Having been away studying in Seoul, Hae-won (Kim Tae-ri) returns to her family home deep in the Korean countryside when she fails to pass the teachers’ exam. Figuring that just a few days alone spent away from the stresses of urban living will allow her to turn her thoughts and confusion on her future into some semblance of order, she tells no-one she's at her mother's house but in spite of her efforts to stay anonymous and undisturbed, it isn't long before her aunt, her two closest childhood friends, and indeed various nosey, middle-aged women from around the village discover she's there, begin making assumptions about her life, and start asking far too many questions that she frankly doesn't want to, and won't, answer. However, the one set of feelings Hae-won can't hide is her anger at the fact that her mother (Moon So-ri) has taken off to who knows where to “do all the things I gave up to get married and raise you".
As days turn into weeks and months in this idyllic rural setting, the issue Hae-won has with her mother’s seemingly uncaring actions increasingly pervades her thoughts, threatening to steamroller over the myriad of other things she's trying to come to terms with in her life...

How would you describe Korean cinema? While I'm fully aware that answering such a frankly preposterous question would be virtually impossible in anything much less than an almost thesis-length response, your perception of Korean film as a whole will likely have been coloured by the examples you first came into contact with and how your genre viewing preferences have diversified since. Certainly for a time at least, Western viewers (to a huge degree in the UK and to a lesser extent the US) whose beginning forays into Korean cinema came in the early to mid 'noughties' are as likely as not to have first found some of the (later considered classic) K-films released as part of Tartan's Asia Extreme DVD label. Consisting of movies from various East Asian regions with a commonality of extreme content – be it brutally violent thrillers, blood-soaked gorefests, or graphically extreme horrors and the like – the Asia Extreme series certainly did Korean cinema a huge favour in bringing seminal films to international audiences. However, it was so well and prominently marketed that it somewhat overshadowed releases of Korean films from other less confrontational genres (which were admittedly far fewer and far between on the international DVD market) and even for a time led some to believe that Korean films were inherently violent. That is of course a hugely blinkered view (extreme content is certainly a not-insignificant part of Korean cinema but it really is just a chapter in the Korean cinema history portfolio), but while the legacy of Oldboy and the like has been tempered over the years by a greater general audience awareness of a far more diverse range of Korean film genres, it has lingered in the fact that thrillers, action blockbusters and horrors are far more likely to be made available internationally (and more prominently so) than romances, heartfelt dramas and comedies - distributors knowing they're more likely to be an easy sell, at the end of the day.

However, there is a Korean cinema trope that is to my mind every bit as important to Korean cinema as a whole as any hard-boiled, blood-soaked content; that is films consisting of profoundly gentle, contemplative stories that are – to paraphrase Tartan – quiet ‘in the extreme’. From the sublime Take Care of My Cat (2001); through 2004's This Charming Girl; to My Mother the Mermaid (also 2004); My Dear Enemy (2008); and beyond, these largely relationship focused films centred on the tiniest of day-to-day moments may have almost whispered narratives but they nonetheless positively scream of life-changing character journeys as monumental as any hard-hitting, extreme tale. With Little Forest, director Yim Soon-rye takes what was originally a Japanese manga and subsequently a two-part live action Japanese film and transplants it to Korea knowing full well that the themes presented will speak directly to Korean audiences and Korean film fans alike, even feeling legitimately Korean in nature, in the process. The fact that Little Forest was given a cinema release in a number of US cities in March 2018 really speaks of the increasing awareness and indeed popularity of small, nuanced Korean films internationally... and that's a big step forward in my book.

Little Forest opens with a short scene showing Hae-won cycling through the sumptuously beautiful, sun-soaked Korean countryside; her brief narration pointing out that she has been back home for three months, living in an area that takes an hour's bike ride simply to get to the nearest village store. Small snippets of narration (always by Hae-won) continue throughout Little Forest, and while in most circumstances I'm not a fan of narration – more often than not I see it as frankly lazy exposition or little more than unnecessary audio filler to detail what viewers can already see is going on on-screen in films that won't allow even a moment's contemplative silence – here it works really well, feeling that we're almost in direct conversation with Hae-won - being confided in on her loves, loathes and annoyances; being given a background to her reasons for and the methods by which she creates her numerous gastronomic delights (more on that in a moment); and even being given an extra insight into the myriad of thoughts and feelings going on in her head, even those she chooses not to share with her two closest friends.

