All of my past self-obsessed ramblings about the artform and my current snapshots.
All of Hong’s characters share a existence across the same universe, living time and again; sometimes as free-spirited women who are foreign to the way of cinema’s scale and sometimes as married directors who frequent showers of unrequited love and desert affection for flings of cyclic infidelity.
The typical nature of a Hong zoom is provocative, with each inspection resulting in a separate personal narrative. In the following shots, a distrust of relatives drives our characters, if not into another country, at least into another place temporarily until the scandalous uncle has turned himself in; hinting slightly at a case similar to Hong’s own Night and Day (2008). If not entirely true, it can be said that all of Hong’s characters share a polymorphic existence across the same universe, living time and again; sometimes as free-spirited women who are foreign to the way of cinema’s scale and sometimes as married directors who frequent showers of unrequited love and desert affection for flings of cyclic infidelity. Although the description might be one-note, his films are not. Shortly after the completion of his film, In Another Country (2012), Hong was given total freedom by the production to make a short with a third of the same cast.
Somewhat vaguely, the beginning feels similar to In Another Country as Jung Yu-mi’s character (Mihye) compiles a list of things she wants to occupy herself with during this temporary trip instead of recounting her experience into a screenplay trisected by thematic variance. In the next shot, the list is superimposed on the landscape and after a few lingering moments, the narrative shifts to her mother expression her worry about Mihye’s marriage and finding a partner. Soon they meet Yoo Jun-sang, a director whose recently released film was considered a national success. A rhythmic use of focus and witty conversation suggests the space between these people is formed of assumptions. Mihye and her mother imagine the director’s life to be starlit, happiness aplenty but Hong rejects this imagined elevation by a simple game of badminton where both characters are equally affected by wind but nonetheless enjoy the game and company; cinema out of context being vulnerable to the context of its circumstance.
The director and Mihye connect in the events of a loose date accompanied by her mother. Now he is recognized for his modesty and kindness, and her beauty is appreciated as special. The two hold hands in an attempt to digest the other’s intricacies. Mihye confides in him that she is scared of her mother. The director promises to take her away first thing in the morning. Slowly this unusual proposition from a Hong film stands out, drifting away from a constructed emotional semblance. As the shot lingers for a few moments of them looking at each other lovingly, I’m reminded of The Turning Gate, the aspect ratio wordplay in Virgin, the remaining fish in Kangwon Province, and perhaps the materializing fact that love is a fantasy of other people, of other films where the creator is not as critically honest of their human shortcomings. Hong’s notion of love is a far-fetched dream whose existence is limited to the plane assembled by the nuances of creative thought and the gentle touches of a paper and pen.
Minuscule, misleading assumptions tease our confused capacity amidst self-doubt, we adopt habits but change very little, only for a point of saturation to illusion a state of betterment.
Minuscule, misleading assumptions tease our confused capacity amidst self-doubt, we adopt habits but change very little, only for a point of saturation to illusion a state of betterment. In all truth, it is the same world, yesterday and today, all that has materialized itself is a suspension of disappearing energy. Dreams melt to disappointment and desires sublimate to compromises; some of these even self-caused, partially or wholly, manipulation. Sources to inspire are many but so are the fears that we, artists and survivors of an increasingly fallible life, permit shapes to; various concatenations of our insecurities and sullen thoughts of what could-be(s). Yuasa here is eccentrically obvious and gleefully voracious, so much so that by the end of the 90 minute explosive implosion of passion, change and existentialism, I am rendered utterly speechless and thoughtless — stolen of my capability of self-evaluation and more so, bereft of any inherited lessons, of the many he is concerned with — the experience remains just as cathartic as when I first laid eyes on this blessing of a director.
