The Bourne Cinema Filmography: Byun Young-joo, "The Murmuring" (1995)

The Murmuring (Najeun moksori). 1995. Directed by Byun Young-joo. Produced by Shin Soo-yeon. Cinematography by Kim Yong-taek. Edited by Park Gok-ji. Music by Oh Yoon-seok and Cho Byung-hee. Sound by Jang Ho-jun and Lee Young-kil.

This August 15 marks the 64th anniversary of the end of World War II, which is given different names in the countries involved. In the U.S., it known as Victory over Japan Day; in Korea, it is called Liberation Day, since Japan’s surrender meant the end of colonial rule. Among the many continuing legacies of the war is the plight of the “comfort women,” an estimated 200,000 women (some as young as twelve) from Korea, China, Taiwan, Thailand, the Philippines, and other countries who were kidnapped or otherwise tricked into sexual slavery, forced to service Japanese soldiers. The misery for these women did not end with the war; they continued to be victimized by both sides of the conflict – by Japan’s continued refusal to this day to give an official apology or offer adequate compensation to survivors, and by the shame placed upon them by their home societies, forcing them to spend decades living in isolation and shamed silence. It wasn’t until the early 1990’s that former comfort women began to come forward and tell their stories, and more importantly, to petition the Japanese government for reparations. The vast majority of comfort women (80-90 percent) were taken from Korea, a colony of Japan during the war, and their stories form the basis of Byun Young-joo’s extraordinary documentary trilogy on the comfort women of Korea: The Murmuring (1995), Habitual Sadness (1997), and My Own Breathing (1999). Taken together, this trilogy (called the “Low Voice” trilogy, after the Korean titles of the first two installments) is one of the monumental works of world documentary, entirely the equal of such films as Claude Lanzmann’s Shoah and Marcel Ophuls’ The Sorrow and the Pity. Much like Shoah, Byun eschews the normal clichéd methods of documentary filmmaking, such as archival footage, dramatizations, and expert talking heads, concentrating on contemporary footage of her subjects bearing witness to a horrific period of their own lives and their country’s history. The one time Byun breaks with this is in a brief pictorial montage showing Japanese atrocities in China, which serves to remind us that the comfort women’s experiences existed in a larger context of Japanese war crimes, and was equally as brutal and deserving of close examination.

Byun’s first documentary, A Woman-Being in Asia (1993), dealt with the sex tourism industry in Asia, focusing on prostitution on Jeju Island. Byun and her crew were mostly dissatisfied with the results, feeling they had come into it with too much an imposed point a view, and a subsequent ambivalence toward the subject matter that filtered down to how they dealt with their interviewees. However, Byun serendipitously stumbled upon the subject of her next film when one of the prostitutes she interviewed revealed that her deceased mother was a comfort woman who became a prostitute after the war to pay for her own mother’s operation. Her decision to pursue this subject resulted in this trilogy.

The subtitle of The Murmuring, released in the 50th anniversary year of the end of World War II, is “A Woman-Being in Asia: The Second Report,” signaling that this new film was both a follow-up to and an improvement on her first film. Largely influenced by Japanese documentary pioneer Shinsuke Ogawa, Byun radically changed her methods of relating to her subjects in this film. Much of the film takes place in a house known as “Nanum,” or “House of Sharing,” a group home in Haehwa-dong, Seoul supported by Buddhist groups, where a number of former comfort women reside. Byun spent a few months before filming simply living with the women, until she gained their trust and they felt ready to tell their stories on camera. The stories they tell are truly heartbreaking; the women were taken at a very young age, and were commonly tricked with the promise of employment. One woman speaks of trying to kill herself on the way back home from Japan, because of her shame and knowing that she was effectively ruined for marriage; in terms of the rigid Confucian patriarchy that prevailed then, the fact that she served Japanese soldiers against her will mattered little. Most of the women living in the house suffer from numerous physical ailments, much of it resulting from their sexual enslavement; many returned with venereal disease and have scars on their stomachs from surgery. One woman talks about her wish to die, to end her continued suffering. Byun films these women in simple, functional camera setups, allowing them the visual and temporal space to tell their stories. Some confess their shame about telling these stories, which is quite understandable considering that it was only a few years before, in 1991, that Kim Hak-soon was the first comfort woman to publicly tell her story on television, making it possible for others to come forward.

Byun also documents the weekly protests organized by The Korean Council for the Women Drafted for Military Sexual Slavery by Japan, which still continue today. Since January 2002, they have stood outside the Japanese embassy in Seoul every Wednesday at noon, year in and year out, regardless of the weather, to make several demands of the Japanese government. They insist that Japan make an official apology and acknowledge their responsibility for the plight of comfort women; give whole-hearted compensation to the women and their relatives; erect a monument to the women who died (about 70 percent died before the end of the war); and include this history in Japanese textbooks. To this day, none of these demands have been met, and therefore the protests continue. Byun shows in the film that Korean governments are also partly responsible for this state of affairs, since for many years they were very reluctant to press the issue, loath to jeopardize trade agreements and other compacts with Japan.

Byun also traveled to China to interview Ha Koon-ja and Hong Gang Lim, two comfort women who were never repatriated to Korea, effectively exiled because of their shame. These interviews provide some of the most powerful moments of the film: Ha tearfully recounts being forced to serve as many as twenty soldiers per day, and Hong, starkly framed so that her face floats in the darkness, relates the brutal story of having her vagina mutilated because of soldiers' complaints that, because she was taken so young, that she was “too small.” This section of the film also contains the footage of other Japanese war atrocities.

However, as sad and horrific as the stories these women tell are, this is only one part of Byun’s film. The Murmuring is also a very inspiring portrait of the women’s resiliency in the face of their hardship. They are still able to laugh and enjoy other people’s company, and most importantly, to sing. There are many scenes in the film of the women singing the liberation and love songs of their youth, both in the house and at the weekly protests. This speaks to an inner spirit that the horrors of war cannot extinguish. The women also express themselves through painting, which also gives them an outlet to cope with their memories and to heal their damaged psyches. The Murmuring is a rich and revealing film, quite literally so in the film’s last shot, as the camera pans across the naked torso of one of the women. Byun’s film is a beautifully constructed vessel allowing the “low voices” of these women to speak out fully and tell the collective story of this tragic period of history, a story that has yet to reach a fully satisfying conclusion.

Links for resources and more information:

Nanum (House of Sharing)

The Korean Council for the Women Drafted for Military Sexual Slavery by Japan

Washington Coalition for Comfort Women Issues

The Bourne Cinema Filmography: Shin Sang-ok, "Mother and a Guest" (1961)

Mother and a Guest (Sarangbang sonnimgwa omoni). 1961. Produced and directed by Shin Sang-ok. Written by Im Hee-jae, based on a novel by Joo Yo-seob. Cinematography by Choi Soo-young. Edited by Yang Seong-ran. Music by Jeong Yoon-ju. Art direction by Kang Seong-bum.

Cast: Choi Eun-hee (Mother), Jeon Young-seon (Ok-hee), Kim Jin-kyu (Mr. Han), Han Eun-jin (Grandmother), Do Geum-bong (Maid), Kim Hee-gab (Egg Vendor), Shin Young-kyun (Uncle), Heo Jang-kang (Fortune Teller).

