A young man and woman meet on the street and begin an obsessive love affair from which they try to exclude the entire world in Call of God (Kone taevast), a troubling if intense tale that hovers between dream and reality. It was written and filmed by Kim Ki-duk before his death from COVID-19 complications at the end of 2020. At the time he was living in Latvia, far from his legal troubles in his native land, and the actors, the setting and the Russian they speak offer curious variations on the director’s familiar South Korean subjects. But above all, of course, one feels the hand of Kim’s Estonian collaborator Artur Veeber, who completed the film along with other colleagues based on the director’s notes. What the fate of this Estonian-Kyrgyz-Latvian coprod will be is a question mark, given the circumstances under which it was made.
The last years of Kim Ki-duk’s life unfolded under the black shadow of accusations by actresses of physical assault, sexual harassment and rape charges, TV exposés and a series of court trials in South Korea. He died before the courts could reach a conclusive legal ruling, but the tide of public opinion and the #MeToo movement was strongly against him. It was a bitter and inglorious end to the career of a director who has left behind him films the caliber of Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring (2003), Samaritan Girl, and Arirang. Despite the censure of various South Korean film associations, who loudly voiced their opposition to honoring Kim at a major festival, the world premiere of Call of God was held out of competition at Venice, where he had won the Golden Lion for Pietà and Best Director for 3-Iron.
Against this dramatic real-life background, a love story shot in a sleepy city surrounded by tall mountains (presumably Kyrgyzstan) in raw-looking black-and-white can only pale. Indeed, the violence is seriously toned down compared to the body horror of the director’s earlier work.
A breezy, modern young woman played by Zhanel Sergazina crosses the street in a light summer dress and attracts the attention of Daniel (Abylai Maratov), a fledgling writer. They chat and agree to meet that evening for dinner. They seem sincere and innocent enough, but appearances are deceiving: both turn out to be jealous monsters. After dispatching Daniel’s two ex-girlfriends – one to her grave, accidentally – the young woman demands control of his phone and he demands she never look at or speak to another man again, no matter how old or unlikely. She readily agrees, because (she imagines) that’s how love is.
As a sort of reality check on the tightening of the screw in her relationship, the girl is often seen waking up in her bed at home with a giant teddy bear. The terrible things that are happening with Daniel? They’re all a bad dream. Not only that, but her phone is ringing and it’s God calling, telling her that everything she dreamed is really going to happen – but she can change it if she wants too.
But does she want to? The masochism, sadism and violence built into their relationship appear to be addictive and self-perpetuating, with the final scenes emphasizing the cyclical nature of the decisions we make in our lives.
Sergazina has a lot of screen presence and does some thinking, even if she does consult a manual on how to keep a man. Though her character doesn’t have a name, she at least provides a female POV through which to evaluate what happens, and she often takes the lead in some of the far-out tests of love with Maratov. Of note: the film is surprisingly low on the violence meter (knives, darts and blunt instruments abound, but their threatening nature remains an abstract possibility).
Kim’s choice of high contrast black-and-white photography gives scenes a distinctive retro look and a certain Soviet-era starkness. Sven Grunberg’s music adds much-needed depth in the loud and clear Asian sounds of a Buddha bar.
Director, screenplay, cinematography: Kim Ki-duk
Cast: Zhanel Sergazina, Abylai Maratov
Producers: Tatjana Muhlbayer, Artur Veeber, Kim Ki-duk, Nargiza Mamatkulova
Editing: Audrius Juzenas, Karolis Labutis
Music: Sven Grunberg
Sound: Sangam Panta
Production companies: Kim Ki-duk Films, Estofilm
World Sales: MTU Otaku
Venue: Venice Film Festival (Out of competition fiction)
In Russian, Kyrgyz
81 minutes
