In Front of Your Face (Dangsin-eolgul-apeseo)

 

Director Hong Sang-soo at Berlin Film Festival 2022

The director with his actresses

Lee Hye-young

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE (Dangsin-eolgul-apeseo)                   A-                                 South Korea  (85 mi)  2021  d: Hong Sang-soo

Everything I see before me is grace.  There is no tomorrow.  No yesterday, no tomorrow.  But this moment right now is paradise.  It can be paradise.            —Sang-ok (Lee Hye-young)

Written, directed, produced, and edited, while also filmed and music written by Hong Sang-soo, a real one-man band in South Korean independent films, where he’s been the only one doing it now for decades.  The first time since 2017, and really there’s only been one film since the 2015 release of 2016 Top Ten List #8 Right Now, Wrong Then (Ji-geum-eun-mat-go-geu-ddae-neun-teul-li-da) where he picks an actress other than Kim Min-hee (listed as a production manager and still photographer) to play the central character, choosing 80’s and 90’s star Lee Hye-young, more recently appearing in popular television series, and daughter of Lee Man-hee (Director Lee Man-hee: His Life and Movies), a legendary director who symbolizes Korean films in the 60’s and 70’s.  Shot during the Covid pandemic with a skeleton crew, the film consists of only 32 shots in just 85-minutes for an average shot length of 2 minutes and 39 seconds, which is unusually high, as the average film in 2021 consists of over 2,000 shots and an average shot length of less than 3 seconds.  While this may not be too surprising for anyone familiar with this director’s films, it does suggest there is more of a contemplative aspect in his more recent output, yet this film introduces many new twists, making extensive use of voiceover with one of the characters, as if speaking to God, like offering reverent prayers, where a spiritual and possibly even religious aspect slips in, but more importantly, this film deals with questions of religion and mortality in new and direct ways, themes touched upon in Hotel by the River (Gangbyeon Hotel) (2018), yet eliciting a different kind of response from viewers, while music also plays a more prominent role, heard throughout, though stripped down, not really a musical soundtrack, but it’s a poetic counterpoint to the narrative, offering a tonal presence, yet never intruding.  Hong Sang-soo has been making films since the mid-90’s, nearly always one or two per year, almost always screening in New York at film festivals, while the rest of the country may be sadly neglected, as his films have no commercial prospects, instead falling into the art film category, making this the 11th film chosen for the Cannes Film Festival, and his 26th film in 25-years.  According to koreanscreen.com poll, a listing of 158 film critics from 28 countries, twelve of his films make the list of the 100 greatest Korean films.  If you have been fortunate to see them, they play out in miniature, like haiku poems, exhibiting a minimalist style, often writing new scenes each morning and shooting later that same day, shooting and editing very quickly, using a conversational style, and almost always featuring an extended table scene over a meal, where alcohol comes into play, normally associated with a fictitious film director that may or may not reflect the author himself.  His early films were not afraid to screen graphic sex scenes, usually awkward moments without a trace of artifice, where the male characters exhibit a profound moral weakness, with the director having an obsession with exposing male vanity, usually featuring overly intellectual, morally ambiguous men, often mocking the hypocritical aspects of their character, not who they appear to be, in some ways frauds and con artists.  No one else offered such scathing portraits of male hypocrisy and pretentiousness, often becoming comical misadventures, while also exploring a multitude of ordinary, everyday moments throughout the course of his career.  More recently he has preferred to focus on female subjects, with Kim Min-hee, his star protagonist, as the centerpiece of his uniquely designed short stories, where men typically have a patriarchal, professorial quality, almost always outshined by the women.  This film is no different, with a deceptively complex narrative structure, resembling The Woman Who Ran (Domangchin yeoja) (2020), yet introducing audiences to a new female protagonist, older, more mature, with her own beguiling charm, where a mysterious voiceover offers an existential dialogue that initially feels strange, perhaps out of character, yet by the end, there’s a special fascination with this process, illuminating ideas in a unique way, offering a mysterious twist near the end.  Each of the conversations are open to interpretation, offering plenty of open space between the protagonist and everyone else, with her mind apparently drifting off into this mystical inner realm, reflecting an emotional remove, keeping her distance, even from viewers, yet she continually reveals small revelations in a film full of surprises while also exploring a deeper emotional terrain, making playful and vibrant use of color, remaining one of the director’s most evocative and spiritual works in recent years.