One of four films Shin Sang-ok released in 1961 (the others were Seong Chun-hyang, Prince Yeonsan, and Evergreen Tree), Mother and a Guest remains one of his most celebrated and enduring films. Flush from the success of Seong Chun-hyang, Shin’s big-budget adaptation of the classic pansori tale that was a massive box-office hit, he decided to embark on a more intimate, small-scale project, and Mother and a Guest, an adaptation of a beloved short novel by Joo Yo-seob, scripted by Im Hee-jae (who also wrote the screenplay for Seong Chun-hyang), perfectly fit the bill. A potent melodrama revolving around the perennial conflict between traditionalist and modern values, the film centers on the titular mother, a young widow (portrayed by the luminous Choi Eun-hee, Shin’s wife and frequent star) whose largely self-imposed moral strictures are upended by the arrival of houseguest Mr. Han (Kim Jin-kyu, a popular actor of the time who also appeared in several of Shin’s films), a friend of her brother-in-law who awakens desires in the widow she thought were long dead, or perhaps never experienced. This slowly evolving love story is refracted through the perspective of the widow’s six year-old daughter Ok-hee (Jeong Young-seon), an adorable moppet who is one of the most endearing characters of her kind ever portrayed on film. She introduces herself and her family at the beginning of the film and provides a running voiceover throughout. This aspect of the story is a carryover from the original novel, which is also narrated by this character. In fact, the original cut of Mother and a Guest was adapted very faithfully from the source material. However, Shin ran into a problem when this version resulted in a running time barely longer than an hour, which was considered too short for release. As a solution, Shin and Im added a subplot involving a relationship between the widow’s domestic servant (Do Geum-bong, another frequent Shin star who passed away recently) and an egg vendor (Kim Hee-gab), which serves as a comic counterpoint to the melodramatic main plot. Other elements were added that broke with the young daughter’s point of view, such as a key scene between the widow and a fortuneteller (Heo Jang-kang), and a brief scene in which the widow poses in front of a mirror wearing a man’s hat.

Mother and a Guest, much like many of Shin’s other films, brilliantly combines a seemingly self-effacing and invisible style derived from classic Hollywood montage with complex and nuanced characterizations and visual parallels and contrasts that enhance this deceptively simple tale. The central heroine, as embodied by Choi Eun-hee, functions as the self-sacrificing, traditional woman common to Korean melodramas of the time, which was a particular specialty of Choi, who played this sort of woman in many films, for Shin and other directors. In this film, however, she goes far beyond this typical characterization to convey much deeper shades to this portrayal. One example is the scene in which she parades before the mirror wearing Mr. Han’s hat, after she chases her maid out of his room. She takes advantage of this brief private time to display a saucy, irreverent and sexy side to herself, free – however briefly – from society’s (and her own) constraints on behavior, expressed visually by wearing part of a man’s clothing. Even her own insistence on wearing the hairstyle and dress of a married woman even though she is a widow becomes less a capitulation to patriarchal, Confucian standards than an expression of her incredibly strong will – there is much evidence in the film that others see the mother, as well as the other inhabitants of the “widow’s house” (so called because all the women, including the maid and the mother-in-law, are all widows), as somewhat peculiar and behind the times. The rigidly moralistic beliefs of both the mother and her mother-in-law, which make it impossible for the mother to fully express the love she clearly feels for her boarder, are portrayed in the film as a function of class. While the widow and the houseguest are kept strictly separated through most of the film (one exception is a scene in which Mr. Han holds a sick Ok-hee in his arms while her mother sits beside him), the maid and the egg vendor are much freer to act on their attraction to one another, going all the way sexually (though of course, screen standards being what they were in Korea at the time, this happens off-screen) after a very funny scene in which the egg vendor cures the maid’s indigestion with his “medicine hands” and then proceeds to use those hands for more carnal purposes, leading to the maid’s pregnancy.

This sort of plot mirroring is reflected visually throughout the film – Shin in fact places characters in front of mirrors in key scenes:

One example of the film’s visual parallels is an early scene in which Mr. Han and Ok-hee go on a plein air painting outing, during which they stand on a hill, and Ok-hee calls out to her mother in the distance:

– a sequence echoed in the film’s last scene, when Ok-hee and her mother watch the train which will carry Mr. Han to Seoul, far from their rural village:


Mother and a Guest, which Shin did not consider to be his best film (many, including myself, would beg to differ; Evergreen Tree, which I have not yet seen, was Shin’s personal favorite) is a charming, lyrical work whose delicate beauty unfolds with each viewing. It is one of the great classic works of Korean cinema, as well as world cinema. It is available on DVD as part of the “Shin Sang-ok Collection” box set, which also includes A Romantic Papa (1960), Seong Chun-hyang (1961), Deaf Samryongi (1964), and One Thousand Years Old Fox (1969). This set can be purchased from HanBooks.

Kim Ki-young's "The Housemaid" Now Playing at The Auteurs

The Housemaid (Hanyo). 1960. Written and directed by Kim Ki-young. Produced by Kim Young-chul. Cinematography by Kim Deok-jin. Edited by Oh Young-keun. Lighting by Ko Hae-jin. Sound recording by Sohn In-ho. Music by Han Sang-ki.

Cast: Kim Jin-kyu (Dong-sik), Joo Jeung-nyeo (Dong-sik's wife), Lee Eun-sim (Myeong-sook), Eom Aeng-ran (Kyeong-hee), Ahn Sung-ki (Chang-soon).

This is to call attention to a great viewing opportunity available online right now. The great folks at Martin Scorsese's World Cinema Foundation have teamed up with the invaluable site The Auteurs to present the great Korean director Kim Ki-young's 1960 masterpiece The Housemaid in its entirety for free on The Auteurs website. This film underwent an extensive restoration, a collaborative project of the World Cinema Foundation and the Korean Film Archive, which screened as a work-in-progress last year at the Cannes Film Festival and the Pusan International Film Festival, where I viewed it. The completed restoration recently had its world premiere at the Jeonju International Film Festival in Korea.

Here is what I wrote about this film when it screened in Pusan:

The Housemaid arrived at a pivotal moment in Korean history: in 1960, the corrupt regime of then-President Syngman Rhee was overthrown, creating a brief window during which democracy flourished. However, this also created a power vacuum that was filled in 1961 by dictatorial President Park Chung-hee, who tenaciously clung to power until his assassination in 1979. This brief period of democracy created the conditions for a renaissance of Korean cinema, during which filmmakers enjoying relaxed censorship were free to explore the problems of their society, many of which were caused by the devastation wrought by the Korean War and the subsequent separation of the country into north and south. Two major examples, both released in 1961, were Kang Dae-jin’s Mabu (The Coachman) and Yu Hyun-mok’s Obaltan (A Stray Bullet), the latter film often cited as the greatest Korean film ever made. These films unflinchingly expressed the poverty and desperation that afflicted much of the populace at this time, taking many cues from post-World War II Italian neo-realism.