*Disclaimer*
My description of the “extra insight” into Hae-won’s thoughts and feelings was entirely deliberate in spite of me being fully aware that an actress as phenomenally talented as Kim Tae-ri doesn't actually need any extra help whatsoever. Kim Tae-ri is an incredibly expressive actress and viewers will routinely have a fair idea of what her character is thinking and feeling just by taking a look at her changing expressions (to the nth degree, in fact). The accompanying narration simply focuses that viewer awareness and points it directly - be it at her mother, her friends or indeed her culinary endeavours, and as such it simply stands as gently underlining her already obvious talent. While we're on the subject, each and every one of the performances in Little Forest are exemplary. You'll truly believe Hae-won and her two closest friends, Jae-ha and Eun-sook (played by Ryu Jun-yeol and Jin Ki-joo), have known each other for their whole lives. Their chemistry is palpable; their interactions (and indeed gently humorous arguments) are wholly natural and believable; and indeed when you watch them hang out together and have food at the conclusion of their day, I virtually guarantee you'll want to hang out with these genuinely sweet characters too, as long as they allow you to share the frankly incredible, wholly natural gastronomic treasures that fill their table.  
 
And speaking of food:

Visually sumptuous scenes of the preparation of absolutely mouth watering culinary masterpieces are numerous throughout Little Forest. While these sit alongside the utter beauty of Hae-won’s surroundings perfectly and stand as a physical representation of the fruits, if you will, of Hae-won and her friends’ daily toils, the scenes’ full raison d'être only becomes clear as we are introduced to Hae-won’s mother in flashback (Hae-won's face-to-face interactions with her mother are shown only in flashback and always, always predominantly feature food and culinary discussions). The two are equally fastidious in their culinary undertakings; they both have similar beliefs about the spiritual importance of self-prepared food and cooking; and in fact the more we see of her mother, the more we realise Hae-won is wholly a product of her upbringing, and almost a physical manifestation of it at that. Not only that, but in spite of Hae-won’s annoyance at her mother's seemingly uncaring actions in leaving and her belief that they are wholly different as individuals, viewers will soon come to realise that these two are cut from entirely the same cloth and have far more similarities that Hae-won would be comfortable with admitting. The question becomes whether Hae-won will ultimately come to that realisation and if she will allow herself to accept it if she does?

The film's narrative is spilt into the seasons of the years; each altering the farming and cultivation-based lives of the main characters to a huge degree. While Hae-won’s life in Seoul is shown ever so briefly, the contrasts between her urban existence and her idyllic rural life are blatantly on show, nonetheless. Those of you/us who live and work in highly populated urban cityscapes will be wholly aware that the seasons really make little difference in the grander scheme of things. We may be aware of the heat and the cold and indeed the move between seasons but how they affect our day-to-day travails is minimal. We have little choice but to deal with life, whatever it may actually be, on very much a daily, weekly and monthly basis: We get up each day, make the trek to our employment and back, and try to find some sort of work/life balance along the way through our wholly (as far as I'm concerned) unnatural existences. This idea is even referenced in the careers of Hae-won's two friends, Eun-sook and Jae-ha; with Jae-ha drunkenly rambling about how cool his life as a farmer is while Eun-sook repeatedly moans about her job at a bank, even at one point hitting her boss over the head with a tamborine during an enforced late night karaoke session.
Little Forest resolutely shows that in leaving Seoul and returning home, Hae-won's life and her work become balanced naturally by nature itself, and far more happily and life-affirmingly than any nine-to-five (or six) city job under florescent lights would or could ever allow.

Little Forest is visually stunning, thematically rich, highly engaging and wholly cathartic in nature, and its focus on the tiniest, seemingly insignificant moments that make up the majority of a life absolutely redefines the idea of what's truly important. Not only that, but, on a personal level as someone who, like Hae-won, grew up deep in the countryside and left for a city life on the first available opportunity, Little Forest spoke to me on a deeply profound level, underlining thoughts and feelings that have increasingly been coming to the fore as age takes its toll.
At one point before eating a meal with her friend Eun-sook, Hae-won states that she came home because she was hungry, and though she means it literally, Little Forest ultimately states without a shadow of a doubt that its meaning is also wholly metaphorical.

Summary:

Ultimately, not just a visual gourmet feast for the eyes but sumptuous cinematic food for the modern-day soul too, with Little Forest director Yim Soon-rye takes what was originally a Japanese manga and transplants it to Korea knowing full well that the themes presented will speak directly to Korean audiences and Korean film fans alike, even feeling legitimately Korean in nature, in the process.

