I Want To Stay Sane Enough To Recognize The Terror: Marebito (2004)

I have seen many Tartan Asian Extreme releases, in most cases entirely predicated upon their being Korean films, which means that I will give them consideration for this fact alone.  While about a third of the films are generally watchable, most prove a bit reductive, or exploitative in ways that neither push forward genre conventions or prove watchable even in a disconcerting manner.  Even fewer suffer from the problem of wild mislabeling in their advertisement, or at least that was the case with Marebito, a film that sat on my "to view" shelf for ages because from the looks of its vague, torture porn/vampire cover it was something I would immediately hate upon popping it into my DVD player.  Yet, in the case of this film, the DVD cover and vague description on the back do little to truly speak to the excellent work which presents itself on the film.  An entirely digital film, Takashi Shimizu, manages to meld together various types of moving images, whether they be video recordings, television images or even the diegetic space of the film itself to consider what is seen by the human eye and, more interestingly, what presences beyond human perception can emerge when a new form of technology can achieve heightened senses.  Doubling also as a narrative of descent into the labyrinth of madness, Marebito becomes a work so purposefully expressionist that it has a degree of landscape painting, at times indicative of the work of Caspar David Friedrich or the wonderful nightmarish spaces of a F.W. Murnau film, more so considering the twisting of the plot in ways that make Dr. Caligari seem like a straightforward story.  Marebito, much like post-2000 J-horror films, challenges the conventions of horror, but does so while also undermining the entire under process of filmmaking in the process.

Marebito focuses on Masuoka (Shinya Tsukamoto) a freelance cameraman who travels about the city of Tokyo chronicling items of interest, compounding them together, along with hours of surveillance footage to create a bizarre sort of viewing room in his house full of televisions and computer screens constantly streaming various imagery, both of a mundane and tragic nature.  Perhaps one of the more unusual things in Masuoka's viewing is that of a woman staring out a window, of which he constantly talks to about her existence.  However, when Masuoka uncovers footage of a man stabbing himself in the forehead, he becomes obsessed with the nature of his fear and curious as to what the man was starring at so intensely right before committing the act.  When the image breaks free of its conventions and directly acknowledges Masuoka's looking, he becomes even more scared and begins a quest into the underworld of Tokyo to find answers.   With his camera in tow, Masuoka discovers a world of underground dwellers known as Dero, who seem more like bestial vampires than humanoid figures.  When he comes across the deceased form of the body he watched stab itself on screen, Masuoka's descent takes on new levels, particularly when he emerges from his descent into a new world of lush colors and dreary skylines, where he finds one of the presumed Deros, this time a female, chained to the wall naked.  Confused, but curious, Masuoka takes the woman back to his apartment and begins keeping her as a pet, an act that quickly takes a dark turn, not only for its possession elements, but because the girl, who Masuoka names F, can only be nourished by being given blood to consume, finding particular enjoyment in human blood.  This leads to Masuoka's life falling apart and his alienating, in some times very harmful ways, from the rest of the world, while also becoming aware of his own heightened perceptions after his descent into the darkness, leading to a sacrificial act on his part so grand that it causes him to assumedly plunge into the depths of the labyrinth completely and irreversibly.

To call Marebito a bizarre reconsideration of Plato's Allegory of the Cave would be a bit of a misnomer, even if Masuoka does represent a character bringing an understanding of "the light" to a group living in the shadows.  Indeed, it is far more inclined to pull from the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, particularly since the narrative does have a winding maze like quality about it and the descent into the labyrinth is rather obvious.  Masuoka, however, is far from the valiant figure of Theseus who manages to slay a minotaur and win the love of the girl.  Instead, Masuoka is almost a hybrid of the two tales, a man questing a deeper understanding of perception by coming to face that which is truly frightening, hoping to share in the vision of the suicidal man, thus becoming hyper aware of the world that surround him.  Masuoka certainly achieves this quest, but it is also at the cost of much of the world around him, clearly not the most healthy of individuals Masuoka shells himself up in his home, clearly malnourished and decidedly lacking in proper hygiene.  It is not until his ability to sequester himself from the world around him is question, via his wife whose presence inexplicably emerges into the narrative that things truly take a turn.  The Prozac popping Masuoka tosses away his pills, affording him a new awareness of his surroundings, realizing that even the most normal seeming of individuals are existing in a state of fractured self, one that is tied to the digital world in ways that are visible.  The quickly maddening Masuoka also begins to pick up the creatures navigate the liminal space of the world both through the lens of his film camera, as well as in the shadows of the street, his psychosis, or perhaps his "transcendence" into darkness proving the necessary lens to capture the world in a new and decidedly troublesome way.  This is only one element within all the other considerations at work in Marebito, including narratives of voyeurism, depression, the place of technology in modern Japan and relationships in a broad scale.  It works on these levels brilliantly and jarringly.

Key Scene:  The walking through the streets of Tokyo when Masuoka's perceptions begin to falter is haunting, in a way only digital filmmaking could invoke.

This DVD is pretty cheap on Amazon, but it might still be worth renting first, particularly since I am still uncertain as to whether or not this is actually a brilliant film.

2013 Summer Reading Classic Film Book Challenge (Book 6) Korean Film: History, Resistance, and Democratic Imagination

If I were to ask even the more seasoned of cinephiles in my circles of friends and colleague and even fellow bloggers about their experiences with South Korean cinema the likelihood of their awareness will only extend to, at most Oldboy and maybe The Host.  This is not entirely their fault as much of the knowledge around South Korean cinema specifically, is trapped under the weight of its contemporary Asian film predecessors with successful global offerings in the Hong Kong action cinema of the 90's and Japanese horror films of the early 2000's.  Running alongside these two movements was an emerging South Korean film world unfolding some of the most avant-garde and challenging films of the past two decades and has since garnered much more writing both academic and general interest, much of which I have read.  When figuring how I could possibly include a text on Korean cinema for this my final offering to Out of the Past and their 2013 Summer Reading Classic Film Book challenge, I was fortunate to stumble upon the text Korean Film: History, Resistance and Democratic imagination, which pulls deep into the traditions of Korean film, both before and after it divided into its respective North and South political spaces.  Co-authors Eungjun Min, Jinsook Joo, and Han Ju Kwak compile what proves to be not only the most detailed account of the century old tradition of filmmaking with Korea, but also manage to depict the troubled historical landscape of a country(ies) whose cinema invariably and irreversibly influenced by the presence of Chinese, Japanese, British and American occupations, noting the ways in which each foreign entity influenced the film of the Koreas both in highly positive, as well as problematic situations.  While the pinnacle of classic Asian cinema still proves to be the late Donald Richie's love letter to Japanese cinema, this text offers an astute, albeit, specialized set of voices on a country who has become both a point of revolutionary filmmaking in the past decade by showing that as a moviemaking entity the wild themes, challenging cinematic landscapes and inherent subversiveness of the work of the Koreas is nothing new and certainly only seems to be expanding beyond all other countries at an exponential rate

This co-authored text works, precisely because it is clearly influenced by film theorist, historians and even possesses a keen eye for the economics of filmmaking and distribution.  Despite it being authored by three distinct individuals, the narrative voice is that of a singular statement, pulling upon ideas inherent to Korean culture, lifting phrases that have contexts inexplicable to Western audiences using the moments in the countries storied history to develop this enigmatic concepts.  While, the book does often fall into the trap of listing every film possible from an era, particularly true for the post-Korean war film section, the authors do afford it a considerable amount of space to explain particularly important authors or ideas, both in terms of how they relate to the historical narrative of Korea and the various regulations of filmmaking from the prospective eras.  While it can prove a bit dense at times, it is refreshing to visit a text that does not feel it necessary to overexplain the ideas it is working with, making only brief notes on political factions and economic burdens from era, always remember that it is firstly a text about film, allowing discussions of Im Kown-taek to receive precedence than overly detailed accounts of the various student revolutions and failed political coups which occurred, and for awhile were still occurring, in the respective Koreas.  Furthermore, the authors do something that is often impossible in this kind of work, they manage to insert their opinions of certain films or filmmakers without it coming off as flippant, pretentious or worse, ill-informed.  This is perhaps most evocatively and engagingly done when discussing the melodramas of the fifties, wherein, the authors note the heavy degrees of exploitative politicized filmmaking that is neither subversive or well-executed making the works seem hokey and ill-conceived by a contemporary gaze.  Any opinion posited in this book is always reason, almost over analyzed as though the authors realize their text will serve as the only work of reference. Indeed, many of the works mentioned escape a global audience, but the optimism spouted within the various chapters only proves to make the case for their emergence on a global scale in the near future.

