ilpohirvonen

The early films of Park Chan-wook such as "Joint Security Area" (Gongdong gyeongbi guyeok JSA, 2000) and the so-called "Vengeance trilogy" - "Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance" (Boksuneun naui geot, 2002), "Oldboy" (Oldeuboi, 2003), and "Lady Vengeance" (Chinjeolhan geumjassi, 2005) - brought South-Korean cinema to western awareness and made Park an acclaimed auteur of world cinema. The trademarks of Park's films, which have sometimes seemed to become equivalent with the reputation of South-Korean cinema in general, are shocking violence, the eccentric portrayal of love, and complex narratives that employ surprising twists. The latest film from the director probably will not disappoint the dedicated global audience of such films, but "Decision to Leave" (Heojil kyolshim, 2022) is also something much more.

Hae-jun (Park Hae-il) is a married police officer who suffers from insomnia as he keeps driving between two cities on misty roads. His work is in Busan, but his wife (played by Jung Yi-seo) awaits him in Ipo. When a businessman dies in what seems to be a mountain climbing accident, the police immediately pick up the businessman's Chinese wife Seo-rae (Tang Wei) as a primary suspect. The case seems clear to most, but Hae-jun's feelings for Seo-rae cloud his vision and judgment. In typical Park fashion, the situation quickly turns more complicated, Hae-jun's feelings become obsessive, and soon there seems to be no way out from the mist of emotions.

There is a touch of Masumura's "A Wife Confesses" (1961) and, obviously, Hitchcock's "Vertigo" (1958) in the film's premise, but Park has stated that "Decision to Leave" was in fact inspired by a Korean love song "Angae" (or "Mist") sung by Jung Hoon Hee in the 1960's. In the song, someone, who has lost their lover in the past, gets lost in the fog. We speak of "brain fog" or "clouding of consciousness" when describing the experience of indecisiveness and lack of focus, which are also signs of depression. Hae-jun is not necessarily clinically depressed, though his compassionate if a bit over-caring wife is concerned. After all, Hae-jun, a middle-aged man, belongs to a high-risk group. His wife thinks that Hae-jun needs violence and death in order to be happy, but the cop, who has dedicated a wall in his Busan flat to unsolved cases, does not seem jovial. Hae-jun needs his job or, more specifically, the attempts at solving mysteries to feel a sense of meaning in his life. This is the reason he initially falls for Seo-rae; she would fit perfectly on his wall of unsolved cases. She is a walking enigma.

Alongside Hae-jun, the spectator must constantly guess whether Seo-rae is leading the cop on or not. Some of Seo-rae's behaviours, actions, and decisions may remain a bit unconvincing, which casts a faint shadow of implausibility to the film. On the other hand, the inability to fully grasp the character fits this film like a glove. An additional air of mystery is added to the character for the simple reason that she is Chinese. Since Seo-rae does not speak perfect Korean, she and Hae-jun must occasionally rely on apps on their smart phones for translation. As is well known, of course, things get lost in translation. And the multiple screens between them are not helping. In the end, the spectator is -- just like Hae-jun -- left incapable of having the final verdict on Seo-rae, this ephemeral character in the foggy landscape.

Communication is thus clouded not just between characters but also the film's narration and the spectator. Both Park's style and narration obfuscate the sense of space and time. The complex plot is told in a fast pace, and narration keeps jumping back-and-forth between scenes, many of which have been executed with unprecedented innovation. For just one example, there is a scene where Park is able to combine Hae-jun in bed with his wife, him staring at mold on the corner of their wall, Seo-rae watching a Korean soap opera, and x-ray images related to the crime. Even if Hae-jun and Seo-rae were in different places in different times, Park constantly cuts their looks together. As a result, there is this continuous impression of a gaze that defies dimensions of space and time in the poetic space of the film. By means of editing, Park creates a luring kaleidoscope of ambivalent emotions. At times, this formal approach might make the following of the story a little challenging for the spectator, but the facts of the story do not in the end seem to matter that much. The atmosphere of Park's neo-noir melodrama is clouded by a brain fog in which it is difficult to concentrate and make decisions.

Although "Decision to Leave" treads on familiar terrain for Park, as a film about love and obsession, I must say that I enjoyed it more than any other film from him. Even with his best films, I have always found Park's complicated narratives and his shocking violence somewhat self-deliberate, self-indulgent, and a bit bloated. Here, there are less gimmicks, and the film just feels more earnest, even though it is still a complex story. Given that "Decision to Leave" resembles "Vertigo", some might have presumptions regarding Park's eroticism, which invaded his previous film "The Handmaiden" (Ah-ga-ssi, 2016), but such reservations are unfounded. Curiously, "Decision to Leave" holds back in its portrayal of romance and erotic tension. In the film's most intimate scene, Hae-jun and Seo-rae exchange a bit of lip balm. "Decision to Leave" may not persuade completely, but it is still, to my mind, Park's most intriguing work. Form and content merge into a hazy cloud of fog which one finds difficult to leave behind.

"Septet: The Story of Hong Kong" (2020) is a collection of seven short episodes, each with their own director, each focused on a story that somehow relates to Hong Kong. There is a teenage love story in 80's Hong Kong, there is a story about young people training martial arts, and there is a tale of inter-generational relations between a kung fu grandpa and his westernized granddaughter.

