Jung Byung-gil’s "Carter" (2022): The Fine Line Between Directorial Craze and Cult Experiment

Can an action movie reflect our most oppressive nightmare about the digital future?

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

(Author's screenshot from "Carter" via Netflix)

The following is not so much a conventional film review, but rather a sharing of a few thoughts regarding the movie Carter.

How eagerly the internet community anticipated Carter after its frantically well-executed trailer is best demonstrated by the fact that upon its release on Netflix, interested viewers pounced on it almost instantly. As a result, countless reviews of the film were generated within mere hours.

The reviews, however, were almost entirely in unison regarding their negative opinions, and slowly the usual outbidding of one another began in the race to tear the film down. "Hasty work is never good," as the saying goes, and the same could be said about these abruptly formed judgments; sometimes it would not hurt to let an experience mature a little before processing it.

When dealing with certain works that go against filmmaking and/or audience routines, it is sometimes difficult to decide whether we are facing a valuable innovation / attempt at innovation, or cinematic charlatanism. Let us just recall the example of the Wachowski siblings’ film Speed Racer, which contemporary critics wrote off as unwatchable, confusing, and amateurish, and yet... today it has become a cult film. What happened there was simply that the filmmakers approached the cinematic adaptation of comic books with a radically new vision, using unique solutions to regenerate the visuals and sensations that appear in the visual imagination of printed comic book consumers.

I have no idea whether this will be the fate of Carter as well; that will become clear after some time. While watching the film, and especially afterward, conflicting emotions swirled inside me too. Perhaps this was part of the reason I began reading the insights of others, which gave me food for thought. Most of the reviews, of course, only disguise themselves as professional evaluations; the majority never stray from the subjective "I like it / I don't like it" axis.

(Author's screenshot from "Carter" via Netflix)

I found only a single piece of writing that differed significantly from the rest and approached the film with sufficient intellect. This was the review by The Verge, which bore witness to a more thoughtful viewing of the film. This, of course, does not make the film any better or worse, but perhaps it allows it to receive fairer treatment.

Films are composed of two main elements: the story and its visual execution. Naturally, both elements can be broken down into countless components that can be evaluated individually, and professional (meaning critical, film-theoretical) classifications are primarily based on the quality and uniqueness of these components. The story part includes the plot, the temporal structure and style of the storytelling, the development and refinement of the characters within it, their system of relationships, etc. The visual execution presents the events to the audience through the eyes of the director and the cinematographer, in which the camera’s angle of view, its movement, the framing, the lighting, and numerous other visual elements (sets, costumes, reality-substituting virtual spectacles) play a decisive role—with particular emphasis on editing, which largely contributes to the possibility of interpreting what is seen. It may sound strange, but for now, I consider sound (including speech and the musical background) to be part of the visual execution, since in a film, these cannot exist without the spectacle.

The cinematographer in action
(The author’s screenshot from the making-of-film of "Carter" via Netflix)

Every single one of these diverse elements serves as experimental terrain for filmmakers. The history of cinema's evolution can even be described as the history of these experiments. It is also a peculiarity of filmmaking that it lives and changes in close tandem with the possibilities provided by technology, in symbiosis with other visual genres.

Carter found itself in the crossfire of devastating opinions on both fronts. Some of the writings attacked its weak-legged story, while others targeted its cinematic visuals—often both at the same time. After a few ground-burying sentences, they then set about expanding on their reasoning in more detail, and that is when a few peculiar things occurred. Among other things, they became entangled in self-contradictions.

They attempted to briefly summarize the story they deemed weak—and it did not go very well. Of course, a convoluted plot is no guarantee of quality, but the assertion that Carter lacks an exciting backstory behind its unceasing action was spectacularly debunked. The more they delved into the questions raised by the story, the more interesting the picture that emerged.

Because what is Carter about? Before we speak about that, one must agree with the stipulation that it is not a requirement for an action film to contain sophisticated drama. It does not work to its detriment, but the film functions perfectly well without it.

