Bong Joon-ho and abyss in Korean cinema
Courtesy of Kseniya Petukhova
A few days ago I told my students that the difference between Park Chan-wook and Bong Joon-ho is that while the former tells his stories through themes and symbolism, Bong’s movies are far more direct and focused on pushing the plot forward through action. Though we might want to see signs and symbols in the stairs and so on, ultimately, Bong is telling stories through plot. He’s putting certain characters in a specific situation, and then seeing what happens.
And then, having said this, I was later forced to cower before the majesty of this director. I watched "Memories of Murder" for the umpteenth time with a room full of students. I glanced pensively around the room, wondering if the Muslim students in the front might find the rape and masturbation scenes too much or whether the blue-haired American would stay awake. I didn’t predict that the Ghanian woman would scream and fall loudly off her chair halfway through when a killer emerges from the undergrowth and snatches a victim but that just added to the tension in the room. They all loved the movie though many found the ending frustrating.
Meanwhile, having previously decried its absence, I found Bong’s symbolism: the abyss. A dark blackness that stands unapologetically in his films. A space devoid of light. Both psychological and physical. It is the train tunnel in "Memories of Murder," the alley in "Mother," and the basement in "Parasite." That darkness is the host of that which we do not want to see. It is our shadow, as both individuals and a species. It is the place where the dark thoughts linger; where the wild things are. It is there in which the monster sleeps. As viewers, and for the characters themselves, we must beware. We must take heed of Nietzsche’s warning: If you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back. Investigate murder long enough and you will get a taste for it. And this is what Bong asks us to do. He shows us the black aspects of our nature, the ones which are usually absent in movies and literature, and then he does something horrific. Not only does he say that both the good guy and the bad guy have a connection to the abyss, we too, the audience, are connected to it in a way. We must reflect on our own shadows. Would we kill to protect our own children? Would we want to murder a suspect so as to stop them killing again? Would we steal for food?
Beyond economics
Bong Joon-ho’s best work as a Korean film director features largely incapable and downtrodden people set before an oppressive power. However, Bong’s characters do not always overcome the economic, cultural, and political systems of abuse; instead, momentum and plot are driven by the ineptitude of the power. The system is as fallible as it is omnipresent. The guards fall over, the officials fail to check papers, the rich are gullible, and the scientists do not understand basic data. To be held captive by a near perfect Orwellian force is one thing; to be under the yoke of a bunch of backwards hicks is something else.
Bong’s movies, in making the poor kill, in putting the disabled in jail, in raping and killing women, show us what society and the human is capable of. In moments that would be deemed outrageous by the politically correct, Bong has mentally challenged young men either convicted of crimes they didn’t commit or killed by the environment around them. He takes the most desperate beings we can think of, ensures we develop a degree of sympathy for them, and then he kills them in a very unglamourous manner. In stark contrast to the Korean depictions of neurodivergence we have seen in dramas like "Dr. Slump" or "Extraordinary Woo," in Bong’s films the good guys do not win. The innocent suffer.
And when Bong does this, the camera is on us the viewer, constantly asking questions, probing that which lurks inside. How do we feel about this? Are we okay with what we are seeing?
Post-modern cinema
Our romantic view of the world tells us that the rich are corrupt, selfish and, ultimately, evil. The poor, meanwhile, are Christian, almost. They are the meek who will inherit the earth. They are they just and righteous. Yet this view is absent from Bong’s work. He’s not simply highlighting class struggle and showing a simple dichotomy between the have and have-nots: he’s shedding light on the brutal and immoral consequences these differences can have. When you are poor, when you are desperate, to what lengths will you go to secure the lives of your loved ones? What will you do for food?
When you take these questions seriously while Bong is playing with cinematography, alleys, basements, and staircases, you find yourself faced with a question: are people good because they are rich, or are they rich because they are good? The opposite question also arises vis-à-vis the poor: are they poor because they make bad decisions, or do they make bad decisions because they are poor? What happens to morals when we are hungry? What happens to our sense of justice when we haven’t received an education?
Basic cinema tells you what is happening and then tells you what to feel. It is didactic. Unambiguous. Direct in terms of both message and morality. Such a structure pleases the simple minded. For in this way viewers do not have to think. The lessons are clear. The NPCs (non-playable characters) in our society live for such movies.
Bong, in contrast, asks you to play the game in front of you. He makes you an active member of the world. Guess whether this person on screen is the killer or not? Tell me whether this is a happy ending or not? Predict what happens next? All of these questions are left unanswered by the director but, at the same time, pointed towards us. We are made to participate. Our answer is important. It almost determines the direction of the entire movie. It is in this sense that Bong’s movie, like Park Chan-wook’s and many of his Korean contemporaries become akin to a "choose your own adventure" novel. It is post-modernism. There is no answer other than that which we choose.
Destroying genre
Bong’s work are post-modern because they deconstruct. They take genres and tropes created in the west during the second half of the twentieth century and then thrust them into the complex grey reality of Korean society. What happens when you play out the tropes of "Titanic," "Avengers," or "Beverly Hills Cop" in Seoul? Things get messy. The regular conventions are upturned. The good no longer win. The morality of the West is inverted by a Cold War dynamic that has divided families. The monster appears in full view after only ten minutes.
When a family is split in two, who is good and who is bad? Bong knows this more than most as his grandfather, Park Tae-won, moved to North Korea after the division of the land to take up a job at Pyeongyang Literature University. The autobiographical nature of his work continues to become apparent when you learn that one of his jobs in high school was tutoring a rich family in their house, a gig he got by being invited by his then-girlfriend who was also tutoring there.
We are quick to lavish praise on directors like Christopher Nolan because they have apparently shown us a dark aspect of our nature by pitting a black leather-clad "Batman" against an oft-grinning ham-eating "Joker." "Zodiac" is seen by many as an incredible piece of cinema for its bravery in eschewing conclusions. And yet Bong, Park, and others in Korea have been doing this for decades. They grew up outside of modernity and light, in a dictatorship symbolized by regular morning exercises and patriotic songs. They know what the abyss is really like because they have inhabited it. When they finally emerged into a free and open democracy they had the courage to explore everything that which was once denied them. When you have been forbidden humor, you will explore hurt. When amusement is taken away, you will find a home in anger.
I honestly can’t believe the things Bong does in his movies. Yes, he and many others will brush it off, but when he makes an innocent person with Down’s syndrome go to jail for a crime he didn’t commit or show a mother be willing to lie to god, I thank him for his courage. He asks me questions that I didn’t think existed. And, more than that, he says to me, “What do you think the answers are?”
I’m still working on the answers, Joon-ho. I hope to be ready for you soon.
David A. Tizzard has a doctorate in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social-cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the "Korea Deconstructed" podcast, which can be found online. He can be reached at datizzard@swu.ac.kr.