This is a film about Sang-ok (Lee Hye-young), in nearly every shot of the film, yet like Isabelle Huppert in earlier films, In Another Country (Da-reun na-ra-e-seo) (2012) or Claire's Camera (La caméra de Claire) (2017), she’s like a stranger in a strange land.  A former star actress in South Korea, she’s been living in America for five years, returning to visit her sister and nephew, where the landscape has changed dramatically, with narrative clues unveiled through various conversations.  In the opening and closing shot, like bookends, Sang-ok is sleeping on the couch in her sister’s high-rise apartment, already awake in the morning, while her sister, Jeong-ok (Cho Yun-hee), is still sleeping, attempting to rouse her ever so gently by simply touching her fingers, but she lingers asleep awhile.  Brief philosophical ruminations are heard through voiceover that sound like self-help mantras, spoken in a near whisper, offering positive encouragement, like everything around her is beautiful, describing things as God’s blessings, believing that heaven is hidden in front of our faces, where the excruciating mystery in life is discovering the joy in living, forcing herself to live in the present, embracing the moment, suggesting clarity and enlightenment are all around us, challenging our capacity to see, yet in our hurried pace of living, we tend to walk right past these moments, blind to the beauty.  But there’s nothing preachy about this, feeling more philosophical than religious, perhaps sharing a similar melancholic mood as Kiarostami’s THE TASTE OF CHERRY (1997), but not as heavy or mournful, feeling much more lighthearted, where the stellar performance of Lee Hye-young is simply exquisite.  Once awake, Jeong-ok mentions she was having a wonderful dream, but claims it’s unlucky to talk about it before noon, so she withholds the details, instead deciding to go out for a breakfast of coffee and toast, picking an outdoor café alongside a picturesque riverside location, made all the more beautiful by the radiant sunshine, where it would be hard to imagine a more idyllic setting, yet as they discuss their lives, Jeong-ok is surprised by the visit, discovering much that she didn’t know, including her own internal resentment for leaving, all of which erupts, realizing “There’s so much we don’t know about each other.”  That may as well be the opening premise of the film, suggesting there are so many empty spaces to fill, which the film slowly explores in a meandering pace, bit by bit, adding layers of texture and new revelations, usually through banal conversations, always discovering just a little bit more about Sang-ok, who seems to want to re-assess and re-examine her life, almost as if starting anew from a fresh perspective, having left for America with some “guy she barely knew,” with little to show for it, having no savings, and perhaps some regrets that she’s not forthcoming about.  While she may have had a recent religious epiphany, there are no real religious overtones in her thoughts, though there is a prayerful reverence in appreciating the moment, expressed with tenderness, even as the two sisters reflect upon their pasts and chat about their busy lives.  Wandering through some side streets, they stroll through a park filled with beautiful flowers, wanting a picture, so they ask someone walking past (Hong regular Seo Young-hwa), who remembers seeing Sang-ok on television, offering nothing but kind words and praise.  Jeong-ok is a bit surprised, as it’s been years, mostly decades, wondering how they still recognized her, as she looks different.  Similarly, Sang-ok is surprised by Seoul’s rapid development, barely recognizing it anymore, discovering a small snack shop run by her nephew, but he’s out on an errand delivering food, deciding to have soup, spilling a bit on her blouse, deciding to let it go, as appearances no longer matter that much to her.  Running into her nephew Seungwon (Shin Seok-ho) on their way out, he greets her with a formal affection, offering her a present, a small token of his appreciation, suggesting that even though she’s been away for years, she’s still had an impact on people’s lives.    

