It seems like I am fated to catch at least one Hong Sang-soo film every time I visit HK. His latest, Grass, is the latest of more than a dozen films in the last ten years. And wouldn't you know it, Hong's back to familiar rhythms: the film is a series of extended conversations between two or three people, mostly over drinks, sometimes alcoholic.
The structure is a bit looser, the conversations winding yet somehow interesting. The film inserts a character-as-surrogate into the picture in one of his conversations just like before, though there may be more than just one: Areum (Kim Min-hee), perhaps a callback to a character in one of Hong's earlier films, Claire's Camera, overhears much of the conversations while typing on her computer. It is unclear if the conversations playing out are a product of Areum's (and consequently, Hong's) mind or if they are really playing out in real life. it's a case of the creator beholding his or her own creation and reflecting upon it.
Perhaps the work is a demonstration of cinematic reflexivity where one's own thoughts and beliefs influence the work, which then influences the creator. Areum is played by Kim Min-hee, who recently split with the director last month shortly after the film was made following a very public extramarital affair. Areum's views are very much the most cynical in the entire film. In the last few minutes she only joins in conversation with the other characters (or figments of her imagination) upon the departure of the other Hong-surrogate. A separation of artist and muse? Perhaps the film was made as a portent of things to come?
Even at a lean 66 minutes, Grass is comfort food Hong. It may come across as a little abstract, but it's the director baring his soul at its most intimate level, in the only way an artist can.
Based on the one-woman play by Kearen Pang, 29+1 chronicles the struggles of women in contemporary Hong Kong as they reach the cusp of their twenties and thirties, where expectations regarding work, marriage and a stable future are made more evident.
It reminds one of Sylvia Chang's 20 30 40, a film from neighboring Taiwan made around the same time as the play, tackling similar concerns. In a fast-paced, rapidly changing society, both films ask the question: what role can women play?
The film explores two different perspectives that delve into this question: Christy Lam (Chrissy Chau) is a career-minded working woman with a stable career and a boyfriend. But a series of events casts a shadow on that life, revealing a deep well of unhappiness. Through a series of circumstances leading to her getting evicted off her apartment, she spends her time in the apartment of Wong Tin-lok (Joyce Cheng) who has left for Paris. Wong is the same age as Christy, but their respective outlooks on life are drastically different: Wong is cheerful and content to stay where she is, living life at her own pace.
The film works best when it lets its characters shine, and falters when its messages become heavy handed. Both actresses (especially Cheng) shine in their roles, giving life and character to their character's struggles, making them relateable. Once the film makes several emotional turns near the end, it's hard not to get affected. As a thirtysomething myself, the uncertainty of life after the last vestiges of youth have gone away is a notion that is all too real.
While the film suffers from a number imperfections, the film overcomes them by sheer force of charm and by the stellar performances of both its leads.
Winner of last year's Short Film Palme D'Or, A Gentle Night begins in a police station. A girl has disappeared, and a policeman is interviewing the girl's father about the situation. As the conversation goes on, it's clear that the authorities don't exactly have a sense of urgency about the whole thing. Then the shot changes, revealing that the girl's mother was there too all along. The film then follows the mother as she traverses the night in search for her daughter.
The film may be short in length but not in emotional intensity; the mother's journey is colored by maternal fear, love and guilt. Not a single shot is wasted, and the movie finds depth despite its brevity, highlighting systems of apathy within bureaucracy, of women and children without men (or the other way around.)
It's a powerful demonstration of the medium of short film, and a treat to watch.
Thomas Stuber's In the Aisles is a quiet film, one that lies unassuming and is content to stay in the background, much like the workers it depicts. Christian (Franz Rogowski) is a newly hired worker at an East German supermarket. It's evident that he hasn't had the cleanest of past lives, as he hides his tattoos when he dresses up every day. But he gets along well with his colleagues, and is mentored by former trucker Bruno (Peter Kurth) who instructs him in the surprisingly delicate job of Forklift operation. He soon meets and falls in love with co-worker Marion (Sandra Huller), who has issues of her own.
While it can be argued that the romance is the central plot of In the Aisles, the movie doesn't touch on it too heavily; there are no impassioned declarations of love or wacky rom-com elements. The movie instead focuses on the small microcosm formed by the blue collar workers of the supermarket, with its own geography and culture. Christian even refers to it as "home", a preferable alternative to the drabness of his non-supermarket life.
It's also a film about how loneliness and isolation spurs people to make connections in the unlikeliest of places, and it treats its subjects with warmth and a bit of humanity. The film is mostly grounded in reality, but it takes whimsical comfort in the oceanlike sounds of forklift hydraulics, or the promise of a workplace relationship. And that's how people roll - finding happiness within and with each other.
***
That ends this year's coverage of the HKIFF, stay tuned for a bunch of movies that premiered over the Easter weekend. Till next time ~
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