Day 6: Turkish Cinema

Turkish cinema is a revelation, and yes it is ironic that I have to come all the way to Korea to see so much of it (what, you think this stuff is available in the US?); I've wolfed down six so far and am in the process of re-viewing a seventh, and they are all wonderful, some of them even great films, and in so many different ways.

Yilmaz Guney's black and white Umut (Hope, 1970) is the kind of introduction to a nation's cinema that a critic both dreams of and dreads--dreams because, well, it's like Ali Baba's cave, you say the magic word and the rock opens up to riches unheard of; dread because you're afraid that with the yardstick set this high, all succeeding films will just be a disappointment.

The story is as simple as one can want: Cabbar (Guney himself--before he began directing he was a popular actor called 'The Ugly King,' because he played so many villains) is a horse carriage driver making a meagre living on the streets of Adana; when one horse is killed by a passing car (it's incredible how thin the line is between survival and sudden catastrophic insolvency), he's forced to try replace it or find another way of supporting his family, all the while trying to hold off his creditors (anyone who's ever had to pay off his credit card debt can empathize) and keep his wife and children alive.

It's not a very cheerful scenario. Guney's camerawork recalls the neorealists at their simplest, and finest. He makes prominent use of the high-angle shot as a way of apprehending the squalor of Cabbar's back yard or the length of a city street at a single glance, and as a way of pointing out to us how, seen from this godlike vantage point, these souls whose lives he's following look like so many ants.

Beyond that is a kind of offhand poetry that Guney sprinkles throughout the film, like so many tossed-off gems. An early sequence has someone washing hands and face, followed by a boy bathing in a basin with a puppy, followed by a woman pouring out water--the boy suddenly picks up the puppy and dunks it in the laundry wash, and is roundly spanked for the offense; going out to play, the children indulge in the cheapest amusement possible, rented bikes, and as they and other children pedal furiously on the sidewalk they form a whirling circle of clattering wheels; when the horse is killed, Cabbar has it loaded on a cart, and brought to a desert (Guney shoots the cart in long shot, trundling under a vast landscape). They find a spot, and (gruesome, yet lovely moment), Cabbar lifts the horse's limbs up and over, a pair of stiff legs at a time, to dump him on the ground.

Beyond that are details that serve to sharpen the drama and pierce the heart. The children are irrepressible imps, and when his wife Fatma (Gulsen Alniacik) sends one out to buy salt, he promptly spends the money on biking; the mother slaps him, the father gives the child money to buy salt again and bike some more, the mother throws up her hands and says (not unjustifiably) "I wish I was dead, I wish you were all dead." This is family with all its attendant chaos and energy and petty injustices, and it's wonderful comic filler to relieve the grimness of their situation, their own way of coping with their situation without cracking up, and a fiendish setup on Guney's part to make you realize the enormity of what's at stake.

Guney shows you Cabbar's more sensible gambits--how he looks for another job, or asks to borrow money, or tries to cobble together financing to buy a horse. It's like watching a mouse run a wheel; Cabbar exhausts himself without getting anywhere, and you're made aware--without a word of explicit explanation--that it's the system that's destroying him, wearing him down, denying him a way out of a situation that was never his fault in the first place.

When he finally agrees to his friend Hasan's (Tuncel Kurtiz) plan, he's pretty much at the end of his tether. Hasan claims that a Hodja (Osman Alyanak), knows the location of buried treasure, and that for a large fee the holy man will guide them; Guney records the putting together of the hunting expedition in great detail; every lira spent on shovels and pickaxes and celebratory kebabs (the scene of the family going out on a once-in-a-lifetime eating spree could have come straight out of Stroheim's Greed), every assurance Cabbar makes to his wife that soon she'll be rolling in wealth comes off as so pathetic it would be hilarious, if it wasn't so horrifying. With promises of riches to come, Cabbar of course talks about a house and new clothes, but throws in a brand new horse and carriage (even in his wildest dreams, he can't imagine himself being anything more than a carriage driver).

Cabbar' best friend Hasan is the devil, of course; in the best diabolical fashion he pops into the frame filled with Cabbar' anguished face and whispers the most absurd notions into his ear (like robbing a man who understands not a single word of Turkish). so when he talks of the devil being a queer thing, and gives advice on how to avoid him, I have to laugh; his lack of self-awareness or irony is immense. He and the Hodja make a superb Laurel-and-Hardy team, as they weave a web of delusion and damnation around poor Cabbar.

Perhaps the most harrowing moment comes near the film's end, when at one point Cabbar stops his digging into the desolate landscape (the images Guney creates here--twisted, leafless trees; Cabbar and Hasan in silhouette against a flaming sky; the dug hole widening and deepening--a symbol of their growing collective delusion--is well nigh unforgettable), and starts to moan and shriek; he's spent most of his savings on this venture, and kept at it for over thirty days when he promised to be back in ten. Hasan and Hodja agree he's cracked, and that he'll recover when the treasure is found (the irony of this offhand remark is staggering), but actually he's starting to go sane--he's realized what he's done to himself and his family, and the enormity of it is so overwhelming he must give it voice. Great film, easily the best of the collection.