Best Film Discovery of the Book:  This is a bit tricky as much of this is unavailable, however, I will say that it has made me want to hunt down the early works of Cheol-su Park whose films seem as though they were wildly subversive well before his cerebral 301, 302.  It is worth noting that this book is quite expensive, I would suggest do like I did and rent it from a library, through the wonder of inter-library loans.

You Only Live For Tomorrow: The Man From Nowhere (2010)

One of the more interesting elements of engaging with this kung fu marathon was what I knew would be its affects on contemporary action films, particularly ones that are much more in line with the action/crime thriller than the special effects laden, high flying fight sequences of their predecessors.  While I could have picked from a variety of different Chinese films for this, I decided to branch out slightly and consider a film from South Korea, because, after all, it is my area of research interest and an excuse to catch up with yet another film I had been meaning to check out, this time Jeong-beom Lee's The Man From Nowhere.  I say it is only a slight departure from the Chinese films so far, in that it does indeed involve Chinese characters, despite its decidedly South Korean setting, although transnational narratives are far from unusual in South Korean cinema, or much of East Asian cinema for that matter, when one considers proximity and politics.  Despite all this I was quite hesitant to include The Man from Nowhere on this month of viewing, because for all intents and purposes it did not appear to be a kungfu film proper, nor even a film whose fight sequences exist with a martial arts based setting.  Yet multiple "top martial arts films" lists included this, which I felt justified its inclusion, and while  guns are uses in this film on a few occasions, I was quite happy to discover that this is, at its heart a martial arts action thriller, especially considering that when action does occur it often does involve a considerable amount of very intense and well-choreographed hand-to-hand combat.  Considering its contemporary style and the state of South Korean cinema, however, the fighting is not poetic or evocative of rhythmic dance, but is, instead; quite brutal and jarringly stripped of its stylized elements, drawing attention to the scars and aftermath of very real physical engagements.  Sure it is amazing to watch the protagonist deliver a viscerally filmed beat down, but it always follows with images that remind viewers of the physical tolls such brutality takes on the enemy, as well as the body of the hero.  It also does not hurt that The Man From Nowhere might be one of the best shot action films I have ever seen.

The Man From Nowhere, despite being a South Korean film, shies away from completely non-linear narration, excluding a few flashbacks, yet manages to provide a gripping story in the process.  The film primarily focuses on the drifter Cha Tae-sik (Bin Won) a pawnbroker, who seems entirely detached from the world around him, aside from a friendship he has formed with a young girl named So-mi (Sae-ron Kim) whose mother, a strung out heroin addict often abandons her to the streets in drug fueled indifference.  Content to exist as a pseudo-guardian angel to So-mi, Cha merely moves about his world, although when he fails to help her escape trouble with the cops she dismisses him and suggest that he is just as bad to her as the rest of the world.  It is revealed, however, that So-mi's mother has recently been involved in a high scale drug heist and upon failing to deliver the necessary goods becomes wanted by the mob, who take little time finding her and destroying her, also kidnapping So-mi in the process.  Cha, is also confronted by the mob, who want their drugs which have been hidden in an item So-mi has pawned.  When the mob members assume that Cha was involved and attack him, it is revealed that his fighting abilities are excellent, destroying one man while disarming another in seconds.  Word of this gets to the various higher ups and they enact a plan to exploit Cha for his skills with the false promise that he will be afforded the return of So-mi after a completion of the various tasks.  Unfortunately, as Cha realizes he is being played into part of a larger mob and police battle, landing himself briefly in jail, all the while worrying for he safety of Cha.  Upon escape through a bit of cleverness on Cha's part, he takes it upon himself to hunt down the mob, while the police discover that his skill set is the result of a past life in the Korean equivalent of the CIA, where he lost his pregnant wife in a hit put out by a mob member.  This insurmountable loss, helps to explain Cha's unchecked drive as he enters the mob's secret hide out, only to discover that they are exploiting young children for free labor in meth production and eventually trafficking them sexually.  Cha then loses all sense of self-control, killing all the mob members and destroying the lab, eventually chasing down the boss of the mob and shooting him in his car, all before finally discovering that So-mi is indeed safe.  The closing moments depict Cha playing father figure to the now parentless So-mi, before he heads off to jail for his necessary, albeit, illegal killing spree.

Ethics are a thing that play heavily into South Korean cinema and something that I have discussed ad nausea in relation to the countries contemporary cinema, whether it be in the misappropriation of meaning through religion in Secret Sunshine or the notion of justified revenge that exists in Sympathy for Lady Vengeance.  In these films and many others, it is clear that a moral compass is far harder to align than one might like to admit, and it would certainly seem to extend to the narrative space of The Man from Nowhere as well.  However, I would posit that, unlike the previously mentioned films, it is made quite clear that Cha and So-mi are good characters, whereas the mob boss and So-mi's mother are less so, although it does not justify the latter's brutal death in the slightest.  The police, perhaps serve as a bit more of a grey area in terms of ethical outlook, but they are certainly far from corrupt and are merely attempting to execute their jobs while working against an economically powerful and transnationally fueled crime syndicate, therefore, any interference, even in Cha's taking out of major figures, proves detrimental because it means they find themselves bogged down in paperwork and rediscovering leads.  Indeed, The Man from Nowhere plays out much more like a sporadic and intense game of chess than one of insidious warfare.  There seems to be a set of agreements about how events should occur, yet, what is less certain is how many individuals are playing in the game.  In this game, Cha is somewhat of a wild card, not because he acts in a counterintuitive manner, but because where the mobsters desire money and safety and the cops desire justice, Cha merely wants to assure the safety of So-mi at any cost, driven to act more violent as he comes to realize her chances at survival are dwindling.  Indeed, his breaking out of the jail is interesting, because he seems to understand that the cops are not terrible people, but, nonetheless, serve as a barrier to his ultimate concern, therefore, he maims them temporarily, as opposed to the mobsters whose exploitation of children and those without power is loathsome and deserved of death.  Indeed, by the end of this film I found myself drawing parallels to the killing spree enacted by Liam Neeson in Taken, although in every tangible and qualitative way The Man from Nowhere is a far better film than Taken, which I already adore greatly, I think that only speaks to the wonder in this recent South Korean masterpiece.

Key Scene:  In the case of this film it is a singe shot, which shows Cha after he has fallen out of a window only to land on a large net.  I let out a distinctive gasp of amazement, something that rarely occurs when I watch action films.

This is available streaming on Netflix and Hulu and I am sure it will look just fine, however, this bluray is beyond amazing and worthy of owning.  I waited with baited breath for Jeong-beom Lee's next offering.

Life Is About Chasing And Being Chased: The Good, The Bad, The Weird (2008)

Considering that the month of May is to be devoted to westerns entirely, it should be little surprise that I will include, at some point, at least one spaghetti western, but the most recent viewing was not to be that instance.  I felt it only necessary to begin by contrasting one of the most traditional notions of a western, with one of the most unusual and revisionist westerns to date, in what has been dubbed by some to be a "kimchi" western.  Of course, this proves a double bonus for me because the film in question The Good, The Bad, The Weird, manages to be both a western and a Korean film simultaneously, therefore, making a perfect fit within the constraints of this month of specific films while also managing to allow me another viewing within my specific concern for expansion in the particulars of East Asian cinema.  The director of The Good, The Bad, The Weird, Jee-woon Kim recently received notoriety on this blog for his wonderfully absurd The Foul King and continually proves to be a diverse and engaging filmmaker, although I am not so sure that his English-language debut will prove as rewarding and intense as Chan-wook Park's Stoker.  What viewers receive in the highly engaging and action heavy adaptation (all be it, quite loose) of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly is nothing short of a simultaneous embracing of everything within the tradition of westerns, as well as a complete rejection of its traditionalist notions of periodization.  In fact, it is quite impossible to tell whether the film and its narrative exists somewhere far in the past, or is simply an insanely realized dystopia loaded with some of the most vile, yet incredibly engaging individuals.  Between its decidedly modern soundtrack and use of masterful cinematic and editing techniques, The Good, The Bad, The Weird nearly bursts at the seams of the genre, but when it matters it manages to reign in its narrative beautifully, ultimately, adhering to the idea of a western film when it matters most, moving from the embracing of ultra-cool gunslingers to the stark and alienating realization that their own concerns with anonymity and indifference are exactly what will result in their being alone in their last moments of life.