(Author's screenshot from "Carter" via Netflix)

At the center of Carter stands a single character, the man called Carter, who knows only one thing for certain: that he knows nothing for certain—given that he suffers from complete amnesia. The film is like a labyrinth, and in its every corridor, Carter stumbles upon new figures, and along with him, so do we as viewers. These figures drip information out in trickles, the truth value of which he must judge, and from which he must construct his identity. Since this is a spy story, the information is inherently questionable, and the intent of manipulation can never be ruled out anywhere. Carter simply has nothing to cling to; moreover, in the first part of the film, he does not even have a choice, since his life is threatened if he fails to follow the orders whispered into his ear. When he rids himself of the bomb implanted in his body, he faces an even greater compulsion, which is not a physical but a moral requirement. He cannot know whether the fact that he has a family is true, but how can a father respond when told he has 24 hours to save his sick daughter? He does what Carter does: he pushes his doubts aside and, like a terminator, pushes toward his goal to complete his mission. It is secondary whether the information is true or false; certainty can wait. Because if he truly has a daughter and fails to save her, then he himself is morally destroyed, regardless of whether he knows who he is. If this is not a hellish enough motive for Carter's actions, then what would be?

(Author's screenshot from "Carter" via Netflix)

The film also outlines a fictional geopolitical playing field for the story. North and South Korea have finally made peace with each other, and by helping one another, they are trying to overcome the pandemic that has reared its head. All of this, of course, is still mostly a cat-and-mouse friendship; they always keep one eye on whether the other party is cheating. Behind the two of them emerges a large and common adversary, which is none other than the USA. Perhaps no one needs to be explained how many kinds of piquancy this setup holds in the light of the present and the past.

In Carter's game of self-identity, it is worth paying attention to the details, or reflecting back on earlier scenes in the light of later information. For example: an American commando unit bursts in on Carter at a blood-soaked scene, and naturally, they hurl questions at him in English. It is not quite as self-evident why Carter answers in English with the utmost naturalness. The internal voice control, however, speaks to him in Korean, which, in the absence of distinct regional markers, could be either North or South Korean. It is not what they claim that matters, but what Carter accepts of what he hears from them, and what he can regard as valid.

But a far more important question than these is: why is Carter almost naked in his first scene? This is a fairly obvious parallel to birth—Carter's rebirth without memories, his birth into a virtual field of force.

(Author's screenshot from "Carter" via Netflix)

Referring back to what was also raised in The Verge's piece, if anything is interesting in Carter, it is this game. Most of the reviews simply glossed over two moments found at the end of the film, which are actually of key importance. It appears that Carter reaches his destination and reclaims himself. It is as if he himself does not bother with the question posed to him: can he possibly know whether he received his real memories back? Seemingly, this does not even trouble him; the question haunts us instead as viewers. And this is a massive twist, because it derails the film from the tracks of action, spy, and other genre movies, suggesting that everything we saw was merely a pretext to bring this problem into focus. The film bids farewell with the question of a child (meaning the next generation): "Where are we going?"—and the closing frames answer it more than unsettlingly. That is, if we consider them a conclusion, and not merely a clever cliffhanger for the possibility of a sequel.

Therefore, if we accept that Carter is a warning about the most oppressive nightmare of our reality, then the film's visual concept also gains a firmer foundation. Because from the reviews, it mostly appears that we are just falling victim to a self-serving directorial craze that mixes the action movie with computer games, and renders the action ridiculous by showing a lofty disregard for the laws of physics. The result is a nausea-inducing rush in which one feels as though they are riding a roller coaster and a Ferris wheel at the same time. I am not claiming this is not the case, but perhaps it is not so unintentionally. Because what is the most oppressive nightmare of our reality? It is that virtuality devours reality, including our personalities. Our internal voice, which was once our compass, grows dull. Its place is taken by dictators, opinion leaders, and others coming from the outside—who knows what they represent or from where they are controlled—all forcing us to adapt and comply through virtual channels. We are no longer who we are, but what they believe about us—based on our virtual footprints. This is how we obtain jobs, friends, and lovers. In Carter, we no longer even know who we are, meaning who we used to be. And it seems as if it is already irrelevant to Carter whether his reclaimed identity is reality. Because who knows if the happy family is genuine, or just a virtually created reality? There is a very beautiful sentence when Carter says that looking at the scar on his hand, he hears a baby crying—as though instincts were still faintly functioning; this is the extent to which he can rely on them.