Mind Game on the surface feels like a refutation of the denied-existence to fear but there is a lot more to find as you go deeper. It is invaluably enchanting when it adds time as a factor to its showcases of the infinite possibilities, honest when it juxtaposes the acquired inference with the factual standpoint, and powerful when it puts egotism against generosity and how the former curbs appreciation stand in the way of the latter. In one of the first scenes of the movie, Nishi’s message on the phone says: “Your life is the result of our own decisions.” And with pleasure, Yuasa forms a surreal story around it and adds countless bottles of absurd humour to it. I am not even sure if Mind Game is something that believes to be consumed the way I do — trying to linearly capture its essence, only to be end up lost in its fountain of delivery. After all, it’s the emotion that has been remnant, pointing to caveats of my own plans while simultaneously triggering the zeal in an attempt to overcome fear — be it ephemeral or superficial but it is something which reminds me that the story never ends.
Writer-Director Christopher Nolan’s works have ranged from adolescent hormonal epidemics to pure sensory experiences of three-dimensional explanations, but what we have here is a neo-noir experiment that [...]
Writer-Director Christopher Nolan’s works have ranged from adolescent hormonal epidemics to pure sensory experiences of three-dimensional explanations, but what we have here is a neo-noir experiment that heightens reality in short but effective Danny Boyle-esque adrenaline thrills while delivering stunning results in its tinkering with the medium.
The often pondering Bill and his transitions of insecurity caught my eye; the camera insulates characters and especially Bill (and his conversations with the characters) by repeatedly drawing focus to very personal moments as the daft theft of underwear, inquisitive interludes or adapting imposed lifestyles caused by fright or mere manipulation. It’s also because Bill is timid that his timidness rules his decisions. More often than not boredom leads to a singular obsession and then that obsession parents many others. Following plays out like a simple account on the events surrounding the fixation but then there are the organic intercepts that furloughs gimmicks and introduces additional powerful layers.
“In a compelling story of this genre we are continually being asked to rethink our assessment of the relationship between the various characters, and I decided to structure my story in such a way as to emphasize the audience’s incomplete understanding of each new scene as it is first presented.”
Nolan’s use of non-linear devices isn’t a shocking revelation. The utility does not feel as groundbreaking as it should because an average film viewer is introduced to the filmmaker first by his grand-scale reckonings, of which every one has ended up in the IMDb top 250, a scale who’s credibility has long faded.
However, Following is different. What makes his first feature stand out is the cerebral terror (later revisited in Dunkirk in its most untarnished form). The twisted characters and their ravenous plots seem to append a sense of personal loss to the whole drama. The burglary here isn’t necessarily an outburst of materialistic gratification but the philosophy thereof is in the depriving of things that eventually mark a degradation in their emotional resonance. These particular objects may validate picayune value over the years but once taken can precipitate change. The same is the case with Bill and Cobb wherein Cobb steals from Bill his overlooked boredom and instigates compelling addiction in return. The eerie score advances the atmosphere into foreboding psychological darkness and recalls the cunning anonymity of Cobb who silently disappears into the crowd of unknown faces as does a waking bird into the crimson horizon. Few directors could achieve the lingering moral paucity and Nolan, smartly combining lighting with location, proves to be one with skill.
Windows open, angel outside. Should I be careful or should I be honest? Pretense first, candour later. The first time Hong uses reflections for inquisition wherein the wrong segment, Ham is the only one who looks in the mirror; a stance as of reminiscing how far-flung has his self-deception grown, a manufactured stew of despondency. This despondency, quite visible, in the the awkward silences of the bar; seems to be the suppressed recoil of personal ebullience, its cost apparently negligible until later reassessed. Dire recalls of hysteria appear in the later friends sequence, to further the universal ignorance of spreading moral decay. Improvisation supersedes admittance wherein here, even that is rare, covered by later attempts to pursue what the delusion believes is still probable.
