Gastoski

Because night time is the right time, to be with the one you love, with the one you love

Korean language teacher Seo Hye Jin (a fantastic and stunning Jung Ryeo Won) is the spearhead of the Daechi-chase Academy, a private after-school institute (Hagwon, in fact) in the Gangnam district of Seoul, dedicated to strengthening and improving the academic development of students of various age levels;
Entirely dedicated to her work, Hye Jin sees her life take a sensational twist when Lee Joon-ho (Wi Ha Joon, outstanding), her former best pupil, reappears. After giving up his career in a major company, he decides to become a teacher at the same school, with unpredicted consequences...

‘Midnight Romance In Hagwon’ is a beautifully delicate rom-com, capable of treating such a complex and burning theme as the articulated Korean school system, undoubtedly competitive and varied in its labirynthic set of rules, dogmas, social conventions and fierce struggles, all aimed at reaching the top of society itself. The drama, at the same time, is capable of touching us thanks to a captivating love story that escapes the banalities of the most predictable and sugar-coated romance, offering us an adult and decidedly structured relationship, also hindered by social conventions, work principles and even methodological differences.

The Daechi-chase Academy represents a kind of working microcosm where, along with the planned teaching structure, there is also a kind of subterranean ‘internal’ infighting within the Hagwon itself, where ‘there are no friends, everyone is in competition’ (summarised, in one of the clever dialogues, by the metaphor of hyenas and the ‘meal’) and where co-workers are ready to take advantage of any weaknesses of their own in order to advance their careers; certain founding principles of Confucianism are always emphasised, both for the role of teachers and for that of students.

Respect for hierarchy and seniority, the importance of teamwork rather than the individual's path, is portrayed, but almost as an antithesis to this, perfecting education and trying to improve oneself is given a central role, apparently individualistic concept, but accepted, as competition with others, for the best grades and for a job, which is also a better one, is a kind of ‘social lift’ necessary to reach the top of the hierarchical ranks of Korean society itself.

So intense is the competition between the different Hagwons (there are so many of them considering the extent of Seoul and its urban areas) that spy-story techniques to snatch secrets and steal each other's best students often reserve more than a few cheap shots to belittle and discredit the competitors.

In this kind of no-holds-barred law of the jungle, where profit and personal enrichment rule, a kind of feud evolves between the Daechi-chase Academy and the Choiseon Academy, led by the infamous Choi Hyung-sun, known as the White-haired Witch.

In this ill-concealed hypocritical society, closed and dominated by exasperated rhythms and widespread frustrations, both on the teachers‘ and pupils’ side, the figure of Seo Hye Jin -stunningly portrayed by Jung Ryeo Won- ends up being overwhelmed by the uncontainable vitality of Joon-ho (Wi Ha-joon, absolutely perfect in a part one couldn't imagine for anyone else);

The teacher Seo leads a methodical (and boring, it has to be said!) life, consisting of 16 hours of work a day, six days a week, with no traces of private life and no personal relationships, except for a couple of friends -he runs a pub, she is a lawyer-, with practically no relations with family members (there is a hint here and there in conversations with colleagues, but nothing more) and, above all, no sex life;

In the first episodes, we find ourselves following this robotic routine of meetings, scheduling, lectures, insights and sad lonely re-entries into an anonymous house that is almost a ‘non-place’ where Hye-jin seems to return just to sleep, which is a bit of a paradigm shift compared to so many beloved dramas where the house is often the focus of events or narrative plot twists.

It will be Joon-Hoo's unbridled and in some ways brazen audacity that will progressively undermine Hye-jin's convictions; not only the certainties of feelings, and here the noona-romance, as mentioned above, avoids the classic loopholes of the typical rom-com, also giving us a moment of extraordinary and very reserved emotional authenticity, but also -above all!?- the preponderant work vicissitudes, dealt with in some of the drama's topical moments, which offer a confrontation-clash of the highest level, where the dilemma over teaching methodologies instils the seed of doubt in the own Teacher Seo:

Whereas Hye Jin applies an almost mnemonic system where the pupil is directed to learn ‘by memory’ certain mechanisms of comprehension and learning, Joon-ho's style is more ‘ thoughtful’ where there is also a quest to convey passion for the literary subject.

Are the students, almost like machines, to learn and that's all, by memorising passages from books, practising calculating the probability of the questions in the tests, evidently ‘forgetting’ everything immediately after the exams, or are they to become passionate about the subject, perhaps with the opportunity (as in the case of Joon-Ho himself) to become the teachers of tomorrow?

It should not be forgotten that the Hagwons are extremely expensive schools, with families prepared to make considerable sacrifices in order to see a bright future for their children; parents demand the best from teachers and the discourse of ‘experimentation’ cannot prevail over the certainty of academic achievements.

The moment the boiling pot of the ‘clandestine’ relationship is discovered, and professional ethics in the workplace are called into question, the stigmatisation of the two teachers begins, victims not only of the oppressive work rules, but also of those previously mentioned founding principles that foment jealousy, hypocrisy and false respectability, where artfully fuelled slander can disrupt anyone's life...

I have already mentioned Jung Ryeo Won's superlative performance; her characterisation of Teacher Seo is so articulate, she has so many aspects, contradictions, weaknesses, but also resilience against adversity, that it is impossible not to be moved by the portrait of a 34-year-old woman who, confronted with the evidence of changes in her life and work, she finds herself rethinking all her principles and values pursued up to that point; that this sort of emotional switch is triggered by the vitality of the young (6 years younger) Joon-Ho is evidence of great narrative script.

There is, in my opinion, a certain affinity with the same emotional mechanisms of the beautiful ‘Encounter’, where youthful fervour, cheekiness and, let's face it, the right amount of arrogance deriving from one's enthusiastic confidence, prevails over a heavy, boring and, I would emphasise, grey ‘comfort zone’ of frozen maturity...

A great Wi Ha Joon, who is also perfectly mature in a very complex role, able to avoid the risk of falling into easy clichés and boring mannerisms, portrays a splendid character who is not afraid to shout his feelings to the world, not only making a breach in his beloved's heart, but, as a novel knight, defending her with his sword in the hardest moments, especially in the last episodes...

Their private, personal moments are beautiful, underlined by sincerely romantic and moving dialogues, almost ‘literary’ but never pedantic, capable of involving and melting even the least predisposed hearts thanks, it is important to specify, to a nocturnal scenario that often finds the two main characters almost ‘isolated’ from the rest of the world and that, at least for me, recalls certain classics of the past…

It has to be said that among the top-notch cast, I personally did not find the character of Choi Hyung-Sun, the so-called ‘witch’ played by Seo Jung-Yeon so interesting; she seemed a bit too caricatural, almost cartoonesque, a bit like Cruella De Vil, a bit like Miranda Priestly, far too mannered in characterisation...

Much better is Kim Jung-Young in the role of Assistant Director Woo, who is able to make her character grow exponentially with the dramatic progression of the story; she is a decidedly interesting character, fuelled by a resentment that has poisoned her life and who, when confronted with the main characters of the tale, reveals all her mediocrity.

I mention the excellent Kim Song-Il in the role of Professor Pyo Sang-Seob; these are those difficult characters, perhaps considered ‘marginal’ in the economy of the story, but which reveal unexpected qualities even with very few lines; his professional ethics, seemingly old-fashioned and mistreated, more for his attitude or his character disposition than for anything else (once again, appearances are mistaken for certainties), is instead surprisingly re-evaluated in the light of the extraordinary free lesson that the teacher offers his pupils; a truly outstanding piece of acting talent!

Personal curiosity: Between the office and the home of director Kim Hyun-Tak (Kim Jong-Tae), a film lover, one notices the framed posters of various films such as ‘Christmas In August’ and my much-loved ‘The Contact’ (with the goddess Jeon Do Yeon).

Of course, the drama is not completely perfect, in my opinion it gets a little lost in some conclusions that are not quite focused, between a catfight that is perhaps liberating (there is a lot of pent-up anger throughout the drama) but quite exaggerated, a second younger couple of low interest that has more of a function of lightening the narrative tension, and even the role of some students, at the beginning quite highlighted, is a little sidelined;
there is also an invasive use of the music, at the umpteenth ‘Open to page sixty four (don't forget about me)’, a bit like Carla Bruni's obsessive cover of Tammy Wynette in ‘Something In The Rain’, your blood pressure goes up a bit, but whatever, the soundtrack as a whole is pleasant and well structured.

As usual, there seems to be a need to make all the pieces fit together for an ideal closure, but nothing changes the magic of the story, which may not appear immediately engaging (the dialogues are definitely articulated and must be followed with a lot of attention) but which knows how to conquer, thanks to the wonderful work of the two main performers; let yourself be carried away by the emotions and you will be adequately rewarded, this drama will win you over!
8 ½

Read More

In the shadowplay, acting out your own death, knowing no more

‘The Art of Sarah’ builds its structure around a theme that is, first and foremost, a question about identity. Perhaps it is precisely by starting from the end that we can find the most honest key to understanding this drama: a world dominated by brands, super-luxury, appearances and perceived value, where even a name can become a choice, an invention, a strategy.

In this scenario dominated by appearances, Sarah is introduced as an almost mythological figure. Not so much for what she does, but for the way the series observes her: always slightly above the others, more aware, more lucid, as if the system surrounding her were not only a cage, but also a language to be mastered.
This is where the drama builds its most fascinating ambiguity. Is Sarah a victim? Is she a strategist? Is she both? The narrative seems to suggest that, in a world where value is perception, even morality can become a form of representation.

The metaphor of luxury handbags, perfect but exposed because they are “too accurate”, is not a decorative detail: it is the conceptual heart of the drama. Like those seemingly authentic objects, Sarah also oscillates between originality and performance, between authenticity and construction. The audience perceives the tension between what is and what appears to be, and it is here that the moral suspension that accompanies the entire series takes shape.

However, as the story delves deeper into the heart of the matter, that suspension slowly tends to resolve itself, not abruptly, but almost imperceptibly. It is as if, after flirting with the idea of an identity that cannot be reduced to a definition, the series finally chooses to bring it back within a more readable perimeter, without betraying the initial ambiguity and without losing the charm of doubt that Sarah has been able to generate at every step of her journey.

The unveiling, then, seems to take a more cautious trajectory: some elements, perhaps introduced belatedly, give the impression of a functional rather than inevitable relaunch, and the whole tends to come together in a more orderly fashion than might have been expected. This is not inconsistency, but more prosaically a form of narrative caution; after suggesting moral vertigo, the series opts for a controlled landing, which does not cancel out the initial suspension but recomposes it with lightness.

Overall, however, it remains a solid, elegant and coherent production. And above all, she stands out. Shin Hye-sun is magnetic: she combines fragility and calculation with rare naturalness, without ever overdoing it with unnecessary mannerisms. Even when the writing becomes more cautious, her performance continues to suggest something unresolved. She alone makes it drama worth watching.

Lee Joon-hyuk, on the other hand, remains prudently more conventional — perhaps deliberately — and this contrast brings out an interesting element: ambiguity is more fascinating than moral correctness. The morally “dark” character is narratively more vivid than the “righteous” one, and Shin Hye-sun's presence amplifies this tension, making it clear that the true energy of the drama stems from its ability to embody doubt without resolving it.

In the end, ‘The Art of Sarah’ avoids — courageously!? cautiously!? — giving us clear answers, instead creating an open space for reflection, where identity, appearance and morality intertwine without being completely resolved. A drama that knows how to play with doubt, challenging the viewer to question rather than passively observe, and does so with elegance and consistency, without ever betraying its conceptual construction.

For those who love stories that leave a trail of questions rather than certainties — and the inevitable need for a second viewing! — this can be considered a successful narrative experiment: provocative, sophisticated and, above all, capable of making you talk and think, even after the credits roll, and especially after THAT final question...

7/10

Read More

For lovers of genre

I watched "Awaken" based on VIKI's introduction, expecting a crime thriller maybe in the style of "Flower of Evil" or "The Devil", two series I really adored
At the beginning, I followed with good expectations, thanks to a rather impressive incipit and with intriguing subsequent suggestions, even though the typifications of the main characters were not particularly original (the usual typecasting of the variegated team at work always reminds me of certain Japanese robot cartoons of childhood with the leader, the beauty, the clumsy and the nerd, those things, in short...).