Im Tae-san (Choi Min-sik), president of the Taesan Group conglomerate, is in a committed relationship with popular singer Yoo-na (Lee Ha-nui; aka Honey Lee), much to the consternation of his daughter Mi-ra (Lee Soo-kyung). On attending a student reunion at a popular nightclub in Gangnam, a severely drunken Mi-ra is shown a video of Yoo-na having sexual intercourse with another man and instantly going postal she messages her father's lover demanding that they meet immediately.
The next morning, Mi-ra regains consciousness in her car – the vehicle clearly having been involved in a serious accident – to find herself surrounded by police and, though she claims to have no memory whatsoever of the preceding night, she is straight away arrested for Yoo-na’s brutal murder.
Tae-san, however – in spite of initial evidence showing Mi-ra in a less than positive light – refuses to believe his daughter could be guilty of such a heinous crime and vows to use his money and influence to both clear her name and bring the real perpetrator to justice...

Heart Blackened begins with the first meeting of Mi-ra and Yoo-na at an upmarket restaurant, overseen by Tae-san. Initially polite if somewhat tense, the interaction of the two seems to be going fairly well – Yoo-na even holding Mi-ra's hand, prior to Tae-san joining them – until Yoo-na removes a book belonging to Mi-ra from her handbag; featuring pictures of Mi-ra, her mother and Tae-san from her childhood days. Instantly, Mi-ra goes on both the defensive and offensive, and in one fell swoop her animosity for the woman she will never allow to take the place of her mother begins to burn, never to be quelled.
Jumping to one year later in proceedings (in fact to the very night of Yoo-na’s murder), director Jung Ji-woo deftly and succinctly references the ongoing and increasing animosity Mi-ra feels towards Yoo-na simply by mention of the difficulty of the situation in a conversation between Yoo-na and Tae-san aboard his yacht. While many another would have felt the need to include scenes at this stage of arguments and altercations of the two women at odds, by instead using only obvious implication and simple statement (for example, shortly after being arrested, Mi-ra screams at her father “You're treating me like this because you love that bitch!”) Jung Ji-woo negates the need for such protracted inclusions; ensuring the soon to be deeply involved narrative is never slowed unnecessarily nor drawn away from events directly relating to the murder itself and the subsequent investigation into it.

In the lead up to, and indeed during, Mi-ra’s murder trial, several of Tae-san’s actions raise questions about his motivation: Here we have a rich, powerful man vocal in his determination to clear his daughter's name, so why does he agree to employ a young, inexperienced lawyer (Choi Hee-jeong, played by Park Shin-hye) to defend Mi-ra; when Tae-san discovers an ‘assassination game’ on Mi-ra's laptop –a computer game made by her in which an avatar of Yoo-na is strangled and stabbed by an avatar of Mi-ra, is dragged onto a balcony and thrown to the ground below while the Mi-ra avatar laughs – why does he instantly instruct his subordinates to post the ‘game’ on Facebook and make it widely available online; and when the trial is at a pivotal point, why does Tae-san suddenly insist on taking time away to travel to Thailand on ‘business’? Passing spoken ‘reasons’ for each of these seeming incongruities is given at the time of their inclusion in the narrative but though they may at least be partly true as viewers will later discover they are as much excuses as anything else; the truth state of play behind each being far more deftly layered and beautifully involved than is initially apparent. In any such drama – courtroom or otherwise – where viewers piece together a complete story over time in tandem with the characters, there could of course be accusations of lying by omission, but in the case of Heart Blackened, to my mind at least, the (deliberate) feeling of disparity between action and motivation these moments bring essentially drives viewers to see them as clues to figuring out an outcome ultimately far more unpredictable than many would imagine.
A major ‘reveal’ prior to the film’s ultimate conclusion claims to fully explain these various incongruities. However, the fact that it seemingly tells the whole story while half an hour of the running time remains screams yet further of well-crafted layer within narrative layer, virtually guaranteeing viewer surprise at one major point or another regardless of all or any audience predictions, accurate or not though those predictions may be.
There are also repeated references throughout Heart Blackened by Tae-san relating to his wealth and power and even the inequality between the haves and have-nots in Korean society, with the clear implication that he feels those inequalities are not only inescapable but also the way things should be. While these are largely just statements by one self-important individual with no particular attached commentary or dissection, it's clear that director Jung Ji-woo is showing how easily money can make certain types of individuals truly believe they are better than those without, and that is indeed an ongoing issue within Korean society as a whole.

