanding of the other's situation, even if great differences remain. We do not know if forgiveness will be born between those who sinned against one another, but the film does not play for such theatrical solutions. It is far more important that, despite everything that happened, the characters speak to one another. Everyone with everyone, because—as in the intricate and brilliant scripts of Korean dramas—in this story, all involved parties come into direct contact.

In the final outcome, however, a generational fracture is recognizable—the director seems to cast more votes of confidence for the youth, who must stand their ground not only for themselves but for their ancestors as well. The final scene can hold many interpretations; its shocking content most strongly indicates that we are dealing with a symbolic message. One possibility for unraveling it is that the director is packaging sacred content into a profane execution: the three children seem to become siblings to one another through a ritual similar to a blood pact, becoming allies in a defensive and defiant league for accepting the responsibilities that come with life.

A further merit of the film is the abundance of cinematic references that speak without words about social relations and situations: the workplace revelry in the opening scene, the figure of the drunken man hitting on a minor next to his mistress in the shop scene, the portrayal of the couple's estranged life, the presentation of the wife's economic status through the fact that all family assets are in the husband's name, the portrait of the biased teacher—the list could go on. It is striking that there is no positive male figure in the story, as both father figures are inadequate not only for the parental task but also for navigating life. This is why we may feel that the straying husband's apology carries no emotional catharsis. This is particularly interesting when compared with the story's inadequate mother figure: the woman fleeing from her own responsibility into almost simple-mindedness eventually receives the opportunity for her mask to fall, and in her case, we feel the tragedy of her pain.

Although every conflict in the film is universal and thus perfectly familiar to us, it may still remain with us as a lingering question: what is it that gives us a sense of "otherness"? This is not easy to answer, for the explanation may lie not in the film itself but in the underlying cultural characteristics—explaining why we might marvel at the characters' reactions and interactions. For while jealousy, anger, and despair are present—all the negative emotions stemming from the situation—somehow these do not become dominant. There are no large egos that would break down or stage a "grand scene." Instead, a solidarity born from a peculiar empathy grows stronger, which not only brings the characters of the conflicts to the same table but even triggers gestures of care toward the opponent—at least as far as the female characters are concerned. Although this may not have been the director's explicit intention, it is through this culmination that the film became an exceptional experience for me. I sincerely hope that in his future works, the scale, which currently seems to tip in favor of women in the portrayal of genders, will become balanced.

Jang Jae-hyun: SVAHA: THE SIXTH FINGER (2019)

장재현: 사바하

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Svaha: The Sixth Finger –
A Gothic Cathedral of Occult Mysteries

Films dealing with supernatural forces always command great interest. No matter how materialistic one may be, there is hardly a person who never wonders: why are we here on Earth? What forces define or direct our existence, and where do these forces originate? When these seemingly purely philosophical questions appear on the screen coupled with occultism and mysticism, they carry the promise of a "shiver factor."

Svaha: The Sixth Finger does exactly this: it lifts the veil on the secrets of an occult community while subjecting the viewer to the thrills of a thriller—tracking mysteries while nodding toward horror effects as well.

It appears that director Jang Jae-hyun is strongly attracted to religious themes, particularly mysticism. His first feature film as a director, The Priests, already gave a taste of this, where the theme of exorcism met Rosicrucian mysticism. Svaha: The Sixth Finger is the director's second major film, and it is a "big" film in the literal sense—at least according to the director's intentions. It is like a Gothic work of art: building from numerous elements, it soars ever higher until it finally reveals itself as a massive, complex structure. The film is impressive because of this, yet this is also its greatest flaw. As viewers, we fare much like observers of a gigantic cathedral: we are mesmerized by the sight throughout, but we cannot easily grasp the building's structure.

Director Jang Jae-hyun

It is very rare for me to have to watch a film a second time to interpret and organize its many details into a coherent context. Perhaps the fault was not exclusively with my own frequency; the director seems to have been carried away by fervor, cramming everything—and I mean everything—that occurred to him regarding the subject into the screenplay. The story runs on multiple threads, and as a result, these threads are occasionally dropped; then, just as we have almost forgotten them, they unexpectedly reappear. Furthermore, there are threads that function merely as "ornamental elements," having otherwise nothing to do with the core tapestry of the structure.

Yet the fundamental events are not overly complicated—at least, once organized, they do not appear so.

There exists a religious community presenting itself as Buddhist, which preaches occult doctrines not sanctioned by the religion. Behind the community, the figure of a mysterious individual emerges, who has shaped secret doctrines to his own image and needs—doctrines that his followers pursue with the blindness characteristic of sects, carrying out his instructions.