That said, my dread (that everything that follows will be anticlimactic) was unwarranted. Suru (The Herd), made nine years later, is the near-epic story of a tribe of Kurdish shepherd that travels from their Southeastern province to Ankara, the capital, to sell their sheep. Ostensibly directed by Zeki Okten, it's really Guney's film; by this time he was in prison, and was directing it from prison with Okten's help.

The film begins with a quick discussion summing up the situation so far: the Halilan tribe and Veysikan tribe are feuding; Hamo (Tuncel Kurtiz) is all for continuing the feud, perhaps wiping out the other tribe, but is held back by the marriage of his son Sivan (Taric Akan) to Berivan, a Veysikan (Melike Demirag). Sivan and Berivan's marriage used to be seen as the best hope for peace between the two communities, but even that is in doubt now, as Berivan has lost all her children. Hamo accuses her of killing them, a monstrous thought; it's not clear whether the accusation comes out of his disappointment at not having grandchildren, or his desire to openly fight the Veysikans.

Guney's attitude towards these people is perhaps the most interesting facet of the film; you can see his sympathy towards them and their plight, and his anger at those who take advantage, the same time you see his anger and perhaps even contempt for their apparent helplessness and superstition (Hamo repeatedly blaming their bad luck on poor Berivan, for example). He shows Hamo to be a constantly bitter, tightfisted tyrant, unable to give up enough money to fully fund his daughter-in-law's treatment, unyielding in his contempt for Veysikans, yet it's that very stubbornness that helps keep the tribe together through their miles of journey by train. Sivan is loving, loyal, tender to his mute wife (after losing her children, she's somehow unable to speak), yet in one startling scene he pleads with her to talk to him, to make a sound; when she fails to do so he beats her. "Tell me not to hit you!" he yells as he pounds and flails away; the rage is shocking because it's so clearly fueled by his love and frustrated hopes--the only thing needed to start the violence blazing is a momentary lapse of self-restraint.

Again as with Umut there's this offhand lyricism. Footage of the Kurds' daily life)--playing, tanning hides, grilling breads, stirring stews over open flames; the train passing through one gorgeous landscape after another; the sheep as a long, snaking presence padding through the streets and grasslands. The symbols are not overly insisted on but are there if you wish to see them, and richly evocative--Berivan's birds in a cage, a metaphor for her own improbable, impossible beauty; the sheep, in their way--in their fragility and expense--the tribe's greatest enemy and most relentless tormentor; and Berivan herself, whose mute sterility represents the tribe's prospects for survival in a modern urban world. Then there's the depiction not so much of outright villains (odd, considering Guney became famous as an actor often playing villains), but of desperate men fighting an entire system.

Guney himself is a fascinating figure; perhaps the rough equivalent in Philippine cinema would be Lino Brocka, in his use of melodrama and neorealist techniques to create urgency and immediacy in his films. And in fact with Yol--another picture Guney directed from prison--Guney was in direct competition with Brocka's Jaguar for the 1982 Cannes Palme d'or; Guney won, a matter that Brocka reportedly took to heart, and Brocka's films ever since have become more and more politically provocative.

(and that's it for now; more Turkish films later)

Jeonju 5: 2 Films, and The World According to Tony Rayns

Im Sang Soo's The Old Garden is a love story set against the aftermath of the Gwangju Uprising between a socialist on the run and the woman hiding him, his eventual capture and incarceration, and their ultimate separation. It's a simple story, plainly told, but what makes it affecting are the performances and particular details--the context and circumstance of their coming together and forcing apart and the precisely calibrated way their characters respond. The man (Ji Jin-hee) is taciturn when sober, ranting mad when drunk. The girl (Yum Jung-ah) matter-of-factly gives herself to the man, then grows increasingly bitter because he refuses to be content with the relative safety and considerable comfort of her home, looking constantly to Seoul and his friends there as they are hunted down one by one.

Characterization is substantial, and subtler than what you might expect to find in a melodrama (it's based on a novel by prizewinning author Hwang Sok-yong, who spent much of the 80s in exile). Im Sang Sook helps by telling the story at a relatively understated emotional pitch, cutting loose only for the man's capture (an action sequence involving tunnel and motorbike--and steel pipe--all the more wrenching for its slow build up and startling release), and during an insurrection where kids barricaded themselves into a building tossing cocktails down on riot police, and the police fight back with tear gas rockets and meter-long truncheons (at one point Im photographs the police moving around in the gas clouds, their silhouettes suggesting armored creatures from space). A moving (if somewhat conventional) film that, thanks to no small part the performances, rings true.

