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Yves here. We trust you’ll welcome yet another break from our regular programming, after Lambert’s sybaritic piece yesterday on the pleasure of skillfully prepared food. Satyajit Das sent us another cultural offering, following his well-received discussion of death in cinema and a takedown of The Economist.
By Satyajit Das, a former banker and author of numerous works on derivatives and several general titles: Traders, Guns & Money: Knowns and Unknowns in the Dazzling World of Derivatives (2006 and 2010), Extreme Money: The Masters of the Universe and the Cult of Risk (2011), Fortune’s Fool: Australia’s Choices (2022). His latest book is on ecotourism and man’s relationship with wild animals – Wild Quests (2024)
Western audiences, to be more accurate the art-house crowd, are flirting anew with East Asian Cinema. It is reminiscent of the post-war interest in the works of Akira Kurosawa (Rashomon and his Samurai films) and Yasujirō Ozu (Tokyo Story). These works continue to influence Occidental filmmakers to this day. Werner Herzog’s Family Romance LLC and Win Wenders’ Perfect Day are recent examples.
The fascination is complex. Some like Rashomon, with its fractured narrative told from different perspectives, extended technique. Alejandro Inarritu’s films like Amores Perros, 21 Grams and Babel as well as Quentin Tarantino’s work draw on this approach. Ozu’s eschewing over-the-shoulder shots in dialogue scenes, use of static objects or direct cuts for transitions, and unusual shooting angles are now commonplace. But many works were re-workings of traditional storylines adapted to exotic settings and customs alien to Western audiences at the time. Kurosawa’s loose use of Shakespeare’s classic oeuvre and Ozu’s plots are indistinguishable from Hollywood and British cinema, which both directors held in high regard.
The recent interest is subtly different. Greater familiarity with these cultures has reduced the ‘shock of the new’ factor. It might have to do with the films being churned out by traditional studios – franchises stretched ever thinner, predictable overworked formulas and re-makes that are pale shadows of the original. One factor which favours foreign cinema is the vetting process where few non-English language films obtain global release. Like literary classics, the scrutiny might ensure better quality.
The current vogue for Japanese and Korean films might feel sudden. In reality, the process has gradual.
Director Bong Joon-ho is 59 years old. Well before recognition for Parasite, he had a cult following for films like his 2003 Memories of Murder, an unorthodox crime thriller, 2006 The Host, a sci-fi project, and the 2009 Mother, a thriller. While the 61-year old Park Chan-wook’s Decision to Leave was lauded, his earlier arguably better films, with their controversial themes like incest, brutal violence, black humour and blurring genres, have been around for decades. His Vengeance Trilogy – the 2002 Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance, 2003 Oldboy and 2005 Lady Vengeance– included prominent Hollywood directors amongst its Western fans. The exquisitely beautiful 2016 lesbian drama The Handmaiden won the BAFTA Award for Best Foreign Language Film. Both have worked in Hollywood.
The subject matter of recent critically acclaimed films – The Shop Lifters, Parasite, Drive My Car, Decision to Leave, Broker, Monster – marks some shifts from their 1950s/ 1960s counterparts. Many explore the hidden underclasses, inequality and tensions of Japanese and Korean society. They are often concerned with marginal lives. Part of the appeal for Western audiences may be the revelation of a world beyond the Orient’s glitzy technological façade and ancient beauties.
The Shop Lifters, Parasite and Broker are set amidst poverty and deprivation. They depict petty crime, abandoned and abused children, trafficking of babies, prostitution and corruption. The plight of the elderly, widespread misogynist attitudes and suspicion of foreigners feature. A sharp contrast is drawn with an elite who have gotten rich quickly from opportunities available only to the well-educated and better connected.
Drive My Car and Monster are different. Ryûsuke Hamaguchi’s Drive My Car examines social interactions and issues of identity within a different milieu. Nevertheless the stratification of society is evident in the relationship between the principal, an actor-director staging Chekov’s Uncle Vanya, and his assigned personal driver, a young woman seeking to escape a previous life. Based on a Haruki Murakami short story, the film’s examination of intimacy and longing is both mysterious and engrossing, a filmic counterpart to the author’s 1999 novel Sputnik Sweetheart. Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Monster explores family dysfunction, grief, misplaced authority, bullying and rumour-mongering via social media. The ‘monster’ of the title is metaphorical – misunderstandings between people and the inhumanity of humans.
The best of these recent east Asian films might be a less extolled work – South Korean Lee Chang-dong’s 2018 Burning, a loose adaptation of another Haruki Murakami’s short story. It is based on a strange triangle. Jong-su grew up in a farming village, loves Faulkner and dreams of being a writer. He is accidentally re-united with Hae-mi, who he knows from childhood. Both survive doing odd jobs at the edge of Seoul society. The third person is Porsche driving Ben who is mysteriously wealthy although he doesn’t seem to work and burns down greenhouses for amusement. The minimalist plot revolves around the complex inter-play of desire and suspicion between these three characters.
The class critique in Burning draws on F. Scott Fitzgerald. At one point, Jong-su says to Hae-mi: “There are so many Gatsby’s in Korea”. In another scene, Hae-mi demonstrates the Kalahari Bushmen’s hunger dance for a bored Ben and his friends who are disdainful of her celebration of this experience. The contrast between Ben’s art filled glossy apartment in an upmarket area of Seoul and Jong-su and Hae-mi’s squalid accommodation is stark.
A Patricia Highsmith-like sense of unease permeates every frame of Burning. There is a feeling of de Chirico oppression and claustrophobia – spaces are empty, the air hangs heavy, images repeat. The sound design -traffic noises, street music, a blaring TV showing Trump and the ringing of the phone without anyone at the end of the line- adds to the tension. Shrieking North Korea propaganda from a loudspeaker around Jong-su’s village close to the border hints at something dreadful about to be unleashed. Jong-su senses that the amoral rich playboy is not what he seems: there’s no “there there” with Ben. He senses that Hae-mi is in danger.
Clever motifs run through the film. The disoriented watcher can never be certain of their perceptions of the plot. Jong-su agrees to feed Hae-mi’s cat while she is on holiday. The feline is never seen or heard – is there actually a cat? Each character has a cupboard which seemingly contains clues – a shaft of reflected light, a gleaming knife or a pink plastic watch.
A striking image occurs near the beginning. Hae-mi pantomimes eating a tangerine. She tells Jong-su that if he ever is hungry for anything, he can create it on his own like this. In Burning everyone is famished for something, though it is never obvious what. It sets up an explosive finale when the underlying violence can no longer be contained. The allusive ending differentiates the film from its peers which meander to an often unsatisfactory and artificial close.
Each of these films is intelligent, well-acted, cinematically distinctive and imbued with humanity. It will be interesting to see if they survive repeated viewing and continue to yield new insights over time as has Rashomon. Perhaps only Drive My Car and Burning with their profound insights into people’s lives and riddles has the psychological complexity and subtlety to endure. Longevity is the ultimate test of any art. Time therefore will tell.
© 2024 Satyajit Das All Rights Reserved
Jointly published with the New Indian Express Online