In 2009, I graduated into an economic recession with a BA in English literature. It took me almost 3 years until I was able to find a full-time job.
In 2021, I am graduating into another economic recession with a PhD in Cinema and Media Studies. In case I need to wait another 3 years to find a tenure-track job or a comedy writing gig, I am going to host my own podcast putting my media studies knowledge and comedic timing into productive use.
Please subscribe to K-Drama School on YouTube!
You can visit the website here.
And you can listen to the first episode here! In episode one, I discuss the hit series SKY Castle!
I appreciate your support! Spread the word! Happy new year!
I wrote a piece on Nymphomaniac (2014, Director’s Cut, Vol. I and II) and on what it means to be “A Radical, Vulnerable and Agentic Body.”
Na Hong-jin’s Definition of Evil: The Inexplicable
The Wailing (2016) aka 곡성 is Na Hong-jin’s third feature film starring the excellent Kwak Do-won, who Na has collaborated with in The Yellow Sea (2010). Na is probably most well-known for his feature debut The Chaser (2008) with Ha Jung-woo playing the terrifying serial killer, and Kim Yoon-seok playing the corrupt detective-turned-pimp trying to solve these unexplainable crimes.
With The Wailing, Na continues his theme of inexplicable evils committed by a being that appears to be fully human but from up close contains no sympathetic soul. In The Chaser, Ha Jung-woo’s character is just plainly a murderer without any rhyme or reason; in The Yellow Sea, Ha Jung-woo’s character is put on an assassination mission without knowing the reasons for why he must commit this crime, and when he finally learns the reason, he is left completely speechless by the superficiality of the incitement, thus portraying–again–evil actions without a justifiable cause. Na brings this concept into the realm of the superego by putting the face and body of the Devil himself onto our screen with The Wailing.
Freud (1919) defines the uncanny as something that is preferably concealed but is later revealed to our reaction of horror, fright, terror, disgust, etc.; the uncanny refers to what is familiar to us therefore familial; for instance, a daughter, who is completely knowable to the parents who produced and gave birth to her, love and care for her, belongs in the realm of uncanny because she is familiar (heimlich); the flipside to heimlich is unheimlich which is the stranger or the ugliness that is preferably concealed; this is when the daughter we know and love suddenly changes because she is possessed by the unknowable. The uncanny may also refer to a the “happy genius,” otherwise known as the guardian spirit of a dwelling–the possessor. Traces of heimlich and unheimlich which make up the constitution of the uncanny is found in Gokseong–the small village in Jeolla Province where the film is set (also the title of the film in hangeul).
At the crack of dawn on a rainy day, officer Jeon Jong-goo (Kwak Do-won) gets a phone call from the station alerting him of a murder case. When he arrives at the scene of the crime, he finds that a family’s been stabbed to death by a young man who sits on the edge of the maroo, skin covered in boils and the blood of his victims, with eyes glazed over as though in a trance.
Boils on the skin, mental derangement and subsequent serial killings of those around him/her are symptoms found among several murderers (victims) throughout the village. The noticeable pattern along with the rumors going about town that the suspect who is spreading this disease (or possession) is a strange Japanese fisherman (Jun Kunimura) who lives deep in the mountains, eats deer carcass raw, rapes women and curses people. These rumors start to pile up inside officer Jeon’s imaginary.
One day when Jeon and his partner break into the fisherman’s house, they find a small dwelling densely packed with photographs of the victims, candles, shaman ritual rope, and personal belongings of the villagers such as shoes and clothes. The last straw for Jeon is when he sees symptoms appear in his young daughter Hyo-jin–played by the very impressive Kim Hwan-hee–who appears to be about 10 or 11 years old. It begins with her erratic behavior; the young girl who was once so sweet to her old man suddenly throws fits; she screams and curses at her father leaving her entire family aghast but frozen in fear at the sight indicating everyone’s helplessness. Doctors have no answers. The police are useless. A spiritual intervention is the only answer for them.
In part two of the film, the child’s grandmother invites a well-known shaman named Il-gwang (Hwang Jung-min, The Unjust (2010), Veteran (2015)) who is apparently quite expensive but rumored to be the best there is from Seoul. Jeon tells Il-gwang of the situation. Jeon explains all of this to his trusty Korean shaman who assures him that he will take care of the matter–put it to rest. Il-gwang tells Jeon that what’s plaguing the town is not a person but a ghost. Jeon asks how a person he’s seen in the flesh and blood can be a ghost, and this is the difficult question he struggles with for the rest of the film, along with the more obvious questions, “Why me? Why my daughter? Why my hometown?”