Lee Kang-hyun's The Description of Bankruptcy is a documentary essay on the credit situation in Korea. It begins with a collage of sounds and images that coalesces into a series of testimonies on how people are persuaded and wooed take on more credit card debt, hounded for payment and sucked dry on mounting interest cost. Lee intercuts this with other footage to create powerful juxtapositions--an East Asia Economic Summit, where rich foreigners sip champagne and laugh, or a concert commemorating the June Resistance, celebrating the victory of democracy and justice when the struggle is yet unfinished.

Afterwards, at a party--well, Tony Rayns can always be depended on to hold forth on a few iconoclastic if not shocking views on the world, politics, and the State of World Cinema at the Moment, and last night was no exception. The following is a collage sample of maybe a fraction of what Tony said last night, and definitely represents his views, not mine--and maybe not completely his, as I was a touch tipsy from Korean wine, not to mention my first cigarette in, god, four, maybe five years...?

He considers France's cinema to be in deep trouble. Fewer people are buying tickets to watch arthouse films, and the reason why Cahiers du Cinema is coming out with an English online version is because fewer and fewer French have been reading it. Yes, France likes to think it's the great center for cinephilia, but that's mainly momentum and tradition.

India, well, he says attempts of India to expand its audience worldwide just aren't working out. Nothing will change in India, because the society doesn't change. There is a flexibility with the middle or upper classes, yes, but the lower classes remain the same, and will remain that way. 'Bollywood' will always have its mass audiences, but it won't grow further, and may shrink some, thanks to television...

Japan--that's been in trouble for decades. I pointed out animation, though, and he had to agree with me there--animation remains strong and is actually penetrating the American market.

Only South Korea has a 70% share of its nation's market; that is unique in the world right now, outside of the USA. Since their democratization in 1993 the country has shown a great hunger for films of all kinds, which is why Pusan when established found its tickets selling out and its theaters showing all kinds of fare--foreign, silent, documentary, what-have-you--packed. Other festivals have sprouted; film magazines too. South Korea, he declared, is the most cinephilic nation in the world, and while the surge was strongest in the '90s, it's reached the point right now where its growth is stable.

More, South Korea's influence is growing--in Japan it used to be fashionable to display all things Korean; entire shops were devoted to Korean actors. Korean films and television were being shown all over Asia (and I confirmed that, yes, Korean TV and actresses were popular in the Philippines). Korea in effect occupies the same position Hong Kong's films used to have--better, since the Koreans are more media savvy, and have more venues (cable, the internet) than Hong Kong had in the '80s. The craze in Japan is over now--a passing fad--but Korea's film industry continues strong.

If you talk to Korean film industry people, they'll tell you that the industry is in trouble, that everything is unstable. But, Rayns pointed out to them, they can't see more than three months ahead, or backwards: two years before people talked of a slump; then a moderately budgeted historical drama came out and broke all records to become the most popular film in Korean history. Then The Host came out, and did better than that. After such a phenomenal surge, it's only natural for the boxoffice to slump.

Korea's films are strong in all respects--commercial features, independents, digital, documentaries, shorts, animation. Before this it was just an outpouring of talent, long held back by the military regime; now it's a reflection of the country itself, which is changing rapidly socially and economically. I asked if it'll continue; he said (and I can't disagree with him) nothing continues forever; this will change. But at the moment, it's sustainable.

Korean has a strong and lively independent film movement; Japan as a lot of indie filmmakers too, but like their Sundance counterparts, there's a parochialism, an inwardness and innocence and ignorance to their filmmaking that makes their product so bad. All they know is how to tell their own lives, indulge their own appetites for sex and violence, use their friends in their films.

China has a strong independent movement--and film industry--but it's being choked by censorship. The independent filmmakers depend on international festivals and sources for funding, and it's not a healthy situation for a filmmaking community. In India only the state of Kerala gives significant support to its filmmakers, so they continue to work (Adoor Gopalakrishna seems to remain active). But Adoor's films aren't being shown anywhere else, even inside of India (you can't get a DVD in New Delhi, for example). His films need film festivals in order to be seen.

Will China emerge as the new Hollywood? Maybe, but first it has to work out its issues with Hollywood, which is furious at the fact that, say, the day a new Spiderman comes out in the US two days later there are pirated copies being sold in China for a dollar. The government keeps a stranglehold on the Chinese market--only 20 films a year, from the entire world--and Hollywood struggles to get as many of its films on those twenty slots. They want that changed. All other films are shown in China in pirated copies. They want that changed too.

Rayns also had this little Oscar anecdote: in 1994 three Asian films were nominated--Chen Kaige's Farewell My Concubine, Ang Lee's The Wedding Banquet, Anh Hung Tran's The Scent of Green Papaya; the winner was Fernando Trueba's Belle Epoque. At his acceptance speech, Trueba said a very odd (and oft-remarked) thing: "I'd like to thank God, but I don't believe in God, so I'd like to thank Billy Wilder." All this has been noted and known and written about.