As a pseudo-remake of Leone's classic spaghetti western, Kim's film centers around three distinct characters attempting to attain a map that will lead them to a treasure buried by a group of Japanese soldiers.  The Bad (Byung-hun Lee) is a ruthless, thief and assassin who pulls a cue from Johnny Cash, moving through the world of Manchuria donning black clothing and a smoldering scowl befit to set the world ablaze.  The Weird (Kang-ho Sung) is a madman whose lone wolf nature and complete indifference for social etiquette allow him to move about the landscape with an absurdly carefree attitude that seems to make him immune to death, although it is clear from early on that he harbors a rather intense past.  Finally, The Good (Woo-sung Jung) stands as a symbol of justice with his shotgun and leather trench coat, he screams out to be the epitome of the sheriff figure in the world, although, like his two rivals he possesses his own problematic selfishness, which all runs amok when the three become aware of a the previously mentioned treasure map and its seemingly endless fortunes.  However, while the three are clearly adept shooters and generally superior in every way, they are certainly not the only ones after the cherished items, confronting entire armies, motorcycle riding bandits and a gang of black market dealers along the way.  Moving through the space of Manchuria, The Good and The Weird end up begrudgingly relying on one another to assure their outpacing of the maniacal The Bad who seems perfectly willing to kill all persons who bar his path and eventual success.  It becomes clear, however, that The Bad's desire to beat the other two to the treasure has a high degree of revenge about it, so much so that he openly states his willingness to reprimand an injustice.  After a handful of wild shootouts and chases, the three meet at the point of the treasure only to discover it to be far different that suggested, resulting in them making a game out of who is to survive that ends in a truly fatal manner, while the map blows away, revealing a treasure none of them expected.

Given that the setting of The Good, The Bad, The Weird is assumed to be in an unusual western world within the context of East Asia it has a certain impossibly ethereal nature about it, which makes it seem more science fiction than western, however, tropes, which will be the manner by which I approach the films this month, nonetheless emerge.  In the case of this film everything has to do with identity and reappropriating one's past.  For The Good, it is clear that he seeks to enact his wild sense of justice upon the landscape, one that breaks laws and moral guidelines when it fits the warped idea of good he seems to have created and reflects nicely on the often ambiguous nature law has within the traditional western.  The Bad, much like The Good, is far more than his name suggests and indeed moves through the filmic space with a quest for revenge firstly, and an obtaining of riches second.  Of course, he seems willing to kill those in his path, but his silence speaks to the inability he possesses to speak to his suffering which is both unusual and traumatic.  Finally, in, as his name would suggest, bizarre contrast is The Weird, who absolutely rejects any sense of normalcy and moves through the madness of Manchuria expressly concerned with the most basic human needs and a desire to stay alive, yet it proves by the films closing to be the case that The Weird is indeed the most flawed of the three central figures, making his place within the quest for inconceivable riches one driven by his desire to clean his impure slate and return to a simpler lifestyle, one with livestock and agrarian simplicity.  The past for each of these men is both obtuse and decidedly troublesome, allowing the expansive deserts and tight alleys of the cities to serve as figurative escapes from not only the threat of death, but from their own trouble psyches.  Furthermore, given that contemporary Korean cinema is particularly concerned with deconstructing the patriarchal nature of masculinity, the film doubles as a sort of rejection of unchecked male privilege, especially in the closing moments of the film, wherein what is essentially a large scale pissing contest, results in an exceptionally defeatist end.

Key Scene:  Given that it necessarily had to borrow the famous three way shoot out, Kim manages to both do credit to Leone's directorial choice, while updating it into something newly engaging and cinematically fresh.

This is on Netflix watch instantly, drop what you are doing and watch it immediately.

You Think Wrestling Is A Show? Life Is A Show: The Foul King (2000)

I seriously dread ever having to make a top ten thursday that focuses specifically on Korean films, although it has been quite awhile since I have even composed a list of such a manner so perhaps my fear is even more centered in the concern that I will never actually be satisfied with any list upon viewing other items that fall into its categories, even with the most absurd of categories.  Regardless, I am getting back into the pace of things with Korean cinema, as I know my planned Western month and impending Bond project will invariably block time from movies that I really want to see, as opposed to ones I should be watching, or am watching happily in the name of research.  As such, I wanted to dig into the corners of Korean Cinema and find some items that I had desperately wanted to view since first being informed of their existence and while Peppermint Candy seems to be the largest gap in my Korean film viewing to date, The Foul King was another that I longed to see upon hearing about its absolutely zany plot and action oriented narrative.  My trip through the Korean filmic landscape over the past year and some change at this point has afforded me a ton of different viewing experiences, some of which, for obvious reasons, exist decidedly within the horror genre, while others of equal enjoyment found themselves entrenched within the romantic comedy realm.  However, The Foul King seems to be in a world of Korean filmmaking all its own, drawing heavy influence from the works of Seijun Suzuki, while much to my surprise using some of the filmic stylings that one can only hope helped guide Aronofsky in his methodology as it pertains to my personal favorite of his The Wrestler.  Of course, considering that it is a relatively recent Korean film, The Foul King is anything but straightforward in its narrative.  Sure it is a linear film in many aspects, but it finds itself so informed by the impossible and the cinematically evasive as to be a constantly evolving narrative whose fixations on the crumblings of masculinity and the desire for destruction as a means of escapism.  The Foul King is a film that may well have suffered from a loss on the cutting room floor, but what viewers are given in the way of social commentary is good, if not absolutely perfect.

The Foul King focuses primarily on Dae-ho (Kang-ho Song) a out-of-his-luck bank clerk, whose diminutive relationship with his boss becomes a point of contempt and disdain for all that is wrong in his life, both financially and emotionally.  When his boss oversteps his boundaries and places the young worker in a headlock, Dae-ho takes it upon himself to seek out an alternative method to fight back against the authoritative boss.  When he is turned down by a friend who does tae-kwon-do, Dae-ho finds an add for professional wrestling and realizes that such and endeavor will provide him the skills necessary to fight off his boss.  However, the trainer and head of the gym refuses to aid Dae-ho, particularly after he expresses an interest in the classic wrestler known as The Foul King who would rely on elaborate cheating method to assure victory.  Yet Dae-ho is incredibly persistent and when the gym head is forced by mafia leaders to heighten the action of his matches he agrees to take on the aspiring wrester.  During his training Dae-ho comes to realize how truly exhausting and challenging wrestling can be, even when it is fake, learning to choreograph elaborate fights, along with the methods necessary to "cheat" without getting caught.  After some bumpy roads Dae-ho finds a bit of success in the ring and eventually builds up enough of a reputation to be scheduled to fight against renowned fighter Yubiho (Su-ro Kim).  Meanwhile, Dae-ho is still finding trouble with attaining respect at work, as well as at home where his father criticizes him for being a failure, as such, Dae-ho pours everything into this fight, even though he is expected to throw the fight in the name of entertainment.  After a long drawn out fight with Yubiho, one that delves into a real brawl, Yubiho does indeed defeat Dae-ho, but not before the young wrestler has earned a new degree of self-respect and willingness to strive for more than mediocrity in his daily life, even if he still finds it hard to be fully successful in every single endeavor.

The Foul King is such a straight forward "turning a new leaf" narrative.  Dea-ho is a simple character with simple desires and the film does not at any point attempt to layer a ton of metaphor onto this quest. However, that is not to say that The Foul King is not something short o brilliant.  In fact, I was completely enamored with the film from its excellent and highly artistic opening moments and found Dae-ho to be an absolutely intriguing character.  What the film does is takes something such as the concerns, particularly in a masculine context, for workplace advancement and parallels them nicely with the issues of competition and phallic power in professional wrestling.  Dae-ho would be quite content to simply move through his unproductive life, however, when he is attacked inexplicably by his boss in the bathroom it becomes a question of his own power and authority as a male and he seeks a physical venue to challenge to oppressive force.  The latent homoeroticism of things like wrestling and contact sports, allow for the attack by Dae-ho's boss to take on a new form, and other suggestions of homosexuality as being present in an unwarranted context play into this narrative nicely.  In fact, I found myself laughing each time a wrestler was shown training at the gym, inevitably they would be show working with a punching bag that was blatantly intended to be phallic, it would be near impossible to call it anything else.  Of course, the film does not suggest that homosexuality is bad by any means, it only notes that the issue of sexual advances and exploitations based on economic means is problematic and to work against this would be the ideal.  It is also a narrative that draws a clear line between being a person with low work ethic and a person who blatantly cheats.  While neither are ideals in any sense, it is clear that Dae-ho's cheating in the ring is for show, where as Yubiho's use of steroids and violent temperament are more detrimental to the safety of his opponents and the sanctity of the sport, a fine parallel with his boss whose constant attacks are borderline assault, as opposed to well meaning reprimands for the young banker's immature behavior.