Freud’s uncanny is a duality–a yin and yang, for instance, which may coexist. Yin and yang are prevalent themes in throughout the film. For instance, during his rituals, Il-gwang offers up white chickens and goats to the spirits whereas the Japanese stranger kills black chickens and goats to cast his curse.
Another spiritual force haunts the town, representing yang, and it is played by the wonderful Chun Woo-hee ((Sunny (2011) and Han Gongju (2014)) who is referred to by the film’s credits simply as “mu-myeong,” which translates into “no name.” Mu-myeong is the first witness that officer Jeon encounters at the second murder scene where a deranged woman killed her entire family then burned the house down before hanging herself. At the crime scene, Mu-myeong tells officer Jeon that the old Japanese man is a ghost who is possessing these people and driving them to commit these murders.
What’s interesting to note is how in these scenarios one person gets possessed then murders their own family members. The killings aren’t random. They are specifically towards their own flesh and blood or clan members. What does that say about the ghost’s intentions? What does that say about the ghost himself who is a spirit but in flesh and blood?
This ghost also appears to have a hobby for photography. He takes photographs of his victims in 35mm with a Minolta camera, which he seems to develop on his own at his creepy house. It nudges against the superstition that existed or still exists in tribal countries that photographs steal a person’s soul. The haunting theme that emanates from the Japanese stranger is that he is not a living person but a ghost–a dead man walking.
At Jeon’s question as to how a ghost could possibly have a body, Il-gwang tells him that when a ghost captures enough bodies for his own, he can eventually become a person albeit not a living one. This image of a strange man staring who appears to be dead or a strange man trying to enter haunts at least several people’s dreams.
Horror Genre Mashup
The epidemic throughout the town is most certainly an homage to the zombie genre. With that said, the film is not a zombie film necessarily. In fact, at one point in the movie, when a team of men who are out to hunt down and kill the Japanese man-ghost, they encounter a zombie, who was evidently brought back to life although he was initially dead just like the other victims, covered in boils and rotting away like a victim of leprosy.
At the scene of the zombie attack, the film reaches a point of satiric comedy. The men who’ve never seen a zombie before don’t know how to react to it, nor how to treat it. At first they try to help him and speak to him as if he’s a regular person, but when the zombie starts to attack the party by biting them, the men go around taking turns both beating the zombie and getting attacked himself. At least two men can’t bear the sight of another man whacking this apparently ill person with a stick and tries to stop the attack. Big mistake. The zombie then attacks the good Samaritan. It’s a likely metaphor for Korea’s clumsiness at the introduction to any Western concept. The zombie isn’t found in Korean folklore. (The closest to a zombie that Koreans might know from Chinese legends is the Jiangshi or gangshi in Korean which has its own set of cultural rules/references.)
In a way, there is perhaps almost every element of a horror film ever made in this movie; Edgar Allan Poe-inspired cats and crows, rabid black dogs, dead deer carcasses; the possession of a little girl has strong connotations of William Friedkin’s The Exorcist (1973); institutions are critiqued for their inability to make sense or get control of the situation such as the police and the church.
The film, of course, contains a twist in the third act, but it’s a twist on a twist that baffles not only Jeon but also the audience. The manhunt for the strange Japanese man ends when he gets thrown off a mountain hitting Jeon’s windshield. Jeon and his friends toss him on the side of the road assuming he is dead. Jeon later finds his daughter at the hospital who appears to be fine; the symptoms seem to be gone and her normal state appears to have returned.
We come to understand that Mu-myeong is perhaps a spirit if not a shaman herself when we see Il-gwang lose a vast amount of blood from his nose and vomit uncontrollably when he encounters her. Mu-myeong drives him out of the village. Il-gwang, whose hex ritual went interrupted by Jeon who could no longer bear the sight of his daughter’s suffering, tells Jeon that it wasn’t the Japanese man who is the evil spirit; it is a young woman clad in white–Mu-myeong. Jeon’s faith in people’s stories gets tested here when Mu-myeong tells him to trust in her and Il-gwang tells him not to trust her but in his words.
Jeon ultimately doesn’t listen to Mu-myeong and enters the house thus breaking whatever spell she’d cast on the house to save his family. Jeon, of course, finds that his daughter did what he’d feared this whole time and slaughtered his wife and mother to death.
Mu-myeong had warned Jeon that Il-gwang and the Japanese stranger have been plotting together (they share the same loin cloth and similar rituals). This is confirmed when a case full of photographs from the Japanese stranger’s walls are found in his possession. Given Korea’s long history of religious scammers taking advantage of the nation’s superstitious/fatalist tendencies, Il-gwang’s appearance here is the yin within his overall film presence as the yang.
