HopkinsCinemAddicts

Tokyo Sonata: A Happy Ending for a Middle Class Family, Maybe (Sam)

Kiyoshi Kurosawa, the director of Tokyo Sonata (2008), has no relation to that other great Japanese director by the name of Kurosawa, but if the skill he demonstrates in constructing this particular story is any indication, he is indeed great. Known for his horror films, this Kurosawa undertook something a littledifferent with Tokyo Sonata.

The film examines a middle class Japanese family and the tensions they each experience as their desires clash with external forces, such as the slumping economy and societal pressures. It primarily seems to be a critique of authority, how it's being undermined in Japan.

In the beginning of the film, the father of the family, Ryuhei, loses his job because of outsourcing – Chinese workers are apparently much cheaper. But he doesn't tell his family the news. Instead, he pretends to go to work every day in his suit – but then waits in line, looking for a new job while collecting unemployment checks. Eventually he takes a job as a janitor, cleaning bathrooms in a mall. Before going home, he changes back into a suit to keep up the appearance that he still has his old office job.

Meanwhile Kenji, his younger son, desperately wants to learn to play the piano. But Ryuhei sternly refuses to pay for lessons. So Kenji saves his lunch money and pays for them in secret, learning from his teacher that he has a talent for it. And Takashi, Kenji's older brother, joins the US military to fight in Iraq, also without Ryuhei's approval. And when Ryuhei finally discovers Kenji, he attacks him in a rage, causing him to fall down the stairs. Kenji suffers a minor concussion. It is Ryuhei's very powerlessness that causes him to so desperately want to assert his authority, but this is ineffective and only leads to his family's suffering. This is also implied to be true of Japan as a whole: the economy is currently slumping and there is no military. Japan is unable to protect itself from either economic threats, such as globalization, or military ones. So the country is similarly powerless, and similarly places arbitrary and overly restrictive boundaries on the behavior of its citizens.

After about this point in the story, the film begins to lose its realist edge. All the events seem driven by preceding events; events as they apply to all of Japan or segments of Japanese society logically lead to their consequences on the individuals in the family. But at this point in the story, not only do several things happen to each member of the family which were not only not at all set up from previous events in the story, but are implausible or surreal enough to merit skepticism.

For instance, Megumi, Ryuhei's wife, is kidnapped by a burglar but becomes willing after seeing Ryuhei in his janitor's uniform at the mall; she drives him to the beach, where they spend the night in a small house. That night she wakes up and sees a strange light over the ocean; the next morning, the burglar is gone. After Megumi sees Ryuhei at the mall, he wanders into the city and is knocked over by a car, unconscious and seemingly dead. Kenji, meanwhile, unsuccessfully helps a friend run away home. He is caught trying to sneak onto a bus to get out of town, and spends a night in jail after being uncooperative with the police.

The next night, all three members of the family return home and have a quiet meal together. Then, several months later, Kenji plays Claire de Lune at a piano audition and completely blows away the other competitors in a display of not only his technical skill, but his emotional competitiveness, his parents watching proudly in the background.

I think this final section of the film is highly ambiguous. Like a dream, it is left open to interpretation. It's possible all of it is a dream, or a fantasy – an overly rosy way for things to turn out that isn't entirely realistic. The point, I think, is to finally show how to escape the cycle of feelings of powerlessness and impotent displays of authority. And that is simply through tolerance of yourself, but of others. This is why Ryuhei wears plain clothes for the first time in the film in this final scene, and why we see that he now supports Kenji's piano playing.

 

The Contaminated Host -- Boon Joon-ho's The Host

When we think about a parasite, we treat it as a harmful organism. But what about the host?

The definition of the host is “an animal or plant on which a parasite or commensal organism lives.” The film The Host (2006, dir. Boon Joon-ho) tells the story of the protagonist Park Gang-du and his family fighting with a monster in the Han River. The monster was created by the toxic chemicals that an American military pathologist commanded his Korean assistant to dump, and the film discusses the culpability of the host, which allows the parasite to thrive.

The protagonist Park Gang-du’s daughter, Hyun-seo, was captured by the monster as he accidentally saved another girl instead of his daughter when fighting with the monster. Then, Gang-du and his family, along with the families of other victims, gather in a basketball court, which the government uses as a refuge for the victims’ families. Each family forms a small circle and sits on the floor, crying and grieving for their lost ones. Behind them is a giant wall of portraits of the victims, but the nonstop camera flashes keep interrupting the last moment between the deceased and their families. While Gang-du and his family grieve in the court, an officer in a high-saturated, yellow full-protected suit with a disinfectant face mask enters the room. The officer’s suit is extremely noticeable under the blue tone and the ragged shirts among the victims’ families, and his power is immediately established as he is the only one standing, physically above everyone else in the frame. However, his appearance doesn’t get anyone’s attention until he slips and falls on the floor. It is also worth noting that the officer’s protective suit suggests the potential virus that the monster might spread, but the government only protects the officer instead of the people in the room. Within a few seconds, the film diminishes the power of this government representative, showing his incompetence during a catastrophe.

Then, the officer asks everyone to report if they were near Han River during the attack, threatening that their families will be affected if they return home. Albeit all of them are the victims’ families, whom the government should protect and comfort, they follow the instructions without hesitation. The room is completely silent, with only the officer speaking, presenting this world of silent people under the absolute control of the government instead of receiving any help. Then, Gang-du’s brother, Hae-il, an unemployed college graduate who is a former political activist, stands up and questions the officer to explain the attack, which is the first and only opposing voice in the room. When Hae-il speakers to the officer, the camera captures the entire wall of the pictures of the victims right behind him and on his shoulder and head level in a long shot; the camera crops the people sitting on the floor with only their heads in the frame, below Hae-il’s knee level. This shot forms a great metaphor that only the deceased people have Hae-il’s back, supporting the only one who speaks a different voice with the government, and the rest of the people just accept their deprived right to know. The blocked information is further revealed when the officer tries to respond to Hae-il by turning on the news on the TV, but none of the TV channels is broadcasting the monster, as if not announcing the monster to the public will erase its existence. Before more people start questioning the situation, a team of officers in identical protective suits rush into the room, spraying disinfecting chemicals without providing any face covering to the victims’ families, treating them like they are also lifeless. The fog formed by the chemicals both blocks the people’s sight and obscures their knowledge of the situation, further revealing the irresponsible and dehumanizing nature of the South Korean government in the film. As the host of this land, Korea shows no mercy to its people and provides this perfect condition to be occupied and controlled by an external parasite.