The cardinal sin for episode films with multiple directors is awkward unevenness and lack of cohesion. However, "Septet" does not suffer from the common shortcoming of the genre. That is because the film is very evenly terrible. What is supposed to be a heartfelt love letter to an iconic city with its own vibrant film culture is nothing but a sub-par collection of sentimental and cringe-inducing stories that ring a bell to anyone who has checked out soap operas on daytime TV or picked up a cheap joke book at the grocery store.

The premises for comedy are the likes of a grandfather denying his granddaughter western delicacies only to enjoy them himself. So funny. On the other hand, many episodes try to invoke feelings of nostalgia by simply setting up some uninteresting events in a past decade and then cutting to a later period -- oh look how time has passed. In the first episode, for one, young people are training kung fu. A voice-over narration gives a sense of reminiscence. Then the episode concludes with a cut to a brief shot of the narrator as an older person. And this is supposed to awake sentiment. Yet the director of the episode never stops at exploring what this past time meant for this character and what it might mean to him now besides nostalgia. Overall, the problem of the film is that it's difficult to feel anything when the characters and the dramatic set-ups are embarrassingly shallow.

The worst thing about "Septet" might nevertheless be that it is supposed to be an homage to Hong Kong, its cinema, the history of that cinema, and even 35 mm film. As a person who is deeply invested in the appreciation of film history, this film should be quite up my alley. Even though the martial arts cinema of Hong Kong has never been my personal cup of tea, there is plenty to love about Hong Kong cinema, and I do have a soft spot for any meditation on film history. Watching this sub-par excuse of a tribute made me wonder for a moment what I was doing at the cinema. Luckily there are better films to resuscitate my "faith," but "Septet" is definitely one of those films that makes me embarrassed to hold cinema in such high regard.

"Dio, come ti amo!" (1966), directed by Miguel Iglesias, stars Gigliola Cinquetti who rose to fame in 1964 by becoming the youngest person to win the Eurovision Song Contest with her hit "Non ho l'età." The lyrics of the song, performed by the 16-year-old Cinquetti in 1964, concern the restlessness and impatience of a young person to experience romantic love. Iglesias knows what's up (and what the audience of the day wanted) as the film just abruptly starts with Cinquetti performing that particular song. While the song and the performance are delightful in their own right, the opening scene does feel appropriate because Iglesias' film picks up the theme of "Non ho l'età" for the whole film. In the beginning, Cinquetti's character sings about her impatience for love, and the story of the film, not surprisingly by any means of course, revolves precisely around her falling in love for the first time. In the opening song, she yearns for love; as the film goes by, she begins to sing about the pains and pleasures of the love that she has in her heart.

Gigliola Cinquetti plays an Italian competitive swimmer named Gigliola from a working-class family. In a competition between young female swimmers from Italy and Spain, Gigliola saves a Spanish girl named Angela when the girl does not rise back to surface after having jumped to the pool. Eventually Gigliola travels to Barcelona to visit Angela. There she meets Angela's fiancé Luis with whom Gigliola begins to fall in love. She does not act on her feelings, despite there being mutual affection between the two, out of respect for Angela. To make things a little more complicated: out of shame for her blue-collar background, Gigliola has pretended to be a wealthy socialite to both Angela and Luis. When Angela and Luis eventually come to visit her in Naples, she must involve her entire family, as well as a millionaire for whom her family works, in her shenanigans. Oh, and Gigliola also sings, of course -- quite a lot.

The story of the film, which is an obvious star vehicle for Gigliola Cinquetti, is ludicrously silly and its narrative execution often feels clunky and mechanic. The rhythm when it comes to transitions from one scene to the next is not always on point. Certain narrative decisions reek implausibility. One can practically see the mechanic wheels of the quickly produced screenplay turning at some junctures of the plot. There is also an unnecessary minor sub-plot involving a love affair of Angela's mother that even a charitable spectator cannot enjoy.

One of the biggest flaws in the film is, perhaps, that it does not really study the theme of the impatience of the young to experience love. The theme is quite explicitly brought up in the song "Non ho l'età" and other songs, but the film does not really include any non-musical scenes where the spectator could observe Gigliola pondering or going through emotions. And there would be ample opportunities for such exploration of a young character's difficulties in dealing with strong emotions, which is the only principal theme that does seem to emerge from the material. Although the film has a running time of over 100 minutes, it feels like the film sometimes moves too fast without letting the characters breathe. Worst of all, maybe, is the character of Luis who remains a barely recognizable cart-board cut-out. He utters romantic one-liners straight from paperbacks by the cashier and has no identifiable personality traits besides that. He is the obscure object of the protagonist's desire, one might argue of course, but somehow this line of reasoning does not feel persuasive when Iglesias spends little to no time in exploring even Gigliola's emotional world.

Despite its apparent flaws, however, something about "Dio, come ti amo!" is quite charming. The on-location shooting in both Barcelona and Naples is beautiful to look at, the performance by the young Gigliola Cinquetti is alluring, and the story, irrespective of its conventionality, is pleasant enough to follow. The film is at its best when Iglesias just allows the young characters to hang around (that is, when he is not too concerned with telling the sub-par story), something that he does not let them do nearly enough, unfortunately.

The biggest thing about the film, of course, and the reason why most people probably watched "Dio, come ti amo!" at least back in the day, are the songs performed by Cinquetti in it. There are 7 songs in total and they accompany the narrative phases of the film quite like in musicals, though "Dio, come ti amo!" is probably not a musical in the precise sense of the term. Even for someone who is not a music enthusiast such as yours truly, these songs are the highlight of the film. I would say the film is worth checking out for them alone. They elevate this otherwise sub-par teenage romance film.