Key Scene:  It is a rare feat to have the opening shots of a movie suck me in immediately, but this is the case with The Foul King.

This film is, unfortunately, hard to come by on DVD, but is available on Netflix.  However, there appears to be about one copy in circulation so it might be awhile before you get your hands on a copy.

Lust Awakens The Desire To Possess: Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring (2003)

It has been a bit of time since I watched a Korean film, let alone reviewed one within the context of the blog and I felt that an injustice since it is the country within which I place my primary focus academically, particularly in regards to the Korean New Cinema movement.  With this in mind it was a high possibility that if I were to pick a film completely by chance that it would fall within the directorial scope of Kim Ki-duk, whose works are wide ranging and nearly all controversial.  In fact, I have to my recollection reviewed at least four of his films on this blog already, which may well be the highest for anyone yet.  I would be hesitant to call him the Takishi Miike of South Korea considering that it suggests a heightened state of shock value, but Ki-duk's films are certainly not for the easy going or those seeking a visually light film.  Even in the case of Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring, one can realize that underneath the veneer of beautiful cinematography and a poetic reflection on the nature of adoration and sacrifice lays a highly graphic and terribly abrasive consideration of the nature of sexual awakening, violence against those things without power and the general issues of growing up and learning to navigate a curious and ever changing world.  I would pair this particular film with Ki-duck's The Bow, although wherein that film the director seems terribly preoccupied with the idea of entrapment and its justifications in the name of "protection," Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring is near wholly concerned with the ability of beings to move through the world with complete lack of hindrances.  One can see the notion of burden throughout the film, but the metaphors are layered and near impossible to read as any singular statement.  Furthermore, the episodic nature of this particular work, divided into seasons, as the title implies, help contest even the possibility of forming or obtaining burdens as something that is seen as fleeting and capable of appearing and reappearing at a moments notice.  This film, like other Ki-duk works is not suggesting a single possible answer or degree of oppression, but is constantly aware that as things they are subject to repeated change, especially in their decidedly intangible nature.


Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring focuses on the "closed off" world of an aging monk and his student a very young boy.  I put closed off in quotations because the world is entered through two doors via a point of view shot, yet nothing seems to be restricting this world aside from a doorway.  Segmented as noted before the first section follows the young monk about the natural world of the expansive monastery, where he finds humor in tying rocks to various creatures and watching them struggle to move.  Enraged by his behavior the elderly monk forces the young boy to carry a rock on his back while he goes about attempting to amend his wrongs.  Some of the animals, however, have died as a result of his cruel experiment, leading to a deep sadness in the boy.  The narrative then moves forward a few years and witnesses the arrival of a mother with her sick teenage daughter, roughly the same age as the boy who is now a teenager himself, despite the outset desire to heal the girl, the young man becomes infatuated with the woman and the two begin a sex heavy relationship, only to be discovered by the old monk who demands that she leave at once.  Angry, the teenage boy follows behind and leaves the monk alone, thus leading to the next section of the film, where the young monk returns somewhat older, heartbroken and bitter for placing his faith in a woman who eventually cheated on him.  Upon return, the old monk makes the man carve words into the dock of the pier of the monastery until his anger is minimized, during which cops appear to seize the man for what one can assume to be either assault or murder.  This moves then into the next section of the film, where the previously young man returns to the monastery to take up residence, during which time he is visited by a veiled woman and her child, one can assume this to be his former lover, although it is never outright shown.  During a night of panic, the woman runs outside onto a frozen lake only to slip into an exposed portion and die from drowning, leaving the man to take care of the child, which, of course, leads to the final section of the film, which depicts the former student now serving as an aged monk to a younger generation.

The cycles of this film are clear, what is less clear is the tangible, spatial elements of the film.  One can easily argue that the film finds its grounding in a sort of chronological structure, which is partially true, however, given that the moments between each episode do not represent a flat out seasonal change, and appear to extend beyond simply a temporal space suggest something much grander at work, a notion only made all the more obtuse when one realizes that the actors playing the assumedly same parts change, therefore, adding a surreal and almost mythological element to the film.  I would even make a case that Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring is very much concerned with what occurs in the liminal spaces of not only the world of the narrative, but the relationship between viewers and the screen.  It is no accident that the doors always open up into the world essentially telling those who are watching to engage with the work, or to step into its realm, for to not do so would be to disregard the intimate, yet always changing world of this secluded monastery.  In fact, everything is always on the move, much like in his film The Isle, Ki-duk's world is placed on water, which can obviously be read as a variety of things, however, in the spiritual regard of this work, and the other previously mentioned Ki-duk works, it only seems to add to the lack of grounding as a suggestion that any plans or attempts to anchor down to a place are futile, and in the particular location likely to result in death.  These "weights" which metaphorically appear in the form of the young boy tying rocks to animals, extend to the narrative, whether it be sexual desire, the dream of escapism or perhaps even notions of spiritual answers themselves.  The climb up hill carrying the burden of a stone in the next to final act seems to best sum up the entire narrative, in that, climbing the hill is already problematic, but one must only carry the burdens that they have brought upon themselves, and nothing more, every individual is given a chance to chose their outcomes, even in the most seclusive of situations.

Key Scene:  The rocks on the animals metaphor is so on the nose, but considering how inherently violent it is, I felt it to be an audacious and well-executed portion of the film.

This is another cheap Korean film that stands out as well-worth owning.  Not only is it an exceptional Korean film, but it is also a great art house work on a global scale.

I'm Sorry, Mommy Was Wrong: The Red Shoes (2009)

I was a bit bummed as to not waiting to include the Powell-Pressburger film The Red Shoes into this month of films, however, I was able to find a film that I assumed only shared the name of the British classic in a South Korean film that I had been longing to see of the same name.  While it is certainly not a remake, or a homage for that manner, it does appear to borrow heavily from the Anderson fairy tale of the original, particularly in the element of a pair of shoes being the jumping off point for an individuals descent into madness.  While The Red Shoes is not the greatest South Korean film I have come across, it is not entirely an awful film to watch, although it is incredibly graphic and quite intense, dipping into some deeply scary imagery in its closing moments.  Yet, even in its imperfections, it adheres to many of the experimental, non-linear, culturally provocative and revolutionary imagery that makes it such a fruitful national cinema to discuss.  The film makes a perfect addition to this month of films because it makes considerable use of women in major roles, all be it, quite problematic ones, and does a great job of considering the negative manner with which vanity and a lust for consumer goods intrude upon women's attempts to navigate and already unwelcoming society.  It is a film that makes sure viewers are aware of how mentally distraught the various characters are, drawing their problems from a variety of external forces as well as pent-up internalized issues.  The filmic space explodes and clashes with the various issues as they relate the the individual and the collective within the film, often in highly expressionistic manners, while at other times being definitively grotesque.  It is a film with a clear message, or call against, vanity and internalization of women's lack in regard to illogical male standards and does a masterful job of suggesting its generational transference, particularly when its issues are purposefully and problematically repressed.  If it were not an already absolutely convoluted plot the insistence Yong-Gyun Kim, the inclusion of the singular panoptic eye into the narrative manages to make its theoretical execution marvelous.