Biblical themes are prominent throughout. There’s the bilingual theologian working his way towards becoming a priest working as a liaison between Jeon and the Japanese stranger. There’s the Father of the church who appears useless at the face of the epidemic and demon that is haunting the town–another indication of institutional incompetence. There’s an attack of moths on a car’s windshield that brings to mind the plague of locusts in the Old Testament. The opening shot of the film begins with a verse from the book of Luke when Jesus reappears before his disciples and asks them why they are afraid of the sight of his body, and challenging their doubtful minds. When Mu-myeong tells Jeon to wait for the rooster’s crow three times before entering his house in order to save his family, it is a clear reference to Christ’s warning to Peter that he will deny knowing Christ three times before the rooster’s crow. When Jeon finally realizes that the Mu-myeong is always clad in the victims’ clothes, he loses faith in her words and goes into the house.
Time is always unfriendly to Jeon in this film. He is temperamental and impatient when patience is of utmost necessity, and frozen stiff, speechless or bumblingly incompetent at times when his actions are completely called for. The film satirizes Jeon’s lack of faith and impatience. Doubt and faith are like yin and yang throughout the film, and they are the forces that maintain the momentum of the film.
The film ultimately confronts the audience with the same question that Jeon is faced with: which story are you going to believe? Depending on who is talking to you–a shaman, a priest, a ghost, the devil, or your daughter–your faith will be tested against the story you’ve lived your life believing in. Religion, according to Na’s film, is no different from a folk tale, a spooky town rumor, or the horror movies you grew up knowing and loving. When what occurs externally doesn’t match with what exists internally, that moment becomes the precarious point between doubt and faith. Na’s film plays with genre, religion and spirituality freely throughout but without ever letting us bring down our guard.
The first act has strong notes of Bong Joon-ho’s Memories of Murder (2003)–everything from the misty, rain-filled blue hues, the frightening image of nature, and the slapsticky black comedy–a new quality to Na’s filmmaking which are not present in his earlier two films. The film was shot by Bong’s frequent collaborator–cinematographer Hong Kyung-pyo (although he did not film Memories). The music is perhaps the film’s strongest quality, scored by Jang Young-gyu.
Reception so far has been decent. Trade reviews remark that Na’s film lacks logic. This may be true but I say that such an assessment is a cop out (we’ve all seen Magnolia). The Wailing is certainly packed with a whole lot to deconstruct but it is not inscrutable. There are plenty of signals and clues. It’s just a matter of interpreting the narrative, and it takes awhile, and that interpretation is likely to evolve. The film’s positioned to be a cult hit that’ll produce a great deal of wholesome dialogue among cinephiles but only among those who’ll bother to take the time to do it.
I wrote this back in late November for a classroom blog post. I am reposting it here now because some of the thoughts are relevant to my current situation. More on that later.
I was glad that we got to see Enlightened in class today. It’s one of my favorite shows, and I was bummed to learn that it wouldn’t get a third season, especially because season two ended on such a huge cliffhanger.
When I first watched the show, I’d already listened to interviews given by Laura Dern and Mike White—on separate occasions—on what the show is and how difficult it was to make it, and then watch it get canceled, so I’d already begun my viewing experience with some information (either at the forefront or lingering in the back) in my head. In any case, in my first viewing, I watched Amy with a lot of tension in my shoulders because she was such a train wreck with almost little to no self-awareness. It was stressful. I had to keep watching, though, because I dug the show (I’m also a fan of Mike White), and I genuinely wanted to believe in her optimism as much as she seemed to. But if you continue on with the season, and finish season two, you’ll see that she’s always the same in each episode—an idealist who is wired to be incapable of improvement—and she’s always going to make things worse for herself and those around her no matter how much she believes in her heart of hearts that there is hope for a better future and greater change.
In my second viewing of the pilot, I tried to see it differently. I tried to see it as if Amy is the normal one and everyone else is the crazy one. This made the show a lot easier to watch, and a lot more heartbreaking. She genuinely believes in a better future, change and improvement. Nobody else in her life does. Everybody thinks she’s crazy. But if I watch her as the normal one, everyone else seems completely out of line. Why doesn’t Diane Ladd’s character just let Amy read the letter? Why doesn’t Charles Esten’s character just meet with Amy in person to reconcile? Why doesn’t the company just give Amy her job back and take her up on her suggestions on fixing up the company’s reputation by making environmentally sound choices? All of these things have something to do with time and boundaries. Amy is someone who doesn’t believe in the restrictions of time and boundaries among individuals. She’s someone who wouldn’t function well in a society that holds those two things close to heart. This is what makes her the show’s heroine, and it’s what makes her constantly run into problems in her society. It’s also what causes her to be exploited later on in season 2 (no spoilers), which breaks my heart even more.