The Housemaid, however, was strikingly different from these other films in many ways. Although this film, too, had at least a tenuous basis in reality (it was inspired by a newspaper article), Kim spun it into a twisted tale of male anxiety, materialism, sexual competition, and a heightened expressionism bordering on surrealism. Kim’s merciless skewering of the burgeoning Korean bourgeoisie proved him to be a potent Eastern counterpart to Luis Buñuel. Structured with a framing device featuring a husband reading this newspaper account to his wife, the story of The Housemaid concerns Dong-sik (Kim Jin-kyu), a music teacher whose students are the female workers at a factory. Dong-sik and his wife (Joo Jeung-nyeo) have just bought a two-story house, part of their quest to raise their class status in society. Dong-sik has also just bought a piano, and offers private lessons in order to pay for the piano. Dong-sik prides himself on being a morally upright person, so much so that when it is called to his attention that one of his students has written a passionate love note to him, he reports the woman to her superiors, causing her to quit the job in mortification.

Meanwhile, at home, Dong-sik’s wife is overwhelmed with housework and her side job as a seamstress. One day, when she is startled by a rat jumping out at her in the kitchen, she asks Dong-sik to hire a housemaid to help out in their new house. Dong-sik asks Kyeong-hee (Eom Aeng-ran), one of his music students, to find someone he can hire, and she enlists her friend Myeong-sook (Lee Eun-sim) to take the job, promising to augment her wages with money of her own. Kyeong-hee is also in love with Dong-sik, and takes private piano lessons at his house in an attempt to get closer to him. Myeong-sook is an odd creature; when we first meet her, she is furtively smoking in a closet, and when she arrives at Dong-sik’s house, she heads straight for the kitchen and kills the rat she finds there with her bare hands. This action serves to contrast Myeong-sook’s uncouth country ways with the supposedly more refined manners of the city folk. As the film progresses, of course, these distinctions prove to be illusory. Dong-sik admonishes the house maid to use the rat poison kept in the cabinet in the future. The rats, and more importantly the rat poison, are elements that become pivotal to the plot.

The family’s new two-story house (a recurring motif of Kim’s subsequent films) is a cavernous space, still under construction, a site of both affluence and danger. Dong-sik forces his crippled daughter to climb the steep stairs, in order to build up both her muscles and her character. Her bratty brother Chang-soon (Ahn Sung-ki) uses these stairs to play a cruel trick on her, luring her with a bag of sweets and causing her to fall down the stairs. This act of falling down the stairs is reprised later in the film, with much more tragic results.

Kim Ki-young, reportedly heavily influenced by the writings of Sigmund Freud, broke with the social-realist mode favored by his contemporaries, and prevalent in most of his previous films. Kim achieved this with near-total control of his mise-en-scène, carefully calibrating every element – lighting, sound, staging – for maximum tension. For this reason, Kim preferred to shoot on soundstages rather than on location. In The Housemaid, the camera prowls every inch of the house, stalking the characters like a voyeur. The visuals finally come through in this new restoration, a joint project of the Korean Film Archive and Martin Scorsese’s World Cinema Foundation, both organizations dedicated to film preservation. The great work of Kim’s cinematographer Kim Deok-jin can finally be fully appreciated, the rich black-and-white photography heightening the outrageousness of the scenario.

Gender roles and class structures become a deadly mix in this film, as the housemaid seduces Dong-sik and unleashes all sorts of havoc leading to the family’s destruction. At this time, many young women traveled from the countryside to Seoul and other large cities to work as domestic servants, as well as less reputable professions as barmaids and prostitutes. The film’s portrayal of this social phenomenon helped it to connect with large audiences, making The Housemaid one of the biggest box-office hits of the year. Audiences identified very strongly with the family’s situation in the film, and very much against the character of Myeong-sook in the film, to the detriment of the career of actress Lee Eun-sim, who apparently never appeared in another film. Reports at the time indicate that female audiences especially hated her character; in movie theaters her appearances were greeted with howls of “Kill the bitch!” The Housemaid functioned as a cautionary tale, especially in the final, audacious twist of the film’s ending. Kim would continue to explore these themes for the rest of his career, even going so far as to remake The Housemaid twice, as Woman of Fire (1971) and Woman of Fire ’82 (1982).

So, I reiterate: right now, you can view The Housemaid, one of the great masterworks of world cinema, an eccentric film by an equally eccentric filmmaker, in its entirety, for free. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. And all you have to do is click here. Enjoy.

Korean Cinema Classics: Yang Joo-nam's "Sweet Dream"

Sweet Dream [aka Lullaby of Death] (Mimong). 1936. Directed and edited by Yang Joo-nam. Written by Choi Dok-bong. Produced by Shujiro Wakashima. Cinematography by Hwang Woon-jo. Art direction by Kim In-seon. Sound recording by Lee Pil-woo. Costume design by Byeon Eok-man.

Cast: Moon Ye-bong (Ae-soon), Lee Keum-ryong (Lee Seon-yong), Yoo Seon-ok (Jeong-hee), Kim In-gye (Kang Chang-geon), Hong Seung-ok (Buddhist nun), Im Woon-hak (Yoon Byeong-ha), Choi Woon-bong (Kim Won-ho), Cho Taek-won (Park Kyeong-rim), Na Woong (Hoon-do), Park Kyeong-joo (Driver).

Yang Joo-nam’s 1936 film Sweet Dream currently has the distinction of being the earliest surviving Korean film. It was found in the China Film Archive in 2005 (along with several other films), and the Korean Film Archive restored these films, which were in various states of disrepair. The final results premiered at the Pusan International Film Festival in 2006. Sweet Dream had its first U.S. screening recently at the Museum of Modern Art as part of its series “Korean Films Made During the Japanese Occupation,” which represented a rare opportunity to view these valuable examples of a crucial period which has heretofore been a lacuna in Korean film history, most pre-WWII Korean films lost from destruction in wartime, or through neglect.

The brief 48 minutes of Sweet Dream reveal a skilled filmmaker with the ability to tell a story concisely, with evocative and moving symbolism. The film begins with a bird in a cage, which is connected to the character of Ae-soon (Moon Ye-bong), the restless wife at the heart of this story. She is a haughty, materialistic “modern woman” with expensive tastes. In the first scene, her long-suffering husband Seon-yong (Lee Keum-ryong) berates her for being neglectful of their daughter Jeong-hee (Yoo Seon-ok), as she goes out clothes shopping. She protests to her husband, “I am not a bird in a cage!” after which the camera cuts to a bird in a cage. Jeong-hee loves her mother unconditionally, regardless of how cruelly or neglectfully she is treated. She is a good, pure-hearted girl, the opposite of her mother. Ae-soon’s wandering spirit takes her through the many different social spaces and levels of society, representing her ambition to elevate her status by latching onto a rich man. She believes she has found one in Chang-geon (Kim In-gye), whose shady character is immediately revealed when he steals her purse at the department store, and later “finds” it, using this to insinuate himself into her life. Her angry husband throws her out of the house when she finally returns. Jeong-hee cries for her mother as she leaves the house, and after her mother is gone, she cries out for her in her sleep. This may be one of the meanings of the film’s title: the daughter’s longing for reconciliation with her lost mother. The “sweet dream” could also be that of Ae-soon, who is constantly looking for a better circumstance for herself, and bases all her relationships on hooking up with those who can get her there. She often has a sneer on her face, contemptuous of all around her, refusing to be the model wife. The mother and daughter in the film are connected by dreams: Jeong-hee has feverish dreams crying for her mother, and Ae-soon wakes up in her new lover’s hotel room, telling Chang-geon that she has “strange dreams.” Ae-soon has no loyalty to anyone – after Chang-geon abandons her during a dance performance, she goes backstage to flirt with the lead dancer, bringing him flowers (which the dancer dismissively rejects after Ae-soon leaves, giving them to one of his female assistants – “Pretty flowers have thorns,” he says, sizing up Ae-soon immediately). After she finds out Chang-geon lied to her about being rich (he is a petty thief who lives at a laundry instead of the extravagant hotel room he has rented as part of his ruse), Ae-soon turns him in to the police without batting an eye. She then speeds away in a cab to the nearest train station, exhorting the driver to go faster, an act which leads to the film’s tragic ending.

