Hommage

Shin Su-Won’s Hommage, making its North American premiere, is a lovely look at one Korean filmmaker’s exploration of the past and of how much, and how little, society has changed since then. This meta, at times autobiographical film, subtly interweaves various genres, including drama, comedy, and noir, all anchored by Lee Jung-Eun (whom you may recognize as the housekeeper from Parasite), who deftly carries the film. Her filmmaker character toys with the idea of giving up in an industry plagued by sexism, and her journey to the past is both distressing and encouraging.  Korean films have always been masterful in their effortless, nuanced explorations of the human condition, and this export is no exception.

The film opens on Lee’s character, Ji-wan, a filmmaker who’s beginning to feel stymied in her career.  Her latest film is bombing at the box office and she’s debating quitting filmmaking altogether. Her personal life isn’t going so well either; she lives with her ne’er-do-well son, an aspiring poet (Tang Jun-sang, amusing and warm in a small role), who lazes around wearing Baywatch t-shirts and avoiding chores. Even worse is her husband (Kwon Hae-hyo, cranky and effective), who sleeps and drinks all day and complains about how they don’t have enough sex. To worsen matters, their next-door neighbor hasn’t been home in some time, and Ji-wan suspects she may be the dead body that police have discovered in a car in the parking lot, evidently a suicide. Amidst all this, she’s offered an intriguing proposition by a local film museum.  They’ve discovered a print of “A Woman Judge,” an old movie from the 1960s.  What makes this print notable is that it’s one of only 3 films made by Hong Eun-Won, Korea’s second female film director, who was since lost to obscurity.  The print unfortunately is damaged, with much of the sound missing, and Ji-wan is asked to restore the film as best she can (with a paltry budget, of course). The job ultimately sends her down a rabbit hole, shining a light on how much, and how little, has changed for women in her industry.

Despite the thematic material at play here, the film is light on its feet and effortlessly switches between different genres, often in the same scene.  When Ji-wan visits a run-down theater, hoping to find a more complete print of “A Woman Judge,” the theater owner (who now caters to a…less savory clientele) doesn’t recognize the film, asking her if she means instead “A Sexy Judge.” It’s a distressing, sexist dismissal of her quest, but also so ridiculous that one can’t help but laugh. There are countless moments like this in the film, which cannily are able to mine humor from sadness, and vice versa.

The direction, which is minimalist and unfussy, is also key at emphasizing the shifts in tone and genre. In one carefully employed flashback (or perhaps it’s Ji-wan’s imagination, it’s smartly left up to interpretation), overhead shots show Hong walking through a cramped alley at night in a trench coat and wide-brimmed hat, surrounded by billowing cigarette smoke and tendrils of steam from nearby tea cups. Throughout the film, Ji-wan’s quest makes her a detective of sorts, as she interviews people who were involved in the production of “A Woman Judge” and tries to piece together the mystery of what happened to the film, and its director.  And Hommage’ noir-ish tendencies are made apparent in this loving flashback.

Shin also subtly outlines the lead character’s inner state with some clever shots, including one image early in the film of Ji-wan framed by bars in the restaurant foyer—trapped in a prison not entirely of her own making.  There are also more fantastical touches in the film, which are employed with admirable restraint.  In particular, there’s a recurring motif of Ji-wan seeing Hong’s noir-ish silhouette in her own shadow, clearly recognizing the links between herself and the old filmmaker. There are also some stunningly beautiful shots that will catch you by surprise. One recurring image of Ji-wan standing in the derelict theater auditorium, illuminated only by the dust-filled cone of light from the hole in the ceiling, is a remarkable composition.

This is clearly a personal story for Shin, and more than a little autobiographical.  The film is based on her own experiences, as Shin herself was asked in 2011 to direct a TV documentary about women filmmakers. The process of making that documentary led her down a similar rabbit hole into the state of women in film in the 1950s and 1960s. (Even the physical resemblance is uncanny, as Ji-wan sports similar oversized eyeglasses and a bob haircut.)

Lee is more than up to the task of carrying the film, as she’s in almost every shot and has more runtime than all the other characters combined.  Her posture seems tense and rigid as if she carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. Lee communicates largely through microexpressions, with a twitch, a glance betraying her inner thoughts; when she hears a voiceover actor complaining about having to dub her film, she quickly raises her eyebrows, registering shock and displeasure. But as she goes further into this journey and discovers more about herself, she becomes a bit more relaxed and allows herself to enjoy small pleasures, laughing with glee as she helps an elderly film editor (Lee Joo-sil, delightful) fold a blanket.

Despite the discouraging similarities between Ji-wan and the director of “A Woman Judge,” this is ultimately a hopeful, not cynical film.  Ji-wan, throughout the film, worries that all her efforts will be for naught and that she’ll be relegated to the dustbin of history, and at first, her investigation only reinforces her despair.  At the same time, however, she begins to recognize the debt that she owes to the past, and is able to appreciate the unique position that she’s in. Some things have indeed improved—Korean film is no longer censored for such trivial issues as depicting a woman smoking, one of the issues that plagued “A Woman Judge.” And in being aware of her own place in history, Ji-wan ultimately finds the strength to continue, to not give up.  This is crystallized in a touching moment with the elderly film editor, who takes her hand and pleads with her to continue her work, to survive.  Above all else, Ji-wan must not be forgotten like the others.

In the end, this is a richly rewarding, subtly heart-tugging examination of gender politics in Korea, particularly in the film industry. In some aspects, distressingly little has changed, but the film is ultimately optimistic as both Shin and the lead character look to the future, determined to break the cycle.  The ending itself is perhaps a tad too neat, but it’s satisfying and cleverly returns the film to its detective story roots.  Also pay attention to the recurring motifs and subplots in the film—particularly Ji-wan’s shadow and the crime scene tape-wrapped car in the parking lot. There are no loose ends here, and all the narrative threads are wrapped up in support of Ji-wan’s journey.  It’ll come as no surprise that she perseveres and decides to complete the film.  As the aging editor tells her, Ji-wan isn’t just doing this for herself, but rather, for all those who have come before her.