cinema&music
Film Review: The Boiling Water Lama (2019) by Adiong Lu
originally published in asianmoviepulse.com
The Legend goes: High up in the mountains of Xiongtuo, a tiny Tibetan village in China, there lives a Lama, known as The Boiling Water Lama, with tremendous wisdom, and the ability to mend the body and soul. Director Adiong Lu follows a small crowd of the hundreds that travel to the Lama each year from afar for ailments of both the physical and spiritual kind (for a price of course), and brings us along with him. During our visit, we watch as the Lama hears stories and requests from the pilgrims, and in return offers them advice covering all the bases, including reincarnation and karma. This is the premise of “The Boiling Water Lama”, Lu’s 2019 documentary that is certainly worthy of closing the Taiwan UK Film Festival, even if it doesn’t ultimately reach its full narrative potential.
The moment we first hear the Lama’s voice, the local community’s reverence of him is obvious; they gather, or rather, squeeze, into one tiny room and lean in eagerly to catch every drop of wisdom from his tongue, and their earnestness towards him forms some of the most touching moments of the movie. There are spots where the film drags – much of the film shows locals going to ask the lama for advice or blessings, and some are definitely more interesting than others – but there are some brief moments of true heart and tenderness that really shine, such as a young boy volunteering his sleeve to wipe away his mother’s tears as she breaks down over her oldest son serving time in prison. And surprisingly, some moments of tension when the Lama performs an impromptu medical procedure on a woman’s back as her husband looks on with anxiousness. It’s no coincidence that both examples involve the concern and comfort of family members. In fact, the Lama doesn’t receive a single visit that isn’t a family affair. Though the title of the films suggests a focus on the Lama, he’s really only used as a window into the tight-knit nature of this community, and there’s something wonderfully wholesome about that. Lu’s direction reflects this, constantly preferring to rest his lens on the people rather than the Lama, a nice touch, and to hear his voice offscreen also lends credence to his mystery. When we do see him, he’s often silhouetted by rays of light. We see him as the community sees him – soaked in divinity.
Unfortunately, Lu spends so much time showing the Lama inside his small wooden house giving vague spiritual advice, that there’s not enough runtime left to actually explore who he is or how the Tibetan communities have formed such a legend and trust around him. This is truly a shame since the most interesting moment comes in the final 15 minutes of the movie, as the Lama ritualistically pours, drinks and spits boiling water over the bodies and into the faces of locals eager to be blessed – as well as their unsuspecting children, whose screams and protests are quite hard to listen to as they’re sprayed and bathed in the burning water. It’s a fascinating glimpse into this culture but feels like a glimpse that is over as soon as the movie starts to really scratch the surface. There’s a far too long sequence in which the entire narrative shifts to a family of pigs playing and rolling around in the dirt, as well as a lovely lengthy shot of erotica from mama and papa pig if you know what I mean. While this change in scenery and subject must have had some symbolic intent behind it, it wastes precious screen time that could be spent really exploring the history and context surrounding the Lama himself, and the local Tibetans who have traveled so far to meet him.
For all the faults of the narrative, however, it cannot be denied that this is a gorgeously shot film (even the pig sex scene has a nicely considered frame). Some of these shots, especially in the sections of the movie set inside the Lama’s house, are like something out of a Nat Geo magazine, carrying a true photographic sensibility. Every image is precise, with beautifully considered lighting, and not to mention perfectly crisp – detailed enough to spot every whisp of smoke rising from the Lama’s rusted silver tea pot, or every drop of shining moisture in a tearful eye.
Ultimately, “The Boiling Water Lama” gives us a front-row view of the Tibetan phenomenon that is fascinating but falls short of true exploration due to an unfocused narrative and dispersal of runtime. That being said, I wouldn’t recommend passing on the opportunity to see the gorgeous visuals on the big screen – it’s worth the price of a cinema ticket just for that alone.