What makes the discovery of Sweet Dream such a valuable thing is that with its many street scenes, and scenes set in cafés, hotels, department stores, and theaters, we can see what Seoul looked like in the 1930’s. Through Ae-soon’s journey, we are privy to the many different social spaces of the time. In this occupation period, there seems to have been, at least to my untrained eye, a mix of traditional Korean and Japanese architecture. Also, modern traffic was a new phenomenon in Korea at that time, and one scene in the film features a teacher giving a traffic lesson to his students, instructing them on how to navigate the now potentially dangerous roads. This seemingly incongruous scene sets up a tragic occurrence later in the film.

Moon Ye-bong, who plays Ae-soon, was a major star of the time – she also appears in three other films that also screened in the MOMA series: Military Train (1938), Angels on the Street (1941) and Straits of Chosun (1943). In Sweet Dream, Moon played a very different character than in her previous film, a 1935 adaptation of Chunhyang, the classic pansori tale of a virtuous wife which was Korea’s first talkie. The faithless character of Ae-soon makes Sweet Dream a precursor to another classic Korean film, Han Hyung-mo’s Madame Freedom (1956), which also dealt with a woman straying outside of her marriage. However, this later film is a little easier on its female protagonist, sparing her the cruel finality of fate visited on Ae-soon in Sweet Dream.

The Korean Film Archive did a terrific job restoring this film, as can be seen on the DVD of Sweet Dream, which is part of the box set “The Past Unearthed: The Second Encounter Collection of Chosun Films in the 1930’s,” which also includes two other films from the 1930’s that screened at MOMA: Military Train (1938) and Fisherman’s Fire (1939). As with every aspect of Korean society during this period, the film industry was controlled by the Japanese colonial government. And although the descriptions of these films may give the impression that these were simple propaganda films, this is not always the case. Certainly that could be said of Military Train, which centers on a train that is enlisted to carry soldiers and munitions to Manchuria (the Second Sino-Japanese war was well underway), but even that film contains elements that complicate its ostensible status as uncomplicated propaganda. Sweet Dream contains no discernible pro-Japanese ideology, but instead is an elegantly filmed melodrama. Yang Joo-nam, who made his debut with Sweet Dream, didn’t make a second film until twenty years later, and made only five films in total, although he worked as an editor on other films throughout his career. Not only a potent melodrama, but a valuable visual documentary record of Seoul in the 1930’s, Sweet Dream is a richly textured gem well worth seeking out.

The DVD box set can be purchased from YesAsia.

The Bourne Cinema Filmography: Shin Sang-ok, "A Romantic Papa" (1960)

A Romantic Papa (Romance Papa). 1960. Produced and directed by Shin Sang-ok. Written by Kim Hee-chang, based on his novel. Cinematography by Jeong Hae-jun. Edited by Kim Young-hee. Music by Kim Sung-dae. Art direction by Im Myung-sun. Sound recording by Sohn In-ho and Lee Sang-man.

Cast: Kim Seung-ho (Father), Joo Jeung-nyeo (Mother), Choi Eun-hee (Eum-jeon), Kim Jin-kyu (Jeon Woo-taek), Won Nam-gung (Ue-jin), Do Geum-bong (Gob-dan), Shin Seong-il (Baruen), Um Aeng-ran (Ebbun), Kim Seok-hoon (Mr. Lee), Joo Sun-tae (Thief).

Shin Sang-ok’s 1960 feature A Romantic Papa was the first production from his newly established company, Shin Films. Shin had already established himself as one of the most successful Korean producer/directors with such films as A Flower in Hell (1958), a hybrid melodrama/neorealist film set in a U.S. Army base, and depicting the lives of the so-called yanggongju, or prostitutes who served U.S. soldiers. A Romantic Papa was no less successful, a remarkable fact considering that this film was one of Shin’s most boldly experimental works. In this and the films that followed during the 1960’s, his most creatively and commercially fertile period, Shin managed to retain his popularity while continuing to experiment with genre and narrative structures, as well as introducing such technical innovations to Korea as color cinemascope (1961’s Seong Chunhyang) and sync sound (1968’s King’s Father). A Romantic Papa infused the family melodrama genre (which included elements not dissimilar to many of Ozu’s films, although most likely this wasn’t a direct influence) with stylistic elements that tugged against this structure: a melding of theatrical and cinematic space, and parodies of other popular film genres, such as romantic melodrama, historical drama, and “literary” films. Shin achieved this by almost entirely jettisoning plot in favor of a loose, episodic structure, essentially a series of set-ups and punchlines.

The film begins very much like a play, with all of the major characters introducing themselves directly to the audience, standing against a dark curtain:

All these characters are appropriately introduced in a hierarchical fashion. Kim, the titular “Romance Papa,” was played by Kim Seung-ho, a popular actor of the time who essayed the father role in many other films (including others for Shin) and television series. This portly man with a booming voice is the patriarch of this large clan, but he is an authority by tradition only. He is considered senile (at 52!) by his family, and called “Romance Papa” because of his sentimental nature. His wife (Joo Jeung-nyeo) frequently argues with him and loves to puncture his authority with dismissive and withering remarks, although it soon becomes clear there is no real rancor; it’s become a comfortable pattern they have fallen into, which their children eagerly encourage. The parents are followed by the eldest daughter Eum-jeon (Choi Eun-hee, Shin’s wife and a star of many of his films) and her fiancé Woo-taek (Kim Jin-kyu), a meteorologist whose profession becomes the butt of jokes. The eldest son Ue-jin (Won Nam-gung) has secretly dropped out of college to pursue a filmmaking career, and his girlfriend Mary is an actress on the film he is currently working on. The middle daughter Gob-dan (Do Geum-bong) studies English at college and is embarrassed by her father’s low wages, which put her at a lower standard of living than her schoolmates. The fact that she studies English becomes a significant detail, since English words are used at key points, starting with the English of the film’s title, and later in the film where the words “girlfriend” (to describe Mary) and “boyfriend” (to describe Woo-taek) are used. Baruen (Shin Seong-il), the youngest son, suffers from an acute inferiority complex in relation to his older brother Ue-jin, since he is forced to live on his brother’s hand-me-downs (a detail that reinforce the fact that this is far from a rich family), and feels like a hand-me-down himself, or in his words, a “remnant.” An early scene in the film in which he and his brother argue over shoes serves to illustrate this point. (More on this later.) Ebbun (Um Aeng-ran), the youngest daughter, whose name sounds like (and I think actually is, if my hearing is correct) yeppun, the Korean word meaning “pretty,” makes fun of her parents for giving her that name, since she obviously is pretty. (As an aside, it is interesting to note that Shin Seong-il and Um Aeng-ran, who play siblings in this film, were in fact a real-life couple.) The film’s extended family is encompassing enough to include not only Mr. Lee (Kim Seok-hoon), Papa’s favorite co-worker, but most amusingly, a house thief (Joo Sun-tae) who will appear later in the film.

