Liminal visibility: exploring ambiguities of time and space in transnational Korean hallyu cinema

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Content LIMINAL VISIBILITY: EXPLORING AMBIGUITIES OF TIME AND SPACE IN TRANSNATIONAL KOREAN HALLYU CINEMA By Wooseok Kang A Dissertation Presented to the FACULTY OF THE USC GRADUATE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY (East Asian Languages and Cultures) December 2019 Copyright 2019 Wooseok Kang ii Acknowledgements I would like to express my deepest appreciation to my committee chair Professor Youngmin Choe, for patient guidance and advice. I have been lucky to have a supervisor who has continually pushed me to finish my dissertation. She has led my work to the right direction and made numerous suggestions that were crucial to organizing different chapters into a larger discourse. Without her guidance and persistent help, the dissertation would not have been possible. I would also like to thank all the committee members of my dissertation. I would like to thank Prof. Sunyoung Park, who has believed in me and continually encouraged me to finish writing. She has been a great source of inspiration that I got a number of main ideas from thought-provoking conversations with her. I would like to thank Prof. Akira Lippit, who has helped me broaden my understanding of national and transnational cinemas. With his help and guidance, I have learned to comprehend Korean cinema in its context of East Asian, regional, and transnational cinema. I would also like to thank the committee members of the Ph. D. qualifying exam. A thank you to Prof. Kyung Moon Hwang, who introduced me to Korean history. I thank Prof. Brian Bernards, who has taught me the diverse notions of transnationalism. I must express my gratitude to Christine Shaw and Brianna Correa for guiding me through the administrative ins and outs of a doctorate. They have constantly reminded me of important deadlines and also found numerous opportunities for me. I would also like to thank all my colleagues who have listened to me and shared many ideas with me: Young Sun Park, Yunji Park, Yunwen Gao, Jesse Drian, Amanda Kennell, Melissa Chan, Chad Walker, Kathryn Page- Lippsmeyer, Li-Ping Chen, Haiwei Liu, Rio Katayama, and Lindsay Jolivette. iii My deepest thanks go out to Narae Son, my wife, for her continued support and encouragement. Completing this work would have been all the more difficult were it not for her patient love. A thank you to Sarang, my baby girl, who has been the light of my life. Above all, I would like to dedicate this work to my Lord Jesus Christ. All praise, honour and glory to Him for His grace and mercy for the accomplishment of this thesis. Thank you Jesus. iv Table of Contents Introduction 1 Chapter 1: The Korean Imagination of Manchuria in Korean Cinema: Transnational Space and Its Discontents 35 Chapter 2: The Aesthetics of the Cool: The Unexpected Emergence of Zainichi Cinema through Hallyu 65 Chapter 3: Coping with the Double Consciousness of Korean Transnational Cinema: Imagining North Korea through Diverse Notions of Masculinity 102 Chapter 4: An Anarchic Gaze in the Battle of Visibility: The Chronotope of the Train and Zombie-Time in Snowpiercer 137 Bibliography 166 1 Introduction Anna has to return to prison after three days’ parole to visit her family and she gets on a bus. The camera shows the bus leaving Seattle in a long shot, giving the viewer an impression that the film is about to end and that she will arrive at the prison on time. In the following scene, the bus she gets on suddenly makes an unscheduled stop. The bus driver makes an announcement saying that the bus will camp out until the fog clears. All of the sudden, Anna finds herself in an unidentified space for an unknown period of time. Kim Tae-yong’s Late Autumn (2010) follows Anna’s journey to Seattle and back to prison. In the film, Anna is arrested for killing her husband. Seven years later, Anna is granted a three-day furlough to attend her mother’s funeral. On her way to Seattle, Anna meets a sweet- talking man, Hoon. He is a Korean immigrant who works as a gigolo. He is on the run from a client’s husband and hops on the bus to Seattle. These two figures chased by their past become traveling companions. Throughout the film, the two figures playfully act as if they are someone else. Sailing under false colors, they also hide feelings for each other. Fig. 1-1 Fig. 1-2 Ironically, Anna and Hoon were able to reveal their emotions when they are located in the ambiguous space of the fog. It is in this in-between space—neither departure nor arrival— that Anna undergoes a transformation. The fog isolates her from the rest of the world. The 2 spectator does not see other people on screen for a while and also loses the sense of time in the midst of the fog. The unstable shot composition of fig. 1-1, which positions Anna on the right side of the screen and leaves no room in the direction of Anna’s gaze, adds an uncanny feeling to an already mysterious scene. Obscured and hidden by the fog, the film highlights the limited visibility and the ambiguity of space and time. The foggy rest area brings the viewer’s attention to the fact that the narrative structure of the film follows that of travel. Travel is a frequently used theme that often shows the development of a character. Traveling is essentially about the experience of crossing boundaries between the familiar (home) and the unfamiliar (destination). In doing so, one abandons the familiar and embarks on a journey of transformation, which involves the displacement of the self. It is only after the displacement that the process of re-integration occurs as a person returns to the structured, everyday existence of home society. 1,2 With regard to displacement, Adele Nel notes, The routines of travel contain, by implication, a ritualistic element. Between leave-taking and home-coming the traveler finds him/herself in the airport terminal as (liminal) space of departure, then in the aeroplane as vehicle between origin and destination, and finally in the foreign environment as a space of exploration. In this process a number of thresholds or boundaries are traversed in a ritual of transformation as the result of a process of (temporary) displacement. 3 In Late Autumn, Anna’s transformation in the foggy rest area epitomizes Nel’s discussion of “a ritual of transformation as the result of a process of (temporary) displacement.” While being away from her everyday life, she encounters a hitherto hidden self who is more honest about her 1 Richard Sharpley and Priya Sundaram, "Tourism: A Sacred Journey? The Case of Ashram Tourism, India," International journal of tourism research 7, no. 3 (2005)., 163. 2 Sharpely and Sundaram also remark, “for those having experienced some form of transitional ritual, this reintegration is frequently at a changed or higher status.” This remark shows the shared characteristic of tourism and liminality. 3 Adéle Nel, "The Poet in Transit. Travel Poems and Liminality in Lykdigte (Elegies) and Ruggesprak (Consultation) by Joan Hambidge," H. Viljoen & CN van der Merwe. Beyond the threshold. Explorations of liminality in literature (2007)., 226-7. 3 feelings. Similar to the airport terminal and the aeroplane, the film captures the protagonists in liminal spaces like the foggy rest area, the ghost town, and the closed amusement park, where Kim disrupts the temporal and spatial continuity. According to Nel, the ritual of transformation—encountering the hidden self—takes place when “a number of thresholds or boundaries are traversed.” Kim’s manipulation of time and space makes the process of transformation easier by blurring the boundary of the space-in-between. To put it differently, the viewer easily empathizes with Anna’s transformation as the viewer is exposed to a similar condition of liminality where the temporal and spatial boundaries are blurred and questioned. Late Autumn maximizes profit by appealing to a larger market and making certain changes to accommodate regional or global needs. Co-financed by American company “North by Northwest Entertainment,” Kim’s Late Autumn (2010), a remake of Late Autumn (Lee Man- hui, 1966), takes the story from Korea to Seattle, casts a Chinese actress, Wei Tang, and uses English dialogue throughout the film. These adjustments show that the production and consumption of Korean cinema has shifted from domestic to global and filmmakers are aware of the fact that their films will sell regionally, if not globally. The space-in-between, however, is not one of the adjustments that was made for a guiding purpose of marketing. As this dissertation will show, it is not just Last Autumn, but other Korean films in the last two decades that have constructed a liminal space with an ambiguous sense of time and space. The foggy rest area, for instance, is not a tourist site and by no means offers a scenic view that enriches the viewing experience of the viewer. The spatial and temporal ambiguity does not help the film to be recognized regionally or globally. 4 Kim could have 4 Recent films reveal their awareness of the transnational/global market, which heavily relies on commercialism and cultural hybridity, by adopting the conventions of genre and other film styles. 4 purposefully chosen other well-known places that would become tourist attractions, but he selected places—the rest area, the ghost town, and the closed amusement park—that have no significance other than the fact that these places are far from the living spaces of everyday life. Unlike other marketing decisions made in the film, the purpose of creating the space-in-between is not transparent. 5 The film clearly highlights the foggy area as the meaningful location of displacement and transformation, which raises a number of questions to be asked: what motivates the construction of such space and what functions does the space have? Perhaps the construction of the space-in-between is one of newly emerging phenomena that encapsulates the transformation of Korean cinema in the 21 st century. I contend that the ambiguous nature of the newly constructed space and time is one of the indicatives of newly emerging transnational identity that Korean cinema neglected in the 1990s. At the center of the transformation in the 21st century is hallyu, also called the Korean Wave, which I regard as the epistemological foundation of the space-in-between in the transnational conditions that Korean cinema has encountered. The regional success of Korean culture in the late 1990s and thereafter has changed the way in which Korean culture is produced, distributed, and consumed. The market-driven and export-centric perspective of hallyu has focused on the questions like “why do Asians consume Korean cultural products?” and “how should Korea effectively capitalize on it?” Sangjoon Lee states, “hallyu has transformed Korea’s perspectives on the world…Korea turned its attention to the Asian marketplace during the late However, the construction of the temporally and spatially ambiguous space is not considered a common practice of global cinema. 5 The space-in-between is also not part of the director Kim’s auteur style, inasmuch as he does not put an emphasis on the same theme in his earlier films. 5 1990s.” 6 Youna Kim also remarks that hallyu brought “an increased level of recognition that the export of media cultural products not only boosts the economy but also strengthens nation’s image and ‘soft power.’” 7 By adopting the “Globalization” slogan and establishing the Korea Foundation for International Cultural Exchange (KOFICE), the Korean government aided the proliferation of hallyu and endeavored to transform the nation’s image. 8 From fans and scholars to entrepreneurs and the government, everyone was excited and proud of hallyu for its regional dominance of Korean cultural products. The problem with the market-driven perspective is that it limits our understanding of hallyu to the outflow of Korean cultural products, and fails to encompass the multi-directional and collaborative nature of the transnational and inter-Asian cultural flow. In other words, the export-centric perspective regards the transnational and regional space of Asia as simply a venue for showing the excellency of Korean culture and carrying on with the linear progression of nationalistic narrative. Although the state had a clear vision of equating hallyu with the predominance of Korean culture, the discourse of hallyu goes far beyond fulfilling the national desire of being the regional hub of Asia. Along with its phenomenal success, hallyu has brought an awareness of transnationality to the construction of national identity. Just as Korean culture has an impact on the cultural landscape of Asia as a local cultural agent, the construction of Korean national identity is likewise influenced by the transnational form of Asian culture. Keehyeung Lee situates hallyu “in the larger context of transnational cultural formations,” which requires “inter- 6 Sangjoon Lee and Markus Nornes, Hallyu 2.0 : The Korean Wave in the Age of Social Media, Perspectives on Contemporary Korea (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2015)., 8. 7 Youna Kim, The Korean Wave : Korean Media Go Global, Internationalizing Media Studies (London ; New York: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group, 2013)., 4-5. 8 Lee and Nornes, Hallyu 2.0 : The Korean Wave in the Age of Social Media., 8-9. 6 regional cultural understanding and dialogues.” 9 Scholars have studied and analyzed Korea’s new location of culture in the context of globalization, commercialism, hybridity, adaptation, postmodernism, cultural imperialism, and cultural regionalization. 10 In short, scholars comprehend Korean culture in its transnational context. The paradigm shift from the 1990s national context to the hallyu’s transnational context is also evident in the history of Korean cinema. Since the mid-1990s, Korean films have departed from the Korean New Wave, which emphasized critical attitudes toward realism, auteurism, and social consciousness. In his discussion of post Korean New Wave films, Jae-cheol Moon states, “films now at the center of attention do not distance themselves from conventions of genre film, but rather put those conventions to use. Current films effectively mix the popular with the artistic. Though they rely on commercialism, by adopting new and non-mainstream elements they differentiate themselves from other commercial, popular films.” 11 The postmodern nature of hallyu and transnational cinema blurs the boundary between art and commercialism, recalibrating the stylistic and political approaches to Korean films. Moreover, Korean films also 9 Keehyeung Lee, "Assessing and Situating ‘the Korean Wave’(Hallyu) through a Cultural Studies Lens," Asian Communication Research 2, no. 2 (2005)., 6. 10 Ibid.; Christina Klein, "Why American Studies Needs to Think About Korean Cinema, or, Transnational Genres in the Films of Bong Joon-Ho," American Quarterly 60, no. 4 (2008).; Woongjae Ryoo, "Globalization, or the Logic of Cultural Hybridization: The Case of the Korean Wave," Asian Journal of Communication 19, no. 2 (2009).; Doobo Shim, "Hybridity and the Rise of Korean Popular Culture in Asia," Media, culture & society 28, no. 1 (2006).; Jeeyoung Shin, "Negotiating Local, Regional, and Global: Nationalism, Hybridity, and Transnationalism in New Korean Cinema" (Indiana University, 2008).; Rob Wilson, "Korean Cinema on the Road to Globalization: Tracking Global/Local Dynamics, or Why Im Kwon-Taek Is Not Ang Lee," Inter- Asia Cultural Studies 2, no. 2 (2001).; Dal Yong Jin, "Critical Interpretation of Hybridisation in Korean Cinema: Does the Local Film Industry Create “the Third Space”?," Javnost-The Public 17, no. 1 (2010). 11 Jae-cheol Moon, "The Meaning of Newness in Korean Cinema: Korean New Wave and After," Korea Journal 46, no. 1 (2006)., 47. 7 turn away from the nostalgic sentiment of the historical traumas of the past and employ the logic of global capitalism and the ahistorical sensibility of the postmodern. With these paradigm shifts in mind, I pay closer attention to the self-reflexive perspective of hallyu, which is predicated on the transnational consciousness of Korean cinema. By “transnational consciousness,” I refer to the awareness of one’s location in the ambivalent space and the “ironic imagination” of Korean cinema in its transnational context. 12 According to John Caughie, irony is an attitude of expressing the opposite of the original meaning of a word or phrase and is often characterized by the ambiguity of meaning that the expression creates. 13 The export-centric perspective of the state-sponsored industry has attempted to capitalize on the serendipitous success of hallyu and reconfigure the nation’s image along the line of the linear progression of nationalist narrative. But Korean cinema’s entrance into the transnational realm of the ahistorical postmodern practices has ironically disclosed the multiple trajectories of the narratives and the multiplicity of reality. Jae-cheol Moon regards irony as one of the newness of Korean cinema and he states, “Irony does not directly draw out meaning, but in opening possibilities of meaning through gaps effectively captures the ambiguity and multiplicity of reality…In today’s Korean film industry…irony is not being used for political effect, but for creating a new personal style.” 14 Kyu Hyun Kim goes so far as to say that “in the context of hallyu, the key cinematic mode of expression has shifted from political allegory and affect to self-reflective irony.” 15 Kyung Hyun Kim in Virtual Hallyu employs Gilles Deleuze’s theories 12 John Caughie, "Becoming European Art Cinema, Irony and Identity," Screening Europe Image and Identity in Contemporary European Cinema. Bfi (1992)., 38. 13 Ibid. 14 Moon, "The Meaning of Newness in Korean Cinema: Korean New Wave and After.", 49. 15 Kyu Hyun Kim, "Virtually Alive or Questionably Dead?: The Ambivalence of Modern Korean Identity in Literature and Cinema," Cross-Currents: East Asian History and Culture Review 1, no. 2 (2012)., 420. 8 about “virtual” and “actual” and unveils the irony of the virtual being more real than reality. Instead of the classic ontological relationship that persistently distinguishes the difference between true and false, Kim questions the stability of “fixed truth” by means of analyzing the virtual qualities of Korean cinema and demonstrating the simultaneous coexistence of the past/fantastic and the present/real. Korean cinema is a virtual site, that is, “an ironical screen where history and its social referents can return only in forms that are both truthful and fantastic.” 16 The ironic imagination that rejects the reduction of images to simple representation of reality is what distinguishes hallyu-driven Korean transnational cinema from the 90s Korean national cinema. As a new cinematic mode of expression, irony offers an opportunity to comprehend Korean cinema with the self-reflexive perspective of the transnational consciousness, which recognizes the blurred boundaries of cultural imagination, not the market-driven space of commercialism. Blurring the boundary is, in fact, one of the characteristics of transnational. Although the definition of the word ‘transnational’ remains abstract as scholars use the term in numerous ways, the general consensus is that transnationality connotes “the erosion of the nation-state, a ‘borderless world’, de-territorialisation…” 17 Embracing the ambiguous nature of transnational and its way of changing the nature of something, Hyun Joo Yoo states, “Korean cinema walks in the interstitial space between the imperatives of transnational capitalism and national cinema. In this liminal space, Korean cinema engages in a particular aesthetic and 16 Kyung Hyun Kim, Virtual Hallyu : Korean Cinema of the Global Era (Durham: Duke University Press, 2011)., 21. 17 Leon Hunt and Wing-Fai Leung, East Asian Cinemas : Exploring Transnational Connections on Film, Tauris World Cinema Series (London: New York : I.B. Tauris, 2008)., 3. 9 political practice…” 18 That is to say, the foundation of new aesthetic practices is the opaque nature of the transnational. If the aesthetic principles of realism and social criticism led the the 1990s, the notion of ambiguity within the structure of irony is a new aesthetic principle that guides the recalibration of Korean cinema. Returning to the earlier discussion of Late Autumn, I contend that the temporal and spatial manipulation of the space-in-between is one of the new aesthetics. The bus makes an unscheduled stop in the rest area—literally the space in between two cities—and stays in a fog that limits Anna’s visibility and brings the viewer to a state of confusion and uncertainty. The irony is that Anna confronts her reality and reveals her feelings toward Hoon for the first time in the liminal space of the rest area. Once she enters the rest area, Anna frees herself from the traumatized past and pursues a new relationship in the present. In other words, the transformation of Anna is predicated on the ironic imagination that the ambiguous nature of the space-in- between offers. The same goes for the transformation of Korean cinema in its transnational context. Insofar as the transnational blurs the cultural boundary of Korean national cinema and interrupts its progressive narrative, the realm of the transnational is an opportunity to excavate the multiplicity of reality for Korean cinema. According to Youngmin Choe, hallyu disturbs a progressive narrative of the nationalist and offers “a moment of distraction that interrupts the story of development.” 19 In her book, Tourist Distractions, the moment of distraction in the trope of travel challenges the trajectory of Korean cinema “as the frame shifts from national to 18 Hyon Joo Yoo, Cinema at the Crossroads : Nation and the Subject in East Asian Cinema (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2012)., 97. 19 Youngmin Choe, Tourist Distractions : Traveling and Feeling in Transnational Hallyu Cinema (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2016)., 18. 10 transnational and the concerns from the historical traumas of the past toward the new economies of the future.” 20 In a similar way, I regard the new emergence of the aesthetic practices, which relies on the ironic and equivocal nature of the transnational, as another layer of distraction within the discourse of hallyu and Korean transnational cinema. The temporal and spatial manipulations in Late Autumn are just one aspect of multifaceted characteristics of the new era. I trace the narrative, stylistic, thematic, and metaphorical approaches, which utilize the ambiguous play of images and forms. These approaches help the viewer to question the notion of visibility. Instead of accepting what they see as the representation of reality, the viewer actively participates in construing the meaning of ambiguous images and valorizing subjects and ideologies emerging within the space of ambiguity. I call this layer of distraction “liminal visibility,” through which national cinema recognizes the previously marginalized and systematically neglected subjects and spaces as part of Korean cinema: namely, the Koreans in Manchuria (chapter 1), in Japan (chapter 2), and in North Korea (chapter 3). My aim in exploring the notion of liminal visibility is to show how the new approach reveals these previously unseen subjects and spaces and how the subjects reconfigure the boundary of national cinema. Liminal visibility does not “create” a new subject with transnational identity, but casts light on the previously hidden subject or space that was not part of the traditional imagination of Korean national cinema before the transnational consciousness. Liminal visibility fully embraces the ironic imagination as the new cinematic mode of expression in the sense that liminal visibility creates a venue for the continuation of the modernist theme of ambiguity in Korean cinema as well as the moment of distraction. David 20 Ibid., 18. 11 Bordwell discusses art cinema as a modern mode of film practice and identifies “realism, authorial expressivity and ambiguity” as the three characteristic features, which are also relevant to the ways in which Korean cinema transitions into the transnational sphere. The interest in realism significantly waned after hallyu. The presence of authorial expressivity is not as conspicuous as it was in the 1990s. Kyung Hyun Kim recognizes the existence of “the conflicting interests of the modernist affection for the sublime induced by the auteur cinema and its postmodern invalidation necessitated by chaebol-driven multiplex market forces.” 21 Ambiguity as a modernist aesthetic continues Korean cinema’s interest in the theme of modernity. 22 Unlike authorial expressivity, the modern practice of ambiguity is further validated by the postmodern space of hallyu. In the context of liminal visibility, the ambiguous language of cinema becomes a new cinematic mode of expression inasmuch as films with the transnational consciousness employ a diverse array of ambiguities to elucidate the opaque nature of the space- in-between and recognize the legitimacy of the lives in-between. Liminality and Self-Conscious Subjects The concept of liminality—from Latin word limen, meaning threshold—first appeared in French ethnographer Arnold van Gennep’s work, The Rites of Passage. 23 He identifies the diverse categories of rites and the inevitable stages of transitions in a man’s life. According to Gennep, while we encounter ceremonies of birth, childhood, social puberty, betrothal, marriage, pregnancy, fatherhood, initiation into religious societies, and funerals, we undergo a three-fold sequential structure of change: preliminal rites (rites of separation), liminal rites (rites of 21 Kim, Virtual Hallyu : Korean Cinema of the Global Era., 5. 22 Brian Yecies and Aegyung Shim, The Changing Face of Korean Cinema: 1960 to 2015 (Routledge, 2015). 23 Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960); ibid. 12 transition), and postliminal rites (rites of incorporation). The first phase, preliminal rites, marks the end of the old state of things. By means of breaking previous norms and routines, the initiand abandons one’s current identity and experiences a metaphorical death. In the second phase, the initiand enters an area of ambiguity. Liminal rites enable “the creation of a tabula rasa, through the removal of previously taken-for-granted forms and limits.” 24 In other words, few or none of the attributes of his past or coming state enters the liminal stage, situating the initiand or the ritual subject neither here nor there, betwixt and between all categorization and classification. 25 The last phase is wherein the initiand obtains a new identity after the ceremonies of incorporation into the new world. The initiation of youngsters into adulthood seamlessly explicates the process of the tripartite structure. In the preliminal, a child departs from their family, experiencing an absolute separation (a metaphorical death). As Szakolczai notes, childhood is left behind as the initiand enters the liminal stage. In the second phase, the initiand is put to the test of proving his readiness for adulthood. After the ceremony, he undergoes a celebration of his new birth as an adult during the postliminal. Building on Gennep’s theory of rites of passage, Victor Turner extends its meaning to other areas of social structure. According to Turner, ritual is a primary means of social change and is a process with different stages:1) separation from everyday activities, relationships, and environment; 2)liminality; and 3)reintegration. Turner remarks that the fundamental motivation behind ritual is a desire to break free from social structure. 26 As Bobby C. Alexander notes, “Turner recognizes ritual’s capacity to suspend social norms, criticize social structure for its 24 Árpád Szakolczai, Permanent Liminality and Modernity : Analysing the Sacrificial Carnival through Novels, Contemporary Liminality (London ; New York: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group, 2017). 25 Victor W. Turner, Dramas, Fields, and Metaphors; Symbolic Action in Human Society, Symbol, Myth, and Ritual (Ithaca N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1974)., 231. 26 Ibid., 260. 13 inability to meet the need for direct and egalitarian relationships, present alternatives, and to transform the existing social structure.” 27 To put it differently, Turner points out that the liminal is fundamentally antistructure insofar as it liberates the initiand from obligation to structural categories. The virtue of the antistructure is that the initiand is conscious of the fact that the initiand can bring changes to social structure. The liminal allows the conscious differentiation of self and other, making the conscious resistance against the grain possible. I emphasize the self-conscious aspect of liminality in order to differentiate liminality from marginality. Marginality is an involuntary position of an individual or group at the margins of society, experiencing certain restraints of socio-political, economic, and cultural freedom. The marginalized is either unaware of one’s situation or doesn’t have the means to overcome one’s environment. The term ‘subaltern’ is similar to the marginalized in the sense that subaltern specifically denotes the oppressed at the margins of a society who are struggling against hegemonic globalization. According to Spivak, the real issue of the subaltern is not that the subaltern cannot speak, but that the subaltern is never heard. 28 Judith Butler declares these subjects ‘ungrievable.’ 29 Liminality is the vocal outlet for the subaltern and the marginalized and makes grieving possible. According to Kelly Jeong, the concept of liminality refers to “a state of being in which the subjects are acutely aware of being caught between two worlds, whether literal or metaphorical. The subjects are tormented not only by their dilemma of living in two worlds, but 27 Bobby Chris Alexander, Victor Turner Revisited : Ritual as Social Change, American Academy of Religion Academy Series (Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1991)., 29. 28 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, "Can the Subaltern Speak?," in Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, ed. Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988). 29 Judith Butler, Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence (verso, 2006). 14 also by their consciousness of it.” 30 In her analysis of The Stray Bullet (Yu Hyun-mok, 1961), Jeong argues that male figures are liminalized and female figures are marginalized in the context of the rebuilding nation of postwar South Korea. The film emblematizes the nation’s encounter with modernity by sympathizing with men who are suffering and the symptoms they experience. For example, the toothache of the male protagonist continues until the end of the films, constantly drawing the viewer’s attention to the protagonist’s consciousness of suffering. On the other hand, the camera does not capture the images of women suffering at all. While Jeong uses the concept of liminality to criticize the male-centered perspective towards modernity, I use the term to distinguish the self-reflexive perspective of hallyu from the market-driven perspective and show how the transnational consciousness valorizes the subjectivity of the marginalized. The liminal subjectivity reveals the anxiety and frustration of being on the margin and remaining invisible. Films with the transnational consciousness validate liminal subjectivity by questioning the spatial (betwixt and between) and temporal (temporary) characteristics of the liminal. The use of one extreme long take in the ending in Late Autumn, Bandhobi (Dong-il Shin, 2009), and Dooman River (Lu Zhang, 2010) is a good example. When certain male figures in the 1980s and 1990s Korean cinema—Chilsu and Mansu (Park Kwang-su, 1988)—endeavor to reconstitute their masculinity, they are often found stuck in a freeze frame, emblematically foregrounding frustration that Korean cinema experiences. 31 In the 2000s, the extreme long shot of the ending often verbalizes the frustration of the liminalized. In Dooman River, Zhang shows an old lady crossing a bridge over the river that connects Korea and Manchuria. It takes an excruciatingly long amount of time for the old lady to cross the bridge. In the ending sequence of 30 Kelly Y. Jeong, Crisis of Gender and the Nation in Korean Literature and Cinema : Modernity Arrives Again (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2011); ibid., 92. 31 Kyung Hyun Kim, The Remasculinization of Korean Cinema, Asia-Pacific (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004)., 151. 