Soon, Gang-du is under extreme monitoring once he admits that he was in contact with the monster. Gang-du is surrounded by numerous doctors that investigate potential viruses in his body. The camera captures two doctors putting their masks and protective glasses on and turning on the screens to show Gang-du’s brain in a hurry when they see an American researcher walk in, pretending to work for the country's security only in front of the foreign force. The American researcher starts by comforting Gang-du with a different attitude from the Korean representatives, presenting an illusion of the arrival of a savior. But the camera captures their close-ups from a low angle, planting the pressure silently with the cinematography. And their intention is soon revealed when the American researcher tells the translator that there is no virus behind Gang-du’s back. However, Gang-du overhears and understands when the American researcher says “no virus” in his sentence, confirming the dehumanizing and compulsive actions by both the parasite and the host. What is more ironic is that Gang-du, an uneducated man, understands these English words because around 30% of the Korean language is originated from English, and the foreign parasite has been deep in the host’s culture. This scene juxtaposes the host and parasite relationship between the Korean and American governments, which the host is being cheated by the peaceful illusion that the parasite brings without understanding its actual intention. The combination of an ignorant host and an intruding parasite becomes the actual monster that harms Gang-du and other innocent people on the land.

Albeit the film starts with the monster killing and intruding on the country, it explicitly criticizes how the American force takes control over the South Korean government in Korea. When the parasite is the active disrupting force, the host is never inculpable of its blind, incompetent, and indifferent nature. In the end, Gang-du uses his foot to turn off the TV which broadcasts the confession and explanation of both the Korean and American governments on the nonexisting virus. Instead of listening to the fabricated news from the host and parasite, Gang-du grabs his gun, stares into the dark, and protects his uncontaminated mind and body to host his life.

 

 

 

Sundown: Reflections (The End)

Before I knew it, the last day of filming had arrived. At times it felt like we were so far away from the finish line, but in just seven days, there we were. On this last day, most of our scenes were going to be shot outside, so we prepped equipment and blocked with actors for a few hours while waiting for the lighting conditions to change. There were just two actors left to wrap on before the shoot was over, so I could spend more time with each of them during our rehearsals, honing the performances I wanted from each of them. Our last shot of the night—and thus, the final shot of our production—was a labor of love from everyone. We spent the last few hours figuring out how to light and shoot the main character riding his bike outside after dark. One tungsten light, a makeshift camera car rig, and a lot of failed runs later, we finally arrived at (a very sleepy) “that’s a wrap!” It was also my AC, Isabel’s, birthday, so we went inside and had surprise cupcakes while everyone packed up to go home for the last time. I was excited to wrap up production and close out this chapter of Sundown. However, the end of production also meant the end of crew bonding, countless inside jokes, shared midnight delirium and getting the chance to create.

 

Aug. 27 - Car rig for a mobile shot

 

As wild, spontaneous, and downright exhausting as this experience was, I’m grateful for all that I was able to gain from the highs and lows of these past six months. By no means was this a perfect project, nor is Sundown a perfect story. Regardless, the experience I gained through all the writing, revising, scheduling, shooting, and reflecting upon Sundown was invaluable. With each mistake came a lesson learned for the future, and with each success came more motivation to keep pushing forward. My final thoughts regarding my experiences are as follows:

Director-Actor Relationships

I have never worked with non-student actors, especially across a longer production time across multiple locations. Sundown included a college professor, my cousin, a novice actor, and three experienced actors. Regardless of experience level, spending ample time connecting with my cast was key to establishing a mutual creative understanding of the project and each other. Working with a skill-diverse cast of six in these circumstances pushed me beyond my comfort zone in ways that I’m extremely grateful for. My actors, complete strangers, were willing to believe in me, and I had to do the same for everything to work.

 

Sneak peek :)

 

Technical Approaches

The choice to film just three months after getting the grant is one that I don’t regret, but my approaches to the process left much to be desired. Throughout the problems that arose—last-minute scheduling changes, casting stress, uncertainty—a common theme was role delegation. I’ve learned to better trust others on my crew with creative responsibilities regarding Sundown. It’s hard to relinquish full control of something that feels so precious, even though it's for the betterment of the project and myself. I partly missed out on the joys of having a talented, knowledgeable crew by not leveraging their expertise in places I should have. One such misgiving is not working with my camera crew to review dailies and having a set process of looking over the footage we shot, leading to increased feelings of anxiety during editing. No production is without its hiccups (or disasters); still, many of my anxieties (and much of my exhaustion) during production could have been mitigated by trusting myself to trust others.

 

Aug. 27 - Mini crew photo!

 

Sundown & Me

Approaching this project, I thought back to my time on Return 0;, another Studio North grant project I had the pleasure of working on as a rising sophomore. Reflecting on my time on that set, I felt so beyond my depth; everyone else seemed so knowledgeable while I was only starting my college film journey. Flash forward to one year later, and I’m exactly where I thought I was so far away from. This accomplishment didn’t negate the very inevitable imposter syndrome that arose multiple times throughout the process, which I recently spent the past ten weeks reflecting upon in my blog posts. If I didn’t constantly question my work, if I didn’t try to always improve upon myself, then I wouldn’t be an artist. Surviving the creative process and pushing through challenges led to me learning these hard truths. I want to continue creating work that feels personal to me, but work that also scares the living daylight out of me to create, just like Sundown. I want to pursue new projects that challenge my skills and urge me to improve and be greater in every way. I want to and will continue creating, succeeding, and failing. I’ve learned that I need to be less afraid of failing and failing wonderfully, failing and knowing that I’ll always try again. In the end, I’m glad I took a huge chance on myself with Sundown, my silly little short film.

Another sneak peek :)

Currently, we’re three months removed from filming and moving into the early stages of post-production. All that’s left is for me to say: thank you. Thank you to my wonderful cast and crew, my chosen family, for sticking with me throughout everything. To my professors and advisors, who gave me invaluable advice during each stage of production. To Studio North for giving me the creative means to embark on this journey in the first place. The next few months promise long hours spent editing and promoting the film. It also promises me moments spent reminiscing about our shoot through notes, names, places, and objects scattered about my digital and physical spaces; reminders of all the memories made. While the sun is beginning to set on this project, I’m eager to give rise to a new creative endeavor, the dawn of a new era. 

The Child in Cell - Lee Hwan-kyung's Miracle in Cell No.7

What would a prison be like if there are children in the cell?