(Author's screenshot from "Carter" via Netflix)

Viewed from this perspective, Carter is a thought experiment that writer-director Jung Byung-gil invites us to join. Furthermore, he does so in the most self-evident way possible with the help of contemporary technology: by borrowing the visual perspective of computer games. We are used to seeing the events in a film through the eyes of the protagonist, or through the eyes of a narrator as an outside observer. However, we are not usually inside the film, but that is precisely what happens here. We do not identify with Carter, yet we do not remain outsiders either. Instead, we run alongside him, ducking our heads away from fists, blades, bullets, and the like; we plunge and spin, losing our balance and regaining it to flee forward by hiding behind Carter or bypassing him as he steadfastly carves up the opposition around us. There is one thing we cannot escape: the continuity of what we see, since during the film’s runtime, that is our reality, so we cannot lose sight of it for a single moment—unless we close our eyes. This is why the effort to present the events in a "one-take" manner makes sense for the director, meaning in an unbroken temporal continuity, which in cinematic language means that the film cuts should not be perceptible to the audience.

(Author's screenshot from "Carter" via Netflix)

Let us dare to extend this interpretive possibility even further: if we look at the unceasing action from an action-movie perspective, then it makes sense to debate how executable those stunts are in reality. But if we interpret Carter's struggle as an allegory, then in light of the above, we can also say that they are merely reflections of the unrealistic struggle that completely permeates and is continuously fought in our lives—a struggle that today we perhaps still wage for ourselves, or rather, are able to wage at all. Attacks hit our human identity from all sides, just as they hit Carter, on land, water, and in the air, during sleep or wakefulness. We defend and we attack, though many times we just shoot blindly at an enemy that never runs out.

(Author's screenshot from "Carter" via Netflix)

But what is the situation with the infected individuals of the film's pandemic, who mostly resemble zombies? Did the director jump onto the success train of Korean zombie movies and shamelessly twist even this into the story? I believe that is not the case. Or if it is, it is not entirely unjustifiable. It is worth paying attention to what the zombies of Carter can do. When they catch the infection, they suddenly grow stronger and become extremely aggressive, yet they perish within two weeks. If we interpret the film as a struggle waged against virtuality, then let us just think about who the most fearsome monsters of the internet are. The trolls, of course. Who, under the guise of anonymity, think of themselves as very strong, and attack anyone and anything immensely violently, in hordes. Yet for this, they always need a pretext, scandals that flare up and then shortly subside. The zombies of Carter are exactly like this, and they pop up out of nowhere just as we unexpectedly find ourselves face-to-face with them in our virtual lives.

(Author's screenshot from "Carter" via Netflix)

However, I would by no means want to overestimate Carter. I consider it a very exciting film, which is far from flawless. While watching it, my attention also wandered from time to time, and just like in Jung's previous hit film, The Villainess, here too I sometimes felt that he overdrives the action merely for the sake of the spectacle, unfortunately to the detriment of the message capable of creating genuine tension. It is a pity that he could not resist repeating certain action scenarios, no matter how spectacular they might be (the struggles taking place on the triple flatbeds of cars racing alongside a van wedged between two vehicles and a train car are individually extremely clever, but the repetition detracts from their impact). I find it true that he could have made a much more powerful film if he had concentrated on a more thorough unfolding of the main character’s dilemmas, especially considering that a brilliant actor was working under his direction. For Joo Won, Carter is simultaneously a missed opportunity and a great adventure. Because while he could not deliver a dramatic performance in a great film that would pose no difficulty for him, he at least tested the playground of action-movie blockbusters, which he visibly enjoyed. And what he displayed in the action sequences is truly sumptuous.