Though Heart Blackened is loosely based on the 2013 Chinese film Silent Witness, the pacing of Jung Ji-woo’s Korean version is far more measured than the noticeably over-pushed, even jarring, speed of director Fei Xing’s original. I say ‘loosely based on’ because though Jung Ji-woo sticks largely to the same story ideas and plot twists of Silent Witness for a fair portion of Heart Blackened, he manages to bring enough originality to the narrative to ensure the film never feels like just a rehash. In fact, considering the themes present of love, hate, sacrifice and death, Heart Blackened could almost be considered as a modern day re-telling of a Pansori-type tale, and as such the film ultimately feels utterly Korean through and through.
The decision to split the narrative into trial segments, ongoing ‘real time’ plot developments and flashbacks gradually unveiling the chain of events surrounding and subsequent to Yoo-na’s murder also works incredibly well; the somewhat slower (obviously), largely sedentary courtroom sections regularly peppered with moments of both action and intrigue, in the process ensuring that the narrative never feels like it's dragging in any respect and allowing it to tantalisingly unveil its secrets at a wholly natural pace without a fear of stagnation in any respect.

Visually, Heart Blackened is absolutely stunning. Early scenes such as those showing Yoo-na in a singing performance and in a romantic yacht outing with Tae-san are utterly sumptuous, easily equal to the visual beauty seen in huge budget Korean Japanese-set pieces or historical tales that have taken the Korean box office by storm in the last few years, the former even evoking thoughts of such. Similarly, scenes set in upmarket Gangnam – including a high-end, pulsing nightclub – shimmer with all the glitz, glamour and opulence that one would expect, and even the more gritty segments of the film have a cinematic sheen, if you will. Heart Blackened’s story certainly doesn’t require it to be seen on the big screen, but its gorgeous cinematography nonetheless invites exactly that.

The acting in Heart Blackened is accomplished throughout, with Park Shin-hye (Hee-jeong), Lee Ha-nui (Yoo-na) and Lee Soo-kyung (Mi-ra) in particular standing out as well cast in their roles. However, make no mistake, this is Choi Min-sik’s film from start to finish; his absolutely exemplary performance as Tae-san raising the film to noticeably greater heights on numerous occasions. As one of Korea’s best actors for the guts of the past 30 years, Choi can always be relied upon to raise the performance bar of virtually any film but in Heart Blackened he surpasses even himself, if such a thing is possible. Here we see a combination of hard-hitting, cold and heartless elements as seen in his recent big budget roles as gangsters and corrupt businessmen with far more, hugely nuanced emotionality that could be said to come straight from his far softer, more in-depth character portrayals in classic films such as Happy End (also directed by Jung Ji-woo), Failan and even the altogether lighter Springtime. The list of films with pitch-perfect acting from Choi Min-sik of course continues to grow year in, year out, but his performance in Heart Blackened easily stands alongside the best of the best, and that really is saying something.

Ultimately, Happy End and Eungyo have already highlighted Jung Ji-woo’s talents as an exemplary and important film-maker and director. Heart Blackened underlines those talents yet further.

 

Summary:

Heart Blackened is a visually sumptuous, multi-layered and beautifully involved tale of love, hate, sacrifice and murder. While based on the 2013 Chinese film Silent Witness, director Jung Ji-woo brings enough originality to proceedings to ensure the film never feels like simply a rehash. In fact, considering the themes present, Heart Blackened could almost be considered as a modern day re-telling of a Pansori-type tale, and as such it ultimately feels utterly Korean through and through. 

You can read the 2012 London Korean Film Festival Interview with director Jung Ji-woo (featuring Hangul Celluloid) at:
http://www.hangulcelluloid.com/jungjiwoointerview.html

 

