By the Stream (Suyoocheon)

 

Writer/director Hong Sang-soo

Kim Min-hee with the director

The director shooting on location

BY THE STREAM (Suyoocheon)     B                                                                                     South Korea  (111 mi)  2024  d: Hong Sang-soo

Are you a commie?                                                                                                                       —Professor Jeong (Cho Yun-hee)

Proving that he’s something of a one-man band, Hong Sang-soo writes, directs, films, edits, produces, and composes the few frames of music for this film, all but confirming that perhaps as much as he is a filmmaker, Hong Sang-soo is also a prolific playwright, creating a cinema that constantly relies on the power of conversation, like variations on similar themes, often linked to each other in near subliminal fashion, becoming theatrical compositions of his own internal expression.  An astonishingly prolific filmmaker, with forty film credits since the late 90’s, his films are largely inaccessible, with no screening or streaming options available to most persons, seemingly existing in their own universe, yet he’s an extremely conscientious artist, working with such regularity, churning out a variety of small-scale chamber dramas that are immediately recognizable, yet despite the similarities, somehow each new film is a revelation, like new chapters of an infinite novel, as he’s exploring territory that no one else working anywhere in the world today is making films about.  Told in a barebones, naturalistic style, ignored by the commercial masses, where you wouldn’t think any of this would matter to an ever-changing world that spits out such grandiose mega-hits designed for the Cineplex, apparently to take our minds off of the cruel realities that exist all around us, yet somehow Hong Sang-soo finds a way to articulate the small details that continue to matter, like opening up cracks in our existence.  For the last four years, Hong has presented two films each year at major film festivals, registering somewhere between comedy and tragedy, exploring themes of infidelity, artistic aspirations, and communication breakdowns, this latest film reunites Hong with actress Kim Min-hee for their fifteenth film together, while this is the eleventh film working with actor Kwon Hae-hyo.  These familiar faces provide a level of comfort in Hong films, like a reunion of old friends, as if we know what to expect, where they provide a sense of reassurance to viewers with their intelligence, curiosity, and emotional restraint.  Hong typically avoids heavy planning and pre-production, scouting locations just a week or so ahead of time, preferring to withhold handing his actors a full script, instead writing the dialogue for each day’s shoot in the morning, allowing his actors only an hour or so before shooting begins, freeing up his actors to make more spontaneous choices in the moment, using an editing process that rarely takes more than a day, where Hong’s directional style relies upon authenticity and observation, accentuated by his use of long single takes, where this film, notable for its autumnal color, may have the shortest end-credits in memory. 

Like all of Hong’s works, the film is stripped of all artifice and is largely character-driven, where the performances are always elevated, as the director is never afraid to examine the small, often overlooked details of daily living, like hidden detours along the way, where he finds a way to delve into the complexities of life through loneliness, isolation, and fleeting connections.  Finding inspiration in nature, the reclusive Jeon-im (Kim Min-hee), an arts professor at Duksung University, a small private women’s college in Seoul, spends her free time on the banks of a local stream of the Han River sketching the changing patterns in her notebook, as she captures the changing colors of a pastoral autumn landscape of a stream running toward a bridge, and then weaves those patterns into tapestries on her loom later, creating larger works of art.  When she’s not creating her own textile art, she’s teaching a small group of performance art students, where the sleepy rhythms of this university campus are rocked by the startling revelations of a budding sex scandal, as a male student director from another university has been accused of an abuse of power by sleeping with three of the seven actors (who all dropped out simultaneously) just ten days before a play is scheduled to be performed at the university’s annual skit contest, leaving them in emergency mode trying to find a replacement director.  Desperate to find a solution, Jeon-im turns to her Uncle Chu Si-eon (Kwon Hae-hyo) to step in, a bookstore owner leading a quiet yet comfortable life by the sea, a man she hasn’t spoken to in ten years, but he was also a widely celebrated stage actor and theater director, hoping he can write a new script and finish directing the project.  Much to her surprise, he accepts the challenge, bringing him into the fold, where he arrives with ideas already in mind, hoping to provide the last-minute saving grace.  Jeon-im’s boss, Professor Jeong (Cho Yun-hee), has been extremely supportive and is largely responsible for securing her position at the university, yet she’s also intrigued by the presence of Chu, as she followed his career on television and in the theater, and has always wondered what happened to him, as he simply disappeared from having any public presence.  As it turns out, Chu’s bookstore is largely an excuse for him to appear busy when, in reality, there are very few customers who frequent the store, so the idea of resuscitating his creative juices is like a needed jolt of adrenaline.  The academic setting is a return to the director’s early films, where he was such a subtle and distinctly original force in the industry, making quiet, low-budget cinema, often featuring the inappropriate actions of brooding, self-absorbed men who tend to drown their sorrows in alcohol, social awkwardness, and meaningless sex, shining a light on human fallibility and the everyday idiosyncrasies of personal relationships.      

