In Water (Mul-an-e-seo)

 

Writer/director Hong Sang-soo

principal cast

IN WATER (Mul-an-e-seo)                B                                                                                   South Korea  (61 mo)  2023  d: Hong Sang-soo

Do you know the man from a faraway land who swam out to sea?

He’s a man who’s never properly known love.

Rather than see his beautiful heart go bad from being lonely so long…

Do you know such a man who swam far out to sea?

—song at the end written by filmmaker Seong-mo (Shin Seok-ho)

For the past three decades, Hong Sang-Soo has carved out his own unique corner of the world cinema landscape, making films that only he could make, usually consisting of minimalist portraits of artists, film directors, actors, painters, novelists, and poets navigating the relationships between their personal lives and their art, generating curiosities due to a particular type of cinema that has not yet been fully understood or embraced by viewing audiences, despite academic essays and texts at festivals.  His style, characterized by the use of a static camera and frequent zoom shots, shootings at specific environments, or a focus on the realism of everyday life, is expressed through the naturalism of conversational dialogue, frequently associated with ritualized scenes of drinking and eating, as well as awkward misunderstandings.  However, each film must be absorbed as a singular experience, part of a regular pattern in his works, where artists are going through a creative or moral crisis, developing ideas surrounding the experience of artistic invention.  A character in the previous film, Walk Up (Tab) (2022), dreamed of shooting a film on Jeju Island, Korea’s southernmost territory, and a frequent vacation destination, so it’s only appropriate that’s where we find ourselves for this film, one of the few in the entire Hong output that features only young people.  And while it’s short, only 61 minutes in length, it’s also intentionally shot out of focus, much like the intentionally blurry art from Alexandre Koberidze’s Dry Leaf (2025), which alters how we view what we see onscreen, perhaps a reflection of Hong’s deteriorating eyesight over the years, but more likely a still-in-development, youthful mindset of a coming-of-age film that resembles a water color painting.  The movie was made with little money, shot in just six days and edited in one, as a trio of friends wanders to the rocky shores of the windswept island to shoot a short film together, summoned by the director, Seong-mo (Shin Seok-ho), who recently gave up acting to become a film director, financing it himself for only $3000, renting a vacation home for a week, accompanied by his former university classmate Sang-guk (Ha Seong-guk) as the cameraman, who has a more extensive background in filmmaking, and actress Nam-hee (Kim Seung-yun).  Still an inexperienced, self-questioning artist, Seong-mo is ambivalent about his plans, with only a rough idea in his head of what he wants to do, as he doesn’t want to write a screenplay in advance, preferring to wait for inspiration to strike and then create the film almost spontaneously, a minimalist style that resembles the director’s own.  Hoping to find a connection with the landscape, as all around them is a striking amount of beauty, they take walks and scout locations, with exquisitely composed vignettes of the coast, seen discussing various ideas, while devouring local take-out food.  There is no real conflict between them, but Seong-mo seems to be more isolated and distant, in a world by himself, while the other two grow friendlier as time goes on. 