Amy is the protagonist of the show whether we like her or not. She is the one that’s given to us and we have to accept this, or we can continue to watch just hating her (lots of people have commented on how much they hate this character that Dern plays, which eventually led to the show’s demise, although Dern herself says she loves this character). I kind of love this character, too. I’m a big fan of this show because it’s a female antihero who is dressed not as a cynical, unfaithful, sex-addicted, alcoholic man (Sopranos, MadMen) but an idealist who had a lot of letdowns in her life (again, no spoilers, but she’s had it rough, hence her borderline personality) but continues to strive for optimism and hope in a world that continues to let her down and conflict with her.
With that said, reading Caldwell’s “Industrial Auteur Theory” bummed me out a lot. It’s heavy stuff. Especially the paragraph on the writer’s room culture that basically leads to symptoms of PTSD among employees, who later get told by the production company!—to go and get therapy. I can empathize to some mild degree. Working in production where pressure and stress run high (because there’s never enough time, and time so equals money here) does lead to a lot of scarring, emotional trauma, mental duress, conflicts, etc. Without therapy, there’s no way that people could survive. Makes sense why so many industry people are into Eastern religion, yoga, meditation and all that (basically all of the things Amy turned to after her breakdown). Every single actor/director friend of mine claims to be Buddhist, and they all read some new kind of self-help book, which they go around recommending me any chance that they get.
The idea of producers who take advantage of younger below-the-line crew members’ broken minds and bodies + eagerness to still make it in the industry and exploit that emotional vulnerability because they know that the young and eager will still be grateful for the opportunity to work alone is also a monstrous/ugly thing that is rampant in the industry. In a lot of ways it is rampant precisely because so many people are fighting their way to get in, and so many people are willing to make that kind of sacrifice as a form of “paying one’s dues.” Personally, I am very against this concept. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.
In the few indies I’ve produced, nearly all of the crew members did the work for no pay—just meals—because people enjoyed the filmmaking process. If it wasn’t for that then no one would’ve participated. It came from a place of passion and the desire to work with one another. We all genuinely liked being on set. After a production wraps, a lot of the times the cast and crew stay in touch for years—unless somebody really didn’t get along with another person, which also happens. These people will almost never speak to one another for years. After going through something as intense as shooting a film, it’s impossible to not become close. So there is some pay off to the agony, but making a film is an agonizing process. As it is with TV. I’m sure many people have seen that documentary 6 Days to Air: The Making of South Park (2011) by Arthur Bradford. I think it’s a good film to complement what Caldwell discusses.
Speaking of desperation, I can see some parallels between the desperate, rock-bottom state that Amy is in which drives her full-force into the arms of the spiritual, incense waving, hippy-dippy world + random sea turtle spotting, which she applies epic meaning/significance to) and the desperate, zero experience unpaid interns/PAs who willingly—very passionately—run towards film/TV sets for little to nothing and get screamed at all day by the department heads and the above-the-line crew members simply because they believe in the magic of show biz. Yikes! This is super depressing to think about. Probably because it is too real, and very true of our industry.
Anyway, I still like to believe that there is light at the end of that tunnel.
I remember what 2007-2009 looked and felt like for me. I had just transferred from a public university to a private one in 2006 for a better education, and by 2007, my parents’ business was heavily on the decline. By 2008, they were facing bankruptcy and by 2009, the house they bought in October 1999 was under foreclosure.
When the financial crisis actually hit, I was a junior in college facing an economy that offered no prospects for me. Bush was still President but Obama was campaigning and eventually won.
When I saw the trailer for THE BIG SHORT, I was most intrigued by the fact that a comedic director (Adam McCay) was making a film about finance. I was also drawn by the interesting medley of actors: Christian Bale, Steve Carell, Ryan Gosling, and pleasant surprise actress appearances by Melissa Leo and Marisa Tomei. Leo and Tomei’s screen times were very little compared to the rest of the male casts’ in this sausage fest film. Furthermore, I found it really strange that the movie’s protagonists were also part of the giant problem. Rather than being whistleblowers, they benefited off of the detriment of the crisis which hurt families of lower income the most.
There were maybe three distinct moments where actors show a sense of conflicting morale but just because they appear to struggle with their morals onscreen, does that image overpower the fact that they’ve profited a huge sum from the crisis?
