Forgot password

 

 

As the unofficial hub for modern revenge narratives, the Korean film industry has, unintentionally, cultivated an image of itself as a national cinema fixated on stylish bloodletting. While true that Korea is the most prolific producer of revenge films, and that they often operate within the theater of the grotesque, such a reading is shortsighted and ignores the social mores that have led to this profligate meting out of payback.

 

The obvious question raised by the prevalence of revenge in Korean cinema is, why? While a seemingly simple query, it has no straightforward answer and can be approached from any number of aesthetic, sociological or historical angles.

 

Revenge as a narrative device stretches as far back as the birth of storytelling. Straightforward, easy to follow and emotionally charged, it is an effective way of relaying an engaging story to a receptive audience. Following its popularity in Greek mythology and literature through the ages, revenge was embraced by filmmakers, who were seduced by its simplicity and the way it easily lends itself to genre cinema. Films like Death Wish (1974) were able to fetishize violence with narratives that required the frequent, and often bloody, dispatch of antagonists.

 

When revenge caught on in Korea cinema, shortly after its resurgence in the late 1990s, buoyed by the international success of PARK Chan-wook’s revenge trilogy (Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance, 2002; Oldboy, 2003; Lady Vengeance, 2005), it wasn’t long before the industry developed a reputation as a purveyor of vengeful cinematic fare. The embrace of revenge thrillers in Korea may have been an unconscious attempt to develop a recognizable genre brand for the country’s film industry in the wake of Oldboy’s global recognition, much like the way that Hong Kong is known for its kung fu films or Japan has spent years churning samurai flicks. However, in a technically advanced industry that has proven adept at producing a kaleidoscopic array of commercial and independent cinema, this branding never quite came to fruition.

 

Considering the theme’s enduring popularity in Korean cinema, evidenced by hits such as The Man from Nowhere (2010), it’s no surprise that local filmmakers have returned to revenge again and again. But even early on it was suggested that there was more at play than mere aesthetic appeal. Academic studies have suggested that revenge is used as a means of post-traumatic recovery. Psychological scars inflicted by the colonial era, the Korean War, the separation of the peninsula and the subsequent military regimes run deep and offer numerous incentives to employ revenge as a metaphorical device for the recuperation of a lost national identity. In his book ‘Virtual Hallyu: Korean Cinema of the Global Era,’ Kyung Hyun KIM refers to the colonial era as an ‘enigmatic but seductive little kernel.’ Korean filmmakers are caught between the need to remember and forget.

 

The fear of forgetting the past undergirds many of contemporary Korean cinema’s narratives, while the need to forget it has hidden Korea’s difficult history in allegorical tales. This has also led Korean filmmakers to develop a fascination with amnesia. In Oldboy, CHOI Min-sik’s character OH Dal-su is forgotten by society following a 15-year incarceration and, following the film’s twist climax, he deliberately employs a hypnotist to ride him of his memories. Similarly, at the end of JANG Cheol-soo’s Bedevilled (2010), the antihero KIM Bok-nam loses her mind and presumably her memory, having completed her cycle of revenge. These quests for revenge can be read as privatized analogies of national trauma, but, since fixing the past is not an option, there is nothing left to do but die, go crazy or forget.

  

Revenge in Korean films is typically initiated when characters become marginalized from the status quo. When a loved one is taken from them (I Saw the Devil, 2010) or they are betrayed by those they have put their faith in (A Bittersweet Life, 2005), they lose the link to their ordinary lives, and, dislocated and shunned by society, they go on the rampage. However, echoing the Count of Monte Cristo’s lifelong scheme, revenge is seldom spontaneous in Korean films. Those wishing to get even go to great lengths to carry out their retribution. OH Dal-su’s tormentor spends 15 years setting his plan in motion while Lady Vengeance’s Geum-ja concocts her meticulous plan during her years in prison. In last year’s The Fives, Eun-a enrolls four co-conspirators into an elaborate scheme. Characters in Korean films, having lost their raison d’être, become consumed with revenge and devote all their energies towards exacting it.

 

 

Characters in Korean films often harbor past traumas and the result is a special feeling or emotion known as ‘han,’ which is notoriously hard to translate. Theologian SUH Nam-dong describes ‘han’ as:

 

 

Revenge, as executed in Korean cinema, seems to both embody this notion of ‘han’ and directly contradict it. It’s as though the pent-up trauma, which has remained ebbing below the surface is suddenly unleashed in a flurry of violence. Again, once this energy is spent, even if the actions are justified (as they frequently are), it is impossible to lead a normal life again.

 

Another way one could look at revenge in Korean cinema is that following the democratization of South Korea in 1988 (it’s not accident that Oldboy begins that year) Korean citizen experienced freedom from oppression for the first time. No longer shackled to the whims of an authoritarian regime, Koreans could go about beginning to right the wrongs they had been dealt. Of course, mistrust of authority leads these activities down the vigilantism route rather than legal means. What’s more, Korean films (not just revenge thrillers) tend to depict Korea’s judiciary as corrupt and its enforcement branches as hapless, with police officers frequently winding up as the butt of jokes.

 

Over time, the theme of revenge has also evolved along with the local film industry. Though traditionally fixating on private cases of vengeance (whether metaphorical or not), of late Korean films have been more direct, aligning revenge directly with historical traumas. 2012’s 26 Years, a crowdfunded work based on a web comic, boldly featured a group of descendants of Gwangju massacre victims who seek to assassinate the former president CHUN Doo-hwan.

 

Also, in a field mostly dominated by men, Korean cinema has increasingly made space for women-driven revenge narratives. Films like Lady Vengeance and Princess Aurora (both 2005) already explored slightly different preoccupations, mining genre roles, both recent fare such as Azooma, Don’t Cry Mommy and Fatal (all 2012) have sought to redress issues concerning sexual abuse, frequently carried out against teenage girls.

 

The above observations merely illustrate just how complex the theme of revenge has become in Korean cinema. With more titles appearing every year and many of those furthering the boundaries of revenge as a narrative device and thematic tool, the question of why in Korea’s revenge cinema is likely to lead to even more complicated answers down the road. As the old Latin proverb goes, revenge may well be a confession of pain but if we the audience continue to seek it out as means of entertainment, then what does that say about us?

 

By Pierce Conran