The Sea Knows (현해탄은 알고 있다) 1961

‘The Sea Knows’ is a poignant melodrama created in 1961 by the visionary filmmaker Kim Ki-Young. The film stars Gong Midori, a talented Korean-Japanese actress, in the role of Hideko, a vibrant and spirited young Japanese woman. Opposite her is Kim Wun-ha as Aro-un, a Korean student soldier stationed in Nagoya during the turbulent times of 1944. Kim, having previously lived in Kyoto, developed a profound appreciation for Japanese culture and cinema, which he brought to his work. 

To enhance the film’s authenticity, he, along with his cinematographer, Jung Il-Sung, journeyed to Nagoya to shoot transitional scenes, while the majority of the film’s footage was captured in Korea, featuring an all-Korean cast. This decision stemmed from the need to comply with government restrictions banning Japanese actors from South Korean films at the time. Following the film’s release, the government took further action, imposing even stricter regulations on filming in Japan.

In the narrative, Aro-un is presented as a troublesome student soldier, part of a group of Korean comrades training in Nagoya to ultimately join the ranks of the Japanese imperial army. His life takes a significant turn when Nakamura, a more compassionate senior officer, invites Aro-un to his sister’s home. Here, Aro-un stumbles upon a collection of books and is taken aback to learn they belong to Hideko, Nakamura’s niece. Hideko is portrayed as a dynamic young woman grappling with her biases; she initially harbours disdain towards Koreans, blaming them for a robbery that occurred at a neighbour’s home. However, when Nakamura reveals Aro-un’s Korean identity, she swiftly apologizes, yet a curious spark lingers in her gaze as she exits the room. Their paths cross once again at a local movie theatre, where Hideko takes an active stance in nurturing their fledgling romance. 

Yet, beneath the surface of what could be seen as a conventional love story, the film dives deeply into Aro-un’s emotional turmoil and suffering. Aro-un and Hideko share an intellectual bond, as well as through the compassion that Hideko shows for the injustices Aro-un endures at the hands of his Japanese superiors, tying together sexual context with pain and suffering. In particular, Private Mori embodies the oppressive force that plagues Aro-un’s existence, subjecting him to relentless scrutiny and abuse. Meanwhile, Hideko struggles with her mother’s deeply ingrained anti-Korean sentiments, which creates a rift between them.

Unfortunately, ‘The Sea Knows’ reels have suffered from deterioration over time, marked by instances of silence and moments when the visuals vanish. Shot entirely in striking black and white, the film becomes increasingly graphic as it progresses, culminating in strong anti-war sentiments in a memorable conclusion. 

The narrative profoundly emphasizes anti-war themes while illustrating the possibility of coexistence between the Japanese and Korean peoples. This theme is beautifully encapsulated through the evolving relationship of Hideko and Aro-un, who learn to view each other as individuals rather than representatives of national enmity. The most negatively portrayed characters are the barbaric Private Mori and Miyamura, who embody the traditional military mindset and uphold a destructive camaraderie that prevailed during this historical period. Korean audiences—predominantly female—are subtly urged by Kim to challenge their preconceived notions, mirroring the initial perspectives held by Hideko and her mother, encouraging them to see others as people of varying character instead of mere representatives of their countries. 

Kim Ki-young masterfully balances various perspectives throughout the film, steering clear of a simplistic anti-Japanese narrative. At the time of its release, public sentiment in Korea was mixed; while anti-Japanese feelings remained prevalent, there was also a financial motivation driving a desire for improved relations between the two nations. Rather than veering into overt nationalism, the film presents moments of anti-Japanese sentiment that, while undeniably present, manage to avoid a caricatured or propagandistic portrayal. Though the film’s physical damage and quality issues diminish its overall impact, the strengths embedded within its narrative and emotional weight resonate powerfully with viewers.

Night Journey (야행) 1977

‘Night’s Journey’ is a film directed by Kim Soo-yong, featuring Yoon Jeong-hee, known for her role in ‘Poetry,’ and Shin Seong-il, who starred in ‘A Day Off.’ The trio had previously collaborated on ‘Mist,’ which was released in 1967. Although ‘Night’s Journey’ was initially filmed in 1973, it was not released until 1977 due to government censorship. The screenplay was written by Kim Seung-ok, a distinguished novelist of the era, who himself suffered under the strict military control of the country.

