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. 

The Day He Arrives (Book chon bang hyang)

THE DAY HE ARRIVES (Book chon bang hyang)      B                     

South Korea  (79 mi)  2011  d:  Hong Sang-soo

No one makes films like this anymore except Korean director Hong Sang-soo, who has become something of a master of the minimalist feature, breaking everything down into small, compartmentalized pieces, where like thoughts turned into memories, they replay in his head over and over again, a bit different each time in an existential examination of identity.  Certainly since WOMAN IS THE FUTURE OF MAN (2004), Hong has been making variations of the same film, where a professor or esteemed professional meets with a group of students or admirers, spending the duration of the film smoking and eating noodles, also drinking profusely and behaving badly or awkwardly, often leading to regrettable sexual encounters that he’d just as soon forget, where drinking and his boorish behavior are the centerpiece of the film, showing men behaving badly in a culture that is otherwise dominated by male power.  Beginning in Hong’s next film TALE OF CINEMA (2005), narrative strands began to intersect in his films, where the same moment is reshot from another character’s perspective, offering impressionistic glimpses that show life continually moving and evolving, never remaining static, where thoughts and memories have a life of their own.  WOMAN ON THE BEACH (2006) is one of Hong’s most mature works, where he begins to feel comfortable with his developing style, writing his own films except his first feature, using a complex set of characters in an intricate exploration of obsessions and personal relationships through drunken scenes revolving around food and drink in restaurants where characters speak ill of one another, followed by solitary, reflective moments smoking, and also intimate scenes in hotel rooms that nearly always go wrong, usually with tears and intense self-loathing, motifs that occur throughout his filmography.  THE DAY HE ARRIVES is one of his sparer efforts where the entire story is composed of bits and pieces of conversation, most all of it in the exact same places, a reliable Korean Noodle House and a completely intimate and relaxed neighborhood bar interestingly enough called Novel that is so comfortable, it’s like a figment of one’s imagination, as often the patrons are the only ones there, helping themselves to whatever they want, where payment apparently is on the honor system.  

Men almost always dominate a Hong film, as often they’re the only ones with an actual career, but they are nearly always surrounded by younger and more attractive women, where it’s the women who make the films interesting, and this film is no exception.  Sang-joon (Yu Jun-sang) is a film professor in an outlying university, but earlier in his career he was a filmmaker, making four films in Seoul before moving away from the city.  Back in Seoul for a few days, he’s there to meet an old friend, but initially gets sidetracked and is instead invited to join a group of male film students in drinking, spending the day and night getting plastered, ultimately turning on the students and telling them to get lost.  Dropping in unannounced, dead drunk at the door of an ex- girlfriend, Kyungjin (Kim Bo-kyung), someone he hasn’t seen in two years seems like the right thing to do, under the circumstances, and she calls him on it right away, embarrassed by his all-too-belated feeble gesture where he pitifully cries in her lap, claiming she’s the only one for him, confessing his undying love.  Why this works, who knows?  But he spends the night, seen leaving in the morning where he vows never to contact her again and urges her to do the same.  The guy is a lout, but she obviously has long-standing feelings for him, where she’s sad to see him go.  By this time, he’s heard from his friend, Young-ho (Kim Sang-jung), an older film critic who has brought along an attractive female colleague, Boram (Song Seon-mi), who’s seen his films and they meet in the noodle house before retreating to a back-alley neighborhood bar where they are the only customers.  When the owner arrives, she’s the spitting image of Kyungjin, named Yejeon, played by the same actress.  Over the course of three nights, they repeat their exact same routine, meeting at the noodle house before retreating to the bar, where each time they are the lone customers, where the proprietess arrives much later, but joins into their rambling conversation, where the camera simply observes, interestingly shot in Black and White.

Each night the barroom conversation is so similar, talking about the exact same thing, it’s as if it was queued up from the night before only to begin again where it left off, where it plays out like different takes on the same event rather than consecutive nights in the same place.  What it really comes down to are the thoughts playing out in Sang-joon’s head, each given a slightly different perspective, where he’s also receiving text messages from Kyungjin, confessing her longing for him, playing piano each night as well while engaging with his friends and taking a similar interest in Yejeon.  There’s a beautiful scene in the snow that recalls Visconti’s heavily romanticized but fleeting affair in White Nights (La Niotti Bianche) (1957), where Sang-joon takes a break and has a smoke out the back door overlooking the alley, watching the snow fall in silence, eventually joined by Yejeon who eagerly wants to buy some dumplings, where they have a chance to kiss in the snow, leading to an exact replica of the evening with Kyungjin, where Sang-joon pledges his everlasting love, that he’ll never leave her, making love through the night, leaving in the morning promising to never see her again.  The men in Hong Sang-soon films are like broken records, where fidelity never enters the picture.  Boram, on the other hand, is the alluring centerpiece between the two male friends, where both obviously enjoy her attention, as she’s likely smarter and perhaps more talented than either one of them, but held back as a woman, as men in Korea are slotted into career positions, not women.  While Young-ho exhibits a kind of drunken outburst of support for Boram that’s really rather pathetic, neither man engages in any sense of sexist outrage on her behalf, or even acknowledge there’s an issue of second class status, but they’re certainly aware of cultural practices that exist in Korea where men are the favored group over women, receiving all the advantages.  So it’s a bit ironic that Sang-joon’s *former* film career receives constant attention, even though he’s no longer making films, claiming he hasn’t the “energy” anymore, but is instead teaching at some outlying university where he’s too ashamed to even acknowledge his lowly salary.  After three nights of this, there’s not a whit of difference between what happens in any of them, as there’s nothing to indicate Sang-joon has learned from his mistakes or would do anything differently the next time.  The cycle of repetition is a stinging comment on the unchanging, predetermined status quo that exists in perpetuity in Korea, where life goes on exactly as it did before.