This opening establishes the narrative strategy of the rest of the film, a series of set-ups that will receive their pay-offs later in the film. A Romantic Papa is essentially an episodic series of extended comic riffs that flesh out the characters and situations that have been laid out so succinctly at the beginning. Shin greatly admired classical Hollywood montage techniques and emulated this in his films, which makes it all the more remarkable that, at least in this film, he used these techniques to such radically experimental ends, leaving us with a very different impression than a typical Hollywood film. The effect is much closer to television drama, and this episodic structure and style of characterization survives in the form of many of today’s Korean TV series.

The front of the traditional Korean house where most of the film’s scenes take place looks very much like a stage set:

This theatrical presentation of the family home conveys the notion that this is a very orderly and controlled space, a site of comfort and respite from the often cruel and chaotic world outside. Papa insists on keeping the realms of work and home strictly separated; late in the film, when he finds the rest of the family working jobs in the house, he demands that the work signs on the door be taken down. Shin often shoots his characters from low angles:

Again, á la Ozu. The camera moves very little, just enough to follow a character or a movement. The characters move in and out of the large family room and into smaller, more private spaces. Much of the humor occurs when these boundaries are breached, as in one scene where the children cheer on their parents as they argue. Shin sometimes also crowds the frame with as many of the family members as he can, to underline just how populated this small house is:

After the opening, after the family leaves the house in the morning (except the mother, of course, who stays behind), there is a quick succession of short scenes, establishing the non-home spaces which each family member inhabits: Papa arriving early to work, lovingly arranging flowers for the office, which his boss steals; Ebbun haughtily snubbing an admiring boy on the bus ride to the school (even a brief scene such as this has a pay-off – the boy later sends Ebbun a hilariously ardent love letter); Ue-jin as an assistant director, filming a typical melodramatic scene with fake snow; Baruen in wrestling class (in later scenes, he often is holding some sort of exercise equipment); Gob-dan and her friends discuss going hiking, and she complains that she can’t go because she doesn’t own a pair of pants that she can wear. Even the smallest details and character traits echo in later parts of the film, and the fact that the film is nearly plotless helps to emphasize these small details, and Shin carefully builds them to create a rich tapestry that resonate in a very artful way. In a way, this aspect of the film brings to mind (though the style is very different) Hong Sang-soo’s films, since he very similarly transforms very ordinary details into quite lovely patterns.

One example of how the smallest situations are spun into something quite funny occurs when Baruen complains about the hand-me-down old shoes he has to wear, and asks his father to buy him new ones. Ue-jin asks for new shoes also, and tries to pass his old shoes once again to Baruen. The conversation expands into a philosophical debate and a historical discussion. The banter between these characters is punctuated with very subtle camera and character movement, and illustrates the relationship between the characters, and also between them and the rest of the family, all of whom get a chance to chime in:

The mother’s jealous reactions to what she imagines is Papa’s interest in other women occasions a couple of humorous scenes, for example in a brief bit where the film delves into psychic space as Papa visualizes, and the film shows us, the directions his wife gives to a gisaeng’s (a female entertainer analogous to Japanese geisha) house. His reveries are angrily interrupted by his wife, who demands to know why he is so interested in where this woman lives.

Shin also parodies the film industry in a scene where Ue-jin reads his screenplay to the rest of the family, and while his original story is the sort of tragic melodrama prevalent in Korean films at the time, in which the lovers commit suicide since that is the only way they can be together, his parents rewrite the script into their own versions. They cast themselves, naturally – Papa as a venerable poet, complete with a beret, and his wife as the nagging scold in a historical drama. In this and the other examples I have cited above, Shin is able to encompass many forms of storytelling into this scenario (scripted by Kim Hee-chang, based on his own novel) within the very elastic structure he has created. All is not light humor, however; darker shades occur in the latter scenes of the film, in which a crisis occurs that directly affects Papa’s ability to provide for his family, and he ends up trudging through the streets, robbed of the liveliness he had earlier in the film. But the family is his savior, and all conflicts are resolved in the end. A Romantic Papa is one of the most impressive films of this prolific major director of the so-called “Golden Age” of Korean cinema, generally considered to be the 1950’s and 1960’s. It also fascinates with its exhilarating sense of play and its beautiful, generous spirit, and is an excellent introduction to the films of Shin Sang-ok.

A Romantic Papa is part of the “Shin Sang-ok Collection” box set released by the Korean Film Archive, in a typically well-made package. The set consists of five of Shin’s films from the 1960’s. The others are his masterpiece Mother and a Guest (1961), Seong Chunhyang (1961), Deaf Samryongi (1964), and One Thousand Years Old Fox (1969). The set can be purchased at YesAsia.com.

They Lost It at the Movies

Gagman. 1988. Directed by Lee Myung-se. Written by Lee Myung-se and Bae Chang-ho. Produced by Lee Tae-won. Cinematography by Yoo Young-kil. Edited by Kim Hyun. Art direction by To Yon-gu. Music by Kim Su-cheol. Sound by Lee Young-gil.

Cast: Ahn Sung-ki (Lee Jong-sae), Hwang Shin-hye (Oh Seon-yeong), Bae Chang-ho (Moon Do-seok).

“We live in an age without masterpieces.” So laments Lee Jong-sae (Ahn Sung-ki), the stand-up comedian and aspiring film director who is the central figure of Gagman, the debut film from Lee Myung-se. Jong-sae has spent his life channeling Charlie Chaplin’s The Tramp, down to the signature mustache. He has a grand dream to make a film, and at one point insinuates himself on a movie set, where he collars the director to give him a script, and tells an TV interview crew that he will make his next film with this director. He enlists his barber Do-seok (Bae Chang-ho) to be his lead actor. Do-seok immediately takes to the idea, selling his barbershop to fund the enterprise, trading his business for loud Hawaiian shirts, shades (“Do I look like Jack Nicholson?”), and eyelid surgery. They are soon joined by Seon-yeong (Hwang Shin-hye), who Jong-sae meets when she sits next to him in a movie theater, kissing him with feigned passion in order to hide from some gangsters who are chasing her. Seon-yeong moves in with Jong-sae, and after she finds the machine gun Jong-sae has hidden in his guitar case, conspires with the two men to rob banks to raise the money for their film.

