Introduction (Inteurodeoksyeon)

 

Writer/director Hong Sang-soo

director on the set

INTRODUCTION (Inteurodeoksyeon)                     B                                                          South Korea  (66 mi)  2021  d: Hong Sang-soo

Just barely over one hour, winner of the Silver Bear for Best Screenplay when it was shown at the Berlin Film Festival in 2021, this film was shot just before the Covid pandemic, but shows no signs of masks or social distancing, but it does show an empty restaurant, with one reference wondering when the customers would be coming back, and another indicating people are too scared to go out, however it was shot with a streamed-down film crew of just a few people, with Hong assuming the duties of writer/director/producer/editor/cinematographer/ and composer of the music, which are just brief guitar interludes at the end of each sequence, resulting in the shortest end credit sequence you are ever likely to see, as there is one page of what looks like hand-written Korean lettering, and that’s it, lasting about ten seconds.  Hong serves as his own cinematographer for the first time, which he repeats again later this same year with In Front of Your Face (Dangsin-eolgul-apeseo) (2021), which begins a pattern of two films per year for the next four years in a row.  Shot in black and white, a simple tale of young people on the edge of adulthood, told in three chapter headings, though only the first two are numerically marked, with hugs playing a significant role in each segment, where dramatic life changes occur between episodes, revealing various encounters with parents, friends, and parents’ friends.  Hong introduces us to an aimless young man, Young-ho (Shin Seok-ho), an actor who appeared briefly in The Woman Who Ran (Domangchin yeoja) (2020), which won Hong the Best Directing prize at Berlin, but here he is at the center of each episode, the youngest protagonist in a Hong film for more than a decade, as the story revolves around three different meetings with loved ones.  In the first, while asking his girlfriend Ju-won (Park Mi-so) to wait in a building across the street, he meets his father (Kim Young-ho), an herbalist/acupuncture doctor seen praying at the outset, apparently undergoing some personal crisis, though we never learn what prompted the divine outburst, but the meeting keeps getting delayed due to a surprise visit from a famous actor friend (Gi Ju-bong).  In the second he travels to Berlin to meet his fashion-student girlfriend Ju-won on a whim, and in the third he meets his mother (Cho Yun-hee) and that same acting friend while drinking soju in a café, accompanied by his own friend Shin Jeong-soo (Ha Seong-guk).  In each he anticipates an important conversation, but what’s interesting is how Young-ho continually gets sidelined in the story, overshadowed by the other characters.  Often compared to the dialogue-heavy films of Éric Rohmer, also paring his crew down to just three people when making Le Rayon Vert (Summer) (1986), Hong’s conversations are not nearly so intellectual, as Rohmer’s films are a reflection of the societal transformations of Europe in the 60’s or 70’s, while Hong draws from the contemporary mores of South Korea that continue to prevail.    

This is an artfully realized minimalist film shot on an extremely low budget, with tight schedules, using a system with the actors working from script pages that Hong writes earlier that same morning, allowing them the freedom to improvise, known for his signature long takes that appear simple, deep, and personal, where silences say more than words, yet the beauty of Hong’s films is that things are never as simple as they appear.  Compared to other films being released today, this is self-reflective cinema from one of the most original voices on the world stage, quiet and poetic, where just the changing tone of the voice, or a brief cigarette break, dramatically alters the emotional impact of the film.  As Young-ho sits in the waiting room, the nurse (Ye Ji-won) immediately recognizes him with a big hug, where apparently he had a crush on her when he was little, offering him an herb tonic as he flips through books and magazines.  The doctor receives a surprise visit from an old friend, a renowned theater actor (Gi Ju-bong), placing acupuncture needles on his back, but then leaves him alone, as the doctor wanders upstairs to take a nap, forgetting that the needles are still stuck in the man’s back.  Though his father apparently summoned him there, Young-ho is totally ignored, and ends up falling asleep in the waiting room, with a short interlude smoking a cigarette outside on the balcony as the snow begins to fall.  Not really about anything, this section alerts us to just how often our own expectations are never realized, perhaps due to some unknown circumstance that we know nothing about.  Each of the three sections unfolds exactly the same way, as a planned encounter is interrupted unexpectedly, or at least influenced by an impromptu circumstance.  The next section moves to Berlin, as Ju-won is moving there to study fashion design, accompanied by her mother (Seo Young-hwa), who introduces her to an artist friend living there who will allow her to stay temporarily, a bespectacled painter, Kim Min-hee, who questions the seriousness of her artistic motives.  Both Seo and Kim are Hong regulars, familiar sights in front of the camera, but it’s not really about them, as the focus is more on the younger generation and the ambivalence about their future, even remarking upon the formal speech that they typically ignore, but the incessant smoking is a habit passed down through generations.  When Young-ho arrives unexpectedly in Berlin, with plans to stay in Germany to study with her, it’s an uncomfortable reality jolt that feels more like stalking, like he’s too insecure to live without her, or allow her the freedom to be on her own, as they head over to Potsdamer Platz, standing next to the Landwehr Canal.  Making things even more uncomfortable, they don’t have any money, so when the conversation shifts to Young-ho’s wealthy father as a means of support, it adds an inter-generational level of discomfort in this clash of generations. 