Tables turn, the coffee shot starts from full zoom as opposed to the closing in of the first half. We discard the babbling hypocrisy of the male and question the newlywed despondence of Yoon. Until we know the sadness has been a mark of her character whose necessity are social meetings but to really connect over a conversation is a friend; of whom she has none. Ham is candid now, perhaps to the extent of being blunt but it is alright. This alternate diptych imagines a no-bullshit worldview and applies it to both the leads. Until we reach the hotel scene, we know nothing about Ham except that we already feel like we do. He confesses then and there, after the drinks that get him drunk (as opposed to the fake real man stature of “I never got drunk in my entire life”) about what could happen. The transparency is invigorating, romantic and yet unbearably sad. Hong brings up the could-be(s) of his characters and makes them dream further.
Mirrors again but this time we see reflections of both, smiling in sadness. The picture now is realistic, a 1:1 hash sum of the people looking in it. By the time we reach the friends sequence, people have, too, started seeing Ham for his innocent honesty. Hong also speaks about the attachment of art to its artist, how the detachment only works when the artist is absent; you dethrone the art, you hurt the artist too. Ham’s comment on Yoon’s work stings. It comes from what he actually feels about the painting opposed to what he felt about the artist because this time around, he’s fascinated by the artist but not so much by the art. The difference being the attention that he invests in each iteration. The out-of-nowhere Ham’s strip makes Yoon laugh in fascination of the peculiarity because although his reactions may be weird or unprecedented, they are beautifully natural.
The thing that surprises me the most is how Right Now, Wrong Then is a refutation of On The Occasion of Remembering The Turning Gate in its drama while indicating the structural bewilderment of Virgin Stripped Bare By Her Bachelors in its title (both irrefutably brilliant films, by the way). Hong’s obsession with the formal remodeling of his own life augments to the point where his main character is openly labeled a womanizer, dating actresses after marriage and standardizing speech to the extent of insincerity, but he somehow gets Yoon to call him a real man even in his perfidy. How stinging it must be to keep pushing needles into one’s skin just so you can illusion yourself into believing that you could have lived it different. Cinema, son-seng-neem, please don’t stop directing.
Flowers are overrated. Happiness is over-sought. A removed line from Johar’s screenplay reads “[1]Khushi ka kya hai? Gham ke aas paas hi to bhatakti hai.” Alizeh’s gift to Ayan is a literal bed of thorns, capsizing any tincture of lust or leading attraction in their vessel of hugs, but Ayan, although subconsciously aware of the kinesis, is not ready for the its materiality. Thereby, denial and rebellion ignite the man-child envy. “[2]Tum meri nahi ho sakti toh kiski bhi nahi hosakti”, says Ayan, wishing fatalities on both Alizeh and her fiancé, hours before their wedding ceremony, looking past the establishment of him being the sole bolster from Alizeh’s side, and that, silence’s precedence over angst may have been better expression.
This is how Karan Johar chooses to introduce layers in his characters; introducing flaws betwixt the ante of an awaited antidote. The spontaneity shines through the leads’ prowess over their language of expression and then it is dissected in equally magical proportions by their intimate gestures. Note that Ayan is first a charming crybaby who learns of real connection and compatibility, and then takes (/transforms) it for (/to) love — possessive and demanding. Not the other way around, a far more interesting take but Johar hardly cues the Sang-Soo esque, when this is an already tremendous diversion from his comfort zone. When Ayan interrupts Alizeh’s wedding and walks away in rejection — as a viewer, I immediately fell back on his initial exchanges with Alizeh, “[3]Rona se better koi cheez bani hai kya?”
Karan says that the heart is not only enticed by the surreal image but also the moments that stretch between pursuit and attainment of the image make it bleed in hysteric ecstasy. When Ayan calls Alizeh, his first question is not, “[4]Tu kaisi hai?” but it is “[5]Tune sex kiya na?” One of the lines from Arijit Singh’s lyrics read, “[6]ye ek tarfa mera safar, safar khubsoorat hai manzil se bhi” and that is all, I think, one needs to know to compile Karan’s charts on obsessive-masculinity.
