See You at the Theater: Hommage by Shin Su-won
By
Shin Seung-eun
Demolition
of Wonju Academy Theater and KOFIC Budget Cuts
On
October 28th, Wonju city forcefully demolished the Wonju Academy Theater, a
cultural landmark that had stood since 1963. Confronted with challenges from
multiplexes, the theater had once closed its doors in 2006. Despite that
setback, local citizens had rallied together to repurpose the venue into a
versatile cultural and artistic space. Regrettably, with the inauguration of a
new mayor last year, Wonju took a firm stance on demolishing the theater. There
was strong opposition from civil society and the artistic community, but the
city paid little heed. The demolition proceeded through undemocratic means,
resulting in the irrevocable loss of history and memories.
The
growing number of media reports affirming the era of "erase and
cancel" heightens a sense of apprehension. Does the demolition of an old
theater not hold implications for the preservation of film, the vitality of art
itself, or even for individual life and existence? I once subscribed to the
belief that everything fades away with time, but this incident isn’t like the
wind blowing away a leaf. It reflects a clear intention to tear down, and the formidable
blade of the bulldozer won't be aimed merely at buildings.
The
animation support program of the Korean Film Council (KOFIC) is on the brink of
termination after its budget was completely slashed during the July review
process. But that's not the only concern. The government’s budget proposal for KOFIC
in the upcoming year signals sweeping austerity measures, with complete elimination
of regional film-related expenditures, over a 50% reduction in film festival
budgets, and a 40% cut in support for independent film production. This points
to a substantial decrease in backing for regional, independent, and art films,
leaving only commercial films standing. An announcement on KOFIC's website declared that,
due to the depletion in funds, it has terminated both its program to support
Korean films’ participation in international film festivals and the matching program
[which connected filmmakers with people and businesses that could provide
necessary services or expertise for their projects] conducted by Scene1, its
planning and development capability enhancement center. Many in the cultural arts community are left anxiously wondering if this is
just the beginning of more cuts to come.
Budget cuts are
stifling the birth of many independent films, leaving artists' passions
unrealized and ultimately abstract. The focus on passion dissipates, replaced
by a cascade of questions—what is this all about, what do I like, why did I
start liking it, and why am I on this path? The despair is tangible and
concrete: a 40% reduction in support, the demolition of the Wonju Academy
Theater on October 28th, the challenges artists face in making ends meet, and
the hopelessness that follows failed attempts to find alternative employment.
These experiences are more vivid than 4D and clearer than 4K.
▲The poster for Hommage by Shin
Su-won, 2022
Things Lost and Fading Away
In
Shin Suwon’s 2022 film Hommage, the protagonist, Kim Jiwan, is a film
director with three movies to her name—all of which have failed at the box
office, with even her own son deeming them unenjoyable. The production she’s
currently working on is entangled in an investment problem. In an attempt to
address this, her longtime producer suggests modifying the screenplay to reduce
production expenses. Feeling overwhelmed, Jiwan confesses, “I’m now afraid of
writing.” The very thing she once loved has become a source of fear. Amidst
this struggle, she takes a gig restoring the sound of a film titled A Woman
Judge, directed by Hong Jaewon in the 1960s. Jiwan decides to trace back
the footsteps of the female director to find lost footage of the film.
Hommage
persistently delves into the theme of disappearance. The first case is that of
Hong Jaewon, a film director who vanishes after creating three movies, whose
career ended abruptly. A poignant scene in the film features a female film editor
recounting mistreatment, revealing the industry’s sexist atmosphere. The editor
comments on the challenges faced by female directors like Jaewon in sustaining
their careers in such an environment. The female editor, who collaborated with
Hong Jaewon in the past, ponders what might have been if Jaewon were a man. The
conversation unfolds in the editor’s home while they gather laundry. The two
actors are standing behind a white bedsheet as they trade lines, and the sun
casts their shadows onto it, making it seem as if they were as if they were
behind a screen. The
film skillfully employs this imagery to underscore the overlooked existence of
female professionals and the invisibility of the discrimination they endure in
the industry. After finishing the laundry, the editor asks, “But now is better,
right?” Jiwan responds, “Than then, at least.”
This
encounter with the editor sheds light on more disappearances. Film editing,
once synonymous with cutting and pasting physical films, has evolved with the
advent of digital technology. In today’s digital era, film editing primarily
involves computer programs and external hard drives, rendering traditional
films, movies shot on film, and projectors relics of the past. But this shift
brought advantages, such as reduced production costs, as there is no longer a
need to purchase film stock. Hommage, in its exploration of
disappearances, focuses on the phenomena themselves rather than passing
judgment on each case. In a time marked by constant change and disappearance,
the film prompts questions about how we respond to these transformations and
what elements we choose to preserve.
The aging
editor forgets a word mid-conversation. The word is
“film.” With the passing years, the world of film to which she dedicated her
youth has faded from her memory. Yet, this lapse isn't just a personal matter;
it reflects the fading presence of film itself. The imbalance in the
government’s budget plan, favoring commercial movies, undermines the diverse
values inherent in films. The rise of streaming platforms is further eroding
the theater business, with independent art movie theaters feeling the impact
more acutely than big company multiplexes. Short film festivals, crucial arenas
for discovering emerging talent, have also been disappearing in recent years.
The question arises: Where will the films from these festivals go?
Everything
fades away. Female
filmmakers, my colleagues, theaters,
festivals. Independent films and film stock vanish, along with scenes cut due
to censorship. Youth and memories dissolve. Words are wiped from one’s memory,
and meanings blur. Hommage stands as a testament to those disappearing,
restoring what has been erased. Jiwan roams, tracing the path of the vanished,
on a quest to unearth the lost pieces of the film A Woman Judge.
