[K-FILM REVIEWS] 히말라야, 바람이 머무는 곳 (Himalaya, Where the Wind Dwells)

"I want to run away, go to that place where nobody hates me."

It's rather curious to suddenly remember such minute details three-four years after the fact, particularly for someone who hardly remembers what he had for breakfast yesterday. But for reasons that only a review could explain, while watching Jeon Soo-Il's latest film 히말라야, 바람이 머무는 곳 (Himalaya, Where the Wind Dwells) I was reminded of both the ending of Im Pil-Sung's masterfully flawed (and that's a compliment) debut 남극일기 (Antarctic Journal), but also the incipit of his quirky short film 소년기 (Brushing), where a plump teenager's voiceover consisting of the aforementioned sentence starts the dances. What that little genial short ended up being was a sort of appetizer for some of the themes Im delved in on his feature debut, perhaps finding the bittersweet answer to the plump kiddo's fervent wish, in the form of one of Song Kang-Ho's final, most memorable lines: "I thought this place, at least this place would accept me."

The idea that any journey of discovery might be more about the process itself than the destination is certainly a storytelling cliché and one of the staples of the road movie genre, but it also hides existentialist nuances which such maxim might not be ready to answer after all. Maybe the journey is more important than the destination because there's no true answer at the end, because you won't find that kind of catharsis you were looking for. When you start thinking about certain points Jeon's latest film makes, then such enigma might come quite in handy. If you look at the history of Korean visual arts vis-a-vis their relationship with the Himalayas, you generally get two sides of a coin: one is the legacy of Korean mountaineering (perhaps ignited by Park Young-Seok's feats), the other focuses on the "never ending peace and love" of the lands blessed by such wonders of nature.

The most striking example of the former is certainly the 1997 MBC drama 山 (The Mountain), one of the forgotten masterpieces of the golden age, focusing on a family of mountaineers and their love-hate passion for the Himalayas, slowly becoming an alluring curse decimating brothers and sons one after another, until the last one in line (Gam Woo-Sung) manages to reach that ever so elusive summit. The latter is rather evident in most domestic documentaries about Nepal, Tibet or other Himalayan regions, often drenched in syrupy, sanctimonious tirades about simple life and basic human values. But this film offers a third dimension, removed from the "man against nature" (or man against himself) challenges of the former, and the natural charms of the latter. Were this a Kim Ki-Duk film (particularly one directed during this second phase of his career), we would have been graced with the most complacent of existential symbolism, making Nepal a sort of exotic paradise on Earth, far removed from the pernicious vicissitudes of city life, pushing every single button of the orientalist canon, and getting its nice festival run adorned with a few prizes here and there. As stunning as the natural landscapes are, I'm afraid the intent here is not even close to that.

Then, you wonder. What attracted Choi Min-Shik so much about this project that he chose it for his long-awaited comeback, four years after Park Chan-Wook's 친절한 금자씨 (Sympathy for Lady Vengeance)? Maybe it's that statement up there. He just wanted to run away, to a place where nobody "hated" him. Hate is a strong word, but something clearly happened between Choi and a large part of the Korean populace, distancing him from the public eye for much longer than anyone could expect (or wish for, truth to be told). He shot a TV ad for a loan company in a period when this line of business was at the center of a huge mediatic controversy, and although he wasn't the only celebrity to do so, it certainly hurt his image. Was it a mistake? Hindsight is a much too comfortable and hypocritical cover you can always fall back to, but mainstream fervor is as fickle as it gets, particularly in speed-obsessed Korea. Choi, just like many other big names who made the same "mistake" (including another Choi, the top sageuk lead on TV for the last decade), would have recovered in time. But then came the screen quota controversy (as part of a bigger KORUS FTA hoopla), one of the lowest points of the Roh Moo-Hyun government, marred by an even worse reaction by the public, who thought "rich men driving expensive foreign sedans shouldn't stick next to poor farmers from the provinces as if they had the same problems."

Well, no shit. But stopping the government from treating culture like exportable domestic goods such as kimchi and those microwave ovens with tires they call cars was a worthy fight, particularly considering how terrible the consequences have been so far - if you want to blame Chungmuro's current crisis on anyone or anything, you have about a dozen culprits to choose from, but the screen quota and its psychological tsunami will always be first. Most actors and/or directors who participated in the protests recovered rather quickly, but Choi, one of the most outspoken of the lot, ended up pretty much disappearing from the scene. Save for a bit role in the stage play 필로우맨 (Pillow Man), he avoided the cumbersome attention of the spotlight for over three years, way too long for such a monster talent like him. There is no need to mention that he received many offers during the last four years, some even from very acclaimed directors who previously collaborated with him, but it seemed like something just didn't click, they weren't the kind of projects that could justify his return.