Two years later, back in Korea, the shift is to a seaside town, where the water has a calming and cleansing effect, like a healing quality, as Young-ho and his cigarette-bumming best friend Shin simply breathe in the ocean air.  They are there to have lunch with Young-ho’s mother and her acting friend (Gi Ju-bong), who appeared in the first segment.  The older actor makes them promise not to get drunk, actually insisting upon it, but then pours them drink after drink, as things quickly escalate, with the young men turning away from the actor as they drink their soju, which is meant to communicate deference in the presence of elders, a practice not seen before in a Hong film.  Unbeknownst to us, Young-ho was inspired by the actor, apparently meeting up with him after such a long wait in his father’s office years ago, and has taken up the acting profession.  His mother invited them together to have her friend evaluate and help assess her son’s future in the business.  But Young-ho is having his own reservations, struggling with second thoughts about continuing, mentioning he struggles with kissing scenes, as they’re not authentic, also claiming his girlfriend is not comfortable with him in those situations, believing it is morally wrong.  Out of nowhere, the impassioned old actor starts berating the younger son, finding his position intolerable in the acting profession, as love is simply love, however it is conveyed, where it’s useless to discuss the morality of the act.  This drinking sequence brings the subject of morality front and center in a way none of Hong’s other films have, openly discussing just what it means, and whether it should matter to anyone else when discussing love, which is the filmmaker’s answer to all the lingering questions about his real-life relationship with the much younger actress Kim Min-hee, leaving his wife in the process, subjecting the couple to tabloid overkill, as it’s become a highly publicized national scandal.  The two young friends stagger outside afterwards, breathing in the sea air, as Young-ho has an apparition, indistinguishable from reality, something rare in Hong’s works that we only realize afterwards, bearing insight into the struggling relationship with Ju-won, but it’s a transition to Young-ho jumping into the sea, which is frigid cold, as people outside are wearing winter coats, with his friend helping him dry off afterwards, even offering a big hug for warmth.  Told in a rhythmic style, featuring young adult protagonists for a change, separate and apart from “the older generation,” struggling to define themselves in the shadow of parental expectation, where the convergence and imminent parting with their loved ones is a consistent theme, while the seaside locations were shot in Gangneung, a coastal city in Gangwon Province, renowned for its expansive, chilly winter beaches, such as Gyeongpo Beach and Anmok Beach, with the noise of street traffic contrasting with the incessant sounds of the ocean waves crashing.  Like one of Hong’s idols, Yasujirō Ozu and his films Early Summer (Bakushû) (1951), Tokyo Story (Tokyo Monogatari) (1953), and Floating Weeds (Ukigusa) (1959), the lyrical shots of the ocean help induce a feeling of transcendence.

Hong Sang-soo's 10 Favorite Films 

On the Beach at Night Alone (Bamui haebyun-eoseo honja)

Director Hong Sang-soo

 

ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT ALONE (Bamui haebyun-eoseo honja)        C+                  

South Korea  Germany  (101 mi)  2017  d:  Hong Sang-soo  

On the beach at night alone,

As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,

As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future.

—Walt Whitman, brief excerpt from Leaves of Grass, 1855, On the Beach at Night Alone by Walt Whitman | Poetry Foundation

While the entire film community at large is in near unanimous approval of this film, praising it to the hilt, with some even claiming it may be the director’s best film, don’t believe them.  Having now seen eleven of this director’s films, this is the first real misfire, becoming the most superficial of all his films, suggesting he’s lost some of his perspective, at least for this film.  While overtly autobiographical, though hardly identical with reality, this film utilizes actress Kim Min-hee to the point of over-saturation in an overtly transparent attempt to regain her stature, which apparently worked, winning the Best Actress award at the Berlin Film Festival, the first award ever handed out to a female actress in a Hong Sang-soo film, as she is in nearly every shot of the film, with all the attention of the script paid to her throughout.  Going through recognizably similar personal travails that she’s had to endure in real life, caught up in a scandalous adultery affair with this director, who left his wife to be with Kim, which left a stain on her career, though here Hong continually puts her up on a pedestal, viewed as an acclaimed celebrity, where she’s grown used to hearing people sing her praises and literally worship the ground she walks on, as one after another genuflects at the altar of this actress.  One quickly grows tired of every secondary character in the film thinking exclusively of her, where the director, apparently, expects viewers to adore her as he does, which feels like manipulative overkill, actually cheapening the film and dulling the senses.  In true Hong fashion, the film is well-crafted, told in two parts, where each mirrors the other, but is discernibly thin, mostly revealing what we already know, offering precious little insight, where they come across as two people who think only of themselves.  If there is one common feeling that pervades throughout the film, it is overpraise, and neither the director nor his lead actress actually come to terms with this inflated view of themselves, as instead it’s written into the narrative.  People that place themselves so far above others aren’t really that interesting, as they deludedly view themselves in a substantially different manner than anyone else, thinking they and they alone are worth thinking and talking about, becoming overly egocentric, actually minimizing the influence of others, or ignoring them altogether.  As if he’s above the fray, Hong misses an opportunity for true self-awareness, which have been a mainstay of his films since the beginning, making this feel more like a travesty. 