15 Late Autumn, Anna awaits Hoon in a café. The film ends with showing her waiting for some extended period of time. The camera only shows Anna waiting, but does not provide any clue as to whether Hoon actually shows up or not. Through the ambiguous ending, the spectator participates in Anna’s anxiety and frustration. To put it differently, the viewer sympathizes with the suffering of the liminalized by enduring the extended length of an ending scene, which resists the conventional temporality of reality. In this process, the liminalized becomes visible through the images of the suffering and symptom of the liminalized. Ambiguity through the Transnational Consciousness The liminalization of the marginalized might have occurred in diverse contexts. But the process of the liminalization becomes more conspicuous and prominent in the transnational context of Korean cinema due to the heightened level of border consciousness that the transnational offers. Border-crossing experience and the consciousness of blurred boundary are the raison d’être of transnational cinema. 32 The border is where “multiple determinants of race, class, gender, and membership in divergent, even antagonistic, historical and national identities intersect.” 33 According to Hamid Naficy, border consciousness is “for a third optique, which is multiperspectival and tolerant of ambiguity, ambivalence and chaos.” 34 The betwixt and between nature of Korean transnational cinema is often displayed and manifested in a vast array of ambiguities. 32 Will Higbee and Song Hwee Lim, "Concepts of Transnational Cinema: Towards a Critical Transnationalism in Film Studies," Transnational Cinemas 1, no. 1 (2010). 33 Hamid Naficy, "Situating Accented Cinema," in Transnational Cinema: The Film Reader, ed. Elizabeth Ezra and Terry Rowden (London ; New York: Routledge, 2006). 34 Ibid. 16 Linguistically speaking, an expression is ambiguous if it has more than two distinct denotations. In fact, the concept of ambiguity owes a lot to linguistic studies inasmuch as the concept is systematically categorized and analyzed. Generally, ambiguity is interpreted in three ways: lexical, syntactic, and semantic. William Empson develops seven types of ambiguity as a work of literary criticism. While these categorizations help us to understand the uncertainty of ambiguity, the categorization that is more pertinent to my dissertation is the distinction between ambiguity and vagueness that linguistic studies offer. Whereas the concept of ambiguity allows specific interpretations, the notion of vagueness doesn’t offer any interpretation. For example, bank has two meanings that have no intuitive connection, but an expression like tiny, which always means very small, is vague in the sense that it is never precisely defined what counts as tiny. 35 Bank could mean “financial institution” and “edge of a river.” The intended meaning of the word bank is often revealed by situating the word in its context. That means the meaning of an ambiguous word is only finalized as the recipient interprets the word in its context. In light of cinema, ambiguity requires the active participation of the spectator who would finalize the meaning of ambiguity. The active participation drastically alters the relationship between cinema and spectator and “establishes through its ambiguous play of signification a more complex relationship between author, text, viewer, and realism than the classical cinema.” 36 The ambiguous play is a way of empowering both spectator and filmmaker. The spectator has the power of interpretation and filmmakers have a space of authorial expressivity. The new relationship between spectator and cinema offers a new lens through which we understand Korean transnational cinema. The ambiguous play of Korean transnational cinema ascribes new 35 Thomas Wasow, Amy Perfors, and David Beaver, "The Puzzle of Ambiguity," Morphology and the web of grammar: Essays in memory of Steven G. Lapointe (2005). 36 Robert Self, "Systems of Ambiguity in the Art Cinema," Film Criticism 4, no. 1 (1979). 17 meanings to existing cinematic language as Korean cinema shifts its context from national to transnational. Bank in the new context may no longer mean “financial institution” and “edge of a river” but “apothecary.” Through ambiguity in a disparate context, we are able to see a new meaning of the word, albeit one of many already existing meanings of such word. Likewise, the diverse subjects of Korean cinema in a new context reveal themselves through the signs of ambiguity in cinema. The ambiguous play of Korean transnational cinema is one of the modernist aesthetics. Diverging from the mainstream Hollywood-style of filmmaking, Bordwell states that ambiguity is an aesthetic strategy of art cinema and the legacy of the modernist. 37 While the classical narrative cinema strives to maintain the spatial and temporal order of narrative world by removing an unstable reality, the art cinema attempts to “liberate spatial and temporal, graphic and rhythmic dimensions from narrative.” 38 The liberated ambiguity is then interpreted as part of realism or authorial expressivity. When confronted by the temporal and spatial ambiguities, Bordwell suggests that we first seek realistic motivation (“Is a character’s mental state causing the uncertainty?”), then we seek authorial motivation (“What significance justifies the violation of the norm?”). Through these procedures of questioning, the film invites the spectator to be liberated and be a self-conscious subject. In so doing, ambiguity becomes “the dominant principle of intelligibility, that we are to watch less for the tale than the telling.” 39 The renowned film critic, Andre Bazin also supports the language of ambiguity. If Bordwell was more concerned about ambiguity in narrative structure, Bazin focuses on stylistic devices—deep-focus, deep space, the moving camera, and the long take—for constructing spatial 37 David Bordwell, "The Art Cinema as a Mode of Film Practice," in Poetics of Cinema (Routledge, 2012). 38 Self, "Systems of Ambiguity in the Art Cinema." 39 Bordwell, "The Art Cinema as a Mode of Film Practice." 18 and temporal reality. Bazin’s obsession with objective reality is closely related to his belief that the interpretation of a film is the spectator’s job. In the epoch-making example of Citizen Kane (Orson Welles, 1941), Bazin advocates the depth of focus and deep space. He remarks, “the importance of depth of focus and the fixed camera…springs from a reluctance to fragment things arbitrarily and a desire instead to show an image that is uniformly understandable and that compels the spectator to make his or her own choice.” 40 Unlike montage, the depth of focus and deep space in Citizen Kane allow the spectator to browse through the frame. One can pay attention to the conversation between two characters in the foreground or choose to see a child playing in the background. According to Bazin, having been given the options of choosing what to see within the frame, the spectator has the responsibility of finding or constructing the reality of the film. In the sense that both Bordwell and Bazin use ambiguity to encourage the spectator’s participation in constructing reality, their principle of ambiguity is similar to that of liminal visibility. Just as art cinema opposes the classical Hollywood-style filmmaking and as Bazin’s call for objective reality opposes the conventional film theory of the 1920s and 1930s, liminal visibility attempts to find alternative film language that departs from the cinematic principle of Korea’s globalizing cinema. Liminal visibility by and large categorizes a vast array of ambiguities into three: narrative ambiguity, stylistic ambiguity, and metaphorical ambiguity. Narrative ambiguity includes spatial and temporal tropes of fog and freeze-time. Stylistic ambiguity refers to aesthetic and formalistic vision of cinematography such as long take and Dutch angle. Metaphorical ambiguity connotes the thematic exploration of blind, mute, death, and twins. 40 André Bazin, "What Is Cinema? Vol. I," Trans. Hugh Gray. Berkeley: U of California P (1967). 19 Liminal Visibility in Invisibility The notion of invisibility is inextricably connected to film scholarship in Korea. Scholars have examined the phenomenon of the invisible archive and the aesthetics of the invisible with diverse perspectives such as Soyoung Kim’s phantom canon of a fantasmatic unity, 41 Kelly Jeong’s liminal masculinity, 42 Kyung Hyun Kim’s psychoanalytic and metaphysical notion of the virtual, 43 and Steven Chung’s adoption of Barthes’ notion of stadium and punctum. 44 One approach that is most relevant to my discussion of invisibility is Theodore Hughes’ approach to the invisible inasmuch as Hughes suggests the ironic reading of the invisible as a form of visibility. Following the logic of colonial modernity, Hughes examines “how the proletarian culture movement, nativism, modernism, and mass mobilization set in motion ways of seeing and writing that would inform the later distribution of the visible and invisible that make up the Cold War politics of division on the Korean peninsula.” 45 Although the linear progression of the nationalist narrative in the context of the Cold War politics prohibits the visual representations of subjects and themes—the North and socialist ideology, for example—that do not fit in the state- led cultural imagination, the viewer’s consciousness of the intentional omission of a certain group of subjects or themes in Korean cinema subversively transforms the invisible to the visible. When pro-communist and humanitarian portrayals of the North are prohibited by the state, 41 Soyoung Kim, "Cartography of Catastrophe: Pre-Colonial Surveys, Post-Colonial Vampires, and the Plight of Korean Modernity," The Journal of Korean Studies 16, no. 2 (2011). 42 Jeong, Crisis of Gender and the Nation in Korean Literature and Cinema : Modernity Arrives Again; ibid. 43 Kim, Virtual Hallyu : Korean Cinema of the Global Era. 44 Steven Chung, Split Screen Korea : Shin Sang-Ok and Postwar Cinema (Minneapolis, Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 2014). 45 Theodore H. Hughes, Literature and Film in Cold War South Korea : Freedom's Frontier (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012). 20 Hughes asserts that the viewer/reader becomes more conscious of the presence of the North. In other words, the spectator’s inquiry of the invisible North actually reveals much about the North’s presence. By subversively reading the invisible, scholars have sought alternative ways of comprehending the cultural space of Korean cinema and have brought attention to a diversity of discourses. 46 The notion of invisibility has offered a way of critically engaging with Korean cinema. One notable discourse pertinent to the invisible is the notion of multiple temporalities and histories. 47 It is one thing to discuss the multiple temporalities in the context of the national, taking the multiple temporalities into the transnational, however, complicates the cultural imagination of Korean cinema. Under a postcolonial frame, Hyon Joo Yoo articulates the aesthetics of “the invisible as a counter-hegemonic cinematic practice.” 48 Being aware of the structure and presence of the invisible ultimately paves the way for challenging the hegemonic perspective. Referring to the subjectivity of the invisible, she calls a failed hegemonic subject “moribund masculinity,” which is “a mode of resistance to nationalism, statism, and capitalism.” 49 Yoo’s conception of “the invisible as a counter-hegemonic cinematic practice” is similar to the way in which I regard the invisible as the transnational resistance to the logic of globalization. I observe the anxiety and frustration of the marginalized in the diverse ambiguities of transnational space of the in-between. The anxiety and frustration of the marginalized are resolved when the spectator identifies the invisible as visible and the consciousness of the visible 46 David Scott Diffrient, "Seoul as Cinematic Cityscape: Shiri and the Politico-Aesthetics of Invisibility," Asian Cinema 11, no. 2 (Fall/Winter 2000). 47 Jinsoo An, "Hoesangui dillema" 회상의 딜레마 [Dilemma of Remembrance]. Daejungseosayeongu 대중서사연구 17, no. 2 (2011).; Soyoung Kim, Geundaeseongui Yuryeongdeul [The Phantom of Modernity] (Ssiaseul Ppurineun Saram, 2000). 48 Yoo, Cinema at the Crossroads : Nation and the Subject in East Asian Cinema. 49 Ibid.; ibid. 21 reality aids the transformation of the marginalized into the liminalized. The export-centric perspective of hallyu has focused on the representation of subjects and themes that are in tandem with state-led capitalism and has left other subjects in the dark. I analyze films with the self- reflexive perspective, which initiate the visual representation of the marginalized in the dark by making their invisibility conspicuous to the viewer. Dooman River (Lu Zhang, 2010), for example, intentionally stops the viewer from seeing the moments of suffering and frustration that the protagonists experience. The camera turns away when the female protagonist is being raped. When the male protagonist commits suicide, the film does not show the dead body of the boy. Although marginalized subjects come from disparate cultural and regional backgrounds, they share the same experience of frustration from being invisible. It is not a coincidence that the ethnic Korean communities from the Manchurian region and the nation of Japan both speak the same cinematic language of the invisible. The transnational formation of liminal identity is not derived from one’s specific culture or nationality but comes from a shared experience of marginalization within the ambivalent boundary of transnational. Hye Seung Chung in her discussion of director Kim Ki-duk notes that socially marginalized and oppressed subalterns in Kim’s film have one way of communication, that is, “a shared sense of corporeal pain resulting from extreme acts of violence.” 50 The brutality of Kim’s cinema reflects the cruelty of society. Perhaps socially and geopolitically marginalized groups, in the same vein, have a shared sense of pain resulting from being invisible. If the shared sense of pain from the traumatized past occupied the main body of Korean national cinema, the shared sense of pain from being invisible leads the transnational transformation of Korean cinema. 50 Hye Seung Chung, Kim Ki-Duk, Contemporary Film Directors (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2012). 22 Similar to Choe’s concept of “distraction,” the invisible invites the audience to participate in the self-reflexive critique of Korean cinema and constructs a space of negotiation between the linear trajectory of the nationalist narrative and the multiple trajectories of the transnational. 51, 52 Returning to the rape scene in Dooman River, the camera moves in the opposite direction of where the female protagonist is being raped. The camera stops the movement and continually shows an empty space in a static shot, when the body of the female protagonist is completely transferred to offscreen. The intentional movement of the camera makes sure that the viewer is aware of the invisibility. In this moment, the viewer questions why they are not given visibility to the rape scene and what this moment of invisibility connotes in terms of a larger discourse of Korean cinema. In this moment of liminalization, the invisibility problematizes a linear narrative of Korean cinema by asking “whose lives are considered valuable, whose lives are mourned, and whose lives are considered ungrievable.” 53 The viewer experiences liminalization through the aesthetics of the invisible and comprehends the alternative temporality of the liminalized. In so doing, the transnational space functions as a space of negotiation between dominant mode of national imagination (linear progression of nationalistic narrative) and subversive modes of transnational imagination (multiple trajectories of marginalized subjects). The aesthetic of the invisible in national cinema has never constituted a space of negotiation before. Instead the notion of the invisible was used to reinforce the quest of national remasculinization. In Seopyeonje (Im Kwon-taek, 1993), the father of the female protagonist 51 Tourism is a typical example of liminality. Tourism is a secular ritual, replacing the religious experiences and rituals. Travel is the intermediate state of a tripartite classification: the familiar/origin (preliminal), travel (liminal), and the unfamiliar/destination (postliminal). Traveling is essentially about the experience of crossing boundaries between the familiar (home) and the unfamiliar (destination). 52 Nelson HH Graburn, "Secular Ritual: A General Theory of Tourism," Tourists and tourism: A reader (2004); ibid. 53 Butler, Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence. 23 makes his daughter blind, because he believes that by becoming blind, his daughter would experience han—a form of resentment that represents the traumatized past of the nation. Experiencing han is the best way of singing pansori—a Korean national genre of music—better. Invisibility serves the purpose of enhancing nationalistic narrative. The conscious silence in Kim Ki-duk’s films, on the other hand, “reflects the cruelty of a classist society blind or indifferent to the misfortunes of others.” 54 It is Kim’s political statement about the experience of social marginalization. Unlike the invisible in national cinema, the aesthetic of the invisible in Korean transnational cinema discloses those who have socially and geopolitically remained in the dark for the sake of the nation. The cultural representation of the ethnic Korean community in Manchurian region, for example, is not part of the Koreanness that the state wanted to endorse. Transformation: Recognition, Resistance, Negotiation, and Rejection The ambiguity of transnational space frees Korean cinema from its linear progression of nationalist narrative. Moving away from the export-centric perspective of hallyu, I explore the self-reflexive perspective, which considers the awareness of the ambiguous nature of the transnational as an opportunity to investigate and disclose the multiplicity of reality. Four chapters in the dissertation illustrate different ways in which Korean cinema interacts with new subjects and their identities within the blurred boundary of the national and the transnational. Chapter 1 recognizes the departure of Korean cinema from the nationalistic imagination of transnational space and the arrival at the multiple trajectories: the ahistorical sensibility of the postmodern in The Good, the Bad, the Weird, the creation of a new genre based on historical reality of Manchuria in War of the Arrows, and the genuine representation—returning to the real, 54 Chung, Kim Ki-Duk., 7. 24 not the virtual—of the everyday life of the liminal subjects in Dooman River. Chapter 2 explores how the transnational consciousness motivates the marginalized to be liminalized. The Zainichi experience of discrimination and disrecognition in Japan led to the creation of new aesthetic modes of resistance in the 2000s. Zainichi films adopt the ambiguous language of liminal visibility and find distinctive ways of expressing their identities within the blurred boundary between different nations (Japan, South Korea, and North Korea) and generations (the first, second, and third generations of Zainichi). The new mode of resistance is only possible in the multiple trajectories of narrative that transnational space offers. The linear progression of Korea’s nationalist narrative would have no way of representing the complexity of the Zainichi experience. Chapter 3 seeks the possibility of negotiation between the conventional progression of nationalist narrative and the transnational progression of new narratives. By exploring the changing representation of the North in Korean cinema, this chapter contends that Korean national cinema does not overthrow the nationalistic imagination of Korean cinema in the transnational but finds a way of keeping the nationalist narrative while adapting to the new environment. It is not that Korean cinema moves from one stage (traditional imagination of Korean cinema) to another (transnational imagination). The traditional progression of nationalist narrative becomes one of multiple trajectories of the new narrative in the transnational. Chapter 4 articulates the way in which Snowpiercer distinguishes Korean identity from the other subjects of global cinema. Insofar as “Globalization” is what the state wants to achieve through hallyu and Korean transnational cinema, attaining global cultural citizenship is the ultimate goal of the nationalist narrative. Snowpiercer, however, rejects the assimilation of Korean identity into the global condition of interconnectivity. The film rejects any trajectory that is offered by global cinema and conceives an ahistorical postmodern world without any socio-political allegory. The 25 film embarks on its own trajectory of transnational narrative by means of creating its peculiar sense of spatiality and temporality. Chapter 1: Recognition In chapter 1, I examine the ways in which the space of Manchuria is imagined beyond the national narrative of Korean cinema. Manchuria geographically belongs to China, but the cultural territory of Manchuria throughout history goes far beyond a mere land in northern China. Manchuria is a historically and culturally ambivalent space, wherein each nation—China, Japan, Korea, and Russia—adopts one’s national agenda and ideologies. Each nation adopted a number of ideological and geopolitical discourses—imperialism, colonialism, Pan-Asianism, postcolonialism, and globalization—in Manchurian space. As a result, a variety of national and transnational imaginations coexist in the space of Manchuria. The ambivalence, however, was lost in the history of Korean cinema due to the strong presence of nationalism. 55 In the 1960s and the 1970s, for example, Manchurian space signified a lost homeland of nationalist nostalgia. Coming into the 2000s, Korean cinema stops its nationalistic imagination of Manchuria and begins the exploration of ambiguity and diversity in The Good, the Bad, the Weird (Kim Jee- woon, 2008), Dachimawa Lee (Seung-wan Ryu, 2008), War of the Arrows (Kim Han-min, 2011) and Dooman River (Lu Zhang, 2010). People assume that The Good, the Bad, the Weird and Dachimawa Lee carries the legacy of the 60s and 70s Manchurian Western, but the contemporary Manchurian Western is vastly different from the old in the sense that these films are not bounded by a national paradigm. The contemporary Western portrays Manchuria as a multicultural and transnational space of opportunity. Instead of nationalism, the films follow the 55 Korean literature and cinema under Japanese colonization actually reveal more diversity than Korean cinema in the postcolonial era. 26 logic of global capitalism and the ahistorical sensibility of the postmodern in its pursuit of money and pleasure. The hybrid genre of the Manchurian Western exemplifies the advent of Korea’s blockbuster auteurs in the early twenty-first century. The elements of consumption-led capitalism in the contemporary Western indicate a departure from the traditional perspective of the nationalist narrative. Such change is an indicative of a certain level of the transnational consciousness. Dooman River shows another development from the postmodern genre films. The film reveals the geopolitically exilic/diasporic experience of sociopolitical and cultural deterritorialization by means of drawing the viewer’s attention to the ambiguous play of space and time. Ambiguity in Dooman River functions as the lens through which Korean cinema recalibrates its visibility of the marginalized. Dooman River also resists the national imagination of Korean cinema by showing the daily lives of people in Manchuria. Whereas the contemporary genre films construct ahistorical space based on the virtual landscape of a desolate landscape, Dooman River prompts the viewers to return to the real, not the virtual. This chapter shows how recent Korean cinema ‘recognizes’ Manchuria from the lens of the multiple trajectories of transnational narrative. In particular, it is important to note that Dooman River does not create transnational subjects, but casts light on the previously hidden subject whose presence was not important to Korean national cinema before. Liminal visibility as a new mode of expression employs a diverse array of ambiguities to elucidate the opaque nature of space in-between and recognizes the legitimacy of the lives in-between. Chapter 1 shows the changing connotations of the space Manchuria: a lost homeland of nationalist nostalgia in the 60s, the ahistorical sensibility of the postmodern in The Good, the Bad, the Weird, and the modern aesthetic of ambiguity and the question of visibility in Dooman River. It 27 is a process of the recognition of the self (the collapse between national cinema and subjects living on the margin of Manchurian imagination) that has long been veiled under the progressive narrative of the nationalist rather than creation and hybridization of multi-national identity. Liminal visibility as a ritual of transformation and the process of displacement allows us to recognize the new structure of imagination in the twenty-first century. Chapter 2: Resistance In chapter 2, I closely analyze the sudden rise of Zainichi (ethnic Korean residents of Japan) films. Zainichi have been discriminated against in Japan such that many ethnic Koreans in Japan have hidden their ethnic roots to pass as Japanese. After the phenomenal success of Korean TV drama Winter Sonata and Korea and Japan’s cohosting of the FIFA World Cup in 2002, the popularity of hallyu changed the perception of Zainichi in Japan and the “coming out” movement—self-disclosure of national identity and orientation—of Zainichi begun in Japanese cinema. More than ten Zainichi films were made from 2003 to 2007. During this period, South Korean culture became cool, emblematically taking over the coolness from the campaign of “Cool Japan.” The concept of cool has been utilized in many disciplines and one characteristic of the cool that I adopt in my dissertation is the attitude of resistance against the dominant. By calling the attitude of resistance “the aesthetics of the cool,” I examine how Zainichi films adopt the ambiguous language of liminal visibility and find distinctive ways of expressing their identities within the blurred boundary between different nations (Japan, South Korean, and North Korea) and generations (the first, second, and third generations of Zainichi). A number of Zainichi films focus on the Zainichi experience of discrimination and disrecognition in Japan, the main plot of these films revolves around the actual resistance of the 28 protagonist against society. Namely, Go, Pacchigi!, and Pacchigi! Love & Peace show physical defiance against society. Employing generic elements from romantic comedy, yakuza film, action, and musical, these films introduce Zainichi as the new content of commercial films. Other Zainichi films defy their prescribed role in Japanese society by exploring diverse languages of ambiguity that constitute the aesthetics of the cool: narrative, stylistic, and metaphorical ambiguities. Gu Su-yeon’s Worst By Chance (2003) adopts all three types of ambiguities that challenge the conventional norm of the filmic language of Japanese cinema. He does not provide enough information and context about characters and situations (narrative ambiguity), leaving many things to the viewer’s interpretation. By making a dead figure return to life in a number of sequences, the film creates metaphorical ambiguity and ridicules the trope of death, which Japanese cinema often romanticizes. Gu intentionally makes other stylistic choices—playing with the boundary of the screen and Dutch angle—to reflect an avant-garde attitude that has a sharp social/political edge against the grain. Yang Yong-hi’s Our Homeland (2012) and Choi Yang-il’s Blood and Bones (2004) also adopt stylistic and metaphorical ambiguities. The chapter examines three directors—Gu, Yang, and Choi—not just because they employ different types of ambiguities, but also because each director’s resistance is against a different nation or generation: Gu against Japan, Yang against North Korea, and Choi against the older generation of Zainichi. The diversity of resistance shows the complexity of Zainichi identity. Yet, they speak the same language of ambiguity, which valorizes the distinctive culture of Zainichi in the space-in-between, where it is possible to imagine a cultural space without mediation of the center. 29 Chapter 3: Negotiation Chapter 3 follows the changing trajectory of the North representation in South Korean cinema, particularly in the twenty-first century. In the center of all the changes is the fact that the new forms of masculinity help the liminalization of the North. The traditional form of masculinity has been the exclusive property of male figures in Korean national cinema. Diverging from macho men in the process of remasculinization, Korean cinema in the twenty- first century blurs the gender boundary by adding new subject (female) and style (soft masculinity) of masculinity in its depiction of the North. The ambivalent boundary of gender perspective ultimately allows Korean cinema to reconfigure the relationship between the South and the North and construct inter-Korean identity. Insofar as North Korea and South Korea comprise the same ethnic group under different political states, North Korea is special to Korean national cinema. The North is ethnically considered part of I (unified Korea) and is politically an enemy or the Other (South Korea as opposed to North Korea). The conflicting role of the North in its relation to the South is reflected in the diverse ways in which the North is depicted in Korean cinema. Korean cinema expands the scope of masculinity to include the North Korean female as a legitimate subject of masculinity in the 2000s comedy films and encompasses the diverse forms of the North masculinity such as soft masculinity and homosexual sentiment in the 2010s spy films. The North explores its own agency and subjectivity through diverse forms of masculinity, but the North never embodies the traditional role of masculinity (macho men) that the South has invariably identified with. The visibility of the North, which is invoked by South Korea’s transnational consciousness, is limited and prescribed by the South. Locating both freedom and limitation in the image of the North, Korean cinema reveals conflicting attitudes toward the transnational reformulation of Korean 30 identity. On the one hand, by not allowing the traditional macho masculinity in the North, Korean cinema distinguishes the South from the North and continues its linear progression of national narrative. On the other hand, by ascribing new forms of masculinity, Korean cinema embraces the North as the legitimate subject of Korean cinema and the diverse forms of masculinity attest to the existence of the multiple trajectories of narratives away from the national narrative. What I notice here is the coexistence of two contradicting stories of development. Korean national cinema remains as it is while embracing the transnational changes that the new representation of the North brings to the cultural imagination of Korean cinema. Ascribing the North with ambiguous signs of masculinity allows the negotiation between the traditional and transnational visions of Korean cinema. For example, the unconventional color scheme—male in pink and female in blue— in Love of South and North (Jeong Cho-shin, 2003) returns to normal as the South male and the North female become a couple. The purpose of the unconventional color scheme throughout the film is not to subvert or resist the dominant (the South), but to offer a moment of freedom (or distraction) to pursue its own subjectivity. The color scheme, however, has to return to normal in order to challenge the traditional boundary of national cinema. Unlike chapter 2 where the theme of resistance was a fundamental key in understanding ambiguity, chapter 3 offers a subtle way of reconciling the two. The ambiguous signs of masculinity in the image of the North is a non-antagonistic path toward negotiation. Chapter 4: Rejection The last chapter is different from the previous chapters in the sense that this chapter does not explore subjects and spaces between South Korea and neighboring nations. Instead, I 31 position Korean cinema within a larger logic of global market and populist entertainment as I analyze Bong Joon-ho’s Snowpiercer (2013). All four chapters, however, share the same goal of interrupting the linear progression of Korean national cinema. By adopting the “Globalization” slogan, the Korean government has created a clear goal of transforming the nation’s image. But Bong rejects any trajectory of development that is suggested by the logic of globalization and commercialism. Bong embarks on a separate journey of Korean cinema through two Korean characters, Nam and Yona. The film revolves around the revolution of Curtis, a Caucasian protagonist, and exposes the class structure of a train from the tail section to an engine room in the head section of the train. Instead of following the trajectory of global cinema, Nam and Yona, who are the only ones speaking a language other than English in the film, want to open another door to outside and reveal their desire to get off the train. Through these two characters, Bong envisions the space-in-between without beginning and end. In terms of travel, it is like regarding the rest area as its own kind of space without its connection to departure and arrival. Liminal space that is supposed to be a temporary stop before its destination becomes its own destination. By rejecting any trajectory of development and progression, the film conceives an ahistorical postmodern world without any socio-political allegory. Bong achieves the moment of rejection through the modernist approach of creating its own spatiality and temporality. The ambiguous signs of slow motion, for example, offer a chance of questioning the structure of power. The slow motion is used in length and appears without a clear sign. The spectator does not know what to expect and how to react. The spectator does not know how long the slow motion is going to be. The editing choices that the director makes for this specific scene do not enhance the feeling of thrill that the spectator expects to find from a regular battle 32 sequence. On the contrary, the film lessens the energy and intensity of the battle, slowing everything down. The fast action turns into ballet. Instead of anger and rage, Curtis seems to express sorrow and grief. The ambiguous signs of the slow-motion scene change the relationship between the spectator and cinema, between the postmodern and the modern, and between any structure of power with its own trajectory of development and Korean cinema’s own location of culture within the transnational realm of hallyu. Conclusion In order to account for the ways in which Korean cinema has constructed the multiple trajectories of transnational narrative in the last two decades, my work revolves around three key terms: transnationalism, Korean cinema, and hallyu. In the late 1990s, Korean cinema encountered the realm of transnationalism through a peculiar form of a cultural phenomenon called hallyu. Due to the regional success of hallyu, Korean cinema quickly became a site of new attraction, which changed the way in which Korean culture is produced, distributed, and consumed. In particular, the market-driven and export-centric perspective of hallyu has limited our understanding of the transnational realm of hallyu to the outflow of Korean cultural products. Along with the export-centric perspective of hallyu, however, Korean cinema also attained the awareness of the new location of Korean culture in Asia, which I call transnational consciousness. Instead of following the traditional trajectory of national narrative of Korean cinema, transnational consciousness positions the cultural discourse of Korean cinema in its relation to other nation-states or transnational subjects in the blurred boundaries of the national. Through such self-reflexive perspective of hallyu and transnational cinema, I contend that hallyu becomes a site of new distraction to the linear progression of the nationalist narrative. 