While there’s plenty of eating and drinking, always the centerpiece of Hong’s dramas, as these interactions drive the central questions of the film, where pauses for smoking cigarettes overlooking a picturesque stream offer Zen moments of melancholic reflection, perhaps the biggest surprise is Jeong’s infatuation and sudden interest in Chu, which is a startling development, especially as it leads to a romantic affair, with Jeon-im utterly dismayed at watching it blossom before her eyes, discovering her uncle is not the man she believed him to be.  Autobiographical elements are interspersed throughout, with Chu, a stand-in for the director, acknowledging at one point that he’s no longer with his wife of many years, that she finally agreed to a divorce after a decade of separation (Hong’s own wife refuses to divorce him so that he could marry Kim, where the scandalous public revelation of their affair all but killed Kim’s career outside of Hong’s work), and that he hasn’t spoken to his own sister (Jeon-im’s mother) since she accused him of being a “commie,” so this new romance is like a fresh start in life, but it leaves Jeon-im more than a little perplexed at finding herself in such a precarious position, relying upon her uncle not to spoil the good thing she has going at this university.  Making matters worse, she runs into the guy she fired (Ha Seong-guk), only to learn he hasn’t left the university grounds and shows no remorse for his actions, believing he did nothing wrong, but his presence alone is like a stalker in their midst, adding a creepy element that lies under the surface at an otherwise safe haven.  Where it all leads is to an understated dramatic skit that includes the women eating the last of their dwindling ramen supply, vowing to conserve their goods in a nod to socialism, overshadowed by a blaring industrial roar, which is poorly received while also creating some controversy, where this snippet of a live performance is not like anything in Hong’s films that we’ve seen before.  Celebrating with his cast afterwards in a restaurant, apparently fascinated by this youth generation, Chu asks “What kind of person do you want to be?,” turning into a somewhat improvised poetry session performed by the students speaking their inner thoughts, voicing their hopes and fears about the future, which are tinged in sadness, as they’re not particularly optimistic, while remaining very ambiguous about what the skit is actually about, yet the four women (Kang So-yi, Park Han-bit-na-ra, Oh Yoon-soo, and Park Mi-so) are like a Greek chorus standing in unison against an established male patriarchy, as the disgraced director’s actions mirror an incident in Chu’s youth where his shameful treatment of a female student at this same school still haunts him to this day.  We also learn that Chu made some rude comments about a famous actor he worked with that got him blacklisted from the business, and that 40 years ago he staged a radical theater piece at this same university that caused a scandal, perhaps an allusion to Kwon’s offscreen leftist activism ([Feature] An actor turned activist, later in life).  The unspoken theme is that art requires taking risks, potentially alienating one’s audience, as Hong is an artist who has faced his own public condemnation for his extramarital affair with Kim, and is viewed as a fiercely independent, minimalist artist standing outside traditional avenues, where the haiku-like simplicity of his work is something many critics just don’t get.         

The Woman Who Ran (Domangchin yeoja)

 

 

 

Director Hang Sang-soo with Silver Bear for Best Director

The director flanked by Kim Min-hee (left) and Seo Young-hwa

Kim Sae-byuk (left) with Kim and Hong

THE WOMAN WHO RAN (Domangchin yeoja)                 B                                              South Korea  (77 mi) 2020  d:  Hong Sang-soo