Film Review: Pawn (2020) by Dae Gyu-kang
*originally published by asianmoviepulse.com
Chosen as the opening gala feature at the 15th London Korean Film Festival, “Pawn” is a family comedy-drama that in these trying times feels like somewhat of a relief. Speaking in a post-screen Q&A, director Dae Gyu-kang expressed his intent for audiences to walk away from his sophomore release with a renewed appreciation and re-contextualization of their families. Regardless of whether the film achieves this (spoilers: it’s fine), in light of…well, 2020, the invitation to revel in such seasonal themes – with “Pawn” originally premiering during the month of Chuseok, AKA Korean thanksgiving – is a welcome escape and comfort.
Set in 90s-era Korea, Sung Dong-il plays the gruff and grumpy Doo-seok who, along with his bumbling partner Jong-bae, work as debt collectors for a moderately successful businessman in Incheon. They are sent to collect a debt from Myung-ha, a recently widowed illegal immigrant struggling financially to keep her and her young daughter afloat. Upon realising that Myung-ha is stone cold broke, Doo-seok decides to take 9-year-old Seung-mi as collateral until the debt is repaid. However, after being sentenced to deportation, Myung-ha decides that her daughter is better off in the hands of Doo-seok, and tearfully leaves her in his care. Faced with the responsibility of raising a child, the reluctant guardians slowly fall under the charm of the endlessly spirited Seung-mi. In the present day, a grown-up Seung-mi, now a translator in China, boards a plane to Korea to meet someone she hasn’t seen in 10 years.
“Pawn” is an enjoyable outing by Dae Gyu-kang that often feels a little too ambitious for its own good, its narrative suffering as a result. In the same vein as Lee Hwan-kyung’s beloved “Miracle In Cell No. 7”, as well as Gyu-kang’s first feature “Harmony”, the film is built on the thematic basis of family, and the idea that it is a concept that reaches beyond blood. It’s unfortunate, then, that in an attempt to create a sprawling, years-long narrative, the film loses sight of the characters that are meant to represent its thematic intentions.
Gyu-kang rushes through plot points so hastily – expect a montage – that he ends up bypassing the relationship we should be most invested in: Doo-seok and Seung-mi. While the excellent lead performances make a lot out of a little, key character moments, that could flesh out the nuances of this relationship, are left on the cutting room floor, leaving us rooting for this unlikely duo, but not completely invested in their individual characters. Instead, Gyu-kang spends much of the runtime, specifically in the second half, searching for payoffs that don’t always feel earned – for the aforementioned reason. He churns out act-of-god-like contrivances after another in order to incentivise emotional catharsis from the characters, and therefore, the audience.
But don’t worry, the film will make it crystal clear when it expects you to grab the tissues (because how would we know otherwise?). If the manipulatively melancholic piano score that permeates through every sentimental scene doesn’t moisten those tear ducts, fret not, as there will usually be at least one-character sobbing profusely on screen to push you just that little bit further over into the blubbering abyss.
Fortunately, Director Dae’s heart is in the right place, as are the actors he has trusted with these characters. For all its narrative wonkiness and eye-rolling emotional coercion, the film is saved by earnest performances and an underlying message that, yes, is unremarkable, but carries a seasonal relevance that is hard not to be enamoured with.
Sung Dong-il snuggles into his role perfectly as the life-weary father-figure with a heart of gold, while Kim Yun-jin – Myung-ha, a mother at the end of her tether – and Ha Ji-won – Seung-mi, all grown up – are tasked with handling much of the film’s emotional baggage, which they do with admirable sincerity. Kim Hee-won is one-note as the archetypically slapstick Jong-bae, providing fine comic relief but is mainly there as third wheel to Doo-seok and Seung-mi’s father/daughter dynamic, which takes all priority. Though it’s Park So-yi as plucky young Seung-mi that really steals the show, brightening every scene she’s in with adorable expressions and playful dialogue that makes her the perfect Yin to Doo-seok’s cynical Yang. The heart of the picture, it’s no coincidence that the movie loses some of its entertainment value in the second half, once her all-too-short screen time is up.