However, as the episodes went on, I began to have more than one doubt about the direction of the series with a growing sense of annoyance, a red alert for a scenario completely different from the initial perspective; getting to the point, the expansion to Sci-Fi and things of this nature I had not really planned for and at that point the interest really dropped exponentially...
I mean, it's not that the story is particularly boring, it's reasonably elaborate and repeatedly tries to revive the attention with impactful cliffhangers, but the problem is that 'Awaken' really does come at a very late stage and smashes open doors from so many previous ones...

With everything we ‘ve had, from 'The X-Files' to 'Stranger Things', via 'Dark Angel' and their many epigones with 'special kids', it's a moment's notice to find yourself in such trite situations that you're able to understand much of the unfolding almost immediately.

The usual secret labs, the usual child-guinea-pigs, the usual mad doctors, between Dr. Frankenstein and the many crazed demiurges in a delirium of omnipotence, perhaps even parents of the aforementioned lab subjects
In overall terms, for fans of the same genre, it is certainly something that can intrigue and involve, but at the same time, for the aficionado with a little knowledge of the material, it is impossible not to notice the incredible accumulation of references, clichés and tired stereotypes that make the nose twitch, as well as the usual holes in the logic that often screw up the elaboration and development of many situations...

And it's a pity, because in my opinion the moral dimension of the story should have been highlighted more, thanks to the excellent performance of the main character Namkoong Min, capable of casting for several episodes the classic shadow of doubt on his true nature; it's also a shame for the little in-depth analysis between our super-child and the really disturbing mad scientist-mother, limited to the last episodes; the same goes for the police-daughter/father-scientist relationship, with an always excellent Kim Chang Wan in a role that would have deserved a better deepening, but then the police daughter (who we are told is also of great merit) really knows practically nothing about her father's work, for all those years! ?

The lead character in the guise of a wanted possible multiple homicide who calmly drives around the city, in defiance of roadblocks, checkpoints, camera recordings or phone interceptions (as seen in so many dramas or movies) is inexcusable, as is the Terminator-turn with the relative moving of trucks with his hands (but why?), with sudden and opportune super-powers...

A comic anthology is the three days wasted by Jamie (by the way, she, Lee Chung Ah, really beautiful -nda) and the nosey reporter waiting for the rain to cease so they can go by boat to the island-laboratory, and then the two 'super-boys' who come and go in a flash, at night, and how do they do it, maybe flying!?

It gets to the end rather tiredly due to the too many twists and turns of the drama with a pretty predictable and practically inevitable ending that leaves that inevitable sense of déjà-vu and general discontent quite marked...
Personally my rating is 7/10, fairly generous, more for the first part of the story and for some of the acting performances:
Of course Namkoong Min who certainly doesn't need me to tell him that (he's a class actor!) and something in the minor characterisations but at the end of the whole affair there are no particular desires left for second viewings...

Read More

If They Move, Kill Em

One of the most wonderful aspects of the Dramaverse is often that nostalgic urge to revisit a much-loved series after a while, to rekindle that sense of enjoyment, that distinctive feeling that made us love it so much, as well as the desire to start from the beginning to pick up on details we missed the first time round. ‘Snowdrop’, unfortunately, does not fall into this category.
A great story, a beautiful one, and in some ways absolutely stunning; a cast that is, for the most part, excellent; and visual composition and atmosphere that are often of the highest calibre. And yet I am almost mathematically certain of one thing: I won’t be watching it again.

Not because it’s a bad drama – far from it. The problem is that “Snowdrop” took a huge emotional and physical toll on me. Sixteen episodes, often running to nearly an hour and a half – and in some cases even longer – become a sort of marathon of psychological endurance. The overriding feeling, at least for me, was one and the same: claustrophobia.

And not just because much of the story takes place in the dormitory at Hosu Women’s University. It is the very structure of the drama that transforms almost every space into a trap. The dormitory, the military camp, the rooms where the ANSP leadership and the military decide the fate of the hostages, the political circles and even the Boutique Charmant become closed, suffocating spaces in which the characters never seem to have a real chance of escape.
At one point, I literally felt as though the school’s roof was right over my head.
And it’s a feeling which, in my view, isn’t just down to the story being told, but to the way in which “Snowdrop” chooses to tell it. The architecture gradually becomes a psychological element of the narrative: we aren’t simply inside these spaces; we are prisoners alongside the characters.
In “Snowdrop”, the set design is not merely a backdrop, but almost becomes a reflection of the characters’ circumstances. The dormitory is the first, and most obvious, of these cages. What should be a place of growth, friendship and freedom for the students of Hosu Women’s University quickly becomes a bunker. Narrow corridors, staircases, underground passages, crowded rooms: every space seems to gradually lose its original function, transforming into something hostile. The girls are not simply held captive: they are physically and metaphorically crushed between two power structures – the North and the South Korean – which, for entirely different reasons, arrive at the same conclusion: their lives are expendable.
And the paradox is that nobody on the outside seems to be in any real hurry (or to have any real need, as will gradually become clear) to set them free.
The military camp and the offices of the ANSP leadership and the military constitute a second prison, seemingly the opposite of the first. Here there are no terrified female students, but men convinced that they are in control of the situation, that they have the power to decide the fate of the hostages and, ultimately, to pull the strings of the political game. Yet even these environments are cold, closed off, rooms almost devoid of air. Those who believe themselves to be in charge (with utterly tragicomic results) are themselves prisoners of the very same mechanism at play, the product of the most absurd bureaucracy.
Equally intriguing, in its own way, is the Boutique Charmant, the social hub for the wives of the influential. A place seemingly a world away from the dormitory – elegant and refined – where the women of the elite move amongst dresses, jewellery and (fake) smiles whilst backstabbing one another to secure their husbands’ power and, of course, their own status. But in some ways, even this place is a sort of (golden) prison. Hence that sense of particular claustrophobia: the series doesn’t allow us a single place where we can breathe. In stories of siege or espionage, there is usually a certain alternation between dangers, escapes, hideouts, truces and so on; moments are created in which the characters – and we, the viewers – can let our guard down.
It is virtually non-existent here (the exception of the attic will, ironically, find its definitive fulfilment right at the very end).
The female students are in danger within their own home; the North Koreans are besieged from the outside by the ANSP and from within by the risk of riots, betrayals and mutinies; the men of the South Korean establishment are, in turn, prisoners of a political game that towers over them. No one is truly safe. And after a while, the viewer begins to feel unsafe too.
And this is where, in my view, “Snowdrop” makes a choice that is as effective as it is grueling: it freezes time.
The siege, which on paper ought to lead to a continuous escalation, ends up turning into a sort of enormous temporal parenthesis. The outside world exists, but it seems a world away; the world within is almost motionless. The characters speak, negotiate, threaten, betray one another, switch allegiances, raise their weapons and then lower them. And we remain there, inside that dormitory.
For long stretches, I felt as though I were watching the longest Mexican standoff I can remember. Not so much because there is a lack of events, but because the tension builds much more rapidly than the narrative progresses.
There are weapons everywhere, hostages, infiltrators, soldiers ready to intervene, ultimatums, threats of execution, betrayals and counter-betrayals; yet for a surprisingly long stretch of the series, there is relatively little shooting and few definitive consequences. The system must continue to maintain a balance because the main characters must remain within that place, and so every twist tends to produce a new stalemate.
Point the gun. Make threats. Negotiate. Uncover a betrayal. Renegotiate. Point the gun again. And start all over.
It is a pattern which, repeated over sixteen episodes, produces a peculiar effect: the suspense does not disappear, but gradually turns into exhaustion.
There comes a point where my experience as a viewer diverges most significantly from what I imagine was the filmmakers’ intention. I fully understand the desire to maintain a constant sense of dread, to never grant a real respite, to turn the viewer themselves into a hostage, just like the characters. It’s just that I felt that very sensation, almost as if I were viewing it as more than merely a narrative device.
The political dimension of “Snowdrop” lends an even broader significance to that sense of captivity. Because, on closer inspection, it is not only the female students who are held hostage in the hall of residence. Almost everyone is.
Set in 1987, during one of the most delicate periods in South Korean history, at a time of historic transition, the drama constructs its political narrative by cleverly exploiting the so-called communist threat to stoke fear and sway public opinion to the advantage of those in power.

The scheme depicted in the drama is ruthless precisely because of its simplicity: the crisis is fuelled and then exploited for political ends, whilst the hostages in the hall of residence become far more than simply people to be rescued.
They are electoral pawns, in a reflection on contemporary society that proves truly illuminating: for the leadership of both sides, the lives of citizens, students and even their own agents can become expendable when a greater interest is at stake.
Those who appear to be in control thus discover that they, too, are pawns, ready to be eliminated as soon as the leadership’s plans change.
Paradoxically, North Koreans often seem more relatable on a human level: they have bonds, fears, loyalties and affections. South Korean institutions, by contrast, appear colder and more instrumental, because political ends tend to overshadow everything else. But ultimately the result is the same: ideologies change, uniforms change, but the logic of sacrifice remains the same.
What I had described as a massive Mexican standoff takes on a different meaning. Everyone is pointing their guns, everyone is threatening everyone else, but no one is truly free to pull the trigger. The dormitory becomes the focal point of a political game far bigger than its occupants.
It is a conceptually very effective structure. Perhaps even too effective, because the feeling of being trapped that I had sensed within the narrative structure ends up being transferred directly to the viewer. “Snowdrop” almost never offers a way out: neither to its characters, nor to its story, nor to those watching it.
Within this system, in which everyone seems to be nothing more than pawns, the one thing that truly tries to defy the rules of the game emerges: the love between Soo-ho and Young-ro. “Snowdrop” never really promises that this story might have a future. Right from the very first episodes, it is clear that this is a hopelessly impossible love. The drama doesn’t deceive us: it lays out the rules of the game straight away and then does something far crueller – it lets us hope all the same.
It is their relationship that makes the drama all the more painful. In classic love stories, falling in love tends to broaden the characters’ world; here, the opposite happens: love narrows it. So-ho and Young-ro can only meet in the hidden corners of the dormitory, in the attic, in secluded rooms. They are buried alive inside that building and, paradoxically, it is precisely there that they find their inner freedom.
Young-ro goes from seeing Soo-ho as a threat to wanting to protect him, trusting him and, ultimately, loving him. Soo-ho, in turn, goes from seeing her as a complication to making her the reason why it is worth disobeying. Love thus becomes the means by which both of them gradually cease to be pawns of their respective organisations.
It is significant that the whole thing remains extremely chaste: it thrives on glances, anticipation, protection and small gestures. Almost on absence. It is a love story built on the inability to have.
When Soo-ho reassures Young-ro, those words take on an almost tragic significance: they are not necessarily a promise about the future, but a way of protecting her from the present. It is the age-old mechanism of melodrama: I know how it will end; you must not know yet.
That is why every tender moment becomes both romantic and sorrowful. And whilst the plot continues to unfold – North, South, betrayal, counter-betrayal, guns drawn and fresh negotiations – their relationship, by contrast, moves in only one direction: they are growing closer.
And the closer they get, the more obvious it becomes that the world around them will not let them get anywhere. When Soo-ho finally returns to the dormitory, there is no longer any need to pretend that another possibility might exist. The circle closes right there, in the very place where it all began, beside Young-ro. His return is not an escape to safety, but the acceptance of a fate that “Snowdrop” had planned from the very beginning.
And perhaps that is the most bitter thing of all: the system is never truly defeated. It can punish those who have betrayed it, sacrifice its own pawns, and then carry on as if nothing had happened. The dormitory, on the other hand, can once again become a place of life, but only after having learnt the price.
In the end, there remains that feeling that is hard to shake off: in “Snowdrop” there is no real victory, only someone who, for once, chose not to obey the rules imposed on them to the letter.
History may change, systems may change, even generations may change, but for those who find themselves living with the consequences, there is not always a real reward, nor a sense of justice capable of putting everything back in its rightful place. What remains is the memory of what might have been, of a life merely imagined and of a love which, however brief and impossible, managed, at least for a moment, to escape from everything else.
It is a painful conclusion exactly because it offers no consolation: sometimes history does not even grant its protagonists the right to live the life they would have chosen.
A cast of this calibre benefits enormously from “Snowdrop”’s massive running time: sixteen episodes lasting eighty, ninety minutes or more offer the actors a scope rarely seen for developing characters full of contradictions, second thoughts and grey areas. And perhaps this is one of the series’ greatest strengths: almost no one can be neatly pigeonholed into the good/bad dichotomy. Everyone seems to be hiding something; everyone can be both a victim and a perpetrator at the same time; and the uncertainty over who can truly be trusted stays with the viewer for much of the story.
Jung Hae-in stands out above all others, delivering a truly remarkable performance. Soo-ho goes through virtually every possible emotional state: he is the team leader, the soldier who must obey orders, the man blackmailed by the threat hanging over his sister, the man trying to survive whilst simultaneously protecting the hostages, and finally the man in love who gradually realises just how little control he now has over his own destiny.
Hae-in manages to blend strength, fear, fragility, contradictions and sudden twists, guiding us step by step through the awakening of a character who realises ever more clearly that he is being crushed by something far greater than himself. In a story that constantly changes its own rules, it is a performance that must change alongside them.
Yoon Se-ah is also very convincing: initially almost a caricature of the stern governess from “Heidi” – even made to look less attractive for the role – she is then gradually revealed to be a much more complex character. Her evolution is one of many examples of how “Snowdrop” loves to challenge first impressions: someone who appears to be one thing may be something else entirely.
Yoo In-na is also excellent, perfect in the role of the infiltrated North Korean spy, with all the cunning, seduction and duplicity that belong to the finest tradition of spy films. And, let’s face it, with remarkable sex appeal.
The characters played by Yoon Se-ah and Yoo In-na then become almost two variations on the same theme: don’t trust first impressions. And they won’t be the only ones
There are, however, still some reservations about Jisoo. Young-ro works well, and Jisoo manages to bring that ‘girl-next-door’ spontaneity that the character requires; in the moments of greatest emotional intensity, however, the gap between her and the more experienced actors in the cast is at times noticeable. It is not a poor performance, far from it: it is simply that realm of pathos where, in my view, she could have dared to go a little further.
Ultimately, then, my opinion stems from the realisation of just how much “Snowdrop” manages to achieve, despite everything that put me to the test whilst watching it. It is an ambitious, multi-layered and visually striking drama, backed by an excellent cast and capable of turning its lengthy running time into a formidable machine of tension, emotion and plot twists. But it is also a machine that, at least for me, worked all too well.
Because the very qualities that make it so powerful are the ones that have gradually drained me: the relentless tension, the seemingly never-ending siege, the claustrophobia, the accumulation of tragedies and that constant feeling that there is never a real moment in which to catch my breath. When I reached the end, rather than feeling satisfied, I felt drained.
And this is the curious paradox of my opinion: I can recognise that “Snowdrop” has merits that fully justify a high rating. I enjoyed it. It drew me in. It gave me a great deal to think about. But, once I’d finished it, the only thing I wanted was to get out of that school.
7 ½