The film has at least two allusions to Scorsese’s THE WOLF OF WALL STREET: 1) Gosling’s narration breaking the fourth wall 2) Margot Robbie’s cameo (she’s sitting naked in a tub drinking champagne, btw… just another dimensionless actress whose function is to literally appeal to the male gaze, as though this film is solely for the male audience…)
What worked in WOLF… is that the protagonist simply has no moral crisis or dilemma when it comes to the money game. He doesn’t care at all that he’s exploiting the working class and he doesn’t change at the end of the movie, either.
What THE BIG SHORT does, however, is to attempt humanization where no humanity can be taken from. The men who were part of this real estate bubble–the ones who contributed to it then took from the blood bath after it burst–are still bastards no matter how much the film tried to appeal to me as a human film.
Just because Gosling’s character admits onscreen that he never claimed to have been the good guy doesn’t make these characters any less villainous in my viewing. In fact it pisses me off even more that a movie with a $28 million budget was dedicated to humanizing thieves and trying to convince the ticket buying public that these guys are on our side.
The film does attempt to demystify financial talk for the viewers. Does it do it successfully? For the most part, no. But it seems to applaud itself for doing such a great job. It’s almost patronizing in this way. It’s filled with pop icons to dumb down the educational experience for the sheep colony audience.
With that said, what was most remarkable about this movie was the editing. It keeps the viewer engaged and does bring insight into the lives of working, bill paying people who were affected by the crisis. On that same note, it tries very hard to distinguish the bad finance guys from the good finance guys. This is a directing problem and in that regard, I view the movie as hypocritical on its foundation.
I’m not interested in hearing about who saw what coming and made what. Did they fight for the working people’s cause? Nope.
That’s the point of the movie. The fact that the film masquerades as a morally just story that is a voice of the people is appalling to me.
At the very least, the film does alert the viewer and say that the problem has returned and puts the onus on the audience to seek out change. Again, I take this push for moral values with a grain of salt. How can working, bill-paying, ticket buying viewers impact the financial system? It’s too tremendous of a question.
Had this excellent cast and budget been put into the story of those who did pioneer a strategy that has shown success in affecting the financial system then the audience would have tools to begin something at the very least. But what this film seems to do is simply say, this happened and this will continue to happen. It doesn’t offer any real solution. Instead it makes us laugh it off. Because it’s a comedy, right?
Paolo Sorrentino’s latest film Youth (2015) has at least one or two too many characters and scenes.
This may be my own personal bias because I don’t think I’ve ever liked Paul Dano as an actor, but his character and all of his scenes could have been omitted from this film. That would’ve actually made the film stronger.
I don’t think this vain/vapid/disgruntled actor played by a very actor-like actor is all that substantial. His presence adds nothing to the picture. His character’s thoughts and commentary do nothing for the movie. I was never once moved, amused or pleased by Dano’s character, Jimmy Tree. But this is almost always the case with Dano in movies for me.
When I first saw Dano in Little Miss Sunshine (2006), I was mostly confused; I didn’t know whether I liked him or was impressed by him, but turns out, it was neither; my initial instinct was correct: I was merely confused by him.
His acting is very confusing to me because he acts so hard; Dano works so hard in the pictures but it’s precisely that which displeases me; he tries too hard to act, and this effort is all too apparent to me as the viewer; his acting is the type that I see in plays. Perhaps Dano belongs to the live theater. For the screen, it is too exhausting to witness. In fact, it’s humiliating. Discomforting. The excess is discomforting. Like seeing a stranger cry in front of me, or witnessing an orgasm when I shouldn’t be. That kind of discomfort.
Aside from Dano, I don’t understand why there is a Tibetan monk there–a nameless monk (played by Dorji Wangchuk, who, according to IMDb, is also a documentary filmmaker) who doesn’t impress Fred Ballinger (Michael Caine). I don’t get his role or his presence in this movie. It seems completely unnecessary. Seeing yet again another dimensionless Asian in a movie is simply distracting.
Another problem is the character Miss Universe (Madalina Diana Ghenea); Sorrentino’s fetishization of a voluptuous woman’s body in this picture might simply be his way of stating what Mick Boyle (Harvey Keitel) the filmmaker claims: how he is a great “woman’s director.” The only women in this film who have interesting qualities that make them memorable are Lena Ballinger (Rachel Weisz) and the young masseuse (Luna Zimic Mijovic). They have a presence that do not submit to the male gaze or the male patronization, which is refreshing and comforting. Giving Miss Universe a minor moment of triumph to call Jimmy Tree out on his presumptuousness doesn’t justify having her parade around half naked in the opening act and completely naked in the later act. It’s just unappealing. This sort of female body exploitation is just hackneyed at this point, and distasteful.