“Pawn” proves to be a narratively wonky but heart-warming, chuckle-worthy tearjerker to watch with the family on a lazy Sunday afternoon, even if the second half of the film becomes the equivalent of an I Dare You Not To Cry video compilation. Like the best holiday films, “Pawn” will, if for a precious hour or two, bring your family closer together, whether they’re blood relatives, an all-woman prison choir, or apparently, your childhood kidnappers.
Short Film Review: God’s Daughter Dances (2020) by Byun Sung-bin
*originally published by asianmoviepulse.com
It’s not very often in Korean cinema (or, let’s be honest, Asian cinema) (or, let’s be really honest…cinema) that the trans experience is represented with the care and genuine attentiveness it deserves. Only a handful of times has trans representation been handled by the Korean film industry, to various degrees of success. A notable attempt that comes to mind is the 2010 comedy “Lady Daddy” (cringing yet?), whose name refers to ‘ladyboy’, the dehumanizing title given to trans women in Asia. While the film itself, for all its shallowness, is passable, its name alone suggests a lack of crucial understanding of what it means to be transgender, and is a far cry from the poignantly titled 2020 short in question – “God’s Daughter Dances”. Winner of The King of Comedy Best Film and DGK Vision at this year’s Mise-en-scene Short Film Festival, Byun Sung-bin’s debut is an empowering and necessary indictment of transphobia in South Korea and beyond.
Shin-mi, a transgender woman, is a popular dancer at a gay club in Korea. Beloved by a small but dedicated fanbase, and supported by her colleague and mentor – “mom” – Shin-mi finds freedom and community in this microcosmic world that embraces her without reservation. Unfortunately, the outside world remains cold and reluctant to change, a reality Shin-mi is soon reminded of after being called upon to take her examination for mandatory military service. During the examination process, Shin-mi is degraded and shamed, but is determined to keep hold of the only power afforded to her – her identity.
Within a brisk 24 minutes, it’s pleasantly surprising that Sung-bin is able to touch on many different aspects of the trans experience without overstuffing his short runtime with tangents and contrivances. By placing the narrative in an environment that could easily be abrasive towards a transwoman (a military service examination centre, naturally), Sung-bin allows for a spectrum of conflict; Shin-mi encounters microaggressions – “you look like a real woman” – to more direct discrimination – an uncomfortable moment sees her examining doctor accuse her of lying to avoid military service, shame her, and aggressively demand she undress to prove her identity. It’s not an easy scene to watch, and it shouldn’t be. Despite this, Sung-bin makes it a point to end on an unapologetic, on-the-nose-but-who gives-a-crap middle finger to transphobia that’s as empowering as it is cackle-worthy. The poetry isn’t all lost though, as director Byun plants obvious but affective symbolism at the beginning of the film that wraps around seamlessly to tie in to the ending, letting the audience know that for her, dance is more than a hobby – it’s liberation.
First timer Choi Hae-jun is perfect as Shin-mi. Seemingly playing a version of herself – no more, no less, exactly what this kind of film needs – Hae-jun brings an authenticity that is exactly what’s been missing from SK’s trans stories thus far. Instead of a cis woman playing trans (*cough* “Lady Daddy” *cough*) and misrepresenting the trans experience, through Hae-jun we’re given a genuine and trusted insight into the world of this community. She plays the part with knowing, necessary resilience, and it’s truly moving to see.
Byun Sung-bin’s touching and defiant transgender tale is a refreshing taste of representation that, in a perfect world, the trans community would be drinking by the gallon. Elevated by empowering symbolism and an authentic lead performance, these are the type of trans stories SK should be telling. Hell, a decade after “Lady Daddy”, It’s certainly a start.