33 The new distraction takes the form of irony. For example, Im Kwon-taek’s cinematic representation of landscape, which encapsulates the Korean-ness in the sublime and pristine imagery of Korean landscape, ironically turns into Bong Joon-ho’s version of landscape that signifies “nature beyond repair.” 56 The new era of the transnational ascribes new and subversive meanings to the same imagery. Just as Kyu Hyun Kim notes, self-reflective irony is the key cinematic mode of expression in the context of hallyu and the new era of the transnational. As one of the ways of invoking the ironic imagination, I contend that ambiguity is also a new cinematic mode of expression in transnational Korean hallyu cinema. If ambiguity is the new mode of expression, liminal visibility refers to the aesthetic practice of exploring the ambiguities of time and space. Four chapters illustrate diverse ways of exploring the ambiguities and liminalizing the subjectivity of the previously marginalized. These newly visible subjects do not become a part of the linear progression of traditional narrative. Instead, they each find their own direction of transnational narrative. Liminal visibility is a lens through which one recognizes and valorizes the multiple trajectories of transnational narrative. As one of multiple trajectories, the traditional trajectory of the nationalist narrative, which progress toward the logic of globalization, also remains. What we recognize in the end is not the transition—from the national to the transnational or the global—of Korean cinema but the transformation of transnational Korean hallyu cinema. Two perspectives—export-centric and self-reflexive—evidently show the presence of both national and transnational consciousnesses in the transnational realm of the new era. The two consciousness reciprocally benefit from the transformation of the other and change the way in which we understand Korean cinema. With the awareness of a mutual relationship between the 56 Kyung Hyun Kim, Virtual Hallyu : Korean Cinema of the Global Era (Durham: Duke University Press, 2011), 38. 34 national and the transnational, liminal visibility creates the ironic imagination of transnational Korean cinema and comprehends the transformation—from the linear progression to the multiple trajectories—of Korean cinema in the context of the interworking of transnationalism, Korean cinema, and hallyu. In so doing, transnational Korean hallyu cinema refuses to be the past of the prescribed future of one single narrative. Instead, Korean cinema resides in the ambiguities of time and space that reveals the liminal (interstitial) structure of the-space-inbetween. Perhaps, transnational Korean hallyu cinema is still looking for its moment of liminalization (as opposed to marginalization). 35 Chapter 1 The Korean Imagination of Manchuria in Korean Cinema: Transnational Space and Its Discontents Remembering—or constructing or reconstructing the past, as we would say these days—inevitably involves neglecting and forgetting. The focused gaze and averted gaze go hand in hand. 57 Manchuria is a historically contested space, wherein each nation—China, Japan, Korea, and Russia—adopts its own agenda and ideologies. Manchuria embodies various versions of history and culture, which make it essentially transnational. Just as Dower’s quote above suggests, representing Manchuria is a process of choosing one dimension over other faces of Manchuria. It is a process of constructing Manchuria as one’s desirable space. Mariko Asano Tamanoi calls this multifaceted land, “an empty place.” She states, “Metaphorically speaking, ‘Manchuria’ has been ‘an empty space’ since the seventeenth century, for any group of people who was (or is) interested in colonizing the area.” 58 By coining the term, an empty place, she highlights the openness of Manchuria. Due to Manchuria’s intrinsic nature of embracing diversity, the land became home for diverse ethnic groups. Each group would develop their own version of Manchurian history and consider the openness of Manchuria as a means of constructing their national identity and pursuing their own geopolitical agenda. In the history of Korean cinema, Manchuria as a space of imagination has appeared in three different periods: the Japanese colonial era, post-liberation to the 1990s, and the last two 57 John W. Dower, Ways of Forgetting, Ways of Remembering : Japan in the Modern World (New York: New Press, 2012). 58 Mariko Tamanoi, Crossed Histories : Manchuria in the Age of Empire, Asian Interactions and Comparisons (Ann Arbor, Honolulu: Association for Asian Studies; University of Hawai'i Press, 2005). 36 decades. 59 During the Japanese colonial era, the imperialistic perspective of Japan found the space of Manchuria as a way of making the Koreans imperial subjects by encouraging people to seek naisen ittai (Japan and Korea are one) against western imperialism under the flag of “The Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.” 60 During this period, Manchuria appears as the extended territory of Japan. During post-liberation to the 1990s, Korean cinema frees Manchuria from being considered a part of Japanese territory. Instead, Korean cinema imagines Manchuria as a space of resistance against Japan. By antagonizing Japan, Korean cinema evokes patriotism, through which Korea attempts to enhance national identity. Coming into the 2000s, Korean cinema arguably breaks out of nationalistic imagination of Manchuria for the first time. Whereas the space of Manchuria has been appropriated by Japan in the colonial era and Korea in the postwar era, the recent Korean films do not pursue national anymore. This chapter examines the ways in which recent Korean films explore the empty place without the intervention of a nationalistic paradigm and disclose the diverse subjects and forms of the imaginations. It is important to note that recent Korean films do not create transnational subjects but find transnational subjects that were hidden under the focused gaze—pursuing national desire—of the Korean imaginations of Manchuria. Hye Seung Chung in her discussion of The Man with No Home (Sin Sang-Ok, 1968) notes, “the Korean Western, in fact, obfuscates the physical and geographical reality by opening with out-of-focus blurry images of a lone 59 Ki-hoon Kim, “Gan-do Damnonui Yeongusajeok Geomto” 간도 담론의 연구사적 검토 [The Survey of the Research History of Kando Discourse],” Geundae manju jaryoui tamsaek [The Search of Modern Manchuria Materials] (Northeast Asian History Foundation: 2009), 94. 60 Jooyeon Rhee, "Manifestation Of'japanese Spirit'in Wartime Japan: Focusing on Images of Women in Films, the New Earth and the Suicide Troops of the Watchtower," SAI: The Journal of the International Association of Korean Literary and Cultural Studies 5 (2008). 37 horseman.” 61 Director Sin used Anyang and Jeju Island to shoot both interior and exterior scenes of the film. Until recently, the imaginary Manchuria in the Korea’s cinematic representation of the landscape has preceded the real landscape of Manchuria. I do not intend to criticize how the focused gaze of the Korean imagination has limited the possibilities of the empty signification to a means of underscoring the national desire. I attempt to show in this paper the ironic consequence of hallyu. After the initial success of hallyu, the state has become aware of the importance of using cultural products to reformulate the nation’s image. The Korean government has financially supported and encouraged the outflow of Korean cultural products to Asia and other regions. Recent Korean films under the export-centric perspective of hallyu not only offer a new way of economic gain but also reconfigure the cultural boundary of Korea by virtue of the enhanced nationalist narrative. The recent Korean imagination of Manchuria, however, does the opposite. From purely seeking generic pleasure to valorizing the everyday lives of people in Manchuria, the multiple imaginations of Manchuria replace the focused gaze of the past imagination and the linear progression of nationalist narrative. This chapter begins by introducing Manchuria as an ambivalent and transnational space in which multiethnic groups reside and explicating how colonial Japan usurped the transnational space of Manchuria to enhance Japan’s imperial vision. Then I closely examine the Korean imagination of Manchuria in the postwar era and show the national ambition of ascribing national allegory to Manchuria’s transnational space. Moving to the recent imaginations, I analyze three films—The Good, the Bad, the Weird (Kim Jee-woon, 2008), War of the Arrows (Kim Han-min, 2011), and Dooman River (Lu Zhang, 2010)—and explore the ways in which 61 Hye Seung Chung and David Scott Diffrient, Movie Migrations : Transnational Genre Flows and South Korean Cinema (New Brunswick, New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2015). 38 each film adopts different elements of Manchuria as a central theme and style. The section on The Good, the Bad, the Weird shows how the film secures freedom from the mediation of national discourse by no longer pursuing the national desire of revitalizing masculinity. The film, however, chases another set of ideologies that Korea seeks, that is, neoliberal capitalism and the logic of globalization. While seeking the generic pleasure of the Western film , the film frees itself from the traditional norms of national paradigm but embraces the new agenda of Korean national cinema. The second film, War of the Arrows is ambivalent in terms of its attitude toward the traditional form of national imagination. While noting the ambiguous attitude, I focus on the way in which the film pays close attention to the historical reality of Manchuria. Namely, the film revitalizes the traditional culture of Korean archery called gukgung and revives the vernacular language of the Manchus called Manchu language. In so doing, the film creates a new action genre based on the historical reality of Manchuria instead of constructing the virtual space for the Western genre film. The last section on Dooman River reveals the averted gaze of the Korean imaginations of Manchuria by casting light on the everyday life of multiethnic groups in Manchuria. In so doing, the film raises our border consciousness and transnational awareness where “multiple determinants of race, class, gender, and membership in divergent, even antagonistic, historical and national identities intersect.” 62 Dooman River valorizes the previously marginalized subjects who were excluded in the previous linear progression of nationalist narrative. The ambiguous signs of Manchuria adopt the multiple trajectories of imaginations and liminalize the subjectivity of the marginalized. National imagination of Manchukou: The Fabricated Harmony of Multiethnic Cultures 62 Naficy, "Situating Accented Cinema." 39 Manchuria is a part of the Republic of China’s territory. However, what Manchuria has signified throughout history goes far beyond a mere portion of land in northern China. Diverse ethnic groups including the Chinese, Koreans, Japanese, and Mongols have lived in Manchuria. By nature, Manchuria has the characteristics of the transnational and is tolerant towards different and multiethnic cultures. Because of its tolerance, a number of ideological and geopolitical discourses—imperialism, colonialism, Pan-Asianism, postcolonialism, and globalization—find their space in the discourse of Manchuria. Instead of adopting the transnational perspective and collaborating with one another, each nation state has revealed its nationalistic ambition through the empty signifier of Manchuria and has created history for its own sake. In the course of pursuing a desired version of history, other versions of histories are overlooked and marginalized. One good example of the exploitation of the Manchurian space is Manchukuo. Following the Manchurian (Mukden) Incident in 1931, Japan seized the Manchurian region and installed a pro-Japanese puppet state, Manchukuo (1932-45). A puppet state refers to a country whose socio-political and economic decisions are made not on behalf of the state itself but in accordance with the desire of another country. Through its puppet state, Japan continued its expansionism and Pan-Asianism while avoiding international accusation. Yamamuro Shin’ichi remarks that Manchukuo was never simply a puppet state but “the site of a movement to expel Western imperialist control and build an ideal state in Asia; its establishment then is seen as an effort to realize a kind of utopia.” 63 In other words, Manchuria was the site in which Japan actually put Pan-Asianism into practice. Japan advocated transnational aspiration and invited 63 Shinʼichi Yamamuro and Joshua A. Fogel, Manchuria under Japanese Dominion, Encounters with Asia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006). 40 diverse ethnic groups to be part of this utopia. Even the national flag of Manchukuo symbolizes “harmony of five races.” 64 Japan claimed to practice ethnic equality and envisioned a kind of utopia against Western powers, but in reality, Japan nationalized the Manchurian space and the Manchukuo government to pursue the interest of its nation. Suk-Jung Han concurs that Manchukuo did not embody the utopian discourse that Japan asserted. She notes that it would be naïve to believe the openness of Manchukuo and points out that “transnationalism in Manchukuo was utilized or nationalized for” the sake of Japan. 65 Prasenjit Duara also believes that ethnic groups other than the Japanese were never treated fairly and equally. Manchukuo was, in fact, an extremely exploitative society. 66, 67 Japan understood that the essential nature of Manchuria is predicated on the complexity of its history and multiethnic cultures. Dealing with multiethnic cultures and people, the Japanese government knew that they would have to respect these cultures and made a gesture of hospitality by fostering the idea of the harmony of five races through the state of Manchukou. What I want to underscore is not the fact that the harmony of five races was Japanese imperialism in disguise, but the way in which the Japanese government recognized the possibilities of diverse imaginations. But instead of pursuing the diversity, Japan considered Manchuria an extended territory of imperial Japan. The national discourse of Japan expanded and permeated Manchuria. Japan’s imagination of Manchuria accentuates the mediation of the national paradigm and the facilitation of the hierarchical space in disguise. 64 Five races are Manchus, Mongols, Han-Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans. 65 Suk-Jung Han, "The Problem of Sovereignty: Manchukuo, 1932-1937," Positions: East Asia Cultures Critique 12, no. 2 (2004)., 466. 66 Prasenjit Duara, "Nationalism, Imperialism, Federalism, and the Case of Manchukuo: A Response to Anthony Pagden," Common Knowledge 12, no. 1 (2006). 67 For instance, Chinese workers received less than a third of wages paid to Japanese workers in state factories 41 Japanese Imagination of Manchuria during the Colonial Era The Manchurian imagination of Korea originates from the colonial era not as its own but as part of Japanese cinema. The problem with Korea’s colonial imagination is that it is created in its relation to the imperial presence of Japan. In the colonial imagination, Manchuria is a space of resistance ‘to Japan,’ collaboration ‘with Japan,’ and opportunity ‘against Japan.’ While the individuals enjoyed a certain level of freedom of expressing diverse perspectives in literature during the colonial era, these diverse perspectives were not possible in cinema. 68 Since the Japanese state focused on making propaganda films that would turn Koreans into imperial subjects, making a film with the narrative of resisting Japan was impossible during this period. To avoid Japan being the center of viewing experience, So-young Kim suggests a mechanism of subversively reading colonial propaganda films as she argues, “the missing reels, noises, dissonance, and distanciation in propaganda films involuntarily reveal repression and subvert the ‘original’ meaning.” 69 The missing image of a Japanese soldier becomes a source of farce rather than serious propaganda and the juxtaposition of two unrelated scenes accidentally connotes illogical brutality of Japanese authorities. The subversive reading of the colonial films offers a 68 Among many writers, Choi Seo-Hae often employed the theme of the national ordeal through the depiction of the lives of Koreans in Manchuria. Kang Kyung-ae was more interested in another theme, that is, resistance to the colonizer and anti-Japanese movement. These two themes prevalent in Korean Manchurian literature are both in accordance with nationalism. The political circumstance changes literature scene in 1937; the Japanese government began to actively censor Korean literature. Korean writers were forced to write only for the sake of the Japanese government. Even then writers like Yi Tae-jun continue to write novels. Yi’s Peasant, which deals with the ordeals of the Korean in Manchuria, has been the source of controversy. Depending on how one interprets Yi Tae-jun’s political association, some scholars contend that Peasant is a national literature without the intention of collaboration with Japan and other scholars assert that Peasant is actually a propaganda novel. 69 Kim, "Cartography of Catastrophe: Pre-Colonial Surveys, Post-Colonial Vampires, and the Plight of Korean Modernity." 42 way of escaping from the Japanese version of cultural imagination. But such subversive reading is only possible for contemporary viewers. When watching these films at that time, the audience had access to the entire film without any missing images or sound. Korean viewers at that time could have tried to read the films in other ways, but it is an undeniable fact that the viewing experience of these films at that time would have only enhanced the national paradigm of Japan. A Japanese Korean coproduced propaganda film, The Suicide Troops of the Watchtower (Imai Tadashi, 1943) exemplifies the Japanese colonial imagination of Manchuria. The film revolves around an intimate friendship between fellow Korean and Japanese policemen. The film takes place in Ranzan, a border between Korea and Manchuria. Given the constant threat of Chinese bandits, policemen—Koreans and Japanese together—defend the village. At the end of the film, when the villagers are about to give up, a Japanese army arrives and defeats the bandits. Through this film, Japan tried to portray the land of Manchuria as an opportunity of “the revitalization of the Japanese spirit” 70 and encouraged people to seek naisen ittai (Japan and Korea are one) against western imperialism under the flag of “The Greater East Asia Co- Prosperity Sphere.” 71 Jooyeon Rhee remarks, “In Suicide Troops, Manchuria was portrayed as the common ground where different ethnic groups were united to defend the East Asian identity and spirit against western imperialism.” 72 This film was the Japanese way of acquiring harmony and asking for cooperation from Koreans. The film, however, contradicts its own agenda of naisen ittai by constructing ethnic hierarchies. According to Naoki Mizuno, characters in the film are visualized and portrayed in accordance with an ethnic hierarchy. He notes: 70 Rhee, "Manifestation Of'japanese Spirit'in Wartime Japan: Focusing on Images of Women in Films, the New Earth and the Suicide Troops of the Watchtower." 71 Ibid. 72 Ibid. 43 For the male characters, a clear hierarchy is presented, placing the border police outpost chief Takatsu at the uppermost point, followed in descending order by the outpost’s Japanese patrolmen; Korean patrolmen; Korean members of the self- defense brigade organized by village youth to support the outpost’s activities; the Korean villagers in general; and, finally, the Chinese character Wang Long, who manages a local restaurant. 73,74 Although the film seems to depict a friendship between Korean and Japanese, the two nations do not stand on an ethnically equal ground. The film—whether intentionally or not—implies that the Japanese are still superior to other ethnic groups. The ending of the film, wherein the Japanese army rescues Korean villagers, also suggests that Korea needs Japan’s protection and guidance. Japanese viewers would imagine Manchuria as an extended territory of imperial Japan and the Japanese occupation of Korean villages in Manchuria confirms Japan’s legitimacy over Manchuria. The Suicide Troops of the Watchtower introduces Manchuria as a space of cooperation (collaboration) with Japan. The film depicts Manchuria as a land of opportunity and resistance. The problem is that these values are strictly construed from the Japanese perspective. In the film, Koreans and Japanese work together to protect their family, which is represented by a female character, Setsuko Hara. Setsuko Hara is one of Japan’s most beloved actresses and is known for her role playing a daughter in a traditional Japanese family. She represents “an ideal of womanliness, nobility and generosity.” 75 It would be wrong to say that she represents the transnational characteristic of Manchuria. Instead, she embodies the national discourse of Japan without any consideration of Korea. Jooyeon Rhee notes, “The imagined womanhood is a form 73 Naoki Mizuno and Andre Haag, "A Propaganda Film Subverting Ethnic Hierarchy?: Suicide Squad at the Watchtower and Colonial Korea," Cross-Currents: East Asian History and Culture Review 2, no. 1 (2013). 74 He does mention the possibility of subverting ethnic hierarchy, but the ethnic hierarchy is evident in the portrayals of characters. 75 David Thomson, The New Biographical Dictionary of Film, Sixth edition. ed. (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2014). 44 of aestheticized politics that aimed to subjugate individuals into the totalitarian governing system.” 76 Colonial films ask Koreans to work together with the Japanese and protect the Japanese way of life. The colonial imagination of Manchuria is clearly mediated by the national paradigm of Japanese cinema. The Japanese mediation of the Korean imagination of Manchuria ended with the liberation of Korea after World War II. But the monolithic view of Manchuria under the strong presence of Korean nationalism emerged as another form of mediation during the postwar era. Manchuria in 1960s and 1970s Western Films: A Lost Homeland of Nationalist Nostalgia In the postcolonial context, South Korean war films have retained the national discourse of Cold War politics. Used to show the struggle against anticommunism and the state of North Korea, War films were effective tools to reveal patriotic sentiment. In the 60s and 70s, some Korean films, adapting American Western genre, moved the stage of the struggle from a conventional military setting to an open field of the wilderness in Manchuria, which itself is an imagination. The Manchuria setting caught the eyes of many viewers and numerous Manchurian Western films gained popularity. What distinguishes Manchurian Western films from other war films is not the generic element, but the type of imaginations these films construct. Whereas other war films constitute the North as the antagonist, Manchurian Western films are more often than not set in the colonial setting, so that the battle is against an antagonist Japan. The erasure of the North suggests a particular kind of nationalism that is prevalent in the imagination of Manchurian Western films. It is not that Korean cinema exhibits the feelings of nostalgia towards the periods of Japanese 76 Rhee, "Manifestation Of'japanese Spirit'in Wartime Japan: Focusing on Images of Women in Films, the New Earth and the Suicide Troops of the Watchtower." 45 colonization, but Korean cinema makes a unified Korea visible through the cultural imagination in Manchuria. That is to say, it is not the colonial past about which Korean cinema is nostalgic, but the unified future Korea that Manchurian Western films imagine to be nostalgic under the 70s Cold War atmosphere. I call it nationalist nostalgia. It is the ambiguous temporality and spatiality of the transnational that made Manchurian Western’s future nostalgia possible. By situating the narratives of Manchurian Western films in the colonial past, Manchuria reveals its nationalistic ambition and actually serves as a surrogate space of a unified future Korea. The Korean Western’s nationalistic ambition is evident in Hye Seung Chung’s comparative analysis of Shane (George Stevens, 1953) and The Man with No Home (Musukja) (Sin Sang-ok, 1968). While noting transnational aspects of genre hybridity—mixing characteristics of the war film, the espionage film, the martial arts film, and the family melodrama—she also stresses the strong presence of national sentiment in the Korean Western. She states, “what distinguishes the Korean Western from its American and Italian counterparts is its nationalist messages: the Japanese Imperial Army normally assumes the antagonist position, and bandits or mercenaries conveniently turn out to be undercover guerrillas.” 77 The Korean Western employs transnational Western genre and stylistic elements, but never forgets to nationalize the Western and insert nationalist messages. One scene that exemplifies the existence of nationalist messages is the ending of The Man with No Home, in which the protagonist Chang leaves and disappears into the sunset. Throughout the film, Chang helped Hwayong and her son, Myong. After they spend more time together, Chang confesses his love to Hwayong. When Myong becomes ill, Chang sacrifices himself and becomes a fugitive in order to raise Myong’s medical fees. At the end of the film, 77 Hye Seung Chung, "The Man with No Home/Musukja (1968): Shane Comes Back in a Korean “Manchurian Western”," Journal of Popular: Film & Television 39, no. 2 (2011). 46 after wandering for a while Chang returns to see Hwayong and Myong, but a foreign man, who is able to provide them with stable and secure life, has already taken Chang’s place. Chung states, “Chang leaves and disappears into the sunset because he is unfit or inadequate to be Myong’s father and Hwa-yong’s husband.” 78 As Chung notes, Chang doesn’t want to leave, but there is no place for him. He is “inadequate to be Myong’s father and Hayong’s husband” in Manchuria. That Chang remains to be a wanderer is something we should discuss further. He lives in Manchuria but does not belong to Manchuria. Though he wants to settle down, his circumstances won’t let him find a place in Manchuria. The audience sympathizes with him, because its own national history—the Japanese colonial era—underwent the same experience. In this regard, it is apparent that intensified melodramatic moments occur from a collective memory of the unforgettable past of the nation. Similar to The Man with No Home, many other Manchurian Western films end with no familial reunification. Under the 1970s political atmosphere, familial restitution signifies the national desire of unification. The inevitable failure of familial reunification in films resonates with the nation’s current status as a divided nation. Accepting the fact that peaceful reunification is not likely to happen, Korean cinema turns its eyes to two eras when the unified Korea existed and might one day exist. The ambiguity of temporality and spatiality of Manchuria allows two- folds nostalgias: the past Korea before its division in the colonial era and the future unified Korea after the end of the division. Although the setting takes place in the colonial era, Manchurian Western films offer vicarious satisfaction of envisioning a unified Korea in the future. Completely ignoring the reality of Manchuria, Manchurian Western films simply envision the space of Manchuria as a virtual place of unraveling the nationalistic paradigm of 78 Ibid. 47 reunification. That is to say, Korean cinema in the postwar era does not explore a variety of perspectives that Manchuria offers and only nationalizes the transnational space of Manchuria. Yi Manhui’s Break the Iron Chain (Soesasurul Kkunora, 1971) exemplifies how transnational genre and space are nationalized. Break the Iron Chain adopts the transnational setting of Italian Spaghetti western film, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (Sergio Leone, 1966). The Good, the Bad and the Ugly revolves around three gunslingers fighting one another to find gold. The thrill of the film is not from the actual adventure of finding treasure, but from the rivalries of the three characters. Yi also has three main characters going at each other in the beginning of the film. However, the film ends up focusing more on their friendship not rivalry. Break the Iron Chain, in its very first scene, clearly sets out to state what the film is about. Instead of treasure, characters in Break the Iron Chain chase a golden statue, on which the names of Korean independence fighters are inscribed. The protagonists find the statue relatively easy. About forty minutes into the film, after they have already retrieved the statue, the Japanese army takes it away from them. The second half of the film is about resisting and fighting against the Japanese. The disparate roles of the three characters—supposedly the good (anti-Japanese), the bad (pro-Japanese), the ugly (capitalist)—become meaningless and they form a team. From then on, the main narrative of the film becomes taking back what belongs to Koreans and battling the Japanese army. The climax of the film is the ending sequence, in which the three protagonists and the Korean army for national independence are surrounded by the Japanese army. After taking the leader of the Japanese army as a hostage, Korean men defeat the Japanese army without shedding much blood. After the battle, the conversation between the Korean army and the three men reveal much about what the three protagonists really long for; A Man from the Korean army: You did great. How can I repay you? A Woman from the Korean army: You are an excellent Korean. 