(Author's screenshot from "Carter" via Netflix)

Returning to the reviews, it is a general phenomenon that "professional writers" who are poorly capable of interpreting films instantly become film-technology gurus the moment they get the slightest opportunity. They always tell everyone exactly how terrible the effects are, how glaringly obvious the CGI is, how lame the editing is, and so on. They might be right; I would rather admit that I do not know much about these matters. But I have a competent acquaintance in the industry whose opinion I value, and he told me that as long as any technical deficiency does not interfere with your enjoyment of the film, it is not worth worrying about. Perfect post-production does not exist anyway, because even all the time and money of the Good Lord would not be enough for that. Taking this into account, I am glad that I saw Carter, even if it was perhaps not in its most perfect possible appearance.

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SOUTH KOREA | JUNG BYUNG-GIL (정병길) | CARTER (카터) | 2022 | 134 MINUTES | COLOR | NETFLIX

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Black Granite Under the Rainbow: On Kim In-sik's Road Movie (2002)

The first Korean LGBTQ+ film to burst through the doors of movie theaters

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

(Author’s screenshot from Road Movie.)

| Warning: This post contains spoilers! 

Released in 2002, Road Movie is widely regarded as the first Korean gay film, which is only a partial truth. Even in the 1960s and 1970s, works were produced that raised the theme currently labeled as LGBTQ+ with varying degrees of caution, such as the unfortunately lost Jealousy (Han Hyung-mo, 1960), or The Pollen of Flowers (Ha Kil-jong, 1972) and Ascetic: Woman and Woman (Kim Su-hyeon, 1976). The 1990s, along with cultural liberation, then brought the breakthrough, primarily with the appearance of independent filmmakers. Thanks to them, films like Mascara (Lee Hoon, 1995), Broken Branches (Park Jae-ho, 1996), or the short film Everyday is Like Sunday (1997) by director Lee Song Hee-il—who would later direct No Regret—were made. While the earliest films were virtually ignored by the public, the subsequent ones remained within the boundaries of art-house cinemas or underground festivals. Road Movie was the first film to fully embrace the theme of male love with absolute conviction and bring it into official theatrical distribution. It did not beat around the bush; it practically "kicked the door down on movie theaters."

The basic concept and the first draft of the screenplay for Road Movie originated from writer-director Kim Dae-woo; the dark-toned love triangle of those pushed to the margins of society and its execution as a road movie were his vision. However, Sidus Production Studio approached Kim In-sik to direct, who had spent six years in France for his film studies and had just returned home around that time. During his stay in the West, he presumably adopted not only a mindset significantly more open than the Korean one, but also—as the finished film already testifies—the raw, naturalistic vision of the French New Wave. This placed the emphasis on an open, almost documentary-like depiction of the subject, as well as on real filming locations and natural light instead of studios. Although in the case of Road Movie, this was also a necessity due to the lack of investors. Because of the meager budget, the film was often shot using almost guerrilla methods in locations that provided the opportunity: streets, underpasses, cheap lodgings, or an abandoned beach, occasionally using only a handheld camera.

(Author’s screenshot from Road Movie.)

Although the film starts in medias res with scenes of intense and rather rough filmmaking/lovemaking between two men, we later have to realize that among the main characters, there is actually not a single homosexual man; the one we would think is, turns out to be bisexual. The director and the actors are all heterosexual, and Director Kim—by his own admission—had very little knowledge about the situation and problems of gay people and communities. This somewhat explains why the story is much more about universal feelings of love, as well as questions of friendship and trust, rather than mapping out the specificities of homosexual relationships, if there are any such specificities at all.