Film Review: Ocean (2016) by Ke Chin-yuan
*originally published by asianmoviepulse.comMaking its UK premiere at the Taiwan UK Film Festival, “Ocean” is a film that tells us everything we already know about the commercial fishing industry but presents this information in an artful way that is undoubtedly affecting and harrowing. Directed by Ke Chin-yuan, a long-standing activist and environmentalist in Taiwan, the film starts off with idyllic sequences of ocean bliss but soon enough, once humans get involved, descends into nightmare, for the deep blue and the marine life that call it home…“Ocean” explores man’s varying degrees of exploitation of the sea from the ground up, following local fisherman scraping seaweed from the shore, which they then strain into drink, to the brutalization of marine life at the hands of industrial fisherman and marine parks. The fishermen cheer as scores of fish, ranging from small herrings to manta rays to whale sharks, flood into their nets; through Chin-yuan’s lens, their celebration comes across as vile and sadistic. The marine park announcer’s ultra-cheerful commentary as staff ride the dolphins like a surfboard feels rotten and warped – villainous propaganda that sounds like something straight from a classroom on the “Snowpiercer”; their sickeningly optimistic framing that the whale shark in their captivity “travelled for 10 hours to meet you all at the aquarium!”, as if it volunteered itself willingly, is undercut by a lingering shot of its battered tail as it slowly navigates the claustrophobia of the tank.
The most affecting component of “Ocean” is its duality. This is ultimately a film of two contrasting moods that come together to create a lasting discomfort in the viewer, which is, by necessity, the filmmaker’s intent. The movie’s primary focus is human’s cruel treatment of the ocean, and there are plenty of scenes, in the third act especially, that are wince-inducing in that regard. Yet Chin-yuan spends a near equal amount of the documentary’s runtime exploring the thriving beauty of the ocean without human interference as he does show us how our very actions are destroying this perfectly formed utopia. And the contrast is more than unsettling. The first 10-15 minutes of the film are human-less, and at first, I thought this would play out more like David Attenborough than Kooyanisqatsi. The camera calmly follows the daily lives of several species of fish, sharks, dolphins, and more, as they move in elegance and contentment through their sprawling blue world. There’s no mind-blowing technical or narrative mastery at work here – don’t expect Planet Earth levels of style and genre-dipped storytelling. Instead, “Ocean” offers a more simple and unbiased view of the big blue and its inhabitants.On one hand, this makes the movie feel somewhat regular. Quite literally, with a go pro, basic Steadicam underwater equipment, and a diving license most anyone could – in theory – shoot this film without too much difficulty. On the other hand, its guerrilla and indie filmmaking sensibility gives it a simplicity and closeness that is somehow meditative. Chin-yuan doesn’t aspire to grand shots or forced narratives backed by a sweeping orchestra. In fact, there’s not a note of music in the film at all, and it really thrives on the removal of those artificial filters that most movies and nature documentaries use to make us invest and “feel something”; frankly, that isn’t necessary here.
And nevertheless, Chin-yuan has stumbled upon a few truly wonderful shots. One particularly dazzling moment, in which the camera only lingers on for an all-too-fleeting moment, shows the sun shining through the ocean ceiling, and being eclipsed by a vast school of fish seeming to take the shape of a magnificent whale tail. Another uncomplicated but gorgeous shot observes tiny alevin as they glow and fidget inside their sacs. Chin-yuan finds life and wonder in these tiny moments that more than make up for his lack of technical sparkle, which in itself likely the cause of a limited budget anyway, rather than a reflection of his ability.
Chin-yuan’s juxtaposing of romantically serene and blissful sequences of marine life with cold sequences of their exploitation by humans, reveals a clear and sad truth that most of us are aware of, but that we find too easy to ignore. The simple contrast of liberation and brutalisation is harsh and upsetting, made even more so by the apathy on the part of most of the humans engaging in and watching the barbarity – so spawn some of the movie’s most arresting images; two girls gleefully posing for a selfie in front of a lifeless whale washed-up on the shore; a whale shark being lifted by a mechanical crane into the harbour, auctioned and brutally carved up into slabs, alive, while sons and daughters of the auctioneers look on with curiosity.
Ke Chin-yuan’s “Ocean” is a thought-provoking and thoughtfully made documentary that, almost half a decade after its initial release, is as vital and poignantly sad as ever.