What isn't as well known is that Wilder was a friend of Trueba; more, Wilder had previously called every one he knew in the Academy and actively campaigned for Belle Epoque and against the Asian films. "No, don't vote for Farewell, it's not good, I've seen it and I don't understand it. Vote for Belle, it's much more like my films..." Beyond its other issues, Tony said, China is going to have to deal with racism, too.

Jeonju, day 4: The Go Master (2006); Who's That Knocking at My Door? (2007)

You don't know what you have even when it's in front of you; that's the truism that popped into my mind after reading the amazing critical reception given to Tian Zhuangzhuang's latest film on Go-playing legend Wu Qingyuan, as typified by this short scribble by NYT's AO Scott. How many times have we complained about biopic cliches, especially sports biopics and in particular chess biopics? The hyped-up action sequences; the impossibility of giving the audience any sense of the game's shape and rhythms and strategies; the need for a big finish and win--or at least a Pyrrhic victory that shows the hero's a winner at heart.

And when we finally get a film that avoids all those cliches, finds a subject matter that sidesteps the need for such cliches and develops a whole other approach towards illuminating that subject? We get cliched complaints about 'lack of drama' and "dull 'n stately."

acquarello of Strictly Film School has it right, I think; it uses techniques similar to Hou Hsiao Hsien's to depict a "humble, yet remarkable life lived in the periphery of turbulent human history"--Bertolucci's anti-drama The Last Emperor, in effect, done on a far smaller scale, and this time done right.

Actually there's no lack of conventional drama unconventionally (and superbly) realized: when Wu steps into a roomful of cheering Japanese, he smiles uncomprehendingly until a board is paraded into the room displaying a map of China, the Japanese flag spread all over its northeast territories like small pox;when his wife informs him that she's leaving the religious sect they are both part of, Zhuangzhuang cuts to a long shot of the bus Wu is riding as it stops and lets Wu out; he starts walking back, hesitates, turns, walks towards the long-departed bus, hesitates, turns, and sinks to the ground in frustration.

Wu's relationship with his Japanese wife Kazuo is a prime example of Zhuangzhuang's obscure style. We never see the two kiss, or caress each other, or flirt or tease or whisper sweet nothings into the other's ear; instead, Zhuangzhuang gives us an episode where the two go buy a sack of potatoes--Wu lifts the sack up, has trouble, uncomplainingly accepts his wife's assistance. Not a word is said, and the two don't even come into direct physical contact (their bodies are more intimately involved with the sack), but a more sharply poignant image of love and shared hardship I have not seen in recent films.

Key to the film's approach is the way Zhuangzhuang shoots the matches: spare, zenlike sketches where every detail (the clack of stone on wood block, a flash of lightning illuminating the board) stands out in stark contrast to the surrounding serenity, then cuts away from the action to focus on his real concerns. The complexity of Go is suggested, never shown; a few brief details (shots of the bewilderingly complex game board; mention of Wu's innovative 'Four Corner Star' strategy, early in the film), but not much beyond that, which actually adds to the fascination: a sense of mystery surrounds the game (the rules are actually simple enough; it's the tactics used that are incredibly complex).

Zhuangzhuang not just shifts focus from the conventional priorities of a sports biopic, but shapes his storytelling to reflect the nature of the game--if in Go the goal is to 'take territory,' usually in the corners, where boundaries help make the conquest easier, then take the sides using the corners for boundary, then the center using sides and corners for boundary. his film follow a similarly elliptical arc. He begins by focusing on disparate physical details (sounds, shapes, textures, even smell (someone at one point farts during a game; the audience titters before turning full attention back on the board) and facial expressions (or relative lack of)), establishes their significance (at one point, a physically incapacitated player insists on getting up because he needs to "watch while my oponent ponders!") before making a stab at attacking the inner essence of a man playing the game.

Chang Chen's performance embodies the essence of Go playing. Outside of competition he's a geek with thick glasses, waddling around in a ducklike gait as he shuffles out of peoples' way. In competition he has the intensity of a world champion, with a laser beam stare and ears that shut out all other distracting sounds and voices. To understand his character you need to understand not the game but the kind of mindset focused on winning the game; any change of circumstance in his life (fallen opponents, unstable religious figures, a world war) he responds to with a blinkered look, incapable of understanding how such a thing--how such a betrayal--can be visited upon him.