The film focuses on Sun-jae (Kim Hye-soo) a woman who has just left her husband after discovering him to be cheating on her while she was taking their daughter to school.  Frustrated and stunned, Sun-jae takes her and her daughter and moves into an apartment, hoping to make a new life, one that will have her find success opening an optical care center.  Yet, when she returns home to pick up a few more items she also sees a pair of red (pink, if we are to be honest) shoes that she found on a subway.  As she moves these shoes into her home, it becomes quite evident that they also bring a terrible past along with them, one that spirals Sun-jae into a state of mind filled with vanity and greed, finding it hard to navigate the world of caring for a daughter, opening a business and getting back into the dating world.  Sun-jae's daughter, and eventually a friend of Sun-jae's fall victim to the curse of the red shoes, which leads Sun-jae's daughter to act out against her mother and for her friend to become possessed by an unseen spirit while admiring a wedding gown.  Realizing the terrible problems that the shoes causes, Sun-jae attempts to discard of the shoes, only to have them return to her inexplicably, in some cases in the hands of her daughter, who spouts incoherent claims about a dead husband in the process.  The fact that she is incapable of ridding herself of the shoes, leads her and her boyfriend to attempt to find the origin of the cursed footwear, leading to a realization that the shoes were tied to a young woman whose own abuses led to her death and resulting quest for some degree of vengeance.  In the end, Sun-jae's inextricable attachment to the shoes mean that she must accept the death given to her at the hands of the vengeful ghost, which occurs in an intense and violent manner.  The narrative then closes in on Sun-jae's daughter as she stares into a mirror practicing her dance moves, yet her darkened eyes and pale visage, suggest her own attachment to the curse as well.

Despite being a narrative complex film, there are some theoretical moments that draw upon ideas of exploitation and objectification that justify the film receiving my praise.  Firstly, the deconstruction of consumerism and beauty myths as a problematic relationships is dealt with excellentlly, whether it be Sun-jae's own self-worth changing upon putting make-up on and appropriating Westernized beauty looks, or when her friend longs for a wedding-dress that is so skinny that it would prove unwearable to a much smaller person.  Their own desires to appease their negative body image issues result in their very real destruction, an undeniable commentary on body dysmorphia and its negative affects in can place on women.  Each woman, even the daughter, believe that by possessing the shoes they will somehow be able to comfortably navigate their respective spaces, even in the case of Sun-jae who simply wants to be admired by her father again, whose leaving she is far too young to truly conceptualize.  Mirrors also factor heavily into the film, whether it be with Sun-jae's constant obsession with her blind eye for a considerable portion of the narrative, or her own daughter at ballet class lingering on her body perhaps longer than necessary, a likely result of the young age at which beauty ideals are thrust upon children.  The eye, as a ever present figure also serves as a great metaphor within the film, in a panoptic, or all-seeing, manner the presence of the eye serves as a constant point of judgement for the women in the film, their looks and bodies always in question and constant judgement, even in their private spaces and internal thoughts.  It is not an irony lost that Sun-jae's seemingly admiring and progressive boyfriend paints the eye, because even if he thinks himself a standup guy he, nonetheless, engages in objectification and openly considers Sun-jae's addition of makeup and Western beauty norms a good thing.  It is a film brimming with beauty myth criticism and has a ton more to be read into upon later revisits.

Key Scene:  When Sun-jae's sanity finally splits, the visual metaphor is fantastic and disconcerting and made the narratively complex movie come together magically.

This is likely a rental for most people, I will personally keep a copy for myself, but can easily understand doing otherwise.

Beau-ti-ful: Air Doll (2009)

Air Doll is a film destined to be something I thoroughly enjoy.  First, it was directed by Hirokazu Koreeda, whose film Still Walking received a more than favorable review and heavy admiration for its clear admiration for the late Ozu.  Secondly, the film focuses on issues of body and gender as it relates to East Asian cinema, a personal and well-vested research interest of mine.  Finally, if those two things were not enough, the film also includes the amazing Doona Bae, whose performance in Cloud Atlas was among one of the many enjoyable portions of the film.  Of course, a set of favorable things in my favor does not necessarily mean that it will equate to a good movie for other people every time, however, in the case of Air Doll, I think its cinematic leanings, Westernized cultural references and somewhat melodramatic soundtrack lend well to most film palettes, not to mention it involves artificial intelligence, allowing for even the most strict of sci-fi enthusiasts to find something to love in the film.  While the critics who claim the film to be a bit lengthy in its execution certainly have a right to do so, I cannot help but defend its drawn out nature as a necessity in regards to Koreeda's clear desire to promote the issues of human suffering and loneliness as realized through a being whose just come to terms with their own realization that they have emotions.  Hell, I would go so far as to describe Air Doll as a work influenced heavily by the ideas and writings of Albert Camus, although if said ideas were to be incorporated in to a Phillip K. Dick world.  Rarely do I ever possess a desire to go out of my way to read manga, although I probably should begin considering it since it does have ties to my research intestates, I really cannot deny my desire to read the graphic text on which Air Doll was based, because it is such a decidedly philosophical film that I cannot help but consider the ways in which the novel either intensifies or overlooks these reflections.  With is existential woes and considerable understanding of generational issues within contemporary Japanese culture, both in this film and Still Walking, I have began to actively seek out this directors other works as I can only hope they are filled with and equal degree of vigor and poetic earnestness.

Air Doll begins with the introduction of Hideo (Itsuji Itao) a middle-aged man working in a clearly draining and financially unrewarding job, taking solace only in his ability to come home and enjoy intercourse with a blow-up sex doll named Nozomi (Doona Bae), leaving the next day to return to his job of under-appreciation.  It is during his leave from the home that Nozomi begins to come to life as an almost spectral essence, one with a human form, but an opaque shadow.  Having only the realization that she has a heart, Nozomi attempts to navigate the world of urban Japan mimicking the actions of those she sees around her, whether it be an older woman bowing around various businesses or a girl singing a children's song.  Nozomi's curiosity with the world around her is so real and engaging that she actually finds herself successfully landing a job in a video rental store, all within the time frame of her owner being at work, thus being completely oblivious to her changed form.  As the days grow and Nozomi learns better how to navigate the world she is able to express emotions and intelligent conversations to the world around her, whether it be an old man reading poetry at a park bench, or with Junichi (Arata) whom she begins a relationship with, one which allows her to experience young love as well as continuing her curiosity with the world around her, taking particular notice of a young girl being sang "Happy Birthday."  Yet when she falls during work and accidentally punctures herself, it is revealed to Junichi that she is an air doll, something he reacts to by willingly filling her back up with air, in a noticeably sexual manner.  After this accident, Nozomi becomes considerably connected with the lonely individuals around urban Japan, sharing their sadness, as well as coming to terms with Hideo's own loneliness.  She eventually seeks to end her life by releasing her air, after talking with another woman and claiming that she did briefly find happiness in her moments of emotion.  Although it is implied that her sacrifice is witnessed by another woman who draws on its serenity to change their own life and seek out moments of beauty for herself.

Air Doll could be read as many things, an existential reflection on modernity and loneliness, a warning for our seeming willingness to attach emotional outpourings to artificial intelligence, or even a demand of its viewers to appreciate fleeting moments of beauty in a world of continued tragedy.  These are all very real themes within the film and certainly worth intense expansion, however, I cannot help but consider the feminist awakening considered within Koreeda's film, whether accidental or on purpose.  At the films onset, Nozomi is a body objectified, an issue faced by women for centuries, and still problematically confronted today, it is not until she realizes that she is capable of being a emotive and rational being that can seek her own desires that she comes to life.  This life could be read as a socio/political/economic awakening as a metaphor for women in contemporary East Asian cultures where they are still objectified within traditionalism.  As such, it is no accident that she seeks employment at a video store that draws heavily from Western culture, a means of inspiration on a very large level for non-Western feminist rhetoric, although they are beginning to create their own feminist voices and identities completely influenced by non-Western histories and philosophies.  Nonetheless, Nozomi's awakening allows her to move out of the domestic space and create her own sexuality, one that is awakened when she is "blown back up" by Junichi which could easily be read as Nozomi having her first orgasm and realizing that she too is capable of sexual gratification.  In regards to sexuality, it is no accident that the tube to represent Nozomi's vagina is constantly being cleaned both by herself and by Hideo, showing a far larger concern for the female sexual body than medicine tends to do so even in contemporary heath and body discourses.  Finally, her death at the end of the film suggests a feminist martyrdom, no different than Dreyer's Passion of Joan of Arc, one that pushes another woman to seek beauty outside of a domestic space, a veritable call to action which will hopefully open the eyes of a handful of other oppressed persons as well.

