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. 

Hotel by the River (Gangbyeon Hotel)

HOTEL BY THE RIVER (Gangbyeon Hotel)                      B+                  

South Korea  (96 mi)  2018 d:  Hong Sang-soo

One of the more prolific directors working today, Hong Sang-soo has built a career making intimate chamber dramas, where his earlier films contained unfiltered yet graphic sex scenes of over-inebriated men in bed with the wrong partners, often regretting their behavior afterwards, while the real object of their affections remains elusively out of the picture.  Bursting onto the scene with an amazing coherency to his dialogue which is especially self-critical of the boorish behavior of men, often featuring a professor or film director as a stand-in for Hong, drinking heavily in restaurant table scenes with his students and admirers, where his drama is driven by a confessional nature in his works, becoming amazingly transparent, feeling autobiographical in the highly personalized nature of the conversations.  As his career progressed, there was less emphasis on sex and more in the precise means of expressing himself, as writing his own dialogue has always held the key to understanding his films, absorbed in somber reflections, where the quality of his actors has elevated over time, becoming exquisite chamber dramas that question the nature of the artist in a changing world, with an emphasis on shifting relationships that don’t always end well, where the critical focus on betrayal, abandonment, loneliness, remorse, and wildly self-serving ideals lead to a complex portrait of middle-class life in South Korea, revealed to be a modernized, cosmopolitan world that inherits a capacity for change, yet characters are stuck in time, stubbornly refusing to grasp the obvious.  More than any other working director, Hong’s films are a scathing portrait of male narcissism, leaving damaged characters lingering in a state of paralysis, often self-imposed, yet they are on the cusp of bridging the future, but something inevitably holds them back.  Hong dissects this modern dilemma with acute observation, usually writing his scripts on the morning of the shoot, showing a capacity for brevity and precision, creating a Chekhovian universe that is unparalleled in modern cinema.  With nearly 25 features under his belt, churning out at least one per year, his films are a reservoir of personal detail and inspiration, where you can count on brilliantly choreographed table sequences with plenty of food and drink, leading to abrupt and seemingly spontaneous drunken outbursts that might seem obnoxious or cruelly offensive, yet they have a way of clearing the air, as Hong brings a brutally honest dynamic to all his works, featuring characters that aren’t particularly likeable, as they’re willing to tell others exactly what they think, whether they want to hear it or not.  This can be startling and humorous in the same breath, but always makes for compelling theater, as this director has such a clever style of conveying his messages, often resorting to repetitive looks of the same events, but viewed differently, keeping viewers off guard, where well-mannered sophistication delves into the crude realities of our day, creating poetic films with astonishing reach. 