Although Lee’s prodigious visual talents would come to their full flower in later films, especially First Love (1993), and his recent masterpieces Nowhere to Hide (1999) and Duelist (2005), Gagman is a tremendously impressive debut, and Lee's dizzying mixture of dreams, fantasy, pathos, satire, and canny appropriation of film references proved him to be a unique talent right out of the gate. The characters of Jong-sae and Do-seok, according to an interview Lee gave to critic Tony Rayns, were inspired by Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Although Jong-sae, this odd, and perhaps mentally ill, third-rate cabaret comedian tilting at cinematic windmills at first blush seems to be merely a figure of ridicule, this character also elicits sympathy as someone wanting desperately to make a name for himself and matter to the world. This is conveyed by both the witty screenplay by Lee and Bae Chang-ho (a great director in his own right for whom Lee was an assistant), and the mesmerizing performance by Ahn Sung-ki, one of Korea’s finest actors, who truly embodies a character, rather than being simply a collection of quirks and bizarre behavior. His two co-stars are also quite impressive and ably match Ahn note for note. Bae, as Jong-sae’s dimwitted sidekick, and Hwang Shin-hye, as the sexy, devious femme fatale, transform what would be, in lesser hands, merely stock characters into people much deeper and more interesting. All these elements are melded with an arsenal’s worth of cinematic allusions, combining wicked parodies of Korean films (a TV interviewer speaks to an actress who is “known for acting in bed,” and a director who claims his formulaic film as social realism), and appropriations of Hollywood screwball comedy, westerns, and gangster films. Jong-sae evokes not only Charlie Chaplin’s mustache and Little Tramp duck-walk, but in his grasping at fame, Rupert Pupkin in Scorsese’s The King of Comedy. As the three set out to prove Godard’s axiom that all you need to make a film is a girl and a gun, Lee Myung-se uses these materials, and much more, to deliver a great love letter to the movies.

And if you’re in the New York City area, I urge you to see this film on screen at the Imaginasian Theater, where it will screen on January 24, as part of the series “Chungmuro Express: Classic Korean Cinema.” This film series, organized by Korean Cultural Service, will begin with a four-film tribute to actor Ahn Sung-ki. The series’ curator, and my good friend, Hyun-Ock Im, will introduce these screenings and conduct a Q&A afterward. The next screening, on February 28, will be Jeong Ji-young’s Vietnam War drama White Badge. All screenings are free admission and you can RSVP at (212) 759-9550. For more information about Gagman and the film series, see the press release.

Life During Wartime

Spring in My Hometown (Areumdawoon sheejul). 1998. Written and directed by Lee Kwang-mo. Produced by Yu Seon-ho, Jeong Dae-sung, Kang Seong-kyu, and Jeong Tae-sung. Cinematography by Kim Hyung-ku. Edited by Ham Sung-won. Music by Won Il. Art direction by Kim Byeong-chan and Lee Su-geun. Costume design by Kim Gi-cheol, Yun Jun-sik, and Bong Hyeon-suk. Sound by Lee Seung-chul and Yang Dae-ho.

Cast: Ahn Sung-ki (Sung-min's father), Bae Yu-jeong (Chang-hee's mother), Kim Jung-woo (Chang-hee), Lee In (Sung-min), Oh Ji-hye (Teacher), Song Ok-sook (Sung-min's mother), Yu Oh-seong (Sung-min's uncle).

One of the best, and certainly most visually impressive, cinematic depictions of the Korean War, Spring in My Hometown takes a very different approach from other films on this subject. Lee Kwang-mo’s first feature, set in a small village adjoining a U.S. Army base, is quiet, contemplative, and nostalgic, taking place far from the battlefields, although no less lacking in drama and tragedy. The film’s compositions use a mostly static camera, long takes, and stunning landscape shots reminiscent of Breughel and Friedrich. The events of the war, relayed in title cards between the film’s episodes, are seen through the prism of the experiences of two boys, Sung-min (Lee In), and his friend Chang-hee (Kim Jung-woo). The film’s narrative is seen through Sung-min’s eyes, and is structured by Sung-min’s memory of events.

The fortunes of the two boy’s families are sharply contrasted. Sung-min’s father (Ahn Sung-ki) works on the army base, taking advantage of his privileged position by earning extra money on the side smuggling goods from the base and pimping out local women for the U.S. soldiers. His father’s hustling allows Sung-min’s family to live comfortably, and in a much nicer house than their neighbors. Chang-hee’s family, on the other hand, lives under far less favorable circumstances. At the beginning of the film, Chang-hee’s father is dragged from a well and beaten by the other villagers, suspected of being a communist collaborator. Chang-hee’s father is eventually imprisoned, driving his family into increasingly desperate circumstances, leading to a major tragedy around which the film pivots.

There are many arresting and memorable images: black military uniforms on clotheslines dotting the landscape; fighting bugs; peephole shots of the boys spying on the GIs having sex in an abandoned mill with the women supplied by Sung-min’s father; and landscapes that bring to mind those in the films of Tarkovsky and Kiarostami. The U.S. presence in Korea is pervasive in this film, and appropriately, American objects and representation play a major role: the radio Sang-min’s father smuggles from the base; the American history lessons in the village schoolhouse; the army jeeps parked outside the mill; the lighter Chang-hee steals from a soldier, which fuels the film’s tragedy.

Although Spring in My Hometown has been criticized for subsuming the horrors of war beneath its stately pace and impeccable compositions, the film nonetheless beautifully captures the way children would perceive such events. Their relative innocence and ignorance of politically significant events (supplied in the film’s title cards alongside Sang-min’s memories) allows then to find humor and beauty amid desperation and tragedy. Lee was inspired to make this film, which he began writing ten years before eventually realizing it, by reading his father’s diaries. This material has allowed him to craft a visually arresting portrait of a time that remains an open wound in Korean history.

Spring in My Hometown will screen at the Korea Society on January 24 at 6:30.

Additional reading: Offscreen's interview with Lee Kwang-mo. (If you are spoiler-averse, read this after seeing the film.)

Korean Cinema Classics: Kwak Ji-kyun's "Portrait of Youth"

Portrait of Youth (Jeolmeun nalui chosang). 1991. Directed by Kwak Ji-kyun. Written by Jang Hyeon-su, based on the novel by Lee Mun-yeol. Produced by Lee Tae-won. Cinematography by Jung Il-sung. Edited by Kim Hyeon. Music by Kim Young-dong. Art direction by Cho Young-sam. Sound by Kim Kyeong-il and Yang Dae-ho.

Cast: Jeong Bo-seok (Young-hoon), Lee Hye-sook (Jung-nim), Bae Jong-ok (Miss Yoon), Ok So-ri (Hae-yeon).

This film is about one man’s long journey, often across snowy roads and sometimes near death, to enlightenment and self-awareness. However, the English title Portrait of Youth points to what this film truly is, which is a larger portrait of a turbulent period and the responses of young people towards it. Young-hoon (Jong Bo-seok), the protagonist, at the film’s outset has returned to his family home, and to his brother, who is disappointed with him for dropping out of high school. He gives Young-hoon his share of their deceased mother’s inheritance, and sends him on his way, as Young-hoon promises to pass his college entrance examination. “You are the hope of our family,” his brother tells him. No pressure there. Young-hoon goes through the grueling process of working menial jobs to put himself through school. He chooses to major in Korean literature, and aspires to be a poet. However, his lofty ideals run afoul with the tenor of life on campus, which is roiled with conflict, due to the massive student protests going on at the time. In one scene, he is taken to task by the leader of the student movement for writing an article in the school newspaper criticizing activists for denigrating literature in favor of rigidly doctrinaire ideology. His girlfriend Hae-yeon (Ok So-ri) is a French literature major, and their relationship is going well at first, but Young-hoon’s internal confusion soon wrecks things, as he begins to see everything in terms of class conflict as much as the student activists do, criticizing Hae-yeon and her friends for failing to be more conscious of the plight of the lower classes.

