Chunhyangdyun

This Korean film is told through both pansori and live-action. Pansori is a style of Korean singing/drama that consists of a singer and a drummer and very, very long epic stories are sung dramatically. Seeing the robe-clad singer gesticulate and dance about with his fan was pretty interesting and a nice lesson in Korean culture. Plus, once I got used to the style, it was interesting as he narrated large portions of the live-action story and it reminded me quite a bit of Chinese opera. However, and I know this will make me sound rather shallow to some, but after a while the singing wore me down and I really don't look forward to seeing many more films in this style. Maybe this is the Asian equivalent of sitting through one of Wagner's operas (another endurance test for the audience). In both cases, the performances may be four or more hours long!

The story itself is an 18 century legend about two young lovers, the tragedy that befalls one of them and the very uplifting and satisfying conclusion. The son of a governor falls in love with a concubine's daughter. Despite being from totally different social classes, they secretly marry. The young man wants to tell his parents, but needs to wait until he takes his civil service test, as he wants to make a name for himself before publicly acknowledging the marriage. Unfortunately, tragedy strikes when a new governor is appointed. He's exceptionally cruel and unyielding. Exactly what happens next is something you'll have to see for yourself, but I can assure you it is very exciting to watch and worth the wait--as the film improves the further along it goes.

Beautiful cinematography, this is a lovely little legend come to the screen. It's well worth a look, but I strongly doubt that many Westerners out there will quickly embraced this very unusual film. It takes a bit to get used to the style, but it's well worth it.

Cahiers Du Cinema called this epic an "experimental film", and indeed, it is as experimental as Lars von Triers DANCER IN THE DARK by heavily relying on music and songs. On the other hand, the differences are quite obvious. Here the songs come from the off most of the time (until the camera surprisingly moves to the classic singer on a stage) and do something that usually reduces the quality of a movie: they tell you what's going on in the pictures. But those pictures are of such an elegic beauty (with the typical yellow "Im-tone") that you feel a story is told to you by your grandfather and it unfolds perfectly in front of your eyes. I saw the screening during the MIFED 2000 together with only one (!) other guest and am quite astonished that film fans and buyers might overlook this masterpiece about an exclusive one-on-one love that touches our hearts.

There is nothing bland or pastel about Korea. It's traditional decorative colors, like the contrasts in its seasons, are vivid. In adapting social and political mores, as in the flavoring or food, Koreans tend to take things to extremes. South Korea, with its advertisements on pedestrian overpasses and across the bottom of the television screen, is in many ways more commercial and capitalistic than the archetype for such things, the United States, and its Christians are among the world's most fervent. North Korea, as we well know, has outdone Joseph Stalin and Mao Tse Tung with its rigid communist orthodoxy.

Korea's national epic, the intensely romantic Chunhyang story, a tale better known in Korea than, say, Cinderella in the West, takes place in an old Korea that was almost a caricature of Confucianist China. The king was a complete autocrat and the social order was extremely hierarchical. Confucian norms, however, were supposed to ensure that the despotism was an enlightened and high-minded one. One could not be a part of the ruling bureaucracy without passing rigorous examinations that required knowledge of the Chinese classics and an ability to employ them in artistic expression along strictly prescribed lines. Education and refinement were supposed to translate themselves into wisdom and virtue in public administration.

Although the lower orders may never have had it very good, for the most part the system worked. Strong, stable dynasties ruled for centuries in China and Korea, but no system created by man can guard against all human frailties. The temptation to abuse the power acquired through rising in the governmental organization was great, and Chunhyang, the "Cinderella" of this classic tale, runs afoul of one of the abusers. In the process, two Confucian requirements come into conflict with one another, loyalty of the wife to the husband and loyalty of the subject to the king or his duly vested agent.

This is not a straightforward David and Bathsheba, story, however. There is just enough ambiguity in the husband-wife relationship to make it a close call for Chunhyang as to which loyalty should prevail. To her worldly courtesan mother it's not a close call at all. She counsels the easier route. But our heroine takes deeper counsel from within herself and follows the harder path that we know, as generations of Koreans have known, is in closer accord with universal moral law.

To say more would be to give away the plot, but one wonders, with such a chastening tale as this as a part of their heritage, how any Korean officials could succumb to the temptation to abuse their authority and engage in corrupt practices. But East or West, the flesh is still weak, and the tale still needs retelling there as much as it needs telling here.

Plays as we know them were unknown in Korea until the first decade of the twentieth century. The Chunhyang story was typically performed by a single p'ansori artist. P'ansori, which is quite foreign to the Western ear, is a sort of stylized chant in which the rasping tones of the performer help convey the setting and the emotion of the characters. The "singer" is accompanied by one other person who occasionally interjects exclamations and encouragement but mainly keeps time with a small barrel drum. P'ansori performers had to undergo even more rigorous training than opera singers in the West, though the purpose seemed to be to tear down the vocal cords rather than to build them up. A single P'ansori performance, lasting sometimes as long as eight hours, was a prodigious feat of stamina and memory. Thought to have grown out of the shaman performances of the southwest province of Cholla, p'ansori was acted out by both men and women. For most of the twentieth century the art form was kept alive mainly by kisaengs, or females of the roughly-translated "courtesan" class of which the Chunhyang character was a part.

In the later twentieth century in Korea, while p'ansori was taken up by a broader spectrum of society interested in preserving Korea's traditions, the Chunhyang story was brought to the public in play, opera, and repeatedly in film form. In the early 60s, an Irish priest, a professor at the Jesuit Sogang University in Seoul, even wrote and directed a critically-acclaimed English-language Broadway-style musical version of the story.

Director Kwon-taek Im for the first time combines p'ansori and drama in this latest film version. In so doing, he has produced an authentic work of art worthy of a Yi Dynasty scholar-official. Also, in the best Korean tradition, he has gone Hollywood one better at tugging at our heartstrings. The Korean audience on the screen applauds the p'ansori artist at the film's conclusion, and the audience of which I was a member, in a full opening-night movie theater, found itself joining them spontaneously. I think you will, too.

Note: Don't be alarmed when the opening p'ansori monologue lacks English subtitles. They'll come soon enough. To provide them at that point would give away part of the plot. That's not a danger for the native Korean speakers, all of whom would know the plot by heart.

Before video, before film, before printing, before writing -- people told and sang stories.

"Chunhyang" is a wonderful way to experience this oral tradition, listening to the music of language as chanted by a Pansori telling a Korean folk tale. For those of us without facility in the Korean language, the film paints for us the images conjured by the singer. These are beautiful images of a colorful, far-away land in ancient times -- images locked into the race memory of the Korean people familiar with the story, but now on the screen for our benefit as well.

This collision of old and new art forms generates a synergy evident, for example, in the scene in which Chunhyang is beaten for refusing to take to the evil lord's bed. Most of this takes place off-screen -- instead we see shots of the Pansori and of his audience, sitting on the edge of their seats and weeping as he tells of the heroine's defiance. It was one of the most gut-wrenching scenes I've experienced in many years.

I am a Korean linguist and use Korean movies to keep up on the language and have really fallen in love with them over the last few years. My current favorite is JSA, followed closely by Shiri. I just happened to catch Chunhyang on the Sundance channel and it was just not your typical "everybody dies" Korean dramatic movie. Although, what little I know of Korean culture seems to portray life as always having misfortunes,because thats just how life is, this movie was a pleasant surprise. It was kind of like Romeo and Juliet who forgot they were supposed to die. The "panjori" was excellent as well.