An institute for the study of Eastern religions, which undertakes the task of uncovering such covertly operating sects, tracks the community. In its charming, somewhat trendy-looking, rationally profit-driven leader, endowed with a good sense of humor—Pastor Park (Lee Jung-jae)—we encounter the film's central character, whose faith, if not yet completely shaken, is already saturated with considerable skepticism. The investigation brings him and one of the community's secret leaders, Nahan (Park Jung-min), together while they both find the same girl, Geumhwa (Lee Jae-in), who is the next potential victim of the sect’s activities.

Lee Jung-jae

From this point on—though on separate paths—both are on the trail of the deepest secrets, for the full truth remains unknown to both. And the result will be shocking for everyone.

This basic plot gains numerous refinements through the screenplay, unfolding and showing many rich details. The most important of these is the world of the girl, which is the strongest source of mysticism in the film. The mysterious, genderless being born as her twin sister serves as an excellent subject for generating horror effects as long as we see it as a monster. However, even at the film's conclusion, we receive no real explanation as to who she truly is. While it is possible that for those well-versed in Eastern religions and mysticism, one of the many references provided a clue, Western viewers likely would have appreciated a bit more help. This unanswered question leaves a void in the viewer, as the change in the character's interpretive sign is very interesting on one hand, while its final scene radiates a bizarre beauty on the other. Because of this, the strange behavior of the girl's other family members—particularly the grandmother’s continuous, self-flagellating penance—becomes difficult to interpret. However, it should be highlighted that both Geumhwa and her twin sister are brought to life by Lee Jae-in, who was barely fifteen years old at the time of filming.

Lee Jae-in

The twisting of shamanism into the story can also be considered an atmospheric element, which ultimately becomes nothing more than a backdrop to facilitate the chills. This is true to some extent for the appearance of the Tibetan sacred leader as well. Although we do receive an important piece of information from him for the investigation, the role of the entire sequence of scenes is like a dead end from which one must turn back. The portrayal of the police force as powerless and unimaginative feels somewhat like a cinematic cliché, even in the scene where the police detective realizes what he failed to recognize in time due to his own stubborn incompetence (despite Jung Jin-young's performance making this supporting character very memorable).

The film also contains references that are less obvious to us than to the local audience. One such curiosity is that the old photograph of Kim Jeseok in the film is not a picture made of the cinematic character, but a photo of the anti-Japanese independence activist Na Cheol, who was the founder of one of the religious movements categorized under the umbrella term "Daejongism," part of Korean shamanism. Notably, due to the film's half-minute official trailer, several active sects also felt targeted, including the Shincheonji Church of Jesus, which became known to us in connection with its role in the spread of the Covid-19 virus.

Strange as it may be, horror films often do not lack poetic qualities, and this is true for certain parts of Svaha as well. We see unexpectedly beautiful and lyrical images in the film, even if their content is chilling (such as the deer running across the snowy landscape). The term "chilling" applies to the film as a whole, which was shot in winter; snow, the soft silence of the snowy landscape, and the blue colors of winter dominate the entire movie, while the visible breaths seem to shroud the entire landscape in mist.

What the director does absolutely brilliantly, however, is allowing for the earthly presence of divine forces. The investigation does not lead solely to prosaic explanations but unmasks beings living among us who possess supernatural powers. These divine beings, however, are projections of very human qualities—selfish or self-sacrificing, harmful or protective in intent. They push forward on their own paths at the cost of trampling human lives, and this polytheistic world of gods stands in contrast to the Christian faith, whose symbol, the cross, continuously dominates the center of the cinema screen whenever we are sitting in the religion researcher’s car. It is no coincidence that the deepest question of every believer erupts from him as the film's conclusion: If there is a true God, where is He now? How can He allow all this?

As a final summary, I would say that Svaha is worth the time invested, despite all the aforementioned problems. Director Jang Jae-hyun navigates vulnerable religious questions with confidence and equally masters the film as a whole; if he continues on this path, he may establish himself among the significant directors of the genre.

Finally, the curiosity of the title: what does "svaha" mean? It is a word of Sanskrit origin that marks the end of mantras in Hinduism and Buddhism; its function is roughly equivalent to "amen," and its meaning hovers somewhere between "well spoken" and "so be it." We can hear this expression in the mantra recited by Nahan as well.