Sang-hoon and Yeon-hee are both from troubled backgrounds, with violence infecting and affecting their daily lives and, as such, their friendship can be seen as a bonding of kindred spirits:
As a child, Sang-hoon witnessed the death of his mother and sister (caused by his father) and over the ensuing years the resultant emotional and psychological scars have blocked almost everything but hate from his heart. His father, having returned home after serving 15 years in prison, is a constant reminder of everything Sang-hoon despises and even though those around him attempt to convince him to give his father (now a shattered, broken man) some attention and care, Sang-hoon cannot forgive him and instead chooses to focus his attention on inflicting pain on the man and watching him suffer. In fact, Sang-hoon’s only positive relationship (until he meets Yeon-hee) is with his step-sister’s son, who is himself an introverted and troubled child, and even though Sang-hoon’s step-sister attempts to make numerous in-roads to bring Sang-hoon closer, he consistently goes out of his way to keep her at arms’ length.
Similarly Yeon-hee has been without her mother since her death, when Yeon-hee was still just a child. Her father is a crippled Vietnam veteran, with an (unnamed) disease, who has subconsciously convinced his unstable mind that his wife isn't dead and that she has, instead, run off with another man. Even Yeon-hee's brother Yeong-jae (Lee Hwan), a unemployed high school drop-out, is a damaged individual who is progressively becoming more violent as each day passes - primarily focusing his bullying on Yeon-hee and demanding money from her, on almost a daily basis. Though she detests her situation, Yeon-hee has had little option, since her mother's death, but to become the mother figure of her household and take care of the family who treat her as nothing more than a slave, but her growing friendship with Sang-hoon begins to spark a glimmer of hope that there may be a better future awaiting her, and the time that she and Sang-hoon spend together quickly becomes a means for both of them to gain temporary respite from the violence surrounding them, while waiting for that better life - which they both ache for - to unfold.
Sadly, neither Sang-hoon nor Yeon-hee are aware that their pasts are already linked by violent events and that those events are set to echo into both their futures to cataclysmic effect.

Themes involving familial dysfunction and/or violence are often depicted in South Korean cinema but seldom are they shown to go hand in hand to the extent seen in Breathless, and even films which do address the combination of these issues tend to discuss them only with regard to how they affect the present, rarely showing the ever-increasing vicious circles - often spanning generations - which can result. In a historically patriarchal society, such as Korea, the fact that the depiction of the violence surrounding all of the characters in Breathless is as a result of masculine actions (from the past through to the present and, inevitably, set to continue into the future), combined with a resultant lack of feminine familial influences, is both a bold and controversial statement which holds true in any society but Breathless (thankfully) avoids any of the contrived upbeat resolutions or saccharin-coated happy endings which tend to plague the mainstream films of many other countries.

Breathless doesn't preach its themes or give overt answers to the subjects discussed but those answers are clearly on view within the sub-text of the film and the causes are, plainly, impossible to deny. Violence breeds violence which, once started, can snowball, engulfing and destroying the lives of all those who come into contact with it.

Direction, Cast & Crew:

Yang Ik-june's work in Breathless (as writer, director, lead actor and producer) is breath-taking. Though he is not an experienced director he has learnt his craft expertly from his years working on films in various roles and in various positions. His direction is low-key enough to allow his astounding performance to take centre stage but still involved enough to drive the plot, beginning from an almost first-person perspective and slowly moving to the third-person as Yeon-hee's story begins to play a bigger part within the story. It is obvious that Breathless is a project which is extremely important to him, and very close to his heart, and that shows from the opening scene to the last.
The film is unashamedly low budget but that actually works in its favour, giving proceedings a downbeat feeling (perfectly suited for characters whose lives are themselves downbeat) but, that said, the constraints of the budget never cause any visual or aural issues – in fact the only scenes which look noticeably low budget are the scenes of Yeon-hee and Sang-hoon enjoying themselves (often also featuring Sang-hoon's nephew) and one can't help but feel that they are deliberately so - their importance standing out more as a result. These scenes are also largely bereft of any sound, save a single guitar, and it could be said that this is a personification of Sang-hoon himself: When he is with the people he has grown to care for he is, at least partly, at peace (and his inner voice silenced) and the swearing, shouting and spitting that occurs at other times only comes as a result of having something negative or violent to react against. Violence is loud and abrasive, love is harmonious and quiet, if you like.

Summary:

Breathless is a visceral discussion of the legacy which violence can create and the ease with which it can span generations, infecting everything and everyone in its path. An outstanding film which truly packs a punch, Breathless will take your breath away.

Actors: Jang Ik-june, Kim Kkobbi, Lee Hwan, Jeong Man-shik

Director: Jang Ik-june

 

Breathless will be released on DVD in the on March 22nd by TerraCotta Distribution.

The TerraCotta UK DVD release of Breathless is presented as a 2-disc Collectors Edition, utterly packed with extras, in deluxe packaging and containing a multi-lingual booklet (in both Korean and English).
The quality of this release is exemplary and reminiscent of the stunning first-pressing Region 3 releases that are so famous for their quality.
I, for one, wish that all Region 2 DVD releases could be as good as this - a must-have on all levels.