Read More

Jesus almost got me / I don't know how many prayers he overheard

“Love Letter” belongs to a particularly significant period in the evolution of the Dramaverse – the era of the drama seasons: it was released at the same time as “Summer Scent”, shortly after “Winter Sonata” and alongside, amongst others, similar dramas such as “Stairway to Heaven”. In many ways, everything seems to point to the great Korean romantic melodramas of the early 2000s: intense emotions, fate, sacrifice, past traumas and a classic love triangle destined to further complicate the protagonists’ lives. Yet “Love Letter” takes a less predictable path than its structure might suggest, introducing a surprisingly significant religious element into the melodrama, which transforms the usual romantic rivalry into a far more complex conflict between emotion, vocation, guilt and sacrifice.

The religious element, in fact, is not merely a decorative feature or a device used simply to further complicate the love triangle: it is one of the cornerstones around which the entire story is built. Faith plays a part in the characters’ backgrounds, influences their choices, fuels their feelings of guilt and, above all, introduces into the usual romantic conflict a question that romantic melodrama does not typically pose in these terms: what happens when love for another person clashes with a vocation that is considered superior to any earthly bond?

This gives rise to a tension that runs through virtually the entire drama, because none of the main characters is simply called upon to choose whom to love: each must come to terms with what they believe to be right, with what they desire, and with what they feel they must sacrifice.

Here, the figure of Andrea becomes central. His personal story initially appears to follow the most classic of providential paths: an oppressed child, a lost family, an uncle who is a priest and who appears almost as a saviour-figure, and a new life within the religious community. Andrea therefore grows up linking his own salvation to his faith and, above all, to the conviction that he has been given a sort of second chance.

When, years later, love for Eun-ha enters his life, the conflict is not merely about his desire to be with the woman he loves: it means calling into question the very foundation upon which he has built his identity.

Jung Yoo-jung’s arrival at college completes the love triangle, but not just that one: an almost brotherly bond immediately develops between him and Andrea, though this is destined to fray when Yoo-jung falls in love with Eun-ha and begins to see his friend as a rival. From that moment on, ‘Love Letter’ follows a fairly classic trajectory for Korean melodramas of the era, characterised by jealousy, misunderstandings and family revelations that constantly shift the balance of power.

The discovery of their respective identities and the links between their families introduces a new rift, whilst Yoo-jung’s jealousy compounds the pain of a past that suddenly takes on a different meaning. Even Andrea’s decision to take her vows, rather than resolving the conflict, paradoxically ends up fuelling it: the love remains there, unresolved, and the letter that Yoo-jung hides from Eun-ha becomes one of the many small gestures through which the protagonists are gradually deprived of any choice.

The love triangle thus inevitably begins to unravel, with Eun-ha increasingly torn between the two men and Yoo-jung, in her attempt to win what she desires, repeatedly crossing the line between love and possession. It is a dynamic familiar to the melodramas of that era, but here it works because it ties in with the story’s other two main themes: family wounds and the conflict between emotion and vocation.

It is, however, through Eun-ha that the love triangle ultimately takes on a different perspective. Gradually worn down by the rivalry between the two men, torn between her love for Andrea and Yoo-jung’s persistent marriage proposals, she finds herself facing a far more dramatic conflict, which the story reveals only gradually: the discovery of a serious heart condition, accompanied by uncertainty about how long she has left to live. From this point on, the melodrama shifts significantly in tone, as the usual romantic indecision gives way to the anguish of a future that might suddenly cease to exist.

His gradual isolation, his hesitations and apparent second thoughts thus take on a different meaning, whilst his sense of guilt towards Andrea ends up fuelling the conviction that his illness may be a punishment for having distanced him from God.
The conflict between feelings and vocation thus takes on a more truly existential dimension, in which the problem is no longer merely a matter of choosing how to live out one’s love, but of facing the very possibility of losing it forever.

Eun-ha’s tragedy reverberates through the two men, who are already tormented by increasingly fragile certainties: Andrea gradually loses his footing between his vocation and love, whilst Yoo-jung allows himself to be consumed by resentment. Both thus seem to lose touch with who they once were, just as Eun-ha’s illness forces the love triangle into a completely new perspective.

Just when the love triangle seems irreparably broken, it is the illness itself that ultimately mends, at least temporarily, what the romantic conflict had torn apart. Faced with the very real possibility of losing Eun-ha, rivalries and grudges are pushed into the background: Yoo-jung returns, first and foremost, to being the doctor who can try to save her, whilst Andrea must finally face up to the possibility of losing her, no longer able to put off making her own choices. The very person who had divided them thus becomes the force that compels them to find their way back to one another.

It is no coincidence, after all, that almost all the main characters are connected to the medical profession: in “Love Letter”, faith and science are not set against one another, but curiously end up converging precisely where the protagonists’ lives are most at risk.

It is perhaps here that the true ‘miracle’ of “Love Letter” takes place: not so much in Eun-ha’s fate, but in the mending of the three protagonists’ feelings. Andrea finally realises that his calling need not necessarily overshadow his love for Eun-ha, whilst she gradually stops viewing that love as a sin to be atoned for; that moment on the beach, which in a conventional melodrama would probably mark the beginning of their love story, instead becomes its definitive form: a moment of mutual acknowledgement that does not open up a new path, but clarifies the one they have both now chosen.

What also holds together a narrative structure so rich in twists, second thoughts and repetitions is the excellent work of the cast, who are called upon to portray characters that could easily have lost credibility under the very weight of the melodrama.
Jo Hyun-jae, Soo Ae and Ji Jin-hee, however, manage to keep the various nuances of their characters consistently recognisable, accompanying their transformations without reducing them to the usual roles of a love triangle. Andrea, Eun-ha and Yoo-jung thus remain three deeply human figures, each with their own contradictions and weaknesses, and it is probably also thanks to this solid acting that “Love Letter” manages to see it through to the end without losing the delicate balance between love, faith, guilt and sacrifice.

The ending – which, in a story so full of twists and turns, could easily have undermined everything that had been built up previously – turns out, instead, to be perfectly consistent with the characters’ journeys. It does not seek spectacular solutions nor does it resort to a final twist to astonish the viewer: it simply brings to a conclusion what the sixteen episodes had set up, allowing love, vocation and sacrifice to finally find a place where they can coexist. It is a conclusion that does not shy away from melodrama, but brings it to its natural conclusion, and is probably the best outcome the drama could have hoped for.

That old fairy tale from Andrea’s childhood inevitably springs to mind – the one about the rope that came down from the sky to save the child from his loneliness. That rope, which seemed merely a symbol of hope, ends up running symbolically through the entire story: first, someone reaches out to Andrea; then it is Andrea who reaches out to someone else. It’s comforting to think that the ultimate meaning of ‘Love Letter’ is indeed this: not that love must necessarily triumph over faith, or faith over love, but that both can take on a different form without ceasing to be what they are.

7 ½

Read More

If I were a bramble and you were a rose

“Cruel Love” (or “Bad Love”) is a typical example of a genre product that falls victim to the very nature of Korean dramas, which are capable of changing direction midway through: a powerful premise, built upon a chain of tragic events and tangible consequences, which at a certain point is gradually replaced by a more conventional and convoluted melodrama, full of artificial obstacles capable of inducing a state of utter frustration. No one is claiming to want a happy ending at all costs, but rather demanding – for the sake of dramatic and intellectual integrity – that the story’s development remains consistent with what it initially promised.

The first part of the drama works extremely well because, through melodramatic coincidence, in every episode each tragedy brings about a consequence and every event perfectly alters the course of the story, through a whole series of external and irreversible obstacles (scandal, a ruined career, abortion, the breakdown of a family, bereavements, the rekindling of love, etc.) which create a rupture with the characters’ previous lives.

The romantic drama arises naturally from the situation that has been created. The psychological consequences depicted in the first part of the story are an extremely powerful driving force for the narrative’s progression: characters who suffer the consequences of their own decisions, or are forced to confront events that have now irrevocably altered their lives.

It is exactly this aspect that makes the first half particularly successful: however exaggerated the events may be, the pain does not seem gratuitous, because it leaves its mark and forces the protagonists to rebuild their identities from the ruins. In-jung, in particular, is not simply subjected to a series of misfortunes: she is transformed by them, and her newfound love for Yong-gi takes on meaning simply because it comes after a life that is completely different from the one she had imagined.

But then, as the action shifts from the provinces to Seoul, a melodrama of misunderstandings seems to unfold, a victim of its own need to carry on. Although the obstacles are gradually removed, the script seems compelled to create new ones, including through the introduction of utterly laughable and redundant characters, resulting in decidedly weaker situations that end up influencing the fate of the protagonists – who love one another and should therefore be together, but for some reason cannot…

The problem is that, at this stage, the complications no longer seem to arise naturally from the accumulated wounds, but become, in themselves, the fuel needed to prolong the story. What in the first part was a drama built on consequences gradually becomes a drama built on obstacles: when one obstacle is removed, another must be found immediately. And so the narrative ends up losing the very force that had made it interesting, because the viewer begins to see the mechanism at work rather than being drawn into the events.

The introduction of Park Shin Young, the lookalike of the protagonist’s first love, is a twist that ends up creating a narrative dynamic different from the premise, whilst also missing a great opportunity; whereas previously the focus was on the psychological consequences of what had happened, the story now attempts to play the classic melodrama card with ‘the past returning’ in an almost physical form.
This, in itself, could have been interesting, but instead it ends up shifting the narrative tone, being used explicitly to further complicate the relationship, when it could have carried greater psychological weight – perhaps to truly explore the relationship between memory, guilt, grief and desire, with all that this entails within the relationship between the two protagonists.