48 The First Protagonist (the Ugly): Can I speak Korean now? The Second Protagonist (the Bad): What about me? A Woman from the Korean army: Of course, you are excellent, too. The First Protagonist (the Ugly): We don’t need anything. We already received great reward from her. The Second Protagonist (the Bad): She returned our nationality. Korea. Korean. The reward of the adventure and journey is their nationality. The three men began the journey with different purposes but at the end they are content with the fact that they all help secure the nation. By defeating the Japanese and aiding the Korean army, these men found a way to be Koreans in Manchuria. Though the Manchurian Western adopts transnational genre and style, the Manchurian Western never lets go of national messages. Nationalism in the Manchurian Western manifests in two ways: the failure of the family restitution and fighting against Japan. Interestingly, both seek for the unification of Korea. The failure of the family restitution indicates that Korea desires the unified Korea as the nation-state. In addition, by making characters fight against Japan, the Manchurian Western tacitly conceives Japan as the other and removes the North from the position of the enemy. The Manchurian Western doesn’t engender a political dichotomy between the North and the South. Rather, a rigid dichotomy is created between Japan and Korea. National identity that the Manchurian Western protects against Japan is in reality a dream. The imagined Korea in the Manchurian Western may be interpreted as nationalist nostalgia for colonial Korea with one nation-state or as nationalist ambition and longing for unification. Either way it is apparent that Korean cinema nationalized the transnational space of Manchuria and escalated nationalist morals. Taking nationalist nostalgia one more step further, the liminal nature of transnationalism has endowed Manchuria with the ambiguity of time and space and helps the emergence of the twofold nostalgias of Manchuria: the past Korea before division and the future Korea after reunification. While the 49 nostalgia towards the past constitutes the national desire of being unified, the future nostalgia is a means of coping with the reality of the divided Korea in the 70s. Manchuria as a Frontier of Ahistorical Sensibility of Postmodern Capitalism in Contemporary Korean Cinema Coming into the 21 st century, Manchuria emerges again as a space of new imaginations. But this time Manchuria signifies something entirely different. The recent depiction of Manchuria is deprived of the traditional national discourse. The two eras—the colonial era and the postwar era—that we have examined so far never escape the stigmatization of nationalist narrative due to political circumstances. The 21 st century is arguably the first era in which Manchuria begins to be something other than nationalist discourse. That is to say, Manchuria is no longer manipulated and exploited for the sake of the nation-state. Instead, Manchuria utilizes other critical discursive functions of transnationalism. In 2008, The Good, the Bad, the Weird (Kim Jee-woon, 2008) and Dachimawa Lee (Seung-wan Ryu, 2008) came out and introduced the forgotten Manchuria to the audience. Interestingly, both films are influenced by Break the Iron Chain. 79 Since these two films pay homage to the Manchurian Western—especially The Good, the Bad, the Weird—people assume that the two films carry the legacy of the 60s and 70s Manchurian Western, but the return of Manchuria in recent Korean cinema doesn’t mean the resurrection of the 60s and 70s Manchurian Western. The biggest difference between the old and the new Manchurian Western 79 Eun-ju Lee , "Yeonghwa 'Dachimawa Lee' Ryuseungwan gamdok "Eomsukan cheok haneun sahoe sajeongeopsi biteureotjyo"" 영화 ‘ 마와 ’ “ 숙한 사회 사정없이 ”" [Film Dachimawa Lee director Ryu Seung-wan "ruthlessly twist society that pretends to be solemn"], Seoul Newspaper, 2008 50 is that the old is bounded by a national paradigm, which overlooks multicultural iconographies and tropes and limits our understanding of Manchuria. The new follows the logic of capitalism and postmodern sensibility in its pursuit of money and pleasure. The difference between the old and the new is clearly seen in the narrative comparison between Break the Iron Chain and The Good, the Bad, the Weird. The three in Break the Iron Chain serve the Korean army and the film endows the three with the mission of redeeming their national identity, which is only attainable through the patriotic act of fighting against the Japanese. The Japanese army is also present in The Good, the Bad, the Weird, but they are not portrayed as the ultimate enemy in the film. The main battle occurs within the three characters, who do not embody any national allegory. Park Chang-yi (the Bad) does have a connection with the Japanese government, but he frees himself by killing the Japanese authoritative figure early in the film. The other two figures also refuse to be associated with any national ideology. Instead of seeking nationalistic agenda, the three follow money and personal revenge. Particularly, Yoon Tae-goo (the Weird) never stops chasing after the treasure and money. During his conversation with Park Do-won (the Good), Yoon Tae-goo says that he came to Manchuria to start a new life and the only thing that matters to him is money. To Yoon, Manchuria is by no means a site of political battleground. Instead he says in the film, “You might not have a nation, but you should have money” “To people like us, what is the difference between being under the Japanese or being under yangban (Korean aristocrat)?” Evidently, Yoon has a deep-seated aversion to any national paradigm. In addition, The Good, the Bad, the Weird strives to cut off any remaining association with Korea through Yoon Tae-goo’s infamous past. Yoon was evidently known as finger ghost—he would chop off a finger from a defeated man. Park Chang-yi (the Bad) was defeated 51 by Yoon back in Korea. After learning that Yoon is involved in the treasure seeking, Park gives up everything—money, fame, and colleagues—for revenge. This shows how much Park is committed to correcting the shameful past. In this film, Korea is not imagined as a nostalgic home or a site of the collective memory of sorrow. Manchuria—separately being imagined from Korea—simply becomes a site of seeking generic pleasure without any mediation of national discourse. The different intentions of Manchurian films in the 60s/70s and the 2000s are most evident in what the treasure signifies. Whereas the names of Korean independence fighters are written inside of the golden statue in Break the Iron Chain, the treasure in The Good, the Bad, the Weird is oil. Close to the end of The Good, the Bad, the Weird, the three have a simultaneous showdown. Right after the last person (the Good) falls to the ground, oil bursts out from the ground. The scene of oil resembles American Western epic drama film, There Will Be Blood (Paul Thomas Anderson, 2007). Loosely based on Upton Sinclair’s novel, Oil! (1927), the film obsessively delves into the dark heart of capitalism. Oil is used as the trope of capitalism in There Will Be Blood and it reveals Korea’s globalizing desire and the pursuit of neoliberal capitalism in The Good, the Bad, the Weird. The Good, the Bad, the Weird moves beyond nationalism and seeks capitalism, but the film still poses a number of problems. First, the film escapes from the conventional norm of national discourse by removing any political allegory. But at the same time, the film embraces new agenda of Korean national cinema: neoliberal capitalism and the logic of globalization. The recent Manchurian Western films depart from one national imagination and arrive at another national imagination. The acceptance of the logic of globalism entails the second problem, which is the creation of social hierarchy and the marginalization of social and ethnic minorities. The 52 film retains the ethnocentric perspective and Koreans appear to have a superior position over other ethnic and cultural groups. The main figures in the film are all Koreans and the film does not take other ethnic groups seriously. The bandit in the film is presumably the only indigenous people of Manchuria. Yet, the film depicts them as barbaric; they wear an unidentifiable eclectic style of clothes and the leader of the bandit uses an iron mace as a weapon. Additionally, they are not given much screen time. When they do appear, it is to show either how they fail to catch Yoon or how they are fooled by Yoon and his friend. The Good, the Bad, the Weird pushes the Manchurian Western into the new stage of refusing the traditional norm of national paradigm. However, the film represents another national agenda and falls short of representing the diversity of Manchuria. Due to the pursuit of neoliberal capitalism, the concomitant neglect of the representation of minorities occurs. Neoliberal search for the logic of globalization has created a hierarchical space within the transnational. Manchuria as the Ambiguous Space between Nationalist and Other Narratives: A New Action Genre Based on the Historical Investigation of Manchurian Culture If The Good, the Bad, the Weird pursues the generic pleasure of the Western film through the construction of the ahistorical space of postmodern and neoliberal capitalism, War of the Arrows invents a new genre of bow-action film based on the historical consideration of Korean archery and Manchu language. Instead of adopting the conventional genre from the West, the film specifically brings back the ancient culture of archery and the vernacular language of the Manchu. These two elements of the film pose an interesting question: does the film support nationalist narrative or not? Archery is one of Korea’s national pride inasmuch as Korea wins the most Olympic medals in archery compared to all other participating nations. By introducing the 53 traditional ways of archery stance and the different forms of bows and arrows, the film can be construed through the lens of a nationalistic perspective. The vernacular language of the Manchu in the film, however, suggests that the film does not simply follow the linear progression of the nationalist narrative, but seeks other ways of imagining the space of Manchuria. Unlike most commercial films where the foreign characters conveniently speak Korean, the film restores the traditional language of the Manchu and consistently uses the language throughout the film, which brings the viewer attention to the transnational nature of Manchuria. Instead of imagining Manchuria as the extended territory of Korea, the film attempts to valorize the local culture of Manchuria through the employment of the vernacular language. The ambivalent attitude of the film toward the construction of the nationalist narrative is what distinguishes this film from other Korean action films. The film revolves around brother Nam-yi and sister Ja-in. During Ja-in’s wedding, the Manchu invade Korea. Nam-yi who was in the mountains makes it back to the village and finds out that his sister has been taken away. Nam-yi traces the Qing army and kills soldiers with his bow. The great commander of the Qing army, Jyuushinta realizes that someone is trailing his men and chases after Nam-yi. Nam-yi kills Jyuushinta and saves Ja-in from Jyuushinta’s hand. After rescuing Ja-in, Nam-yi also dies from previous wounds. The narrative of the film follows the conventional trajectory of national cinema. The male protagonist tries to rescue and protect his family from the threat of other nations. Before Nam-yi dies, his last request is to return to hanyang, the capital of Joseon. Won Seon Sin notes that hanyang is not just a name for the 54 capital but “a sacred space of the nation that would restore their identity.” 80 Although Manchuria is the main stage for all the action, the ultimate desire is to return to home. The film’s restoration of traditional archery also supports the nationalistic imagination of Manchuria. The film presents horseback archery, running archery, and the different types of bow and arrow. The film distinguishes the Korean protagonist, Nam-yi from other Manchu people by giving Nam-yi a different bow and arrow. Nam-yi uses a smaller bow whereas Jyuushinta and other Qing dynasty soldiers use a larger bow. Nam-yi also uses mini arrows, which are called baby arrows. According to Sin, the baby arrow is often used by Koreans and represents Korean nationality. 81 This arrow is smaller than other arrows but its range of fire is longer than regular arrows. The arrow’s small size and remarkable strength make it a perfect symbol for the image of Korea. While the allegory of the film’s narrative and the motif of the bow clearly indicate the nationalistic trajectory of the film, the film also presents evidence for its transnational consciousness. For the invention of Korea’s unique genre of bow-action film, the various landscapes of Manchuria was probably the best choice. Instead of constructing a virtual site where the film manipulates certain images of Manchuria that are relevant to the new action genre, the film shows interest in valorizing the culture of Manchuria through the employment of the Manchu language. Benedict Anderson’s landmark book, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism articulates the importance of language in the construction of national 80 Wonseon Shin 신원선, "<choejongbyeonggi hwal>e guhyeondoen minjokjuui kodeuui du yangsang" < > 구현된 의 의 상 [Two Aspects of Nationalism Implemented in War of the Arrows], hyeondaeyeonghwayeongu 현대영화연구 21, no. 1 (2015): 123. 81 Ibid. 55 identity. In the context of the vernacular, Anderson illustrates how language becomes one of the decisive factors that construct national identity. Moving away from the geopolitical definition of a nation state, he emphasizes the concept of the imagined community. In doing so, he argues that language allows a person to identify with another person, and subsequently, enables us to examine the concept of nation-state and national identity. 82 The inherent connection between the vernacular and national identity suggests that War of the Arrows is not a simple national cinema, since some of the dialogue in the film is in the Manchu language. More importantly, Nam-yi, who is the representative of Korean national identity, speaks both the Korean and the Manchu languages. When Nam-yi interrogates the wounded soldier from the Manchu, the conversation between the two is in the Manchu. The soldier is not surprised by the fact that Nam-yi speaks the Manchu. The way in which the film employs a foreign language is unique inasmuch as characters who speak the Manchu communicate with Korean characters in the film. Generally speaking, foreign languages are hardly ever spoken in Korean cinema. Even if a character speaks a foreign language, the character does not have any conversations with the main protagonist. In The Admiral: Roaring Currents (Kim Han-min, 2014), for example, Ryu Seung-ryong who plays the role of Jyuushinta in War of the Arrows appears as a Japanese admiral in The Admiral. The Japanese admiral never speaks with Korean figures in the film as this would require translation between the parties. Insofar as the dramatic effect of the film derives from the nationalistic sentiment of opposing Japan who colonized Korea in the past, the Korean audience does not want to have any association with the Japanese language. The Japanese language is clearly the language of the enemy. Jyuushinta in War of the Arrows, on the other hand, has an important conversation with 82 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 2006), 44. 56 Nam-yi before and during the final battle. Given such tradition, viewers would not expect a Korean protagonist to speak a foreign language in the narrative world. In particular, at the climax of the film, the viewer has to read the subtitles instead of listening to Nam-yi’s dialogue. Due to the fact that the viewers do not understand the words spoken by Nam-yi, it is difficult for the viewers to completely identify themselves with Nam-yi. The film clearly poses the question of identity through the employment of the vernacular. Two disparate ethnic groups have distinctive ways of life and culture. Yet, they speak the same language. Should we consider them one unified community or two separate nation-states. When Nam-yi speaks the vernacular of Manchuria, the viewer has to questions if Manchuria is part of Korea or if Nam-yi is not Korean. Perhaps, Nam-yi represents a transnational identity that is located in between Korean and Manchuria. Toward Minor Transnationalism: Lu Zhang’s Dooman River If War of the Arrows presented Manchuria as the ambiguous space between nationalist imagination and historical reality, Dooman River discloses the marginalized subjects in the ambiguous space of Manchuria. In Dooman River, Lu Zhang depicts the daily lives of the Korean Chinese just north of the Dooman river. The river is the border between North Korea and China. Hence, North Korean defectors often trespass on the property of these Korean Chinese. The film follows a family at the border—a grandfather and two kids, Chang-ho and Soon-hui. The viewer witnesses the real-life conditions under which the Manchurian people have lived. Although Koreans are aware of the presence of the Korean Chinese in Manchuria, who speak Korean and share cultural similarities, Koreans pay little attention to the actual local reality of Manchuria. To draw people’s attention, this film casts light on the voice of the marginalized 57 people in Manchuria. If other films in this chapter were about people visiting and occupying the space of Manchuria, this film shows how the lives of people in Manchuria are violated and invaded by others. Such approach of accentuating the domestic life—respecting the voices of the marginalized and emphasizing the reciprocal relationship between diverse cultural and ethnic groups—adds another dimension to the imagination of Manchuria. In Dooman River, the marginalization of Manchuria rises to the surface in the form of Soon-hui’s muteness. Literally, she does not have a voice and thus she cannot be heard by anyone. Discontinuity of communication is particularly important in two scenes: talking on the phone with mother and being raped by the North Korean defector. First, her mother calls home from time to time. When Chang-ho is next to Soon-hui, he speaks for her. However, in the later scene, she picks up the phone call when Chang-ho is not there. Her mother realizes the meaning of silence on the other end of the line, and it becomes a mother’s confession instead of a mother- daughter conversation. Obviously, Soon-hui cannot respond to her mother’s voice. This is similar to the relationship between Korea and Manchuria. As seen in this chapter, Korea, more often than not, imagines Manchuria in the way in which that will serve the purpose of the nation- state. On the contrary, the Manchurian perspective on Korea is hardly seen or heard. The communication between Korea and Manchuria has invariably been one directional. The rape scene also problematizes the silence of Manchuria. One night, the North Korean defector knocks on door and asks for a place to spend a night. Next day, while the grandfather and Chang-ho are out; she sympathizes with him and provides him food and alcohol. Unfortunately, it does not take long before the North Korean rapes Soon-hui. What is noteworthy in this scene is the movement of the camera. Instead of showing the rape scene, the camera turns away and places these two figures in the offscreen space. In this film, the camera seldom moves. 58 Once the camera is placed, the camera remains static and refuses to intrude into the lives of the subjects. Nonetheless, in this scene the camera purposefully moves. Soon-hui is watching North Korea’s TV propaganda. The voice of the narrator praising Kim Jung-il drives the North Korean defector crazy. He turns into a monster. Soon-hui backs off and the wall obstructs the viewer’s sight. These two figures cannot be seen yet still remains in the frame. It is at this precise moment the camera moves. While the rape scene—which the viewer cannot see anyway—is happening on the right side of the screen, the camera slowly tracks in and pans left. The camera stops its movement when the two figures exist to the right offscreen. Note that the camera purposefully pushes the two figures to the offscreen. Figure 1-1 Figure 1-2 Figure 1-3 Figure 1-4 The discussion of onscreen and offscreen is imperative before further analysis. When viewers observe the narrative world, there is a limit to it. Generally speaking, viewers only consider what they see on screen to be alive. That is to say, once a character exist the frame, the character bears little, if any, significance to that particular scene and viewers forget about him. 59 Though viewers understand the character is just outside of the box (frame), viewers have no way of finding out what is going on with him unless he reappears on the screen. In order to show one’s presence and participate in narrative progression, the character should present him/herself on screen. To put it differently, the character has to intrude into the onscreen. In Zhang’s film, the dichotomy between onscreen and offscreen inherently creates a chasm between the center (the dominant) and the periphery (the marginalized). In his attempt to bring a harmonious and reciprocal relationship between the center and the periphery, he constantly exhibits the moment of character entering or exiting the frame. Unlike conventional films, various scenes in Zhang’s film begin with nothing happening. Viewers wait until someone enters into the frame. Similarly, Zhang does not end a scene when a conversation is over but waits until a character exits. More importantly, a conversation continues even after all the characters exit the frame. Figure 2-1 Figure 2-2 Figure 2-3 Figure 2-4 60 Figure 2-5 Figure 2-6 At the beginning of the above captured sequence, for instance, the camera from a high angle stares at Chang-ho and Jung-jin who are looking at a stamp collection of Chang-ho’s father. After hearing the door squeaking, the boys get up. The camera tilts up and Soon-hui enters the frame from the left offscreen, simultaneously. After a while, the phone—located at right midground—rings and Chang-ho picks it up. Meanwhile, Jung-jin exits the frame to the right offscreen, revealing Chang-ho and the phone. After Chang-ho hangs up the phone, he moves from left midground to right foreground offscreen, leaving Soon-hui alone in the frame. Nonetheless, Chang-ho’s exit doesn’t mean his role in this scene has ended. Right after Chang- ho exists the frame, the conversation between Chang-ho and Jung-jin begins over the image of Soon-hui staring left background offscreen. When Chang-ho tells Jung-jin that his father is dead, Soon-hui turns to right foreground and uses sign language to the invisible Chang-ho, whose presence the viewer should imagine at right foreground offscreen. Then Soon-hui also exits the frame to left midground offscreen. Even after Soon-hui disappears, the conversation between Chang-ho and Jung-jin continues for a while. To Zhang, the dichotomy between the onscreen and offscreen is something that needs to be overcome. By reinventing the conventional means of using offscreen, he offers the viewer an opportunity to reconsider the relationship between the dominant and the alternative ways of storytelling. Going back to the rape scene with these metaphorical and representational meanings 61 of offscreen in mind, it is evident what Zhang intends to do by placing Soon-hui at the offscreen; she embodies the discourse of the marginalized. When the camera turns away from the rape scene, the film deliberately erases the visibility of Soon-hui. But the invisible Soon-hui, whose body is exploited and marginalized, is crystallized into a more conspicuous form of visibility in the viewer’s imagination. Viewers also agonize over the sound of raping, yet they are prohibited from sympathizing with Soon-hui. Much feeling is left to our imagination. Just as the harsh and painful lives of the people in Manchuria are left unseen to us, the excruciating experience of the rape is left to our imagination. Imagine how the viewer would respond if Zhang places the actual image of the rape within the frame. The sympathy we feel towards Soon-hui would be much amplified. I am not saying that Zhang does not want us to associate with Soon-hui. It is just that Zhang keeps this uncomfortable distance between the onscreen and offscreen, which prompts us to reassess the hierarchical relationship between the center and the periphery—the marginalized lives of people in Manchuria. Soon-hui has suffered in silence—literally being a mute and figuratively being at offscreen. In the ending sequence, Zhang breaks both literal and figurative forms of suffering Soon-hui has gone through. Soon-hui is at the hospital undergoing abortion—the dreadful consequence of being exploited. At home, Chang-ho feels guilty about Jung-jin’s arrest and unexpectedly kills himself. In the next scene, Soon-hui screams Chang-ho’s name over the image of her grandfather. Her voice is finally heard. Not only her grandfather and doctor, but the audience pays great attention to her voice. In addition, in lieu of her actual image of screaming, we are led to see her imagination, through which we reconstruct our imagination of Manchuria. Zhang shows an old lady crossing a bridge over Dooman river, which does not exist in reality. This bridge evidently connects Korea and Manchuria, but not in the hierarchical fashion. The 62 camera captures the long bridge from the side and shows the old lady slowly and horizontally walking from right to left. Moving beyond the imperialist and nationalist imagination, the marginalized becomes conspicuous within this horizontal space. It takes an excruciating amount of time for the old lady to cross the bridge. What the viewer sees in this sequence is not the movement of the lady, but the in-between space of the bridge that she is on. By means of choosing a bizarre way of depicting the bridge and the lady, the film liminalizes the marginal subjects in Manchuria. Re-imagining Manchuria as a Transnational Space Numerous nations and ethnic groups have imagined Manchuria in their own ways. Each group imposes their own agenda and ideologies: nationalism, imperialism, colonialism, Pan- Asianism, postcolonialism, and globalization. All these ideological and geopolitical discourses complicate our understanding of the Manchurian space. In this chapter, I trace the trajectory of the Korean imagination of Manchuria from the colonial and the postwar era to the transnational era. In the colonial era, Korea did show various imaginations, but these imaginations are created in response to the Japanese imagination of Manchuria and consequently contain the Japanese perspective of turning the Korean into imperial subjects. In the postwar era, the Korean imagination attempts to reconstruct national identity through the multiple notions of nostalgia. The impossibility of reunification in the present turns the viewer’s gaze to the past and future spaces of Manchuria, where Korean cinema nationalizes the transnational space of Manchuria and pursues its nationalistic narrative of imagining a unified Korea. The new era of transnationalism offers a chance of diverging from the conventional framework of national discourse. In so doing, the film removes the conventional dichotomy between Korea vs. Japan, 63 resistance vs. collaboration, and good vs. evil. According to Chung, The Good, the Bad, the Weird “participates in the process of reevaluating colonial modernity.” 83 As the film escapes from the mediation of national discourse, the film quickly falls into the mediation of neoliberal capitalism and the logic of globalization, which constructs a hierarchical space within the transnational. War of the Arrows diverges from the conventional framework of nationalist narrative in the sense that the film does not simply envision the space of Manchuria as the extended territory of Korea. While retaining the narrative structure of the nationalistic paradigm, the film revitalizes the use of the vernacular language, the Manchu, and envisions an ambivalent status of Korean cinema within the new genre of bow-action film. Going even further from the linear progression of the nationalist narrative, the Manchurian imagination in Dooman River makes the everyday life of the marginalized in Manchuria visible and valorizes the critical discursive function of transnationalism—its ability to represent multiethnic and marginalized groups, providing a space wherein the marginalized has a reciprocal relationship with the dominant. Following the trajectory of the Korean imaginations of Manchuria, one can’t help but ask the question: why do we suddenly see all these new imaginations in recent years? It is because of a shift in the mode of comprehending transnationalism. In the colonial and national eras, the notion of the transnational has often been discussed at the level of production: coproduction between Japan and Korea; and the generic mixture of American Western and Korean melodrama. In the recent years, the notion of the transnational suggests something more ambiguous between the modes of production and reception, seeking the transnational subjects and space per se. This is due to the advent of the globalization era, where the rigid boundary of a nation-state is no 83 Chung, "The Man with No Home/Musukja (1968): Shane Comes Back in a Korean “Manchurian Western”." 64 longer attainable. Going beyond the blurry boundary of the national, the transnational way of thinking about national identity is essential. The transnational doesn’t assume the dichotomous binary between the national and the transnational. The transnational departs from the conventional approaches of national discourse, but it is never a disjuncture. Whereas the national articulated the national desire in a transnational space like Manchuria before, the recent trends now identify transnational desire and broaden the definition of Korean national cinema by embracing the newly visible subjects and space as part of Korean identity. Perhaps, the new imaginations of Manchuria are a sign of Korean identity moving into a transnational sphere and transnational identity becoming the new national within the ambiguous nature of transnationalism. 65 Chapter 2 The Aesthetics of the Cool: The Unexpected Emergence of Zainichi Cinema through Hallyu This chapter explores the ‘coming out’ of Zainichi subject and its transnational identity through the transnational space created by the phenomenal popularity of hallyu. In general, the Japanese were not conscious of nor interested in Korean culture in general. But the Japanese attitude rapidly changed in the 2000s. Sonia Ryang ascribes two reasons to sudden recognition: the political (9/17 incident) 84 and the culture (hallyu). In addition, the 2002 FIFA World Cup Korea/Japan must have brought South Korea to the center of attention. Among these factors of the recognition, I closely examine what changes hallyu has brought to the cultural landscape in Japan and how Zainichi have found their voices and have made themselves visible in the Japanese cultural imaginary. At the center of hallyu, is a Korean drama, Winter Sonata. There have been other media products from Korea before Winter Sonata. Cine Qua Non—one of the most successful independent film companies in Japan founded by Zainichi—distributed Shiri (Kang Je-gyu, 1999) and Joint Security Area (Park Chan-wook, 2000) and enjoyed their box office successes. Where is the Moon? (Sai Yoichi, 1993) also changed the perception of Zainichi in Japan. By 2001, major studio Tōei produced Zainichi subject film, Go (Yukisada Isao, 2001) that problematizes the issue of ethnic boundary in Japan. Although these films in the 1990s and the early 2000s have slowly brought changes to the cultural landscape of Japanese media, Zainichi really 84 On September 17, 2002, the Japanese media reported that North Korea had abducted Japanese citizens in the 1970s and the 1980s. After the news, Chongryun (North Korea association of Korean residents in Japan) and Korean families began to receive death threats and other harassment. 66 emerges as an important subject after Winter Sonata. The drama first appeared in Japan on NHK satellite channel in 2003. Because of its unexpected success, the drama aired on NHK in 2004 again. 85 The final episode (which aired on August 23, 2004) recorded ratings of 20.6% in Kanto, 22.5% in Nagoya, and 23.8% in the Kansai regions. The series as a whole had an average viewership in the 14% to 15% range. 