창작과 비평

 

The Works of Kim Yong-ha * , Ha Song-nan, and Hong Sang-soo *

Translated by KIm Yoo-sok

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4.

 

It is quite risky to mention movies in any discussion on novels, for they can be properly discussed only when placed within the context of cinema. Nevertheless, Hong's works are quite interesting even when read as literary texts. His unique narrative structures, the realism of his characters' lines, the clever way in which he deals with the relationship between reality and fantasy, and unceasing exploration into relationships between men and women―indeed, such factors would interest any literary critic. Moreover, if the director's movies are noteworthy works of "art" of our times, then there is no reason to be bound by the generic classification of fiction and film in discussing "art." Seen thus, the trademark of his works would seem to lie, above all, in the novelty of their "form."

 

The Day the Pig Fell into the Well,/em> [20] (1996; henceforth "Well"), Hong's maiden work, shocked the audience because it was somehow unfamiliar despite the fact that many of its scenes "realistically"―almost uncannily―depicted our everyday lives. As numerous critics have pointed out, such unfamiliarity was surely brought about by the director's subversion of the established grammar of cinema. In other words, he "dropped the tradition of cinematic form into the well" as well. [21] Then, at least in the history of South Korean film, Hong's works clearly are epoch-making. But what is the source of their strangeness or newness?

 

We must first pay attention to the fact that, in his movies, any depiction of a situation is bound to be slow, almost tediously so. However, this does not mean that dramatic development is slow or delayed. For instance, the scene in the Well where the female protagonist (Bo-gyung) borrows money from a total stranger is drawn-out indeed. In any other director's work, the scene would have been brief: the protagonist would have simply asked, "Could you lend me 10,000 won?" and the other woman would have either taken out a 10,000-won bill or refused. Hong, however, has the stranger go through both of her pockets, hesitantly produce five 1,000-won bills, and slowly say, "I only have 5,000 won . . . Will you still take this?" If placed in the very same situation, wouldn't we have tarried too? This scene seems slow because existing movies and other visual media, which concentrate on getting the message across or on creating dramatic effects, omit any other details. In other words, action per shot seems so slow―even though it is close to real time―in Hong's works because we, so used to the sheer speed of existing movies, experience "temporal illusion." As such, his movies go against the expectations of the audience, who are so accustomed to visual media that they judge the reality-within-film to be more "realistic" than actual reality.

 

This method of subverting the established grammar of cinema through the reclamation of "deleted" actions and the pace of everyday reality for the characters' actions likewise applies to Hong's visual elements. His movies achieve that "unfamiliar" effect because they seem to present scenes from humdrum, everyday life as we know it, "raw." Conducive to this is the use of long shots, particularly bird's-eye view. Consequently, scenes shot from the top of houses, office buildings, motels, or apartments and from cable cars remind narcissistic urbanites of their actual sizes by showing from afar the dwarfish human figure in the urban space. In other words, the director's visuals often feel unfamiliar because they seem to present us with the all-too-familiar but faded and shabby reality instead of the highly formalized and decorated ../../image/common from other, existing movies. For the same reason, his ../../image/common are closer in tone to Ha's early, rather than recent, works despite the fact that they are at times merciless and chilling.

 

In terms of narration (story-telling), Hong's works once again subvert the grammar of established cinema. If, according to this existing grammar, movies with tightly constructed plots―logically leading from introduction to conclusion―are considered "good," his films seem to flout or simply disregard such "rules." For instance, if we wish to speak of the "plot" of the Well, we would have to say that there are more than one plots in this work: the adulterous affair between Bo-gyung, a married woman, and Hyo-sop, a mediocre novelist; the distorted relationship between Bo-gyung and Tong-woo, her husband; the unrequited love that a box office girl (Min-jae) at a third-rate movie theater harbors for Hyo-sop; and the unrequited love harbored by the janitor of the theater for Min-jae. In other words, this movie goes against the dramatic principle of "one plot, one effect" from the very beginning. Admittedly, the relationship between Bo-gyung and Hyo-sop may be seen as central to the whole work; nevertheless, we are constantly distracted from this love affair by the other relationships. In addition to such a centrifugal structure, unexpected and nonsensical scenes interrupt the flow of the movie here and there, thus breaking up even the few dramatic moments.