In an unusual twist, the opening credits are spoken aloud, revealing the precise dates when the movie was shot, between January 29 and February 14 of 2018.  His sixth 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), this is the first where she is a secondary character, not the primary focus, yet her presence is unmistakable, always representing something near and dear to the director.  Instead the film opens on the craggy face of Ko Young-hwan (Ki Joo-bong, working with Hong for the first time, winner of Best Actor at the Locarno Film Festival), an aging poet staying at a riverside hotel, with Kim Hyung-ku’s black and white camera asserting itself in this wintry landscape, one of the few Hong films shot in winter, where the views of snow on the ground reaching clear across the river are simply breathtaking, capturing a winter wonderland of unsurpassed beauty, with nature making its presence felt, even having the final say by the end of the picture.  This has a different feel than earlier pictures, perhaps due to the more open use of handheld cameras, but much of it must be due to the affable yet gruff nature of Ko, who stands out as a different kind of authority figure, equally blind and damaged, yet decisively different, as he seems comfortable in his own skin, able to overlook his shortcomings and not dwell upon them, displaying a much more positive attitude than most Hong characters.  Receiving a call from a perspective visitor, he easily avoids revealing his room number, despite the persistence of the caller, preferring to meet in the café on the ground floor of the hotel.  When he arrives for coffee, he looks fully dressed for the outdoors, sitting in front of a floor-to-ceiling window with an amazing view, where he remains in focus, yet the viewer’s eye moves out the window to the distant shoreline, like a ghost world barely recognizable in the dim light, or silhouettes engulfed in a fog.  As he drifts off in thought, two others are sitting at a similar table with an identical view, two brothers, Kyung-soo (Kwon Hae-hyo) and Byung-soo (Yu Jun-sang), apparently waiting for their father.  This missed connection is intriguing, as there are no other visible guests at the hotel which is distinctly notable for just how empty it is.  Curiously, there is one other hotel guest on the same floor as Ko but down the hall, Sang-hee (Kim Min-hee), seen wrapping her hand with bandages from an apparent burn injury.  Inner thoughts are revealed for both hotel guests, no one else, allowing an expanded introspection for each character, connecting them together in some mysterious fashion.  Her invited guest meets her in her hotel room, Yeon-ju (Song Seon-mi), but not before noticing the car driven by the two brothers, recognizing something familiar about it.  While commiserating over a painful recent break-up, Yeon-ju is offering her moral support and is there in a comforting role of a friend, yet the two spend most of the afternoon dozing in the room.  When they take a brief walk outside, Hang-see is surprised by the amount of snowfall, “How could so much come down so quickly?”  Ko has apparently been stood up by his friend, so he takes a walk outside, introducing himself to the two young ladies, finding their youthful beauty not only intoxicating but refreshing, awkwardly repeating this observation several times, where they eventually make the connection that he’s a published poet.  This little interchange repeats a theme from earlier films where older men always express how beautiful Kim Min-hee is, a personal obsession of this director that becomes sickening to endure in On the Beach at Night Alone (Bamui haebyun-eoseo honja) (2017), considering just how much constant attention is paid to her, feeling more like an uncontrolled addiction.

Eying his two sons through the window, they quickly reconnect, though in the interim we’ve learned the older brother still teases Byung-soo about his name, as it’s so close to the word “Buffoon,” claiming that’s not accidental, a fact that still bothers him, surprised this practice is continuing into adulthood, though now the younger sibling is a budding filmmaker, viewed as a hot commodity.  Their father acknowledges he’s been staying at the hotel for free, as the owner is one of his admirers who made the offer, so he’s been there a few weeks, but will have to leave shortly, as he’s grown tired of the man, claiming he constantly repeats himself (a common criticism of Hong himself!).  Because Byung-soo is still single and has a reluctant view of getting too close to women, believing he has to approach them cautiously due to previous damage inflicted, that makes his father laugh, finding it a ridiculous approach, as taking a chance on love is all that matters in life, even if the love doesn’t survive.  Apparently estranged from these two boys, as he abandoned them and their mother at an early age, he’s invited them here to reveal a strange premonition he’s been having, as he senses his impending death, though medical experts give him a clean bill of health.  Nonetheless, he wanted to share this feeling and see both of them.  Taken aback by this strange admission, they’re not close enough to their father to really understand what this means, as they barely know him.  Continually stuck on their phones, they barely know each other and have little to say, estranged by the passing of time.  Byung-soo still feels like a “Mama’s boy,” as he’s taken on his mother’s characteristics, slender and overly sensitive, while the burly Kyung-soo more closely resembles his father, not only in size but in disposition, having much more confidence in himself, though he refuses to acknowledge to his father that his marriage has fallen apart, refusing to be associated with failure.  Ko finds his younger son’s cautious viewpoint towards women overly pathetic, believing he’ll never amount to much, as life is too short to waste it all on fear and apprehension, and that love is too precious to ignore, acknowledging he and their mother married too young, before they came of age, eventually having little in common.  His artistic temperament requires greater scrutiny than she desired, as his candid remarks and outspoken nature became too much.  Despite being dumped by his latest girlfriend, he basks in the reveries of the love they shared when they had it, regretting nothing, finding that among the loftiest ambitions a man can aspire to (an apparent rationalization for leaving his wife and children for his current affair with Kim Min-hee), attempting to pass on some of that knowledge to his two sons, but it escapes them.  Their awkward response to their father’s candid admissions is more than noticeable, becoming humorous, with both taking notes at one point, as if bowled over by his paternal wisdom.  Realizing he hadn’t brought them anything, no special gifts, he actually excuses himself to buy some stuffed animals, as if they’re still a couple of 8-year olds in his eyes. 