86 After the success of Winter Sonata, more cultural products—TV drama, film, pop music, and game, for example—of South Korea have been exported and circulated in Japan. Following the success of Winter Sonata, the Japanese film market experiences an outburst of Zainichi subject films and the ‘coming out’ of Zainichi. Some titles of Zainichi films include Worst By Chance (Gu Su-Yeon, 2003), Chirusoku No Natsu (Kiyoshi Sasabe, 2003), Rikidozan: A Hero Extraordinary (Song Haesung, 2004), Fighter in the Wind (Yang Yun-ho, 2004), Blood and Bones (Sai Yoichi, 2004), Pacchigi! (Kazuyuki Izutsu, 2004), Haruko (Kazuyuki Nozawa, 2004), Linda Linda Linda (Nobuhiro Yamashita, 2005), People Crossing the River (Kim Deok-chul, 2006), Our School (Kim Myung-jun, 2006), Pacchigi! Love & Peace (Kazuyuki Izutsu, 2007), The Yakiniku Movie: Bulgogi (Gu Su-Yeon, 2007), and Out of the Wind (Eiji Okuda, 2007). Cine Qua Non also “programmed the mini documentary season ‘Think of Korea,’ which consists of Repatriation (Kim Dong-won, 2003), A State of Mind (Daniel Gordon, 2004), and Dear Pyongyang (Yang Yong-hi, 2006)” 87 and looked into the unknown everyday life of the North Korean. Between 2002 and 2007, Mindan—the Korean Residents Union in 85 Claire Lee, “Remembering ‘Winter Sonata,’ the start of hallyu,” The Korea Herald, last modified December 30, 2011, http://www.koreaherald.com/view.php?ud=20111230000497 (accessed August 20, 2019) • 86 KBS Global, “Japanese Satellite Channel to Air `Winter Sonata` No-Cut,” last modified November 3, 2004, http://english.kbs.co.kr/hallyu/entertainment_news_view.html?No=1376. (accessed August 20, 2019) 87 Oliver Dew, Zainichi Cinema : Korean-in-Japan Film Culture, 1st edition. ed. (New York, NY: Macmillan Publishers Ltd., 2016). 67 Japan that is associated with South Korea—organized four festivals for Zainichi subject films. 88 All of these films and festivals were made and held within the five years following 2003, the year that Winter Sonata aired for the first time. Compared to the number of Zainichi films in the 1990s, Japanese film culture in the early 2000s undoubtedly experiences an upsurge in Zainichi films. In the interviews of Zainichi that Sangjoon Lee collected, a number of interviewees say that the way in which Japanese people treat them drastically changed with the advent of hallyu. one interviewee goes so far as to say, “Bae Yong-joon restored our self-confidence.” 89 It is true that not everyone celebrated hallyu. Some Zainichi critically viewed hallyu phenomenon since it brought the Japanese public’s attention to Korean celebrity culture, not to the daily life of Zainichi. 90 Nonetheless, it is hard not to associate the emergence of Zainichi films with the phenomenal success of Winter Sonata in 2003 after seeing the number of Zainichi films produced in the subsequent five years. Passing as Japanese was the norm for many Zainichi Koreans. With the outpouring of Zainichi films in the 2000s, the ‘coming out’ has entirely changed the way in which Japanese society regards ethnic Koreans in Japan. The literal translation of the Japanese word “Zainichi” is “staying in Japan.” Although the term refers to foreign citizens in general, the term is often used to specifically address ethnic Koreans living in Japan with an implication towards the temporary residence of such ethnic Koreans. In other words, Zainichi have never received the political legitimacy of their stay in Japan. Zainichi community is marginalized and regarded as the invisible. With regards to the marginalization of Zainichi in Japan, John Lie notes, 88 Ibid. 89 Hye Seung Chung, Nojin Kwak, and Youngju Ryu, "Hating the Korean Wave in Japan the Exclusivist Inclusion of Zainichi Koreans in Nerima Daikon Brothers," in Hallyu 2.0, The Korean Wave in the Age of Social Media (University of Michigan Press, 2015). 198. 90 Ibid. 68 In the prewar period, ethnic Koreans may have been deemed inferior, but they were a familiar group with their rightful, albeit lesser, place in Japanese society. In the postwar period, though the legacy of colonial hierarchy slowly dissipated, ethnic Koreans lost their legitimate place in monoethnic Japan. That is, when acknowledged, they were deemed inferior, but more commonly they were not even acknowledged. 91 According to Lie, Zainichi in the postwar era couldn’t even be discriminated, because they were disrecognized or unrecognized in the first place. That is to say, Zainichi (在日 ) still live (在) in Japan (日), but they are not part of Japanese national imagination. Oliver Dew also agrees with Lie in light of Zainichi’s position in Japanese society. He remarks, “even the standard designation for a Korean person in this period, ‘chos ̄ en-jin,’ was a potentially offensive epithet, many representations of Koreanness…are occluded, on occasion to the point of illegibility. Within the post-colonial discourse of Japanese monoethnicity, Koreans were invisible, taboo.” 92 Hallyu achieves the two objectives of Zainichi: being recognized and resisting the periphery role of society. First, Zainichi need to be recognized as part of the cultural landscape of Japanese national imagination. Second, Zainichi want to be treated equally, no longer accepting the position of inferiority and periphery. Zainichi want more than simply being represented. As Lionnet and Shih emphasize in the concept of minor transnationalism, Zainichi need a space “without mediation of the center,” 93 where Zainichi subjects can resist the manipulation and exploitation of the periphery by the center. To put it differently, Zainichi don’t want to be seen through the cultural norms of Japanese cinema but want to speak their own agendas in their own style. The question this chapter asks is not whether Zainichi are visible or not, but in what style 91 John Lie, Zainichi (Koreans in Japan): Diasporic Nationalism and Postcolonial Identity, vol. 8 (Univ of California Press, 2008). 92 Dew, Zainichi Cinema : Korean-in-Japan Film Culture. 93 Françoise Lionnet and Shumei Shi, Minor Transnationalism (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005). 69 Zainichi make themselves visible. Through a particular “style in which they are imagined,” 94 Zainichi rise above the monoethnic paradigm of Japanese society and achieves self-reflexive and highly self-conscious status which ultimately leads to the equal participation of culture between the center and the periphery. The complexity of Zainichi identity goes beyond political marginalization in Japan. When the discourse of Zainichi identity is understood in terms of Zainichi’s—the periphery— relationship with the center, one has to acknowledge the fact that there are multiple centers or dominants: Japan, North Korea, South Korea, and different generations of Zainichi. When Zainichi endeavor to articulate their presence in films, it is not surprising that many Zainichi films revolve around the themes of ambivalence, ambiguity, instability, frustration, and confusion within the space-in-between. These themes particularly question the presence of boundary or lack thereof. The ambivalent space urges Zainichi to find a way to distinguish them from the other. In this chapter, I do not argue that Zainichi films in the early 2000 are the first to bring recognition and visibility to Zainichi community. There have been Zainichi subject films with authorial voice from the 1970s. Starting with Lee Hak-in’s three films Stranger’s River (1975), Aunt Shiu (1977), and Red Tengi (1979), Zainichi films were sporadically but constantly made. What distinguishes Zainichi films in the 2000s from earlier films is that a cluster of Zainichi films came out in a short period of time as if they were waiting for certain moment of freedom and expression. The sudden emergence of a cluster of Zainichi films suggests that the space of hallyu has resolved certain anxiety and fear that precluded Zainichi from ‘coming out’ in the 1990s or earlier. Perhaps it is not the popularity of hallyu but the transnationality of hallyu that 94 Benedict R. O'G Anderson, Imagined Communities : Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, Rev. ed. (London ; New York ;: Verso, 2006). 70 made the ‘coming out’ possible. The intrinsic nature of the transnational, which is the ambivalence of the space-in-between, closely resembles the ambiguous nature of Zainichi identity. The notion of ambiguity is a key to understand Zainichi culture. As the discourse of ambiguity raises the viewer’s border consciousness, the viewer also notices the subjectivity of Zainichi who live on the border of diverse cultures. Hamid Naficy notes that border consciousness is acknowledged in the space of “multiperspectival and tolerant of ambiguity, ambivalence, and chaos.” 95 Dew goes so far as to say that “there should be a focus on images that are abject or ambiguous, that depend on a reading of the ethnic taboo in order for them to be available as representations at all.” 96 In this chapter, I first examine the two contradicting definitions—celebration and resistance—of the notion of the cool. Just when the Japanese government tries to use the term to promote tourism, hallyu becomes popular in Japan and is celebrated as the culture of the cool, which ironically opens a space for Zainichi’s mode of resistance. In particular, I closely examine how three directors—Gu Su-yeon, Yang Yong-hi, and Choi Yang-il—express themselves against disparate adversaries—Japan, North Korea, and the first generation of Zainichi. In so doing, Zainichi films acquire self-reflexive perspective that employs distinctive language of ambiguity, which I call the aesthetics of the cool. The Aesthetic of the Cool: Aesthetic Modes of Resistance Cool is a common word and expression that comes up in most daily conversations. Referring to anything that is current or popular, the concept of cool carries certain connotations that we are already familiar with. Going beyond our common perception of the cool, the history 95 Naficy, "Situating Accented Cinema." 96 Dew, Zainichi Cinema : Korean-in-Japan Film Culture. 71 of cool is long and complex. As an aesthetic of attitude, behavior, fashion, and style, the notion of the cool has permeated the socio-political, economic, and cultural realms of society. As the cool is applied to disparate cultures in distinctive ways, the definition of the cool has changed over time, allowing various interpretations and applications. 97 In this section, I explicate how the celebration of hallyu as cool has led the ‘coming out’ of Zainichi and how Zainichi adopt another notion of the cool to make themselves visible in the transnational space of hallyu. Among numerous meanings and applications of the cool, the chapter limits the discussion of the cool to only two notions of the cool: the celebration of the dominant and resistance against the dominant. First, the celebration of hallyu made the “coming out” of Zainichi possible—in the sense that it was ‘cool’ to be identified as the Korean. Second, the aesthetic of resistance has reconstructed Zainichi identity by means of identifying and articulating the distinctiveness of the Zainichi culture. I argue that as a way of resistance against the center, Zainichi speak through the lens of the cool. In other words, the cool expresses the distinctive identity of Zainichi, which lies in the ambiguity of cultural and socio-political boundaries. The first notion of the cool—the celebration of the dominant—has emerged as a marketing term, which emphasizes one’s superiority over other cultures. In a consumer culture, people construct and retain one’s identity through consumption. That is to say, identity can be bought with money. The cool has become commodified and has been used as a marketing strategy. The dominant became ‘cool’ through the commodification of the concept of cool. For instance, the products of Apple Inc. are often associated with the idea of cool. As a response to IBM whose motto was “Think,” Apple Inc. cleverly adopted a new advertising slogan, “Think different.” By emphasizing “different,” Apple Inc. endowed consumers with coolness. Those 97 Dick Pountain and David Robins, Cool Rules : Anatomy of an Attitude, Focus on Contemporary Issues (London: Reaktion, 2000). 72 who were buying Apple products were motivated by their desire to have a distinctive lifestyle and identity. Whenever Apple Inc. falls short of the expected success of new products, newspapers have questioned whether Apple Inc. has lost its coolness to other competitors. Examples of these newspaper articles include the following: “Has Apple Lost Its Cool to Samsung?” 98 “Is Apple Losing Its Cool?” 99 and “Apple Is Losing Its Cool Factor, And That's A Problem If It Wants To Break Into TV.” 100 A number of governments have also taken this notion of the cool to imply the superiority of their culture in their national campaigns. The United Kingdom in the 1990s promoted a slogan, “Cool Britannia,” referring to the success of Britpop, art, and fashion. Through the slogan, the British government strove to invoke the image of an optimistic and vibrant nation in the 90s. Stryker McGuire in his discussion of Cool Britannia notes, “the great strength of London a decade ago was its uniqueness, and if Britannia was cool, it was because it was different.” 101 Taking the idea of ‘different’, the United Kingdom and Cool Britannia celebrated the phenomenal popularity and superiority of nation’s cultural products. 98 Ian Sherr and Evan Ramstad, “Has Apple Lost Its Cool to Samsung?” The Wall Street Journal, last modified January 28, 2013, https://www.wsj.com/articles/SB10001424127887323854904578264090074879024 (accessed August 20, 2019) 99 John C. Abell, “Is Apple losing its cool?” last modified February 19, 2013, https://www.cnn.com/2013/02/19/opinion/abell-apple-prospects/index.html (accessed August 20, 2019) 100 Alan Wolk, “Apple Is Losing Its Cool Factor, And That's A Problem If It Wants To Break Into TV,” Forbes, last modified September 7, 2017, https://www.forbes.com/sites/alanwolk/2017/09/07/apple-is-losing-its-cool-factor-and-thats-a- problem-if-they-want-to-break-into-tv/#377f336971f8 (accessed August 20, 2019) 101 Stryker McGuire, "This Time I've Come to Bury Cool Britannia," The Guardian 2009. 73 Fig. 1-1 Fig. 1-2 Similar to Cool Britannia, Japan has also adopted the concept of the cool to promote Japan’s cultural exports, including J-pop, manga, anime, fashion, film, consumer electronics, architecture, and cuisine. Douglas McGray wrote an article in Foreign Policy called “Japan’s Gross National Cool,” comparing the idea of ‘soft power’ to Japan’s national cool. 102 McGray writes, Japan is reinventing superpower—again. Instead of collapsing beneath its widely reported political and economic misfortunes, Japan’s global cultural influence has quietly grown. From pop music to consumer electronics, architecture to fashion, and animation to cuisine, Japan looks more like a cultural superpower today than it did in the 1980s, when it was an economic one. But can Japan build on its mastery of medium to project an equally powerful national message? 103 McGray’s article was influential and made the Japanese government to publicly discuss the concept of “Cool Japan” by 2005. National broadcaster NHK even broadcasted TV program, Cool Japan. 104 Prime Minister Junichiro Koizumi went so far as to announce that “Japan would be King of content par excellence.” 105 After a decade later, the Japanese government and the 102 Douglas McGray, "Japan's Gross National Cool," Foreign policy, no. 130 (2002). 103 Ibid. 104 Patrick St. Michel, “Japan’s Ministry of Cool,” The Atlantic, last modified March 19, 2015, https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2015/03/japan-and-the-power-of- coolness/387664/ (accessed August 20, 2019) 105 Kazuaki Nagata, "Exporting Culture Via ‘Cool Japan’: Meti Promoting Art, Food, Fashion Abroad to Cash in on 'Soft Power'," The Japan Times, 5/15/12 2012. 74 Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry (METI) decide to invest 500 million dollars over 20 years. 106 Fig. 2-1 Fig. 2-2 Interestingly, the Japanese government’s decision to invest money in soft power is influenced by what the Korean government did in 1998. According to METI, the South Korean government invested 500 million dollars to promote Korean cultural products. 107 The Japanese government made the investment after the government closely examined Korea’s campaign. In January 2012, the Creative Industries Division of the METI released a document, “Cool Japan Strategy,” in which they analyze a number of creative industries in developed countries. In light of South Korea, the document introduces “Cool Korea strategy” during President Kim Dae-jung era and discusses how South Korea with governmental support was able to succeed in the global market. 108 Insofar as Japan used to be the cultural hub for East Asia, it is ironic that Japan is now imitating South Korea’s cultural strategy. Koichi Iwabuchi posits that Japan’s coolness is the real locus of Asian production and consumption of intra-Asian popular culture. 109 But South Korea’s hallyu has taken over coolness from Japan and has recently predominated over the cultural realm 106 Roland Kelts, "Japan Spends Millions in Order to Be Cool," Time2013. 107 Ibid. 108 METI, “Cool Japan Strategy,” last modified January 2012, http://www.meti.go.jp/english/policy/mono_info_service/creative_industries/pdf /120116_01a.pdf (accessed August 20, 2019) 109 Kōichi Iwabuchi, Recentering Globalization : Popular Culture and Japanese Transnationalism (Durham: Duke University Press, 2002). 75 of Asia. It is ironic that MacGray’s article brought Japan’s attention to the notion of the cool in 2002, which is the year that Korea became cool through Winter Sonata. From Cool Britannia and Cool Japan to hallyu, the cool connotes the popularity of certain culture and its superiority, encouraging cultural dominance over the other. This notion of the cool is what I call the celebration of the dominant. Since the quintessential feature of the celebration of the dominant is attesting its superiority over other cultures and identities, this notion of the cool naturally constructs social and cultural hierarchy within the logic of globalization. The second notion of the cool, however, does the opposite of the first inasmuch as it breaks down the traditional hierarchy. The second notion of the cool is the spirit of resistance and defiance against the dominant, not the spirit of becoming and celebrating the dominant. Whereas the first notion is the commodification of style, the second notion is an attitude of resistance. Under the first notion, hallyu is celebrated as the culture of the cool and brings recognition to the historically invisible Zainichi. Under the second notion, however, hallyu becomes one of the centers or the adversaries that Zainichi (the periphery) need to overcome through an attitude of resistance. In other words, the celebrated hallyu created a transnational venue through which Zainichi subjects arise. Zainichi identity is reconstructed and visualized by resisting the culturally predominant discourse of hallyu among other centers. 76 Fig. 3-1 The above timeline of the cool indicates the convoluted and intermixed history of the development of the cool. Although cool has multiple origins and diverse meanings, scholars agree that “cool is said to have been transported to America with slavery, where it became a carefully crafted, emotionally controlled persona used as defense mechanism to cope with exploitation and discrimination.” 110, 111 Cool then moves to Jazz culture, “whereby cool became a culturally appropriated personality that represented antiestablishment attitudes and pursuits.” 112, 110 Lauren Gurrieri, "Cool Brands: A Discursive Identity Approach" (paper presented at the ANZMAC 2009: Sustainable Management and Marketing Conference Proceedings, 2009). 111 Richard Majors and Janet Mancini Billson, Cool Pose: The Dilemma of Black Manhood in America (Simon and Schuster, 1993)., Marlene Kim Connor, What Is Cool? Understanding Black Manhood in America (ERIC, 1995)., Dick Pountain and David Robins, Cool Rules: Anatomy of an Attitude (Reaktion books, 2000)., Clive Nancarrow, Pamela Nancarrow, and Julie Page, "An Analysis of the Concept of Cool and Its Marketing Implications," Journal of Consumer Behaviour 1, no. 4 (2002). 112 Gurrieri, "Cool Brands: A Discursive Identity Approach." 77 113 Later, cool took the form of symbolic representation and style through fashion, music, hairstyles and drugs. 114 The second notion of the cool follows the trajectory of the above original development of cool and adopts Jazz culture’s “antiestablishment attitudes and pursuits.” More specifically, the second notion refers to the resistance against the grain (dominant). If the first notion describes the way in which Zainichi attained the space to be recognized and represented, the second notion explains in what ways Zainichi reconstruct their identity and subjectivity. The second notion of the cool is “a way of being” 115 and “the style in which they are imagined.” 116 The discussion of African American jazz culture is imperative in the sense that the second notion heavily relies on African American culture’s resistance against the grain. Ted Gioia notes in The Birth and Death of the Cool, “the cool’s first stirrings came from the world of jazz…offering a dose of glamour and distinction to all who believed in its promises—promises all the more alluring for the cool vanguard’s disregard of class and racial categories, its reveling in precisely those groups who had been excluded from traditional power structures.” 117 To African Americans, jazz is not just a music genre, but it is a cultural form of resistance by distinguishing themselves from the dominant. Jazz musicians were often aware of the significance of their role as a protector of their cultural identity. It is not by coincidence that Miles Davis, who is regarded as one of the most influential musicians of the 20 th century, made 113 Norman Mailer, "The White Negro-Superficial Reflections on the Hipster," Dissent 4, no. 3 (1957)., LeRoi Jones and Amiri Baraka, Blues People: Negro Music in White America (Blackstone Audio, Incorporated, 2017)., Lewis MacAdams, Birth of the Cool: Beat, Bebop, and the American Avant Garde (Simon and Schuster, 2012). 114 Pountain and Robins, Cool Rules: Anatomy of an Attitude., MacAdams, Birth of the Cool: Beat, Bebop, and the American Avant Garde. 115 Pountain and Robins, Cool Rules: Anatomy of an Attitude. 116 Anderson, Imagined Communities : Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. 117 Ted Gioia, The Birth (and Death) of the Cool (Golden, Colo.: Speck Press, 2009)., 2. 78 albums relevant to the concept of cool such as Kind of Blue and Birth of the Cool. In jazz, coolness is unquestionably more than the indicative of temperature. It is a stylized attitude, which the subjugated naturally develop. Lewis MacAdams adds, “cool, then, became the ultimate revenge of the powerless. Cool was the one thing that the white slaveowner couldn’t own. Cool was the one thing money couldn’t buy. At its core, cool is about defiance.” 118 Unadulterated by the dominant, the culture of the periphery remains intact through the performance of the cool and cool itself becomes the culture of the periphery. Zainichi follow African American jazz culture’s stylized attitude and defiance and claims cool as the aesthetic modes of resistance. Here, I want to point out one important difference between jazz culture and Zainichi culture. In the case of jazz, it is clear who is slave and who is “the white slaveowner.” When cool is used as a mechanism of defiance in jazz, it is not difficult to identify against whom the subject resists. In other words, cool is a way of protecting one’s culture in jazz. Zainichi don’t have a clear adversary because Zainichi culture is located in between Japan and Korea. Zainichi reconstructs one’s subjectivity and culture through cool against multiple nations—Japan, North Korea, South Korea—and different generations of Zainichi. In order to show the conundrum of living in between multiple cultures, Zainichi films employ diverse tropes and cinematic languages of ambiguity, through which Zainichi resist the norm of Japanese cinema and reconstructs Zainichi subjectivity and identity. Zainichi films visualize a hitherto invisible life of Zainichi, asserting that the Zainichi way of life is not inferior but simply different. 118 Lewis MacAdams, Birth of the Cool : Beat, Bebop, and the American Avant-Garde (New York: Free Press, 2001)., 20. 79 Worst By Chance (Gu Su-yeon, 2003): Challenging the conventional language of Japanese cinema Worst By Chance exemplifies how a Zainichi film adopts the aesthetic of the cool to bring the audience’s attention to the in-between space. The film follows Hidenori, a Zainichi boy, who is an outcast. When he finds out that his sister is dead, he and his friends embark on a bizarre journey of sending his dead sister to Korea. Director Gu Su-yeon, himself a Zainichi, resists traditions and norms by making this avant-garde-ish experimental film. From ambiguous narrative structure and unrealistic characters to unfriendly editing and uncommon use of camera, music, and color, Gu makes his audience uncomfortable and challenges the conventional viewing experience. Narrative, stylistic, and metaphorical ambiguities that Gu engenders in Worst By Chance raise viewer’s border consciousness and shed light on convoluted and confused identity of Zainichi. Narrative ambiguity is mostly created by the characters in the film. Not just the main protagonist but everyone in the film seems to have ‘a screw loose.’ It is unclear what motivates the characters to do things that they do in the film. The main protagonist, for instance, decides things on impulse. He smiles all the time and looks innocent, but he doesn’t hesitate to commit multiple crimes from randomly slapping his sister on the face and shoplifting to stabbing a person and smuggling his dead sister’s body from Japan into Korea. Since the characters lack motivation, the viewer has no way of predicting what is going to happen next. The frustration of not knowing the future ironically gives certain freedom to the characters as well as the viewers. As the protagonists defy the law of society and do things that are regarded as taboo, the viewer begins to think outside the box and disregards stereotypes that are built on the norms of the society. Zainichi, who have not been imagined as part of monoethnic society of Japan, has no 80 boundaries of stereotypes and rules. Early in the film, the main protagonist looks right into camera and says, “I like bad people. I despise people who pretends to be good. I can’t say much about good people because I have never seen one.” Instead of trying to be good by following the rules of society, characters in this film deliberately ignore the standard of good and evil. As the viewer vicariously experiences the unpredictable life of freedom beyond the social boundary, they start to have border consciousness that validates Zainichi subject. In order to retain narrative ambiguity, Gu doesn’t provide enough information about characters and situations. Instead of having a clear beginning and ending in each sequence, the film deliberately moves back and forth creating confusion and leaving the feeling of nausea. Gu also leaves sequence open-ended. For example, when the male protagonist goes into a pawn shop for shoplifting, the film shows an awkward and funny conversation between the protagonist and an old man who owns the shop. At the end of the sequence, the protagonist takes off his mask and says that he is not Japanese, and the film moves on to another sequence without showing how the protagonist got the money. Did the protagonist kill the owner? Did the owner willingly give money to the protagonist? How did the owner react to the fact that the protagonist is not Japanese? The film leaves things unsaid. Gu also invites the viewer to look for clues. In a sequence of the protagonist and his sister having a conversation in the sister’s room, Gu implicitly suggests that they have committed incest. Not only does the sequence begins with his sister asking him whether he has had sexual intercourse before, but also shows the sister wearing four different underwear throughout the sequence. If the viewer doesn’t pay close attention to the underwear changes, the sequence is read as simple and awkward conversation between the two. When the viewer realizes the underwear changes, the viewer construes that the two might have 81 committed incest within the story. Through diverse mechanisms that create narrative ambiguity, Gu strives to continue his ambiguous play of signification. Stylistic ambiguity mainly revolves around the ambiguous play with the boundary of the frame. The first notable play is the use of handheld in a number of scenes. The unstable handheld camera provides shaken and intrusive close-ups that signify the unpredictable personality and insecure mental status of the characters. When the handheld camera is employed, the viewer cannot predict the boundary between onscreen and offscreen. The handheld camera shakes too much that it doesn’t provide enough time for the viewer to conceive the diegetic space. Fig.4-1 Fig.4-2 Another ambiguous play with the boundary of the frame is the deliberate positioning of figures on the border of on/offscreen. The frame divides the diegetic world into two: onscreen (visible) and offscreen (invisible). Although the offscreen is part of the narrative world, the audience is hardly aware of what is going on in the offscreen and gives no attention to the invisible space. Gu blurs the boundary of onscreen and offscreen by placing characters on the border of the frame and forces the viewer to be aware of the offscreen space. In general, many films validate the offscreen space by making characters enter/exit the screen or making characters speak from offscreen. Not many films, however, use the on/offscreen the way Gu does. In fig. 4-1 and fig. 4-2, Hidenori’s body is right on the border of on/offscreen. In fig. 4-1, the 82 camera could have panned to the right and have composed a balanced two shot during the conversation between an old man and Hidenori. Instead, the camera deliberately positions Hidenori on the border and creates an unbalanced scene. In fig. 4-2, Hidenori intentionally walks to the right edge of the frame from left background and remains there as he practices what he will say during shoplifting. Just as other stylistic choices Gu makes, his experimentation with on/offscreen goes against the conventional expectations of the viewer. Fig. 5-1 Fig. 5-2 Fig. 5-3 Fig. 5-4 The last ambiguous play is Dutch angle—the horizontal line of the shot is not parallel to the bottom of the frame. According to Christopher Bowen and Roy Thompson, the Dutch shot causes a sense of disorientation for the viewer. 119 In the film, the Dutch shot is constantly employed throughout the film and it effectively portrays the psychological uneasiness of characters. Fig 5-3, for example, shows Hidenori talking on the phone while walking. He is 119 Christopher J. Bowen and Roy Thompson, Grammar of the Shot, Third edition. ed. (Burlington, MA: Focal Press, 2013)., 82. 83 confirming another location where he and his sister will depart to South Korea. The camera is shooting nothing eventful. Gu employs the Dutch angle in normal situations like this out of nowhere. When the Dutch angle randomly appears, the scene betrays the viewer’s expectation of what the screen would capture. In other words, the Dutch angle suggests the alternative reality of what is visible and what is not. The twistedness of the angle becomes a means of creating a new perspective. Fig. 6-1 Fig. 6-2 Fig. 7-1 Fig. 7-2 The Dutch angle is important because not only does it provide a new perspective but it also defies traditional film language. One of Gu’s other films, Hard Romanticker (2011) often adopts the Dutch angle, too. Fig. 6-1 is the quintessential example of how Gu defies the cinematic language of Japanese tradition. The scene of fig. 6-1 has a low camera position, which reminds the viewer of Ozu Yasujiro’s tatami shot and pillow shot. Ozu is known for tatami shot 84 that has a low camera angle, setting the camera two to three feet off the ground. 120 The scene of fig. 6-1 lasts more than twenty seconds until the protagonist appears on screen and shows a certain similarity to Ozu’s pillow shot which refers to carefully composed scenes that are seemingly random shots of a few seconds. 