Unlike recent examples such as Inarritu's Babel, Yang Heah-hoon's Who's That Knocking On My Door? does the we-are-all-interconnected bit (two couples and a renegade are tied together by a dead body and the internet) with deadpan flair and a genuine sense of perversity. The director creates characters interesting enough to draw you in--a bullied student who locks himself in his bedroom and plots revenge online, a hyperchondriac zookeeper with strong psychotic tendencies--and grounds them in enough realistic, understated detail that you find yourself accepting his rather unique sensibility, a mixture of roughly equal parts Larry Clark, Robert Bloch, Kurosawa Kiyoshi. Objects and motifs fly about--a flute, a dart gun, a cellphone camera, a ball of crumpled paper (the film gives the ball a fetishistic quality that recalls the fluttering plastic bag in American Beauty, only where Mendes' footage was mostly dull, Yang achieves real existential horror)--all overlaid by the tapping of computer keyboards. Online remarks creep across the screen, giving advice, offering condolence, threatening vigilante justice; at one point Yang fashions a terrifying episode involving a stolen light bulb and a gang of angry stall owners that has you by turns rooting for and crying out against the psychotic hyperchondriac.

But it isn't all clever plot twists and shock value; there's a sharp poignancy to the characters' loneliness, and a generosity of spirit to everyone, even the sexually predatory bully, that makes you confident whatever new wrinkle the plot may acquire, the director won't 'cheat'--that is, he won't twist without prior preparation, and said twist won't take the most conventional, least interesting direction.

The film ends as it begins, with a figure balanced precariously on ice. The figure, facing a hole in said ice, walks carefully around the hole, the ice around him creaking and threatening to give way. It's as neat an image as anything one might think of to summarize the director's view of life--as a creaking, threatening brittle medium on which to skate, carefully avoiding the open breaks.

Jeonju Days 2 & 3: Jiri Menzel, and Tony Rayns' naughty bits

Hanok Village

One co-juror turned out to be Czech filmmaker Jiri Menzel--Closely Watched Trains (lovely, rueful, funny, tragic comedy), Larks on a String--accompanied by his beautiful wife, Olga. Mr. Menzel was quiet at first, but managed to get him talking by mentioning Karel Capek."My favorite writer," he said; "not just the play, but his novels, short stories, journal pieces."

"My brother helped produce Capek's play in Manila." I explained about my Evil Identical Twin.

"Really? It has not improved with time, I'm afraid. That play does not speak too much to our times anymore."

"But you do like Capek?"

"Oh, I like his plays, but his novels--there is this book, The War with Salamanders that fits the present day so much better. Humans discover that salamanders are intelligent and can be taught to work. They use them as a source of cheap labor. The salamanders revolt, and eventually take over the world--ironically with help from the humans, who can't resist sellingthem the necessary arms."

"That sounds like China right now."

"In the book, the Chinese are involved in the foolishness."

Later, I asked him: "so where do you keep your Oscar statuette?" He smiled and said: "I know of someone--very nice guy, very talented--who keeps his statue on an altar in his house. Mine is in a cabinet. In the cabinet is some old shoes, a pair of skis, some odds and ends. I keep things I never use in that cabinet."

On movies: "I dislike war movies. I used to like them, but now no more. Even anti-war movies like The Deer Hunter are very violent, but they seem to be glorifying war, not condemning it. Somehow the violence is still made very attractive."

"You know what Truffaut said: that the greatest anti-war films are Chaplin's Shoulder Arms and the Marx Brothers' Duck Soup. Because they refuse to take war seriously."

"That's right, I agree! Also, my favorite films are old films. The silents, they never age. The silent comedies, especially."

Mr. Min, the festival director, was kind enough to bring us out to lunch at the city's Old Village, a historical distric full of traditional Korean homes, some of which have become restaurants. We sat in a small hut next to the main house, and the waitress brought dish after dish after dish; Mr. Menzel didn't have much of an appetite, but Olga was interested in everything (no idea how she kept her knockout figure). "This is white kimchi," Mr. Min explained; "and this is crab in chilies and sesame seed." "It's raw," I noted. "Excellent! And much easier to eat than cooked; you just put the crab shell in your mouth and suck out the meat." "What is the yellow?" Olga asked; "Crab fat," I said. "The best part. In the Philippines we fry it up with garlic and pour it over steamed rice. Heart attack fare."



Maybe the highlight of the meal for me was a small dish full of what looked like fish bones, with some meat still on them. This dish I could smell being brought in the room; when I picked it up, it had a distinct rotten fish smell, and the translucent meat indicated it was still raw. "What is it?" I asked; Mr. Min informed me that it was fermented fish bones.



I nibbled on the flesh. Like sashimi, only much saltier, much fishier and maybe left several weeks too long out in the open. "Delicious," I told Mr. Min. Meant it, too.

That afternoon instead of resting for the opening ceremonies, I was talking to the staff. "Call me So," one of them said. "Ah, so!" I said; "how do you say 'hello?"

"An-nyeong haseyo."

"And 'thank you?'"

"Gamsa hapnida."

Then I taught So some Tagalog.

"If you say 'maganda ka' the girl will smile. It means 'you're beautiful.'"

"Oh, good, good!" He was furiously scribbling the words down.