Labelling intimacy as love does not a relationship make. If depending on someone defines your relationship with them, does that love count as support or is it a weakness? Colossally structured concatenations of hearts shatter and fall in crossroads of an erratic existence; the whole puppetry is as superficial to a viewer without reflection as it is cathartic to someone consequential to its weight. Masks cast a disguise upon the face, schematic identifiers and skins of shallow proportions existing for numerous purposes — one that love adores, one that abhorrence dissolves, and one for social recognition. However, could you bisect one’s identity for a tantrum of the heart, when all it costs to break the act is a sincere glance of the eyes? Guess not, but it is a frequented habit nonetheless. Why? Why does love cry, why does love hurt? Acceptance is the only answer, and the one satisfying all equations of Karan Johar’s quasi-three hour explosion of unrequited love dressed in squares of chagrin and grief.
It starts with the beauty of the blu-ray menu where one first confronts Arijit Singh and his titillating vocal feasts on melancholy. You wonder if the bits heard would make it to the film and stay relevant through the runtime, and man, does it feel fresh!
Ayan Sanger introduces himself as rich while Alizeh says she is wealthy. Ayan says he can sing in to the cues of Mohammad Rafi while Alizeh’s pragmatic worldview dissents self-praise. Ayan weeps when his relationship with Lisa Haydon (arousing “Vaatavaran”, by the way) defaults to a betrayal while Alizeh smiles coyly when confronted, holding within a heartbreak of greater degrees. The strife in their worldviews are eminent but uniting them is an unabashed love of vintage Bollywood. The reenactments, the cheese in the dialogue and catchy music cuddles the two in a frame that constitutes the major part of the film. The same is true for the film though, where most of the “self-masturbatory” malice directs. Some of it is true too when Johar chooses to be more referential towards his brand of films than paying a global homage, but, even then, I see it (especially after reading this interview) as a farewell to a younger Johar and a love letter of modern auteurism to its corny, vulgar and vintage counterpart.
Karan also borrows Ali’s standpoint from Rockstar (“[7]Tumhare awaaz main dard aur mohabbat ka naamo nishan hi nahi tha”) which says that the expression of true art is limited to a personal stature of pain and love. The authenticity of the statement is debatable but the manner of carriage through Ranbir’s performance is splendid; particularly Ayan’s tone change in Alizeh’s wedding, a banal trope in Hindi cinema, salvaged and highlighted as a fresh resource by the director’s choice of theatrics. If it were not for those mediocre pop songs that Arijit Singh forces me to forgive, this would have been a greater product.
“Pyaar mai junoon hai aur dosti mai sukoon hai” [Love has passion but friendship has peace]
As Ayan progresses through the breakup, he meets Saba, a low-key poet funded by her husband’s (Tahir) divorce and her poetry. Soon lust fuels their relationship and Saba, unlike Alizeh, lacks the spontaneous impulsiveness, and accepts the state Ayan is in — broken and yearning. Intriguing, as the surrogate to a critique of superficiality seems to be superficiality itself. Ayan asks Tahir (first Shah Rukh Khan Cameo when he looks old) if loving someone with neither condition nor return is easy. Tahir replies by insisting that his unrequited love for Saba is stronger than a mutual relationship would be because the one-sided love bends only at his command and the authority to feel it does not extend to anyone else. This explanation of the Ek-Tarfa pyaar angle says so much about how volatile and susceptible men are to the whirlpool of feelings. Maybe it is how a broken heart works — realizing value during regret and following reminiscence ignited by polarity.
The disconnection between Alizeh and Saba is intentional and is rather reflective of Ayan’s psychological state than it is a sidetrack. While the camera rested for long shots on Alizeh, Saba’s lust is short-lived and fugitive; further indicating how fleeting Ayan’s time is with Saba and how disconnected a forced reflection can feel. In one of the shots, Saba and Ayan are walking in opposite directions; again a frequented trope in the Johar sphere. Having spent enough time with Ayan, Saba looks back in anticipation of a reciprocal gaze but Ayan simply walks away, smiling in reminiscence. This is not to weigh merits of both the characters but simply to explore their connection to Ayan, who even with Saba thinks of Alizeh so much so that he invites Alizeh for dinner. However, this dinner’s purpose is again a showcase of Ayan’s possessive-manipulation — an act of envy to invoke Alizeh’s feelings for him, which were never there.
