The Poet of Night

One of the greatest thrills for a cinephile (or at least this cinephile) is "discovering" the films of a heretofore unheard of master. Such is the case with Lee Man-hee, the prodigious South Korean director who churned out fifty features in a fourteen-year career that ended with his untimely death at the age of 45. A director who worked in nearly every genre, his films are rarely lighthearted affairs, and his protagonists tend to run the gamut from the downtrodden to the derelict, disabled, deformed, or otherwise doomed. A 2005 retrospective of his films at the Pusan International Film Festival was aptly titled, Lee Man Hee: Poet of Night. Though I only managed to catch two of the four Lee films programmed at this year's New York Korean Film Festival, both The Water Mill (1966) and A Road to Return (1967) left no question about Lee's position as a major figure in Korea's film history, and a director whose work deserves far greater recognition in the West. Sadly, many of his films are in terrible condition, and his greatest film (1966's Late Autumn) has all but vanished — not a single print or negative is known to exist. From the opening moments of The Water Mill, it's evident that Lee both understands and embraces every facet of the art of film. The medium is truly the message, and his films rely on the continual (and clever) interplay of son et image as primary tools for his storytelling, rather than traditional narrative devices. Shot in widescreen black and white, The Water Mill is a doomed-from-the-start tale of a dimwitted vagabond who falls for (and is ultimately cuckolded by) a village beauty. Erotically charged yet viciously cruel, it's a wonderful introduction to Lee's style, both thematically and aesthetically. Opening on a barren landscape, we soon see Bang-won (our vagrant anti-hero) enter the frame. Cut to a stream, with a single sock flowing down it. Bang-won bends over to drink from the stream and the sock floats right into his arms. He enters a village in the midst of some sort of shamanic ritual, rife with percussion instruments and people dancing around in demon masks. The sounds from the festival are barely audible under the unnaturally loud buzzing of insects that dominates the soundtrack, yet after a few minutes we are suddenly blasted with the cacophony of the ritual. Bang-won comes across an elderly woman who explains that this is an exorcism, and goes on to tell him the legend of the girl killed at the water mill. The woman who will act as the catalyst for Bang-won's undoing approaches and complains of a missing sock. We then see the giant wheel of the mill, motionless even though water continually pours onto the blades. It's an outstanding opening sequence, with a staggering amount to process — the camera work, the editing, the sound, the blocking — a tremendous effort for a few short minutes, though every detail is significant, as we will see in the next ninety minutes. Lee's exaggerated use of sound makes for a nice balance with his economical use of dialog. In one memorable scene, Bang-won is chopping wood, while his love interest is lying in the tall grass writhing orgasmically; the syncopated rhythm of axe striking wood the only sound heard. Lee supplements the limited dialog with visuals that serve as substitutes. This is best exemplified in a few unintentional moments — approximately ten minutes of the soundtrack have been lost, and we see just how much Lee conveys visually, particularly in the film's disturbingly violent climax. Like The Water Mill, A Road to Return (one of eleven films Lee directed in 1967) also deals with jealousy and infidelity, though this time the setting is modern-day Seoul. Quite experimental for a simple domestic drama, A Road to Return tells the story of a married author, paralysed in the Korean War, who is writing a serial novel for a newspaper about a paralysed author and his wife. Readers find the selfless, faithful wife a bit bland and unrealistic, and the editor suggests that her character should have an affair. This eerily mirrors the real world, which finds the author's wife falling for a young journalist she meets when delivering the latest chapter. Will life imitate art, or vice versa? Once again, the use of sound in the film is quite powerful. A chilling sequence early in the film finds the author in full military garb, seated in his wheelchair, describing to his wife the battle that resulted in his paralysis. His story is drowned out by a patriotic song (diegetic) and sounds of the war (non-diegetic) — it's a remarkable scene that places us in the wife's position, where we get to experience the tension, desperation, and helplessness she's suffering through. There are visual cues in the film that, while compositionally interesting, are less than subtle — a low angle shot of the wife, contemplating adultery, with a church looming over her shoulder. There is a certain crudeness (for lack of a better word) to Lee's filmmaking, especially when compared to other Asian filmmakers of the era. Thematically, A Road to Return reads like it could be a Naruse film, yet Lee's approach couldn't be more different. There's an overwhelming sense of sympathy (and perhaps even a hint of self-identification) towards his characters, particularly those with the greatest flaws. Both films contain lead characters fighting a losing battle with their masculinity, though this is something Lee seems to embrace, rather than distance himself from. Lee's films may not be as aesthetically "pleasing" as his fellow East Asian peers, but that makes him no less a master. His films are a bit rough around the edges — everything from high-contrast lighting to occasional slapdash production values (due in part, no doubt, to Lee's aggressive production schedule) — but this in no way serves as a detraction. Lee Man-hee can best be viewed as South Korea's Sam Fuller — both directors possess a dark nature that traverses multiple genres, and their films share a gritty aesthetic the lies just outside the mainstream.