Album Review: Lovetheism (2020) by Haru Nemuri
*originally published by asianmoviepulse.com
Born and raised in Yokohama, Japan, Haru Nemuri has been making noise around the Japanese music scene since her first project, “Sayonara, Youthphobia” dropped in 2016. It was only when she released her 2018 ‘official’ debut, “Haru to Shura” that she started to attract some well-deserved momentum internationally, thanks in large part to Anthony Fantano AKA Theneedledrop’s sterling, yellow flannel’d review. Drawing acclaim for her seamless fusion of rap, spoken word, electronica, J-pop and rock, as well as her frenetic vocal delivery and performance style – her live shows are like watching an exorcism take place on stage – anticipation for Nemuri’s 2020 follow-up skyrocketed. Also billed as a mini-album, “Lovetheism” clocks in at a swift 7 songs and 25 minutes. Short, yes, but make no mistake, Nemuri wastes no time on pleasantries – she’s here to blow the house down.
The first sounds we hear on “Lovetheism” are the commanding, victorious booms of fanfare trumpets. Traditionally, this signifies a grand entrance, a ceremonial declaration by a supreme presence - usually royalty - that demands to be heard; considering the name of the track itself is “Fanfare”, it’s clear Nemuri has no intention of being the exception to the rule. The trumpets are replaced by an epic, looping guitar riff that sounds like a warning of Ragnarök yet to come. Nemuri appears, her vocal pacing erratic, taking audible deep breaths between verses as she waxes poetic about love, anger, the spirit, the self.
If it’s your first time listening to Nemuri, this triumphant opener tells you everything you need to know. Throughout the album, her vocal delivery morphs from euphoria, to meditation, to one-woman angry mob, to straight up rock goddess. Despite her voice not being the strongest in a technical sense, it’s still her greatest tool, and she twists and stretches it to its limit, transitioning from a schoolgirl’s whisper to a woman possessed, screaming until you can hear her voice collapse in exhaustion. There’s a popular proverb commonly used inside the sphere of musical theatre: “When the emotion becomes too strong for speech, you sing; and when it becomes too strong for song, you dance.” Disclaimer: Haru Nemuri’s “Lovetheism” is no musical, nor is it inspired by. However, in an odd way, Nemuri unknowingly spins her own version of this technique, building such emotional catharsis with her vocals that when her range reaches a breaking point, the instrumental takes the reigns and catapults the song into a final, glorious crescendo.
The best example of this is on “Trust Nothing But Love”, the electrifying and exorcising follow-up to the album’s foreboding opening track; If “Fanfare” is the announcement, “Trust Nothing But Love” is Nemuri’s divine deliverance, taking the very best of her musical sensibilities and squeezing them into four and a half minutes of throat-shredding ecstasy. A protest song at heart, she belts “everything is your world, everything is my world” with empowering but frustrated urgency that reflects the turbulence of the world in 2020.
“Lovetheism” is sprinkled throughout with these bite-sized mantras that guide Nemuri’s worldview, often performing them in English, perhaps to spread the gospel across borders : On “Pink Unicorn”, another standout from the album, she chants “feel or die, think or die” while on the titular track, “Lovetheism”, she repeats – surprise, surprise – “Love The Ism”. While the latter may be on the nose, the rest of the track is written and delivered earnestly enough to stop it from being just another hollow song about how love is the answer to the world’s problems. Nemuri’s idea of love isn’t instantaneous, nor something to be acquired, but rather something to strive for. She’s not forcing love down our throats, but simply reminding us of its power as an affirmation. Other standouts include “Riot”, a beautifully written, spoken word ode to life and the act of living, and “Be Your Ocean”, a downbeat, grimy track that threatens to drown itself in melancholy but ultimately stays afloat.
Haru Nemuri’s “Lovetheism” is a short but sweet project that showcases the versatility and vibrance of her artistry. Backed by noisy, maximalist instrumentals, she makes the most of her limited runtime by injecting her soul into the vocal performances. The only downside is that she never manages to top the glowing three-track run that opens the album, ultimately leaving the listener just slightly underwhelmed and wanting. However, as a teaser for bigger things to come, she’s certainly whetted the appetite and raised the bar for herself. Sound the trumpets – Haru Nemuri isn’t finished with us yet.