The film Miracle in Cell No.7 (2013, dir. Lee Hwan-kyung) tells the story of Yong-gu and his six-year-old daughter Ye-sung’s experience in a prison cell with other criminals. Yong-gu is mentally disabled with only the intelligence of a six-year-old, and he is falsely accused of rape and murder of the police commissioner’s daughter. Although Yong-gu is charged with death penalty, he treats the desperate cell as a friendly environment as he used to do and saves the prison gang leader Yang-ho’s life when the prisoners in another cell attack Yang-ho. As a return, Yang-ho and other cellmates plan to sneak Yong-gu’s daughter into the cell for their reunion.

The first shot when Ye-sung arrives at the cell is the prisoners ripping off the tape of a large snack box. The aerial shot of the box fills the entire frame, and when it first opens, only her cloth is visible. When the camera pushes backwards, Ye-sung’s entire body is revealed. She lies as an infant, tightly confined in the box, and then sits up as a newborn. Ye-sung’s arrival is portrayed as the unboxing of a gift delivered in the cell, and Ye-sung indeed functions as a gift which brings the prisoners a new life in the cold, hopeless, and entrapped cell. When Yang-ho sees Ye-sung, he mispronounces her name as “Ye-su,” which means “Jesus” in Korean. This subtle line plants the idea that Ye-sung is the savior of the cell, gathering the prisoners and awakening their kindness beneath the crime. Then, Ye-sung sees her dad, but she is still in the box, like how Yong-gu is trapped in the cell. Yong-gu crawls to Ye-sung like a toddler, hugging her and taking her out of the box. Although both are confined in a small space, the camera follows his movement, presenting love’s power to break the claustrophobia in jail. It is also worth noting that the rest of the box is filled with bread and milk boxes, suggesting that Ye-sung uses the space they use to deliver food. Giving up the space for food to sneak Ye-sung in for a brief reunion with Yong-gu, the cell shows the first miracle that love and friendship outweigh the luxurious snacks for the prisoners, whom got caught in the jail because they broke the law for their self-interests.

Inspired by Ye-sung’s drawing of a hot air balloon, the prisoners decided to help Yong-gu escape the cell the day before his execution to avoid his death penalty, which is the day of the prison’s Christmas concert. Ye-sung performs with other kids, and each of them holds hands with a prisoner. Although the kids are surrounded by prisoners, there is no handcuff on the prisoners nor weapon on the prison guards. All we can see is the happiness on everyone’s face. The prisoners are in orange uniforms, the kids are wearing red ties, and the shot is layered with a warm filter, maximizing the feeling of warmth in the cold jail. Yong-gu’s cellmates clear a way for them to get into the hot air balloon among all other prisoners and release the rope to let it fly. All prisoners, including those that are their opponents, assist Yong-gu and Ye-sung to be the only people on the hot air balloon selflessly. None of them tries to take advantage of this possibility to escape, and all of them fight with the guards to ensure Yong-gu can leave. And when they are fighting, Ye-sung says that “everyone is dancing,” still perceiving the dangerous world in the most innocent way that only children have, further proving that the kindness in a child’s mind is what touches all the criminals. However, the fairy tale ends when the wire gate traps the rope. Unlike Yong-gu’s desperate cellmates, he appreciates the view with Ye-sung on the hot air balloon. The kids’ mindset filters the negative ideas, viewing this as a peaceful moment of reunion. The dreadful, dirty, hopeless prison traps the adults physically and mentally, but it can't trap the love of a father and a daughter and their purist love of the world. When the extreme long shot of Yong-gu and Ye-sung appreciating the sunset in the hot air balloon cuts to Ye-sung’s drawing of a hot air balloon above a castle in the cell, juxtaposes the world in and out of the cell. The warm and saturated colors of her painting cover the cold and plain wall, hiding the brutal reality with innocence and imagination. They failed to make Yong-gu escape from the cell, and Yong-gu's death penalty comes the next day, but he accepts his death peacefully.

Some critics view the plot of escaping the jail with a hot air balloon as highly inauthentic and overdramatic, but if we view this from a six-year-old kid’s perspective, it is just a beautiful resolution of a story. In a corrupted world that charges innocent people, a little fairy tale is the only comfort for other people in the dark. In the end, Ye-sung and Yong-gu’s cellmates, now living an ordinary life after their prison terms 20 years after Yong-gu's death, prove Yong-gu’s innocence at the court. There was no miracle when a six-year-old and a room of prisoners were trying to save Yong-gu’s life, and Yong-gu's death after Chrismas eve is irreversible. However, it is a miracle that Yong-gu and Ye-sung filled the cramped cell with love, support, and justice.

Sundown: Evening (Day Five)

After the roughest day in production, we had another break day. As always, I reflected on what happened the previous day and found silver linings. The day wasn’t all bad; the morning scene was successful, which featured Johns Hopkins’ own Dr. Jamie Young as our “psychiatrist” character. Furthermore, I was determined not to let one bad day of shooting ruin my energy for the rest of the shoot. I was especially excited for our final days as we planned to shoot all the scenes that were part of the original shorter script. The scenes that started it all.

The break was primarily used to take photos of my actors for “family photo” production design in the final location of the shoot, the main character’s childhood home. Here, I also got to talk more with my main actors and understand how they truly felt about the project—they were having a good time! Taking a relaxed moment to connect with my actors was vital for me and them to understand each other better, director to actor, and person to person. After the break day and a few conversations with my cast and crew, my attitude toward the remaining portion of the shoot improved. In my reflections, I understood (and continue to understand) that my mistakes and regrets about the film were lessons to learn from going forward.

Our final location was held at my paternal grandmother’s Baltimore apartment. She graciously let us invade her space for nearly twelve hours at a time, four days straight. The first day was focused on shooting the very first scene in the film, the opening conversation between the main character and his mother. Watching everything come together—the production design, the performance—I felt that my original artistic vision was genuinely coming to fruition. Later that night, we wrapped on one of my main actors. Directing him (and others) was a great push outside my comfort zone in working with non-student actors and adapting to various acting experience levels. Most importantly, my experience taught me many lessons in how to do what a good director does best: know what they want and how to get it.

Aug. 24 - “Young Mikey” and his mother

We began our fifth shooting day a bit later to get closer to the time of day we needed. We primarily focused on external shots that day, prompting us to move quickly with the ever-changing light. This day brought an obvious issue to my attention; the period my entire film centers around (sunset, or more aptly, sundown) lasts for a very short time. There was confusion on my part about what the lighting conditions would be at certain times and how long those conditions would last. As a result, we had to postpone filming one scene for over an hour since the reflection of the light outside at the story-accurate time of day was too strong. My Script Supervisor, Devin Andrada, was not happy with me regarding the continuity; but again, these are lessons learned for the future. Despite the issues, this shot was where my crew (specifically my camera and lighting team!) got to show off their skills with the setup and execution. Also, while waiting to shoot this scene, we got the quintessential sundown shot (not really, it was pre-sundown, early evening, but close enough).