The very nature of this subsequent agreement (“let’s stay together until spring”) presupposes that the characters no longer act according to their own inclinations, but rather in the interests of the script. Two adults are in love, the main obstacles are gradually being overcome (by the way: is there a ranking of the most absurd terminal illnesses in the Dramaverse?) and neither of them has a concrete reason to give up on the other: the viewer’s question inevitably becomes: “But why!?” Even the suspension of disbelief breaks down; everything seems to boil down to justifying the 20-episode run.

These two different forms of melodrama ultimately distort the romantic dynamics of the story as well: the first part told the story of people who suffer the consequences of their own decisions; the second seems to focus on people who make decisions with the aim of bringing about new consequences. And this is a substantial difference, because in the first case the tragedy is part of the story, whilst in the second it becomes almost a plot device within it.

The paradox really comes to the fore in the final episode. After the inevitable time ellipsis, both have rebuilt their lives; almost all the obstacles that had prevented the two protagonists from living out their love for much of the story have simply vanished. And so the inevitable ‘Is that it!?’ arises, because the ending demonstrates, almost retrospectively, just how contrived much of the previous, tormented journey had been. The meeting, the glances, the embraces and the promise of eternal love… The end.

The bench built by Yong-gi, the return to Samcheok, the walk hand in hand: it’s all symbolically very beautiful and brings the story full circle with elegance, but it lacks what would have been most interesting to see – namely, a genuine confrontation between the two.

There is no real conversation capable of making sense of what has happened, no shared analysis of the wounds, the blame, the fears and the sacrifices that have kept them apart. The traumas of the past seem simply to have been absorbed and dissolved by the passage of time and the disappearance of external obstacles. With these removed, the two can finally love one another. But the most interesting drama would have been to understand how two people so deeply scarred by what they had been through could find one another again and consciously choose each other.

For this reason, the ending – whilst consistent with the series’ romantic tone and undoubtedly evocative both visually and emotionally – leaves one with a sense of incompleteness. The story has spent an enormous amount of time setting up the obstacles, but surprisingly little on actually showing how the protagonists overcame them.

There is, however, still much to be commended about the overall production of “Bad Love”: the excellent performances, the beautiful soundtrack, the atmosphere, the cinematography, the provincial landscapes, the melancholic charm of Samcheok and, above all, that initial ability to craft a mature, painful and compelling romantic story. It is a series that manages to be elegant, evocative and even poignant, and which, in its first half, achieves moments of remarkable intensity.

It’s a shame that, as the story unfolds, that very elegance ends up being little more than packaging – like a beautifully wrapped present: fine wrapping paper, a perfect bow, every detail meticulously attended to, all of which whets your curiosity about what might be inside. Only to open it and find the cheap little ring that comes with an Easter egg.

After a truly excellent first half – with convincing performances, a great atmosphere and a remarkably captivating audiovisual production – “Bad Love” culpably ends up gradually losing the narrative focus of its story (ironically, with the metaphor of the bench and swing clearly evident!), replacing the power of the consequences with a succession of increasingly contrived complications needed solely to drag the whole thing out.

The emotional turmoil and depth that had led one to expect the very best fade away in a conclusion that is far too hasty and complacent, culpably made up of haphazard narrative choices and missed opportunities. What remains is the memory of something that could have been far greater than what it ultimately managed to be.

6 ½

Read More

And No More Shall We Part

What makes “Goodbye Dear Wife” excellent overall lies in the intricate web of narrative strings that forms its framework, and in its ability to gradually bring them into focus in a surprisingly coherent manner, despite the fact that these threads unravel on the very edge of contradiction or, indeed, the most extreme paradox.

A man discovers he has only a few months to live and decides to divorce the woman he loves. Not because he has stopped loving her, but because he loves her so much that he wants to ensure she can build a life for herself without him.

Behind this paradoxical, central and inescapable turning point, themes such as marital love, the spectre of first love, the rekindling of unrequited or impossible desires, and even death as a means of shaping the future all converge; almost a love story as voluntary self-destruction, filtered, moreover, through a Catholic subtext capable of defining an act of absolute sacrifice: namely, renouncing the right to be loved by one’s wife in order to guarantee her a life after he is gone…

The drama’s initial comedic tone introduces a number of thematic variations which are gradually developed and ultimately subverted; temptation and possession, the desire to possess and the impossibility of truly possessing another person – or even oneself.

Seung Hyuk, the protagonist (Ryu Shi Won, who is excellent and strikes a perfect balance between the drama’s various stylistic registers), believes he is in control of his own life; he has given up his career as a martial arts champion for the sake of Sun Ah (Hong Soo Hyun, visceral and lovely, deeply moving in her devotion, as dictated by her role, yet also delightfully self-deprecating in playing on her undeniable beauty) by building a marriage and a high social and financial standing, but remains fundamentally unresolved because of Hyang Ki (Park Ji Yoon, icy and inscrutable, but above all deeply tormented), his ‘first love’, who appears almost like a lost object to be recovered.
The temptation is not merely physical and emotional, but rather an almost desperate desire to turn back the clock…

But in a (paradoxically) symmetrical way, Sun Ah, too, experiences exactly the same feeling, with the return of Hyun Chul (Kim Min Soo, perhaps a little too stiff and lacking in any real spark), who is, moreover, extremely keen on the possibility of reclaiming the life they might have had. She had almost embraced the novitiate following Hyun Chul’s disappearance, but had been ‘saved’ by that rediscovered love offered to her by Seung Hyuk himself.

A couple, two past loves, the chance to open that door again, to find out whether what they have lost is really what they still want.

It is the diagnosis that completely alters the nature of things. Not only Seung Hyuk’s life, but his very notion of control; whereas before his mindset was: ‘I can decide who to love, who to leave, who to take back, and how to organise my life’, now, in a tragic reversal, it becomes: ‘I cannot even imagine how long I will live’. Before, there was almost a sense of omnipotence – amplified, moreover, by the entertaining microcosm surrounding the protagonist, his gym and his devoted athletes – but now this has given way to utter helplessness. The former champion can only manage what remains to him in a desperate attempt to bring some order to his life.

Yet another paradox – or rather, the resulting contradiction – concerns his behaviour towards Sun Ah, who is brutally reduced to the status of someone incapable of making her own choices; he decides that she must leave him, that she must forget him, that Hyun Chul might even be her future, and, above all, that the pain he will inflict on her now is preferable to the pain she will feel later.

It is an ‘extreme’ form of possession: the attempt to control his wife’s future. This makes his behaviour both loving and, at the same time, deeply violent. Not violent in the physical sense: violent because it robs her of the chance to choose. He does this through psychological blackmail, which is devastating even from the viewer’s perspective; he wounds her with the harshest arguments directed at Sun Ah – a devoted wife, a Christian believer and an obedient woman – deliberately seeking the point at which he can sever the bond. He must make her believe she is no longer loved.

The analysis of a marital crisis raises some universal questions: How well do we really know the person we love? Where does love for the other person end, and to what extent is it instead a desire to possess their image, their future, their fidelity and their presence?

The illness undermines all logical reasoning, eroding not only the body but also one’s certainties; the secret and the fear that Seung Hyuk experiences in solitude, ironically, also provide the comic framework that runs through the entire drama – yet another paradox: the protagonist knows something the others do not; he knows his own fate.
His wife does not, nor do his friends and family – his mother is even preoccupied with her own rediscovery of love, unaware of anything – whilst the other characters continue to interpret Seung Hyuk’s behaviour according to the usual rom-com tropes: love, betrayal, jealousy, first love, rivalry, gossip, etc.

Only Hyang Ki knows (and here one might raise objections regarding the principle of medical confidentiality); comedy and melodrama coexist perfectly, as we, the audience, see two different interpretations of the same behaviour at the same time. This asymmetry proves to be the mechanism that makes a situation bearable which, from the protagonist’s point of view, is simply tragic.

No longer being able to control one’s own destiny takes the paradox of possession to its extreme: the attempt to manage what will be left behind; yet the more Seung Hyuk tries to control everything, the more the drama shows him that nothing truly belongs to him; whilst the final match seems to represent the best possible metaphor, he, once again, chooses to change course.

In the end, his desperate attempt to become the architect of other people’s futures comes up against the reality that time cannot be managed and hearts cannot be planned. Seung Hyuk had believed he could foresee everything, even the pain of those left behind; yet his journey comes to a close when he gives up fighting against what he cannot change and chooses, once again, Sun Ah. There is no longer a future to plan, nor a life to entrust to someone else: all that remains is the time – brief and precious – to be spent together.

It is a resignation that bears no resemblance to defeat. Accepting one’s own fate also means granting the other person the freedom to choose their own, without any longer claiming to protect them even from what is bound to happen. Inevitably, the nature of sacrifice changes: it is no longer a matter of deciding on behalf of the one you love, but of accepting that you cannot save them from whatever the future may hold.

Time passes, and with it, life. The pain does not disappear, but finds a way to exist within the days, in everyday actions, in memories, in what continues to grow even though someone is no longer here. The loss is not erased, nor can the past be rewritten: quite simply, both end up finding a place within the present.

Perhaps this is the most authentic form of acceptance that the drama offers the viewer: not only that of the person who must die, but above all that of the person forced to remain behind. For death may cut short a life, but not necessarily a love; and what remains is neither possession of the other, nor the impossible promise of a future together, but the possibility of carrying on with life whilst carrying their memory with one.

‘Goodbye Dear Wife’ does not grant the miracle we have continued to await alongside its characters. It offers something more subdued: the realisation that not all stories can have a happy ending, but that a story can still find its own meaning without betraying what it has told. You can lose someone and, despite this, carry on living. You can carry on loving without ever being able to have them again. And what if, in the end, the price of love was exactly that? Learning to let go of what, more than anything else, we would have wanted to hold on to.

8/10

Read More

Eros + Thanatos = taxidermy

The enigmatic and alluring Black Lizard, a highly wanted criminal and thief who collects jewels, orders the kidnapping of Sanaye, the daughter of the jeweler who owns the precious diamond called “Star of Egypt”; Private investigator Kogorō Akechi sets out on her trail, engaging in a thrilling duel full of twists and turns with the cunning and brilliant collector, who, in addition to her passion for jewelry, also reveals an unusual penchant for human taxidermy…

In 1968, in addition to directing avant-garde films for Toei, director Kinji Fukasaku accepted an offer from Shochiku to adapt—with great success—one of Edogawa Ranpo’s most famous novels, “Black Lizard”. The film was, however, based on the theatrical adaptation staged by Yukio Mishima. Isao Kimura was cast in the lead role as Detective Akechi, while the famous drag queen Akihiro Maruyama (Akihiro Miwa) was chosen to play the female lead.

Nearly 60 years after its release, “Black Lizard” continues to be regarded as a film that defies categorization, one that eludes any single definition. At first glance, it might be dismissed as an elegant crime thriller set against a “cops and robbers” backdrop, but it immediately becomes clear that the film is, in reality, a decidedly elusive cinematic work: decadent melodrama, psychological noir, pop spectacle, filmed theater, and a spy story coexist in a balance as improbable as it is fascinating.

It is likely that its hybrid nature is the reason it has been difficult to place this film within Fukasaku’s filmography; he is best remembered for his revolutionary yakuza eiga films of the 1970s, which are often cited by Hollywood masters of genre cinema—Martin Scorsese above all.

And yet, rather than a mere, perhaps impromptu episode, “Black Lizard” now stands as a cult classic capable of engaging with an international cultural landscape in the midst of transformation: within it, we can find the spectacular elegance of James Bond films, the colourful explosion of Pop Art, camp aesthetics, Japanese theatre, a certain colour palette typical of European cinema, literary decadence and even hints of classic Gothic horror; everything seems to merge into a visual universe where every costume, every set and every gesture combine to transform the narrative into an experience that is, above all, aesthetic.

Fukasaku’s – successful – challenge lies in going beyond the police investigation, instead staging a sort of war of aesthetics, in which every character, every setting and every object seems to be asking the same question: namely, whether beauty can survive the passage of time by transforming itself into an image, a simulacrum or a work of art.

