The pace and rate at which commercial film industries like Bollywood and Hollywood churns out movie after movie, guarantees that most of these films will be more of the same. The thrillers that don’t thrill and comedies that aren’t funny fill the celluloid space and viewers are left unsatisfied.
If you are one of those film lovers who find it increasingly difficult to fully enjoy a commercial feature film, but you also stay away from obscure artsy stuff, which you tend to find more self-grandiose than moving, then you need to explore the cinematic work by the acclaimed South Korean director Kim Ki-duk.
Kim Ki-duk’s films are as difficult to pigeonhole into genres as they are hard to describe in words. Kim dwells between the real and the surreal. His films may cause an array of reactions, but never indifference. His cinematic vocabulary is simultaneously unorthodox and accessible.
These are three of his most notable feature films that garnered praise and awards. But more importantly, if you feel cheated watching blockbusters and are looking for something new and refreshing then you could do no better than diving headfirst into Kim's cinematic universe.
Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring (2003)
Set in a floating Buddhist monastery in the middle of a picturesque forest, the film tells the story of a Buddhist monk. Kim Ki-duk draws a powerful parallel between the change of seasons and the monk's life. Divided into five segments, the film depicts how the lives of an apprentice Buddhist monk and his older teacher evolve in each segment. The scenes are rich with symbols and iconography, a trait Kim Ki-duk displays repeatedly in all his notable works.
When the movie starts we see a child Buddhist apprentice living with his mentor and learning to devote his life in prayer and introspection. Among their routine activities, they ride a boat to go to the banks of the lake from their floating monastery.
One day, the apprentice, in apparent childish playfulness, catches a fish and ties it to a small rock. The fish tries to swim away desperately but fails because of the weight of the rock. Finding this new giggle worthy way of tormenting creatures, the child then proceeds to do the same to a frog and a snake. The master secretly observes the child's play but does not interfere. The next morning the apprentice wakes up to find a large rock chained to his leg. The master tells him that he can not take it off until he let the creatures go that he had tied up yesterday. Carrying the heavy weight of the rock the child walks through the forest to previous day's location and finds the fish lying dead at the bottom of the creek. He then finds the frog still struggling to get free, and finally he also finds the snake in a pool of blood, clearly dead from the struggle to wiggle free from the snare. Realisation dawns upon the boy and he starts to weep, as the “Spring” segment of the film ends.
The movie develops with lots of, for want of a better expression, twists and turns. After spring, 'summer', 'fall' and 'winter' come, eventually leading to 'spring' again. Each segment presents particular incidents, all of which together form the narrative of the film.
3-Iron (2004)
3-Iron showcases Kim Ki-duk's ability to present characters and atmosphere in such a way that dialogues become unnecessary. Indeed, the film is almost entirely without any dialogue.
The movie begins by showing Tae-suk figuring out which homes are temporarily empty and where he can stay. A wanderer and loner, Tae-suk sticks leaflets on keyholes in the doors of a number of homes and after a certain time if they are not moved, he assumes that the residents are not there. He then inhibits the house until the residents get back from vacation. He treats the home like a gentle guest and he never steals anything from them. In recompense for his stay he cleans the house, waters the plants and fixes things that need repairing. When the original residents return they never suspect that someone was there.
One day, Tae-suk mistakenly enters a house that is not empty. As he breaks into the house, Sun-hwa, scared at first, quietly observes the mysterious intruder after she realises that the strange man has no nefarious intentions. Victim of recurring abuse at the hand of her husband, Sun-hwa confronts Tae-suk as he was admiring her pictures in the bathroom. Startled and abashed, Tae-suk flees the house but eventually returns. An instant bonding takes place and they develop great attachment. Kim Ki-duk's craftsmanship becomes more and more apparent as the story continues to stay intriguing despite the unconventional set up.
The two confront Sun-hwa's abusive husband and Tae-suk strikes him with golf clubs. The two of them get away from the house and together continue Tae-suk's routine of finding new houses to spend each night. The couple eventually gets separated against their will. When the movie comes to the end Kim Ki-duk opens up the possibility of various interpretations, including whether or not any of the incidents in the story are “real” or they are in the protagonist's head. Kim's story telling again resembles poetry more than a conventional cinema. It's the kind of film that invites a second viewing.
Time (2006)
An amalgamation of post-modern cynicism and sharp view of a social critic, Time is one of Kim's most disorienting works; disorientation that does not invoke confusion, but provokes thought. Yet, the movie is not without a heart. In fact it stands its ground to be one of the great tragedies told through the medium of modern cinema. It avoids being melodramatic but never fails to move a serious viewer (except art critics).
Seh-hee is a very insecure woman who fears her boyfriend Ji-woo will eventually lose interest in her and find someone else. An intensely jealous Seh-hee continues to grow more discontent, verging on paranoid. Seh-hee acts on her paranoia by leaving Ji-woo “preemptively” and going through a radical cosmetic surgery, fully changing her physical features.
But she does not leave Ji-woo for good. With a new and completely different face she plans to go back to Ji-woo under a different identity. As Ji-woo shows interest in the new and changed Seh-hee, she becomes more jealous and furious, ultimately leading to self-hate.
Called “the global capital of plastic surgery”, in South Korea restructuring the face has been so normalised that many now undergo the procedure as a matter of necessity. Kim's view, while not necessarily preachy, lifts the veil of glamuor and jauntiness associated with the practice. Even though this may not have been the primary intention of the filmmaker, it certainly is a byproduct – depending on your interpretation. The story raises all sorts of questions about identity. But the success of the film is it never exceeds the scope of a film and never aspires to become a philosophy book. The result - one of the most haunting films of the last decade.