Young-hoon’s confusion and despair grows as he witnesses the deaths of two of his friends as a direct result of the protests, and the authorities’ predictably repressive response to them. The campus is shut down, and Yong-hoon takes to the road, carrying a bottle of poison in his pocket. All throughout the film, Yong-hoon is haunted by the memories of his unrequited first love Jung-nim (Lee Hye-sook), dreaming of her often. Yong-hoon arrives at a village, where he works in a brothel, and is drawn to one of the prostitutes, Miss Yoon (Bae Jong-ok). He also meets a mysterious knife-sharpener. Both of them have tragic and complicated pasts, which are revealed as circumstances compel all three to become traveling companions on the harsh, snowy roads.

The film is beautifully shot, with careful attention paid to natural surroundings – lush cherry blossom groves, snowy mountains, rocky and rugged terrain – and how they mirror the psychological states of the many characters we are introduced to in this film, which is essentially a road movie, a very common narrative mode in Korean cinema. The clear and powerful message this movie sends is that life is always worth living, despite tragedy, despite “chaos and confusion,” as Young-hoon describes events in his running voiceover. The core of the human spirit is to carry on in spite of everything, and, as Young-hoon learns, it is not necessary to have all of life’s answers to survive.

Portrait of Youth can be purchased from YesAsia.com.

Korean Cinema Classics: Kim Hong-joon's "La Vie en Rose"

La Vie en Rose (Jangmi bit insaeng). 1994. Directed by Kim Hong-joon. Written by Yook Sang-ho. Produced by Lee Tae-won. Cinematography by Park Seung-bae. Edited by Park Soon-duk. Music by Jo Dong-ik. Art direction by Kim Yu-jun. Costume design by Kim Yun-suk. Sound by Kim Kyeong-il and Yang Dae-ho. Martial arts direction by Kim Yeong-mo.

Cast: Choi Myung-gil (Madam), Choi Jae-sung (Dong-pal), Cha Kwang-su (Kee-young/Jee-ho), Lee Ji-hyung (Yu-jin), Hwang Mi-sun (Miss Oh).

Not to be confused with the recent Edith Piaf biopic of the same name, this particular film with the French title La Vie en Rose is a Korean film set in 1987, when the country was gearing up for next year’s Seoul Olympics, and the repressive regime of Chun Doo Hwan had to at least make a show of respecting democratic rights. And as this film powerfully argues, it was indeed very much a show, as student protestors continued to be tear-gassed, and anti-government activists were still forced to lay low and hide out from the authorities. On the evidence of this film, one apparently common place to hide out was the sort of comic book rental shop run in this film by the Madam (Choi Myung-gil), where the almost exclusively male clientele stay overnight, paying an extra fee for the privilege (and for the Madam to risk being shut down by the police), and enjoying after-hours porn flicks. The Madam is dissatisfied with the life she leads, and feels trapped in this existence, but can see no alternative. A friend helpfully sets her up with a businessman for a marriage meeting, to no avail.

Soon, however, three men come into her life, and turn her life and her business (in one scene late in the film, literally) upside down. One of them is her half-brother Jee-ho (Cha Kwang-su), a labor activist wanted by the government and hiding out under an assumed name. The second is Dong-pal (Choi Jae-sung), a gangster wanted by both the police and a rival gang who believes he killed their boss. He beats up other patrons in the shop, and rapes the Madam one day when they are alone in the shop. However, the Madam is so beaten down by her life that she passively accepts this rape, feeling as powerless in stopping it as in leaving the town to live a better life. The third man is Yu-jin (Lee Ji-hyung), a shy, sensitive poet who is also a fugitive from government authorities, having written a satirical anti-government novel, that while being very popular with the public, raised considerable ire in official circles. Yu-jin pines for Miss Oh (Hwang Mi-sun), a pretty coffee-shop delivery girl, whom he comes to learn is not all she seems.

La Vie en Rose was the debut film of Kim Hong-joon, who went on to be a celebrated professor and film scholar, as well as a member of the Korean Film Commission, and the founder of the Puchon International Fantastic Film Festival (PiFan). Kim has made only two subsequent features to date: the rock-music film Jungle Story (1996) and the documentary My Korean Cinema (2003). Kim’s film is an absorbing work that gives us a vivid picture of life during this period of Korean history. The news reports Jee-ho obsessively watches (as the other patrons ignore them, or call for changing the channel), form a background running commentary courtesy of the government propaganda that contrasts sharply with life on the ground. Comic-book culture is very wittily referenced in this film, for example with the scenes of Dong-pal fighting his gangster foes, which could easily have been scenes from the popular martial arts comics the Madam rents out. In a nice little scene, the Madam is taking inventory of her comics, and stops to read one of them, a smile playing across her face, as it obviously has been some time since she has actually sat down to enjoy reading the comics that surround her all day.

At the film’s conclusion, the Madam is resigned to her fate of never leaving her little shop in Seoul, and the run-down neighborhood that surrounds it. However, she takes some comfort in her solidarity with the downtrodden people she serves, offering them shelter and a brief respite from the harsh world outside. The Madam wanted so much to leave this place, with “the shabby houses, and those who barely live.” But, she says, “Now I’ve realized that I’m one of them.” She can help people forget their worries, ply them with food and liquor, and titillate them with erotic comics and porno flicks. She can assure herself that politically and morally, she is ultimately on the right side. And after the despair and tragedy that we have seen over the course of this film, Kim leaves us with a glimmer of hope in the film’s very last shot, an optimistic note that points toward the time that the film was made, under a truly democratic government, the country beginning to recover from a turbulent time that wasn’t so far in the past.

La Vie en Rose can be purchased from YesAsia.com.

Korean Cinema Classics: Lee Yong-min's "A Happy Day of Jinsa Maeng"

A Happy Day of Jinsa Maeng (Maeng Jinsa-daek gyongsa). 1962. Directed by Lee Yong-min. Written by Oh Yeong-jin. Produced by Lee Seong-geun. Cinematography by Yeong Kim. Edited by Yu Jae-won. Music by Kim Dae-hyeon.

Cast: Choi Eun-hee, Kim Seung-ho, Kim Jin-kyu, Gu Bong-seo, Kim Hee-gap.

(Note: The following is an expanded version of notes written to accompany a screening of the film earlier this year at Korean Cultural Service, which I introduced and after which I led a post-screening discussion.)

Jinsa Maeng, the patriarch of a village household in the Chosun era, is obsessed with his social status and constantly schemes to elevate it. To this end, he arranges to marry off his daughter Gahb-boon to Mi-un, the son of Minister Kim, a member of the nobility in neighboring Doraji Village. Jinsa Maeng is showered with lavish gifts sent by Minister Kim, and considers it a minor detail that he has never actually seen the man that will soon wed his daughter. Ib-boon, devoted servant to Gahb-boon, hopes to serve in Minister Kim’s home. In sharp contrast to the greedy Jinsa Maeng and the vain, superficial Gahb-boon, Ib-boon is a warm and pure-hearted woman who embodies the traditional Confucian virtues of chastity and loyalty. However, her values are soon to be tested. A visiting scholar from Doraji Village spreads the rumor that Mi-un is crippled with polio. Jinsa Maeng refuses to allow his daughter to marry a lame man, and forces Ib-boon to pose as Gahb-boon and marry Mi-un in her place. Everyone soon learns that all is not what it seems.