Aug. 25 - Crew setting up for the window shot

The most exciting part of the day was starting work with my “Creature” actor for our one-shot scene. Here, the main character’s mother gets caught by the Creature, which we wanted to be able to execute creatively through a one-shot. Going through the prep for this was a challenge: clearing space for movement, blocking, framing, sound, and more. However, with each dry run and each take, the work began to pay off. We did about four or five runs of this scene, each with unique elements that could work well in the final film. This was our last shot of the night, which ended with us squealing over a take that worked, a shared success amongst the entire crew. More than any day before, I felt what I had been working to feel throughout the previous shoot days: a genuine sense of accomplishment that was validated by others’ enthusiasm.

Aug. 26 - Checking the front door, featuring my Sound Mixer, NIls

This sense of accomplishment carried me into the second-to-last day of production. The entire day was dedicated to the scene where the main character first encounters the Creature. The scene that started it all. We were staring down the barrel of an 8-hour day without much time for breaks; if we weren’t shooting, we were rehearsing, setting up for the next shot, or breaking down the previous one. I expected to be more stressed this day than on any of the others. I had anticipated it for so long. However, I felt more level-headed that day than I had felt on all the other days. I loved moving from shot to shot, setup to setup, as seamlessly as we did. The day ended with another one-shot where the main character meets the Creature for the first time. After 8 hours of work, the most significant part of our film was complete. I returned home well past midnight but felt more accomplished than ever. After three months of intense preparation and six days of shooting later, 80% of my short film was under my belt.

By this time, there was just one day left in our schedule. Approaching the end of production after an entire summer’s worth of work and anticipation was a bittersweet denouement. While I was eager to stop harboring self-doubts, finally get some rest, and generally move on, I also knew I would miss this experience for everything that it was. Sundown was coming to an end, and it was almost time for us to say goodbye.

Sundown: Morning (Day One)

When I awoke on the first morning of production, time felt unreal. It was a Friday, but it felt like a Monday. Day One. The beginning of what I had worked so hard to pull together over the past three months. I stayed up late to ensure everything was in order—printing scripts, shooting schedules, call sheets, everything. Soon, it was time for action.

Aug. 19: Late-night printing scripts. V4 with edits.

On day one, our call time was 9:00am at the Film Centre. Once I arrived, I met with my other leading actor (the adult version of my first actor), convened with my crew, and set prep into motion. Watching everything come together—camera setup, production design, hair and makeup, last-minute rehearsals—I was moving through my disbelief that something I had worked on tirelessly was coming to life. Meeting my actors was the biggest example of this; I loved finally connecting with my cast in person, going over lines, and feeling the energy they would bring their characters. I was not as nervous as I thought I would be stepping into the director role. I had my worries, sure, but I felt a natural ease in addressing everyone on set and commanding attention (in a non-intimidating way), mainly because I was given space to do so by my cast and crew. They trusted me, which was all I could ask for.

Back to reality—we needed to shoot! We began the day about 30 minutes behind schedule after arriving a bit late, so we worked quickly to set up a “therapist office” in the faculty and staff kitchen area. Once it was “all systems go,” pressing the record button, once to roll, once more to cut, was a transition past the point of no return—the first take, evidence that the film now existed in some way. Of course, I was then super particular about redoing the shot multiple times to make it “perfect” (whatever that meant). Already behind schedule, I was encouraged by my crew (particularly my Assistant Director, Mia DeAngelo) to move on, so we did. This scene, which exists about halfway through the film, had many elements: dialogue, multiple angles of said dialogue, lighting challenges, and more. It was the perfect way to test set dynamics and my directing style for the rest of the production.

Aug. 19: Our first scene in the “therapist office.”

After filming this scene, we had a much-needed lunch break while moving locations to shoot the last scene of the day and the movie’s final scene. This scene posed some challenges, considering how crucial it was to look and feel right. Even after messing around with lighting setup, character action, and camera framing, I’m not sure that the scene ended up where it needed to be. The instance of this feeling was, I soon learned, the first of many. Nonetheless, we wrapped in the early evening, saying goodbye to our supporting actress and moving equipment to our following shooting location before dispersing to our homes for the evening. The first night back set a dangerous precedent for production: wake up around 8am, go to set for no less than 8 hours, come home to work on production documents, and attempt sleep at 2am. This was my night, every night, without fail.

On day two, we were at my Assistant Camera’s house to shoot with my main actor at his “adult apartment.” We got to have fun shooting “nighttime” scenes in broad daylight, dirtying up a bedroom, and hiding our sound mixer in the shower for a bathroom scene. I originally planned to be in the space for two days, but I figured we could achieve everything in one very long day. However, we ran over schedule. I had to decide whether to keep people past wrap time for an hour or more or make sacrifices. Ultimately, I cut a relatively insignificant scene from the film, allowing us to finish on time.

Aug. 20: Day two, location two; bathroom of “adult apartment.”

With the extra day in our schedule, I held a production meeting with my crew to discuss plans for one of the most crucial scenes in the film: the climax, Scene 20. How painfully ironic that the climax of my film was the height of my experience on set-- for all the wrong reasons. First and foremost, this was the busiest day on set. Nearly all my cast and crew were present, totaling about 21 people on set throughout the day reporting to me. Second, this scene essentially functions as a set piece, requiring a lot of blocking and equipment prep beforehand. Even after 2 hours of rehearsal and my crew put in their best efforts to creatively light and shoot the scene, I came away from it feeling utterly defeated. I felt a painful shame as most of my cast and crew watched me fail to extract the performance I wanted. The imposter syndrome I had worked hard to stave off in the middle of the summer rushed back in the worst way.

Aug. 21: A camera/dolly blocking diagram for Scene 20.

Half of the film had been shot at this point, and I was disappointed with the most significant part of it. This was the culmination of my biggest failure in approaching Sundown: inadequate preparation. Even then, I’m not convinced that the failure wasn’t due in part to an unclear story, reflecting deeper insecurities about my project. Returning home, I felt a greater shame as I returned to my destructive routine of finalizing production documents the night before we shot. I spiraled into an identity crisis, ending my night seriously reevaluating my future in the film industry. This was my lowest point during production. However, I had no choice but to continue. As long as my cast and crew still trusted me to direct, I knew I had the support I needed to see the project through thick and thin. It was all I needed.