Yeon Sang-ho: PSYCHOKINESIS (2018)

연상호: 염력

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Psychokinesis:
A Disjointed Flight from a Master of Genre

It might sound a bit foolish, but I like watching movies "blindly." For me, this means knowing nothing in advance about the film; I have no idea what it is about, its genre, who the director is, etc. In such cases, one's sensors work much better; perception is not dulled by trust or distrust granted in advance based on the previous performances of the filmmakers or actors. This was the case when I randomly clicked on this interestingly titled film on Netflix, and I didn't bother much with scanning the Korean-language credits at the beginning of the movie either.

Previously, I gave my film reviews the name "Brief," and I shall remain entirely faithful to that now. Although I watched an overall watchable and quite entertaining film, featuring the enjoyable acting of the male lead, Ryu Seung-ryong, a question grew steadily within me: why on earth am I watching this? It has a clichéd frame story—the umpteenth version of the clash between local residents and evil, calculating real estate developers—which adds nothing to what has been seen before on the subject. It is an unbalanced mix of tragedy (the mother's death) and comedy (the closing scene, in particular, feels detached from the rest of the film).

The initial interest (a completely average "good man" gaining superhero abilities by chance) is exhausted rather quickly because, in reality, the clash between the two sides—no matter how unequal the power dynamics—does not actually require superhero intervention. The initial learning of possessing superhero powers is a source of pleasant humor; however, their full-force deployment and the resulting damage are jarring—at once disproportionate and quite ridiculous, but rather in the sense of being pathetically funny.

It seems that possessing superhero abilities has only one real benefit: it manages to restore the relationship between father and daughter. Yet, at the same time, this is one of the falsest notes the film strikes; for if the father can achieve nothing with his daughter through his human qualities, then what are we really talking about?

Director Yeon Sang-ho

The real shock came when I realized who the writer-director of the film was. It is none other than Yeon Sang-ho, the director of the hard-hitting animated films dissecting social issues (The King of Pigs, The Fake) and Train to Busan, which stirred the stagnant waters of the zombie genre—all of which I hold in high regard.

Reviews generally attempt to see a genre-renewing experiment in this work as well—in this case, the superhero-action genre. In my opinion, we are very far from that, and though with regret, I see Psychokinesis rather as a forgettable attempt, which could certainly use a small donation from its protagonist’s abilities to be able to fly, rather than just falling to the ground with broken wings.

But let us draw a veil over it; one does not always have to create something perfect. Not even an excellence like Yeon Sang-ho, from whom we can hardly wait to see Peninsula.

Lee Chang-dong: OASIS (2002)

이창동: 오아시스

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Oasis:
A Miraculous Refuge in a Social Desert

A few SPOILERS are inevitable; therefore, those new viewers who wish to experience this work with the power of novelty—despite it already being a piece of cinematic history—should read no further until after viewing the film.

An oasis represents life and a place of rescue for the wanderers of the desert. An oasis is an earthly paradise that travelers of this world seek to reach, though not everyone can succeed. An oasis is a tapestry on the wall of a bleak apartment, from which tangled shadows frighten away the earthly traveler crawling within the room.

If it were a fairy tale, perhaps Lee Chang-dong’s story would be about whether the oasis comes to life and steps off the wall to offer shelter to those yearning for it? If it were a documentary drama, perhaps Lee Chang-dong’s story would tell us that we can create an oasis through our own efforts. However, Lee Chang-dong chooses neither; instead, he grants the viewers a unique piece of luck: he shows both by embedding a melodrama within a socio-drama.

Director Lee Chang-dong

If we continue to work with the symbolism derived from the title, then the real world is the equivalent of the desert. If not in the literal sense, it is certainly the terrain of emotional desolation.

Could one choose protagonists in a more marginalized position than what Lee Chang-dong does?

Our male lead is a man recently released from prison. We soon receive numerous nuances of his restless being. He is an annoying, disturbing, asocial figure, incapable not only of integration but even of basic adaptation. He is portrayed by Sol Kyung-gu, who, as an actor, devises the manifestation of this inability to integrate as a form of physical nervousness: the constantly fidgeting figure wanders aimlessly like an alien element, perpetually snagged in the stable rotation of everyday life.

The female lead fares no better, though the director grants her an exceptionally beautiful, lyrical introduction: before we see her physical reality, he reveals her soul. After the beauty comes the shock: the girl is doubly imprisoned. She cannot move out of the apartment, as she is a captive of her dysfunctionally operating body. Her attempts to break free are signaled by spasmodic contortions, which are strange reflections of the male protagonist’s nervous physical tremors. Regarding Moon So-ri’s performance, it is perhaps enough to say that just as in me, the same question arose in a fellow viewer during the first scenes: are we seeing an actress, or a person truly severely restricted in movement and speech?