Film
and Light
At
its essence, film is a medium that can be viewed through the shooting of light from
within darkness. But when Jiwan gets to the theater, she finds a hole in the
ceiling that lets in a ray of light like a heavenly spotlight or a beam from a UFO.
Since the power has gone out, the only light source left in the building is in
the theater, which is kind of ironic. Jiwan stumbles upon plastic bags of film strips
in the projection room and heads straight to the theater. Using the light
streaming through the ceiling hole, she looks at each strip. Light shines
through every frame. While films conventionally demand darkness, in this
particular scene, light takes a central role. Darkness by itself is just
darkness, but light in the darkness becomes a star or the moon, becoming both a
path and a film.
 |
| ▲In Hommage, the film director Jiwan (played by Lee Jung-eun) and film editor Okhui (played by Lee Jusil) watch a film using a projector. |
With the bags of film in hand, Jiwan rushes to the editor’s home. Leveraging her past profession, the editor assembles and projects the film using her projector. This time, the bed linen, on which the two women’s shadows were cast in the previous scene, serves as the screen. The camera shifts its focus to the faces behind the screen. In a single shot, we see an elderly film editor who even forgets the word “film,” a projector projecting once-lost footage, and a middle-aged film director who is succeeding in restoring what had disappeared—all accompanied by the sound of the projector running.
In
the following shot, the camera spotlights the profile of the three—Jiwan, the
editor, and the projector. The focus transitions from Jiwan’s side to the
editor’s. In this brief moment, it suggests that the future for Kim Jiwan and
other female film professionals might mirror that of the editor. More
disappearances are anticipated, and a sense of my own potential vanishing
creeps in. As this foreboding sentiment lingers with the audience, the editor
breaks the silence, telling Jiwan, “Survive ‘til the end.”
Fierce
Anxiety
Jiwan’s
son holds a part-time position at a library and is a member of a club whose participants
recite poems and sometimes transcribe them to send in letters to their
families. At the movie’s outset, he sends his mother a copy of "Modern
Prayer" by D.H. Lawrence—a poem that revolves around praying to Almighty
Mammon for wealth. By sharing this poem, Jiwan’s son subtly expresses the hope
that his mother will be his Almighty Mammon. The poem not only reflects the
sentiments of Jiwan’s son but also alludes to Jiwan herself, who eagerly awaits
someone who will invest in her film.
As
the film nears its conclusion, Jiwan receives a new letter from her son,
containing Wisława Szymborska’s poem, “While Asleep.” The poem, initially read
in voice-over by her son, shifts to Jiwan's voice from the middle. “I ran
around, out of breath, between things that belong to me and things that don’t,
between anxiety and relief.”
Jiwan,
once confined to waiting for her own Almighty Mammon, now embarks on a journey
to reclaim the lost footage. Her odyssey involves not only physical exploration
but also a tumultuous inner struggle, oscillating between anxiety and fleeting
relief. Still, the torment persists, much like the endless wait for the arrival
of Almighty Mammon. Simultaneously, Jiwan sheds her fear of facing things that
vanish—embracing them, sometimes unwilling to let go, eventually succumbing to fierce
anxiety. It’s not clear which is the faster way to capture desired moments on
camera—as a passive observer waiting behind a tripod for something to come into
focus or as an active wanderer with a camera in hand. The former involves
sitting alongside things that disappear, while the latter demands running
alongside them. In Hommage, Jiwan chooses to run—or rather, to swim.
When
Jiwan visits Hong Jaewon’s home, she comes across these lines in her writing: “You'll
be eventually erased. Just like I was.” If “you” refers to films, Kim Jiwan, or
female professionals in the industry, this sentence carries profound despair.
However, if “you” signifies a world that consistently replaces the old with the
new, sexism undermining the careers of female directors, societal trends
prioritizing commercial profits over culture and art, or bureaucratic decisions
leading to the demolition of a theater, this sentence is both enlightening and a
warning. Nothing escapes mortality, and immortality is unattainable. Yet, as
evident in the cases of A Woman Judge and Jiwan’s passion, restoration
is possible. Life unfolds as an out-of-breath, constant oscillation between anxiety
and relief, vanishing and restoration. I think some of the driving forces of
this life are art and films. While certain disappearances are indeed disappearances,
it doesn't mean they are endings.
 |
| ▲“You can destroy the theater, but not its citizens!” A wave of public outcry surged against the illegal demolition of the Wonju Academy Theater. In a rally held on November 12th, tickets for the future of the WAT, created by the “Friends of the Academy,” were distributed. (Ticket design by: Propaganda) [source: Facebook page of Friends of the Academy] |
After the demolition, a photo of the destroyed theater was uploaded to its social media account. It depicts an excavator sitting amidst wreckage scattered everywhere, making it hard to believe that this place was once a haven for films and audiences. However, this hasn’t deterred the passionate individuals who strove to protect the theater. The wave of public outcry against the illegal demolition of the Wonju Academy Theater continues under slogans like “You can destroy the theater, but not its citizens!” There’s something that can never be demolished, something much bigger and stronger than an excavator. I was wrong above—immortality is right here.
Writer
Introduction: Shin Seung-eun is a multifaceted artist known for her talents as a
singer-songwriter and film director. She has two albums to her name: the debut “You
Don’t Like Me That Much” (2016) and the subsequent “The Path of Love” (2019).
She’s also directed short films, including “Mother-in-law” (2019) and “Frontman”
(2020).
*Original
article: https://www.ildaro.com/9781
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