At the heart of this aesthetic universe is, inevitably, its leading lady. Rather than simply portraying Black Lizard, Akihiro Miwa transforms her into a true pop icon ahead of her time, making her own body the film’s primary narrative tool. Each new appearance coincides with a metamorphosis: wigs, flamboyant outfits, jewellery, hairstyles and theatrical poses do not merely serve a decorative purpose, but continually redefine the character’s identity.

She does not merely wear the costumes; rather, she seems almost to inhabit them, transforming every entrance onto the stage into a performance in its own right. In this sense, Miwa’s acting transcends the very concept of performance, merging with the profoundly artificial nature of the film, where the boundary between human being, work of art and spectacle becomes increasingly blurred.

It is indeed this centrality of the image that makes “Black Lizard” much more than a sophisticated crime thriller. The protagonist’s obsession with jewellery and absolute beauty does not merely conform to the conventions of the crime story, but introduces a theme that runs through the entire work: the desire to shield what is perfect from the passage of time. In this universe dominated by artifice, every body, every object and every set seem to aspire to a form of eternity, transforming the film into a surprisingly complex reflection on the relationship between aesthetics, possession and death.

The more one looks at it, the less “Black Lizard” appears to be a mere 1968 pop thriller. Fukasaku crafts a work that traverses the detective novel, decadent melodrama, theatre, Gothic horror, camp aesthetics and pop art, without definitively belonging to any of these genres. Through the magnetic figure of Akihiro Miwa, the film draws on the legacy of Poe, reinvents it through Ranpo, elevates it with Mishima, and imbues it with the morbid elegance of Wilde and Beardsley. The result is a work in which beauty is not to be regarded as a prize to be won, but rather as a curse to be preserved.

For the Black Lizard, love does not consist in possessing a living human being, but rather in snatching them from the grip of time, transforming them into an eternal simulacrum. It is in this tension between eros and death, between desire and artifice, that the film finds its core identity, its deepest essence, establishing itself not only as one of the most eccentric cult classics of 1960s Japanese cinema, but also as one of its most surprising points of convergence with the great Western decadent imagination.

Thanks to this inspired insight, the film definitively transcends the boundaries of a mere adaptation of Edogawa Ranpo’s work. A dense web of cultural references spanning East and West takes shape around the obsession with the Black Lizard. The Japanese writer’s ero-guro imagery engages in a dialogue with the decadence of Oscar Wilde (thanks to the trait d’union provided by Mishima), with the sinuous elegance of Aubrey Beardsley’s revealing illustrations, and with the long shadow of Edgar Allan Poe, an author to whom Ranpo himself paid homage through his very pseudonym.

Even certain echoes of classical Gothic cinema – from Michael Curtiz’s “Mystery of the Wax Museum” to Edgar G. Ulmer’s “The Black Cat” – seem to resurface in the Black Lizard’s lair, where beauty is wrested from life to be transformed into an object of contemplation. More than just a crime thriller, “Black Lizard” thus becomes a surprising crossroads of different artistic traditions, capable of blending Western decadent melodrama with Japanese psychological noir into a work of extraordinary iconographic richness.

Seen in this light, the Black Lizard transcends the role of a mere thief or collector, or that of the classic femme fatale, to take on the almost priestess-like role of an aesthetic guardian. Every gem she steals, every body she preserves, every work of art gathered in her home is driven by the same obsession: to halt the passage of time, to rescue beauty from its inevitable decay and transform it into an eternal image. Her collection is not made up of objects, but of crystallised moments, of lives suspended at the moment of their absolute perfection.

It is only in his encounter with Detective Kogorō Akechi that this value system reveals its fragility. What unfolds between the two is not merely a detective duel, but a subtle game of seduction, intelligence and mutual recognition, in which the boundary between hunter and prey gradually dissolves. Akechi represents the only form of beauty that the Black Lizard cannot transform into an object of contemplation, because he continues to elude her through his indomitable vitality. For this reason, the protagonist’s final act does not feel like a surrender, but rather an extreme affirmation of her own worldview: in a universe where love is synonymous with the absolute possession of the desired object, to survive would mean accepting the failure of her own obsession.

If “Black Lizard” continues to exert a unique fascination even today, it is largely because it defies any definitive classification. Its most enduring strength seems to lie just in its ability to transform popular cinema into a spectacle of the image, where literature and theatre, East and West, eros and death come together in a celebration of beauty that is as refined as it is unsettling.

It is no coincidence that the film’s journey gradually leads the viewer away from everyday reality: from the bright lights and streets of Japan’s major cities to the confined spaces of the train, from the sea to the isolated refuge of the Black Lizard, a dwelling suspended outside of time where the protagonist keeps her collection of bodies and dreams. The geographical journey thus becomes an inner journey, a gradual entry into the mental universe of a woman who refuses to accept the transience of existence.

Fukasaku seems to suggest that beauty, the very moment it attempts to become eternal, inevitably risks ceasing to belong to life. In the Black Lizard’s lair, time seems to have stood still: everything that is perfect is preserved, but nothing truly continues to live. This is the ultimate price of the illusion of eternity, the paradox of an aesthetic which, in its attempt to defeat death, ends up embracing it.

8 ½
--------------------------
Dedicated to Akihiro (Miwa) Maruyama: 15 May 1935 – 20 June 2026

Read More

My Wife and My Dead Wife (Coffee for three?)

Even before it became part of Korean fantasy television, the forty-nine-day limit has its roots in Buddhist tradition, where it represents the transitional period between death and rebirth – a liminal time in which unfinished business can still be brought to a conclusion.

Asian cinema and television have repeatedly reworked this imagery, interpreting it through different sensibilities: sometimes through a precise chronological framework, as in “Hi, Bye, Mama!”; at other times by aligning, it with the rhythm of the seasons, as in “Be with You”; or through an intangible presence that continues to accompany those left behind, as in “Windstruck”.

In some of these works, however, the return is never the story’s conclusion, but rather its premise. It is the narrative gesture from which questions take shape, questions that concern memory, grief, affection and the very way in which time changes people.

What happens when it is not just a person who returns, but a past that everyone, in different ways, had learnt to transform into a memory?

This question marks the beginning of “Hi, Bye, Mama!”. Having died suddenly five years earlier, just as she was about to give birth, Cha Yu-ri is given the inexplicable chance to return to the world of the living for forty-nine days. The miracle, however, does not return her to the past, but to a present that has already learnt to live with her absence. A husband who has rebuilt his life, a daughter who has grown up associating the word ‘mum’ with another woman, a family that has transformed grief into memory: it is within this microcosm that the series chooses to set its characters.

Such a premise almost inevitably leads the viewer to imagine a story of a second chance. It is an almost natural expectation, fuelled by the narrative premise itself. Yet, episode after episode, the series slowly begins to shift its focus in a very different direction...

Yu-ri’s journey progressively takes her through a series of psychological stages that ultimately redefine the very meaning of her return. Whilst she initially faces reality with the bewilderment of someone who finds herself in a world that has suddenly become alien to her, she soon realises that the true miracle lies not in having returned, but in coming to terms with a time that has never stopped to wait for her.

Although she had observed Gang-hwa and Seo-woo’s lives for years, as an invisible presence, direct contact with that present reality brings about a very different sense of disorientation: her husband has built a new family, her daughter has learnt to call another woman ‘Mum’, and she herself gradually realises she is merely a guest in a life that no longer belongs to her. The reunion thus gives way to an unexpected feeling: that of being a stranger in the place she once called home.

This state of paralysis is only broken when her maternal instinct once again takes precedence over every other emotion. Realising that her ghostly presence risks having a negative influence on Seo-woo, Yu-ri gradually abandons the idea of a simple reunion and chooses a far more painful path: entering her daughter’s life without being able to identify herself as her mother. She thus accepts a marginal, almost invisible role, working as an assistant at the nursery the little girl attends and observing her daily growth at close quarters.

It is within this microcosm that “Hi, Bye, Mama!” finds one of its most successful insights. The series, in fact, rejects one of the most overused tropes of family melodrama — the contrast between the ‘real’ mother and the antagonistic stepmother — opting instead for a far more complex and humanly credible approach.
Min-jung is not an obstacle to be removed, but a woman who has built, day by day, a genuine emotional bond with Seo-woo, taking on responsibilities that no one would have wished to inherit.

From this point on, the conflict ceases to be external and becomes entirely moral. The more Yu-ri comes to understand the sincerity of Min-jung’s love, the more the miracle of her return loses the appearance of a gift and takes on the form of a trial. To remain alive would mean reclaiming a place that time has inevitably entrusted to someone else, shattering a balance built through hard work and sacrifice.

The forty-nine-day countdown thus ceases to be a mere narrative deadline and becomes a slow realisation: the problem is no longer figuring out how to return to her own life, but accepting that, in the meantime, that life has continued to exist without her.

At this stage, however, one of the script’s main weaknesses becomes apparent. The series establishes from the outset that Yu-ri has spent five years alongside her family as an invisible presence, observing their daily lives. Because of this, it is difficult to reconcile this premise with the gradual ‘discovery’ of Min-jung’s character.

Many of Min-jung’s qualities – such as her dedication, patience and the bond she has built with Seo-woo – which Yu-ri seems to grasp only during her time at the nursery, should already have been part of her emotional makeup. Instead, the screenplay chooses to sacrifice this continuity of perspective in order to gradually guide the viewer towards the same realisation, achieving an effective emotional progression, but at the cost of internal consistency that is not always convincing.

Even the gradual revelation of Yu-ri’s return seems to obey the demands of the episodic structure rather than the natural consequences of such an extraordinary event. The news remains confined to ever-narrowing circles, as if the screenplay preferred to preserve the narrative balance rather than allow its inevitable repercussions to spread throughout the entire family and social microcosm.

At the same time, the series assigns the numerous ghosts in the columbarium an almost choral role, transforming each individual regret into a variation on the same theme. The intention is clear: to gradually prepare the viewer for Yu-ri’s fate through a series of small farewells. It is a choice that makes sense on a symbolic level, but one that often ends up diluting the narrative tension, taking away from the very human relationships that represent the series’ truest heart, and even verging on the redundant through the introduction of the – frankly unnecessary – figure of the exorcist.

Three different choices that ultimately produce the same effect: distancing the narrative from the human core that its very premise had made so powerful

When “Hi, Bye, Mama!” moves away from fantasy tropes and simply relies on its cast, it immediately regains its authenticity. It is particularly in the more contemplative scenes – even more so than in the dialogue – that the series reaches its finest moments: a mother who confesses to having forgotten the sound of her daughter’s voice; a father who continues to cherish every one of her belongings as if time had never passed; a sister who still enters her room; Gang-hwa realising he has never truly been alone; Yu-ri watching Seo-woo asleep beside Min-jung; the everyday conversations between Yu-ri and Eun-sook, built more on silences than on words.

And it is through these very fragments that Min-jung, too, completes her transformation, finally ceasing to be ‘the second wife’ and assuming, with full dignity, the role of mother.

Fantasy never disappears entirely; it simply becomes transparent. It remains the necessary condition for these characters to meet once more, but finally steps back from the centre of the narrative, making way for what the series does best: portraying the fragility of human bonds.

“Hi, Bye, Mama!” seems to suggest that the past survives not so much in moving images as in objects and small daily rituals. It is a memory that does not flow: it remains. Like a photograph.

It is significant that the theme of memory, too, is explored through a deeply material imagery. Photographs, letters, rooms left untouched, small everyday objects: memory almost always passes through what can be touched and cherished.

What is striking, however, is the almost total absence of audiovisual memories. In an age when home videos, voice recordings and short clips are perhaps the most immediate way to preserve the presence of a loved one, “Hi, Bye, Mama!” deliberately chooses not to go down this route. It is hard not to imagine that those fragments of voice and movement could have taken on enormous emotional significance within the narrative.

Whilst the drama retains its emotional power intact in the decisive moments, much of the credit goes to an impeccable cast that consistently avoids any melodramatic excesses. Kim Tae-hee crafts an extraordinarily restrained Yu-ri, conveying her pain through hesitations, uncertainties, silences and glances rather than words. It is a minimalist performance that naturally accompanies the character’s journey of self-discovery right through to her catharsis.