Brenda Morel (Jane Fonda) is yet another stereotype of an aged actress playing an aged actress (rings a Sunset Boulevard (1950) bell). Fonda’s monologue feels awkward. I’m not sure if it’s the delivery or the writing. (I might have to go with delivery since Lena’s monologue in the mud pack scene with her father is spectacular. It is so long but Weisz is completely marvelous in her delivery and is utterly moving.) But Fonda makes up for it by bringing in a great sliver of a moment when she breaks down on the airplane which I can only wish to have seen more of.
There is a beautifully picturesque moment when Mick stands before a hill and sees all the actresses he’s ever worked with doing their scene and their lines–repeating the same lines over and over–all at once. The colors, the set and the view are very Kurosawan and reminiscent of the opening scene of Dreams (1990), which Kurosawa made late in his career. Mick’s surreal vision in this particular scene is a telling of his impending death but also of all the dreams he had as a filmmaker–the visions he had for each actor and character were in themselves little dreams. Witnessing this before him all at once is like having his life flash before his eyes. This, again, alludes to his oncoming death. I could hear people protest to this interpretation stating that a suicide doesn’t count but I say death is death. Suicide counts. Directors are control freaks; perhaps Mick knew that he had prostate cancer and decided to take his life with his own hands, much like the late Tony Scott.
There are three elements that make this film worth the 2 hours of sitting (it felt like 3 hours because there were so many scenes, and every scene ends on some note of massive profundity that makes it seem as if it’s the last scene of the movie, except that the movie keeps going!–this made the film feel infinitely longer for me):
First is Luca Bigazzi, who also lensed Sorrentino’s The Great Beauty (2013) and This Must Be The Place (2011), as well as Abbas Kiarostami’s underwhelming Certified Copy (2010). He ensures that every frame of this film is a poetic jewel for the eye. The film is for the most part set in one resort which could’ve easily become a stale atmosphere but Bigazzi brings warmth, glitz and emotion to geometry like I’ve never seen before. The film is a delight to view from beginning to end because of his artful cinematography.
Second: The composition by David Lang whose music acts as the heart of the film fills the screen with nostalgia and elegance; “Simple Songs” sung by Korean soprano singer Sumi Jo, is cripplingly beautiful. Lang also composed for The Great Beauty and Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream (2000).
Finally, Michael Caine’s performance is flawless. With every other character and actor, I sensed at least one moment of disingenuousness, but not at all with Caine, which is a testament to his mastery. He plays maestro, father, friend, mentor, composer, and husband Ballinger with all the sensitivity one could bring to a screen.
Upon rewatching Memories of Murder (2005) by Bong Joon-ho, I had the opportunity to reconsider the film entirely from a gender studies perspective.
The film opens on a bright yellow rice field where the grain dangles, ripe for harvest. (What is more fruitful to us humans than a woman’s womb?) On the day of the first murder case, October 23, 1986, Detective Park Doo-man goes to ditch and stares into the dark and narrow tunnel. Shoved deep inside, he finds the corpse of a dead woman whose arms and legs are expertly tied back.
The dark black tunnel that these male detectives stare into and continue to scrutinize for signs and answers is significant of male misconception, misrecognition, and lack of understanding of the female body.
As the deaths pile up, it becomes evident that the bodies are always found in a setting that likens a woman’s body. The trench tunnel is one, which obviously indicates a woman’s vaginal canal. Another is found among large stacks of hay that look like breasts. The field is a rice field—again, a fruitful place much like a woman’s sex organs. Two other bodies are found deep inside a forest thick with trees like a woman’s pubic hair.
As the search for the serial killer sharpens towards the midpoint of the film, the forensic team finds that the murderer has inserted foreign objects into the victim’s vagina. Inside one corpse, the forensics team finds pieces of a peach. Inside another corpse—a teenage girl’s—the team finds the items that were found inside the girl’s backpack such as a pen, razor and spork. The forensics team can’t find any semen inside the victims’ bodies but they do find items that were found on the woman shortly before she was killed.
At the very least, Bong has an awareness of Freudian concepts, and an interest in sexuality and psychoanalysis. I recall this from a Q&A he gave after a screening of Mother (2009) at the 12th International Women’s Film Festival in Seoul back in April 2010. Bong was the only male filmmaker whose film was shown at the festival solely because of the subject of his film—a mother.