"If you say 'napakaganda ka,' the girl will give you a kiss. It means 'you're very beautiful.'"

"Oh, thank you, thank you!"

"If you say "mayaman ako, kakasalin kita,' the girl will go to bed with you."

"Oh?" So's jaw dropped. "But what does it mean that the word is so powerful?"

"'I'm rich, I'll marry you.'"

"Oh, the romantic style! Very good!" When Chloe, another staffer, approached us, So said: "Maganda ka!"

"That won't work; she's not Filipino."

"What is he saying?" Chloe asked. So explained.

"Oh!" Chloe exclaimed, smiling in embarrassment. "There, see?" I said. "Still works. Just don't use the other words on a Filipina or you'll end up spending the rest of your life in Manila raising ten Korean-Filipino brats."

"Of course, of course!"

Opening ceremonies, I put on the only long sleeve shirt I had--black--and a pair of black pants, and black leather shoes sizes too small from years of neglect. Looked in the mirror and told myself with some grim satisfaction, "you look like a flamenco dancer several hundred pounds overweight." Mr. Menzel came out in a jacket--which beat my flamenco outfit right there, while Olga was gorgeous (and I had to tell her so) in some classy elegant outfit.

Bussed to the arts center or wherever it was; was herded down a long red carpet, Oscar Awards style. While we marched, Mr. Menzel took one look at the arts building and said "it looks like a crematorium." I had to bite my hand to keep from dropping to the carpet from laughter. Our escort stoped us. "Please stand here while the photographers take your picture. Flashes hissed and blazed; I said "now I know what a firing squad feels like."

It wasn't over; at one point during the show (which featured American Idol type ballads, rap dancers, and some kind of avant garde piece using traditional Korean instruments that wasn't at all bad), we were escorted to the stage to say a few words.

When it was my turn, I stepped up to the mike. "An-nyeong haseyo," I said. The crowd roared. "It took the JIFF staff the whole afternoon to teach me that phrase. Anyway, gamsa hapnida for inviting me here. I was asked to judge independent films, and I hope to see many interesting and exciting such films.

"We have a word in Filipino, mabuhay, which means 'long live.' Mabuhay to independent filmmaking and mabuhay the Jeonju International Film Festival."

You should have heard the crowd. For a moment I thought I could run for office in this country.

The opening film, Han Seung-ryong's Off Road, might best be described as Tarantinoesque in structure and sensibility (fractured storytelling; an example of the road genre, complete with appropriate references to other road films; some clever twists). What raises it beyond Tarantino is the director's strong sense of sympathy for his characters, and the sadness that hovers over the whole film.

After the screening and at the reception, a very tall, imposing man strode towards me. "What are you doing here?" I asked. "I always go to Jeonju," Tony Rayns said. "Only this may be the last time."

At which point Rayns and I are kidnapped by a bunch of Korean film industry bigwigs and whisked back into the Old Village, where they settle in what can only be some kind of high-class drinking joint, serving expensive shoju and bar chow.

One of the dishes looked like raw mussels. The man beside me said "I don't think you should eat that."

Tony said "oh let him; he's Filipino."

I tried it. It was incredibly bitter. The sweet sauce it came with helped it go down. "It's strong. What is it?"

"Mussels, aged until they've rotted. Told you he'd be fine," Tony said.

"In our country," I replied "we have many kinds of movies but no monster movies."

"That's nonsense! You have plenty--"

"Plenty in human form. We don't have many creature monsters--giant ant, giant crab, plague of cats or dogs or rats. Partly it's budget, but partly also it's because we'd never be frightened. Giant crab or ant, or rat? Instead of being frightened, we'd be hungry. That monster would be bar chow before dinnertime."

Tony thought it over. "You know, you may have a point."

I looked at the extravagant spread. "I hope this isn't Dutch treat," I said.

"No, they'll take care of you. See that man? That's Mr. Soon. He wants to be the next president of South Korea."

"Is the movie industry that powerful that presidential candidates have to fete them?"

"Of course."

I asked about United States pressures to increase the quota for Hollywood films. "Yes, it happened, but unfortunately for Hollywood the liberalization didn't matter. Koreans still prefer Korean over Holywood films. The market share for local films is 70%.

"Curious I walked into you. Philippine cinema has been on my mind lately. Been transferring some old Filipino films from VHS to DVD. Thinking of Lino Brocka, and Ishmael Bernal a lot." He added with a twinkle in his eye "saw Bernal naked, you know."

"Now you have to tell me that story."

"Oh, it wasn't much. We went to a bath house in Japan. The manager presented him with a young man. Ishmael said 'but he looks like a fucking horse' and refused to have anything to do with him. What he probably wanted was a Filipino, which wasn't available there, of course."

"I know I'll hate myself for asking this, but...was he well endowed?"

