Film unmasks monsters inside man
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Horror movies usually deal with anti-heros, whose monstrosity is so evident that the audiences readily distance themselves from the negative images fleshed out on the silver screen. But "Three, Monster", released on Friday, goes the opposite way.
The film has attracted media limelight because of its peculiar production style. Three top-rated directors from Korea, Japan and Hong Kong joined in the omnibus movie project. Although their cinematic styles are highly disparate, a common thread - human monstrosity - runs through the three 40-minute-long pieces.
Another element that unites the three stories is the bitter aftertaste. Some audience members have rushed out of the theater in the middle of previews, apparently unable to endure some tortuous and graphic scenes.
And some who have been brave enough to stay until the ending credits have expressed anger and frustration.
"What in the world are these movies?" a moviegoer said in utter embarrassment. Such a sense of disgust, however, is what the three moviemakers aim to provoke.
"Cut", the opening piece by award-winning Korean director Park Chan-wook, is bizarre and unnerving. The story starts with a grotesque yet eerily funny filmmaking scene in which a female vampire feasts on a human being.
It turns out that the scene is part of a movie being filmed by Ryu Ji-ho, an extremely successful film director who has earned wide and solid support from both the audience and critics. He is a sort of Mr. Perfect: wealthy, respected, talented, happily-married, good-looking, kindhearted.
Really? Ryu's perfection is seriously challenged when he returns home and encounters a complete stranger - an extra who participated in some of Ryu's movies. Ryu had never paid attention to this obscure man - until now.
The intruder, who has nothing to lose, reveals deep-seated hatred toward the director, who has everything to lose. The intruder has brought along a small child and taken Ryu's pianist wife hostage. Ryu is given a mind-boggling choice: kill the innocent child or to watch his wife's fingers cut off one by one at five-minute intervals.
The psychological showdown between the have and the have-not seems excruciatingly fast-paced as the five-minute deadline for a cruel finger-cutting drives up the tension. (Yes, blood is shed, and it's not a sight to enjoy.)
But it's hard to say that the cruelty here is similar to mainstream slasher movies filled with violent images. First, it takes only three characters to get the plot running. And only two characters - the director and the intruder - talk.
The director's house where the riveting game is played out is decorated in baroque-style, and classical music scores echo through the expansive space.
Ryu's pianist wife also makes a fetish appearance thanks to the constant tears of fear that smear her make-up, reminding the audience that this is not real, but rather a psychological drama.
When the madman cracks a series of jokes in the slow-paced dialect used in midwestern Korea, director Park seems to be pursuing a comic rendition of human monstrosity.
What's really funny is director Ryu's confession. Asked about the shortcomings of his life, he ponders seriously (while his wife's fingers are chopped away, thank you), and finally says, "I'm sorry I've been so kindhearted".
If this derisive scene makes you laugh, you'll discover how scary it is only a few seconds later. Director Park, who cleverly blends the filmmaking term "cut", in the film's title with cuts of an entirely different sort in the movie, is a shrewd cinematographer who knows how to hit the sweet spot of the audience.
"Box", directed by Miike Takashi of Japan, tackles mythical and dreamy theme of horror that haunts Kyoko (Kyoko Hasegawa), a successful and renowned beauty.
The main character is trapped in a web of claustrophobic scenes, which chug along at a painfully slow pace, with Kyoko confined to a solitary and secrecy-laden life.
On the surface, Kyoko has ambivalent feelings toward her editor who has a crush on her. But she hesitates to open her heart to him because of a traumatic childhood experience.
Deploying techniques that can be defined as a minimalist fantasy, the film shows what really happened. At the tender age of 10, Kyoko accidentally caused her twin sister Shoko - a rival for the affection of their surrogate father Hikita - to be burned to death.
Stricken by grief, Hikita vanished shortly afterwards. Adding to the tangle, the editor looks exactly like Hikita. Meanwhile, Kyoko has been struggling to fend off the recurring dreams and memories of her twin sister.
The film does not stray from well-known motifs: jealousy, murder, guilt, and the judgment. Fantasy and reality intertwine, detach, and then overlap one another, making it hard to regard the suffocating images as real.
The question is whether the movie lives up to the grander theme of human monstrosity. For the most part, it doesn't. But the last scene changes all that in a way that may punch complacent viewers in the stomach.
"Dumplings", directed by Fruit Chan of Hong Kong, mixes one long-running human desire - to retain youthful beauty - with another insatiable desire - eating.
Instead of a wicked deal with a devil, Qing (Miriam Yeung), an ex-starlet who is now the wife of a rich man, chooses to embark on a culinary journey to eat specialty dumplings, which are reputed to have some rejuvenating effect.
A mysterious chef, Mei, a former gynecologist, caters to such wealthy yet desperate women willing to pay for a fortune to recover their beauty. Her secret recipe for the dumplings: human fetuses, obtained from abortions.
Grotesqueness ratchets up to a truly bewildering level when Qing slowly chews the dumplings, mincing and twisting her lips. The strange cracking sound will surely send shivers down the spines of the audience.
The movie keeps asking whether you can resist an offer to break the sacrosanct limit of human morality in return for youthful beauty. Cinematic questions aside, you'll look at a serving of dumplings in a far different way thereafter.
Without a doubt, "Three, Monster" will disgust and disturb some audiences. But the message is rather straightforward: Monsters are not without, but within us - if we are brave enough to look through the dark abyss of our pretension-infested hearts.