When an audience member asked about the Oedipal tension between the widow (Kim Hye-ja) and her son Do-joon (Won Bin), Bong denied any actual physical sex between the parent and child, but did acknowledge that Western notions that linked female hysteria her deprivation of sex was in part an inspiration to his film. The film treats phallic symbols interestingly throughout. Do-joon–the son–is the prime phallic presence at home where he and his mother live together. Later, the mother takes on a kind of peeping-Tom position—a male position thereby becoming herself phallic–when she spies on Jin-tae (Jin Goo) having sex with his girlfriend. During the Q&A, Bong also recalled a story he’d read in the news regarding a case where a man who lived in a single room home with his mother was suspected of raping young girls he would adopt then send back to foster care, one by one. Aside from the monstrous actions of the man, Bong said he was more concerned with the mother who did not blow the whistle on her son’s molestations, which she could not have missed considering the size of their home being just a single room.
Bong claimed that his intent with the film was to challenge the audience with a question on how far a mother’s love for her child can reach, and if it goes beyond society’s moral bounds. A woman’s intense connection to her son coupled with a sex-deprived hysteria is a disastrous combination to Bong.
In Memories of Murder, Bong’s desire to understand the female body and its mysteriousness is ever present, and he utilizes various male figures to do the scrutinizing. In this sense, the film is very phallocentric. The male detectives who find and examine the bodies have a legitimized phallic presence in the film. They allow the viewer to access the female body with an OK’d sense of authority thus negating any possibilities of scopophilia; given their badged status, they are allowed to look into the woman’s vagina, and we as onlookers, are also cleared. Through these badged phallices, the audience traverses a number of deep, dark tunnels. We’ve already covered the tunnel inside the ditch. Then there’s the train tunnel—again a deep, dark presence in the film. Another dark hole is found in the film’s series of references to the toilet or outhouse.
The tunnel is a place where found objects always lead to a destruction of the person’s body and/or consciousness. In the case with the women’s bodies, there’s the obvious hint: death. With the detectives, there’s always fist-fighting that erupts near the train tunnel, typically over his male ego. As Irigaray puts it, the penis is only good for its “rivalry” capabilities: “…’strongest’ being the one who has the best ‘hard-on,’ the longest, the biggest, the stiffest penis, or even the one who ‘pees the farthest’…” These persistent male distractions keep the detectives from finding any answers to the town’s serial killings of women.
At the train tracks and tunnel, there’s always death and violence: on one occasion, a mentally disabled boy named Kwang-ho (Park No-sik) gets killed at the tracks after the police lose their patience with him and start to beat him for answers; on another occasion, the detectives beat up Hyeon-gyu (Park Hae-il), their prime suspect, without any amounting evidence to confirm whether or not he is in fact the murderer. The significance of these kinds of male-ego cockfights that occur near the dark black tunnel is, again, Bong’s illustration of man’s inability to make sense of a woman’s body.
The fact that the murderer puts foreign objects into the woman’s vagina is further indication of male ignorance with regards to the female body. Rather than placing his penis into it, he puts in objects. This, at the very least, indicates the murderer’s impotence, and impotence—interchangeably viewed as incompetence—is another major theme in the film. The police demonstrate their incompetence as effective case solvers, the government demonstrates its incompetence to its society by using up military resources to squash the people’s political demonstrations rather then sending help to the town which is in a state of emergency due to the serial killings. The town demonstrates its incompetence by spreading gossip around the murders which further muddles the investigation. The town’s journalists spread news of incompetence of the town’s police force and their government thus hurting overall morale. The nation displays its incompetence by not having the right technology and resources to get a proper DNA testing performed.
The film’s final shot when Doo-man breaks the fourth wall and stares straight into the deep, dark tunnel of the camera lens, the deep dark room of the theater, into the deep, dark eyes of the viewers, what is he seeing?
He sees the inexplicable, and Doo-man’s expression filled with fear, emotion and urgency is the filmmaker alerting us—the audience—to take on that responsibility. It is up to us to find the murderer by first coming to terms with the unknowable. This is a push for gender equality. By persistently mystifying the woman’s body, we’ve failed to protect it, and we’ve allowed it to go harmed. When we stare into the black screen awaiting answers, what are we seeing? What are we registering? These inexplicable images are what we need to intelligize. The onus is partially on us as viewers. Our language and discourse have a role in making gender equality a reality.
Linda Williams’ “Film Bodies: Gender, Genre and Excess” discusses excess in equation with the “gross” and the “perverse,” much like Foucault describes the sex-police’s view of any sexual immorality that does not fulfill reproduction as excessive and therefore perverse. I like Williams’ description of what makes genres such as the melodrama, porn and horror excessive through their added visual and aural effects for the screen.