121 The only difference is the twisted angle. Whereas Ozu’s shots of fig. 7-1 and 7-2 show well-composed stable frame, Gu’s films deliberately defy the stable framing that has become the norm of Japanese cinema. By utilizing the Dutch angle, Gu reveals the unstable mental status of characters, challenges the spectator’s viewing experience, and defies the language of traditional Japanese cinema. In so doing, Gu successfully challenges the established notion of boundary and invites the invisible offscreen to be part of the narrative just as Zainichi (the hitherto invisible) become part of the cultural imagination of Japanese society. Lastly, Gu creates metaphoric ambiguity by means of questioning and ridiculing the boundary between life and death. Worst By Chance begins with a shot of Taro, who got stabbed in the chest, leaning against the wall. The camera in low position continues shooting without moving. While the camera is fixed on Taro, the audience sees people passing by in the background. Nobody pays attention to Taro as if he is invisible and as if his presence—whether dead or not—doesn't really matter to society. After about 17 seconds of awkward static shot, Taro wakes up and tells the audience that he is not dead. The ending sequence of the film also presents Taro getting stabbed. The beginning and the end of the film are presumably the same incident. Nonetheless, the audience cannot be sure of two sequences being the same, because the camera is not positioned at the same location. In the beginning of the film, the camera is on 120 David Bordwell, Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema (London, Princeton, N.J.: BFI Pub.; Princeton University Press, 1988). 121 Noël Burch and Annette Michelson, To the Distant Observer : Form and Meaning in the Japanese Cinema (London: Scolar Press, 1979). 85 Taro’s left side, but at the end of the film, the camera is on Taro’s right side. While shot differently, what Taro does and says remains the same in these two scenes, making it ambiguous whether the two are the same or not. Fig.8-1 Fig.8-2 Insofar as the sequence doesn't affect the main narrative, it is debatable why Gu inserts this subplot in the beginning and at the end of the film. One explanation is that Gu challenges the conventional relationship between the film and the viewer. As the film breaks the fourth wall, the audience is no longer a mere spectator. With some critical distance, the audience feels responsible to respond to emerging questions: are the two scenes the same or different? Is he dead or alive? Is it real or not? Why does nobody pay attention to him? At the heart of these questions, one critical question remains to be answered: is he visible or invisible? Taro’s scene reflects the reality of Zainichi’s daily life in Korea. While people in the film pass by as if Taro is invisible, Taro is more than visible to the audience. Whether Taro suffers or not and whether Taro is dead or not, it doesn't matter, because the Japanese society can’t see it. But the audience starts to see things that the rest of the society can’t. As these two scenes play with the boundary of life and death, they set the tone for the rest of the film, which is the unreal exploration of the invisible. 86 Another character who plays with the boundary of life and death is Hidenori’s elder sister, Nanako. Hidenori and other friends abduct the dead body of Nanako and travel together to a designated place where they will send the dead body to South Korea. In the middle of the film, Nanako wakes up and has a conversation with Yumiko, the female protagonist. They mainly talk about the relationship between Hidenori and Yumiko. Yumiko denies any love interest between her and Hideonori. But when she has another conversation with Nanako at the end of the film, Yumiko indirectly admits her affection toward Hidenori. What is noteworthy is the fact that these life/death sequences emblematize the changing attitude of the Japanese towards Zainichi. As the film blurs the boundary between life and death, the viewer becomes more aware of marginalized subjects living in-between. In Taro’s sequence, there is one significant difference between the two scenes. While Taro’s presence is completely ignored by people in the first scene, at the end of the film a boy recognizes Taro and innocently asks Taro if being stabbed hurt. Taro literally goes from disrecognition to recognition. In Nanako’s case, she asks Yumiko (the Japanese)’s feeling toward Hidenori (Zainichi) and Yumiko reveals her affection towards Hidenori at the end of the film. Through the trope of life and death, Gu encourages the viewer to recognize and accept Zainichi as part of society. Just as stylistic ambiguity defies the traditional language of Japanese cinema, the metaphoric trope of death also forms a type of defiance. Whereas the Japanese cinema has a tendency of romanticizing death, Worst By Chance ridicules the image of death by reviving characters without logical reasoning. According to Stuart D. B. Picken, the mentality of bushido—the way of the warrior—has influenced Japanese attitudes towards death. He notes, “there developed from feudal times, an image of death as glorious, that came to be manipulated 87 in the interests first of centralized state control and later, of imperial expansionism.” 122 Thereafter the act of suicide and death became a proof of loyalty and devotion. Such ideal continues to exist in a samurai jidaigeki film like The 47 Ronins (Mizoguchi Kenji, 1941) and a melodrama film Double Suicide (Shinoda Masahiro, 1969) and maintains its influence over contemporary pure-love films in the 2000s. Erica Poon Ka Yan remarks, “among the fifteen identified pure-love films in the 2000s, eleven involve the death of one of the couples.” 123 The romanticization of death is undoubtedly an important part of Japanese cinema. Going against the tradition of the romanticization of death, Worst By Chance resists the norm of Japanese cinema by ridiculing the image of death. As the characters in the film return to life, the cycle of life and death is playfully ignored. When the characters come back to life, the film depicts them as lively and comical. Taro in particular acts as if he is faking death when he actually has a knife stabbed to his stomach. As death becomes the source of farce and comedy, the image of death is no longer romanticized. Moreover, the absurdity of the playfulness erases the ambience of mono no aware, which refers to the awareness of the transience of all things that lead to the appreciation of its beauty. The feeling of melancholic and gentle sadness is evoked when things are passing. In the sense that mono no aware is regarded as a central philosophy of Japanese cultural tradition, Gu successfully defies the norms of Japanese cinema through the ambiguous play of death. A Moment of Ambiguity in Daily Lives of Zainichi in Yang Yong-hi’s Films 122 Stuart D. B. Picken, “Bushido: The Way of Death (12/20),” last modified June 2, 2016, https://think.iafor.org/bushido-way-death/ (accessed August 20, 2019) 123 Erica Ka Yan Poon, "Love and Death in Recent Japanese Cinema," Journal of Japanese and Korean Cinema 4, no. 2 (2012). 88 If Gu’s films regard Japan as the dominant that he needs to be in defiance of, Yang questions Zainichi identity from the side of North Korea. Growing up as the daughter of a North Korean patriot, Yang has lived a peculiar life that could only be experienced by second generation of Zainichi. Her family is literally in between Japan and North Korea since her father sent three sons back to ‘homeland’ when North Korea had a campaign called a “paradise.” Her brothers were among 90,000 people who were repatriated to North Korea from the late 1950s to the early 1980s. 124 At the time, many Zainichi thought that going back to North Korea was an opportunity to get away from social discrimination and disrecognition in Japan. Yang’s father thought in the same way and made the decision of sending his sons to North Korea, separating the family into two. 125 Based on her family experience, she made two documentaries showing her family in Japan and North Korea—Dear Pyongyang (2005) and Sona, the Other Myself (2011)—and one feature film—Our Homeland (2012)—based on her actual experience of reuniting with her brother, who briefly returned to Japan to receive medical treatment. As she depicts the daily lives of her family who represent the voices of contemporary Zainichi, she captures on camera how her family is coping with the life of living in two nations. I want to closely analyze specific moments in which the film creates narrative ambiguity. Her films do have pivotal moments of ambiguity that connote the ambivalent status of Zainichi in between two nations Our Homeland tells the story of Seong-ho who temporarily returns to Japan to receive medical treatment. Seong-ho’s father sent him back to North Korea when North Korea had a 124 “Our Homeland’ director testifies about tragedy of ethnic Koreans in japan.” The Korea Times. 7 October 2012. Retrieved 1 June 2018. 125 Kaori Shoji, “Double Life of a North Korean Japanese Filmmaker,” last modified May 4, 2011, http://travel.cnn.com/explorations/life/double-life-north-koreanjapanese-filmmaker- 038337/ (Accessed August 20, 2019) 89 campaign of promising ‘paradise’ in the North. Seong-ho’s two other brothers went together, but Seong-ho’s parents and younger sister stayed behind in Japan. The film follows Seong-ho and his sister Rie as Seong-ho spends a few days in Japan. The title of the film doesn’t explicitly say which nation is ‘our homeland.’ Yang in an interview said, “homeland doesn’t necessarily mean a nation, but a place where a family can live as a whole. Seongho, Rie, father, and mother. Each person has a different idea of where that place should be. In that regards, there is no such thing as ‘our homeland’ to this family. I am still looking for a nation that I can call ‘home.’” 126 The frustration of not being able to identify ‘home’ is explored in the ambiguous play of the film. The first moment of ambiguity is in a conversation between Rie and Yang, who is Seong-ho’s minder. Yang is sitting in the car and watching over Seong-ho’s house. Rie has just been asked by her brother if she wants to be a spy working for North Korea in Japan. Rie refuses and heads to Yang, who is outside the house, to complain to him. In this sequence, two things are intriguing. First, there is no language barrier even though Rie speaks Japanese and Yang speaks Korean. This shows that Zainichi identity cannot rely on one’s vernacular language since they speak both. Second, Rie tells Yang, “I despise you and your country.” Yang responds, “the nation that you hate is where I and your brother live. We will have to live there until we die.” It is ironic that Rie calls North Korea as ‘your country’ when she has North Korean citizenship as well. Although the film doesn’t explicitly problematize Rie’s national identity, Yang’s answer to Rie hints at her dilemma. Although she might regard herself as Japanese and not North Korean, she can’t deny the fact that her family is in North Korea. If she wants to imagine ‘our homeland’ 126 Bomi Park박보미, “naraneun tgukgatga anira gajogi hamkkehal su inneun got,” 나라는 국가가 아니라 가족이 함께할 수 있는 곳 [Nation is where family can be together, not the state], The hankyureh, http://www.hani.co.kr/arti/culture/movie/554611.html#csidxa6835fcaf7502e184335076c69884d 8 (accessed August 20, 2019) 90 as the title of the film suggests, she will have to find another identity that is neither Korean nor Japanese. Herein Zainichi subjectivity begins to rise above the surface of viewer’s border consciousness. Another way of the film’s coping with the frustration is through a song. When Seong-ho meets his childhood friends, one of his friends starts playing guitar and singing a song called White Swing. This song is reminiscent of Seong-ho’s childhood in Japan and a piece of memory that he shares with a girl who he had a crush on. As his friends sing the song, Seong-ho follows and starts singing, too. Fig. 9-1 Fig. 9-2 Fig. 9-3 Fig. 9-4 The singing sequence begins with fig. 9-1. The camera shows the party in a long shot. As the song begins the camera cuts to fig. 9-2 in which Seong-ho is excluded from the shot. In the middle of the song, Seong-ho starts to sing the song from the offscreen, and other people begin to stop singing one by one and pitifully look at Seong-ho. As Seong-ho starts singing alone, the 91 camera pans right and provides a shallow depth of field only to Seong-ho. In this sequence, the camera deliberately separates Seong-ho from the rest of the group. In so doing, the film implicitly suggests that Seong-ho and other people in the room don’t share the same identity anymore albeit they are singing the same song. The song only reminds them of the fact that they were once together but not anymore. Music has been central to diasporic formations and Zainichi cinema has also adopted a number of songs in the film to reveal their national identity. Two songs that are popular in Zainichi cinema are Imjin River and Arirang. The latter song particularly epitomizes “a lament of separation and a dream of eventual reunion and has served as a powerful ethno-national allegory at various junctures.” 127 Usually these songs are sung in Zainichi films as the aesthetic modes of resistance against the dominant, showing the displacement of Zainichi from the homeland. Then what about Our Homeland? How should the viewer comprehend the fact that the protagonists sing a Japanese folk song that doesn’t even represent Japan as a whole? Is Seong-ho calling Japan his homeland? If so, the film should have used more representative song that is easily associated with national allegory of Japan. Perhaps, the film wants to recall the time of youth before any political and ethnic stigmatization emerge. That is to say, where Seong-ho wants to return isn’t Japan but somewhere in between. The song does not specifically identify the location of homeland. Instead, Seong-ho’s performance of singing a childhood song is a means of resistance against the dominant (North Korea). Yang’s documentary, Sona, the Other Myself also has a moment of ambiguity that aids the construction of Zainichi identity. The film is about the experience of Yang’s visit to her family in North Korea. In this film, Yang spends more time with Sona, her niece. Sona’s bright 127 Dew, Zainichi Cinema : Korean-in-Japan Film Culture. 92 and cheerful personality under the North Korean education system is not something the viewer expects. The common perception of North Korean students is a rigidly disciplined group of children, not the pure and innocent vibe that Sona exudes. Sona is from a relatively privileged class and has a certain level of freedom. She likes Hello Kitty clothes and wears Mickey Mouse socks. She seems to enjoy her youth and time in North Korea. As Yang follows Sona with a camera, Yang was able to capture a glimpse of reality that is different from what Yang normally see from Sona. In this particular scene, Yang tells Sona that she likes to watch theaters. After a moment of hesitation, Sona asks Yang to turn off the camera for the first time. Then we see their conversation in subtitles with black screen. Sona: What kinds of play have you watched so far? Aunt: Broadway Musicals such as Chicago, Cabaret, Les Misérables, Chorus Line. And I also enjoy watching the work of Hideki Noda Sona: ????????????? Aunt: I am sorry. I look like an idiot, right? Sona: I don’t know much about it. But it is better than not listening anything. If you are okay, please tell me more about it Yang said in an interview, “it wasn’t a political discussion. The conversation about theater is not a sin. Yet, Sona asks me to turn off the camera. For fifteen years, I put the camera in front of her face and never once she refused the camera. How difficult it must have been for her.” 128 When Sona asks her aunt to turn the camera off, the viewer questions the reality of what they have seen so far. Perhaps, Sona has performed her innocent and lively personality. Apparently, Sona has been aware of the fact that she has been recorded on the camera all the time. All along, Sona has been acutely aware of the boundary between what is permitted and not. When it came to the 128 Donghyun Lee 이동현, “naedal 3il gaebong tgutbai pyeongyangt yangyeonghui gamdok inteobyu,” 내달 3일 개봉 ‘굿바이 평양’ 양영희 감독 인터뷰 [The filmmaker Yang Young-hi interview whose film Goodbye Pyongyang premieres on the 3 rd day of next month], last modified February 28, 2011, http://www.minjokcorea.co.kr/sub_read.html?uid=7906&section=sc9 (accessed August 20, 2019) 93 discussion of theater, Sona wasn’t sure if the conversation would be against the will of the North Korean government or not. This is where Sona’s masquerade ends. Ironically, this moment of truth emerges when the camera is turned off. The space of the invisible reveals Sona’s Zainichi identity. If she truly conforms to the rules of North Korea, Sona would not have asked further questions about theater, especially when she is not sure of the topic being taboo or not. In this case, asking questions about topics that might be taboo to the society is in itself a mode of resistance. At the end of off-camera conversation, Sona says, “If you are okay, please tell me more about it.” Going beyond what the community allows one to imagine, Sona is ready to violate the norm of the society to attain Zainichi identity through the influence of her aunt. Blood and Bones: the Ambiguous Language of the Grotesque Whereas the previous sections analyze Zainichi films in its relation to the national identity of Japan and North Korea. Choi Yang-il’s Blood and Bones (2004) discloses the frustration of Zainichi identity against the violent and oppressive mediation by the center, that is, the older generation of Zainichi. The film is based on Yang Sok-il’s semiautobiographical novel and tells the story of Zainichi family. In 1923, Kim Joon-pyong (Shunpei) travels to Osaka, Japan from Jeju Island, South Korea, seeking a new opportunity for a better life. Kim runs his own fish cake factory and makes a fortune by exploiting his Zainichi employees. His obsession with money hurts his relationships with other people. He eventually becomes a loan shark. Throughout the film, Kim is depicted as a cruel, greedy, and violent man who physically and psychologically abuses his family. Kim shows no ethical or moral responsibility to his family as he goes on and lives with his mistresses right in front of his family. 94 Choi, who is also known as Sai Yoichi in Japan, is a critically acclaimed filmmaker who has made numerous films in Japan. With Blood and Bones alone, he won four Japanese Academy Awards, including Best Director and Best Screenplay. His mother is Japanese, and his father is Zainichi Korean. Through films like All Under the Moon (1993)—also known as Where is the Moon?)—and Blood and Bones, he has delved into the issue of Zainichi identity. In 2007, he also made a Korean language film Soo that questions one’s identity through the story of a twin. This chapter only examines Blood and Bones. What distinguishes Blood and Bones from other Zainichi films and the rest of his oeuvre is that the adversary of Zainichi in this film is neither Japan nor Korea, but another Zainichi. Note that the film is told from the perspective of Masao, Kim’s son, who greatly fears his father. The image of suppression and discrimination comes through Masao’s experience with his father. The film seems to follow the life of a violent tyrant. In light of minor transnationalism and its attempt to overcome the hierarchical structure of society, the film intentionally makes Masao a narrator. In so doing, the film places Kim in the position of the center, which Masao (the periphery) needs to confront and be defiant towards. From the first moment Kim appears in the film, Kim makes it clear to the viewer what kinds of a person he is. He comes home and says “Kimchi,” revealing his Zainichi identity and then a little later he rapes his wife. As the camera shows the rape scene, the viewer hears Masao’s narration. From the beginning of the film, the viewer recognizes the ferocious nature of Kim. More than just being violent and cruel, the film captures Kim through the language of grotesque. According to Michelle Li, the grotesque is a mode of representation that centers on “exaggerated or fantastic depictions of the body or bodily realities such as eating, drinking, 95 smelling, evacuating, copulating, and giving birth.” 129 The grotesque depictions of the body bring the viewer’s attention to the space between the absurd and the terrifying, the vile and the comic, disgust and irony. The grotesque provokes “incongruities and uncertainties” and is “used as demarcations of otherness and difference.” 130 In order to comprehend grotesquerie in all its complexity and ambiguity, Justin Edwards and Rune Graulund argue that we must acknowledge two important questions: ‘what is normal’ and ‘what is abnormal?’ They remark that answering these questions leads to “ambivalence about the abnormal. In this, the ambivalently abnormal is part of the state of uncertainty where predetermined conditions and ways of seeing the normative world are challenged.” 131 This is exactly what is going on in Blood and Bones, the creation of these moments of the grotesque. The grotesque functions as a means of resisting the conventional imagination of Japanese or Korean cinema and claiming the space-in-between. Among diverse definitions of the grotesque, Mikhail Bakhtin’s notion of the grotesque body is most pertinent to this chapter’s discussion of Zainichi. According to Bakhtin, the grotesque body emphasizes the parts of the body that are open and connected to the outside world, that is, liminal parts through which the world enters the body and the body goes out to the world. Bakhtin notes, The grotesque body is not separated from the rest of the world. It is not a closed, completed unit; it is unfinished, outgrows itself, transgresses its own limits. The stress is laid on those parts of the body that are open to the outside world, that is, the parts through which the world enters the body or emerges from it, or through which the body itself goes out to meet the world, this means that the emphasis is 129 Michelle Ilene Osterfeld Li, Ambiguous Bodies : Reading the Grotesque in Japanese Setsuwa Tales (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2009). 130 Justin D. Edwards and Rune Graulund, Grotesque, The New Critical Idiom (Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY: Routledge, 2013). 2. 131 Ibid. 8. 96 on the apertures or the convexities, or on various ramifications and offshoots: the open mouth, the genital organs, the breast, the phallus, the potbelly, the nose. 132 In her discussion of Bakhtin, Katharine Young adds, “the grotesque ignores the impenetrable surface that closes and limits the body as a separate and completed phenomenon. The grotesque body image displays not only the outward but the inner features of the body: blood, bowels, heart and other organs. The outward and inward features are often merged into one.” 133 We are accustomed to see the outer body, but not inside. As the inside becomes visible and comprises a part of the imagined body, it becomes a source of anxiety and inquiry, situating the body on the boundary between the accepted and the taboo. Devouring categories and boundaries that constitute the norms of the society, the grotesque frees participants from fundamental belief system and assumed positions that are created by the hierarchical structure of the society. In one specific sequence, Blood and Bones invites the viewers to participate in constructing the grotesque body that is aware of both inside and outside of the body. In this sequence, although the viewer is not informed what occasion it is for, the film shows that the whole town is excited about killing a pig. In this day of carnival, people hang a live pig and Kim thrusts a knife into the pig’s belly, drawing blood. Then the viewers see people taking out intestines, with which they make sausages. Kim also cuts the pig into pieces. After seeing the pig inside out, the viewer sees Kim making a special food for himself, that is, marinated raw meat. When Kim returns later to check the meat, the meat is swarming with maggots. Kim smiles after seeing the maggots, letting the viewer know that the meat was supposed to be that way. In a following scene, Kim eats the meat without cooking. Since the viewer is unfamiliar with the food, 132 M. M. Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, 1st Midland book ed. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984). 26. 133 Katharine Galloway Young, Presence in the Flesh : The Body in Medicine (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997). 108. 97 the viewer questions whether the meat is edible or not. In this moment of questioning, the viewer becomes aware of the food entering the body from the outside to the inside. The viewer acknowledges mouth as the liminal space that connects two worlds. Here, the act of eating becomes a conscious and selective choice of what to consume and what not to consume. As Kim eats the ambiguous meat that is between rotten and fresh, the viewer imagines consuming the same food, which becomes a source of anxiety. When Kim eats unidentifiable and repugnant food that is beyond our conception of food, the viewer becomes aware of the act of eating and conscious of its status between the absurd and the terrifying. In other words, the film connects the two worlds—the outside and the inside—by breaking the conventional boundaries of the outside and the inside. Then what do the outside and the inside signify? We might find the clues from the reaction of Masao and Kim’s mistress. When young Masao sees his father eating the meat that is swarming with maggots. He throws up. Kim is disappointed at Masao who is not able to endure the site of Kim’s act of eating. Kim blames his wife for raising Masao weak and says, “the next son that’s born, I’ll raise.” In a following scene, we are introduced to Kim’s mistress, Kiyoko, by whom Kim tries to give a birth to another son. After two years, when Kiyoko still has no news of being pregnant, Kim questions Kiyoko why she can’t have a baby. Then he drags her out of the house and forces her to eat the meat. Kim says, “Eat it, regain your powers and have my baby!” When Kiyoko refuses to eat, Kim opens her mouth against her will and put the meat in her mouth. Kiyoko, however, never chews or swallows the meat. Perhaps the reactions of Masao and Kiyoko to the act of eating the ambiguous meat signify the location of Zainichi within the Japanese society. In these two cases, it is evident that Kim draws a parallel between eating the meat and being his son. The meat signifies Zainichi identity and his son should be able to eat it. 98 Whereas the meat is a source of anxiety to others, it is a source of strength and power to Kim. The repugnant reaction to the meat is an emblematic refusal of Zainichi identity. The grotesque—in the sense that the raw meat leads to ambivalence about the abnormal—culture of Zainichi is not sustainable in the normative body. Note that the meat remains in Kiyoko’s mouth, the in-between-space where the outward and the inner features of the body meet. What is natural to the first generation Zainichi is never part of the Japanese. To put it differently, the second generation of Zainichi (Masao) and the Japanese (Kiyoko) are not able to internalize the logic of the grotesque that connotes the life of Zainichi. In addition to how Kim forces others to recognize the grotesque body by virtue of the raw meat, Kim himself embodies the ambiguous language of the grotesque as he becomes partially paralyzed. According to Edwards and Graulund, the grotesque body is incomplete, lacking in vital parts. Grotesque figures combine human, non-human, animal, and vegetable attributes. The first-person narrator of Patrick McGrath’s novel, Sir Hugo embodies the grotesque combination of human and vegetable attributes. Sir Hugo suffers from complete paralysis and he is unable to walk, drink or feed himself. Sir Hugo remarks, “I have come to believe that to be a grotesque is my destiny. For a man who turns into a vegetable—isn’t that a grotesque?” 134 Sir Hugo experiences the grotesque in every moment of his life. Naturally, it defines his life and his identity. In the same vein, Kim’s experience of paralysis defines his identity through the concept of the grotesque. Kim’s paralysis occurs in the carnivalesque setting where the traditional definition of the grotesque as a combination of the humorous and the horrible applies. The sequence begins with people eating and drinking in the funeral of Kim’s daughter, Hanako. 134 Patrick McGrath, The Grotesque : A Novel (New York: Poseidon Press, 1989). 16. 99 Although Masao crosses swords with his brother-in-law, everything is in order and the dead body of Hanako lies peacefully in the room. When Kim enters the room, however, everything starts to change. After seeing Kim, the husband of Kim’s daughter acts as if he grieves for his wife’s death out of fear of Kim. A nonsensical conversation between Kim and his son-in-law grows into a physical fight and somehow the physical fight takes over the whole crowd, making a carnival out of funeral. The film portrays this scene ambiguously. While the situation is genuinely serious and severe, humorous elements also coexist. As the people pick a fight with one another, a few people move around the dead body of Hanako to prevent the harm. The camera captures the scene, the viewer is left with the ambiguous feeling of the humorous and the horrible. The scene reaches the pinnacle of ambiguity when Kim falls down due to a sudden paralysis of his leg. Then for more than a minute, the viewer watches Kim trying to get up. This is arguably the first moment that Kim reveals his weakness. Kim even calls his wife for help. From this moment to the end of the film, the viewer sees that Kim is no longer in control of his life or the lives of people around him. Once a violent and ruthless man, he is now exploited by the people whom he exploited and abused for a long time. The grotesque body provides a space wherein norms are reversed. The film ends showing Kim lying on the bed in North Korea, turning completely into a vegetable. The ending suggests that Kim himself is the grotesque. Zainichi Identity through the Aesthetics of the Cool If Kim is the grotesque and his body is the grotesque body, in what historical and cultural contexts should we read the body? Wolfgang Kayser contends that the grotesque carries 100 transhistorical and transcultural elements that universally exists in different periods of history. 135 However, Bakhtin thinks otherwise. He argues that the grotesque body should be read historically. 136 Miriam Silverberg follows Bakhtin’s view and notes in her book, Erotic, Grotesque, Nonsense: The Mass Culture of Japanese Modern Times, “the rise of erotic grotesque nonsense in the early 1930 is usually deemed to be the decadent pivot between an era of ‘modernism’ and the years of ‘fascism.’” 137 She then extends this moment of erotic grotesque nonsense from 1923 to 1938. In a similar way, I contend that the aesthetics of the cool is a pivotal moment of Zainichi identity between an era of nationalism and the years of globalization in the early 21 st century. I argue that the aesthetics of the cool emerge in the early 2000s as hallyu becomes cool. Instead of regarding the cool as a few years of phenomenon, I extend the periods of the cool from the early 2000s to present. In so doing, I construe any type of the languages of ambiguity and resistance in Zainichi films as the aesthetic of the cool, which is not a specific style or genre, but an attitude and mode of the demarcations of otherness and difference. In defiance of Zainichi identity, Zainichi films go against the grain and reverse the norms within a hierarchical structure of society. According to Françoise Lionnet and Shu-mei Shih in Minor Transnationalism, the transnational can be conceived as a space of exchange and participation without necessary mediation by the center. This space is what the aesthetics of the cool strives to achieve, being represented and explored instead of being exploited. Then who forms the center that Zainichi (the periphery) attempts to overcome? This chapter suggests no 135 Wolfgang Johannes Kayser, The Grotesque in Art and Literature, Morningside ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1981). 136 Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World. 137 Miriam Rom Silverberg, Erotic Grotesque Nonsense : The Mass Culture of Japanese Modern Times, Asia Pacific Modern (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). 