Comments

[anon]

I managed to catch all four films at BAM. Water Mill was pretty interesting and indeed showed evidence of a great talent at work. The Devil's Stairway totally underwhelmed me. It was much more conventional and only showed intermittent flashes of interest. A Road to Return was fantastic, simply one of the best Korean films I've seen to date. But A Way to Sampo was at least as good and a total joy to watch. The four films showed tremendous variety, and, Devil's Stairway notwithstanding, a consistently high level of achievement. Here's hoping these (and others) get proper DVD releases soon.

[Adam]

Dude,

You're making me jealous that I never caught THE WATER MILL during what was possibly my only chance to.

Of the five of Lee's flms I have seen - THE DEVIL'S STAIRWAY, THE STARTING POINT, THE MARINES WHO NEVER RETURNED, 04:00-1950, and BREAK THE CHAIN, my favorite is THE STARTING POINT. It has very fun, very long, crawling on the floor fight seem similarly lacking in dialogue as you with no dialogue.

Adam

[nkw88]

It was my honor and pleasure to introduce him before each screening. I wish his War films were included in this mini retrospective - Marine Who Never Returns, Seven female POWs, and so on.

[nkw88]

Hmmm, the still photo of THE ROAD TO RETURN that you put is great. That still shows the landscape and urbanscape of Seoul in 1960s - skyscrapers and mountains. This photo was shot from Namsan, the small mountain which is located at the center of Seoul. The mountains in the photo is the Northwest side of old Seoul. What a great shot!

[girlwithamoviecamera]

thanks for the tip, filmbrain! i'll try to see if i can find the water mill and his other films at the cinemateque media library here in paris... fingers crossed...

[nkw88]

One reason why Lee Man-Hee was not known to other country and even next generation Korean filmmakers is that he died untimely. Yu Hyun-Mok and Kim So-Yong became professor of film departments and made its program in Dongkuk University and Cheongju University. So their students later worked at Korean film industry. Shin Sang-Ok had managed his scandalous life in North Korea, South Korean and even in Hollywood and continued to making movies until he died last spring. Kim Ki-Young was rediscoverd at Pusan in 1998, earlier than Lee Man-Hee, and recognized by many critics.

Except Kim Ki-Young and Lee Man-Hee, other directors had their proteges and apprentices who late became important filmmakers. For example, Lee Jang-Ho was Shin Sang-Ok's assistant director and later became a leader of new filmmakers in late 1970s. Lee Jang-Ho's one assistant was Bae Chang-Ho whose sentimentalism was inherited to Lee Myung-Se.

That is, Lee Man-Hee did not have his successor comparable with ones of other great filmmakers. If Lee Man-Hee lived longer, Im Kwon-Taek could not enjoy his international fame. Lee Man-Hee to Im Kwon-Taek is what Jimmy Hendrix to Eric Clapton.