The Beat November 2002

Story: John Bocskay
Photos: Andrew Cranston, Jeremy Roie
Interpretation: Kim Dae-hwan

Blood spurts up from the stones of a rail bed in a hard rain. Shadowy men walk silently down the constricting alleys of post-war Busan slums. Death is a punk who flips a knife as he walks up the stairs. Love floats in and out of the backstreets like the remnants of a half-remembered dream.

Pomildong Blues is not a typical film, and Kim Hee-jin is not a typical filmmaker. In a country that prides itself on making hits as polished as Hollywood, he searches for his films within himself, and in the gritty byways of Busan‘s blue-collar ghettoes. Where the critics want action, he gives them stillness. Where they want smart characters and snappy dialogue, he gives them ephemeral spirits and contemplative silence. Where they want to use the word “genre”, which Korean too (like English) has borrowed from French, he works like the devil to eliminate it from his vocabulary.

So it wasn‘t surprising that Pomildong Blues was mostly slammed by the Korean critics when it played at PIFF 2000. I found the film refreshing – mainly because it strives above all else to seek difference in a world that increasingly demands sameness. I would tell you to rent it at your local video store, but it isn‘t there. Korean film festivals abound, both big and small, but Korean independent film as yet has no real video shelf-life.

But it‘s here, and it isn‘t going away. I recently met Hee-jin at his office in Seomyeon during a break from his current project, Hakjng Byeolgok (Hakjang Elegy). We talked about his films, the Busan International Film Festival, and what he‘ll do in ten years if he isn‘t dead.