Film Review: Die Bad (2000) by Ryoo Seung-wan
*originally published by asianmoviepulse.com
Every once in a while, a movie comes along with a surrounding legend that is just as interesting and awe-inspiring as the movie itself. “Die Bad” is one such movie. A true behind the scenes underdog story for the independent filmmakers of the world, Korean director Ryoo Seung-wan’s overlooked but essential debut is a testament to the moving image and its ability to change lives.
“Die Bad” follows the story of youth’s moral corruption across four vignettes entitled “Rumble”, “Nightmare”, “Modern Man”, and finally, “Die Bad.” The premise is as follows: Sung-bin and Suk-hwan are two tech students shooting pool and playing Tekken (mis-branded to this reviewer’s itching annoyance as ‘Street Fighter’) at their busted-up local clubhouse, when they are challenged to a fight by art students from a competing school. In the ensuing brawl, Sung-bin accidentally delivers a brutal blow that kills one of the art students, and sends a devastated Sung-bin to prison. Released on parole years later, Sung-bin, still haunted by the sins of his past, attempts to live his life on the straight and narrow, but, after catching the attention of a local mob boss, succumbs to criminal life once again. Meanwhile, Suk-hwan has become a respectable and long-standing member of the police force. Aligning themselves with opposite sides of the law, the two former friends’ inch closer and closer to an inevitable stand-off.
More than just a film, “Die Bad” is Ryoo Seung-wan’s fight or flight response to facing a life in poverty. In an interview with cine21, Seung-wan stated “I bet all I had in my 27 years of life on that film.” And he’s not exaggerating. Losing his parents at a young age, Seung-wan spent much of his early years as a middle-school dropout, working odd jobs to provide for his struggling family. Still, dreaming of a future in moviemaking and refusing to settle for a life of mere survival, he took on multiple jobs to pay tuition at a part-time film workshop. Eventually, after several years proving his worth working as assistant director for mentor Park Chan-wook, and gaining substantial buzz for his submission to the 1998 Busan Short Film Festival (“Rumble”, which would later form the first quarter of “Die Bad”), Seung-wan was offered a golden ticket: 50 million won – AKA around 44,000 US Dollars – AKA absolute pittance in movie budget terms – to make his debut feature. Thus, “Die Bad” was born.
Much like Tarantino’s iconic Kill Bill duology (and hell, most of his other films.), “Die Bad” is a film that has everything and nothing to do with cinema. On the surface, it’s a tale of friendship lost that’s been told a hundred times before. Yet, It’s the boldness of Seung-wan’s execution that separates “Die Bad” from the pack. And bold it is. As aforementioned, Seung-wan was all too aware of the pressure involved with making a debut feature, pressure he quite literally could not afford to crack under. Knowing that he only had one chance to prove himself as a filmmaker, he was struck with divine revelation: rather than creating a martial arts film, gangster flick, horror, or documentary, why not make a film that would demonstrate his proficiency in the sensibilities and stylings of all four, and then some?
In its hybridity of traditional genres of filmmaking, “Die Bad” essentially becomes a radical independent cinematic experiment, steeped with love for the artform and dipped headfirst by the ankle in a pool of homages. Each vignette carries a distinct personality: “Nightmare” is aptly titled, using horror influenced jump-scares and eerie musical cues to bring back to life the haunting spectre of Sung-bin’s past. Meanwhile, “Modern Man” intercuts a comically long one-on-one martial arts bust-up between Suk-hwan and gang lord ‘President Kim’ with documentary style interviews set minutes before their encounter. It’s a genuinely empathetic segment that cleverly juxtaposes two men from different worlds brutally beating each other with the same men accidentally exposing just how similar they are, and how tragically futile this all really is.
It’s to Seung-wan’s credit as a director that amidst a firestorm of different styles, the narrative and core message of “Die Bad” isn’t lost in genre translation. Between the adrenaline pumping, hair-raising action is a clear, emotionally impactful indictment of a harsh and uncaring society that doesn’t give its young men a fighting chance.