As Ib-boon, Choi Eun-hee gives a lovely and riveting performance that is this film’s major strength. This luminous star of the 1950’s and 1960’s is best known for the films she made with her husband, the great director Shin Sang-ok, such as A Flower in Hell (1958), Seong Chunhyang (1961), and My Mother and Her Guest (1961). The rest of the film’s cast deliver great comic performances, especially Kim Seung-ho as Jinsa Maeng. Kim also portrayed the same role in an earlier filmed version of this story.

A Happy Day of Jinsa Maeng, a delightful comic fable, is the second of three film adaptations of a story written by Oh Yeong-jin in 1942. It was originally performed as a stage play in 1944, and was first filmed in 1956 by Lee Byeong-il as The Wedding Day. Following Lee Yong-min’s version in 1962, it was filmed a third time, as Wedding Day, by Kim Eung-cheon in 1977. This practice of retelling popular stories is a fairly common one in Korean cinema history. The 1962 film features beautiful color photography, and engaging visual and narrative detours from this quite simple tale. Some examples of this include the musical sequence celebrating Gahb-boon’s marriage, and the very funny scenes with Jinsa Maeng’s hard-of-hearing, narcoleptic father. While the film is rooted in the unique characteristics of Korean culture and history, comparisons can be made with certain Western stories, especially the identity-swapping scenarios of some of Shakespeare’s comedies.

Lee Yong-min was born in 1916 in Seoul and studied film at the University of Japan. He worked as a cinematographer before his debut with the documentary Topography of Jeju Island in 1946. A Happy Day of Jinsa Maeng was the rare comedy in an oeuvre that mostly comprised thrillers based on Korean folktales, such as A Flower of Evil (1961) and Headless Lady (1966). Lee Yong-min’s other films include: The Gate of Hell (1962), A Bridegroom from a Grave (1963), A Devilish Homicide (1965), Devil and Beauty (1969), and Black Ghost (1976).

A Happy Day of Jinsa Maeng can be purchased from HanBooks.

Korean Cinema Classics: Park Kwang-su's "Chilsu and Mansu"

Chilsu and Mansu (Chilsu wa Mansu). 1988. Directed by Park Kwang-su. Written by Choi In-seok, based on the short story "Two Signpainters" by Huang Chunming. Cinematography by Yoo Young-kil. Edited by Kim Hyun. Music by Kim Su-chol.

Cast: Ahn Sung-ki, Park Joong-hoon, Bae Jong-ok, Jang Hyeok, Hong Seong-min, Nan Han-il, Ju Ho-seong.

(Note: The following is an expanded version of notes written to accompany a screening of this film at Korean Cultural Service, which I introduced and led a post-screening discussion.)

Chilsu and Mansu begins with the piercing sound of a civil-defense drill siren, a common feature of daily life for Koreans under the military government of Chun Doo Hwan in the 80’s. The film quickly introduces us to the title protagonists, Chilsu (Park Joong-hoon) and Mansu (Ahn Sung-ki), billboard sign painters working in Seoul. Chilsu is the source of much of the film’s humor, as he fights with his boss (“We’re living in a democratic society. I can quit whenever I want!”) and doggedly pursues Ji-na (Bae Jong-ok), a young woman he meets during the drill and begins courting at her job at Burger King, drawing her picture and posing as an art student to impress her. He is obsessed with all things American, taking Ji-na to see Rocky IV and putting up posters of his idols James Dean and Marlon Brando. He drops English phrases in his speech to make himself sound sophisticated and brags about moving to Miami with his brother. However, all of Chilsu’s bluster and bravado serve to mask his shame at his background, as the estranged son of a pimp who ran a brothel serving U.S. soldiers. He hides the real facts about himself from others, especially Ji-na, whom he fears will reject him if she learns his true circumstances.

Mansu, on the other hand, is older than Chilsu and conducts himself in a more sober, level-headed manner. His equanimity slips, however, when he gets drunk, which is his usual nightly ritual. He must constantly hustle for work, calling employers each morning in search of assignments. Mansu is also estranged from his father, who is serving a long sentence as a prisoner of conscience. Mansu is himself apolitical, and in fact resents his father for causing his family hardship and retarding his own career progress. His family background has prevented him from obtaining a passport to travel abroad for more lucrative construction work.

After Chilsu quits his job painting movie theater posters, he cajoles Mansu into having them work together and letting him stay at his place. He enlists Mansu’s help in impressing Ji-na, convincing him to pretend to be a famous artist from Paris. Their work painting huge construction projects and advertising billboards is dangerous, high-rise work that keeps them barely above a subsistence level, living off instant ramen noodles and soju. They are compelled to take a job painting a billboard on a tight deadline and for a low wage. Their simmering frustrations force them to confront the truly miserable nature of their lives, and they finally stop putting on an act for others. They stop working, climb to the top of the billboard, and begin shouting, expressing their anger at the world below. Curious passersby stop to stare at them, causing an instant commotion. Because they are so high above the ground, no one can hear what they are saying, and eventually the police are called, leading to a misunderstanding that has tragic consequences for the two men.

Chilsu and Mansu was based on a short story by Taiwanese dissident writer Huang Chunming, called “Two Signpainters.” Huang’s writings were banned in Korea at the time, thus his name does not appear in the film’s opening credits. Released in 1988, the year of the Seoul Olympics, Chilsu and Mansu was a key film in the 80’s new wave of Korean cinema, in which filmmakers took advantage of the fervor for democracy sweeping the nation and the gradual relaxation of governmental censorship to create works that tackled the daily reality and struggles of Korean people during this period. The years immediately preceding the film’s release saw many labor strikes and a general agitation for freer democratic expression. The mainstream cinema of the time mostly consisted of soft-core pornography, and political expression was very strictly censored. Directors such as Park Kwang-su, Lee Chang-ho, Bae Chang-ho, and Jang Sun-woo, among others, rejected the escapism and triviality of much of the decade’s cinema to create challenging and politically incisive films that, while not always commercial successes (Chilsu and Mansu was in fact a box-office failure), nevertheless were quite compelling and gained much attention overseas, which helped set the stage for the remarkable renaissance of Korean cinema that began in the late 90’s. Chilsu and Mansu’s two stars, Ahn Sung-ki and Park Joong-hoon, exhibited a great chemistry that would see them reunited in later films, including Two Cops (1993), Nowhere to Hide (1999), and most recently, Radio Star (2006). Bae Jong-ok went on to notable roles in such films as Jealousy is My Middle Name (2003), Love Talk (2005), and Herb (2007).

Park Kwang-su was born in Sokcho, Kangwon Province in 1955, and grew up in Pusan. While majoring in Fine Arts at Seoul National University and studying sculpture, he became interested in film, making short films on Super-8. After graduation, Park founded the Seoul Film Group to create underground films that opposed the military government of Chun Doo Hwan. He continued his film study in Paris, at the ESEC Film School. He was exposed there to other politically-minded world cinemas and returned to Korea determined to create similarly socially-conscious feature films. He has cited Lino Brocka of the Philippines as a major influence on his work. Park worked as an assistant to Lee Chang-ho on The Man With Three Coffins (1987) before making his feature debut with Chilsu and Mansu, which won the Young Critics Jury Prize at the Locarno Film Festival. His other films have screened and been awarded at many major film festivals, including the Berlin and Karlovy Vary festivals. Park’s subsequent films include Black Republic (1990), Berlin Report (1991), To the Starry Island (1993), A Single Spark (1995), and The Uprising (1999).