I’ve often wondered why I avoided genre films that cause an intense bodily experience through added effects–excess effects–and it’s because, much like Mary Ann Doane’s description–I feel like my senses are being “raped” or manipulated by these kinds of films. I hate walking out of a theater with all my senses worked up, which is why I prefer films without a lot of music to “hijack” my emotions, or excessive effects that make me think about driving a fast car all day. Maybe it’s the dishonesty that offends me–walking out feeling like my body has been tricked, or like waking up after a blackout. This is kind of why I found Lucy so unpleasant. Watching something with so many effects early in the morning was overwhelming. It reminds me of the time I went to a matinee screening of Wolf of Wall Street and feeling kind of assaulted for the rest of the day. It also reminds me of the time in college when a roommate was watching The Messenger, so I had to leave the room because I absolutely hated what was going on.
The experience is similar to how Laura Marks describes the synthetic smell of jasmine in “Thinking Multisensory Culture,” and how this deprives one of accessing the real. I like staying present in my being even when watching a film. It’s a more comfortable state for me. The kinds of films that do that for me are often really slow ones, and I like being able to turn my neck in the theater to examine the entire screen to take time and notice the picture in its entirety. But that’s just me. There are plenty of people who can’t stand movies by Apitchatpong Weerasethakul but I dig them.
Williams’ connection of the three genres and how they link to ideas of excess, perverse, and gross is a lot like Marks’ connection to the truffles, the pigs and human perspiration/excrement. I’ve often thought about perfumes and how manufacturers add deer musk to them. This idea of using animal perspiration in order to please human social environments was always interesting and weird for me. It makes a point on how the use of an animal perspiration in order to mask human odor actually blurs the line between what pleases the human olfactory and offends it.
The blurry line between what pleases and offends, and how pleasure and offense are socially acquired concepts also interest me, like how white cultures hated Korean food for so long because it stinks but now they’re all about it. The rise in Korean food’s popularity is in conjunction to the country’s rise as a global economy. That offensive smell of fermented soybeans and cabbage, which was once a huge cause for alarm (there’s a story in 1960s Germany, when Korean students made soybean stew in their dorms, the authorities called fire trucks believing that the sewage pipes had burst), is now a fad, and is now in the realm of acceptable smelly foods like smelly cheeses are (has anyone ever smelled a piece of raclette?).
To critique the film Lucy a bit further, I found this line, “Do you speak English?” coming up again and again really distasteful. Even when they’re in France, the cop asks the gangsters, “Do you speak English?” not “Do you speak French?” It’s this blockbuster preference for English always–no matter what–because that’s the way to sell–and assuming that if a person has an Asian face, the question, “Do you speak English?” must always be asked by default. A language that isn’t English is like a smell that needs to be expunged or covered up with loud images, sounds and effects. These gangsters are speaking a language we don’t understand or care to understand; the audience won’t understand or care to understand. Let’s make a million police cars tumble over one another so that people can forget about their irrelevant language.
Even after Lucy acquires all these new skills, and while knowing full-well that she is in Taipei, she walks around with a gun demanding to speak only to people who speak English. Otherwise, they’re shot to death. So bizarre. Crazy. When I saw that scene in the trailer in theaters, I knew I didn’t want to pay to go see this movie. A scene like that celebrates exceptionalism. How Luc Besson and his producers don’t see the danger in that is depressing to me.
Having Choi Min-sik star in a film that is set in Taipei is also weird. Much like how kimchi and dwenjang are part of white fetishism/fad, the star of Old Boy is now part of the perfume club. But why is there a Korean g sitting around in Taipei? Why not his own country? It’s another one of those–“Oh, they’re all the same–doesn’t matter”–kind of moviemaking pull: “Taiwanese, Korean–same face, same thing.” There’s no explanation for this displacement. Even while conducting business in Taipei, Choi’s character speaks Korean. He’s linguistically impotent–no Mandarin, no English, no French–just a violent Korean thug. I found this bit distasteful, too, not to mention irresponsible.
If I have to dig for merits to the film, I’d say the effects were really interesting. They were avant-garde, and exploring something we don’t know yet, and imagining a future. I enjoyed the interruption shots of the mouse trap/mouse, and the predator/prey. These random intercuts show the versatility of the moving image as a medium in order to express mood.
These kinds of avant-garde techniques are present in The Last Angel of History. The film reminds me of videos I’ve seen at museums that play with sound and image for a new experience. The film itself is in line with what the black musicians like Sun Ra, George Clinton and others were attempting with futuristic sounds and experiences. This reference to the future as a return to something is infinitely fascinating to me. I think there’s something there to explore with regards to excess, too, and the excess’ history in relation to sci-fi and sensationalism. It’s something I’ll be thinking about.