In the film, Yoon Jeong-hee plays Ms Lee, a woman labelled an “old maid” by her colleagues due to her unmarried status. Unbeknownst to them, she has secretly been involved with fellow bank employee Mr Park (Shin Seong-il) for about two years. The two maintain their relationship in complete secrecy and show no signs of affection in public. When two colleagues, who had briefly dated in secret themselves, get married, Ms. Lee uses her vacation time to return to her hometown. During this visit, she reflects on her first love, and her current situation with Mr. Park, and considers whether she is willing to continue living in her current predicament.

The film focuses entirely on Ms. Lee’s experiences; she is almost constantly in frame, and when she is not, the camera shows her viewpoint. We see her life at work, where she is teased by colleagues, including Mr. Park himself, about marriage. We also see her at home while Mr Park enjoys nights out drinking with colleagues. After work, she heads straight home, only stopping to buy groceries. She spends her evenings cooking and cleaning, patiently waiting for the drunken Mr. Park to return. Mr. Park is satisfied with this convenient arrangement and sees no need to marry, while Ms. Lee longs for something official and more romantically satisfying.

Kim Soo-yong takes a relatively straightforward approach initially. However, the second half of the film features hallucinatory scenes, accompanied by a piercing soundtrack reminiscent of horror films, similar to those found in ‘Women of Fire’ and ‘Insect Woman,’ both directed by Kim Ki-young, which address similar themes. Ms. Lee’s isolation within the frame symbolizes her lonely life. The happiest moments in the film occur when she is with her little sister during her visit home. Ms. Lee yearns for both affection and freedom, while Mr. Park embodies the freedom afforded to men. 

Despite Mr. Park’s refusal to marry, it is Ms. Lee’s status that is derided. The expectations placed on women lead to belittlement, and the male gaze in the film portrays women as objects of sexual pleasure. One character even criticizes his wife for not being a virgin, highlighting the societal pressure on women to remain ‘pure’ while men seek to take advantage of them.

The film addresses the important issue of how women felt suppressed in the cultural context of 1970s Korea. However, its short runtime of 78 minutes, possibly a result of censorship cuts, limits the depth of the film. The feverish scenes can also be difficult to decipher, and the narrative becomes harder to follow. While it is a capable film led by a strong performance from Yoon Jeong-hee, it may not stand out among other films exploring similar themes during that period, such as the two by Kim Ki-young mentioned earlier. I found ‘The Seaside Village,’ also by Kim Soo-yong, to present a strong female character in a much more comprehensive manner.

301/302  (삼공일 삼공이) 1995

In a gripping mystery directed by Park Chul-soo, Yun-hui (portrayed by Hwang Shin-hye) mysteriously vanishes leaving apartment 302 devoid of life. Her neighbour, Song-hui, played by Bang Eun-jin in a role which saw her pick up 3 Best Actress awards, resides just across the hall in apartment 301 and becomes embroiled in unravelling the secrets of Yun-hui’s fate. This compelling narrative is based on the poem ‘The Cook and the Anorexic’ by Jang Jung-ill and was later remade as a  Canadian film titled ‘Compulsion,’ released in 2013.

Through a series of captivating flashbacks narrated by Song-hui, both the detective and the audience are drawn into the complex pasts of the two women. Set within the confines of Apartment 301, which doubles as an interrogation room, Song-hui intriguingly takes control of the situation. Her assertiveness is palpable as she even instructs the detective to leave, building tension as we edge closer to the pivotal revelation about Yun-hui’s fate. Director Park Chul-soo masterfully toys with audience expectations by skillfully revealing information ahead of time and then cleverly manipulating the timing of the ultimate payoffs.

The film’s cinematography and set design play a vital role in crafting its unique atmosphere, blending mood with an unsettling surrealism. Both apartments appear more as set designs than homes, serving as a mirror to their inhabitants’ personalities. Apartment 302, home to Yun-hui, is characterized by an overwhelming collection of books that soar from floor to ceiling, casting a sense of solitude in its minimalistic colour palette of whites and beiges. In stark contrast, Apartment 301 is meticulously curated, with the kitchen designed as a striking central hub, drenched in ominous red hues that hint at underlying tensions. The evolution of the characters’ clothing further emphasizes their emotional states; for instance, Song-hui transitions from vibrant, colourful attire to drab, plain outfits when she embarks on a diet, conveying her spiralling sense of misery and emptiness.