In true independent moviemaking fashion, Seung-wan’s helming of the “Die Bad” is not limited to simply barking orders from the comfort of a director’s chair. This is hands on filmmaking in more ways than one; as well as directing and writing the screenplay himself, he also co-stars and even single-handedly choreographs the action scenes. This wouldn’t be so commendable if not for the fact that the action scenes in “Die Bad” are overflowing with the character and rip-roaring excitement created and perfected by the golden age martial arts stylings of Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan – of which Seung-wan is clearly an obsessive fan. The titular segment, “Die Bad”, a thirty-to-forty-man black and white battle royale that brings the film to its bloody end, is executed with a technical ability that shouldn’t look so easily achievable on such a low budget, and is truly a sight to behold.
As Suk-hwan, Seung-wan delivers a fine supporting role, but it’s Park Seong-bin’s stellar performance as the morally conflicted protagonist/antagonist of the same name that carries “Die Bad’s” narrative forward.
This is by no means a perfect film. The low production value is glaring, each segment’s abrasive style changes are occasionally disorienting, and the difference in quality between 16mm and 35mm has never been so obvious (Due to budgetary restraints, Seung-wan resorted to filming with leftover 16mm rolls from other productions). Seung-wan directs like a man with everything to prove, and only one chance to prove it, not simply dipping his toe in genre territory, but diving all the way in until he can touch the floor. This means that on rare occasion the characters submit to cliché and caricature that threatens to cheapen an otherwise well written dramatic exchange; in one scene it seemed a strong possibility that Sung-bin would break down into maniacal anime villain laugher (thankfully, wiser heads prevailed and even in a film as batty as this, restraint was used).
However, like a book that’s been read to weariness or a roll of film cursed with a light leak, there’s a charm here that thrives in the roughness of its edges. A cinematic labour of love that deserves a special place in the pantheon of iconic independent film, “Die Bad” captures the essence of what making movies is all about.
Film Review: The Good, The Bad, The Weird (2008) by Kim Jee-woon
*originally published by asianmoviepulse.com
In 2005 and 2010, respectively, South Korean director Kim Jee-woon released arguably his most acclaimed and long-lasting works to date: “A Bittersweet Life” and “I Saw The Devil”, two dark and bleak meditations on isolation, mortality, and the grim pointlessness of revenge. It’s quite amazing, then, that sandwiched between these two hyper-violent and distressing thrillers is “The Good, The Bad, The Weird” the filmmaker’s action-comedy love letter to the glorious era of the spaghetti western, and somewhat of a direct homage to, of course, Sergio Leone’s “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly”.
While missing from many international “best of Korean cinema” lists, this 2008 entry in Jee-woon’s oeuvre was a commercial hit, reaching the top 50 of the highest-grossing movies of all time in South Korea (44.4 million US dollars worldwide) and earning the cast and crew a whole host of nominations on the International and Asian festival circuit, as well as Jee-woon himself bagging best director at the 2008 Blue Dragon Film Awards.
The film follows the story of three men during the Japanese occupation of Manchuria in 1939 who come in to conflict while trying to steal a map from a Japanese official for their own personal gain. Park Chang-yi, “The Bad”, a bandit and killer for hire who is commissioned to retrieve the map. Yoon Tae-goo, “The Weird”, is intent on collecting the map as he is convinced it leads to treasure. Park Do-won, “The Good”, a bounty hunter looking to claim the map and the highly valuable bounty on Chang-yi’s head. During a shootout on a train between Chang-yi and Do-wan, Tae-goo acquires the map and makes a getaway, catching the attention of a group of Manchurian bandits on his way out. With word of treasure on everyone’s tongue, and the Japanese Imperial Army also looking to retrieve the map, a hot pursuit ensues.
It’s easy to be nervous about a movie that is so upfront about its intent to homage that its own title is a play on words of the movie it’s inspired by. It runs the risk of overplaying its admiration and boiling over into impersonation, resulting in a cheap copycat of the original.