A tale of three friends who wander around a quaint seaside village and otherwise do absolutely nothing, opening with gentle guitar strums with shots of the sea, these musical riffs are heard throughout the film at various interludes, in water (2023) OST — Hong Sang-soo YouTube (1:19).  And while the outside shots are out of focus, with the cast admitting they didn’t know the film would be out of focus until they saw the completed film in theaters, the inside shots of the three of them eating are mostly in focus, showing a noticeable contrast in mood and texture, exposing the blurred boundaries between art and life.  When they go for a walk, they discover an alleyway composed of stone walls and ponder the ways they can make use of its curvature for maximum emotional effect, wondering whether it could be used as a location, lending a certain mystique to the island, which they amusingly describe as an “isle of rocks.”  As they eat sandwiches overlooking the sea, they question what kind of film Seong-mo wants to make, and while he’s ambiguous about details, he dreams of making an original film instead of copying others, where he wants the setting to dictate what he films, drawing from the everyday life and reality around them.  While his partners are a little apprehensive at working without a script, they are nonetheless aligned with his thinking that it needs to be original.  Back at the house, Seong-mo steps outside to view the plentiful fish in a nearby stream, seemingly existing in perfect harmony with nature.  As they discuss how they will spend their day, Nam-hee mentions she was awake in the middle of the night when she heard a screaming voice call out, “Snap out of it!”  Shocked at what she heard, unable to identify the source, she felt it was a ghost condemning her for her sins, followed by a heavy dose of guilt, something inexplicable still weighing on her conscience the next morning.  Like some kind of foreshadowing warning sign, the three of them plod ahead on their project, with Seong-mo indicating the story is so simple there is no need to write anything.  They walk to a cliff overlooking the beach and the sea beyond, occasionally seen wearing masks, where the landscape is spectacular as Seong-mo decides to climb down the rocks and politely inquires why a woman is cleaning up the beach on her own.  Claiming she lives nearby, with tourists continually leaving refuse everywhere, she is selflessly dedicating her life to cleaning up after them.  Simple as it is, this becomes part of a story he was searching for.  Easily Hong’s most experimental work, an impressionist tableaux of the tangled relationships between art and life, hinting at mysterious realms lurking below the surface of everyday reality, this is one of Hong’s darkest films, along with Hotel by the River (Gangbyeon Hotel) (2018) and In Front of Your Face (Dangsin-eolgul-apeseo) (2021), which may be a kind of director’s manifesto, a statement on why his own films deviate so substantially from the mainstream, often overlooked by Korean audiences, and difficult to find around the world except at film festivals.   

As they set the tripod up for the shoot, Seong-mo describes what he wants to film, which is clear enough to them, adding a little personal touch that he wants to add a song he composed for a former girlfriend on her birthday, gaining permission from her (Kim Min-hee) to use in the film, as he has it stored on his phone, which he can add to the recording function as they are filming.  What stands out is the ambiguous circumstances of the shoot, the frustrating psychology, while also tapping into the unknown realms of a creative artist, where it’s more about his inner self than anything else.  As much as any film he’s ever made, this reveals the blueprint for how Hong makes films, where his job is to make what’s unclear clear, or to make the inaccessible accessible.  In this way, the unusual circumstances mirror the simplicity of Hong’s creative process with each and every film, where you never know what you’re going to discover, or how it will evolve, but the journey of the artist is the most important thing, as essentially his films are about how he himself makes movies in his own peculiar way.  Scenes of drinking and talking are the true essence of a Hong Sang-soo film, as true feelings and social façades intersect, revealing the complex psychology of the characters.  “Why does life have to be so hard?” the young director asks towards the end.  A film about a young filmmaker struggling through his creative process, where the lack of focus may symbolize just how unclear the creative process can be, as there is no conventional cause-and-effect shape of the narrative, and no action sequences that follow a traditional dramatic pattern, Hong instead sketches the vague contours of a love triangle, with the implication that the overly reserved Seong-mo has planned the film shoot largely as a means of getting closer to Nam-hee, who remains polite but guarded around him.  As Seong-mo becomes increasingly consumed by his creative process, Nam-hee and Sang-guk, who are left alone with nothing to do, spark a connection.  All of this remains under the surface, however, as no character makes an open romantic gesture toward another.  Literally blurring the boundary between reality and fiction, the stunning finale is mystifying to experience, with references to Edward Yang’s That Day, On the Beach (Hai tan de yi tian) (1983), and even Niki Caro's WHALE RIDER (2002), as it’s profoundly introspective and deeply affecting, unlike anything else Hong has ever done, becoming imprinted in the deep recesses of our subconscious.  Hong does not ask the viewer to evaluate the value of the final images produced by Seoung-mo (we never see his film) so much as he invites us to reflect on the methods through which he crafts his vision, concluding with a haunting final shot accompanied by the unseen voice of Kim Min-hee (who also plays the masked woman cleaning up on the beach) singing the sad song that the filmmaker wrote, the same song we’ve heard bits and pieces of earlier, offering poetic undertones.  All we’re left with is the sound of the waves quietly lapping against the shore, with the brief end credits also appearing out of focus.    

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.

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