Hong Sang-soo’s last film was called In Front of Your Face; his latest, which has just premiered in competition in Berlin, might as well be dubbed “In Your Face”. Revolving around a bitter, straight-talking writer who can’t resist puncturing the preposterous pleasantries put forward by those who want to wrong her, the more sedately monikered The Novelist’s Film finds the Korean cineaste at his barbed best. This wince-inducing, monochrome minuet is on a par with his best work in revealing how hypocrisy is a vital part of human nature.
With Hong maintaining his tight grip throughout – the credits have him down for every technical role possible in the production – The Novelist’s Film exudes all the modest, minimalist style he has made his own. While there aren’t that many surprises, there’s quite a bit to enjoy in a script that interweaves touché moments about the pains of social etiquette with poignant silences, not to mention the matching mise-en-scene.
But central to Hong’s 27th feature is veteran actress Lee Hye-young’s turn as the embittered protagonist who doesn’t tolerate courteous fools gladly. While playing up her prickly and self-regarding character as vividly as she can, Lee never falls into mere caricature. Her performance is empathetic enough to make the viewer wait for each and every one of the mordant morsels she spits out of her mouth (it’s perhaps significant how she’s not wearing a facemask for most of her screen time, while others do).
This is a markedly different performance from her first collaboration with Hong in last year’s In Front Of Your Face, in which she plays a has-been former actor confronting her cancer-stricken, anonymous present with much more melancholy and grace. Her latest turn in The Novelist’s Film offers proof of Lee’s dizzying range, and also Hong’s ability to tap into the talents of overlooked ex-icons of Korean cinema. (Minari‘s Youn Yuh-jung, for example, was also a mainstay in the Hong universe.)
The Berlinale has provocatively described The Novelist’s Film as a piece that highlights “the importance of authenticity in the dishonest world of cinema” – a world in which calling someone “charismatic” is more a dig than a compliment, and smiling and saying someone has “wasted” her talents for lying low is a patronising gesture rather than a show of genuine affection. These are but just two arguments Junhee (Lee) dives completely into over a series of encounters with past and present members of the literati during a day’s outing in a small town outside Seoul.
The first meeting sets the scene by having Junhee run into Sewon (Seo Young-hwa), a writer-friend who abandoned her literary career to run a bookshop-café frequented mostly by local women. Initially begrudging Sewon for falling off the grid, Junhee gradually warms to her again as she hears of her friend’s liberation from the culture-as-career rat race.
Things take an ominous turn when Junhee then runs into Hyojin (Kwon Hae-yo), a director who once left her in the lurch by first showing interest and then declining to adapt one of her novels into a film. Junhee is direct in demanding answers about that past episode, and her fury is further fueled when Hyojin and his wife Yangjoo (Cho Yun-hee) try to damn her with faint praise.
From then on, Junhee’s takedown on Hyojin’s whimpering hypocrisy is ceaseless, to the point of comical carnage. She takes aim at nearly everything he says and does, ranging from the most innocent-sounding banter to his views on cinema. As they go on and meet the actress Kilsoo (Kim Min-hee), the confrontation reaches its pinnacle: when Hyojin’s remarks about Kilsoo’s hiatus from acting draws Junhee’s ire, she decries him for being patronising and disrespectful.
Kilsoo seems poised to be Junhee’s saving grace. Having decided that the actress is a worthy kindred spirit – and that includes their mutual belief in the importance of authenticity in emotions unleashed on screen – Junhee pitches her new best friend the idea of making a short film together with Kilsoo’s film-student nephew (Ha Seong-guk). It’s a process which might lead to everyone knowing a bit more about themselves – or maybe not.
This denouement – that is, the consequences of the making of the novelist’s film – is perhaps the only elusive part in The Novelist’s Film. Otherwise, Hong seems truly on fire in decrying the affectations and airs he must have endured as a maverick on the margins of Korean cinema.
Those well-versed with the cineaste and his own travails might be tempted to play find-the-analogy in the film. Does the characters’ universal contempt for Seoul refer to Hong’s own exile from the mainstream and the city? Is Junhee’s demand for truthful emotions on screen his own riposte to those who query his decision to cast his partner Kim Min-hee in his films?
Well, one can of course do all that and more, but The Novelist’s Film is about more than just bitterness. Junhee never recoils from a fight for some truthfulness in her life, but she also yearns for the beauty such idealistic purity could bring. And there’s poetic beauty in this most caustic of tales. Like the scene in which Junhee asks Sewon’s assistant Hyunwoo (Park Mi-so) to articulate a poem in sign language: they ponder over the signs for intangible concepts like “coming soon” and “lingers”, and then repeat the stanzas again, the room falling entirely silent, except for the swish of clothes as their arms move. It’s ironic, perhaps, that authentic tenderness in The Novelist’s Film comes at the juncture where no words are spoken – but it’s in such small gestures that Hong’s films are at their most winning.
Director-screenwriter-cinematographer-editor-music-composer-sound-designer-producer: Hong Sang-soo
Cast: Lee Hye-young, Kim Min-hee, Seo Young-hwa, Park Mi-so, Kwon Haehyo, Cho Yun-hee, Ha Seong-guk
Production companies: Jeonwonsa Film Co.
World sales: Finecut
Venue: Berlin International Film Festival (Competition)
In Korean
92 minutes
