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

장재현: 사바하

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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

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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

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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.