In only two scenes of the film do we encounter sexual contact between men, both times depicted in a rather explicit manner. These scenes convey that the lovemaking can only happen occasionally, taking advantage of the arising situation, stealthily, and under undignified circumstances. Although the aforementioned opening scene is followed by a breakup, meaning a partnership preceded it, even the physical contact visible in it lacks any particular intimacy, not to mention closeness between two human beings. These scenes seem to reflect the main character, Dae-sik’s (Hwang Jung-min) image of himself, and it is as if animality mixes within it with guilt and self-hatred over the act. This depiction indirectly contains the condemning opinion of society, which Dae-sik probably applies to himself.

After the main titles, we meet the other protagonist of our story, whose life is just being completely wiped out. Suk-won (Jung Chan), a broker, loses his entire fortune and ends up on the street among the homeless. He cannot count on his wife either, who lets him know that she wants no part of the hardships that come with the situation. From his first suicide attempt, he is saved by Dae-sik, who takes charge of the man who has sunk into apathy. Even though Suk-won hopes for three different escape options in vain, all of them close before him, so he wants to throw his life away again. Dae-sik then decides to buy two train tickets, and with this, the "great journey" of the two men begins. Before that, however, a thing or two still happens in Seoul.

(Author’s screenshot from Road Movie.)

The film takes care that nothing is said in words that would be about the ostracization of gay people. Dae-sik’s situation is spoken for by the settings of his life and the things that happen to him. Even in the very middle of the capital, we are walking on the margins of society. Dae-sik is the leader of those living in the underpasses, whose lives are about free food and escaping from homeless shelters. Director Kim is not afraid to submerge into these bowels of the urban hell. The film allows enough room for a few homeless individuals to receive individual faces, and we see the struggle for ownership of the "home" designated by cardboard boxes. Despite the fellowship of fate, there is very little solidarity; here, everyone fights for themselves. The scene in which the men turn toward the wall of the underpass and pretend to be deaf and blind to their female companion who is about to give birth is terrifying. If this were not enough, Kim hands out a snub to society as well, whose "respectable" members prefer to see broken homeless people in media reports; therefore, the crew warns the destitute to behave accordingly. The endless vulnerability is alarmingly shown by the scene of the motorcycle thugs, in which the lives of the homeless are expendable for the sake of sick entertainment.

(Author’s screenshot from Road Movie.)

However, the train rescues our heroes from here, and the sequences that until then were either black-and-white or merely seemed to be are replaced by the vibrant colors of nature. True to the essence of a road movie, we remain constantly in motion, only the vehicles change, and various traveling companions tag along with the two men or vanish from their side. Sometimes we arrive at a particular station, which further shades our image of our heroes' situation and also represents the milestones of their changing emotional relationship. The common point is always emptiness and hopelessness. Everyone's life falls into nothingness: that of the dismissed Min-seok (Jung Hyung-gi), the prostitute longing for a companion, Il-joo (Seo Lin), and Suk-won, who turns to drugs; interestingly, Dae-sik appears to be the most resilient among them in enduring the hardships.

(Author’s screenshot from Road Movie.)

Our two protagonists eke out a living from casual labor that exceeds their strength, at the mercy of employers, and end up in police lockups where authorities either do not know what to do with them or beat them up based on false accusations. Suk-won relies more and more on Dae-sik, who represents survival for the man who has lost his purpose. For a segment of the journey, their duo turns into a love triangle when the prostitute hired for money, Il-joo (Seo Lin), falls in love with Dae-sik, thereby offering a chance at a new life to the man, whose orientation and love for Suk-won she is fully aware of.

(Author’s screenshot from Road Movie.)

It is impossible to know which of them suffers a greater shock when Dae-sik's sexual orientation is exposed to Suk-won. Dae-sik is terrified that he can no longer remain by Suk-won's side. Suk-won does make an attempt to break away, which proves to be short-lived. He tries to stay beside Il-joo, who was pushed away by Dae-sik, but even sex does not work between them, so shortly after, we see him by Dae-sik's side again. Although he does not allow the man to come close to him—who suffers from this but respects his request nonetheless.

(Author’s screenshot from Road Movie.)

(Author’s screenshot from Road Movie.)