 

The dilemma of such dispersive narration is not much different from that of Ha's early fiction. In order for his ../../image/common to show the unfamiliarity lurking in everyday life, Hong has no choice but to damage the dramatic structure of the narrative. At the same time, however, he must also―quite paradoxically―gather these scattered elements of life and dramatize them in the semblance of unity if he is to produce a "dramatic" movie. While Ha tried to resolve this dilemma through the contrived device of the "clamp," Hong does not even make the attempt in the Well. He merely implies that the film is "a drama." At the beginning of the movie, for example, Min-jae gushes after reading one of Hyo-sop's manuscripts: "It's so moving. Especially when the woman dies at the end. First, I wish she wouldn't die, though." The third-rate author then replies, "But isn't that a bit contrived?" This entire scene, in fact, is also a discussion on none but the ending of the movie itself. Right before the ending, Bo-gyung has a weird dream where she is dead and the major characters pay visits of condolence; this may be read as Hong's effort at providing the film with dramatic unity. However, the actual audience could hardly ponder on the narrative of the movie in "real time." Nor does the cineaste himself seem to imbue such an implication with any special meaning, as did Ha. In the end, the continued intertwining and clash among the various relationships and the ensuing murder and death serve as substitutes for dramatic unity in this work. If Ha sought to show the reader "buds of hope," even at the cost of sacrificing plausibility, Hong practically neglects the dilemma of his art, thereby presenting his audience with a hopeless situation and turning himself into a heartless artist.

 

Nor is this problem of the fragmentation of dramatic unity quite resolved in the Power of Kangwon Province (1998), [22] his second film. With the adulterous affair between Sang-kwon, a college instructor, and Ji-sook, a college student, as the central axis, this movie shows at the same time the private lives of these two characters: Sang-kwon, with his ambition of becoming a professor, and Ji-sook, who wishes to end her relationship with him. In other words, this is the symmetrical structure that we saw in "Rangdebu." As members of different groups, Sang-kwon and Ji-sook each travel to Kang'won Province at the same time, but never meet one another. Their unconnected paths are linked, however, by a woman known to neither character. The discovery of this woman's corpse later casts a shadow on the relationship between Sang-kwon and Ji-sook. As such, the woman serves as the "clamp" in this work; but she implies frustration more than hope. Out of the two silver carps that appear at the beginning of the film, only one survives. While probably a symbolic device intended to supplement the weak structure, this fish symbolism is not enough firmly to connect the two disparate worlds. Moreover, by projecting more subjective will onto the two devices in this second movie of his, Hong actually ends up making the structure of the Power of Kangwon Province even more contrived.

 

Nonetheless, this work is important because it shows a far maturer awareness of the place of women on the director's part, especially in comparison with the Well , his first movie. Truly unforgettable are Ji-sook's emotional scars and sheer will to survive, which shine even in a "world without vision," a world in which the characters have little power. This is evident, for instance, in the scene where Ji-sook, after attempting and giving up a new relationship with another man, wails on the bus back to Seoul. Sang-kwon, at last a college professor, calls her. But, on the bed, she refuses his advances and spits out these deeply cynical words: "I had an operation [i. e., an abortion] . . . But don't worry. It wasn't your baby." Even this spiteful cynicism seems light, however, when placed beside the outcry from the bottom of her heart―"I have to live, too."

 

The Virgin Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors (2000), on the other hand, is noteworthy because it stands out from Hong's oeuvre in many ways. First of all, it is the first black-and-white movie to be produced in South Korea in 30 years. Each sequence is given a separate title. In addition, the greater importance placed on the characters' lines allows the director to give free rein to his unique verbal play. However, this film surpasses his previous works because it manages to overcome his customary weakness in the narrative structure through bold and meticulous experimentation with form. While the "primary" narrative of the movie revolves around the menage-a -trois involving Jae-Hoon, a wealthy young man, Soo-Jung, a scenarist, and Young-Soo, a married program director, it is uniquely presented through the reconstruction of the memories of the first two characters. To be more specific, Parts 1 and 2 depict the memories of Jae-Hoon and Soo-Jung, respectively. The third and the last part shows the consummation of their love affair in a sexual act. Hence the first two parts start from the moment immediately preceding the love scene in Part 3, then return to the couple's first encounter through a flashback, finally to end, once again, right before Part 3. In other words, the structure is symmetrical. This unusual form, which is based on the idea of "reconstructing experience through memory," encompasses extremely interesting questions.