"He was average. I remember when we had dinner with Christine Hakim, who was seated beside him, and poor Christine, who had not the slightest clue who she was dealing with, asked: "Are you married?" Without blinking an eye Bernal replied "yes, but my husband couldn't come."

You don't want to know what he had to say about Park Chan Wook, most of which I happen to agree with, but would never have that much guts to say out loud.

The next day, saw Im Kwon Taek's Beyond the Years, his 100th film. Tony was there ("a huge flop, a catastrophe!"). The film told the story of a father, son, daughter troupe that traveled bars and inns, singing for their living. The son (a drummer) falls in love with his beautiful singing sister (adopted, or so they say); the father has designs for keeping his daughter with him always. By turns moving, compelling, immeasurably sad, it asks what price an artist must pay for the purity of her art, and where does love and family and happiness fit into all of this (trailing behind the artist, usually, as he or she leads a nomadic life)?

I've always thought Im an old-fashioned filmmaker with strong interests in traditional Korean culture. He does experiment with structure (we see the brother, a middle aged man, talking to an old acquaintance, and his story fitting slowly in piece by piece), but its a measured experimentation. One shot was particularly expressive--a scene of brother and sister sitting in the grass, the sister singing. The camera slowly revolves around them, keeping the couple on the lower right corner of the screen; it's as if they were on some giant diorama, the landscape turning, while they acted as pivot to the great wheel--as if the world may change and move around them, but their love for each other is a fixed constant.

I asked Tony what he thought afterwards. "It's a remake of an earlier film, but I thought it was very fine."

"Why did it flop, then?"

"Because Korean audiences don't want the past, they want the future. Because the film doesn't speak to their concerns now."

That night I met Gulnara Abikayeva, a critic from Kazakhstan (!). I know, but apparently they do have a film industry there, fifty filmmakers using government funding to make ten films a year, mostly on historical subjects ("we'd like more modern works, too, she said." Then she asked "are you the film critic? Noel Vera?"

"Yep. Why?"

"Critic After Dark?"

"Yes?"

"I have a copy of your book."

"You do?"

"I never expected to have the book, then meet the writer."

"I never expected to meet anyone who had my book."

So I'm being read in Kazakhstan--who knew?

Jeonju, and a trio of Korean films

Jeonju bibimbap

Fourteen hours in a jet--even a jumbo--is no joke. Thankfully the video screens have a wider range of entertainment--not just your usual multiplex fare (The Pursuit of Happyness, Charlotte's Web) but a few classics (Casablanca, Stagecoach). Intelligent and time-conscious man that I am, I instead spent the hours practicing and cheating my way through electronic mini-golf (I'm a world champion now, and able to break into the game's secret tenth level).

Oh, and there were pop Korean films--hits, I presume. Something called Hearty Paws (I can't find it on imdb) is as if Koreda's Nobody Knows had humped Benjie and produced puppies (orphaned kids and a dog! Who can resist?). It has nothing of Kore-eda's understated mis-en-scene or dispassionate eye, though the child actors were good though (there's a fine scene in a police station where the little girl asks the boy "can you remember my name?" hoping someday they might meet again), and it's interesting to see that Korean films are not averse to showing children or dogs in deadly peril (a chld outrunning a dog, however, is beyond the pale).

Kim Yong-hwa's 200 pounds beauty (they really need to get better translators) has a brilliant premise--an overweight singer named Hanna (Kim Ah-jung, in a not very convincing fat suit) who dubs a famous pop star also doubles as a phone sex worker; when she recognizes the voice of a plastic surgeon as one of her clients, she blackmails him into producing his masterpiece--a slimmer version of herself, so 'natural' (the word is loaded with meaning in this film) a beauty no one can tell she's phony (another loaded word).

Too bad the movie fails to follow up on the ingenious setup--Hanna stays mostly sweet and uninteresting; she fails to identify herself to her father, and she disappoints her best friend on occasion, but those are sins of omission, of cowardice, than anything more active or malevolent. The film seems more interested in pleading for plastic surgery to make deformed or overweight people feel better about themselves--noble enough topic, I suppose, but that's about it--than in being a real meditation on the evils of skin deep beauty.

That said, Kim Ah-jung without the fat suit is stunning. Korean women are beautiful, but she has some kind of lost-waif quality that is electrifying on the screen (even the tiny one I was using). There's something dramatic, even tragic about her expression that makes you feel protective; one of the few actresses I know who can inspire this kind of reaction was the young Sandy Dennis.