Ayan finally hits the jackpot. His self-praise comes true. He can indeed sing to the tunes of Rafi now but hardly at the master’s level; just an internet sensation who rose in the dark of room and shines through uplifting tweets and boosts of YouTube subscribers. This is how Johar portrays failure in ADHM. Ayan’s personal life dragged to a standstill after repeated trials and his dreamed self, a Rafi reality, ends up at a stalemate of popularity and respect; all of which is transitory.
Finally, at the endpoints of ADHM, Ayan finally finds Alizeh. He has all of her to himself (“[8]tum mere khandan ho”) but Alizeh is dying. He then resorts to sacrifice; shaves his head; takes care of her in every turn. The third act works like a pale image of the first, only in its intention, of course; quality will come later. They reunite and rejoice but death keeps lingering past an outburst of emotion. Everything seems to be well until Ayan throws a tantrum again. He falls back on his obtuse attempts of evocation and goes on to say that men and women can never be friends. This is how obsessed men are, in the world of ADHM. They lose every fight of the psyche that might help them change and still expect empathy in celebration of their failure.
Rarely have seen such a sober humanist who does not only hide rich subtext in his tropes but also go as far to invent a new angle for a hated cliché. We have here one of the greatest personal confessions in cinema, shaped to a romantic comedy. Humans love to contradict themselves. Lovers are liars. We say one thing and we mean another. We cry when we are filled in joy and we smile when surrounded by grief. It is this unnecessary complexity we fancy, and garner to be a kin to circumstance. Ae Dil Hai Mushkil mocks time in its final moments, and goes to believe how one song is only a corollary to what came before. The flower enervates, the happiness tires, and what remains is a fleeting recollection of all moments shared in animation.
“Main ek gaana gaun?” [Can I sing a song?]
Key:
Nolan advances into the beach of sterile hope with honesty, and deviates from his imposition of cheap convention that would normally shatter the religious architecture into cumbersome fragments of blatant exposition.
No, it neither is the greatest magic trick nor is it Michael Caine’s advice that eschews violence for the day’s liberation. Nolan advances into the beach of sterile hope with honesty, and deviates from his imposition of cheap convention that would normally shatter the religious architecture into cumbersome fragments of blatant exposition. In this meditative survival epic, Nolan bisects the horizon as the security of shelter which every soul yearns for (“You can practically see it from here”) and as an uncharted jungle where the lush is the waters and the Germans are the wilder peril referred to as “enemies”. However, you never see the enemies. Betwixt the rapid homecoming of ordnance that recoils on every vessel to home, a survival instinct invades the human singularity and converts kindness into cowardice and affection into self-preservation.
Yet the humanity is not lost, the fumes cloud it and the projectiles diminish its expanse but not every soldier submits to the chivalry of desertion and preservation of the battlefield’s drive. Nolan dresses the reluctance to run away as unity and breaks down the integrals of fear into two — one caters towards the massive artillery and the other thirsts to be the saviour of fellowmen. Here, he insists on the existence of hope when all else exhibits a fallible zero. The comradeship is definitive proof that danger does not drive us to betrayal but it stems from our habit of imparting several warrants to greed, to disguise it as primary survival under smokescreens of adrenaline. Hoytema leads an esoteric stare over the sands, slowly ascending into cockpit views to capture the colossal blues of air that are as breathless as the men in the midst of waters are. The bold storytelling with minimal dialogue is new ground for the director but herein, his triumph shows artistic merit — only because of how he chooses to characterize with a candid lens and decorate sporadic little marches into freedom with humanity.