 

First, upon comparison, Parts 1 and 2 (the memories of Jae-Hoon and Soo-Jung) reveal a number of discrepancies. While most of them do not mean much, what is noteworthy here is that the contents of memory clearly alter in accordance with the individual's gender and social status. The first scene that shows Jae-Hoon and Soo-Jung together, for instance, is remembered differently by the couple: while the young man does not remember―and therefore omits―his driver, the case is not so with the young woman, which implies that she is sensitive to his wealth and social status. Likewise, in Jae-Hoon's memory, the fight between Young-Soo and Park, a cameraman, was resolved amicably, as Young-Soo has told him. Soo-Jung, on the contrary, remembers the fight to have ended disastrously, with herself as a voyeuristic witness: Young-Soo was not only slapped on the cheek but also subjected to an unspeakable curse by Park ("Where the hell is that fucking wench [i. e., Soo-Jung]? The damned bitch, you two fucked, didn't ya? . . . If you two are caught in some hanky-panky in the Editing Room . . ."). This in turn reads as a proof that Soo-Jung is strongly aware of the trials of her life. The overall message may then be summarized thus. Even a shared experience is reconstructed differently by each individual, especially in accordance with his or her social status and gender, and goes on to become his or her "past," which "constructs" a part of that individual's identity.

 

Second, the private lives of both Jae-Hoon and Soo-Jung intervene in the memories in Parts 1 and 2. When these independent mnemons and the discrepancies in the memories of the young couple are connected, it becomes possible to construct anew the narratives of the individual lives of Jae-Hoon and Soo-Jung (let us call this the "secondary" narrative). As for the young man's secondary narrative, the discrepancy between the narrative of his memory and that of his actual life isn't so great because his dubious relationship with a girlfriend ("Jung-A") during college days is only hinted at. The case is altogether different for Soo-Jung, however. Because, in her memory, there exists an incestuous relationship with her elder brother [23] ―which is unknown to either Jae-Hoon or Young-Soo―the gulf between the two narratives is wide. In other words, the triangular relationship of her primary narrative turns out to be but a fraction of the truth in her secondary narrative. Considering this point, then, we cannot disregard the possibility that Soo-Jung's relationship with her brother may act upon the philistine behavior she exhibits in her primary narrative. That is, by inserting this secondary narrative, Hong is able to treat the young woman's life with greater sensitivity.

 

Third, while we cannot ascertain that the love scene in Part 3 is taking place in the "present" reality, it is nevertheless established as occurring in the present by the narrative structure. Although, logically speaking, the third part of the movie can very well be yet another memory or fantasy of Jae-Hoon/Soo-Jung or Hong himself, the dramatic structure does not allow much possibility for such metafiction. In this respect, the movie contrasts with Kim's "Hoch'ul." Of course, the reconstruction of experience through memory in the Virgin Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors and the exploration of the boundary between reality and fantasy through metafiction in "Hoch'ul" both reveal that what we call "real life" is in fact constructed, at least partly, by memories or imagination. However, while the film presupposes elements in life that can never be created by the constructive nature of memory, the short story implies that even this may be fantasy. In other words, though Soo-Jung may and can imagine Jae-Hoon secretly kissing another woman and even "remember" that fantasy, she cannot concoct her incestuous relationship with her own brother in the same way. The unusual artistic form of the Virgin Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors shows the vagueness of the border between reality and fantasy/memory and, at the same time, clearly states that crucial aspects of reality cannot be fabricated by imagination. [24]

 

Through such a unique form, Hong at last is able to overcome the dispersion of his narrative structure and to tell us a single, unified story. Although this tale still has many offshoots, its gist can be summarized as a "story about men who demand sexual favors and a woman who refuses to give in so easily," [25] to quote Kim, for beneath the romance between Soo-Jung and the men are the conflicts and bargaining surrounding her "virginity." Of course, stories that use "virginity" or "chastity" as their medium are themselves familiar in the history of the modern narrative, from the early English novel Pamela to our own Ch'unhyang-j n [Tale of Ch'unhyang; 春香傳], and ranging over a variety of genres including romance fiction and film. Nevertheless, the narrative of the Virgin Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors is surprising because is presents us with insights into the "body"―which in turn revolves around sex and power―through a use of the "myth of virginity."

