Some time in 2011, I had the good fortune of being able to travel from California’s Central Valley to San Francisco to see a film that I was convinced and which proved itself to be a deeply affecting cinematic experience. Director and screenwriter Lee Chang-dong was nowhere on my still-maturing filmic radar even though Poetry (Shi) was his fifth feature.
The documentary Dirty Wars (2013), a stirring historical document-in-motion about the USA’s involvement in covert wars overseas was another film I traveled to the Bay Area for. That day trip immediately preceded my decision to earn a bachelor’s degree in the cinematic arts. Two films. Two years apart. Both about chaos and the depthlessness of free will. The former, fictionalized; the latter, inconveniently publicized.
Though this is a review for Poetry, I include these seemingly extraneous factoids, because as you will see in Lee Chang-dong’s great film, our memories, all along the spectrums of emotion and importance, should not be taken for granted. For some of us in the world have and will continue to gradually lose total access to the many memories that have blended into who we’ve become during our lifetimes.
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The film opens with shots of a river in daylight. Clean. Serene. Boys play carefree on land next to it. A shocking appearance soon emerges, disrupting the deceptively tranquil landscape. The distressful image is still present as “poetry” in Korean appears on screen left, dissolving into black, then the title in English.
We soon see a television screen displaying male violence. An elderly woman sees a doctor with a physical complaint, but also admits to forgetting words. He cares more about her memory loss, and tells her that he’ll write notes to send to a “big hospital.”
The patient, Ms. Yang Mija, is impeccably portrayed by Yun Jeong-hie, a veteran actor (190 acting credits) who took a sixteen-year hiatus leading up to Poetry, following the 1994 film Two Flags. Ms. Yang must work part-time as caregiver to Mr. Kang (Kim Hee-ra), an elderly paralytic, in order to support her live-in teenage grandson Wook (Lee Da-wit) while also receiving a meager government stipend.
Mija is a friendly woman in her sixties, who loves to wear sun hats, floral blouses and skirts. To add more enjoyment to her still busy life as double caregiver, she joins a poetry class for novices. At the first meeting, the instructor tells the students “to write poetry, you must see well. The most important thing in life is seeing.”
The spectator sees Mija being ignored and treated disdainfully by her grandson, neighbors, and others. Her meek behavior and genial personality are no match for the superficialities of those hurried everyday people looking to have more and perhaps rise above their status in the universal caste system.
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Her daughter, Wook’s mother, is mostly unseen. Spoken to by cellphone, Mija appears to feel most valued during these mother-daughter moments of contact. But we know what’s up. Why did a supposedly loving daughter dump her son on her aging mother to care for? And why isn’t she sending money to help financially with his upbringing?
As time passes, Mija continues to forget words and the whereabouts of frequently used objects. She also finds it exceedingly difficult to compose a poem for her class. When Mija sees a specialist, her Alzheimer’s diagnosis is confirmed.
In her solitary struggle with the stressors of her life that fails to wind down into comfort and peace, Mija attends a requiem Mass for Heejin Agnes, a young girl who took her own life. Feeling an intimate connection with this innocent victim of overwhelming trauma and sorrow, Mija takes with her a pink-framed photo of Agnes as she leaves the church.
It is in deep contemplation, both seen and unseen, that Mija finds the words to complete her first poem titled “Agnes’ Song.” The sad irony here is that for some people, they find the most or the only real inspiration and understanding from those who never knew them. This is the lifeline of the spiritually solitary among the walking dead. Mija clearly inhabits such a world. What is scary is just how unknowing many characters are while in the processes of losing touch with the meaning of their respective humanity.
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During this surreal time in human history, we are acutely aware of the meaning of chaos. We struggle daily, or for some perhaps, hourly, with the whys of life being this daunting in a postmodern society. The magnificently crafted narrative that is Poetry is a consistent, powerful meditation on the whys of trauma leeching into our lives.
For this cut-to-the-marrow critique of South Korean society (and the world), it is no wonder why Lee Chang-dong won the Best Screenplay Award at the 2010 Cannes Film Festival. Neither does his multi-year inclusion on a national blacklist surprise this reviewer. Even less surprising is a terrible lack of regard for lead Yun Jeong-hie’s masterclass in fine acting.
At the time of the film’s US release, critic Manohla Dargis called Poetry “an extraordinary vision of human empathy.” Opposing forces; good and evil; empathy and apathy, exist in this world and will continue to until the end of time. Let us hope for a multifaceted resurgence of public recognition for the true spirit and practice of empathy. We could surely start by viewing the South Korean masterpiece Poetry.