Looking on the other side of the fence, there are remnants of jarring exposition and manipulative tricks hiding under a need of announcement for the characters. When you see men bathed with oil as they swim for shelter and ascend to your own boat, you do not need to announce, “Oil!” When you are hiding in a ship, conversation automatically begins. Identifying the foreigner would then take a couple of minutes by their speech or none thereof, but this particular distinction does not happen until bullets penetrate the shell and fear assumes control. This, I feel, is a third-rate way of progression of which Nolan has been often guilty. More of this tawdry mechanics show when George locks the soldier into a room full of life-saving utilities wherein, the state of the soldier’s mind could easily drive him to a bargain for the opposite way to home.
There are so many soldiers here yet we do not know any of them, even by the proverbial ending. Although the characters in the relief department are blessed with some exploration, there exists a paucity of sincere character development in general. It is surprising to see that after trisecting focus into only three districts — the relief, the airforce and the soldiers, and after further tapering focus into the essential characters, the lack of exploration, which he sacrifices for several stylistic gimmicks comes off as downright embarrassment. I am sure that I will find more faults with a second viewing but I am not done yet. Hans Zimmer, two words: one aesthetic and one loosely pedagogic. We have come far enough to understand Nolan’s fascination with Caine as well as Zimmer but losing Caine has upset him a bit so he maxes out on Zimmer. Therefore, Zimmer’s score is always there and it leaves little space for moments of silent redemption. For something as emotionally charged as Dunkirk, the ubiquitous chords keep at a tensed rehearsal and never allow for any of the several layers of emotion to settle in.
You could argue for the presence of exposition; you could argue that Nolan never wanted us to settle. The strongest of arguments will definitely fail when it comes to how he ends his films. Although abundant with grandeur and profoundly constructed, it is logically volatile. Nolan continues his habit of bypassing constraints of simple cause-to-effect phenomenon with ardent music and stimulating voice-overs, and Dunkirk is no different in that case.
A big part of me celebrates the homecoming of the dramatically rare Nolan and the remainder regrets the residues of his stunts. Time, perception and reality have always been his playmates. In a film that is as thrilling as Dunkirk, he still manages to array those elements cleverly to achieve an exciting result. Ultimately, I am happy; moreover, proud to see Nolan attempt to grasp something that fights his comfort zone. It is a brave attempt, worthy of high praise. At the end of the rescue, the soldiers insist that all they did is survive, and the old man salutes them as saviours. The emphasis on the display of humanity in times of tormenting survival echoes through his characters as human transcendence. Dunkirk is exquisite, moving and grand. It brings me to tears, not because of the scale at which Nolan operates has hit me as he intended it to; it’s because of the wider path he has chosen for himself, from where we are going to see something incredibly different. Although the bricks reek of age, the monument made is essentially new.
A svelte lady waits in a phlegmatic fashion as the wheels carry her and her undisputed weight to a mountain retreat. Although her destined other would carry a two man exposition to the same height but their roads would be dramatically diverse, a symbolic verse to the contrast of their ages. The married one would search for a replacement and delve into an ungrateful sensual paralysis; but as splits of the image fail to capture the allure of the biased pristine, the realization dawned would result in further despondence. Hong pictures a bleaker portrait of our translation into turpitude; betrayal leads to malice, pride excesses birth scoff and their alloy forms a handicap of reciprocation.
Hong’s allegiance to the Asian arthouse genre augments while his fashion in characterization is in a volatile making. The peculiar interactions he chooses to decorate the space with, between discussions and loathe are spectacular. This kind of material would invaluably satiate those whose struggle to make more out of existence has been labeled a constant and those who with experience enough to ruminate at an arm’s length. It is a weak judgement to evaluate his choices without a closer look, because it is often that he unveils symbolism as an unprecedented visual strike, and composes an unfeigned tune to further the blow.
The newer candidates in my whine are obviously the horridly diminished pace and the severe withdrawal of hope amidst desolation. My protest is, of course, with the augmentation of the sardonic pace in unequal halves. Patience rewards you greatly in Hong’s debut but the same endurance sets up an inquiry of unnecessary sequences pertaining to a feeble character genesis, which is dismissed as the focus shifts towards the protagonists. The score is silenced in scenes I feel where the strata of stoicism could have otherwise been better delivered.