The Mountain in the Sea: Park Chan-wook’s Decision to Leave (2022)

Numerous flashlights shine in different directions from the bottom of a dark mountain. The film cuts to an aerial wide shot of an old man’s dead body. He lies upside down on a giant rock, like a floating dead fish in the ocean. None of his belongings are around him; even though he only takes a small portion of the frame, his red hiking outfit makes him eye-catching among the police officers and forensics in uniforms. This unnatural death in the mountain opens Park Chan-wook’s film, Decision to Leave (2022).

The dead man is the main character Seo-rae’s husband, and detective Hae-jun is investigating the case. As a young Chinese woman who moved to Korea because of the murder of her mother, Seo-rae becomes the primary suspect, and she is the murderer of her husband indeed. When Hae-jun questions her in the interrogation room, the camera catches them from the side. Their bodies and reflections in the mirror equally split the screen, and their heights match almost perfectly. Albeit it is the first encounter between a detective and a suspect, a man and a woman, their power dynamic is stable and balanced. The focus is on both of their bodies, blurring their reflections in the mirror. Then, Seo-rae quotes the Chinese philosopher Confucius’s saying that “the benevolent likes the mountain, and the wise likes the water.” When she adds, “I’m not the benevolent. I like the sea,” the focus is on Seo-rae’s body and Hae-jun’s reflection in the mirror, forming a perfect symmetrical mix of their identities. The cinematography projects the duality of both Seo-rae and Hae-jun. Seo-rae is an attractive and vulnerable widow, but she also displays her dangerousness and brutality to Hae-jun to seduce him. Hae-jun, who is supposed to be a logical detective, agrees with Seo-rae’s reasoning about mountain and sea, suggesting his hidden desire of risk is projected by Seo-rae, building an invisible connection with her. Then, the camera racks focus on Seo-rae’s reflection in the mirror and Hae-jun’s body in reality. The change in focus seems like separating them, but indeed suggesting their hidden link is like how the water reflects the mountain and projects a distorted image. In the confined interrogation room, their dualities are like twins, echoing their similarities and building this fated but unjustified love. Seo-rae displays the dangerous part that Hae-jun is hiding as a detective, and Hae-jun shows the security that Seo-rae needs in her heart.

The mountain is never about benevolent to Seo-rae. After Hae-jun knows that Seo-rae killed her husband from the mountain and poisoned her mother, Seo-rae asks Hae-jun to spray her mother’s bone ashes from the mountain. At the mountain cliff, Seo-rae wears a headlamp and adjusts the light to directly target Hae-jun, just like how the detectives are using the flashlights to locate Seo-rae’s husband’s dead body at the beginning. In the dark, Seo-rae’s headlamp is the only light source on the screen, examining the surroundings and Hae-jun, like the predator locating its prey. Then, Seo-rae turns the light to the cliff, directing Hae-jun to walk to the cliff's edge to spray her mother’s bone ash. The scene is silent except for Seo-rae’s footsteps and Hae-jun’s accelerating breaths. A hand-held camera approaches Hae-jun from the back, shaking, tilting, speeding up, and cuts to a shot facing Hae-jun with the sound of two bodies crashing together. The cinematography suggests Seo-rae can push Hae-jun off the cliff, but it turns out to be a back hug. Hae-jun’s reaction of closing his eyes, pausing, and breathing heavily shows Seo-rae’s shift from evil to love surprises him, as well. The mountain of death becomes where Seo-rae’s mother’s body returns, and Seo-rae’s love settles.

But Hae-jun can’t cover Seo-rae’s crime, and as she can’t give him up, she commits suicide. She stands in a sand hole with only her head above the ground, drinking a bottle of alcohol. Behind her is a pile of sand, forming the shape of a mountain. The camera pulls back, revealing the ebb that fills up the hole with the sand that buries her. We can only hear the wave hitting the sand, meshing the sea and the mountain, gradually wiping away the trace of her existence.

A mountain is formed by sand and rock, while the sea gathers water and takes away remnants of sand and rock from the mountain. Seo-rae has been trying to deny the remnant of kindness in her, convincing herself that all she needs is the wisdom of the water instead of the mountain. However, at the end, she uses the sand to make herself a part of the mountain buried by the sea, accepting the benevolent part of her wins her wisdom because of love. Juxtaposed through film, mountain and sea are reconciled in Seo-rae’s act. She makes herself part of both, a mountain buried in the sea, accepting their inseparable nature, the co-existence of love and death, a balance of wisdom and benevolence.

 

Humans are Grey: Park Hoon-jung's New World

Imagine yourself being the closest person to one of the potential successors of the chairman in the largest prorate crime syndicate. When the chairman accidentally dies, your superior fully trusts you to oversee the gang when he is absent for other businesses; however, the policeman threatens you to share internal information about the gangsters. Whose side would you choose?

But what if you are actually an undercover policeman?

The film New World (2013, dir. Park Hoon-jung) presents this dilemma of loyalty that the protagonist, Lee Ja-sung, faces in the eighth year of his undercover in the Goldmoon International crime syndicate. Ja-sung thrives in the gang and expects the police chief Kang to end his mission, but Kang rejects and threatens him with his pregnant wife and his true identity, leading to Ja-sung’s betrayal – killing Kang and becoming the new chairman of the crime syndicate. While the film is not about the battle between justice and crime, but the discovery of loyalty in the grey area that is shifting between black and white.

Ja-sung’s loyalty to his job as an undercover is unquestionable before his betrayal. Killing people for Jung and conducting crimes are both physically and mentally challenging. He has to risk his life every day dealing with the gangsters, doing things that violate all his moral standards as a policeman. More importantly, he has to hide his identity from everyone he knows in the crime syndicate. Although Ja-sung makes such sacrifices, Kang uses Ja-sung’s wife and plants other undercovers in Goldmoon to watch Ja-sung's every action. Not to mention that whenever the police department gains information from him during his go-game lessons, they only ask him questions without sharing any plans from the police side. This forms a great metaphor that Ja-sung seems to be one of the players in this game; however, he is nothing but an insignificant chessman in the battle between the black and white. Ja-sung is isolated from both sides of his world to complete his mission as an undercover, which requires tremendous faith to sustain a torn life like this for eight years. Albeit it is understandable from the police’s perspective to secure their plan, they forget that before Ja-sung becomes a policeman or a gangster, he is a human who needs emotional support instead of a negligible chessman doomed to be either black or white. The audience would not blame Ja-sung for betraying the law because it is the police department that ignores and exploits his loyalty first.

