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.



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[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.