 

That is, in this movie, Soo-Jung's body becomes a "territory" that men strive to conquer. Her elder brother "borrows" her hand to masturbate. Encouraged by his conquest of her lips, Young-Soo attempts to march into the capital (?) of that "territory," only to fail. Because of his disadvantage as a married man, he is unable to force his way in; instead, he consoles himself by saying, "I took your panties off, do you hear? I could've done it but didn't, you got that?" When she says, "But you've already had my breasts" while refusing Jae-Hoon's demand for sex, Soo-Jung in turn reveals an awareness of her own body as an object of male domination.

 

Admittedly, one of the attractions of this work is watching the battles over Soo-Jung's body. But what is surprising is the director's insight into the relationships that are formed through these battles. It is after witnessing the fight between Young-Soo and Park―in which the former is slapped and humiliated―that Soo-Jung turns cool toward the program director. Likewise, Young-Soo's failure to force her into having sex seems to be caused not only by his own self-consciousness as a married man but also by her vivid memory of his humiliation at Park's hands, notwithstanding her affection for him ("Did you know that I liked you?"). When Soo-Jung's relationship with her own brother is taken into account as well, we can say that she could no longer bear the humiliation brought about by her relationship with Young-Soo. The beauty of the movie lies in the fact that we can never know the genuineness of her love for him. Indeed, such ambiguity appears in Soo-Jung's relationship with Jae-Hoon too.

 

While it is clear that she is conscious of this young man's wealth and social status, we cannot say that they are the only reasons behind her ultimate selection of him as her mate. In fact, the relationship between the couple is nearly ruined when, while fondling Soo-Jung, Jae-Hoon mistakenly calls her by someone else's name ("Jung-A"). Of course, one may, as Jae-Hoon himself does, protest thus: "Is it such an unforgivable sin to call you by the wrong name that you should drive me nuts like this?" From Soo-Jung's standpoint, however, this is a considerable threat, even perhaps an "unforgivable sin." It not only is an implicit proof that Jae-Hoon has been fooling around with another woman but also, and more importantly, threatens her identity in a fundamental way. The degree of threat she feels can be surmised only when we remember that, all her life, Soo-Jung has not been able to form relationships in and by her own name (e. g., her relationships with her elder brother and Young-Soo). At the climax of the love scene in Part 3, Jae-Hoon repeatedly asks, "You are Soo-Jung, right?" This in turn recalls the earlier scene where he mistakenly called her "Jung-A"; we cannot help laughing here. However, even as she screams in pain from her very first sexual act, Soo-Jung unfailingly and repeatedly answers, "Yes, I am Soo-Jung." Overlapping with her relationship with her own brother, this scene reveals her ardent desire for self-affirmation.

 

Jae-Hoon one-sidedly breaks his original promise of taking her to a fancy hotel on Cheju Island for their first sex and quite humiliatingly proposes that they consummate the long-postponed act in a hotel in Ui-dong, a district of Seoul, instead ("Soo-Jung, do you really have to go to Cheju Island?"). It is noteworthy too that, although hurt by his callousness, she nevertheless accepts his proposal ("Do you think I'm some kind of a nut, gaga over Cheju Island?"). However, we cannot view Soo-Jung's sufferance of such degradation simply as motivated by her desire to marry a rich man. After all, that the young man should thus unilaterally break their mutual promise of a romantic tryst and suggest a new plan bespeaks male violence in male-female relationships. But what is important here is that Soo-Jung accepts both this humiliating proposal and the underlying power relations not solely because of her disadvantaged status as a woman but also because of her emotional scars. In other words, we cannot fully grasp the complex meaning underneath this "practical" sex in a hotel in Ui-dong without first understanding the darkness within her heart.

