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| Writer/director Hong Sang-soo |
IN OUR DAY (Uriui haru) B- South Korea (83 mi) 2023 d: Hong Sang-soo
A diptych of two interconnected storylines, in this case two renowned artists, an actress and a poet who never meet, yet have younger visitors who come to visit seeking guidance and advice. Immersed in the banalities of our everyday existence, this evolves into something more, leading to unexpected complexities that arise from the simplicity of the format. The filmmaker writes, directs, films, produces, edits, and composes the scores to his films, which are very dialogue driven, with a lyrical orchestral motif opening and closing the film, where each of his movies have a very similar style, with end credits that last only a few seconds. What this resembles is the Socratic method of using ordinary question-and-answer dialogue to spark critical thinking, to explore larger, more complex ideas, where its deceptively simple structure and unvarnished aesthetic allows quiet, intimate moments to breathe life into unearthing profound truths in the mundane. Embracing subtlety in the unspoken and the art of the understated, with long dialogues that always seem to revolve around a single point, without ever finding it, as words fail to fill the void between people, often leaving behind an even deeper sense of loneliness, yet this is a very simple premise that produces an elevated discussion on modern existence. Not exactly riveting cinema, this is low-key, even for this director, but he’s attempting to get at something that is largely ignored in today’s cinema, as the relaxed, informality on display allows for a more personal discussion, as there’s a lot of wisdom coming out of this movie, accentuating how young people seem to want answers now, while an older generation appreciates acquiring a perspective from the experience of actually living a life, where the characters are really trying to get at a better understanding of their own lives, often without success, so they seek guidance. Hong explores our constant striving to find meaning and how this evolves alongside age and experience. The structure itself doesn’t always feel natural, often appearing forced, where there’s even a brief moment of melodramatic hysteria that is completely absent from the rest of the Hong repertoire, feeling weirdly out of sorts, as if brought in from another movie, where viewers can certainly question its use, wondering why such a delicately subtle movie exhibits an elevated emotional outburst that has been intentionally absent from the director’s other works. So that may be what stands out, as it doesn’t fit the mold, but other than that, this is an extremely understated style of filmmaking, shot inside apartments in controlled settings, feeling claustrophobic at times, where just walking out onto the balcony produces an air of freedom and liberation. There’s also the use of a fluffy cat connecting these two episodes, affectionate and friendly in the first, but it goes missing, producing the over-the-top emotional hysteria, while in the second the poet’s cat is recently dead, but continues to have a lingering influence. The effect animals have on human owners is something rare and significant, where there’s a special connection, like being part of the family, as it’s life after all, and that matters, in all its iterations.
Hong uses an inner title card like chapter headings, used to describe state of mind as well as catch us up on what’s happening (“Sang-won trusts her friend, but she thinks the only one she can trust is herself”), a technique that was also used by Chaplin and Keaton during the silent era, as it adds greater psychological complexity, but this film lacks the offbeat charm in some of his other movies. Sang-won (Kim Min-hee) is a successful actress recently returned to Korea, who is staying with her friend Jung-soo (Song Sun-mi) and her cat named “Us,” eventually joined by her cousin, an aspiring actress named Ji-soo (Park Mi-so). Sang-won takes an interest in Jung-soo’s cat Us, feeding and petting him, getting down on the floor with him, with a large mirror covering an entire wall reflecting what we see, but the camera never intrudes. While Sang-won is drinking coffee, Jung-soo is sipping wine. Soon, Sang-won’s cousin Ji-soo arrives bearing gifts in the form of a basket of beauty products, including organic soaps and natural oils. When asked about acting, Sang-won indicates honesty is the key, as everything is generated from that core value, which is why it is so essential. But it’s not easy being honest in a predetermined system controlled by others, who write what you say and instruct where you move before the cameras, leaving you little choice but to follow their orders. This exasperating and suffocating system takes all the fun out of acting, as you must confine yourself to the ideas and values of others, not your own, which makes it extremely difficult to give honest performances. Based on these contradictions, she’s not really interested in acting anymore, as you tend to lose your own perspective when continually trying to please others. Cutting to a different scene across town, old poet Hong Ui-ju (Gi Ju-bong) is at a different crossroads (“Hong Ui-ju has belatedly become popular with young people, but all he wants is to live a peaceful life free of pain”), as his health won’t allow him to drink and smoke anymore, yet they were two of his most cherished things in life, as he became recognized as an artist for being associated with taking great pleasure in drinking and smoking, often with meals, where they just seemed to go together. But his heart is bad, weakened by clogged arteries, so those habits would invite a death sentence if he continued. Unaware of this recent change, young actor Jae-won (Ha Seong-guk) also comes bearing gifts of cigarettes and alcohol, armed with questions to ask the poet, who has found sudden popularity among young people, yet it’s the temptations that lie in wait that seem to matter. Sharing connections as the film goes on, using a deeply personal style described as domestic realism, Hong makes slow-moving dramas about everyday dilemmas, relationships, and artistic aspirations, examining the effect it has on our lives, exploring fundamental themes of loneliness, incommunicability, and the search for authenticity.
Cutting back and forth between stories, a young film student Ki-joo (Kim Seung-yun) is finishing up shooting a documentary film about the old poet, so she films him taking great delight in eating ramyun noodles, adding hot pepper paste to enhance the flavor, making it more spicy, mirrored by Sang-won when she eats ramyun in the exact same way, but it reminds him that this would go great with a glass of soju. Accommodating his desires, she goes out to buy non-alcoholic beer, but this only reminds him of what he’s missing, and it’s only a matter of time before they’re sharing a banquet of fried chicken with soju and cigarettes, which is like a return of all his former pleasures, becoming intoxicated with what he’d been missing, with the three of them taking great pleasure in the drinking game of rock, paper, scissors, with the loser required to drink a glass of soju, where the young apprentices continually finding themselves losing. Meanwhile, across town, the cat escaped, apparently jumping from the balcony, leaving Jung-soo utterly devastated, left screaming and moaning while writhing on the floor in tears, where she can’t imagine her life without her cat, just like the old poet can’t imagine living a life without soju and cigarettes. So when these precious things have been taken away, it opens new doors of insight, which are not necessarily welcome or appreciated. It begs the question about what is the true self, where the pursuit of honesty becomes exceedingly difficult to obtain. In this light, Sang-won gives an impassioned defense for why she can’t work in the commercialized film industry any more, which may as well be the independent film manifesto for Hong Sang-soo, while the old poet gives an equally passionate treatise on the art of poetry and whether it still matters in this day and age, where people don’t read poetry anymore or pay as much attention as they do the other arts. While sitting on an outside terrace, he urges them to be careful not to get hung up on big philosophical concepts like love, honesty, and truth, which remain always evasive, and instead concentrate on the little things that matter, encouraging them to “Be thankful for the small things that are right in front of us.” Unlike the beginning, which took forever to find its footing, the film builds momentum towards the end, becoming a spirited modern day discussion on how people fool themselves into believing things that don’t really matter, finding themselves awkward and empty, and leading meaningless lives. Part of being honest is knowing what’s limiting you, what’s wrapping over your true self layer by layer and preventing you from being happier with your life. In making his 30th film, Hong’s cinema becomes a process of continuous exploration, a place where questions about existence, art, and human relationships can be addressed, though never resolved. This tension between the need for understanding and the impossibility of achieving it is what makes Hong’s cinema so deeply human and universal. In the end, according to the poet, life is short, and we’ll never really discover any of the answers, so it’s important to choose wisely how to fill up the time we have for our lives. “Maintaining a clear vision might be the hardest thing in the world.”