Key Scene:  There is a scene where humanized Nozomi is pretending to be a doll while Hideo lays beside her and watches TV, in which Doona Bae delivers the robotic movements of a doll, while also expressing a look of entrapment that is acting beyond perfection.

This pseudo-adaptation of The Little Mermaid is a must-own piece of cinema, and while it is a bit pricey the DVD transfer is gorgeous.

Documents Never Lie: Memories Of Murder (2003)

For somebody who has become a self-proclaimed academic on South Korean cinema, it has been quite awhile since I have reviewed or even watched anything from the country, which led me to dive into Memories of Murder, an early offering from one of my favorite South Korean directors Bong Joon-ho, probably best known for his massively realized monster movie The Host, if not for his spastic and cinematic Mother.  The later, as well as Memories of Murder, focus heavily on violent crimes and catching the culprits, however, where Bong avoids reality and grounding in his later work he seems completely at ease with depicting an uncomfortable amount of realness in his early work.  Memories of Murder is wickedly funny, while never failing to remind viewers that rape and murder are real acts, often, if not always, leading to the untimely death of those attacked, in this case every one being woman.  Bong is such a stellar director that even when noting that the film is based on true events, he manages to create such a gripping and melodramatic narrative that it is hard not to get lost in the spectacle and execution of the film, its elaborate nature and seemingly layered element of deception cause viewers to justifiably assume the work to be entirely fiction.  However, one may feel about the events depicted in the film, or whether Bong was even justified in portraying such freshly given wounds on screen, one cannot deny the means with which he uses this narrative to paint a picture of divides in Korea that still haunt the continually progressing nation.  Set, for the most part, in 1986, the film represents a rural area of South Korea, clearly affected by colonization, but not via a physical presence.  Bong, in Memories of Murder, creates a film that contests notions of identity and assumed privilege, particularly as it relates to notions of masculinity, age and education.  So very realized is this film, that one often has trouble situating its time period, as it is clearly not intended to visually represent contemporary Korea, yet the visual realm is not archaic either, instead existing in some area of transcendent cinematic space where metaphor and meaning are undoubtedly universal.


Memories of Murder begins, as should be no surprise, with the discovery of yet another raped and murdered body, in what has become a string of violent attacks in a rural South Korean community.  The main figure in the investigation proves to be Detective Park (Kang-ho Song) a traditionalist as far as detective work goes, although he is not adverse to twisting the words of suspects to assure the moving along of his investigations.  Park's partner Detective Cho (Roe-ha Kim) on the other hand seems to resort to violence at the flip of a hat, assuming that he can beat a confession out of any person he assumes to be guilty.  There wily tactics yield little results, mostly because they lack proper higher police education, which leads to the calling in of a Seoul based detective named Detective Seo (Sang-Kyung Kim) whose main objective appears to be linking the crimes into a series of murders enacted by a single serial killer.  Seo and Park constantly but heads, mostly as a result of Park's pride and desire to retain an alpha dog status, something Seo's intelligence seems quick to threaten.  However, as the clues begin the collect and the dueling detectives realize that one another possess some undeniable investigation skills, they slowly piece together a list of legitimate suspects and even chase down a variety of other criminals in the process.  Yet when they come to a standstill as a result of waiting for the FBI, who possess far better technology, to analyze some DNA, another murder occurs, driving Park specifically to chase the assumed culprit down himself.  Park, Seo and the assumed criminal meeting an an intense semi-shootout at a train tunnel entrance, only to be forced to let the suspect go when it is shown that they only possess inconclusive evidence.  The narrative then moves to the present as Park revisits a crime scene, only to be told by a passing girl that another man had been there only moments earlier, perhaps the killer whose whereabouts remain unknown even today.

It is hard to make any definitive statement about Memories of Murder in regards to critical theory, as so much of Bong's intent is clearly a result of his personal conviction in calling attention to the fact that this  killer has yet to face justice.  The clear choice of the camera to linger on the beaten and bruised bodies of the victims is an all to visceral call to demand that justice be sought with little rest during the process. Of course, to overanalyze this element of the film would be counterproductive, because the very act of Bong making the film proves this argument valid.  Instead, it is far more interesting to consider the way masculinity serves as a point of contention in the film, especially between Park and Seo whose desire to catch the killer seems more to do with selfish pride than with proctoring justice, especially for Park who has his communal identity to maintain. It is then no coincidence that all the victims in the film are women, one's who cannot defend against an intensely aggressive masculine antagonist, ultimately, causing Park and others to serve as saviors to a weaker sex, a problematic underlying issue of internalized oppression invariably emerges.  It is also interesting to consider the suspects when reading it through a masculinity critique, as it is clear all of Park and Seo's suspects appear to engage in varying degrees of gender betrayal/transgression, whether it be one culprit who dons women's underwear for sexual gratification, or another suspect whose telling feature is his unusually soft hands, something which is the result of his job in clerical work.  The final confrontation of the train emerging from the tunnel as a means of losing their assumed victim then takes a clear phallic meaning as it explodes out of the entrance severing any possibility of apprehending the suspect.  Masculine oppression is at the root of crime in this film, however, it is also the barrier that results in a killer never being found, in fact, the only persons who seem to be able to clearly identify the perpetrator are females, unfortunately, their voice in the narrative is relegated or ignored even in the closing moments, a masterful and biting commentary by Bong no doubt.

Key Scene:  There is a confrontation between Seo and Park in a karaoke bar in which they are both peeling bananas.  The biting nature and satirical composition of this moment hand me bursting at the seams with laughter.

This is certainly one of the premier films in South Korean cinema's history and it is somewhat pricey on Amazon, yet purchasing a copy is well worth the money, it is seriously a spectacular film.

A Whole World Realized On A Single Boat: The Bow (2005)

If I define a film as being poetic realism one could certainly assume it to be Italian or French, if I add that it is set on a boat with noticeably sparse dialogue one might narrow the field down to a Scandinavian offering.  If I add that it deals with some heavy issues of patriarchal oppression and problematic ties to the womb, it might be situated within the Spanish filmmaking tradition.  However, if I include all of these factors and mention that the film climaxes in a moment of violence that has an inherent tie to sexual awakening then it is highly likely that the film is probably comfortably residing within the New Korean tradition.  Ki-duk Kim, who has been reviewed multiple times on this blog manages to create such a film in The Bow, something so surreally poetic that I felt moved in a way emotionally more indicative of melodrama.  I have not encountered a soundtrack so perfect for a film in quite awhile, both in is serene almost ethereal quality, as well as its constant intersections within the diegetic world of the film.  The acting in this movie, for being a somewhat absurdist plot, is well-executed and quite believable.  It manages to take a narrative space that is quite condensed and spread out a message about humanity, or at least the South Korean notion of humanity, throughout the film.  I am coming to realize that when one discusses the work of Ki-duk Kim one must necessarily consider a multitude of narrative possibilities, as well as an incredible intersection of identities.  While it is not as diverse in The Bow as it is in some of his earlier works, one must nonetheless contest a variety of class, gender and race identities before truly configuring the message promoted by the popular and controversial filmmaker.  I have been dabbling in finding specific Korean directors to write lengthier research pieces on an realize that Chan-wook Park is far to mainstream, while Chang-dong Lee proves to obscure.  Perhaps with a few more films by Ki-duk Kim under my belt I could go with his oeuvre, because it is equal parts problematic and revolutionary, a great trove of research to any burgeoning scholar.

The Bow focuses on life as it occurs on a small fishing boat, somewhere in the non-descript waters surrounding Korea.  The young girl (Yeo-reum Han) finds herself a member of a crew that aside from her only consists of an old man, played magnificently by Seong-hwang Jeon, who appears to be keeping a schedule of her aging, with the intent of marrying her upon her seventeenth birthday.  Viewers are provided with little context as to why she resides on this boat, aside from her initial arrival some ten years earlier.  What is made quite clear is the old mans severe protection of the girl from the lecherous advances of other fishers, going so far as to ward of their lingering touches with warning shots from a steady and precise bow and arrow.  Furthermore, the old man provides fortunes via firing the arrow as they young girl swings back and forth, narrowly dodging the missiles as they whiz by.  It seems as though the old man will receive his reward for stalwart patience, until the emergence of a particularly dashing young man sends the young girl into a infatuated tizzy, one which is clearly shared by the man who provides the young girl with some of her first glimpses into the technological world outside the boat, via a walkman and cell phone.  Of course, the old man contests this and makes certain that she is distanced from him, only to be threatened that he will return with the girls parents to save her from the boat.  When the man does return with news that her parents are indeed seeking her out, the young girl becomes confused and grows weary of her place on the boat, pushing the old man away despite his best efforts.  Agreeing to have his fortune read, the young man discovers that he is not the rightful owner of the young girls heart, but, nonetheless, demands that she be allowed to leave her prison.  Reluctantly agreeing to this the old man attempts suicide only for the young girl to return and marry him and act that is never consummated sexually, at least in the traditional sense, a carefully placed arrow might say otherwise.  The film then ends with the boat sinking into a bottomless darkness, the girl waving all the while.