101 simple answer to this question. Three directors are purposely chosen to represent disparate dominants (centers) in the construction of Zainichi identity. Gu’s Worst By Chance revolves around Zainichi youths who are struggling against the Japanese society. Yang’s films tell stories based on her personal experience of North Korea. Choi’s film, Blood and Bones follows the life of a first-generation Korean (Kim) in Japan through the eyes of next generation (Masao). The complexity of Zainichi identity is due to the existence of multiple centers—Japan, North Korea, South Korea, and different generations of Zainichi. Not only do these three directors reconstruct Zainichi identity against different centers, but they also adopt distinctive languages of ambiguity that constitute the aesthetics of the cool. They adopt narrative, stylistic, and metaphorical ambiguities to assert the space in between two or more cultures. The most common of these is narrative resistance. Due to Zainichi’s experience of discrimination and disrecognition in Japan, the main plot of many Zainichi films revolves around the actual resistance of the protagonist against society. Namely, Go, Pacchigi!, and Pacchigi! Love & Peace show physical defiance against society. Choi’s Blood and Bones arguably falls into this category since the film captures the life of an abused family, fighting the patriarchal tyranny. Choi also employs metaphorical ambiguity through the grotesque body. Gu adopts narrative, stylistic and metaphorical ambiguities that challenge the conventional norm of the filmic language of Japanese cinema. Yang’s films, which show the daily life of Zainichi family, also exemplify the ambiguous plays of signification through which Zainichi subjectivity rises above the monoethnic paradigm of Japanese society and achieves self-reflexive and highly self-conscious status. Combining the different modes of resistance in the films of the three filmmakers, this chapter valorizes the distinctive culture of Zainichi in the space-in-between, where it is possible to imagine a cultural space without mediation of the center. 102 Chapter 3 Coping with the Double Consciousness of Korean Transnational Cinema: Imagining North Korea through Diverse Notions of Masculinity Secretly, Greatly (Jang Cheol-soo, 2013) follows North Korean spies who disguise themselves as a village idiot, a rock musician, and a high school student. As a result of power shift in the North, they receive an order to commit suicide. The protagonists refuse to follow the order and a North Korean army instructor is sent to eliminate the protagonists. The final battle sequence takes places in the above imagery of high-rise apartments. After killing the North Korean army instructor and his followers, Lieutenant Won Ryu-wan (a village idiot played by Kim Soo-hyun) and Rhee Hae-jin (a high school student) confront a South Korean SWAT team. The leader of the SWAT team strives hard to convince the protagonists to defect to the South and says, “Please stop. You can all live, bastards.” But Rhee fires warning shots as he says, “Do you 103 think that I will be a dog for the South, just because I abandoned my nation?” Responding to the warning shots, the SWAT team fires back at Rhee. Lieutenant Won tries to cover Rhee with his body, but both get shot and they fall off or jump from the building. What is odd about the location of the final battle is that the film does not provide any narrative context of why the climatic sequence takes place in a high-rise apartment. More importantly, it is ambiguous whether the apartments are under construction or not. On the one hand, the frames of buildings are exposed and look like they are abandoned, but at the same time, construction equipment on site insinuates that the buildings are still under construction. The apartment is not displayed as a way of showing glamorous, cosmopolitan life of modern society or its bright future. Nor does the sequence suggest that the site is under the process of demolition, which often romanticizes the past. 138,139,140 The film ends without fully exploring the ambiguous signs of the building. In other words, the film has intentionally chosen the ambiguous space and deliberately retains an ambivalent attitude to the signs. Perhaps, the equivocal nature of the location alludes to the ethnically, culturally, and socio-politically complicated relationship between the North and the South. It is not just space that is oddly and ambiguously presented. The two men who fall off the building have a sexually vague relationship throughout the film. Particularly, the ending 138 In a Chinese film, Shower (Zhang Yang, 1999), the camera captures the images of demolition site at the end of the film. Yomi Braester criticizes that these scenes create a sense of filmic nostalgia, which conceals social reality and romanticizes the past. A number of Singaporean films—I Not Stupid (Jack Neo, 2002), Money No Enough (Jack Neo, 1998), and One Leg Kicking (Khoo Koh, 2001)—utilize shots of the Housing Development Board (HDB) high-rise estates, which self-consciously connotes social predicament of the Singaporean society, namely “the exposure of Singapore’s modernizing ‘failure.’” 139 Yomi Braester, "Tracing the City’s Scars," The urban generation, Chinese cinema and society at the turn of the twenty-first century (2007). 140 Olivia Khoo, "Slang Images: On the ‘Foreignness’ of Contemporary Singaporean Films," Inter-Asia Cultural Studies 7, no. 1 (2006)., 88 104 sequence of the film shows the main protagonist (Lieutenant Won) hugging another man (Rhee) in order to protect him from bullets fired. Under heavy rain, the film reveals the wet, muscular, thin, attractive body of the protagonist. The following scenes present two men hugging in shot reverse shot, emphasizing the intimacy between the two men. The film does not clarify whether the relationship is brotherly love or romantic love. Instead, the film exploits the elements of soft masculinity and kkonminam culture—I will explain more about these terms throughout the chapter—in the relationship between these two men. These new types of masculinity have recently gained popularity among female spectators and challenge the male-dominated imagination of Korean cinema. Although female characters have appeared in many films, these figures—usually whore and mother—often exist for the sake of male subjectivity. What is unique about the recent trend of soft masculinity and kknominam culture is that they no longer remain in the realm of male subjectivity, but answers to the desires and questions of the previously marginalized groups such as queer and women’s subjectivities. The ambiguous space (building) and subject (sexual orientation of the protagonists) of the film are in stark contrast to the male protagonist jumping off the building in Chilsu and Mansu (Park Kwang-su, 1988). The film is known as one of the quintessential examples of male crisis in New Korean Cinema during the 1980s and the 1990s. The male-centered perspective of the film exemplifies what the spectators are accustomed to experience through the question of masculinity. Chilsu and Mansu are two painters without a stable job. The film follows the daily lives and struggles of these two men, reflecting the issues of social inequality and authoritarian rule. Throughout the film, their masculinity is constantly undermined and threatened. To put it 105 simply, the film is about two men endeavoring to reconstitute their masculinity. 141 The final jump from an outdoor billboard accentuates and inscribes “the anxiety of a colonized, emasculated, working-class man without a family.” 142 According to Kyung Hyun Kim, Chilsu and Mansu emblematically foregrounds male crisis and frustration that the 1980s and 1990s Korean cinema experiences. 143 Whereas Mansu’s jump denotes the frustration of reconstructing one’s masculinity, the two men’s jump in Secretly, Greatly denotes the frustration of something else. The equivocal nature of space and subject refuses a traditional approach to the reconstruction of masculinity. First, it is uncertain whether the film is reconstructing or deconstructing masculinity inasmuch as we don’t know if the apartments are under construction or not. Second, if the film reconstructs masculinity, it is unclear which masculinity the film reconstructs. The film does not clearly indicate whether the two men have a heterosexual or homosexual orientation. What does the equivocal nature of space and subject in Secretly, Greatly emblematically foreground? It is evident that there is a radical transformation from a commercial billboard with an image of a Western woman where Mansu jumps to an ambiguous high-rise apartment and also from a brotherly bond between two men in Chilsu and Mansu to a sexually ambiguous relationship between the two in Secretly, Greatly. How does the ambiguity of sexual orientation affect the discursive discourse of masculinity, which has been one of the predominant ways of constructing and identifying Korean national identity? I propose to examine the ambiguous signs of space and masculinity in Secretly, Greatly through the double structure of feeling: the thrill of attaining transnational identity and the fear of 141 Kyung Hyun Kim, "Male Crisis in New Korean Cinema: Reading the Early Films of Park Kwang-Su," positions: east asia cultures critique 9, no. 2 (2001)., 370. 142 Ibid., 371. 143 The Remasculinization of Korean Cinema., 151. 106 losing national identity. The double structure of feeling is derived from the W. E. B. Du Bois’s notion of double-consciousness. Du Bois notes: It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others [my emphasis], of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness,—an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. 144 In the above description of double-consciousness, Du Bois acknowledges “two unreconciled strivings” in one body. To put it differently, the double-consciousness is a term that places two identities in one body. Whereas the two-ness (an American and a Negro) was caused by “always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others” of a racist white society, the double structure of feeling—the thrill of attaining transnational identity and the fear of losing national identity—in Secretly, Greatly is mainly brought by the rapid change of cultural atmosphere in the early 2000s, namely the emergence of hallyu, which has encouraged the transnational influx and outflow of cultural exchange and has blurred the boundary of the national. The ambivalent boundary of the national complicates the relationship between the national and the transnational and allows the possibility of coexistence of the national and the transnational in one body. As this paper will further discuss, the ambiguity of I and the Other is most prominent in the way in which North Korea is imagined in South Korean cinema. Insofar as North Korea and South Korea comprise the same ethnic group under different political states, North Korea is different from other neighboring countries. “Is North Korea part of I or a neighboring nation that shares a similarity?” Similar to Du Bois’s double-consciousness, the double 144 William Edward Burghardt Du Bois and Manning Marable, Souls of Black Folk (Routledge, 2015). 107 structure of feeling acknowledges two unreconciled strivings in one body. I do not argue that national and transnational identity should be discussed and understood in a dichotomous way. Korean cinema seeks the possibility of negotiation between the conventional progression of nationalist narrative and the transnational progression of new narratives. By exploring the ambiguous representation of the North in Korean cinema, this chapter contends that Korean national cinema does not overthrow the nationalistic imagination of Korean cinema in the transnational but finds a way of keeping the nationalist narrative while adapting to the new environment. The traditional progression of nationalist narrative becomes one of multiple trajectories of the new narrative in the transnational. The changing discourse of masculinity epitomizes the new phase of Korean cinema after the emergence of hallyu. Before hallyu, masculinity has often been discussed in relation to the crisis of male subjectivity and threatened masculinity, which has mainly focused on the perspective of male subjects. Kyung Hyun Kim in The Remasculinization of Korean Cinema questions the lack of female representation in Korean cinema and the issue of their designated roles as mother and whore. 145 More recently, the discourse of masculinity has begun to acknowledge a larger scope of subjects and diverse characteristics of masculinity. Namely, soft masculinity and “flower boys (kkonminam) syndrome,” which celebrates feminine features of men instead of tough and macho men, have occupied masculinity’s place in Korean popular culture. The feminine attributes of pretty boys trace back its origin to Japanese shojo manga and 145 Kim, The Remasculinization of Korean Cinema. 108 female fandom of yaoi. 146 Due to the transcultural flows and consumption of soft masculinity through hallyu, Sun Jung associates soft masculinity with the concept of “chogukjeok” (meaning trans- or cross-national). 147 While referring to Koichi Iwabuchi’s concept of ‘culturally odorless,’ Jung notes, “the ‘softness’ of chogukjeok pan-East Asian soft masculinity can be understood at least in part through its transformability or fluidity and its feminine appeal to consumers.” 148 The emergence of hallyu has brought the transnational consciousness to both producer and consumer of Korean cinema. The ambiguity of transnationalism, which does not assume the rigid boundary of a nation, challenges the rigid definition of masculinity and explores it as a transformable and flexible term. The discussion of masculinity in Korean cinema has invariably and rigidly revolved around Korean national identity in the 1990s. Transformable masculinity in the 2000s embraces diverse forms of masculinity and constructs multifaceted identity. This chapter examines the transformability and fluidity of masculinity. I intend to closely analyze the representation of North Korea in South Korean cinema as a liminal subject who has gained its visibility through different subjects and forms of masculinity. In so doing, I recognize the double consciousness of Korean cinema in the 21 st century, which draws upon two contradicting feelings of fear (losing one’s identity) and thrill (attaining new identity). 149 Within this unreconciled strivings in one body, the transnational exploration of inter- Korean identity in Korean films with the depiction of the North casts light on a new visibility of the North, allowing enough space for claiming its own agency and masculinity (thrill of attaining 146 Sun Jung, "Chogukjeok Pan-East Asian Soft Masculinity: Reading Boys over Flowers, Coffee Prince and Shinhwa Fan Fiction ‘," Complicated currents: Media flows, soft power and East Asia (2010). 147 Ibid. 148 Ibid. 149 W. E. B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk, Restless Classics (Brooklyn, NY: Restless Books, 2017). 109 new identity), but simultaneously prescribing and reinforcing the previous paradigm of national identity, which does not allow the traditional image of macho men to the North. That is to say, the double consciousness of transnational Korean cinema helps the North to find its location within the cultural imagination of Korean national cinema, but there still exists an invisible wall that stops the North from becoming the South. In this chapter, I will examine comedy films in the 2000s and spy films in the 2010s as two examples of the changing depictions of the North in the new subjects and forms of masculinity. These two genre films endow the North with two distinctive types of masculinity— the North women with masculine characteristics and the North men with feminine/homosexual features—that are different from earlier films. From the invisible Other, the visible Other to the visible I: Changing role of the North in Korean cinema Coming into the 2000s, hallyu has drastically shifted the location of Korean identity from the conventional boundary of national cinema to the regional community of inter-Asia and to the logic of globalization. As Jinhee Choi notes, Korean cinema now contemplates “how locality…is transformed and utilized for global and national needs.” 150 Korean cinema now has to address not only national needs but also global needs. Before hallyu, Korean cinema had been more concerned about the gaze of the past. The traumatic experience of the past constituted a great proportion of national identity. Moving from the traumatized past to the present circumstances of globalization, Korean cinema has recently become more aware of the presence of the other, which attributes transnational consciousness to the cultural imagination of national cinema. 150 Jinhee Choi, The South Korean Film Renaissance : Local Hitmakers, Global Provocateurs, Wesleyan Film (Middletown, Conn.: Wesleyan University Press, 2010). 110 Korean cinema in the 21 st century realizes that “we are beings who are looked at, in the spectacle of the world.” 151 If Korean cinema is imagined through the gaze of the Other in the spectacle of the other, the reconfiguration of Korean cinema’s identity ultimately comes down to answering questions such as ‘who is I?’ and ‘who is the Other?’ In other words, what constitutes the body of the Other, whose gaze determines the nature of I? The changing representation of the North offers a way of answering these questions. North Korea has traditionally been the Other in the cultural imagination of Korean cinema. But the signification of the Other has changed over time. The term ‘North Korea’ has conveyed different connotations in each period with socio-politically and culturally distinctive atmosphere. In the recent era of transnational mobility and ahistorical perspective, North Korea has become a malleable symbol and a liminal site where the construction of multiple identities is possible. According to Theodore Hughes, “the figure of the ‘North Korean’ no longer points to communist threat or anticapitalist, revolutionary potential, but to a generalized separating out of people from place.” 152 I explore how the North frees itself from the clear demarcation of the national border and attains new significations through the changing forms of visibility. The visibility of the North begins right after the Korean War. Theodore Hughes approaches the Cold War politics of division on the Korean peninsula with the notions of visibility and invisibility. He subversively reads the invisible as the visible. He observes that the North is often rendered invisible in the postcolonial space. But ironically the spectator became more conscious of the presence of the North when the South Korean regime prohibited 151 J Lacan, "The Split between the Eye and the Gaze (1964)," (Penguin London, 1979). 152 Theodore Hughes, “‘North Koreans’ and Other Virtual Subjects: Kim Yeong-ha, Hwang Seok-yeong, and National Division in the Age of Posthumanism,” The Review of Korean Studies 11, no. 1 (2008), 99. 111 humanitarian portrayals of the North. 153 Frances Gateward also notes, “because South Koreans defined themselves and their culture based on the psychological rejection of anything North Korean, the South Korean government did not allow anything North Korean within its physical and psychological borders.” 154 While the two Koreas politically agreed to a truce in 1953, the war of visibility has constantly challenged the psychological and cultural border of I and the Other. Until the 1990s, North Korea remains as the invisible Other under the influence of the Cold War politics. The “Sunshine Policy” in 1998 brought changes to the way in which the North is imagined. From 1998 to 2007, presidents Kim Dae-jung and Roh Muhyun assisted North Korea economically and encouraged interaction between the two Koreas. Both presidents held a historic summit meeting with Kim Jong-il in 2000 and 2007. Under the friendly climate, a number of Korean films imagine the North as an equal partner of the South Korean protagonist. The humanitarian portrayal of the North in these films allows the spectator to actually see the North on screen. Hence, the North transforms into the visible Other. In his analysis of Park Chan-wook’s JSA: Joint Security Area (2000), Kyung Hyun Kim recognizes that JSA is “the first film to defuse the stereotype of North Koreans as South Korea’s less-than-friendly Other.” 155 In the film, North Korean soldier, Sergeant Oh is depicted as confident and positive. He is loyal to his country, has a sense of humor, and psychologically stronger than South Korean soldiers. 156 The film does not present the dichotomous depictions of the North as a villain and the South as a patriot nationalist. Instead, the film displays a friendship between the South and the North. It is 153 Hughes, Literature and Film in Cold War South Korea : Freedom's Frontier. 154 Frances K. Gateward, Seoul Searching : Culture and Identity in Contemporary Korean Cinema, Suny Series, Horizons of Cinema (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2007). 155 Kim, Virtual Hallyu : Korean Cinema of the Global Era. 105 156 Ibid. 105 112 no longer the South vs. the North but the South with/and the North. Shiri (Kang Je-gyu, 1999)— a film that brought Korean cinema’s attention to the genre of Korean blockbuster—also explores a shared sense of Korean history between the South and the North. While JSA adopts the trope of friendship as a marker of the new era, Shiri dismantles the Cold War politics of division on the Korean peninsula by envisaging a forbidden love between the two Koreas. In this film, Yi, who is from the North, is not depicted as the absolute evil, but she is given a space for the humanitarian portrayal of the North. Whether it is friendship or romance, one thing is clear: the North is no longer the invisible Other, but the visible Other. By the 2010s, the North takes the place of a protagonist in many Korean spy films. Whereas the 1990s Korean blockbuster Shiri and JSA portray the North as a partner of a South Korea protagonist, the 2010 films depict the North as a central protagonist. It is now a South Korean figure who helps the journey of the North protagonist. In these spy films, the South Korean spectators associate themselves with a North Korean figure, not the South. The discourse of the remasculinization of South Korean male subjectivity through the notion of masculinity is transferred to the North. The North in recent films is no longer the visible Other but the visible I. Imagining the North through Diverse Notions of Masculinity The national identity of Korean cinema has, more often than not, been discussed in terms of threatened masculinity. Articulating male crisis in the process of the remasculinization of male subjects was the predominant way of locating the desire and frustration of Korean national cinema. In so doing, masculinity has traditionally been the possessions of straight, macho, and insensitive male subjects. Soyoung Kim remarks that Korean cinema “renders women’s traumas 113 invisible.” 157 One of the distinctive changes that Korean cinema experienced in the 2000s is the altered role of masculinity. The diverse forms of masculinity have emerged and deviated from the traditional role of concerning straight male subject. Instead, the discourse of masculinity expands to cover both male and female subjects with diverse sexual orientations. Adopting diverse forms of masculinity has been one of the main trends of transnational exchange of culture. Scholars go so far as to argue that the celebration of unorthodox masculinity is one of the main reasons for hallyu’s regional and international success. 158 My Sassy Girl (Kwak Jae-yong, 2001), which follows a unique relationship between a macho female and an obedient male, was extremely successful in Asia. The film has spawned numerous remakes. For instance, three remakes were released in 2008: American remake called My Sassy Girl (Yann Samuell, 2008), Japanese TV adaptation Ryokiteki na kanojo (meaning my sassy girl), and an Indian film Ugly Aur Pagli (Sachin Khot, 2008). 159 Korean TV drama Winter Sonata and Bae Yong-jun led the new trend of “flower boy (kkonminam) syndrome.” The new vision of masculinity refers to “good-looking men who display ‘feminine’ qualities in their appearance” and “places greater attention on style and fashion.” 160 Taking soft masculinity even further, King and the Clown (Lee Joon-ik, 2007) takes the Japanese subculture of yaoi (gay romantic genre) and implements the theme of same-sex intimacy. 161 157 Soyoung Kim, "Gendered Trauma in Korean Cinema: Peppermint Candy and My Own Breathing," New Cinemas: Journal of Contemporary Film 8, no. 3 (2011). 158 Jungmin Kwon, "Co-Mmodifying the Gay Body: Globalization, the Film Industry and Female Prosumers in the Contemporary Korean Mediascape," International Journal of Communication 10 (2016)., 1570. 159 Jennifer Jung-Kim, "My Sassy Girl Goes around the World," in The Korean Wave (Springer, 2014)., 85. 160 Jeeyoung Shin, "Male Homosexuality in the King and the Clown: Hybrid Construction and Contested Meanings," Journal of Korean Studies 18, no. 1 (2013). 161 Ibid. 114 Comedy films in the 2000s broaden the scope of masculinity and ascribe masculinity to the North Korean female characters, who are depicted as macho. In The Hidden Princess (Park Sun-deok, 2002), a North female protagonist takes the patriarchal role of a family protector and provider away from men by financially and emotionally supporting the male protagonist. In A Love of South and North (Jeong Cho-shin, 2003), the North female protagonist constantly wears the color blue, which is often construed as a color of men, and the South male protagonist wears pink. The reversed color scheme is an indicative of who holds a dominant position within the romantic relationship. Spy films in the 2010s adds the new characteristics of masculinity. They veer away from traditional reading of masculinity by adopting new forms of masculinity such as soft masculinity, kkonminam culture, and homosexual sentiment. 162 The new forms of masculinity do not necessarily regard male as insensitive and straight men. Instead, certain elements of femininity and homosexuality register as the source of sexual attractiveness. Bae Yong-jun from the TV drama Winter Sonata and subsequent Korean actors are celebrated for their delicate personalities and soft appearance. Most spy films follow the new trend of finding sexual appeal in the feminine aspect of men. The spectators, too, prefer pretty men over macho men. The following recent spy films cast young and pretty actors as the North Korean: Kang Dong-won in Secret Reunion, Ha Jung-woo in The Berlin File, Kim Soo-hyun in Secretly, Greatly, Gong Yoo in The Suspect, Choi Seung-hyun (T.O.P from an idol group Big Bang) in Commitment, and Hyun Bin in Confidential Assignment. 162 Secret Reunion (Jang Hoon, 2010), Secretly, Greatly (Jang Cheol-soo, 2013), The Suspect (Won Shin-yun, 2013), Commitment (Park Hong-soo, 2013), The Long Way Home (Cheon Sung- il, 2015), Confidential Assignment (Kim Sung-hoon, 2017), and Steel Rain (Yang Woo-seok, 2017) 115 The Visible Other in the 2000s comedy films Korean cinema produced at least one comedy film each year approximately from 2002 to 2007: The Hidden Princess (Park Sun-deok, 2002) 163 , A Love of South and North (Jeong Cho- shin, 2003) 164 , Spy Girl (Park Han-jun, 2004), Welcome to Dongmakgol (Jang Jin, 2005), Underground Rendezvous (Kim Jong-jin, 2007). The prevailing trend of comedy ends in 2007 and spy films with the generic conventions of action and family melodrama thrives after 2007. This section of the chapter examines the short-lived comedy films in the 2000s in its socio- political and historical context. Until the 1990s, the predominant genre of films dealing with North Korea was the melodrama with its tearjerker effect. Korean films—from The Hand of Destiny (Han Hyeong-mo, 1954) and Piagol (Lee Gang-cheon, 1955) to Shiri and JSA: Joint Security Area—all have a tragic ending. The female North Korean spy often signifies the tragedy of division. Daniel Martin notes, “the fundamental impossibility of the union of these two characters is at the heart of the narrative, and this powerful metaphor would reappear in countless subsequent films.” 165 The tragedy of division, where the pathos of Korean cinema comes from, postulates that South Korea and North Korea are hopelessly divided into two. The films in the 2000s, however, no longer presume “the fundamental impossibility of the union” of South and North. 166 After the end of the Cold War, the predominant genre of sinp’a 163 Also known as Whistling Princess 164 Also known as Love Impossible 165 Daniel Martin, "South Korean Cinema's Postwar Pain: Gender and National Division in Korean War Films from the 1950s to the 2000s," Journal of Korean Studies 19, no. 1 (2014). 166 In A Love of South and North, the South Korean male protagonist goes to Pyongyang to give a presentation on the archeological findings from a joint research of South and North. In the middle of the talk, the protagonist expresses his love toward a North Korean female and directly asks Kim Jong-il for his approval of the previously tabooed relationship between South and North. If A Love of South and North shows the South Korean man’s “invasion” of North, the 116 and the cinematic aesthetics of tear-jerkers became less effective for the films in the 2000s. The quintessential components of tear jerkers are the tragedy of broken family and female suffering, miserable ending, and defeatist narrative. These components are no longer coeval with how Korean audiences envision the relationship between the South and the North. The “Sunshine Policy” and the cultural dynamism of the transnational era outshine pessimism in defeatist narrative. Instead of melodrama, comedy gains popularity in the early 2000s. It is not uncommon for comedy to be used to make social and political comments. When a nation undergoes ideological or political shifts, comedy has often been implemented as a means of articulating the ambivalence of the transition. The comedy genre was popular in the 50s and the 60s for the same reason. Young Sook Oh remarks that one of the characteristics of Korean cinema history in the 50s is the emergence of the comedy genre. 167 Comedy was Korean cinema’s way of coping with new ideologies—democracy, individualism, and liberalism—of a Western capitalistic economy. 168 Through comedy, Koreans were given an opportunity to think about the cultural ambivalence of post-war Korean identity with the influx of foreign culture and ideology. Oh notes, “Post-war comedy films are both subversive and conservative, both offensive and inoffensive, both serious and ridiculous.” In these lines of ambivalence, Oh comprehends ending sequence of Spy Girl shows the North Korean female spy infiltrating South Korean army base, which is off-limit to the public. The female protagonist visits the male protagonist in the outpost while he is asleep and leaves a red lipstick stain on his cheek. The two films deliberately cross the imaginary boundary that Korean cinema had maintained for more than fifty years. 167 Byeorakgamtu (Hong Il-myung, 1956), The Wedding Day (Lee Byeong-il, 1956), Holiday in Seoul (Lee Yong-min, 1956), and Hyperbolae of Youth (Han Hyeong-mo, 1956) all came out in 1956 to start the trend of comedy films. 168 Youngsook Oh, 오영숙, "komidi yeonghwaui se gaji jonjae bangsik,"코미디 영화의 세 가지 존재 방식 [Three existing ways of Comedy films], , no. 26 (2005)., 260. 117 comedy film as an ‘in-between space.’ 169 If the comedy genre in the 50s was a way of imagining Korean identity in the midst of the sudden and fast influx of new ideologies—democracy, individualism, and liberalism—of a Western capitalistic economy, the 2000s films encounter another set of ideologies: shifting boundaries of a nation and the questions of ‘who is I’ and ‘who is the Other.’ Comedy films in the 1950s and in the 2000s have one thing in common, that is, a new portrayal of women. Lee Hyo-in remarks, The description and portrayal of women and men in the films of the 1950s can be differentiated from those in the mid 1960s. Women characters in the 1950s were more independent, energetic (active) and portrayed more in a positive way than their counterpart male characters who were portrayed as lethargic and helpless victims of the time. 170 Similar to the 1950s, North Korean women are portrayed as independent and energetic. Moreover, North Korean women are also depicted as competent and skilled. Kyung-hyun Kim in The Remasculinization of Korean Cinema questions, “could a story ever be conceived in Korean cinema that focuses on a self-centered woman who is freed from her duties as a mother or a wife…?” 171 Perhaps these comedy films can be an answer to the question inasmuch as the films have a wide range of roles women play from elite intellectuals and professionals (A Love of South and North) to a skilled spy (Spy Girl). The comedy films ascribe masculine characteristics to women, who are no longer considered “masochistic and passive objects predicated on the patented image of mother and whore.” 172 169 Ibid., 263. 170 Hyo-in Yi and Pogwanso Han'guk P'illum, A History of Korean Cinema : From Liberation through the 1960s (2005)., 79. 171 Kim, The Remasculinization of Korean Cinema., 9 172 Ibid., 9 118 The 2000s comedy films also position North Korean women as a protector and family provider, going against the traditional prescription of gender roles. Seungsook Moon notes that the process of industrialization has brought hegemonic masculinity and produced the norm of gender ideology that positions male as a protector and family provider. 