A wintry air provides the natural setting of the latest Hong film, opening with a sublime and distinctly heavenly passage (the opening phrase) from the Adagio movement (17:28) of one of Schubert’s breathtakingly beautiful final works, Schubert / Rostropovich / Taneyev Quartet, 1963: Quintet in C major, Op. posth. 163 - Complete YouTube (53:27), as the film opens in Hamburg, Germany of all places, a beautiful city situated on a gorgeous waterfront.  Young-hee (Kim Min-hee) plays a famous actress who is taking a break from all the publicity in Seoul swirling around her illicit affair with a married filmmaker that ended badly, perhaps getting as far away from the scandal as possible, visiting an older friend who lives there, Jee-young (Seo Young-hwa), who loves the natural beauty of the town, as the two smoke off the balcony, take walks, or visit bookstores, where a terminally ill man strangely describes his own piano compositions, “These are simple pieces, but if you go deeper, they become more complicated,” which could easily be a reference to Hong’s own film career as well.  As they walk around the city, Young-hee is continually waiting for the possibility of an expected friend to meet them, though nothing is certain.  As Young-hee explains it, “He knows where I am.”  Having lived with a man for ten years, suggesting “men all want the same thing,” Jee prefers living alone, free from compromise, or interruption, rebuffing her younger friend’s offer to dreamily live together in this European city, though Young-hee clearly wants to see her mystery friend, but is instead content to openly share her romantic regrets with Jee, still stung by heartbreak, acknowledging she’s still in love with this man, but confused by the disconcerting state she’s in, wondering “Where’s love?  It’s not even visible.  You need to see it in order to search for it.”  Eventually having dinner in the home of a local couple (that incudes Mark Peranson, editor of Cinema Scope magazine), before the night is done, they find their way to the beach, where the scene fades to black before beginning again, listing new cast credits.  Each half is shot by a different cinematographer (Kim Hyung-koo and Park Hong-yeol, respectively).  When the lights come on, Young-hee is all alone in a darkened movie theater, a familiar place in Hong films, an often indistinguishable world where reality and fantasy intersect.  As she walks out the theater door, she begins to reconnect with old friends who happily welcome her back to South Korea, now staying at a beachfront hotel overlooking the sea in the coastal city of Gangneung, which we are reminded is revered for being the most livable city in the country, according to some poll (exactly the same with Hamburg). 

The reintegration process moves slowly, first meeting one friend for coffee, who has to abruptly leave before another arrives, leaving her a moment to smoke outside, singing a mournful song to herself before embracing a flower in bloom.  This coffee collective eventually meets for the first of two dinner sequences, where we see Young-hee drunkenly lash out at others, suggesting they don’t know what they’re talking about, calling all men idiots, then exasperatingly raising her voice to condemn those at the table as people who aren’t even “qualified to love,” literally dismissing them from her stratosphere, before turning to the woman beside her and offering her a kiss.  After a short embrace, the two women depart, leaving the others embarrassingly caught off-guard and a bit befuddled.  The next day we find Young-hee dressed in her familiar overcoat, sleeping on the beach, with the pounding waves seen over her shoulder.  A man wakes her up, claiming he was worried about her, and asks her to come warm-up with his friends, as they’ve built a fire.  They are members of a film crew that happen to be in town for a film shoot, meeting up later for a second dinner sequence with the director present, who, it turns out, is Young-hee’s romantically connected director, Sang-won (Moon Sung-Keun), but she is so inebriated she tells him he looks like a grandpa.  He, on the other hand, becomes obsessed with telling her how “pretty” she is, where all his cohorts at the table agree with his assessment, behaving like puppets, affirming everything he says like a religious mantra, actually mocking the sincerity of his thoughts.  Continually shining the light on this actress, the director offers nothing but platitudes, heaping praise upon her that she seems more than delighted to absorb.  When he breaks down, obviously still not over their relationship, it only affirms the hold she still has on him, reading a passage from a book that he wrote for her, recalling how it felt when it was happening.  While the two are clearly in their own little world, the others at the table are ignored and treated as if they’re not “qualified” to be there, but they are, presumably observing this private moment which is unlike any other that they’ve witnessed, offering a rare window into the vulnerability of their lives.  Returning to the earlier scene at the beach with Young-hee asleep in her overcoat, it is viewed from a different perspective this time around.  After she is awakened, there is a long pan to the right where the film crew sits around the fire, returning back to the place where Young-hee was lying but she’s no longer there, as if it was all a mirage, before continuing the pan to the left where at the far edge of the screen we see her being carried off on the back of some strange man, fading to black, with a final credit sequence playing in utter silence.