Ja-sung’s loyalty to his superior, Jung Chung, is more complicated. Getting Jung’s trust is the most important part of his mission, so he has to act his loyalty from the moment he meets Jung deliberately. Whenever they meet Jung’s opponent in Goldmoon, Lee Joong-gu, Ja-sung never bows as other members do to show his disrespect. It seems like an insignificant action, but it requires a strong determination that Ja-sung will never be against Jung’s side in the gang because he is purposefully building a boundary and provoking Jung’s opponent. But not every action can be faked. When Joong-gu tries to scare Jung by almost hitting Jung with a car, Ja-sung stands in front of Jung to protect him without hesitation. Within the second that a car is rushing towards you, it is not the brain that evaluates the situation and makes an action, but your instinct instead, and nobody’s subconscious is born protecting others first. As time passes, his acted loyalty becomes a reality.

But why? Why would an undercover, who is supposed to hate all the dirt and crime, have such a strong attachment to a gangster? The reason might be indeed simple – loyalty is two-sided. Unlike Kang’s constant suspicion, Jung always calls Ja-sung “brother,” and he never uses violence nor threatens Ja-sung. They build a bromance over the eight years of fighting against the brutality in the criminal world with each other. Living in a grey area with dividing sides, Ja-sung feels warmth, connection, and company in this dark environment with Jung. And when the world of justice treats him as an opponent, he is being pushed closer to the black side.

It might also be how everyone in Goldmoon prioritizes their internal bonds taught Ja-sung what loyalty is and made him become part of them. When Kang tries to bribe Jung to leak evidence to arrest his opponent Joong-gu, Jung immediately rejects and despises this external source’s intervention. There is no actual benefit to Jung by not accepting Kang’s offer, but it is against what he values the most – the brotherhood code. It is more ironic that what Kang uses to trade with Jung is a list of undercovers that will doubtlessly be killed by Jung once revealed.

As we are all human beings instead of chessmen that could be either black or white, we constantly shift in the spectrum of different shades of grey. After Jung’s death, he kills everyone who used to stand in Jung’s way to continue the code of brotherhood and takes Jung's position. Although he betrayed Jung as an undercover in the past and betrays his job as a policeman, he finishes his journey of discovering his need for emotional connections as a human and starts to be loyal to himself.

Sundown: August Whirlwinds

Once the first week of August hit, I was on 100. The work necessary to push us to the next stage included finalizing the cast, holding rehearsals, gathering production design materials, confirming locations, scheduling equipment rentals, and much, much more. Days felt like months leading up to the first day of production, given how much needed to be accomplished in the final days before we shot.

In the second week of August, I went shopping with my Production Designer, Elaine Lu Qu. In prepping for our trip, we went through each scene of the film and pulled out necessary props, costume pieces, and other set dressing elements. We went to Savers (thrift store), Walmart, and Home Depot for items like picture frames for family photos, sticker paper for custom prescription pills, and a wooden dowel for a melee weapon (that we never ended up using). Outside of our shopping trip, I worked on sourcing a prop gun for my Adult Mikey character. Luckily, Brian Song referred me to a local prop armament store that was extremely helpful in delivering a safe, affordable handgun on time.

Aug. 11 - PD shopping at Savers with Elaine, looking for books to fill a therapist's office.

The last five days were the most crucial in pulling everything together. Once I moved back to the city on the 14th, nearly everything that was not Sundown-related was evicted from my consciousness. In between unpacking and various store runs, nearly every moment of that week was spent prepping like mad. The first night in my apartment was spent rushing back from Target to direct a two-hour Zoom rehearsal with nearly all my actors, one of the last before we moved to shoot starting the 19th. We went over some near-final script changes, mainly just small edits to the dialogue, including changes to phrasing and clarifying how lines should be delivered.

In this rehearsal and in prior ones, seeing and hearing the story that I wrote come to life through early performances were surrealistic moments. I always emphasize how Sundown is not just “my” film— it carries with it the creative input of nearly everyone in my cast and on my crew. Watching my actors perform my story, turning it into our story, was when this sentiment felt real. Despite how exhausted I was on a personal and creative level, I always felt a budding sense of accomplishment after each rehearsal. That night, I prepared for what I knew would be another long day of preparation.

The next day, I went to my grandmother’s apartment with my mother and my brother to prep and dress the space before we shot there later the next week. Her space is small, so I wanted to be sure things were set up before I invited my cast and crew in for four days. More importantly, prep involved us getting rid of a China closet that was partially blocking the hallway I wanted to film in. Prepping her space was an all-day affair, but the next day promised some respite.

Aug. 15 - Goodbye China closet, you won't be missed.

Later that week, I went with my Key Hair and Makeup Artist, Abby Cloud, to go cosmetics shopping at CVS. I had sent out a survey to my cast, and most of my actors had their own makeup, but we bought more just in case. In the last few days before the shoot, I returned home to bring a wagon full of props and craft service snacks to my apartment. At that point, my bedroom became a storage closet for my film instead of being a functional living space, but I convinced myself that I didn’t mind.

Aug. 17 - Abby Cloud with me at CVS looking for foundation for our actors.

At this point, all our prep led to the final day before we shot, the end of the beginning. That morning, I met with Adam Rodgers to get some last-minute notes on my script (per a suggestion from Studio North). I was so, so very anxious going into our meeting. All of me felt terrible for burdening Adam last minute with a request for notes, but the meeting went better than I thought it would. With that done, I went later in the day to hold an officially unofficial prep day. I had also originally planned to spread equipment pick-up and prep over two days, but due to actor availability, I had to condense the two into one day. Luckily, my camera and lighting crew were flexible enough to be able to accommodate the change. Isabel, Christian, Elaine, and Chime accompanied me throughout the day while we picked up equipment, tested everything out, and visited all our filming locations for the week. Trusting in their expertise, we ended the day by leaving my grandmother’s house (which felt like two of my worlds colliding in ways I never thought they would).

Aug. 18 - Isabel testing out a fisheye lens (Hi Chime!); sad we never used it.

With cast, crew, locations, equipment, craft services, and more all set, there was one thing left to get in order: me. During the final week before filming, I had a one-track mind, a singular train of thought that never stopped to consider proper mental and physical health. While preparations were productive, they also came with mountains of stress. At this time, I realized I still didn’t know how to delegate tasks, especially those that seemed too cumbersome or burdening properly. I also tend to do most things myself out of fear of pushing my disorganization onto others, which led to me taking on many producer-specific roles. Sourcing snacks for craft services, making the shot list and shooting schedule, and creating call sheets every day was all too much, which I learned by the end of the shoot. I ended the last prep day with a mix of anxiety, excitement, sleep deprivation, and the hopes that everything for Sundown would go according to plan come sunrise.

