One of the most powerful moments of Hirokazu Kore-eda's film Shoplifters occurs near the end. It is a statement made by Nobuyo Shibata (Sakura Ando) that is an affirmation of her family's dignity as people, as flawed as they may be. The Shibatas may have been thrown away by society at large, but they have picked each other up, finding love and acceptance with each other. And it is this notion of kazoku - 'family' - that is at the very heart of this film.
Shoplifters documents the life of this unlikely family as they go through the motions, supporting their household through the Shibata matriarch's pension and through petty crime. It's warm and fuzzy, light and humorous, a slice of life approach similar to Kore-eda's Umimachi Diary (2015). Both films also deal with a new addition to the family: this time, it's little Yuri, who the Shibatas find alone in the cold. She's obviously gone through some level of abuse, and instead of returning her to her parents, the Shibatas decide to keep her. Nobuyo instantly takes to the little girl, and in one scene they find that they have similar scars on their arms - bonding them through shared trauma.
And trauma and disconnection defines the Shibatas in a way - Hatsue (Kirin Kiki) is a lonely pensioner, her only wish not to die alone. Aki (Mayu Matsuoka) works in an establishment that skirts the limits of fuzoku, yearning to find connections with her customers. Osamu (Lily Franky) and Nobuyo have a deep history together, and Osamu tries to connect with his son Shota. The film doesn't fully spell these things out, and there is a certain joy in fitting the pieces together.
But there are cracks in the Shibata household that astute viewers will note from the start. And when a a sudden shift in family dynamics occurs, the film changes into something completely different. While together the Shibatas are framed in cramped spaces, but comfortable and warm, Kore-eda frames them with tons of dead space when they are not. Here comes the challenge to Japanese (and even universal) notions of family, in that the ties that bind don't need to be made out of blood. Yet the outside world doesn't see it that way, and the latter half of the film is utterly devastating, similar to one of Kore-eda's best known films, 2004's Nobody Knows.
There is a lingering melancholia in the film's final moments, a waiting to exhale, in a sense. Kore-eda masterfully crafts this moment for us, making us love a family whose existence is most unconventional.
In a way, there are thematic similarities between Shoplifters and Burning, Lee Chang-dong's first film since 2014's masterful Poetry, in that they both depict people in the invisible fringes of society, people who could disappear right at this moment with nary a ripple from the world at large.
It is an adaptation of Haruki Murakami's short story Barn Burning, a tale about desire and the vast between classes. Though perhaps it is more appropriate to call it an expansion of Murakami's work. Lee expands the story even further, turning it into an examination of class divides in Korean society, contrasting protagonist Jongsu (Yoo Ah-in) and his aimless, blue collar life and the wealthy Ben (Steven Yeun), whose Gangnam lifestyle is enviable. It is perhaps best exemplified in a concept introduced in the middle of the film: the Little Hunger of the working class, and the Great Hunger of those no longer burdened by basic needs. In that regard, the powerlessness of the lower classes is evident; a scene where Hae-mi (Jeon Jong-seo) performs in front of Ben's wealthy friends becomes more disturbing - like watching a dog perform tricks in front of a curious audience rather than a friendly gathering. Keeping this in mind, the ending may either be cathartic or completely empty and devastating.
The film also uses Murakami's penchant for mystery and turns the central puzzle into its own thing. Lee leaves it to us to figure it out (or not) and the inevitable dissection of whether certain things really happened or not is part of the film's charm. Lee has been known for a certain level of ambiguity in his previous films, and in this sense, Murakami and Lee are kindred spirits. Curiously, there is a speech by Donald Trump during one of the film's scenes, strengthening its statements on class and perhaps tying the film's search for truth to today's post truth world.
The film is both tribute to and deconstruction of Murakami's body of work. There are elements in the story that can be found in some of his other works: there is a person trapped in a well, referencing The Wind Up Bird Chronicle, and an invisible cat figures prominently in the film, as cats are one of Murakami's favorite motifs. The film also takes Murakami's penchant for vivid, male-centric descriptions of the female body and criticizes them, putting them into the context of Korean society, known for plastic surgery and double standards in the way women are perceived.
This is a relatively slow burn, but it smolders with tension, riveting to the last frame. Burning is a masterful piece of work by a director at the top of his game.
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