The turning point of the story is learning about Dae-sik's personal catastrophe. It turns out that he has a wife who loves him and a child who misses him, but he had to leave them due to his differences and must keep his identity a secret from the outside world. He collapses after a conversation with his son (who only suspects that the man is his father) because he is confronted with the kind of fate he condemns his own child to by being unable to fulfill even his most basic obligations by his side as a man. In Suk-won, pity for Dae-sik awakens for the first time, but he is incapable of anything more than that. Their paired loneliness slowly becomes unbearable; Suk-won begins a process of self-destruction until finally Dae-sik, in order to save him, helps him find a way back to the life he had before they met.

The film changes its backdrop once again at this point, with a stunning pictorial quality dominating its imagery. Having completely lost the meaning of his life by renouncing his love, Dae-sik, the former "mountain man," is now enclosed by massive, barren rock faces, among which he prepares to commit suicide.

Standing at the crossroads, Suk-won tears up the photograph reminiscent of Dae-sik in vain; he still cannot board the bus, and instead heads back to the quarry where he finds the dying man. Every frame of the film takes on a metaphorical meaning. Suk-won lays Dae-sik onto a mound of salt in a warehouse, which with its whiteness not only symbolizes purity but also possesses a cleansing, evil-expelling power in Korean rituals, ensuring the sanctity of the place. Dae-sik asks for permission to love Suk-won. In response, the man goes out in front of the hut, strips naked in the pouring rain, and performs a ritual washing. He will not become a gay man, but he understands the sincerity of Dae-sik's feelings, beside whom he found protection and safety. Therefore, he offers Dae-sik the one thing that only he is capable of giving him. There is no longer any strength left for lovemaking, but this way Dae-sik could at least finish his life in Suk-won's embrace. The journey back still awaits Suk-won, and Road Movie concludes with the image of a highway vanishing into the infinite.

(Author’s screenshot from Road Movie.)

Kim In-sik's film was a powerful opening gambit for the theme. It is a lean work that dispenses with melodramatic devices, in which even the musical accompaniment is minimal. It is characterized by a well-thought-out structure and the drawing of a grand arc that brought the film from its documentary-style beginning to its lyrically symbolic conclusion. By doing so, it lifted the figure of the protagonist out of the filth, and we bid farewell to him at the end of the film as a deeply feeling human being living a painful life.

How was the film received? Curiously enough, in a dual manner. The viewing public was caught unprepared by what they saw; hence, the film was a massive flop, financially as well. Many walked out of the movie theaters, while the more conservative ones reacted with protests and boycotts. At the same time, the Korean film profession stood mesmerized by the greatness of the film, and the international film community celebrated it for its audacity, with which it undisguisedly exposed the tragic reality. A veritable downpour of domestic and international awards rained down upon both the film and the main protagonist.

In connection with the film, an interview was conducted with director Kim In-sik, the English translation of which can be read here.

In it, the director mentions how difficult it was to find suitable cast members for the film. In the end, the characters of Road Movie—similar to the films with identical themes produced in the following years—were taken on by young actors who were still considered beginners in their careers, of whom it might be difficult to imagine today just how great a risk they exposed their careers to with this decision. Hwang Jung-min and Jung Chan, however, were not only brave but also highly talented, so both delivered magnificent performances. Since Hwang Jung-min is the doyen of actors today, the second member of the "100-million admissions" club, it is exciting to see what a mature character portrayal he was capable of even in this early role. The peculiar blend of raw power and emotionality radiating from his acting is particularly captivating. It is true for both the film and the protagonist that if it is not a diamond in the rough, it is certainly a black granite that shines even in its roughness.

In reality, the wave of comings-out in the Korean entertainment industry began during these years, with Hong Suk-chun being the first to publicly acknowledge his orientation in September 2000. An interview with the actor regarding the consequences can also be found in the magazine, which complements and supports the importance of Road Movie's creation.


SOUTH KOREA | KIM IN-SIK (김인식) | ROAD MOVIE (로드무비) | 2002 | 111 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | B&W/COLOR