Writing, directing, editing, and producing his own films, Hong seems to be churning out low-budget indie films at will, often several times per year, never really changing or even altering his style, having a talent for making small art films designed entirely around table conversations that are viewed internationally, mostly at film festivals, where he has an established reputation for making quality films, working well with the actors and actresses within his home grown theater group.  Described as “The Korean Woody Allen” by Thierry Frémaux, the director of the Cannes Film Festival, while also evoking memories of Éric Rohmer, particularly in the spare style of storytelling, though Hong is far more confrontational, especially in confronting male delusions, churning out movies since the mid 90’s, where this is his seventh film with actress Kim Min-hee (his romantic partner) that began with 2016 Top Ten List #8 Right Now, Wrong Then (Ji-geum-eun-mat-go-geu-ddae-neun-teul-li-da).  Winner of a Silver Bear for Best Director at the Berlin Film Festival earlier this year, with some going so far as to describe his style as reminiscent of Anton Chekhov, especially the way ordinary everyday realities become reflections of modern day life, it should also be pointed out that at least two other films that screened in competition at that same Berlin Festival make a much better case for Best Director, namely Eliza Hittman’s Never Rarely Sometimes Always and Christian Petzold’s Undine (2020), both of which stand out for their more dazzling directorial style, so the choice remains a headscratcher.  Jeremy Irons was the Jury President, which also included renowned American playwright Kenneth Lonergan on the Jury, so you never know what goes on behind closed doors, but certainly the entire process of evaluating art in competition against one another is a perplexing dynamic worthy of its own discussion, yet it’s hard to believe even among Hong’s own works that this is among his better directed films, as it lacks the complexity of his best work.  Unusual for accentuating an all-female point of view, yet it never rises to the occasion or feels that intensely dramatic, largely defined by trivialities, continually skirting around relationship issues, yet subtlety is a key to understanding Hong’s works, and perhaps the Jury was mesmerized by Hong’s distinctly unfamiliar style, as there’s no one else anywhere in the world making films like his.  Essentially the film follows Kim Min-hee (in short curled hair) as Gam-hee as she visits three different women in the outskirts of Seoul, two in their own homes, while accidentally running into a third at a local independent cinema where she works.  A florist married for five years, presuming she is happy, though subject to reevaluation, as this is the first time she’s been away from her husband, taking advantage of his absence on a business trip, allowing her some free time to visit old friends.  One thing that’s clear is just how much one repeats to each visitor, like a memorized script, all meant to convey honest revelations, yet if you’re saying the exact same thing in each appearance, just how spontaneous or authentic is the conveyed message?  One thing these discussions reveal is how public utterances bear little resemblance to a more personal reality, where it’s surprising just how little information is actually conveyed, where small talk is like a coded language meant to protect one from revealing too much about themselves.  Mostly remaining in a static position, Kim Su-min’s camera occasionally zooms in, allowing a closer inspection of the speaker’s true intent.    

Gam-hee’s first two visits are completely banal, exchanging genial pleasantries in the form of girl talk, often complimenting the other, where these visits are notable for the much more intriguing rude interruptions where men make their presence, but awkwardly, altering the female dynamic, mostly revealing just how inconsequential men can be in women’s lives.  Gam-hee’s initial visit is with Young-soon (Seo Young-hwa), seen doing outdoor gardening before she arrives, feeling like they’re out in the countryside, with Gam-hee bringing a package of alcohol and some quality meat for the occasion, which is grilled outdoors for dinner later on by Young-soon’s roommate, Young-ji (Lee Eun-mi), who arrives much later, peeling apple slices for desert, with Gam-hee sleeping overnight.  Initially the two sit on a couch and drink, just chatting away, catching up on their lives, where there’s a spartan cleanness to the look of the home, but it’s living in a tiny box, feeling suffocatingly restrictive, purchased from money received in her divorce, where her ex-husband is a prominent author.  Both are in different stages in their lives, Gam-hee still happily in love, while Young-soon values her privacy, happy to be out of a relationship, wanting little or nothing to do with her ex-husband.  Their dinner soirée is interrupted by a neighbor (seen only from the back) complaining about their habit of feeding stray cats, kindly requesting that they put a stop to that practice as his wife is petrified of cats.  One by one they all arrive at the front door, adding their two cents worth, but both women support the practice of feeding stray animals, identifying with them as if they were their children.  The poor gent is outnumbered, as his argument that people are more important than animals sways no one, with a cat arriving on the scene, as if on cue, looking completely content, apparently having the last word.  Using a mountain and a distorted melody as a transitional theme (apparently recorded on the director’s cellphone), Gam-hee’s next visit is with Su-young (Song Seon-mi), feeling more like living in the center of town, another tiny box, though this one is highlighted by a view of a mountain perfectly centered out the window.  Su-young proudly announces she received a $100,000 discount when purchasing the home, a deal given only to creative artists, reminding her friend that she still produces dance events while also conducting Pilates classes as well.  Gam-hee brings her a designer overcoat, claiming it’s too large for her, but would look better on Su-young anyway.  Living close to everything, Su-young mentions a bar she likes, as it attracts artists of all kinds, including a married architect she likes who happens to live upstairs.  Their visit is interrupted by a fanatical man angered because Su-young has been ignoring him after a one-night stand, making a scene on the doorstep, getting all worked up because she won’t let him in and refuses to answer his phone calls, claiming he’s being humiliated.  She clearly has no interest, calling him a stalker, and asks the guy to leave, all viewed by Gam-hee on the surveillance camera video seen inside Su-young’s apartment.  Welcome to modern day relationships, filled with rancor and drama, where Su-young regrets ever being nice to the guy, claiming it was all a drunken mistake.  A common perception in our memory of youth is that it is filled with mistakes and deep regrets.   