The Price of Money: Boon Joon-ho's Barking Dogs Never Bite

A quote says, “there are some things that money can’t buy, like manners, morals, and integrity.” But will the opposite work? Can we “buy” money by giving up morals?

Boon Joon-ho’s film Barking Dogs Never Bite (2000) explores this possibility by telling the story of an aspiring college professor, Ko Yun-ju, who struggles with his career and life. The film’s first shot is Yun-ju appreciating the nature view that his cheap apartment faces. He is unemployed because he despises the behavior of bribing the dean with $100,000 to get the professor’s position. Nevertheless, as a man with ambition and is desperate to prove himself in the society, this shortcut is undoubtedly appealing. When Yun-ju is torn between borrowing money to bribe the dean and keeping his meritoriousness, the barking dog that disturbs him whenever he thinks about his career path becomes the only issue he can control himself. Hence, he kills the dog – which does no harm but bark – to demonstrate that there is something in his life that he can make an immediate decision about and take action to achieve his goal. This is the first time Yun-ju gives up his morals to escape his incapability to fight the corrupted world. Yun-ju carries the vicious cycle of determining others’ life and death, just as what he experienced in the society.

Yun-ju eventually bribes the dean and gets his dream job. He gives up his morals and obtains the position. The film ends with him fading into darkness when his student covers the view of nature outside the window with the curtains before class. The nature outside becomes a luxury that Yun-ju can’t afford anymore as he used to have every day. Yun-ju shows that you can buy money with morals, but your freedom is an additional inevitable price. It is also ironic that the position Yun-ju commits in this dirty transaction is a college professor, who is supposed to represent and enforce social order and justice.

However, if we consider Yun-ju’s life from a realistic perspective, he has a job that can make more money to provide a higher living standard for his family. He won’t be ordered by his wife anymore but have her respect instead. More importantly, his social status as a college professor will also satisfy society’s expectations on males and solve his anxiety as a home husband. Isn’t this a win?

The film also presents the tradeoff between human’s desire for money and morality with other characters. Hyun-nam, the bookkeeper and custodian of the apartment that Yun-ju lives in, experiences the opposite situation. Although she has a stable job, she is unsatisfied with her life as she dreams about getting famous by being on television. Therefore, the story of the missing dogs excites her with the possibility of being a hero in the neighborhood. Hyun-nam’s dissatisfaction with her ordinary career leads to her desire for surprise and freedom in life. She represents the impossibility of people buying emotional achievements with money and shows the jejune lifestyle that people without money dream of. Eventually, she loses her job as she is not focusing on her work. When Yun-ju loses joy after he sacrifices his freedom for the job, Hyun-nam can go hiking with her friend, which she dreamed about when she was working. But again, if we take a step back, Hyun-nam’s freedom is only temporary. She cannot sustain her life without a job and has to give her freedom back in exchange for the money.

The homeless, who eats the dogs in the neighborhood, is another character Boon shows the conflicting costs and benefits of life. For the homeless, ethics is a luxury idea to consider. All that matters is being able to survive. By eating the dogs and secretly living in the apartment’s basement, which the vast majority find immoral, the homeless can have a great meal with meat and a safe place to live. Food and housing are the top priorities that people would buy when they have money. But when money is a scarcity, freedom, danger, and dignity are nothing but his only asset to trade for a higher quality of life. Although he ends up being caught, he explicitly says he is excited about his life in jail as he won’t worry about food and house anymore. The homeless carries the fundamental concern about which way to trade money and freedom is more beneficial and pushes the audience to think if keeping a moral standard is indeed helpful in a desperate life.

Boon made the film when he was 30, and this is his first feature film. The conflicting and torn perspective towards using unjustified ways to achieve one’s goals is also a display of Boon’s struggle with exploring justice in the world at that age. Boon shows compassion when criticizing the characters’ decisions, leaving it to us to judge if they have made a better deal between money and freedom.

When the world is dark, should we light up a fire, or should we just close our eyes and sink into part of the darkness? And when the immoral darkness is monetarily beneficial, should we accept it? Are we making the social codes and moral standards the lights or another unseen trap in the darkness?

Sundown: Quiet Before the Storm (July)

Nowhere to go but up.

Coming off the tails of June, I dove into the rest of the necessary preparation work for Sundown. I knew I had to be efficient and purposeful with how I spent the remaining days of my summer before we shot, and time was fading fast. Much of what was left to do should have been started, if not completed, the month prior. This included— but was in no way limited to— creating a shot list, another round of script revisions, figuring out funding, holding preliminary conversations with my camera and lighting team, and above all else, casting.

In keeping with the theme of “things-that-should-have-been-done-in-June-but-weren’t,” I worked with John and Aarushi to set up casting through Backstage as quickly as we could. For Sundown (V3), I was able to get the number of characters reduced from 11 characters to 6, which I still thought was a bit much for the caliber of my production. Furthermore, with the story I wanted to tell, I had no idea how difficult (or easy?) it would be to find a talented, available, predominantly Black cast for an unpaid student short film in just a month. There was only one way to know, and we moved to find our answer when we launched on July 6.

July 2022 - A snippet of the Backstage casting page.

We actually received our first submission for one of our leads, “Adult Mikey,” the same day we launched our listing. It took me a few days to figure out how Backstage’s notification system worked, so I ultimately didn’t see it until a few days later. But still, so exciting! This eased my doubts about the feasibility of the task of casting I laid out for myself However, my enthusiasm was undercut by the issue of needing the applicants to fit the creative and logistical needs of Sundown. Over the next four or five weeks that the casting page would be open, we sifted through 18 total applications, of which we casted 3 out of our 6 roles. In late July, we posted an open call to our Instagram which procured our fourth role of the “Therapist.” We held 6 callback virtual auditions throughout the month, making sure to ask questions about experience, logistics, and other pertinent information necessary should they be on set. The other two cast members came from personal connections: one family member of mine, and a Hopkins professor (reveal to come in a future entry!).

July 2022 - Redacted audition notes about a few of the actors that came through Backstage.