Easily the best of the lot was Kim Sang Woo's Seducing Mr. Perfect, a romantic comedy about an assistant who falls in love with her superhandsome boss that for once is funny and sexy. What is it Hollywood's missing that other countries--and this is a prime example--seem to have in spades? It could be that I'm not overfamiliar with these faces, that they're fresh as strawberries to my rom-com strained eyes, that the actors have genuine chemistry together, that the writer and director cook up reasonably clever gags for them to try out on each other. Working Girls is the obvious model (though the only time Griffith really turned me on was way back in Night Moves), but I enjoyed this more. It seems lighter on its feet, less inhibited, more willing to take risks and look silly. Daniel Henney is the heartthrob, and he looks suitably stiff and solemn (he spends a lot of the movie without his shirt on, which irks me no end--what is it with these hairless men who look like flatchested girls that women demand them in movies?); at his best, he's practically a Mr. Darcy (Austen being the true ancestor of this oldest of genres). As June, Eom Jong-hwa reminds me of the best qualities of Vilma Santos, or Santos if she wasn't so damned afraid to take risks--a pretty girl who retains your sympathies no matter how many pratfalls she has or schemes she hatches.

Maybe one more thing these filmmakers have over their doddering Hollywood counterparts is a budget small enough that they need to be more inventive. June at one point has a nightmare where all the men in her life tell her just what's wrong with her; later, when she asks her boss to help her win her boyfriend back, we see him hovering over their dates, and inventive staging and camerawork and editing make it clear that he's a figment of her imagination. Surprisingly sophisticated stuff, considering that this is just another rom-com.

Arrived at Seoul at 4 pm. Took a four-hour bus. Arrived at Jeonju's Core Hotel at ten pm. Not a lot of places open for dinner, but I found an alleyway with a street stall that fried up peppers, potatoes, chicken parts, and squid tentacles; bought a thousand wons' (less than a dollar) worth. Crisp and hot, and good.

Walked into a hole in the wall, the best kind, where the counters are stainless steel cafeteria style, the tables and chairs simple wood furniture and the people totally incapable of speaking a word of English. I knew only one word--bibimbap. A big bowl of hot steamed rice with sliced up carrots, cucumbers, zucchini, mushrooms, bellflower root, spinach, soybean sprouts, bracken fern roots (I'm guessing they're the dark brown shoots I found in the bowl), all seasoned with a bright red hot chili paste, topped with crisp fresh lettuce and a sunny-yolked fried egg.

There's beef in there somewhere, I can taste it, but it's not a major component; I'm guessing this was poor man's fare, rice and a little beef and whatever a farmer could pull out of the ground and slice up to add to the meal. Following the big dish was a constellation of little dishes, including the ubiquitous kimchi, pickled cabbage, hot broth with scallions, and bright yellow pickled radishes that were blessedly sweet and cool.

I've tried this dish in Korean restaurants in Manila and even the US (and lemme tell you, the Manila restaurants were better), but it turns out I haven't really tried it, not this way, and Jeonju is famous for this. Not a lot of meat, but huge, huge flavor, and filling, all for three thousand wons--less than three dollars.

Took a spoon with a looong handle out of a box and started mxing it, as I've seen Koreans do. Apparently I was doing it wrong, or too slowly: the girl took my spoon away and did it for me, scooping the contents of the bowl and mashing it down in circular motions with the spoon's bowl. I asked for tea; the girl pointed to a hot water thermos. I asked for a tea bag; she pointed to a jar full of brown powder. When I spooned it into my cup, it turned out to be coffee. Oh, well.

Walked out very happy; just before I left, two police officers came in and sat down and had what I had. Well, if Jeonju's Finest isn't a good enough recommendation of the place, I don't know what is. Thank god they didn't arrest me for being a terrorist.

The Reaping (Stephen Hopkins, 2007)

The Reaping (Stephen Hopkins, 2007)

Excerpt:

Stephen Hopkins' brand new horror flick has a simple enough premise: the ten plagues visited upon Egypt are being inflicted on the small town of Haven, Louisiana, possibly because of the influence of a devilish young girl named Loren (AnnaSophia Robb); former missionary turned miracle debunker Katherine Winter (Hilary Swank, doing some serious slumming) arrives skeptical in the little town, ready to find a scientific explanation for all this.

There are plenty of reasons to dislike this movie, but perhaps the strongest is the cheap way the picture tries to cash in on the recent trend in faith-based filmmaking--"Oh, look at how much boxoffice apocalyptic pictures and most of all "The Passion of the Christ" are making! And look how much more we can make if we have an Oscar-winning actress in the lead, and a pretty young girl as the source of evil ("Rosemary's Baby," "The Omen," "Village of the Damned," "The Bad Seed," etc.). Throw in the ten plagues digitally re-enacted (See frogs drop out of the sky! See rivers turned into blood!), and we're talking big money!"

Inland Empire (David Lynch, 2006)

Sub terrain

Maybe the most surprising thing about Inland Empire wasn't that it was complex (intercutting, repeating, transmuting plotlines, images, characters), ambitious (at almost three hours one of the longest works the director has ever attempted (outside of his massive adaptation of Dune)) or incomprehensible (Lynch?), but that it was actually satisfying--and all the more memorable for being so, despite (or even because of) the former three qualities.