By far the most interesting, and most autobiographically telling, is the final visit to Woo-jin (Kim sae-byuk, something of a revelation), who is married to a popular author that Gam-hee used to date, apologizing profusely for any tensions that might have caused, surprised that they actually ran into each other, as they’re not even friends, where much of the conversation revolves around her husband, the unseen artist, Jung Seong-gu (Kwon Hae-hyo), who is giving a book signing and Q & A in the basement of the same building.  It’s a clever way to introduce the filmmaker himself into the discussion, allowing women to speak freely about him when he’s not around, creating an imaginary drama of what they might say.  Much of it is filled with empty spaces, askewed glances out the window, hesitating pauses, and just a general uneasiness, where approaching the subject of a man they both know intimately is embarrassing at first, but Hong mixes in calming footage of the film she is there to see, wordless shots of a shoreline, capturing the peaceful stillness of the sea, eternally in its element in the natural world, establishing its own rhythm.  When the film is over (only two customers), they continue the visit in the privacy of Woo-jin’s office, once again cutting apple slices to share, with Woo-jin mistakenly thinking she was there to see her husband.  While it’s a strange coincidence, to be sure, Woo-jin reveals her thoughts that it’s just not healthy for her husband to be so popular, making too many public appearances, publishing too many books, where he’s constantly seen on television shows where he talks incessantly.  When Gam-hee was dating him, he was less talkative, more serious, still striving to become a respected artist.  From a wife’s perspective, it’s all too much talk, as she’s heard it all before, but it becomes constantly repetitive, perhaps a device he uses to constanly shine attention on himself, striving for and needing the public acclaim, somehow fulfilling a deep-seeded inner need to be loved, actually needing more than one person can give.  She questions how someone can keep absurdly saying the same things over and over again, wondering how any of it can be truthful or sincere, as it feels more like a script he’s prepared for each show, claiming it’s hard to take and that he’ll probably regret it later.  Nonetheless, people envy the lives of successful people seen on TV, as if their lives are far richer and more fulfilled.  While this feels like lacerating criticism of the overpublicized writer/director of the film, Gam-hee, of course, is guilty of the exact same thing, repeating what little she has to say almost verbatim in her repeated visits, where one wonders just how sincere she is in her remarks.  This demonstrates how easily we accept complacency, not really wanting to be challenged, where the things we say are designed NOT to provoke a reaction, remaining safely calibrated and conventional, politely spoken, yet all the personal meaning has been stripped out of the final content.  In this way we generalize our lives, saving the specificity for ourselves or our partners, sharing a less revealing, worn-down version for others.  This compartmentalizing of our public lives is a shorthand for how to get along socially, being polite in each occasion, revealing just enough, but not too much, as we don’t want others asking inquiring questions or taking too much of an interest, preferring to remain discreetly anonymous, where we can lead our own private lives.  This idea of revealing what we actually think or feel is viewed as too exhausting, taking too much out of us, making our lives overly difficult.  So we learn to be less openly truthful to spare ourselves, using a common language of politeness and social grace.  The source of the title remains ambiguous, as there is some talk of a neighborhood mother abandoning her family in the opening segment, yet it also may come from a scene near then end when Gam-hee accidentally runs into Jung outside having a smoke, where she can’t get out of there fast enough when she quickly realizes all he’s thinking about is himself.