The criticisms run deep for this film, not unlike the ocean which the boat floats ever so stagnantly on throughout the narrative.  Specifically, as they relate to notions of oppression, all of which are enacted upon the body of the young girl.  Firstly, as a female body she is a point of objectification to the various males throughout the film, firstly, the old man who has sexual intentions for, problematically, guised in earnest care.  However, the various men who come and go from the boat seem to desire conquest or sexual satisfaction, undertaking acts that range from innocent snuggling to foul placement of fish bait.  No protection is provided for the girl that is not predicated on another's own sexual desires.  She is clearly the othered body in the narrative, as far as sexuality is concerned.  Beyond this, she is also oppressed in terms of class presence, as a surrogate daughter to a fisher she lacks wealth and is invariably unable to expand her worldview, this is reaffirmed when she is given headphones as a gift, only to use them without realizing that they provide no sound when not attached to an output.  Furthermore, one can find points of oppresion that emerge from the young girls lack of education or apparent muteness as a handicap.  These forms of restraint are eventually broken in the closing moments of the film as she explodes in a near orgasmic manner in her troublesome sexual awakening scene, yet what her minds opens up to is likely far more than purely sexual notions.

Key Scene:  Pretty much any of the moments involving the bow violin music are aurally and visually pleasing.

This is a solid Korean film and perhaps the most arthouse of any seen to date, with the exception of some of Ki-duk Kim's earlier work and is well worth owning.  A new copy of the DVD is not terribly expensive either.

The Spider Web Drips With Water: The Day A Pig Fell Into The Well (1996)

Yet another Korean film and yet another piece of cinema I find myself enamored with.  While The Day a Pig Fell into the Well, manifests itself somewhat differently from many Korean films I have viewed, as well as those mentioned on the blog here, not because it is non-linear or multi-narrative, but because it is a work solely concerned within the tragic monotony of a few middle-class individuals in modern Seoul.  In that aspect, it is similar to other films I have seen in its fear and frustrations resulting from improper dealings with modernity, however, the better portion of this film just depicts a group of people failing on a large scale.  This is a poetic, highly sexual and incredibly watchable film, yet it is also a tragic film in which characters possess very few redemptive skills, lack the will to advance beyond their  insufferable existence and constantly cross behind each other back to engage in devious monetary mismanagements and a seemingly unending set of infidelities.  All that being said, director Hong Sang-soo in his debut manages to offer something so inherently realized and necessary that I am not surprised by its great success at the festival circuit and its constant mention in the various books on Korean cinema that I read.  I am a bit bothered though by its lack of familiarity on a larger cinema scale, not only on the stage of world cinema, but within Korean cinematic history as well.  Sure it is not Oldboy, or a classic Korean melodrama, but it is an opulently cinematic film that masks itself within the veneer of a gross and reprehensible set of characters, managing to create something that borders perfectly between disturbingly sparse and melodramatically grandiose.  The Day a Pig Fell into the Well, is a work that should stand as a lesson in how to produce an independent work that is always and at once well-acted, forward thinking and earnestly reflective of its previous influences.  While not one of the best made films by a long shot, perhaps a sounder made film does not exist.

The Day a Pig Fell into the Well, is a set of heavily interconnected stories about a group of individuals who exist within deceitful lives, in terms of monetary engagements, job related tasks and most importantly sexual exploits.  Arguably the largest factor within this film centers around characters going behind one another to engage in sexual acts, whether it be a writer who is having an affair with his wife, by having sex with a woman who is having an affair with her husband.  However, if this were all he was doing it would be one thing, the man also borrows money from one female only to turn around and give it to the person with whom he is having an affair.  Another segment of the narrative focuses on the cuckolded husband as he makes a trip to Seoul for business, only to turn around and sleep with a prostitute, something that leads to him getting an unspecified venereal disease, which in turn leads his wife to realize that he too has cheated, even though she is guilty of similar actions on a far more frequent basis.  We are even provided a glimpse into the writers other lover, who is head over heels about him, going so far as to buy him presents and swoon over him, yet when she comes to his apartment and finds him with another woman she becomes upset, leading him to chastise her and kick her around in the street.  Eventually, by some means of absurdism the group comes together at what is assumed to be a wake or funeral, the levels of infidelity become clear yet little confrontation occurs.  It is only in the end that the husband reasserts his masculinity upon his wife, but as the narrative suggests she has yet another relationship on the back burner.  Also some people are killed at some point, but that is almost a trope within Korean cinema at this point.

I cannot begin to expand on the possibilities for interpretation within this film, one could always touch upon the fears of modernity within contemporary Korea, a theme that I have mentioned frequently on this blog, but these are obvious critiques something not worth reiterating at this time.  I could even talk about the gender components in this film, because at times they are glaringly problematic, while in other moments they are quite revolutionary, however, I have an academic paper I am currently working on which will afford me that opportunity.  Instead, I am going to glean something from an article on the film that I have yet to read that discusses temporality and repetition in the work.  This seems to be a rather keen focus for this, film considering that it is essentially the same group of people, committing the same acts in somewhat similar spaces.  In fact, the only separating factor appears to be time a very temporal thing, but one that serves to solely sever a direct tie between each act.  Psychologically speaking this is what allows the characters to commit awful acts, ranging from money laundering to murder, a disconnect not by spacial awareness, but one of time, which I know makes little to no sense, but something about detaching oneself from a moment as it relates to spacial recognition is far more difficult than detaching oneself from a differing time period.  An obvious example is how we often overlook previous acts of genocide, because if we were not there we would not have committed them, this film suggests the opposite of that notion to varying degrees.  An individuals acts are contingent to a moment in time, we could all commit the crimes if they time, not the space allowed for its occurrence.  I know I have not hashed this theory out very well, but it is something I want to look into more and perhaps reflect on better in a later review.

Key Scene: The means by which sexual acts abruptly intercept scenes is so jarring and appropriate that it might be one of my favorite uses of intercourse in a film to date.

This is yet another film suffering from region blocks, once again, making Youtube your best viewing source.

You're Admitting It, Just By Being Silent: Memento Mori (1999)

I was going to dodge doing films within the horror genre for at least a month, however, this Korean film project has meant that I am tied down to watching a particular set of films, not that I mind of course considering it is a main area of research interests, particularly in the ways gender is portrayed within the films.  Yet even when I reflect on Memento Mori while writing this blog I realize that referring to it as a  a horror film is somewhat misleading and were it not for the last fifteen to twenty minutes of the film, it would seem to be the complete antithesis of anything of the genre.  Instead, as others of have argued, Memento Mori is a study of young love, in this case in a lesbian context and manages to stick to its guns about this theme for a good portion of the film.  Of course when I say that this is a horror movie, set in a high school about two young girls discovering their lesbian desires, one could easily read it as being something of an exploitative flick, particularly considering the latent violence and sexuality within so much of New Korean Cinema, yet, in the hands of co-directors Tae-Yong Kim and Kyu-dong Min we are provided with an earnest look into two girls falling head over heals for one another despite the aggressive and physical abuses enacted upon them by their fellow students, as well as the faculty and staff of the high school they attend.  In a tradition somewhat normal in the Korean psychological thriller, the film's narrative is quite non-linear and even appears to contain dueling narratives existing within the same film space.  While this is apparently a loose sequel to an earlier film titled Whispering Corridors, something I am now dying to see, Memento Mori manages to make strides in its commentaries on youthful angst and ill-will, as well as draw serious attention to issues of silencing and bullying the other.  I often find myself engaged in conversations in which much criticism is brought about as to the lack of interesting and appropriate lesbian figures within film, had I known of this film prior I would have leapt at the opportunities to discuss this highly overrated work.  I would boldy suggest that were Memento Mori not suffering from mislabeling as horror, it would be a far more recognized work.