We arrive through seemingly linear events to a stomach-turning scene in which the man almost commits sexual violence against the defenseless girl. However, Lee Chang-dong again shows something that can be interpreted both directly and symbolically. Beside the man on his way to the scene of the act, he places a "Danger" sign, which the man kicks over on his way back.

From this point, the story takes a massive turn. Although in a sordid manner, something important has occurred in the girl’s life: it was noticed that she exists. It was noticed that she is a woman. When, driven by curiosity, she contacts the man, he experiences the same: someone has noticed that he exists; someone is curious about who he truly is.

Thus, they become each other’s Princess and General, stepping over every deeply rooted social norm and expectation. It is not long before the skeletons fall out of the family closets, and we learn the truth regarding our despised and vulnerable heroes.

Hypocritical society, however, does not easily allow its rules to be overturned. After the unexpectedly exposed intimate situation, it is not even a matter of the family members or the authorities weighing what actually happened, as the possibility of multiple interpretations does not even arise.

Love, or even companionship, suddenly appears as a privilege belonging to those in the "normal" world, which is not granted to "deviant" figures. Neither the man nor the woman can protect themselves or their relationship, but they can still do one thing: send messages to one another.

Though the penance must be paid for the "sin," the return already takes place into the oasis. Specifically, into an oasis tended in the hope of a future shared home.

Lee Chang-dong, however, does not only direct his spotlights onto the hypocritical functioning of society. Both protagonists undergo internal personality development, in which they learn to commit, to take responsibility, to accept—and perhaps even to like themselves a little.

Alongside the naturalistic acting, we receive powerful sequences of images in which numerous close-ups involve the viewers in the film's living space. The colors of the scenes lean mainly toward grays and browns; they are often dimly lit, occasionally cold neon blue. The interior spaces, whether apartments or otherwise, are somewhat cluttered everywhere, as if we were constantly walking through disorganized warehouses, with various items piled upon one another. Naturally, lyrical sequences are not missing either; in these, the lights occasionally shine bright. However, even the scenes showing the unfolding of the couple’s romantic relationship radiate loneliness, as there is not a single witness anywhere.

Although the film is not easy to watch, it is an uplifting work that radiates hope. After its release, it was deservedly followed by a shower of awards and the love of the audience. The director made Oasis with the same two actors from his previous film, Peppermint Candy. The 59th Venice International Film Festival brought the greatest international recognition, where the film, the director, and Moon So-ri took home a total of four awards.

Cho Jung-rae: SPIRITS' HOMECOMING (2016)

조정래: 귀향

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Spirits' Homecoming:
75,200 Hearts for the Souls of the Lost

75,200.
Let us savor this number for a moment: how vast is it? What scale do we envision when we imagine that many people acting with a single will? In the case of Spirits' Homecoming, this is how many individuals contributed through donations to ensure the completion of a film that had been halted several times due to financial difficulties.

Following World War II, one had to wait until the 1980s for one of the darkest secrets afflicting the civilian population to come to light. This did not happen overnight; rather, as a long, drawn-out process, the details were revealed, and from the mosaics of stories provided by women testifying about their past, the full picture finally emerged.

By 2015, the story of the "comfort women"—abducted women taken to the military's secret brothels to satisfy the sexual desires of Japanese soldiers—had become known not only to Koreans but also on an international level. Many were still mere children, young girls—perhaps the most vulnerable on the blood-soaked tactical table of men's war games.

The greatest treasure of any nation is its generation of children. What emotions, what intensities of passion must have driven the fathers and mothers of the adult generation to do everything in their power—in hopes of creating a memorial and seeking restitution through film—for those victims who lived generations ago, yet remained forever the collective children of them all? Even the premiere did not go smoothly, as distributors were reluctant to screen the film. However, people wrote petitions and paid for tickets in advance so that on March 1, 2016—Independence Movement Day—the film would finally reach theaters, immediately hitting box-office records during its opening weekend.

I do not know how the public sensed that an exceptionally important film was in the making. For Cho Jung-rae’s film is a work that undertakes an almost impossible task, yet fulfills its commitment entirely.