Particularly effective is the way the various emotional stages are handled. In the early episodes, Yu-ri rediscovers the world with a clumsy, almost childlike physicality, whilst learning once more to inhabit her body and navigate everyday life. This initial lightness makes the subsequent transformation all the more striking: as the forty-nine-day deadline approaches, Kim Tae-hee gradually strips the character of that vitality, making her movements slower and her body heavier, as if the inevitability of the separation were also reflected in her physical presence.

In the most intense scenes, the actress once again works with an almost understated skill: a restrained gesture, a held breath, a gaze that seeks to etch into her memory what she is about to lose, and tears held back. In this very composure—which eschews emphasis in favour of a silent and dignified grief—the actress conveys Yu-ri’s most authentic essence, transforming her into the portrait of a love capable of stepping aside.

Even more striking is the performance by Kim Mi-kyung, who brings the magnificent Eun-sook to life through a grief that is almost entirely internalised. Her journey only finds its full realisation in the finale, when the wish she expressed years earlier is revealed as the true reason behind Yu-ri’s return, gently overturning the narrative’s perspective: alongside the grief of a daughter deprived of motherhood, the pain of a mother forced to outlive her own daughter emerges with equal intensity.

For much of the series, Eun-sook suppresses her grief behind a façade of severity. She forbids anyone from mentioning Yu-ri, avoids her grave and imposes a sense of normality that is, above all, a survival mechanism. Kim Mi-kyung conveys this tension through understated acting, characterised by measured gestures, an ever-composed demeanour and glances that shy away from anything that might reopen the wound, transforming her steadfastness into a veritable emotional armour.

When Yu-ri returns, the actress allows that armour to crack without ever resorting to exaggeration. In the scenes shared between mother and daughter — a caress, a lullaby, a bowl of soup prepared just as it used to be — the pain emerges through small, everyday gestures, gaining even greater intensity through their very simplicity. It is then that we realise how Eun-sook’s harshness was never a sign of distance, but rather the fragile dam built up over the years to prevent grief from overwhelming what remained of the family.

Go Bo-gyeol carefully avoids any antagonistic portrayal. Her Min-jung constantly walks a fine line between gratitude, guilt and a sense of inadequacy, without ever turning her pain into a demand. Even in moments of greatest fragility — often brought on by confessions made over a glass too many — the actress maintains surprising control, allowing her emotions to emerge very gradually. Tears never represent a melodramatic climax, but rather the natural surfacing of pain that has been held back for far too long.

Lee Kyu-hyung portrays, with great restraint, a character constantly torn between two mirror-image feelings of guilt: that of having failed to protect Yu-ri, and that of having granted himself the right to start living again. His performance almost always eschews emphasis, save for the inevitably tragic moments, shaping Gang-hwa through hesitations, silences and sudden stiffening of the body, as if every gesture were the result of a precarious balance that is constantly at risk of breaking.

Without ever upstaging one another, the lead actors all seem to employ the same approach, almost achieving an ensemble performance, whilst remaining consistently true to the emotional core of the story, despite the script’s distractions, the excesses and redundancies of the fantasy elements, and the questionable nature of certain moments.

By the end of the series, “Hi, Bye, Mama!” leaves the viewer with a curiously ambivalent feeling. On the one hand, there is the realisation that this is a work capable of tackling universal themes with rare sensitivity and of relying on a cast of extraordinarily restrained performers; on the other, there remains the impression that the series has often faltered in the face of the power of its own concept.

The story of a mother who returns not to reclaim her life, but to learn how to truly let go, would probably have possessed, on its own, all the strength needed to sustain the narrative. Instead, the screenplay chooses, on several occasions, to dilute that tension within a broader narrative structure, alternating moments of genuine intensity with others that seem to pander to a more conventional fantasy aesthetic.

And yet, whenever the series finds the courage to push the supernatural into the background, something very simple happens: we stop questioning its rules and start taking an interest solely in the characters. These are the moments when “Hi, Bye, Mama!” reaches its highest level, reminding us that the real miracle lies not in Yu-ri’s return, but in the chance given to all the characters to finally say to one another what time had left unsaid.

This repeated oscillation between profound insights and a more cautious narrative structure makes “Hi, Bye, Mama!” a series that continues to challenge the viewer even after the credits have rolled. Not so much for what it tells, but for what, at times, it hints it might be. An almost unresolved state; a work that genuinely moves the viewer, whilst continuing to suggest, between one scene and the next, the outline of an even bolder drama.

“Hi, Bye, Mama!” seems to find its ultimate meaning not in the illusion that pain can be erased, but in the possibility of transforming a farewell that has remained unresolved into a farewell that is finally spoken. Rather than simply telling the story of a return, the series ultimately explores the way in which we learn to let go of those we have loved. At that point, to paraphrase Serge Gainsbourg, one of his famous lines seems to come almost naturally:
‘Je suis venu te dire que je m’en vais.’

7/10

Read More

“The body may be gone. The weight never leaves.”

Two mothers, Wang Hui Chun and Chao Ching, bring their daughters’ killer back to life for seven days. It might sound like the start of a fantasy story. But it isn’t.
What emerges is not the supernatural, but a system built on abuse, money and bodies held captive. A bold premise, almost a narrative gamble, capable of drawing the viewer right into the thick of the action before throwing them off balance.

At first, to mislead him with elements that seem to belong to the realm of fantasy, only to gradually reveal a more down-to-earth, contemporary dimension, where exploitation and money reshape every balance.

That's where the story draws its strength: in the constant deception—not just as a theme, but as a structural device—which leads the viewer to doubt, time and again, not only the nature of the story, but also that of its characters.
This suspended space is inhabited by two figures who share the same trauma, yet are separated by a circumstance that radically reshapes their perspective.

On the one hand, a definitive, irreversible loss—a daughter who cannot be brought back, not even symbolically. On the other, a suspended presence, a body that still breathes, and which keeps alive a possibility, however fragile.
It is in this asymmetry that the story finds one of its deepest tensions: for whilst the pain is shared, its direction is not. One moves within absence, the other within a state of waiting.

And this difference – subtle yet decisive – ends up gradually undermining not only their alliance, but also the very meaning of what they are trying to achieve.
In this context, revenge does not hold the same meaning for both of them. For someone who has lost everything, it may well become the only possible form of redress—or of survival. For the person who still clings to a glimmer of hope, however faint, it risks becoming a choice that calls into question what remains to be protected.

And when the target of this revenge is a man who is already dead, the matter becomes even more complicated: for what remains is no longer justice, but an extension of it—prolonged, organised, and increasingly difficult to distinguish from the very thing it was meant to fight.
This delicate balance is further destabilised by the portrayal of the daughters, Jin Jin and Hsin-yi, which operates by way of reflection and, progressively, through reversal.

Whilst the two mothers follow divergent paths—one rooted in absence, the other held back by a possibility—their respective daughters initially seem to confirm this dichotomy, presenting the viewer with an apparently orderly, almost reassuring interpretation.

It is a perception that the narrative carefully cultivates, leaving it to the viewer to construct a system of correspondences: innocence and guilt, protection and betrayal, victim and complicity. But it is here that the deepest deception takes root.
As the narrative unfolds, what seemed set in stone begins to crumble, and identities start to defy any fixed categorisation.

The daughters do not merely mirror their mothers: they challenge their mothers’ assumptions and complicate their choices, to the point where the distinction between victim and active participant in the system becomes increasingly difficult to draw.
The figure of the torturer, brought back to life, also forms part of this ongoing shift: no longer merely the source of evil, but an element that reveals, by contrast, the extent to which that evil is already widespread, internalised, and ready to resurface elsewhere.

The ending does not introduce a sudden revelation, but brings to a conclusion a process already underway: that of a gaze that is guided, directed, and ultimately disillusioned. Not so much because the truth is hidden, but because it is gradually rendered unrecognisable.

If the narrative tension unfolds naturally, culminating in an inevitable emotional breakdown, it is also thanks to the perfect and complementary performances of the two leading ladies.
Shu Qi’s presence is, at least in my view, the main draw of the story: a measured performance, often achieved through understatement, restrained yet deeply empathetic.
In contrast, Lee Sinje defines the measure, the stylistic signature, through a modulation of pain that unfolds in the absence of any prospect of hope, allowing choices to emerge that, almost inevitably, become increasingly irrational.

Around these characters, a context unfolds that does more than simply serve as a backdrop; it actively contributes to the construction of meaning.
A world in which money circulates without any apparent source, fuelling a culture of get-rich-quick schemes, identities that are constantly being constructed and renegotiated, and life paths defined more by opportunity than by choice.

In this network, deception is not an exception, but an organisational principle. It takes various forms, adapts and transforms: from the violent and direct structure orchestrated by Zhang Shih-kai, to the more subtle and seemingly legitimate version reflected in his mother’s activities, where the promise of redemption is intertwined with strategies of control and profit.
Two distinct yet perfectly interconnected models, which paint a picture of a system capable of replicating itself without interruption.

Even where the possibility of detachment seems to emerge, it ultimately gets swallowed up by the same pattern: relationships built on self-interest, performed identities, and dynamics that reverse roles to the point of turning the observer into an integral part of the mechanism.

Alongside this dimension lies a contrasting and complementary realm: that of opulence, of impersonal spaces, of hotel rooms and boutiques, of an aesthetic that suggests possibilities whilst concealing structural fragility.
And, in contrast, marginal realities, peripheral environments, places that bear the tangible traces of a system that consumes and redistributes without ever truly making up for what it takes away.

It is in this constant shifting—between visibility and invisibility, between construction and loss—that the drama establishes its identity, creating a dialogue between a seemingly ‘fantastical’ framework and a reality that, by contrast, seems all too familiar.
At this point, one cannot help but question the very nature of the framework underpinning the narrative: the resurrection, the seven days granted, the final return.
These elements, when viewed through a strictly realistic lens, would seem to call for a precise, almost demonstrative explanation.

But the story never seeks such coherence. From the very beginning, it establishes its own balance, in which death ceases to be a definitive limit and becomes a state of limbo, serving the purpose of what is yet to emerge.
And it is exactly in this suspended space that the reversal takes on meaning: not as an exception, but as the logical outcome of a perspective that is already biased, already susceptible to deception.

What concerns daughters—their nature, their role—does not require explanation, but rather recognition of what it becomes the moment certainties begin to crumble.
It is not, then, a question of whether or not to believe in the process, but of accepting the ground on which it operates: a system in which identity, responsibility and truth are constantly being redefined, to the point where every distinction becomes unstable.

The final return does not open up a new perspective, but brings to completion a dynamic already in motion: that of a world in which nothing truly comes to an end, but everything is absorbed, reorganised, and put back into circulation.

It is also in this choice—risky, exposed, at times imperfect—that the drama finds its own identity: an unstable equilibrium which, precisely in its imperfections, defines its strength.
Nothing truly ends. It simply changes hands.

7 ½

Read More

“More than expressing myself, I destroy—in my own way.”

Within the highly prolific period of the so-called Nikkatsu Action—particularly between 1960 and 1962—"Youth of the Beast" (1963) stands as one of the most significant turning points in the trajectory of Seijun Suzuki.

Some critical readings—often shaped by a rather rigid, auteur-driven perspective—tend to interpret Suzuki’s cinema as inherently pessimistic rather than programmatic, drawing on the ideas of another “outsider,” only seemingly distant, such as Jacques Rivette, who believed that cinema should strip the viewer of clichés and project them into a destabilizing, even unsettling dimension.

A strong idea, one that aligns surprisingly well with Suzuki’s aesthetic: a cinema that does not build, but dismantles, that does not reassure, but exposes. And yet, it is interesting to observe how the so-called B-movies of the late 1950s—apparently indebted to American hard-boiled aesthetics—would, in retrospect, prove to be among the most transformative moments of his career.

From an initially and inevitably imitative model, a gradual stylistic and cultural hybridization emerges, allowing Suzuki to introduce increasingly bold formal shifts: jump cuts not far removed from the lessons of the Nouvelle Vague (particularly Jean-Luc Godard), often eccentric widescreen compositions, sudden visual allegories, and an expressive use of color—elements that break away from the linearity of contemporary productions, which were generally more aligned with international trends (unsurprisingly, these were also the years in which Japan entered the aesthetic orbit of the James Bond phenomenon).

Within this framework, "Youth of the Beast" emerges as a work in which the hard-boiled matrix is not merely referenced, but fully absorbed and reworked. From its very first scenes, Suzuki introduces a key element through the play of reflections inside the nightclub.