DVD Extra Details:

Packed with special features including the directors own video cam footage from the Rotterdam International Film Festival, and a Q&A at London Korean Film Festival with Yang Ik-june, and specially written sleeve-notes from the director and actress Kim Kkobbi, this truly is a collectable.

The screening DVD used for this review was provided courtesy of TerraCotta Distribution (www.terracottadistribution.com)
and The Associates (www.the-associates.co.uk)

Though stories detailing themes of changing, and disintegrating, friendships; the pitfalls of adolescence; peer pressure and bullying; as well as broken families, are fairly common in South Korean cinema, Bleak Night delves a great deal more deeply than most, and while the fact that the narrative unfolds almost incrementally for a large portion of the film may mean that some find the pacing (certainly in the first half of the film) slower than they would ideally like, to my mind the time taken is not only warranted but is, in fact, necessary in order to allow for the palpable and ever-building feeling of tension to positively scream that the aforementioned powder keg could, and likely will, explode at any moment. And when it does, as we knew it would sooner or later, Bleak Night majorly shifts up several gears to become a gripping insight into the spiraling consequences of actions and the resultant reactions to them.
However, Bleak Night goes yet further, discussing culpability, guilt and the perception of blamelessness. While both Hee-joon and Dong-yoon claim to be innocent of any involvement in the events which led to Gi-tae’s demise, it becomes increasingly clear that regardless of whether or not they honestly believe their protestations (or if they are, in fact, lying to themselves as much as to others), not a single one of the boys (Gi-tae included) could be said to be truly blameless, and the fact that no action or reaction is ever an isolated, finite event, is repeatedly shown.

The performances of the entire cast of Bleak Night are top notch throughout, especially considering the young ages of the majority of the main actors. While, initially, Lee Je-hoon’s portrayal of Gi-tae is the most overt and noticeable (largely due to his character’s increasing arrogant aggressiveness) the acting of both Park Jeong-min (as Hee-joon) and Seo Jun-yeong (as Dong-yoon), is equally nuanced. Each adds a great deal to the realism of the narrative and the believability of their characters' actions and reactions, or deliberate lack thereof.

Main actors: Lee Je-hoon, Park Jeong-min, Seo Jun-yeong, Jo Seong-ha

DVD

The DVD edition reviewed here is the Korean (Region 3) Single Disc Edition from Filament Pictures. The film is presented as an anamorphic transfer with an aspect ratio of 1.85:1 and there are no image artifacts (and no ghosting) present.
The original Korean language soundtrack is provided as a choice of Dolby Digital 5.1 and Dolby Digital 2.0 and is crystal clear and well balanced throughout.
The English subtitles provided for the main feature are of high quality with only a couple of minor grammatical/spelling errors present.
English-speaking viewers should note that, as with many Korean DVD releases, there are no subtitles available on any of the extras.

Seung-cheol (played by director Park Jung-bum) is a North Korean defector struggling to survive in his new surroundings in the South by taking any and every job he can find, no matter how badly paid or demeaning it may be. His only friend (with whom he shares a tiny, dilapidated apartment) is Kyeong-cheol (Jin Yong-wook) who treats him as little more than a bumbling, inadequate fool and thinks nothing of stealing from shops and charging other North Koreans to send money back home to their relatives, and, in fact, even the policeman (Detective Park, played by Park Young-duk) who is helping them to settle in their new country constantly berates Seung-cheol on an almost daily basis.
While working for a pittance putting up posters for a sex shop throughout the city, Seung-cheol's attention (and heart) is caught by Sook-yeong (Kang Eun-jin), and following her he manages to secure a job in the karaoke bar where she works.
However, no sooner does he begin to dare to hope that he may have finally found someone with whom he can really connect and may be at last be heading towards a life worth living, than he discovers that even appearances can be deceptive...

Life presents us with challenges. That's what it does, and it is rather good at it. And while some ultimately see the struggle against adversity opening up veiled opportunities leading to an eventual happy ever after, others just never seem to get an even break.
One such individual is Seung-cheol who, having struggled his whole life in North Korea, risked life and limb to extricate himself from his altogether desperate situation and escape to a (hopefully) better life in the South, but far from becoming an integral part of some kind of utopian society, he has, instead, been increasingly marginalised and left with no alternative but to eke out whatever semblance of an existence he can, simply to survive from day to day.
When we are first introduced to Seung-cheol, he already appears to have been beaten by life. His apologetic demeanour - head often bowed and eyes focused downward - positively screams of his desperation to be accepted and allowed to find and live a normal, quiet existence, but try as he might to both do the right thing and fix situations that have already gone wrong, every single step he takes seems to achieve nothing but to bring another blow to knock him down yet further.