Director Cho Jung-rae

Those who have seen the film Snowy Road know what a "light" treatment of this same subject entails—one adjusted merely to the tolerance levels of television screens, rather than easing the emotional burden of the viewers. In Homecoming, there is no such refinement; the events are presented with naturalistic ruthlessness. The screenplay tangibly reconstructs the past reality from the details of the victims' testimonies and does not turn its gaze away from any horror. Thus, we too become acquainted with the structures of brothels reminiscent of pens or paddocks, and the no less animalistic activities taking place within them. The film summons and puts on public display all that the Japanese military first wanted to conceal and later wished to erase forever from the sequence of events. Those who vanished without a trace are brought to life, for having been treated as objects, they were simply destroyed once they were no longer of use.

Various estimates exist regarding the percentage of abducted women who perished, and this figure hovers around 80–90 percent. The few survivors were unable to report what had happened to them. Because of shame, fear of contempt, and ostracization—the consequences of which would have cost them even the slightest chance of living a normal life. What remained was secrecy; even if they managed to marry and start a family, they had to lie about the true reason they were unable to bear children. And those were the happier stories. For many, due to the traumas endured, chose suicide or required treatment for severe psychological problems.

The film sets the foul world of wartime brothels in sharp contrast with the peaceful, though struggling, lives of the young girls' lost homes and families, which feel almost idyllic in the light of the ensuing horror. At the same time, life lives and wants to live; the girls cherish the hope of returning home, and in their rare moments granted without harassment, they are able to transform back into beings reminiscent of their former selves, who can still smile and even sing.

The two protagonist girls are also guided by magical faith, for they carry a protective amulet made by the mother of one of them. With this element, the film bridges the timelines of the past and the present. We see one of the girls as an elderly survivor living in solitude, sewing amulets for her friend, who happens to be a shaman.

It is an extraordinary feat of screenwriting how the layers of the realistic and spiritual worlds slide into one another, utilizing the archaic belief system of Koreans—which exists to this day—in the most natural way. While in the film Snowy Road the thread connecting generations resulted in a didactic outcome, here we encounter a completely different trajectory. The shaman woman believes she recognizes the signs of a born shaman in a girl with a peculiar backstory. This girl is also a victim of violence and happens upon the company of the elderly survivor by chance. The touch of the amulet turns her into a medium, who from that point on can mediate between the former friends, only one of whom returned home alive. The experience of death serves simultaneously as an initiation for the girl into becoming a true shaman, who subsequently uses her powers—unfolding in their full strength—to conduct the ritual for summoning the souls home.

We witness a sublime scene in which the souls set out across mountains and waters to their homeland to find peace and rest (the film’s original title is simply Homecoming). The wheel of time turns back; families become whole again. And the national body also becomes whole, understanding and embracing the souls of the long-suffering victims. Simultaneously, the connection between generations is realized, as a young person becomes capable of experiencing the sufferings of those who went before her, and through her, redemption arrives for the elderly.

The symbolism used by the director to represent the moral losers and victors is particularly beautiful: we see the trembling hand of the Japanese military official, who pins butterflies to a board, break the wing of one of the butterflies. Yet despite the murderous intent, the butterflies come to life and, flying freely at the shaman’s call, set out toward home.

The film thus achieves a double triumph: it gives birth once more to a forgotten, denied history into reality, memorializes it, and simultaneously brings a balm to the suffering. It reveals the perpetrators in their bottomless malice but does not seek a scapegoat. It is also magnanimous, as it allows for the realization that there were better people among the enemy as well, who suffered and died just as the innocent victims did.

The film does not forgive the perpetrators, but neither does it seek revenge on anyone. It rises above this from a much higher perspective, in the hope of reconciliation.

I do not know if we shall see another film like this, whose story ends ten minutes before its conclusion. But only the story, not the film itself. During these ten minutes, the names of the supporters form an endless stream across the frames. In the upper band, drawings and paintings appear—the naive works of those former comfort women who, having survived hell on earth, required psychiatric help, and for whom drawing out what happened to them formed part of their therapy.

Allegedly, one such artwork prompted director Cho Jung-rae to write the screenplay and produce the film. Gratitude is owed to him for being able to create a soul-lifting, profoundly human work out of one of the darkest stories.

The film even inspired its producer, Jo Company, to take an unusual step: they launched the "Let's Hug Together" campaign, primarily to heal the spiritual wounds of the former comfort women, but also recognizing that many of our contemporaries are in need of a healing embrace.

I shall refrain from praising the actors individually for now, as almost every character's portrayal is worthy of highlight—authentic, deeply felt performances.

Finally, the visual quality of the film must be mentioned; its picturesqueness despite the horrors depicted. In places, it emphasizes the inexpressible with peculiar visual ingenuity—the sight of the brothel shown from above, operating at full capacity, will surely never be forgotten by anyone who has seen those frames.