 

Marked by a process in which both Jae-Hoon and Soo-Jung desperately affirm their selves, her painful screams, and his false promise ("I promise I'll do it painlessly"), the ensuing love scene comes off as quite "odd" when compared to similar scenes from other movies. But even stranger is the scene where, after sex, they wash the virginal bloodstains off the bed sheet in the bathroom. Soo-Jung is relieved thus to have proven her virginity and Jae-Hoon is proud as a peacock, as if the stained sheet were some medal. With the intervention of the humdrum situation of having to wash the bloodstains off the hotel bed sheet, however, this "holy" blood turns into "unclean" blood that must be washed away. As such, this scene, while seemingly reenacting the "myth of virginity," actually hurls it into the center of mundaneness. Consequently, it is hard to determine the true nature of the loving atmosphere that envelops the couple after coitus: is it the consummation of genuine romance or relief at finally having concluded a contract (promise of marriage)? Because it is tied to the subtlety presented by the various details of the film, such ambiguity does not merely function as a contrived device but goes on to serve as an indicator of the complexity of reality.

 

As such, despite the fact that they too shun monolithic discourses, Hong's works seem to have reached the zenith of South Korean film in our age. Of course, an altogether different analysis would be needed if we wished to compare the Virgin Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors with movies such as JSA―Joint Security Area and Peppermint Candy , which do deal with monolithic discourses. But I have no qualms whatsoever about saying that Hong's film surpasses the other two in terms of artistic achievement, for the director's unceasing interest in the male-female relationships among the urbanites of this era, sensitive sensibility that can see through the subtlest aspects of these relationships, and penetrating analysis work together to produce a brilliant result, with the help of continued formal experimentation. While I cannot agree with the general opinion that, in this latest and third film, the cineaste has discarded his earlier cynicism and has become more "warm-hearted," I at least wish to laud Hong's heightened awareness of the plight of women and the complexity of relationships between men and women. Having read his recent comment―"Paradoxically, the process of speaking in a more communicable language itself seems to give me freedom" [26] ―I sincerely hope that his art will turn to stories not only of the inner lives of individuals but also of the dreams and reality of the community.

 

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* All Korean words and names have been romanized in accordance with the McCune-Reischauer system except, of course, established spellings such as "Seoul" and personally preferred renditions such as "Paik Nak-chung." In addition, the names of all Korean figures, fictive or historical, appear with the last name preceding the first. [Translator's note]
* Depending on the source, the hyphen is sometimes omitted. The same holds true for the names of all of the characters from his movies. This article was originally published in no. 111 (spring 2001) of Quarterly Changjak-kwa-Bipyong [ Creation & Criticism ; 創作과 批評]. [Translator's note]
* Literary critic and professor of English literature at Inje University. Works include "Chiguhwa Sidae-?i Segye Munhak" [World Literature in the Age of Globalization; 地球化 時代의 世界 文學]. His e-mail address is englhkwn@ijnc.inje.ac.kr.
[20] Twaeji-ga Umur-e Ppajin Nal [돼지가 우물에 빠진 날] in Korean, the title is translated into English also as the Day a Pig Fell into the Well . [Translator' note]
[21] HoMun-yong, "Salm-iran, Kwiyoun Wison-gwaui Immach'um" [Life is a Kiss with Adorable Hypocrisy; 삶이란, 귀여운 僞善과의 입맞춤], Ssine Isibil [Cine 21; 씨네 21] 256.
[22] Kang'wondo-ui Him [江原道의 힘] in Korean. [Translator's note]
[23] The scene where Soo-Jung masturbates her elder brother with her own hand is noteworthy, for the nonchalant way in which this shocking act is depicted (save for the fact that the camera is held the other way around) is most unusual. By showing this "taboo" act as something "ordinary," Hong's peculiar way of presenting the scene makes it clear that, in her psyche, the young woman has already been inured to the "taboo" intrinsic to her relationship with her own brother and, at the same time, implies that this relationship may have left her conscious with indelible scars.
[24] It is then no accident that assessments of Hong's film differ: while Kim has dubbed Hong's art "modernism of the credit agency," the cineaste himself has said that his aim is to achieve "realism as I see it, realism as an expression of and encompassing everything I've seen." See Kim, Kulbi Naksi [ Dried Yellow Corvina Fishing ; 굴비 낚시] (Seoul: Maum Sanch'aek [마음 散策], 2000) 20. Also see the interview with Hong, "Chogum- nuKulgun Ono-ro Malhago Sip'otta" [I Wanted to Speak in a Stronger Language; 조금은 굵은 言語로 말하고 싶었다], Ssine Isibil: 256.
[25] Kim Yong-ha, op. cit., 19.
[26] See the aforementioned interview with Hong.