Taking a cab for a late lunch with a film director, she receives a phone message that plans have been changed to a new time and location, leaving her an opportunity to explore a different neighborhood, wandering into an outdoor patio overrun by foliage, as it soon becomes clear this is her childhood home, where this wall of greenery was her favorite spot.  The new owners pleasantly welcome her, opening their home to her, where she embraces an innocent young girl, who could well be an iteration of herself, offering a familiarity to much that has been forgotten, seeing it as if for the first time with a new set of eyes, showing a deep appreciation for how much it means to her, yet for the most part she inexplicably remains aloof and distant, feeling alienated, like an outsider.  When she meets the director, Jaewon (Kwon Hae-hyo), it’s under mysterious circumstances, as it’s a bar cleverly named “Novel,” the same bar appearing earlier in The Day He Arrives (Book chon bang hyang) (2011), which is not a restaurant, and is closed, yet he has a key, as it’s owned by a friend who happens to be away.  He has an assistant go across the street to a restaurant and order food and drink, while the next shot reveals plenty of time has passed, with food and empty bottles left on the table, having emptied several already, as she inquires why he sent the assistant away.  While he mumbles something about having other tasks to attend to, she distinctly recalls he ordered him to leave.  Somewhat clouded by this murky revelation, Jaewon proceeds to make his case why he wants to work with this actress in making a film together, recalling how affected he was by an early scene when he attended film school, how much emotion she conveyed sitting on a bench in the desolation of winter, evoking a kind of nostalgic memory.  While clearly touched by the detail of his recollections, she reminds him that was ages ago and she’s not so young and beautiful anymore, and that she hasn’t acted in years, yet he persists in his intentions, not swayed in the least, expressing a singleminded purpose, as if his mind was made up even before the meeting.  She exudes more reticence, yet also reveals more to this stranger than she ever revealed to her own family, like recalling a harrowing moment in her youth when she wanted to commit suicide as a teenager, when at the moment of truth, she suddenly realized the faces around her “looked so beautiful,” explaining “I felt in my heart what reality was,” a transcendent experience that made her recognize the immediacy of each moment, mostly shot in a long, uninterrupted 12-minute take, yet the two still remain on different tangents, as he’s clearly not listening to anything she’s actually saying.  Sang-ok often laughs during uncomfortable pauses, like a delayed reaction, where the rhythm of this conversation has a strange flow about it, where her obvious discomfort is clearly not his concern, though he’s always polite in what he has to say, continuing to pour each other more drinks, apparently his typical pattern of behavior in getting what he wants, attempting to wear down her defenses, yet she’s on to him, getting him to acknowledge that he’d like to sleep with her, even though he’s married, which is a strange turn in the conversation, as they were discussing at length making a film together, and suddenly it veers into sex.  The film industry has come under acute examination in its ways and practices since the boorish behavioral revelations of Harvey Weinstein, a mega-Hollywood producer who is now a convicted sex offender.  Korea is on the other side of the ocean, yet the male predatory practices sound remarkably the same, though the audience is probably more attuned to this than Sang-ok, who has likely seen it before and is unphazed.  The spill on her blouse is more metaphoric now, having no significance at all, as the much larger blemish is sitting across from her.  While the conversation meanders, the director insists upon making a film together, even if it’s a short film, suggesting they could take a trip to Kangwon Province, a mountainous region with spectacular scenery, somehow convincing her to agree, suggesting they could leave as early as the next morning, which comes as a surprise, as she’s done nothing but defer every offer, offering her reasons while remaining elusive and evasively out of reach, yet both touchingly share a cigarette in the pouring rain afterwards, huddled under an umbrella in a narrow alleyway.  The next morning she is awakened by a voicemail message that sends her into uproarious laughter, as after all that effort, it was the director who backed out.  In hindsight, the entire conversation was likely a carefully constructed alcoholic male fantasy that left her extremely wary of his stated intentions, showing deeper concerns, unveiling another eye-opening revelation that shatters our perspective of her inner dialogue, like a spiritual awakening.  Plot is completely secondary to mood in the film, becoming an internalized odyssey of a woman whose life is being re-examined in her later years, more circumspect, concealing that she’s primarily come back to experience the feelings of home and artistic expression that once defined her life as a young actress. 

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.