The film, as mentioned, primarily centers on the burgeoning love between two young girls, one the somewhat well-respected, if not despised Min Hyo-sin (Park Ye-jin) and the reserved athlete Yoo Shi-eun (Lee Young-jin) who suffers from some sort of hearing loss that causes her to be the subject of ridicule by classmates and teachers who all seem to suffer from an insane lack of understanding.  While they manage to keep their romantic involvement somewhat of a secret, the discovery of their journal by a fellow student named Soh Min-ah (Kim Min-sun), leading to speculation and a fabrication of their evolving relationship.  This spirals the film into something incredibly non-linear in which viewers may find trouble attaching moments to their proper moment in time, particularly when scenes involve both the lovers, as well as Soh.  It is only when we witness Soh secluded reading the diary that we can assure a present state, but it moves to their moments of intimacy with such instantaneous fervor that it is never certain.  Eventually, it is revealed that despite an initial bond, Shi-eun becomes somewhat distancing towards Hyo-sin who she sees as becoming far too attached to be a healthy relationship, going so far as to sleep with a male teacher as a means of assuring that the two will have a child together.  This drives Hyo-sin over the edge causing her to commit suicide, expecting Shi-eun to follow along as part of a suicide pact made earlier in the film.  Of course, Shi-eun does no such thing and attempts only to exist and distance herself from her past choices.  This leads to Hyo-sin haunting the school for the latter portion of the film, at times possessing Soh since she is key to bringing the entire narrative to light, considering that she possesses the journal.  The film ends rather abruptly as the ghost distances itself from the school and we are again shown a moment of Hyo-sin and Shi-eun engaging in young romantic affairs on the school's roof, as though the events to follow were just a troublesome figment of their young and vibrant imaginations.

This film has received a lot of criticism, and deservedly so, for not sticking to a central cinematic concept, especially the films third act which is exceptionally frantic and damn near impossible to follow.  However, I would contest that the films message requires this sort of ambiguous and non-linear format to drive home issues of oppression and ignorance.  The relationship we are shown is created through not a factual account per se, but a gleaning for emotive notes written in an equally non-traditional diary, one full of pictures, phrases and hidden pockets, but rarely of any flat out writing.  Hyo-sin clearly struggled to explain her feelings for Shi-eun, just as she ponders existence when reading her poem for class.  She cannot properly categorize her feelings for another girl, because the societal constructs not only do not allow her to possess such feelings, but, in fact, completely lack a language to describe such moments.  The narrative reinforces this both by the hateful language spouted by the oppressive forces within the film, as well as by creating a narrative that is not traditional in its construct.  At times Memento Mori reads more like a feminist experimental film or a piece of Third World Cinema, something more inclined to deal with the intersectionalities considered in this work.  Sure this film masks itself in a horror film at its closing moments, I imagine some of that is likely to be a result of nitpicking producers, however, despite its problematic genre location, Memento Mori is very much a film to be grounded and admired within the constantly growing and emerging Gay and Lesbian cinema.

Key Scene:  The moments on the rooftop are sweet and sentimental, something not often shown in Korean cinema.

This is a great film and one worth checking out, unfortunately, it is a bit hard to come by via Netflix, but Amazon has decently priced copies at the moment.

With A Rich Husband Cheating Is Part Of The Package: The Housemaid (2010)

With all the intensity of a New Korean Thriller and the subtle paranoia latent to some of Steven Soderbergh's more experimental narrative films, the 2010 offering from Sang-soo Im titled The Housemaid is something to be seen.  However, probably the most rewarding element of this film is that those watching it are given another fantastic performance by Do-yeon Jeon, the actress I praised lavishly in my review of Secret Sunshine, which has proven to be my favorite viewing experience of this year, as well as one of the better films I have ever seen.  This film is an adaptation of sorts of an earlier 1960's version of a film with the same title.  While I have not personally seen the original I have had the pleasure of watching Beasts of Prey, another film by Ki-young Kim, who did direct the original The Housemaid.  As such, I expected a vivacious, sexually driven film that would blow up with cinematic fervor and stop at not point to excel at being a forceful work.  The Housemaid is an exceptionally great work of cinema, one that is thankfully seeing larger audience at the hands of IFC, who has, along with Magnolia pictures, proven the most reliable source in expanding awareness regarding Korean cinema.  The Housemaid while certainly engaging in some of the tropes and themes we have come to expect with New Korean Cinema, like hyper violence, multi-layered unconventionally formulated narrative and some degree of fear with modernity, nonetheless, manages to exist within its own new conceptualization.  While The Housemaid is not the first film from Korea to severely reconsider gender roles and identity to a lengthened degree, this film is particularly unique in its approach, particularly through the ways it reconsiders domestic spaces.  The film also considers some of the latent issues in female distrust and deceit, especially when these negative interactions seem to stem from a problematic male figure, something certainly and undeniably present within this film.  While intense from beginning to end, The Housemaid is a thrill to watch and something I look forward to revisiting in the future.

The narrative of The Housemaid begins rather unconventionally with an opening of various women of different classes traversing the streets of what we can assume to be Seoul during the night hours.  A woman who has been standing on a ledge unexpectedly leaps to her death, at which point we begin what could be defined as the narrative proper in which Eun-yi (Do-yeon Jeon) takes a job as a nanny and maid for a wealthy family headed by Hoon (Lee Jung-jae) a wine guzzling man who takes an instant liking to Eun-yi, despite his wife Hae-ra (Seo-woo) being pregnant with twins.  Eun-yi by no means dismisses the advances, despite being led to assume that she is at the very least bi-sexual, and is at one point caught by a fellow maid in the act of sleeping with Hoon.  Part out of personal advancement and guilt the second maid Miss Cho (Yoon yea-Jeong) informs Hae-ra's mother of the incidents which lead the worried woman to take out her concerns on the unsuspecting Eun-yi, causing her to fall from a ladder on the second story of the mansion in which she is working.  It is revealed during her recovery that she was pregnant, a thing that looms over the state of the house until she is troubled by a miscarriage, one, undoubtedly, connected to her intense accident.  Despite Hae-ra's misgivings her mother demands that she enjoy living a lavish lifestyle while her guilty husband is at her every whim, it is during the birth of the twins that she dismisses her feelings for Hoon and leaves it his job to fire Eun-yi, a task that causes her a great deal of frustration.  After a discussion with Miss Cho about her motives for ratting her out, Eun-yi hatches a plan to exact revenge upon the family, an act which involves her committing a grandly grotesque suicide within their foyer.  The film then closes with Hoon, Hae-ra and their daughter speaking in English as the daughter appears to be painting a picture.

This film could be read as a point of problem as it relates to female distrust and envy within upper class society and, of course, this would not be a completely ungrounded reading of this dense work.  However, I would argue that the film is a heightened state of realities in which women find themselves blaming one another for their own unhappiness or anger, when, in fact, it is certainly a figure of patriarchal oppression causing issues.  This is clearly the role that Hoon plays within The Housemaid, he is an alcoholic, sex crazed maniac who clearly holds little concern for the world around him unless it can provide him some degree of pleasure.  While it is certainly clear that Eun-yi welcomes the advances of Hoon, one cannot deny that her degree of submissiveness can be tied to her lack of power in relation to Hoon the wealthy patriarch.  The film is also clever enough to pepper in a few feminist theory commentaries and ideals as a means to push further a notion of unity, as opposed to distrust.  We see this first with Hae-ra's reading of The Second Sex as a reminder of her othering, in relation to a male of power, something based almost entirely on her sexual being, which is further emphasized by her being pregnant.  However, I find the most telling example of a need for unity to occur in the conversations between Eun-yi and Miss Cho, particularly their closing one, in which they both realize that their divisive ideas were tragically misguided and despite a clear age difference the two had far more to share  and celebrate than ignore and destroy.  Finally, with this conceptualization of the film in mind, one cannot help but read Eun-yi's suicidal act as a means of feminist martyrdom, in that it causes Miss Cho a moment to escape from the traps of patriarchy and most importantly for Hoon's daughter to see the effects of the current establishment on a woman's sanity.

Key Scene:  There are a few scenes set up in front of a fireplace that are cinematically perfect and metaphorically masterful.

This movie is available on Netflix Watch Instantly and well worth checking out, as for me I will be saving up to snag the ultra expensive bluray version.