While those he comes into contact with, as well as those he works for (and even the individuals who conflict with him), certainly couldn't be said to care, the fact of the matter is that they're just too busy keeping their own heads (just) above water to have time to concern themselves with the needs of this obvious outsider. Yes, Seung-cheol is consistently exploited and, yes, he does repeatedly fall prey to the fallout from, and consequences of, others' personal agendas, but they too are living hand to mouth and that in itself can't fail to affect the rules of engagement.

From a cursory glance, it could be said that Seung-cheol is rather naive and while, considering his background, that's entirely understandable, even here there is a further level to be considered: For, Seung-cheol's biggest problem isn't his lack of awareness but rather his desire to connect and truly become a part of a South Korean society from which he is largely separate and shut off, invariably resulting in him taking people far too readily at face value and thereby making himself an all too easy target, without him even consciously realising it.
Add to that the fact that almost everyone's outward persona differs from who, and what, they really are - deliberately so, in an attempt to allow them to, or for them to be deemed to, fit in - and Seung-cheol can consequently be almost guaranteed to get the reality of situations wrong, at virtually every conceivable opportunity.
They say nice guys finish last but, in Seung-cheol's case, the question quickly becomes whether he will ever finish at all or even come close to the eventual happy ending he so desperately desires and so truly deserves.

With The Journals of Musan, director Park Jung-bum provides a in-depth character study of his real-life friend Jeon Seung-cheol while detailing the difficulties faced on a daily basis by those (outsiders and South Koreans alike) who find themselves on the very outskirts of society.
The characterisations present are incredibly realistically drawn and portrayed throughout, ensuring that viewer empathy is kept at its utmost from even the early stages of the film with the nature of that empathy gradually morphing from sympathy for Seung-cheol to respect. This subtle change in audience reaction was likely deliberately sought by director Park, especially considering his friendship with Seung-cheol, but never feels forced or in any way fake and, in fact, serves to raise the level of poignancy almost exponentially on numerous occasions.
Considering its storyline, The Journals of Musan was always going to be an incredibly dark affair, but it never fails to touch the heart and firmly stays in the mind long after the credits roll.

Park Jung-bum was assistant director on Lee Chang-dong's Poetry (2010) and the effect of working with the master of subtlety (and of arresting gripping drama from the tiniest of moments) clearly shows throughout The Journals of Musan. While Park Jung-bum is not yet in the same league as Lee Chang-dong (and let's face it, who is?), he is, nonetheless, a talent worth looking out for in the future.
Jeon Seung-cheol sadly died of stomach cancer aged just 30 years old, and The Journals of Musan resolutely stands as a fitting and lasting tribute to a good and gentle man who was never really given a proper chance.

Summary:

The Journals of Musan is without question an incredibly dark affair, but it never fails to touch the heart and ultimately stands as a fitting tribute to a gentle man who was never given the chance he truly deserved.

DVD:

The DVD edition reviewed here is the Korean (Region 3) Single Disc Release from Art Service Korea, provided as an anamorphic transfer with an aspect ratio of 1.85:1. There are no image artifacts and no ghosting present, and the picture remains consistently sharp throughout.
The original Korean language soundtrack is provided as Dolby Digital 5.1 or Dolby 2.0, and is bright and clear throughout.
Excellent subtitles are provided for the main feature, but English speaking viewers should be aware that there are no English subtitles available for any of the DVD extras.

Right from the way that Jin and Bin dress (Jin in a functional tracksuit, Bin in a "fairytale princess" dress), through to their actions and reactions, it is clear from early on that the personalities of the two sisters couldn't be more different: Though Jin is physically (and mentally) older than Bin, she is much more introverted, less open and trusting, and it is obvious that the responsibilities with which she has been burdened at such a young age have weighed heavily on her. Bin, by contrast, is much more optimistic - always ready to play, to explore, to try new things and talk to new people - and though she looks up to, and is largely looked after by, her sister, in the end her outlook on life plays as large a part as Jin's down-to-earth, business-like attitude does, in pulling both characters through the situations with which they are presented, and in their ultimate discovery of where happiness and contentment truly come from.