J: In your words, what is Pomildong Blues about?
HJ: In my view, the world is not perfect. It is not cause and effect, not linear. To me, the world is more about accident or coincidence. In Pomildong Blues, the storyline is not important. I wanted to show that the world is more mysterious and out of joint. Connected, but not properly. Like a web.
J: The characters in Pomildong Blues are very ephemeral. They don‘t leave a very lasting impression. The focus to me seems to be the city itself and not the characters. Why did you focus so intensely on the city and not really on the characters?
HJ: Most mainstream films follow a storyline. Man loves woman, they break up, someone dies, like that, but that‘s not my interest. Even though Pomildong Blues has a narrative, the characters always disappear from the space, so I can show the space without characters. I wanted to make the audience feel a different narrative without character, only with space.
J: What attracted you to Pomildong?
HJ: I‘ve always been interested in spaces where people have been living for a long time; residential places where people moved after the war, that kind of character. I want to see what we have missed in our history, what we missed in our lives, in our neighborhoods, in images. That‘s why I chose Pomildong. Not for nostalgia or to show modern society. I‘m always thinking, “Do we still feel what happened in this area? Is there something we can catch from the changes here?”
J: What‘s your mission as a filmmaker? Are you “documenting” the city? Isn‘t there some nostalgia in your filmmaking?
HJ: Jean Luc Goddard said--I‘m paraphrasing--that he is waiting for film to disappear. I agree with that. It could mean that if you make the kind of film that people expect, it‘s not good for people. People expect a lot from films, a certain style or a certain genre. I think it‘s better to try to make films that people can‘t expect or anticipate. A film we can‘t judge or categorize; that‘s what I try to do.
J: There are parts of Pomildong Blues that you labeled as different genres, “action” and “musical”, and so on. What were you doing there? Were you mocking this tendency to classify everything?
HJ: I was using those genres purposely, not to follow their good points, but trying to show them from another side. But still, I was thinking of the people who would watch this film, and I thought I couldn‘t do away with them completely, but I wanted to show another side of them.
J: How much did Pomildong Blues cost to make?
HJ: 45 million won (US $37,000).
J: How did you finance it?
HJ: I got 10 million won from the Busan Cultural Foundation, 20 million from the Busan Film Commission, and borrowed 15 million.
J: What kind of film would you make if you had a big budget, say, 10 billion won?
HJ: It would totally depend on what kind of money it was, who it came from. But if I had 10 billion won, I would spend 9 billion to support twenty other independent films in Busan, and make my film for 1 billion.
J: Pomildong Blues was screened at PIFF 2000. What did the film critics say about it, and how was it received by the general audience?
HJ: Korean critics said, “This film is not enough. The quality of this film is low.” They follow the general theory of filmmaking. Some of the European film critics said they are interested to see my next film, the possibilities of my films. The general audience was totally black and white. Most people didn‘t understand what it was. And some people were emotionally moved. It wasn‘t like, “Now we understand what kind of film that is in theory” or whatever. It was emotional.
J: I read in the Korea Herald that Pomildong Blues and two other films at PIFF 2000 were the first digital feature films to be made in Korea. Why did you decide to use digital?
HJ: Pomildong Blues was shot on 16mm.
J: Ah. I should never trust the Korea Herald.
HJ: Actually, some parts of Pomildong Blues were shot on digital, but I did it to try something new, not because of money or because of style.
J: Which directors have influenced or inspired you as a filmmaker?
HJ: Jean Luc Goddard. Michaelangelo Antonioni. Derek Jerman. Federico Fellini.
J: Which Korean directors stand out in your mind? The ones that really matter.
HJ: Bae Yong-gyoon. Hong Sang-soo. Jang Seon-woo.
J: Can you tell me about your current project, Hakjang Byeolgok ?
HJ: I‘m trying to develop my skill and technique. It‘ll be more musical, more action, more pseudo-documentary, that kind of mixture. Not realism.
J: Why did you choose Hakjang? What interests you about that neighborhood?
HJ: In Pomildong Blues, I felt a lack of the whole process of life and death. I could make images of the streets, but I tried to add water, like rain, to show the cycle of life and death. In Hakjang there is a river, there is water, which is polluted by the industry in the area. So there I can show more; purification, and the cycle of life and death.
J: Water is a central image or theme?
HJ: Yeah, water is a really important feature of my images.
J: I‘ve noticed in Korea that some traditional things, like the pojang macha (Soju tents) or the street sellers and food carts, when there is some big international event like the Olympics or the World Cup, sometimes the government says they have to close up. They seem ashamed; they say they are too unsightly or too out of step with modern Korea. Here you are, making films about Pomildong and Hakjang, at first sight very old and run-down neighborhoods, and you shine this bright light on them. Do you get a strange reaction from Korean people? Do they ask you “Why do you care about these neighborhoods?”
HJ: That could be the attitude of this society towards these traditional dodgy areas. When I went to film in Hakjang some local people asked me, “Why are you making a film here?” I told them, “I like this place”. But actually, in my mind, I was thinking and questioning myself, “Why do I film here? What about this area interests me?” And also, “What‘s the mission of this film?”
J: Where will Hakjang Byeolgok be screened?
HJ: I hope to show it next autumn at PIFF 2003. And I will look to put it into other festivals.
J: What was your experience at PIFF 2000? What effect did it have on you as a filmmaker, as an artist, as a person?
HJ: I‘ve been involved in lots of film festivals. As a film festival, people were friendly to me. But that was the first time I was invited as a film director, so my main interest was listening from the audience, listening to the critics, their reaction to the film and their thinking about the film. To be frank, I was a little bit worried and nervous about the technological stuff. I was not satisfied; I couldn‘t achieve the quality I wanted. So to me, emotionally, it was a little bit strange, a little bit weird, and worried.
J: More generally, what kind of impact or effect does PIFF have on Busan in terms of local film production?
HJ: When PIFF was first created, it was too overdressed. People said, “Wow, this festival will make a culture shock in Korean society. Now we have nice culture, now we have international arts.” But actually it‘s not. I think people need to calm down about this film festival, because when it grows bigger and bigger, the small films cannot be supported by the film festival. So, some local filmmakers feel uncomfortable with this film festival, because people just follow the big film festivals; they don‘t pay attention to the little film festivals. It‘s not about begging for money, it‘s about the cultural balance between big and small. It‘s not the fault or problem of PIFF and it‘s not the fault of the local filmmakers. It‘s just that they overreacted to each other; they asked too much of each other. Maybe PIFF wanted local film directors to make “international” films directly, so they say, “Your film is not qualified.” And the locals directors say, “Hey, even though it‘s an international film festival, the basis of the film industry must depend on this kind of low-budget, little films, especially if this is a local festival.” So I think, just as a festival itself, it must be enjoyed, and as a film festival, it must be a film festival.
J: What do you mean?
HJ: It shouldn‘t be a governor‘s party. It shouldn‘t be a kind of market for the Hollywood-type films.
J: So there‘s not enough attention to the small independent films? There‘s too much attention to the big expensive productions at PIFF?
HJ: I mean there‘s no direct connection with each other, between the local film scene and the Busan International Film Festival. They can use local people for workers, or if someone makes a good film they can invite them, but they don‘t think about creating a stable situation for the local film scene. It seems they don‘t mind if it disappears or not.
J: So practically, they‘re not really supporting local filmmakers?
HJ: Right. It‘s like this: If you go to a department store, you look for name brands; you don‘t like the lesser-known brands. So, local independent filmmakers think, “Isn‘t this too big for us?” It‘s too big a contrast. The problem isn‘t that they will lose their self-respect; the real problem is that they will misunderstand. “Am I at this level? Do I have to follow these big budget tendencies to make the best film?”
J: Excluding festivals, what kind of audience is there for independent film in Korea?
HJ: It‘s quite a hard question about the identity of the audience. Maybe, the young people who are tired of a perfect world.
J: In your opinion, what is the future of Korean independent film? Where is it going? What are the possibilities?
HJ: There is no independent film in this society. If you follow the logic, independent film must be based on independent soul or spirit, as opposed to trends in independent film that people can follow and say, “I‘m making an independent film.” But even if you accept this logic of independent film, it must still be accepted by the society, by the whole scene.
J: To be made at all?
HJ: To be made. Even if they don‘t care about good reviews from the critics or big company budgets, there still must be some kind of opportunity for those kinds of people to make their film and show their film. That‘s the most important thing.
J: What is an “independent film”? How do you define it?
HJ: In my publicity I use the word “independent, but privately I call my films “individual films” or “personal films”.
J: Why don‘t you call them “independent”?
HJ: In today‘s terms around the world, “independent” tries to be stable; a certain style, a certain genre, a certain cultural trend. In my mind, the essence of independent film is change and movement, even in an extreme way, trying to find difference. But even when you hit upon “difference” in independent film, it‘s already categorized by the mainstream.
J: So the moment it‘s categorized it‘s no longer independent?
HJ: Yeah, trying to follow some trend.
J: What would you like to be doing ten years from now?
HJ: I want to be dead. (laughs) Or...
J: (laughs) And if you survive?
HJ: I‘m not sure what I want to do in ten years. I think I‘d like to open a small theater where people can show their films. Not a plan, just an idea.
J: Well, I hope you survive another ten years.
(laughter)
J: Your future films, your future projects…do you want to continue to focus on Busan, or can you see yourself doing films about other areas, other topics?
HJ: I‘m planning to do 3 or 4 more films about Busan, like Hakjang, Oaneuldong, places like that. It‘s not directly connected to Busan; Busan doesn‘t mean anything in the film actually. I just think about the meaning of the film. I think about Busan as a space, as a place to give me inspiration and learn about myself. Also, I want to work in some kind of visual art, whether the film people call it “film” or not. Maybe video or exhibitions or even commercials. But I want to feel a little bit of freedom.