One scene in Hong’s debut shows Andy Dufrene’s open arms at an embrace as the fiery drops of rain soak his thin torso, but if you look at the specific portrait closely, the angle transmits a certain loss in vision although the symbol ultimately points to freedom. It is when Hyo-sup is betwixt a visceral rumble, as are his both earpieces dumbfounded at the other’s discovery; the portrait is shown partly, and from what I deduce, this beautiful bastard says it is freedom, yes, but in halves. This disparity is showered throughout his characters, in Pig as well as here. They do have substance, weight but their own inaugurated constraints haunt them and the function is optimized to a minimal requisite in all places it cares to exist. The disguise is a primal ditto, only the scene ravishes through characters positioned in variable footwear. We do not know these characters but they are very much us. We are born as infants, virgin to the repellents of the common fodder, then we grow up, to discover and slowly inherit a paucity of meaning in our lives, and finally, when every road descries the same terminal, we choose to stand in a line of solitary liberation that seldom ends.
Disappointment as surrealism. Change as bizarre. Love as a temporal function. A twisted crossroad welcomes the eminent boiling down of every human concoction — four poets amidst the ephemeral satisfaction of a seraph thrown into the same cubicle as a strident and idiosyncratic heart — not as thirsty but certainly as callous and indulgent. The question of rightful yearning is not a candid inquisition; the depth of its interrogation asks a what if and a what then. If we all covet intimacy, where is our patience to bear its weight when it reeks of fallacy? If we pen forevers as postscripts to our letters of fervour then why does it feel lonesome after a day of delayed response? All of us go through vacations of radical affection yet loyalty barks attenuation as strings tire of circumstance. A variable need of warmth haunts us and as necessity translates into desperation, our radar points towards inequalities with the destined other, and we fall in and out of love as we please, turning to self-anointed labels and badly published edits of insecurity.
Hyo-sup is a writer with little money to get by. His affair with a married woman compels their relationship to occur in chaotic intervals. Although both of them contribute to the relationship, none of them can break through the intricacy of it. The constraints bring out their worst and although, one stays faithful, the other succumbs to mediocrity. I call it the KoC syndrome — to be loved and to be loved every passing moment, impotent of reciprocation and yet in demand of more. The illusory effect of lasting together Hong casts upon his characters is one, which we suffer from regularly. Not per se that the characters are drawn to volatility, the circumstance is a test too heavy for the resistance to withhold. So it (they) breaks, looks for second opinions, chases the baseless something and hurts every string (person) in consequence.
I would argue that Hong’s debut is a dynamic triumph in areas where it flows smooth. The whine here is definitely the abrupt pacing and non-directional flow of the plot. The course feels calculated yet crookedly arrayed in climactic highs. The resulting stretch is apparent and it seeps through the cracks of the dated image. The lack of music is an annoyance too as the light background that once fueled romance is non-existent as a sincere alternative through the later parts where only a tight string is habitually reverberated. Hong seems to be adept at relaying rapport yet inert at delivering its very loss. He fancies a double bill and proceeds with an ambiguous action of loathe. The course of the latter action is a thought of high order but its initiation has a lot to show in the way he ignores certain characterizations.
Hong insists that mediocrity is not just a marker to draw pity, it crystallizes when the worst is to come out. His initial momentum carries a gauzy portrait of a pair of hearts dipped into the fiery bubble of conversation and as one puts the other in arms; it is essentially the most exclusive moment, closer than what the bed or a couple of drinks hold. Judgement does not birth this privacy, no amount of verbal brawls can make it local; only the visceral traction can make it so — however, it is in the human condition to speak when it is not necessary, to betray out of fugitive solitude, to pit senseless battles for pride and ultimately destroy what is beautiful.