By Yang Sung-jin
The film has attracted media limelight because of its peculiar production style. Three top-rated directors from Korea, Japan and Hong Kong joined in the omnibus movie project. Although their cinematic styles are highly disparate, a common thread - human monstrosity - runs through the three 40-minute-long pieces.
Another element that unites the three stories is the bitter aftertaste. Some audience members have rushed out of the theater in the middle of previews, apparently unable to endure some tortuous and graphic scenes.
And some who have been brave enough to stay until the ending credits have expressed anger and frustration.
"What in the world are these movies?" a moviegoer said in utter embarrassment. Such a sense of disgust, however, is what the three moviemakers aim to provoke.
"Cut", the opening piece by award-winning Korean director Park Chan-wook, is bizarre and unnerving. The story starts with a grotesque yet eerily funny filmmaking scene in which a female vampire feasts on a human being.
It turns out that the scene is part of a movie being filmed by Ryu Ji-ho, an extremely successful film director who has earned wide and solid support from both the audience and critics. He is a sort of Mr. Perfect: wealthy, respected, talented, happily-married, good-looking, kindhearted.
Really? Ryu's perfection is seriously challenged when he returns home and encounters a complete stranger - an extra who participated in some of Ryu's movies. Ryu had never paid attention to this obscure man - until now.
The intruder, who has nothing to lose, reveals deep-seated hatred toward the director, who has everything to lose. The intruder has brought along a small child and taken Ryu's pianist wife hostage. Ryu is given a mind-boggling choice: kill the innocent child or to watch his wife's fingers cut off one by one at five-minute intervals.
The psychological showdown between the have and the have-not seems excruciatingly fast-paced as the five-minute deadline for a cruel finger-cutting drives up the tension. (Yes, blood is shed, and it's not a sight to enjoy.)
But it's hard to say that the cruelty here is similar to mainstream slasher movies filled with violent images. First, it takes only three characters to get the plot running. And only two characters - the director and the intruder - talk.
The director's house where the riveting game is played out is decorated in baroque-style, and classical music scores echo through the expansive space.
Ryu's pianist wife also makes a fetish appearance thanks to the constant tears of fear that smear her make-up, reminding the audience that this is not real, but rather a psychological drama.
When the madman cracks a series of jokes in the slow-paced dialect used in midwestern Korea, director Park seems to be pursuing a comic rendition of human monstrosity.
What's really funny is director Ryu's confession. Asked about the shortcomings of his life, he ponders seriously (while his wife's fingers are chopped away, thank you), and finally says, "I'm sorry I've been so kindhearted".
If this derisive scene makes you laugh, you'll discover how scary it is only a few seconds later. Director Park, who cleverly blends the filmmaking term "cut", in the film's title with cuts of an entirely different sort in the movie, is a shrewd cinematographer who knows how to hit the sweet spot of the audience.
"Box", directed by Miike Takashi of Japan, tackles mythical and dreamy theme of horror that haunts Kyoko (Kyoko Hasegawa), a successful and renowned beauty.
The main character is trapped in a web of claustrophobic scenes, which chug along at a painfully slow pace, with Kyoko confined to a solitary and secrecy-laden life.
On the surface, Kyoko has ambivalent feelings toward her editor who has a crush on her. But she hesitates to open her heart to him because of a traumatic childhood experience.
Deploying techniques that can be defined as a minimalist fantasy, the film shows what really happened. At the tender age of 10, Kyoko accidentally caused her twin sister Shoko - a rival for the affection of their surrogate father Hikita - to be burned to death.
Stricken by grief, Hikita vanished shortly afterwards. Adding to the tangle, the editor looks exactly like Hikita. Meanwhile, Kyoko has been struggling to fend off the recurring dreams and memories of her twin sister.
The film does not stray from well-known motifs: jealousy, murder, guilt, and the judgment. Fantasy and reality intertwine, detach, and then overlap one another, making it hard to regard the suffocating images as real.
The question is whether the movie lives up to the grander theme of human monstrosity. For the most part, it doesn't. But the last scene changes all that in a way that may punch complacent viewers in the stomach.
"Dumplings", directed by Fruit Chan of Hong Kong, mixes one long-running human desire - to retain youthful beauty - with another insatiable desire - eating.
Instead of a wicked deal with a devil, Qing (Miriam Yeung), an ex-starlet who is now the wife of a rich man, chooses to embark on a culinary journey to eat specialty dumplings, which are reputed to have some rejuvenating effect.
A mysterious chef, Mei, a former gynecologist, caters to such wealthy yet desperate women willing to pay for a fortune to recover their beauty. Her secret recipe for the dumplings: human fetuses, obtained from abortions.
Grotesqueness ratchets up to a truly bewildering level when Qing slowly chews the dumplings, mincing and twisting her lips. The strange cracking sound will surely send shivers down the spines of the audience.
The movie keeps asking whether you can resist an offer to break the sacrosanct limit of human morality in return for youthful beauty. Cinematic questions aside, you'll look at a serving of dumplings in a far different way thereafter.
Without a doubt, "Three, Monster" will disgust and disturb some audiences. But the message is rather straightforward: Monsters are not without, but within us - if we are brave enough to look through the dark abyss of our pretension-infested hearts.
By Yang Sung-jin
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