The film delves deeply into the poignant theme of loneliness. At first, Yun-hui is reclusive and hesitant to engage with her outgoing neighbour, Song-hui. Her past traumas have changed her whole demeanour and life. Although Song-hui exhibits a more vivacious personality, she is driven by a desperate need for validation from others, manifesting predominantly through her culinary endeavours. The stark connection between body and mind reverberates throughout the narrative, with a particular focus on body image and the profound impact it has on mental health.

Presented in a visually stunning and thought-provoking manner, the film holds its intrigue from start to finish. However, some of the close-up montages of food, while strikingly shot, may feel drawn out at times. Both Bang Eun-jin and Hwang Shin-hye deliver remarkable performances that are sure to leave a lasting impression, and I am eager to explore more of their work, as well as other films directed by Park Chul-soo.

The Village of Mist  (안개마을) 1983

Directed by the acclaimed filmmaker Im Kwon-taek, “Village of Mist” represents another evolution in his extensive cinematic journey. Adapted from Lee Mun-yeol’s short story “The Island of Anonymity,” the film continues Im’s clear departure from his earlier works, which often revolved around traditional narrative structures and were genre films. Instead, “Village of Mist” delves into deeper philosophical themes and rich character studies, inviting viewers to ponder the complexities of ethical dilemmas in contemporary and historical Korean society. The film garnered the prestigious Baeksang Art Award Grand Prize for Best Film, highlighting its artistic merit.

The narrative centres around Han Su-ok, portrayed with sensitivity by Jeong Yun-hui, a fresh-faced teacher who takes a job in a secluded mountain village while her fiancé fulfils his military obligations. As she steps into this remote landscape, the first figure she encounters is Kkae-cheol, played by the venerable Ahn Sung-ki. Kkae-cheol is portrayed as a complex drifter bearing the weight of disability, his dishevelled appearance contrasting sharply with the Su-ok’s clean city fashion. His penetrating gaze unnerves Su-ok, foreshadowing the emotional and ethical intricacies that lie ahead as the story unfolds. Su-ok’s intrigue deepens as she witnesses the villagers’ dual nature towards Kkae-cheol—while they offer him food and shelter, they simultaneously demean him, labelling him a eunuch. This paradox fuels her desire to uncover the underlying truths of village life. Why do the villagers put up with Kkae-cheol, an outsider to this clan?

Im Kwon-taek skillfully creates an atmosphere of unease through the occasional use of a shaky handheld camera, contrasting with the predominantly static mid-shots that lend the film a contemplative quality. The soundtrack plays a crucial role, as Im opts for the unconventional choice of Western tunes, specifically two tracks by Yazoo, a British synth-pop band of the 1980s,: ‘Don’t Go’ and ‘Only You.’ This choice amplifies the difference between Su-ok and the villagers, playing during moments when Su-ok finds herself alone—writing a letter to her distant fiancé and awaiting his arrival at a train station. 

Throughout “Village of Mist,” Im engages in a profound examination of the contradictions inherent in the depiction of a traditional Korean village. He challenges prevailing notions that modern Korea is devoid of moral integrity, suggesting instead that much of humanity’s ethical lapses stem from a collective reluctance to confront uncomfortable truths. As Su-ok teaches her students a fundamental tenet of Confucianism—that actions hold more significance than mere words—the narrative subtly questions the righteousness of societal norms without overt judgment, simply illuminating the complexities that lie beneath the surface. While the film maintains a compelling intrigue and the cast expertly transcends typical stereotypes in their character portrayals. However, my main criticism focuses on one challenging scene. Although the scene was executed beautifully on film, the emotional impact of its aftermath was surprisingly muted, leaving a sense of unfulfilled resonance. Rather than being treated with the gravity it deserved, this moment was merely resolved as a means to close the mystery.

I have provided the full movie below, sourced from the Korean Classic Film channel on YouTube, so you can easily access it.

Have you ever had the chance to watch Village of Mist? I’d love to hear your thoughts on it! Additionally, I’m eager to know which film you’d like me to review next. Please share your recommendations in the comments—I’m looking forward to exploring your suggestions!