Had it been a matter of just showing up and cashing a fat check, Choi could have easily spent the last three-four years doing one big production on TV every twelve months or so, and that would be it. People would have slowly accepted him, much more so than in the case of a film return. For instance, I have this long-lasting fantasy of seeing Choi play one of the most controversial rulers known to man, King Uija of Baekje, the last of one of the most neglected kingdoms in all of Korean history, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. What matters is that Choi met indie-darling Jeon and started shooting the film in early 2008. The role was supposed to go to singer and sometimes actor Kim C, but Jeon also sent the script to Choi, who liked it enough to belatedly accept. After getting permission from Kim (another sign of Choi's unquestionable professionalism), the two decided to go for it. If you read Choi's interviews over the last two years, he never gives you the idea that this was much of a momentous choice, some kind of turning point for him. The film itself could easily create such misunderstanding, considering the image people had of Choi's impetuous, Shakespearean acting.

But treating his muted, largely improvisational performance as a turning point would be ignoring this man's long and extremely varied career, which gives even more weight to his nonchalant attitude towards this choice. Yes, you think Choi Min-Shik, and Oh Dae-Soo and his teeth-pulling, live octopus-eating habits come to mind; you think of the emotional hell, fire and brimstone of painter Jang Seung-Eop, of gangsters pissing in the kitchen sink, or the Hitchcockian emotional explosions seen in 해피엔드 (Happy End); you think of the 1990's most hilarious and energetic detective Ma Dong-Pal, or the angst of a North Korean terrorist. But saying Choi hasn't been involved in much calmer, introspective works would be misguiding.

One of Choi's nicest works is also one of his less energetic, the glorious little music drama 꽃피는 봄이 오면 (When Spring Comes), a sort of Korean equivalent to Brassed Off, and that leaves out his early career, spent mostly on TV. Hell, the man even played the late Kim Dae-Joong in 제4공화국 (The Fourth Republic), and although he probably wouldn't survive the current shooting schedules the TV industry subjects its actors to, it was with a TV drama, 1994's masterpiece 서울의 달 (The Moon of Seoul), that Choi first found stardom, ironically next to his upcoming partner in what is likely to become his "real" return to Chungmuro, Han Suk-Gyu. So "Choi," this character he plays in Himalaya might feel new to the untrained eye, but it's merely a chance to see a side of Choi Min-Shik which had been mostly hidden by other, more energetic characters. And that is one of the major selling points of the film.

Yet, this was not much of a turning point for Choi - it more likely was a journey of discovery to an extent. Set aside the film, which feels like a Korean rendition of an Abbas Kiarostami film shot Hou Hsiao-Hsien style (with all the charms and limitations which come with it), what probably attracted Choi more than the role was the idea of leaving all this emotional "humidity" at home, go to a faraway place, and breathe a different air up there in the mountains. That is the challenge his character goes through as well. One of those infamous 기러기 아빠 (fathers who send their family overseas, and remain home to sustain them financially), "Choi" does indeed go to Nepal to bring the ashes of a dead migrant worker back to his family, but that is merely a pretext. All those responsibilities and problems piling up on him needed some sort of escape valve, and this could prove to be the perfect opportunity.

To Jeon's merit, he never uses the camera as a masturbatory device to elicit awe, and indulge the viewers with audiovisual wonders. It's obvious that you can't ignore the work of nature around you, but the dominating impression you get from watching the first portion of the film is fatigue, emotional and physical. Choi is shown slowly reaching his destination (the relatively famous small village of Jharkot, on the circuit to Annapurna) in painful detail, climbing up steep uphill trails, eventually collapsing because of high altitude sickness, being carried to the top by the Sherpa's donkey. This gives cinéma vérité a new meaning - Choi admitted to accentuating most of the reactions on those scenes, but the fatigue, emotional weight and incessant coughing is all 100% Choi Min-Shik. What Choi the character finds at the village is not some shocking revelation, or the quintessential truth of life. He just meets people who eat, play football, have sex, get piss drunk and mourn the dead with the same exact passion as those from his "world" do. What surrounds them, and their rhythm is certainly different (particularly so when compared with Seoul), but at the core, that epochal epiphany Choi expected doesn't really come.

But one thing did change. The fatigue which plagued him, that emotional and physical pathos which afflicted him seem to be gone, or they at least turned into a much more bearable form. Once he reaches home, he will have the same problems he was facing when he first left, but something inside, a little voice seems to be whispering that everything will be more or less all right. Interviews aside, only Choi Min-Shik really knows the true reason which brought him to the fascinating sights and sounds of Kathmandu and Jharkot, but I'm willing to bet that what he found there, as insignificant as it might have been, will eventually help him in the long run. Who knows, it might have been that strong breeze embracing him, dwelling up high in the mountains, and telling him that it was time to stop hating the last three-four years of his career, go back down the road which leads back home, and wake up the next morning. Still the same Choi Min-Shik, but without all that burdensome weight on his shoulders. It might not make for great filmmaking, but getting back one of Korea's greatest talents might be worth the price of admission alone...

RATING: 6.5

히말라야, 바람이 머무는 곳 (Himalaya, Where the Wind Dwells)
Director: 전수일 (Jeon Soo-Il)
Screenplay: 전수일 (Jeon Soo-Il)
D.P.: 김성태 (Kim Sung-Tae)
Music: 김형석 (Kim Hyung-Seok)
Produced by: Dongnyuk Films
108 Minutes, 35mm 1.85:1 Color
Release: 06/11/2009 (12 and Over)
CAST: 최민식 (Choi Min-Shik), Tsering Kiple, Tenjing Sherpa