Mizuno acts in front of a mirror that is far more than a simple visual device: it becomes a threshold. On one side, the gesture, on the other, the gaze. On one side, the action, on the other, its observation—as if it were already cinema within cinema.
And while all this unfolds, elsewhere—just a few meters away—the cabaret continues as if nothing were happening: music, bodies, lightness. Two planes coexist without ever truly touching, as if the picture itself refused to reconcile them. It is precisely within this disjunction that the first sign of a gaze already out of alignment begins to emerge, ready to fracture what initially appears perfectly readable.

Much of the film’s impact also lies in the magnetic presence of Jō Shishido, whose performance shapes a protagonist that seems to step directly out of the world of Raymond Chandler or Dashiell Hammett—filtered, however, through a distinctly Japanese sensibility.

Mizuno is, in every sense, an outsider private eye: a former policeman expelled for unorthodox methods, who inserts himself between two rival gangs in a structure reminiscent of a “servant of two masters,” only to reveal a far more personal objective—uncovering the truth behind his mentor’s death, too hastily dismissed as suicide. It is here that the picture fully descends into the territory of the bleakest noir.

The truth, far from restoring order, ends up eroding everything: it exposes, contaminates, destroys. And when the full picture finally comes into focus, what emerges is not justice, but a form of awareness that is irreparably compromised.

Suzuki builds this trajectory through a mise-en-scène that is violent, stripped down, almost brutal, yet constantly interrupted by visual insertions that resist any single interpretation: elements that seem to drift out of context, such as the yellow dust that invades the assault scene (and then the wind, an indispensable feature in the director's cinematic language), the sudden fall of the addicted woman, or abrupt eruptions of violence and sadism that oscillate between realism and abstraction.

These are images that do not explain—they suggest, unsettle, remain open. In this sense, the work does not simply tell a story; rather, it fractures it, distorts it, placing it under constant tension between narrative surface and something more elusive beneath it.

What emerges is a deeply corrupted world, permeated by a violence that spares no one. Within this universe, the portrayal of female characters takes on extreme contours, often tied to dynamics of manipulation, exploitation, and betrayal.
Seen through a contemporary lens, this aspect may appear problematic—but it can also be repositioned within the grammar of hard-boiled noir, where female figures often function less as causes of degeneration than as reflections of a world already compromised.

In this context, the protagonist’s so-called 'misogyny' appears less as a moral stance and more as the byproduct of an environment in which every relationship is contaminated.
Mizuno himself is neither a traditional hero nor a straightforward anti-hero. He operates according to a personal code—seemingly more stable than that of the other characters, yet far from irreproachable. In a world where everything is tainted, his position inevitably begins to crack: he is not detached from the violence that surrounds him, nor from its most ruthless logic.

The ending, in this sense, is revealing. Mizuno does not simply expose the truth—he actively shapes its outcome, deliberately closing a cycle of violence that leaves no room for redemption.
It is precisely in this gesture—lucid, fully conscious—that the character’s ambiguity comes into focus: not a judge, not a savior, but someone who, while holding onto a personal moral line, ultimately shares in the same dark substance of the world he moves through.
What remains is a sense of emptiness, almost exhaustion—as if, once the mechanism has been revealed, there were nothing left to preserve.

In this regard, "Youth of the Beast" is not only a remarkably effective noir, but one of the most accomplished expressions of the internal tension that defines Suzuki’s cinema: an unstable balance between form and sabotage, between adherence to genre and its gradual dissolution.

An image that offers no foothold, seeks no redemption—and because of this, retains an extraordinary power even today.

9/10

Read More

Sunglasses After Dark

Whilst “Branded to Kill” can be seen as the most obvious breaking point in the relationship between Seijun Suzuki and the Nikkatsu production system, “Trapped in Lust” appears to sit within an even deeper, almost subterranean continuum, where that same rift resurfaces in other forms, adapting to a production context that has since changed.

It is no coincidence, after all, that behind the project we once again find Atsushi Yamatoya, who was already one of the writers of “Branded to Kill”, and who here - as well as playing the role of Takagawa- is involved in a reworking that feels more like a detour than a real remake.

In his compelling analysis, ‘Il Fiore e Il Serpente’ (2022), Beniamino Biondi devotes a section to Yamatoya, also mentioning three different screenplays that formed the basis for “Branded to Kill”, although, curiously, he merely touches upon “Trapped in Lust”.

We are in the midst of the pinku eiga and roman porno season – that cinematic realm where the body becomes the central element, both an exposed surface and a narrative device. Yet precisely where one might expect greater freedom of expression, the film immediately introduces a more ambiguous tension.
Sex, in fact, is never truly liberating. It is obviously ever-present, pervasive, almost obsessive — yet progressively stripped of meaning, as if, by inertia, it continued to exist even after having lost its purpose.

Hoshi, the main character played to perfection by Genjiro Arata, navigates this system as a figure already broken. A rising killer, driven by a desire for recognition that coincides with his climb to the top of the organisation, he soon finds himself caught up in a decidedly complex dynamic that ultimately overwhelms him.

The character of Mayuko (the voluptuous and alluring Moeko Ezawa) — an apparently faithful wife, but in reality a pawn of the organisation — introduces an element of structural ambiguity right from the start: there is no relationship that is not, to some extent, constructed, manipulated or prearranged.
His (apparent) elimination, however, does not result in what might be seen as a strengthening of the protagonist, but rather marks a rupture. It is as though, just at the moment when the body should (and could) re-establish itself as the centre of the action, something ends up breaking irrevocably.

The resulting impotence — made all the more evident in his encounter with Yumeko (Nozomi Yasuda), the young prostitute at the hotel — is not merely a narrative element, but a genuine deviation from the system: desire, stripped of his ‘object’ and, at the same time, of its mystery, is transformed into an automatic gesture, a function incapable of producing any meaning whatsoever.

It is no coincidence that Hoshi spends almost the entire film behind a pair of sunglasses, worn regardless of whether he is indoors or outdoors, or whether it is day or night: it is as though his gaze, filtered and obscured, ends up conveying an inevitably distorted view, a reflection of a cinema in which reality is no longer simply shown, but is constantly obscured, distorted and re-enacted.

As was already the case in "Branded to Kill", a recognisable structure is present here too: there is always an organisation, rules are followed, and a hierarchy is in place. But it is precisely in the relationship with these rules that the film finds one of its most significant turning points.

Hoshi’s fault lies not so much in the mistake itself, but in the return. In returning to the scene of the crime, in reopening what ought to remain closed. It is an act that disrupts the system’s internal balance — and lays it bare. From that moment on, the climb is no longer merely ambition, but a form of attraction towards the point where the mechanism seizes up, becomes visible, and turns inevitable.

It is in this context that some of the film’s most unsettling characters emerge.
The ruthless and sadistic killers Mario and Saigo form a dual, almost unreal, certainly hallucinatory presence: a seemingly fragile female doll juxtaposed with a rigid, armed, silent body. Only later does the apparatus reveal itself for what it is: a simulated identity and mechanical bodily artificiality, a sort of Cronenberg-esque hybridisation.

Even once revealed, the effect does not fade. A sense of unsettling continuity remains, as if the body could now be broken down, reassembled and manipulated without any stable point of reference. It is precisely through these figures that violence takes on a further dimension: no longer a source of tension, as is typical of noir, but a repeated, almost abstract function.

The deaths follow a pattern that borders on the grotesque — bodies frozen in baffling, ambiguous poses, even the act of defecation abruptly interrupted (a pure homage to Suzuki, worthy of the finest Abel Ferrara) — whilst the narrative seems to constantly veer away from a linear progression. Curious musical and choreographic interludes, featuring Crazy Horse-style dancers who are stripped down and seemingly out of context, do not interrupt the narrative, but rather throw it off balance.

In Hoshi’s journey, this gradual loss of coherence results in an ambiguous transformation. Having eliminated his opponents, though physically scarred — blind in one eye — the protagonist seems to regain a form of ‘vigor’, but this recovery does not amount to a genuine restoration. Rather, it is the final stage of a process: the body returning to function just as everything else has ceased to make sense.

The final confrontation takes place in a stunning, almost Stanley Kubrick-esque setting that is both a fortress and a stage: a concrete building, isolated and surrounded by vegetation, which gradually reveals itself for what it is.: A theatre. The boss offers no resistance. He sits, observes, waits. The gesture that concludes the confrontation is simple, direct, inevitable. And immediately afterwards, something cracks.

Hoshi bows. Not to anyone in particular — perhaps, hypothetically, to an invisible audience; is this, ideally, a breaking of the fourth wall!?

It is at this point that the film ends with a meta-cinematic short circuit: power reduced to the role of spectator, the killer to that of performer, violence to mere representation. There is no victory left. Here too, there is no conclusion, but only the realisation that what we have witnessed was nothing more than a visionary performance taken to the extreme.

Whilst “Branded to Kill” depicted a system that had ceased to function, “Trapped in Lust” portrays what happens when, in place of rules, only the body remains. And even that, inevitably, ends up breaking down.

8/10

Read More

Il n'est en art qu'une chose qui vaille, celle qu'on ne peut expliquer...

There comes a point in Seijun Suzuki’s career when one begins to suspect that something has simply broken. Not in a dramatic sense, nor in any ‘artistic’ way that we are accustomed to describing it.
More simply — and perhaps for that very reason more radically — it is as if, after years spent making three or four films a year within the Nikkatsu production machine, Suzuki had looked at the mechanism for what it was: a perfectly functioning structure… and one that was completely exhausted.

At that point, instead of resisting or walking away (at least of his own accord), he seems to do something much simpler. The mechanism… He picks it up. He opens it… And stops putting it back together.

“Branded to Kill” (for the record, the only Suzuki film regularly distributed in Italy at the time) stems precisely from that: not as a dramatic break with convention, but as an internal short circuit, a moment when the genre movie — specifically the yakuza noir — carries on by inertia, even though something, in the meantime, has stopped working.

It’s not that there’s a specific scene or a passage you can pinpoint; it’s just that, as you watch it, at a certain moment you seem to sense it. The film is still there. The story… not quite in the same way.

Suzuki breaks the structure down into fragments, allowing them to coexist without forcing a return to wholeness. A gesture reminiscent of Cubism: not an alternative reality, but the same reality viewed from incompatible, simultaneous angles that cannot be pieced back together. Not a narrative that unfolds but a surface that shatters.

The protagonist, the hitman Hanada, is not a character in the traditional sense; he is a top-tier professional, ranked number 3 in a hierarchy that seems more like a mental obsession than a real system. It is unclear whether he is merely a victim of events, tries to navigate them, or simply reflects them.

It’s almost like a loop. He has these incredible obsessions – the smell of rice in particular, and relationships with the opposite sex – and moves through a world – real!? Imaginary!? Inevitable!? – which, really, resembles a noir film, at least on the surface, perhaps from a distance. Up close, however, it is as if everything had been taken apart and put back together badly, as if a deliberate decision had been made to sabotage the very concept of continuity (logical!? Narrative!?)

It is therefore pointless to try to piece the picture back together: the fragments were never meant to fit together. It is from this acceptance — rather than from any interpretation — that “Branded to Kill” reveals its most elusive nature. It functions like a trance: actions repeat themselves, distorted; situations slip into one another without ever truly meshing. Hanada moves within this flow as if following an automatism he does not control.

It is a kind of strange, almost ‘flawed’ hypnosis that always seems to leave a crack, a tiny gap that prevents one from letting go – and, evidently, from understanding (?). Yet rather than being a dream to be deciphered, it is a reality that has ceased to function.

Despite everything, beneath this unstable surface, the structure is still (more or less) recognisable.
There’s a killer. There are assignments, organisations, hierarchies. There are enigmatic women, betrayals, shoot-outs. Everything needed to build a good noir. Except that here, every element seems to arrive after its own meaning. The tension doesn’t seem to build so much as to dissipate.

Vague dialogue that distracts rather than clarifies, and violence that borders on abstraction in its slavish and, in some respects, illogical repetition. The incredible soundtrack, a blend of jazz and avant-garde (the pink vinyl edition is beautiful!) The noir genre hollowed out from within, leaving only the shell—though far from inert… But this is no parody or cinephile’s mockery playing with arthouse cinema; it is something stranger: a noir that hasn’t realised it’s finished.