Thankfully, in the case of “The Good, The Bad, The Weird”, Jee-woon displays a clear understanding of the definition of “homage” and balances perfectly his tributes to the spaghetti westerns of the 1960s (down to the Mexican standoff) while infusing it with his own cinematic DNA – the comedic flair of his earliest work as well as the stylish violence of his later outings – to create something that stands deeply rooted on its own.
Jee-woon’s direction is brimming with life here, with the action scenes in particular being fast-paced, consistent thrill-rides that employ such a good understanding of his characters that you are always invested, excited and more often than not, laughing out loud at the Jackie Chan-esque physical gags and character moments peppered throughout each chase and shootout.
Perhaps Jee-woon’s crowning directorial choice in “The Good, The Bad, The Weird” is his shifting of focus from the archetypal western anti-hero, here represented by “The Good” Park Do-wan, and gives the heart of the film to Tae-goo, “The Weird”, the character in this kind of movie most typically relegated to sidekick. What makes Tae-goo such a peculiar and appealing central protagonist is that his zany recklessness never equates to idiocy, nor his slipperiness to slimy. He’s the main source of comedy and slapstick in the movie, to great effect, but you always take him seriously. Call it skill or dumb-luck that propels him through the movie without immediately being killed, it’s not hard to believe that his gun-slinging lunacy is exactly what makes him the best in the East.
Unfortunately, at certain points the movie loses control of its own narrative and ends up suffering from convolution and an overlong runtime, with a couple of unnecessary (but not unamusing) scenes that grind all momentum to a halt. The final ten minutes also suffer from what is clearly studio insistence on a second and far more generic ending than originally intended.
Much like his contemporaries Bong Joon-ho and Park Chan-wook, Jee-woon is often faithful to his muses, and for good reason, as the acting on display here is really what makes the movie such an entertaining watch.
Jung Woo-sung takes a backseat in his performance as the cool, collected, and incredibly smug Park Do-won. While giving a fine performance, as well as enjoying one particular scene stealing action moment in the film’s fantastic third act, the role itself doesn’t ask for much from him, allowing him to be moderately overshadowed by his two co-stars.
Lee Byung-hun– having appeared in 4 consecutive Jee-woon movies to date – channels a charming arrogance and aloofness as Chang-yi that makes even his most cold-blooded actions in this movie so damn fun to watch. The ruthless and sadistic gang-leader is a role we’ve seen play out countless times, and while Byung-hun’s “The Bad” doesn’t break the mould in that regard, he does add a few nuances to the character that make him more than just a one-note killer.
And yet, the real driving force of the movie is the always erratic Song Kang-ho – another Jee-woon veteran (“The Quiet Family”, “The Foul King”, “The Age of Shadows”) – who’s utterly off-the-wall turn as Tae-goo takes “The Good, The Bad, The Weird” into new realms of quality. His ability to find depth in the unlikeliest of roles and manifest it to the surface shines through and makes “The Weird” impossible not to root for, and Kang-ho irreplaceable as this character.
On a technical level, the art director, Cho Hwa-sung, is particularly impressive at using small nuances to emulate the authentic look of a classic spaghetti western, flattening backdrops of the Manchurian desert to call back to the nostalgic use of artifice during that era. The same can be said about Lee Mo-gae’s always excellent and precise cinematography. Nam Na-yeong wonderfully slick editing also elevates the film, particularly the action scenes, just fast paced enough for the audience to keep up with whilst also keeping mind to the all-important moments of character and comedy amid the chaos.
Its overlong run time and slightly convoluted plot make this wacky cowboy caper less than perfect. Fortunately, the flaws that could potentially topple an inferior movie are not nearly prevalent enough here to dampen the sheer joy of seeing Tae-goo, map in hand, racing to the proverbial finish line in a Mad Max style chase, all while fighting off the combined might of the “The Good”, “The Bad”, a myriad of bandits and the Japanese army, to the tune of Santa Esmerelda’s “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood”, no less. The highs are very high, and “The Good, The Bad, The Weird” is unmissable.
Film Review: Millennium Mambo (2001) by Hou Hsiao-hsien
* originally published on asianmoviepulse.com