Drifting back and forth between the two hotel guests, the film has a kind of somnambulistic tone, with cheesy music interrupting occasionally, usually putting a punctuation point on the end of a scene.  As it turns out, Yeon-ju is certain the car out front is the same car she had a recent accident in, yet it’s been expertly repaired, with no signs of damage.  Nonetheless, out of impulse, she steals a pair of gloves out of the front seat, as if getting back for the harm it caused her.  After brief a nap, with both women snuggled together on the same bed, Sang-hee is less judgmental about the married man’s abusive behavior towards her, taking on a more forgiving tone, where she doesn’t appear to be someone that holds a grudge, as she’s ready to move on with her life.  The closeness of the two women stands in sharp contrast to the emotional aloofness of the men, with Ko quickly realizing he hasn’t much to say to either son, creating a theater of awkward moments.  Taking a short walk to a nearby restaurant, Yeon-ju notices the same identifiable car out front, sensing this is more than mere coincidence, eager to discover who the owners are.  The father and his two sons are already well into their meal, each drinking heavily, with confessions coming fast and loose, louder and less controlled than earlier, simply blurting out remarks, with no regard whatsoever that they’re in a public place, as the two women seated nearby overhear everything, but never interfere, as it’s more of a public spectacle than anything else, where one family is literally putting on a show.  As if instrinsically aware of the dirty laundry being aired, the two women conclude, “By nature, men are just incapable of grasping love.”  When the sons start describing in no uncertain terms exactly how their mother actually feels about her ex-husband, they hold nothing back, pulling out every adjective in the book to describe him as the living depiction of evil personified, “a total monster without a single redeeming human virtue,” growing meticulously accurate in their carefully chosen words, becoming a surrealistic exposé on black humor, as it’s a raucously hilarious scene, with the boys feverishly piling it on, each outdoing the other, yet it’s all so dead serious, never once cracking a smile, using deadpan delivery to heighten the effects.  Clearly this is the centerpiece of the film, filled with the exact kind of personal attacks this director has had to endure publicly in the South Korean headlines, where his affair has been the subject of gossip columns and endless scandal, receiving much greater press coverage for the scandal than for his directorial prowess, with both forced to flee the country to get away from it all.  The autobiographical nature of this scene will forever endure, like something out of the Maurice Pialat realm, as it’s brilliantly performed, perfectly choreographed, given a documentary feel of unhinged honesty.  Of course, while this is happening, all Yeon-ju can think of is getting an autograph from that budding director, with Sang-hee finding that thought contemptible, to at least wait until after they’re done with their meal.  This is actually one of the better constructed scenes in any Hong film, certainly in years, where it stands out in tone from anything else seen earlier, as this was a notably quiet film with barely any drama to speak of.  With the release of all the fireworks, a markedly different atmosphere prevails, with the father cleverly tricking his sons into believing he’d already left, but it’s all a ruse to ditch them so he can share a few drinks with the young ladies, reading them a poem he’d written on the spot while they ply him with even more alcohol.  This game of hide and seek, using smartphone texts to create a diversion, works all too well, much like how they missed each other earlier in the hotel café, showing how easily we avoid and miss each other, finding it hard to connect even when trying, told with a tinge of melancholy and sadness, where the rapid changes of the modern world only leave us more isolated and alone, feeling ever more disconnected and adrift.