And in this friction — between what we recognise and what no longer works — Suzuki finds his greatest freedom. He does not destroy the genre but lets it go. The director takes the noir/yakuza film as his starting point, distorting it until it becomes unrecognisable yet not abstract, moving away from pure avant-garde to arrive at a form of pop (art?) under extreme stress…

If we were to imagine the Nikkatsu executives sitting in the projection room watching "Branded to Kill", we would probably be faced with a scene reminiscent of Jean-Luc Godard’s "Le Mépris", where Jerry Prokosch, the producer played by Jack Palance, literally flings – like a frisbee or discus throw – the film cans of Fritz Lang’s film, for an adaptation of Homer’s “Odyssey” that isn’t exactly “commercial”, in his view…

But Suzuki is not a ‘rebel’, rather, he is an insider saboteur. The romantic narrative of ‘the director versus Nikkatsu’ is true but limiting. Suzuki is more interesting – and complex – if we read him as a craftsman who realised that the system had run out of substance, and that it was better to ‘stuff’ the form until it burst.

If, in "Branded to Kill", sex becomes almost a “fetishistic compulsion inextricably linked to death and violence” (quoted) and if Suzuki “deconstructs genres and conventions”, drawing on a non-conformist spirit and a taste for social satire (already quite evident in his first “personal” works), then, rather than associating him with the American Samuel Fuller, as is often suggested, one is inclined to link him more closely to a director seemingly worlds apart, such as the Italian Marco Ferreri, whose iconoclastic vision is almost identical.

At this point, seeking a conclusion in the traditional sense seems almost out of place.
“Branded to Kill” doesn’t really come to a closure. It doesn’t tie up loose ends or restore order. It simply… fizzles out.
As if, having pushed the mechanism to its limits, Suzuki had decided it was no longer worth fixing. That the meaning, if there was any, had already been exhausted along the way.
And that all that remained was this collection of fragments, images, gestures — still in motion, but now disconnected from any notion of wholeness.

And the viewer, at that point, is not asked to understand, but rather to simply stand before those fragments. To lose himself, if necessary. Or even just to accept that the pieces will never come back together. Because perhaps this is precisely the film’s most radical act: not breaking the rules, not rewriting them, but letting them go — and observing what remains when we stop holding them together.

“Branded To Kill” is unlike anything else, even today when we’re used to everything. It’s short, fast-paced and full of images that stick in your mind. Ultimately, if you like, it’s even entertaining — but in that slightly strange way that leaves you feeling as though you’ve understood something… without knowing exactly what.

And in that moment, between a shot that slips away and a cut that doesn’t quite land, you almost find yourself picturing him once more:
Suzuki. A step back. A quick glance. A half-smile.
As if he were saying to you: “It used to work great, you know?
But in this way it’s much more interesting.”

9 ½ / 10

Read More

“I’m not John Ford. And whatever this is… it’s not a western.”

A landslide blocks the railway line, forcing an assorted group of passengers to continue their journey toward an alternative station aboard an aging bus, along a treacherous and unforgiving mountain road. A situation already precarious in itself, which takes on far more ominous overtones when word spreads that two dangerous criminals may be traveling the very same route.

It takes little more than this premise to recognize how, in the hands of Seijun Suzuki, what unfolds is a reinterpretation — only seemingly faithful — of the archetypal model established by “Stagecoach” (John Ford, 1939): a moving microcosm of humanity, compelled to confront an external threat that inevitably brings to the surface latent tensions, contradictions, and hierarchies.

It is no coincidence that one of the characters — the woman working at an American base — explicitly evokes that very imagery, enthusiastically likening the situation to a “western movie.” A fleeting moment, perhaps, but one that functions almost as a statement of intent, subtly offering the viewer a key through which to interpret what follows.

Because while the starting point appears to adhere to a well-established narrative framework, it is precisely in the development — in the details, tonal shifts, and the characters’ reactions — that Suzuki’s gaze begins to gently destabilize the structure, allowing a sense of underlying instability to emerge, one that would soon become a defining trait of his cinema.

From this seemingly codified foundation, it is in the definition of its characters that the work most clearly reveals its true nature.
The passengers are not merely individuals, but rather recognizable social archetypes, arranged with almost schematic precision: figures that initially seem to comply perfectly with genre conventions, only to be gradually tested — and often subverted — over the course of the journey.

We encounter the “fallen” woman tied to the American base, yet endowed with a moral integrity far stronger than her role would suggest; the convicted murderer — a former military doctor — who will unexpectedly reveal a capacity for sacrifice; the irreproachable policeman; and the aging driver, a figure not unlike those found in westerns, suspended between irony and quiet responsibility.
Alongside them unfolds a gallery of equally emblematic presences: the opportunistic salesman, dysfunctional couples, restless bourgeois figures, young people chasing uncertain futures — culminating in perhaps the most fragile and emotionally resonant character, the abandoned mother traveling with her child, who becomes one of the narrative’s emotional centers.

At first, these figures seem to move within predictable and almost reassuring boundaries. But with the violent intrusion of the two criminals, that fragile balance begins to fracture.
At this precise moment that the masks fall.

What initially appeared as simple typification gradually transforms into a far more exposed and unforgiving terrain, where each individual’s true nature emerges: the cowardice of those concerned only with survival, the opportunism of those seeking advantage, but also the unexpected courage of those who, having nothing left to lose, choose to act.

In this regard, the trajectory of the condemned man is particularly telling — a figure initially relegated to the margins, yet ultimately embodying a form of redemption through action, in stark contrast to others who, despite their social respectability, prove incapable of withstanding the pressure.
What emerges, then, is not so much a distinction between good and evil, but between those who can endure the strain… and those who are crushed by it.

And it is from this tension — more human than moral — that a fragile sense of solidarity begins to take shape: intermittent, unstable, yet ultimately the only viable means of survival for a group that, until then, shared nothing but a common destination.
From this reluctant convergence arises a collective response — not heroic in the traditional sense, but instinctive, almost inevitable — as individuals, pushed to their limits, are forced to recognize themselves as part of a shared fate.

The resolution of the conflict, sudden and violent, brings the tension to an end, but offers no true sense of liberation.
Because while the group ultimately reaches the long-awaited station, what awaits each of them is a return to reality that feels, in many cases, far more disillusioned than the expectations that accompanied their departure. Dreams fade, illusions dissolve, and what remains is the quiet weight of an experience that cannot simply be left behind.

It is worth noting that, despite its apparent structural rigor, “Eight Hours of Terror” was subject to studio interference during the editing phase — a clear indication of the uneasy relationship between Suzuki and the production system within which he operated.
And yet, even within such constraints, his authorial presence unmistakably surfaces.
One can already sense a subtle inclination toward disruption: moments of irony, sudden tonal shifts, small acts of irreverence that both relieve and destabilize the tension. Certain characters, deliberately accentuated, verge on caricature, contributing to an unstable balance between realism and stylization.

Likewise, the management of space — largely confined to the interior of the bus — becomes a genuine exercise in form, where rhythm and suspense rely heavily on precise editing and carefully controlled shifts in perspective, avoiding any sense of stagnation despite the limited setting.
It is within these details, rather than in the broader narrative structure, that the first signs of Suzuki’s emerging voice can be clearly detected — a tension that would later expand more radically as the constraints imposed by the studio system grew increasingly restrictive.

Even taking into account the inevitable reworking and external interference, “Eight Hours of Terror” stands as a remarkably accomplished piece, where narrative solidity coexists with a subtle but persistent undercurrent of formal deviation.

It is within this silent friction — between structure and subversion — that the work finds its identity, revealing itself not only as an effective genre piece, but also as an early indication of the incompatibility that would come to define Seijun Suzuki’s relationship with the industry that sought, unsuccessfully, to contain him.

8 ½

Read More

Tonight, we’ll meet / At the dark end of the street (You and Me)

A painful but necessary family drama, ‘Love Me’ depicts love as a fragile yet tenacious force, capable of blossoming even where pain has left only ruins. The loss of the wife/mother — the angel of the house and emotional anchor of the family — is not so much the focus of the narrative as the mechanism that triggers a long, tortuous and dolorous process of reconstruction, in which each character seeks to rediscover a balance that seems irretrievably broken.

A sort of slice of life that subtly, without shouting, avoids the most obvious melodramatic clichés, the series confronts us not with the trauma of loss, but with the “after”, when life demands to continue, to be lived anyway. In this sense, ‘Love Me’ moves slowly, with silences and pauses that are not empty but full of meaning, as only real life can be.

The narrative follows the parallel trajectories of widowed father Jin Ho and his children Jun Gyeong and Jun Seo, three different responses to the same void. Jin Ho, a faithful husband for decades, is taken aback by his desire to love again and, at the same time, terrified of his family's judgement. Jun Gyeong, a midwife, carries a sense of guilt that makes any potential relationship a minefield: she wants to love, but fears making mistakes. Jun Seo, the youngest, represents a contemporary fragility: the fear of not being good enough, the feeling of falling short of others' expectations and of one's own life.

The romantic relationships that develop throughout the series are not presented as salvation, but as a challenge. Love does not come to “fix” the main characters’ lives, but to test them further.

Jin Ho is a man who loved with all his heart and now finds himself faced with the chance of a new relationship. Fear of judgement, loyalty to the memory of his wife, the difficulty of accepting happiness: everything mixes together in silent torment. When love knocks on his door again, the drama recounts the tenderness of someone who feels guilty for still wanting to love. And when a dramatic turn of events upsets his new relationship, the story does not choose the easy way out: it confronts him with a different kind of loss and forces him to choose to live in the present, even if it is short-lived and fragile.

Jun Gyeong, a midwife, is a woman who knows how to give life to others but struggles to give it to herself. Her heart is trapped between guilt and fear of making mistakes. Hers is the most turbulent trajectory; initially, she welcomes love with suspicion, as if any happiness could turn out to be a deception. With Do Hyeon and young Daniel, she builds, or at least tries to build, a new family, but her vulnerability leads her to make a mistake that calls everything into question. Nevertheless, with patience and humanity, and the support of her partner, she learns that loving does not mean being perfect, but staying, even when you fall.

Jun Seo experiences a more “ordinary” but equally profound crisis. Having set aside the career he thought he wanted, he feels inferior to his girlfriend, an aspiring writer with a more defined future. His journey, made up of attempts and failures, leads him in a new, more concrete and realistic direction. In reconnecting with Hye On, Jun Seo learns that love does not measure value based on success, but, on the contrary, on the sincerity of the heart.

It is interesting how the construction of these narratives is intertwined with one of the most powerful symbolic elements of the drama: the house. The family home is not just a setting, but a silent presence that preserves everything. It is the place that has seen love blossom, children grow up, and everyday life unfold; and it is the same space that welcomes infermity and death without denial (the bed, the photographs, the garden...). Even when the idea of leaving it takes hold, it remains clear that certain places are not abandoned but change form, are passed through, in order to continue to preserve what has been...

In this sense, ‘Love Me’ takes on an almost Zen-like dimension: impermanence, acceptance, the ability to find meaning in things we cannot control. But without abstract interpretations, probably due in part to the Catholic influence that is a strong presence in the Seo family. Pain is not explained, but accepted as part of existence; life is not a straight line, but a series of sudden turns. And even when it seems that everything is over, love is not a consolatory promise of salvation, but a conscious choice, often difficult and always exposed to loss; love can return to enlighten even the darkest corners.

A little television miracle made possible thanks to an exceptionally talented cast, definitely one of the story's strong points; all choose a controlled, measured acting style, never over the top, which renounces emphasis in favor of small gestures, glances and half-phrases. Through a “natural”, almost spontaneous style that does not demand attention but wins it over, allowing the viewer to grasp every emotional nuance and tune in to the characters without filters. By personal choice, Seo Hyun Jin and Yoon Se Ah (but here I am not impartial!) completely won me over; two beautiful actresses, in every sense.

The drama undoubtedly requires the right kind of mood, perhaps viewing in small doses, to allow emotions and reflections to settle; it does not promise easy consolation, but it does offer a discreet certainty: even when you make mistakes, even when you lose, even when you start again late, you are never truly alone. And somewhere, there is always the possibility of loving again, and being loved...

8/10

Read More