Jeong-hae's past is depicted in a series of flashbacks and these are beautifully (and deliberately) understated - often with no explanation as to who is shown or where the scene fits into the overall picture - but each is so exquisitely crafted that no explanation is ever necessary. Case in point: Jeong-hae finds an old book which has been used to set one of her plants on and, as the book is badly soiled, she orders a replacement at the local book store. When the new copy is delivered, she briefly flicks through the pages and we are shown the memories it brings to her mind in a small flashback scene. Lasting only seconds (and with no dialogue), it is nonetheless perfectly clear not only who the person in the scene is, but also the relationship of that character to Jeong-hae, as well as a complete picture of what subsequently happened to them. Different flashbacks appear throughout the length of the film (some relatively subdued, others utterly frenetic), with the movement between them and present day events so natural that each feels like a journey through Jeong-hae's mind. Together these "memories" add up to a complete, and comprehensive, back-story which allows Jeong-hae's present situation to take on a much greater emotional resonance than would otherwise have been possible and to elicit viewer empathy to an astounding degree.

Cinematically, This Charming Girl (the original Korean title translating as A woman, Jeong-hae) lies somewhere between art film and fly-on-the-wall documentary, but is stronger than either, thanks to director Lee Yoon-ki's ability to make the hand-held camera work intimate, almost to the point of intrusion, while never allowing the camera to be conspicuous. The result is akin to actually being in the scene, a voyeur on the edge of proceedings, with the unfolding drama feeling palpably real. In fact, the only time during the whole of This Charming Girl that I was consciously aware of sitting, watching a film, was in a scene featuring a drunken young man in a restaurant, and the subsequent motel scene. That's not to say that either of those segments is necessarily less accomplished (and both are required for a specific plot twist), but more that the rest of the film is so astoundingly well made that they stand out as (ever so slightly) weaker by comparison. The aforementioned hand-held camera work used throughout the film is never overdone and will really only be noticeable to those specifically looking for it, but its underlying effect results in a huge boost to the realism present.

Jung-won knows that a future with Da-rim is impossible, no matter how much he wants to be with her, and the heartbreaking choice of either telling her the full extent of his situation and illness, or quietly backing away from the blossoming relationship without explanation, increasingly weighs on his mind more than his illness itself.
Da-rim, being utterly unaware that Jung-won is unwell, repeatedly battles to understand why he seems so reticent to allow her to get closer to him, and his lack of explanation, far from saving her from pain, leaves her believing that she is simply being rejected. From her point of view, his seemingly uncaring attitude only serves to make her feelings of hurt cut even more deeply and, in fact, by far the most poignant scenes in Christmas in August all centre around the hurt caused to the two main characters by this lack of explanation, and the resultant confusion of feelings and misunderstandings.

Cast:

Han Suk-kyu gives a polished and accomplished performance as Jung-won. Early on in proceedings, his character's repeated smiles and happy demeanor appear to be a little overplayed, but it quickly becomes obvious that that apparent overplaying is, in fact, Jung-won's attempts to hide the extent of his illness from those around him, and that Han Suk-kyu has deliberately placed the slight "fakeness" into his portrayal of the character. As the poignancy of the storyline builds, his performance becomes all the more nuanced and perfectly understated, resulting in an utterly memorable character depiction.
Shim Eun-ha's portrayal of Da-rim is exquisite, feeling absolutely real from start to finish. Her performance in Christmas in August played a large part in cementing her place as one of the most popular actresses in South Korea, and watching the multitude of feelings which she is able to effortlessly convey with a tiny gesture or facial expression, it is easy to see why.
Shim Eun-ha stopped acting when she got married in 2001 (to become a successful artist) but, to this day, many still wait patiently in the hope that she will return to acting at some point in the future.

Summary:

One of Hur Jin-ho's most accessible films, Christmas in August is a heartfelt, poignant and affecting story of love and loss, in which the words "I love you" never need to be said.

Cast

Han Suk-kyu

Shim Eun-ha

Goo Shin

Oh Ji-hye

Lee Han-wi

DVD

The DVD edition reviewed here is the UK (Region 0) Tai Seng Entertainment single disc edition. The film itself is provided as an anamorphic transfer with an aspect ratio of 1.85:1 and there are no image artifacts (and no ghosting) present.
The original Korean language soundtrack is provided as Stereo 2.0 and is crisp and clear, if unremarkable.
The musical score is well balanced and reasonably nuanced, complimenting the visuals beautifully throughout.
Excellent subtitles are provided for both the main feature and all of the extras.