Casting non-Hopkins students, and really, casting anyone in the far periphery of my immediate circle was a huge source of anxiety for me. Learning how to communicate with working actors, moving through the audition process, ultimately rejecting applicants— it was a daunting prospect for someone who is very sensitive about nearly every one of my interpersonal interactions. Am I making this actor uncomfortable? Am I being too incessant with my emails and messages? Does my actor secretly hate me? These were feelings that would ebb and flow over the next few weeks and into August as I prepared to execute the role and responsibilities of a director. Regardless, I trusted in the process (and myself) and moved forward. By early August, we had cast (and confirmed availability) with all six of our actors.

The next pertinent thing to accomplish was establishing a plan of action for camera and lighting. I only worked on the script revisions for the next version (V4) later in the month, but I wanted to create a storyboard for parts of the story that I knew would stay the same. I met twice with my Director of Photography, Sophia Lin, and my 1st Assistant Camera, Isabel Salas, trudging through the script for hours to draft a storyboard. It was important that I rope them in for this process since I wanted their vision and creative expertise to inform the visual language of the film. Collectively, we came up with a few ideas for shots that I was very excited to execute in the coming weeks. I sent the storyboard to my grip and electric team (Chime Nwogu and Christian Reidy, respectively) to get them thinking about any equipment necessary to pull off certain shots. Towards the end of the month, I implemented the last round of script revisions to create a near-final version of the script, which included some much-needed edits. After talking with my camera and lighting crew, initiating casting, and generally spending more time on the project as compared to June, I felt much better about the possibility of Sundown.

July 2022 - Working on script revisions and the storyboard while on a plane back home from Indiana.

There was still one last thing to do: figure out crowdfunding. The issue of creating a “compelling, well-written, unbelievably beautiful promo video” still stood. Looking at the time and resources I had, I made the decision to postpone the fundraising launch until post-production. This meant that I needed to secure more private funding, which I was thankfully able to do without much issue. With the main elements of pre-production set into motion, we were on our way to be prepared for our August 19 start date.

July ended on a much better note than June as my confidence in the project—and myself— had been somewhat restored. Despite being constantly ping-ponged between work and my internship, I wanted to put my all into Sundown for the rest of the time I had left. This month presented personal and technical challenges as I explored uncharted territories with casting, budgeting, and general preparation for a short film. I knew that I was in for more challenges and surprises (both pleasant and less-than-so) in the weeks to come. Nonetheless, I had full faith in my cast and crew and we moved forward into August with a plan of action and the will to make it happen.

What Does the Helper Need? Park Chan-Wook’s Lady Vengeance

Why do we help others?

To feel happy? To feel needed? To fulfill a certain responsibility? To ease guilt? Or out of self-interest?

These are questions explored in Park Chan-Wook’s 2005 Lady Vengeance.

The main character, Geum-ja has been imprisoned for 13 years after a wrongful conviction for the murder of a 6 year-old-boy. In fact, she was manipulated into a confession by the villainous Mr. Baek, who kidnapped and threatened her infant daughter. Baek has kidnapped many children from many families for ransom, and Geum-ja helped him kidnapping the boy so that Baek would help her and her daughter without knowing that Baek will ultimately murder the boy.

The direct translation of the title is actually “The Kind-hearted Geum-ja,” and indeed Geum-ja acts like an angel in prison and helps almost everyone selflessly. But Geum-ja kindness is not without reason. Everyone she helps is essential to her revenge, and her kindness in prison is what convinced other prisoners to help her.

In fact, Geum-ja doesn’t hide her dark side. Once she is released, she even purposefully reveals herself as evil. Korean has a tradition of giving the released prisoner a piece of tofu as a symbol of starting a new life that is pure and innocent as the color of the tofu. However, Geum-ja throws away the tofu in front of a group of people when she is released, ignoring, and even confronting this suggestion of guiltlessness. She also starts putting on blood-red eye shadow and wearing all-black outfits. Most importantly, the angel who used to smile at all criminals never smiles again once she gets out of prison. She is desperate to show everyone, and herself, that all her kindness is out of purpose, and now it is her time to achieve that only goal. Geum-ja completely wipes away her innocence and even loathes her past kindness. Because only doing so can this young and attractive woman be determined to fight a murderer. Geum-ja must hide any compassion she has to convince herself that she is stronger and more brutal than Baek to conduct her revenge. As human beings are conflicting figures, the best way to disguise our intentions is to present the opposite side, just as the revenge-motivated angel in prison and the desperate evil outside that Geum-ja shows.

Her conflicting mentality is also shown by how she separates herself from the rest of the people involved in her plan. She makes her revenge like a ritual event where she is the goddess who controls everything without being an actual part of it. Geum-ja gathers all the families of Baek’s victims and asks them to kill Baek together. In contrast, she doesn’t even touch Baek during the entire murder process. More dramatically, Geum-ja provides identical raincoats for all the victims’ families to prevent getting blood on their bodies. With all the families sitting together in the raincoats, it looks like a uniform that unifies them and creates the bond of their shared crime. She then takes a group picture with all the families in the raincoat, with blood on their bodies, and brings everyone to a celebration with her hand-made black cake to keep enforcing the bond between the families. Again, she doesn’t eat that cake, but makes herself a white one in the same shape of the tofu and throws her face into the cake at the end. As if immersing herself in that cake can wash her soul and cleans her guilt, and she can cover her darkness displaying outside. It is Geum-ja’s revenge, but she makes it seem like she is helping the families to avenge instead of for her personal hatred. Through this, Geum-ja can get herself out of the cycle of revenge and eliminate her guilt.

Geum-ja is not the only one who “fakes” kindness. The priest, who encourages Geum-ja the entire time she is in prison and gives the tofu to Geum-ja, is indeed following Baek’s order to keep an eye on Geum-ja in case she avenges. Typically, we judge the priest’s betrayal behavior immediately as he pretends to be a “good person.” But here, the priest is doing the same thing as Geum-ja, the protagonist whom we are directed to support, and it becomes a moral dilemma that we can’t tell who is doing the “right thing” or if there really is anyone who is doing the right thing.

To me, the film is definitely not portraying Geum-ja as an innocent figure, nor making anyone in her an absolute demon. Geum-ja conducted the kidnap in exchange of receiving help from Baek when she was pregnant, and she also murdered someone to help a prisoner whom she knows that she will need her help to revenge. She selfishly helps people but kills Baek morally. The conflicting behaviors we see from her are just an unspoken consensus that people all act for self-benefits, whether we are being conscious about it or not. This invisible cost-benefit analysis leads to whether we display ourselves as a kind-hearted evil or a brutal victim.

If there is no pure angel nor ultimate devil, what does the helper actually want?

To feel the kindness in their heart, or plan to receive help in the future?