173 In The Hidden Princess, Ji-eun is a member of North Korea’s dance troupe and the daughter of the North Korean leader, Kim Jong-il. After one performance in South Korea, she runs away to experience life in Seoul. She meets Joon-ho, a leader of a local rock band and falls in love with him. Ji-eun financially supports Joon-ho’s band by paying rent and other living expenses. Ji-eun also does a makeover of Joon-ho’s image, buying him new clothes and giving him a new hair-style. She also protects the band from disbanding. More importantly, she helps Joon-ho to overcome his trauma of being betrayed by his close friend and being abandoned by his father. As a protector and provider, Ji-eun substitutes for the invisible father. She writes lyrics to the song that was made by Joon-ho’s father and she also receives a locket from Joon-ho. The photo inside the locket was initially a photo of Joon-ho’s family, but when Joon-ho gives the locket to Ji-eun, the photo is replaced by the photo of Ji-eun and Joon-ho. In short, Ji-eun is a father to the band. 174 A Love of South and North also subverts the traditional norm of gender roles and ascribes masculine features to a female protagonist by assigning the color blue to the female protagonist. Among many cues of gender stereotypes that are often associated with a particular object (e.g., 173 Seungsook Moon, Militarized Modernity and Gendered Citizenship in South Korea, Politics, History, and Culture (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005). 174 In fact, it is not just father that the North substitutes for, but also a mother. A Love of South and North draws a parallel between the North Korean female protagonist and a mother, whom the South Korean male protagonist dearly misses. One of the reasons that the male protagonist falls in love with Ji-eun is because of her resemblance of his mother. This is clearly depicted early in the film. In the sequence of the male protagonist packing, the film shows the protagonist looking at the framed black and white picture of his mother and carrying the picture abroad with him. The mother in the picture closely resembles the female protagonist. 119 truck, doll), role (e.g., homemaker, financial provider), or behavior (e.g., preparing food, repairing a car) and the concepts of masculinity and femininity, Sheila J. Cunningham and C. Neil Macrae recognize the signification of color as a notable example of gender stereotyping. They remark, “pink and blue tones are commonly associated with the sexes, a color-gender linkage that has been operating since the middle of the last century.” 175 People have become accustomed to what pink and blue each signify in terms of gender: “pink for girls, blue for boys.” 176 A Love of South and North intentionally reverts the colors associated with each gender and imagines female in the position of male. In other words, the film uses the subversive color scheme to register female as a legitimate subject of masculinity, which had been exclusive property of male subjects. A Love of South and North takes place in Yantian, China. An ancient Goguryeo tomb is found there. South and North Korea send a joint research team to excavate the tomb. North Korean Young-hee and South Korean Chul-soo meet each other as members of the joint team. The film follows the character formula of the 2000s comedy films. On the one hand, Young-hee is depicted as an intelligent and independent woman with a sense of responsibility. On the other hand, Chul-soo is an incorrigible trouble-maker and an irresponsible womanizer. He does not care about the excavation but is only excited to meet North Korean women. 175 Sheila J Cunningham and C Neil Macrae, "The Colour of Gender Stereotyping," British Journal of Psychology 102, no. 3 (2011)., 600 176 Marco Del Giudice, "Pink, Blue, and Gender: An Update," Archives of sexual behavior 46, no. 6 (2017). 120 Fig. 1-1 Fig. 1-2 Fig. 2-1 Fig. 2-2 Fig. 3-1 Fig. 3-2 121 Fig. 4-1 Fig. 4-2 The film begins in South Korea showing Chul-soo’s immature and flamboyant lifestyle. He is sent to Yantian against his will as a part of South and North co-research team. The fig. 1-1 and 1-2 show that Chul-soo predominantly wears blue in South Korea. After he arrives at Yantian, he starts to wear different shades of red and pink. Fig. 2-1 and 2-2 are when the two protagonists meet for the first time. Here, a subversive color contrast between pink and blue is not obvious yet. Chul-soo wears red not pink, and the female protagonist Young-hee wears a blend of sky blue. The camera angle also insinuates that Young-hee will hold power and control over Chul-soo. Whereas the camera looks down on Chul-soo in fig. 2-1, Chul-soo’s point of view shot in fig. 2-2 captures Young-hee in a medium shot from a low angle. Instead of horizontal eyeline match, the angles in the shot reverse shot ascribe a masculine position to Young-hee. As they get to know each other, the contrast between pink and blue becomes obvious. The protagonists don’t wear the same costume in different scenes. In fig. 3-1, 3-2, and 4-1, both protagonists are wearing different costumes while keeping the same color contrast between pink and blue. The diversity of costumes with the same theme of color politics makes it apparent that the director has intentionally used the colors to undermine our conception of gender and masculinity. The climax of the film, which is fig. 4-1 and 4-2, shows the couple trapped in the 122 ancient tomb and forces the viewer to recognize the colors. In Fig. 4-2, the characters rely on the dim light from a cell phone. Although it is difficult to see other things in this scene, the visible contrasting colors are the only thing that really stand out. During their entrapment through which the color contrast culminates to its peak, the protagonists fall in love. Fig. 5-1 The most intriguing part of the film is fig. 5-1. After the couple was rescued from the cave, the film shows the couple in a café. For the first time, the film shows the couple wearing the conventional color for each gender: “pink for girls, blue for boys.” And after the scene of Fig. 5-1, the spectator never gets to see the couple in blue and pink color anymore. Just as the film deliberately shows Young-hee wearing blue throughout the film, Young-hee wearing pink in fig. 5-1 is intentional as well. The film makes sure that Young-hee reverts to the original color of pink. It is not just color that reverts, but the attitude and personality of Young-hee revert to the traditional portrayal of women. In fig. 5-1, Young-hee is depicted as incompetent, foolish, and dependent. For about two minutes, the camera follows the couple’s conversation in a long take. In the middle of the conversation, Chul-soo asks Young-hee if she had a boyfriend before. Young-hee answers with newly learned phrase that is sexually explicit and offensive. She does not know the meaning of the phrase, but she learned it from another South Korean student in 123 order to please her boyfriend. Not knowing Young-hee’s intentions, Chul-soo yells at her for saying a vulgar phrase. Young-hee’s reversion to conventional gender role suggests that she is not entirely free from the traditional norm of gender roles. She is simply given a prescribed period of freedom. Young-hee enjoys her masculine role throughout the film, but she has to return to the expected role of a woman in the end. In other words, the female exploration of masculinity is permitted but is under regulation. This is how the North is imagined in the 2000s Korean cinema. With regards to the North, both the identity of I and the other exist in one body of the transnational imagination of Korean cinema. The masculinity of the North is disclosed and explored but under the provision of the traditional perspective of national cinema. The exploration of North subjectivity in the form of masculinity is only temporary, placing the North in-between I and the Other. In light of the representation of the North, Young-hee’s masculinity, albeit its reversion, is an important step toward the new visibility of the North. The representation of North Korean women is similar to that of the modern women during the colonial era in the sense that they concurrently embody opposing stereotypes and find an ambiguous space within the male- dominated sphere. According to Ji-eun Lee, the modern women embody “a symbol of modern prosperity and national vision versus an icon of reckless consumerism” at the same time. 177 The new visibility of North Korean women in the 2000s simultaneously symbolizes the transnational reaffirmation and deconstruction of national identity. Freedom is given to North Korean women inasmuch as the films allow masculine characterization of female, but their subversive role is 177 Ji-Eun Lee, Women Pre-Scripted : Forging Modern Roles through Korean Print (Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press, 2015). 124 still prescribed by male-dominated national imagination as the colors of blue and pink return to their original gender stereotyping in the end of the film. The Visible I in the 2010s Spy Films In 2007, the conservatives won the election and put a halt on liberal policy—including the “Sunshine Policy”—toward North Korea. As the Cold War relations between the two Koreas returned back to how it was before, the trend of comedy films ended in as well. With multiple socio-political incidents occurring—a South Korean Kumgang mountain tourist being killed in 2008, the ROKS Cheonan sinking in 2010, a new North Korean administration under Kim Jong- un since 2012, and the ceaseless nuclear tests—the comedy genre quickly disappeared. In the 2010s, the genre of spy films becomes the main outlet for the representation of the North. The spy genre is nothing new in the history of Korean cinema. From The Hand of Destiny and Piagol to Shiri and JSA, Korean cinema dealing with the representation of the North has invariably used the generic elements of spy film. The 2010s spy films, however, are distinct from previous spy films, insofar as the North is the protagonist in its partnership with the South. The North Korean figure had been a friend or a romantic partner of the South Korea protagonist before. But the 2010s spy films revolve around a North Korean protagonist, whose journey is assisted by a South Korean partner. The Berlin File (Ryoo Seung-wan, 2013) is an action spy film which depicts a friendship between the South Korean male agent and the North Korean male agent. In the film, North Korean spy Pyo is betrayed by a higher-ranking officer’s family in North Korea and tries to escape being purged. His wife is already captured and Pyo goes on a dangerous mission of retrieving his wife with the help of the South Korean agent. Ironically, Han Suk-kyu (the South Korean agent) who goes through his own journey in Shiri now appears as a 125 helper of the North Korean’s journey in The Berlin File. This transition of the North representation from the partner of the South to the main protagonist shows the development of visibility from the visible Other to the visible I. The Propp’s narrative model helps to articulate the fact that the recent Korean spy films are more concerned about the subjectivity of the North Korean figures, not the South. A Russian folklorist and scholar, Vladimir Propp dissects the narrative structure of Russian wondertales and categorizes narrative elements into thirty-one functions and eight figures. 178 His approach has become the canonical model of film narratology. 179 The Propp’s narrative model for wondertales is similar to the narrative structure of the 2010s Korean spy films in the sense that the stereotypical wondertale has a conventional hero, who is on the journey of solving a problem or winning a princess. The spy films also follow the journey of a hero, the masculine North. The below table is an example of how Korean spy films fit into the narrative structure of Propp’s model. 180 In Confidential Assignment, Im Cheol-ryung (the masculine North hero) is betrayed by his superior, Cha Ki-seong (villain) who steals the master plates used to print counterfeit money and runs to South Korea after killing the hero’s wife. For the first time, South Korea and North Korea decide to cooperate to catch Cha. Im leaves North Korea to seek his vengeance and to retrieve the master plates. Detective Kang Jin-tae (the feminine South helper/donor) who was supposed to keep an eye on the hero ends up helping Im’s journey while he is in South Korea. 178 V. I ︠ A ︡ Propp and Anatoly Liberman, Theory and History of Folklore, Theory and History of Literature (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984). 179 David Bordwell, "Approppriations and Impropprieties: Problems in the Morphology of Film Narrative," Cinema journal (1988)., 5 180 V. I ︠ A ︡ Propp, Morphology of the Folktale, 2d ed., Publications of the American Folklore Society Bibliographical and Special Series (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1968). 126 Definition of Function Confidential Assignment Hero and members of family introduced Hero and his wife introduced 1 One of the family members absents him or herself - 2 Interdiction addressed to hero Cha (villain) attempts to steal the North Korean government’s master plates for making counterfeit money 3 Interdiction is violated Cha successfully achieves his goal 4 Villain attempts to get information - 5 Villain gets information about victim - 6 Villain tries to deceive victim Cha, who is of a superior rank than Im, orders Im to stay outside the building 7 Victim is deceived Im initially follows the order 8 Villain causes harm to member of the family Cha kills Im’s wife and almost kills Im 9 Misfortune made known, Hero is dispatched North Korean army initially questions Im then sends him to South Korea for the mission of retrieving the master plates 10 Hero agrees to counteraction Im agrees to the order, having a personal motivation of avenging his wife’s death 11 Hero Leaves home Im goes to South Korea 12 Hero tested, receives magical agent or helper Im is introduced to South Korean detective Kang, who initially tries to keep Im in check, but decides to believe Im later 13 Hero reacts to agent or donor Im also eavesdrops on Kang’s conversation with his superior 14 Hero acquires use of magical agent Instead of magical agent, Kang himself gives a hand to Im and goes through a number of dangerous situations for Im’s sake 15 Hero led to object of search Im finds out where Cha is 16 Hero and villain join in direct combat Im and Cha get in a shoot-out. Cha runs away. Im chases after Cha 17 Hero is branded - 18 Villain is defeated Cha is defeated, but runs away 19 Initial misfortune or lack is liquidated The metal plates are retrieved by Im 127 20 Hero returns Im is ready to go back to North Korea 21 Hero is pursued - 22 Hero is rescued from pursuit - 23 Hero, unrecognized, arrives home or elsewhere Without any official acknowledgement of Im’s achievement from South Korean government, North Korean government orders him to quietly return to North Korea 24 False hero presents unfounded claims Cha kidnaps the daughter and wife of Kang, seeking after the master plates and Im 25 Difficult task is proposed to hero Im has to rescue Kang’s family 26 Difficult task is resolved Im rescues the family 27 Hero is recognized Cha gets the master plates and attempts to kill Im 28 Villain is exposed Im kills all of Cha’s men. Cha runs away. 29 Hero is given a new appearance - 30 Villain is punished Im kills Cha 31 Hero is married, ascends to the throne Im returns to North Korea Although Confidential Assignment doesn’t cover all of the thirty-one functions, the film closely follows the narrative structure suggested by the model. In particular, the triangular relationship— hero, helper, and villain—in the film closely resonates character association in the Propp model. The comparison clearly shows that the North Korean protagonist is the hero whose journey is aided by the South Korean helper. While the Korean spy films follow the general structure of the Propp model, the spy films also adopt distinctive features, which reflect the cultural and socio- political conditions of Korean transnational cinema. A notable feature in recent spy films is the unique relationship between hero and helper. Most wondertales create a clear binary between hero and villain. Helper is merely there to assist hero’s journey, mainly providing hero with magical object or agent. The Korean spy films, 128 however, focus more on the relationship between hero and helper. Villain is merely there to create a common goal toward which hero and helper work together. In the wondertale tradition, only three (12-14) out of the thirty-one functions are specifically relevant to the relationship between hero and helper: (12) Hero is tested by helper; (13) Hero earns helper’s trust; (14) Hero acquires use of magical agent or object. In the traditional structure, these three steps are the subplot of a larger story of revenge. In the spy films, however, the three steps consist of the majority of screen time. In Confidential Assignment, two protagonists—the North hero and the South helper—meet for the first time around 21 minutes into the film. Im (the North protagonist) finds the whereabouts of Cha (villain) in 1:23:10, which is function #15. The two-hour film solely devotes half of its screen time to the development of the relationship between the hero and the helper. Applying Propp’s model to the 2010s spy films tell us two things. First, Korean cinema follows the journey of the North protagonist, not the South. Second, building an intimate relationship between the hero (the North) and the helper (the South) is a central theme of the 2010s spy films. In other words, Korean cinema attempts to construct inter-Korean identity through the North’s journey of masculine rejuvenation. What the spectator witnesses is no longer the remasculinization of national cinema in the 1990s but the reformulation of national cinema in the 21 st century. Just as a South male protagonist strives to either revenge the death of his family or protect his family from any harm in the 1990s, the North protagonist goes through the same set of obstacles in the 21 st century. Secret Reunion (Jang Hoon, 2010), Secretly, Greatly (Jang Cheol-soo, 2013), The Suspect (Won Shin-yun, 2013), Commitment (Park Hong-soo, 2013), The Long Way Home (Cheon Sung-il, 2015), Confidential Assignment (Kim Sung-hoon, 2017), and Steel Rain (Yang Woo-seok, 2017) all have protagonists whose family was left back in North 129 Korea or, in the alternative, seek revenge for the death of family members. Taking over the role of the protagonist, the North not only becomes visible but also attains the position of “I.” Although Korean cinema endows the North with the status of “I,” the North is not imagined in the same way that the South is seen. The connotation of “I” in the 2010s spy films is distinctive from “I” in the 1990s or earlier South Korean male subjects. The main difference is the way in which the subject is desired. 181 The North is not desired through the traditional form of masculinity, but through new forms: soft masculinity and homosexual sentiment. 182 Korean cinema regards the North as “I,” but the unorthodox masculinity of the North attests to the existence of an invisible wall, which stops the North from completely becoming the South. In light of forming a new—inter-Korean or transnational—identity, the spy films reveal the double consciousness of Korean cinema: the thrill of embracing the sexually attractive body of the North and the fear of desiring the North, which had been a taboo in the cultural imagination of national cinema. In light of the thrill of envisioning inter-Korean identity, Korean cinema renders the North sexually attractive. In the 1990s and earlier, North Korean soldiers were often depicted to be either scary or funny. Whereas Song Kang-ho in JSA and Yu Oh-sung in The Spy (Jang Jin, 1999) represent the North in a humorous way, the recent spy films cast young and handsome 181 By the late 1990s, the typical representation of men changes from “the targets of public embarrassment” to the object of desire. 181 Korean cinema in the 2010s also portrays the North as the object of desire. 182 According to Kyung Hyun Kim, the elements of a gay film already existed in a film like JSA. Kim notes, “as much as it is difficult to claim JSA as a gay film, it is almost impossible to disclaim the same-sex bonding as the film’s primary element that drives the desirable and subversive narrative movement.” Since the 1990s, the spy films have employed certain aspects of a gay film, depicting an intimate relationship between a South Korean figure and a North Korean figure. The 2010s films, however, are clearly distinctive from the previous films that portray same-sex bonding inasmuch as the 2010s films depict the North Korean protagonist sexually attractive. 130 actors as the North Korean: Kang Dong-won in Secret Reunion, Ha Jung-woo in The Berlin File, Kim Soo-hyun in Secretly, Greatly, Gong Yoo in The Suspect, Choi Seung-hyun (T.O.P from an pop group Big Bang) in Commitment, Hyun Bin in Confidential Assignment, and Jung Woo-sung in Steel Rain. A middle-aged actor, Song Kang-ho who appeared as a North Korean soldier in the late 1990s, is casted as the South Korean male partner of Kang Dong-won in Secret Reunion (2010). The sexually attractive body of the North is the object of desire, but also a source of fear and anxiety for Korean cinema in the sense that desiring the North has long been a taboo in the cultural imagination of Korean cinema. The North was the enemy, against whom Korean cinema solidified a shared sense of national identity. The espousal of the sexually attractive North requires a major revision to the notion of national identity. One of the difficult conundrums for Korean cinema in the transnational era is constructing an inter-Korean identity, which satisfies both the expectation of national and transnational identities, without transgressing a distinct demarcation of national identity. The spy films employ soft masculinity and homosexual sentiments to satisfy and cope with the two contradicting feelings of thrill and fear that evoke the double consciousness of Korean transnational cinema. The fear of desiring the taboo (the sexually attractive North) causes the spectator to wrestle with a guilty conscience. The new forms of masculinity provide the spectator with escapist fantasy, where the North is no longer forbidden. If the traditional notion of masculinity disclosed the male-centered gaze of national cinema, the new masculinities offers a moment of distraction from the prescribed role of gender attraction. In her discussion of the tourist scene in JSA, Youngmin Choe notes, “we recall that the crucial photograph that ends the film was taken at a moment of distraction, and the revelation of its true content, a picture of 131 friendship not antagonism, depended on this divergence from the usual course of the guided tour.” 183 In a similar vein, the revelation of true content (the North as I) is dependent on the divergence from the usual course of the guided gaze. The uncanny gaze of unorthodox masculinity positions the film in the structure of fantasy, where the boundary between the real and the unreal is vague. The ambiguous space of fantasy lessens (or removes) the guilt of desiring the previously tabooed subject and frees Korean cinema from the fear of losing national identity. 184 Fig. 6-1 Fig. 6-2 183 Choe, Tourist Distractions : Traveling and Feeling in Transnational Hallyu Cinema., 17 184 Another common way of creating a moment of distraction is envisioning story in the dreamlike space of fairy tale. South Korea has employed the elements of fairy tale tradition for the construction of collective identity. For instance, the term “Sunshine Policy” comes from one of Aesop’s fables, “The North Wind and the Sun” and Korean cinema has utilized the diverse themes of folktale in different genre films from a horror film A Tale of Two Sisters (Kim Ji-woon, 2003) to a comedy film Welcome to Dongmakgol. A more evident example is a recent film Illang: The Wolf Brigade (Kim Ji-woon, 2018). Set in 2029, South and North Korea try to establish a unified government and announces five- year plan of preparation. In order to suppress an anti-reunification terrorist group called “The Sect,” South Korean police recruits a special force, “Illang.” The film follows a member of Illang who is caught in-between political maneuvering. The film makes a direct reference to “Little Red Riding Hood” by showing a number of illustrations. While the series of illustration is shown, the female protagonist’s voice-over tells the story of “Little Red Riding Hood” with a subversive sad ending where the wolf eats the girl. Throughout the film, the motif of red-hooded girl frequently appeals as a conundrum that the male protagonist confronts with regards to the true identity of the female protagonist. By means of defamiliarizing the well-known fairy tale, the film questions and challenges our traditional conception of a nation or community. In the futuristic setting, the film seeks a possibility of a collective identity between the South and the North: inter-Korean identity. 132 In Secretly, Greatly, the homosexual elements of the film create a distraction for the viewer. North Korean secret agent, Rhee embodies both qualities of soft masculinity and homosexual sentiments. Rhee is the youngest spy to be sent to the South and was once a member of the main protagonist (Lieutenant Won)’s group back in North Korea. Rhee is depicted more delicate and visibly feminine, despite his status as a North Korean secret agent. Compared to other agents we see in films, he is small and feeble. His image fits into the category of flower boy (kkonminam). Fig. 6-1 and 6-2 show that he is more appearance conscious than other characters in the film, wearing fashionable accessories and a slick white dress shirt. His fashion is often compared to Lieutenant Won who always wears an old sweat suit. A slender body and pretty look with slick fashion are the essential characteristics of soft masculinity. 185 The film undoubtedly portrays him as a subject of soft masculinity. Fig. 6-3 Fig. 6-4 Along with soft masculinity, he also embodies homosexual sentiment. Although the film does not explicitly say that he has a homosexual orientation, the film shows Rhee having an unusual feeling for Lieutenant Won in a number of scenes. Fig. 6-3, for example, shows Lieutenant Won hugging Rhee from the back. While Lieutenant Won is solely focused on hiding from other people, Rhee savors the unexpected moment of intimacy. In this scene, the film does not show 185 https://www.woroni.com.au/words/the-blooming-of-soft-masculinity-flower-boys-and-k-pop/ 133 the people who Rhee and Lieutenant Won is hiding from. The viewer only hears the conversation of people chasing Rhee as non-diegetic sound. The camera instead shows Rhee’s face in a close- up (fig. 6-4). Dim light is shone on his face and reveals Rhee’s facial reaction to the unexpected hug from Lieutenant Won. The only movement in the close-up is his wobbly eyes, which suggest the oscillation of his emotion between overflowing joy and embarrassment. Since Rhee’s sexual orientation is ambiguous, the hug becomes tolerable. By associating with the gaze of Rhee, the film legitimizes the moment of desiring the sexually attractive body of the North. Fig. 6-5 Rhee is not only the subject of the homosexual gaze, but also the object of the homosexual gaze. While three North Korean spies do laundry, one of the spies looks down on Rhee for his young age. Rhee then splashes his white dress shirt with water, revealing his body in fig. 6-5. He does so to prove that he has undergone a number of life-threatening incidents and that he knows what he is doing. Rhee’s body with scars, however, sends ambivalent signs to the viewers. The wet body is not masculine in the traditional sense. Rhee’s body is by no means muscular. The scars, however, suggest that his body should still be viewed through the lens of masculinity. The camera movement, which represents the gaze of the viewers, also presents the body in a subtle way. In lieu of static shots, the camera employs the movement of hand-held camera. When Rhee splashes his body with water, the camera tilts down from Rhee’s face to show his 134 wet body. The tilt movement is supposed to be vertical, but the movement looks more diagonal. The abnormal movement is partially due to the shaky nature of hand-held camera. Throughout the scene, the camera randomly shakes up/down and left/right. Similar to the wobbly eyes of Rhee, the camera wanders, instead of statically locking onto the body. This scene epitomizes how the film legitimizes the sexually attractive body of the North to the viewer. Both the unstable camera movement (the gaze of the viewer) and the ambiguous signs of body (the object of the gaze) leave enough space for the viewer’s interpretation. Perhaps, the ambiguous attitude towards the sexually attractive body epitomizes the way in which Korean cinema struggles with the construction of inter-Korean identity. The new forms of masculinity— soft masculinity and homosexual sentiment—are distinctive from the traditional function of masculinity, through which Korean cinema had articulated national identity. In order to construct inter-Korean or transnational identity, the 2010s spy films seek alternative approaches—namely, soft masculinity and homosexual sentiment—to the discourse of masculinity and create a moment of distraction, which makes it easier for the viewer to negotiate the two conflicting feelings of the double consciousness. Conclusion Korean cinema in the 2000s and the 2010s shows development in terms of the representation of the North. In the center of all the changes is the notion of masculinity. If the masculinity of Shiri’s protagonist “signals a departure from the traumatized male character of the 1980s,” the masculinity of the North in the 21 st century indicates another departure from the masculinity of the 1990s. 186 Namely, the new discourse of masculinity departs from the 1990s 186 Kim, The Remasculinization of Korean Cinema., 10 135 remasculinization of national cinema to the construction of inter-Korean and transnational identity. But the departure from the 1990s national cinema does not necessarily mean that Korean cinema completely erases the nationalist narrative of the 1990s. I argue that transnational space offers a space of negotiation between the linear progression of nationalist narrative and multiple trajectories of new narrative in the transnational. The presence of the two conflicting feelings of double consciousness—the thrill of attaining transnational/inter-Korea identity and the fear of losing the previous qualities of national identity—is the evidence of the negotiation. Though the double consciousness affects every subject in the 21 st century, the double consciousness is most conspicuous in the Korean cinema’s depiction of the North, who has been considered part of I (unified Korea) and the Other (South Korea as opposed to North Korea). The transnational exploration of inter-Korean identity casts light on the new visibility of the North, allowing enough space for claiming its own agency and masculinity (thrill of attaining new identity), but simultaneously, prescribing and reinforcing the previous national identity, which does not ascribe the traditional role of masculinity to North Korea (fear of losing the old). To cope with the double consciousness in the representation of the North, Korean cinema expands the scope of masculinity to include the North Korean female as a legitimate subject of masculinity in the 2000s comedy films and encompasses the diverse forms of masculinity such as soft masculinity and homosexual sentiment in the 2010s spy films. As a result of exploring new possibilities of masculinity, the North becomes the object of desire and find its location within the cultural imagination of Korean national cinema. In light of visibility, the North transforms from the invisible Other and the visible Other to the visible I. 136 I want to end the chapter with the last scene of Secretly, Greatly. A middle-aged lady who took care of Lieutenant Won during his stay in the South, hung a picture of her family on the street and wrote, “Dong-gu (Lieutenant Won), if you are still alive, please let us hear a word from you.” She finds writing on the wall just behind the picture. It says, “Mom, don’t be sick.” The picture on the wall consists of the lady, her biological South Korean son, and Lieutenant Won. When Lieutenant Won calls the lady “mother,” the picture truly becomes a family photo, symbolizing the construction of inter-Korean identity. The new visibility of the North through the various discourses of masculinity has shown the possibility of constructing collective identity without transgressing the previous boundary of national identity in the cultural imagination of Korean transnational cinema. 137 Chapter 4 An Anarchic Gaze in the Battle of Visibility: The Chronotope of the Train and Zombie-Time in Snowpiercer Bong Joon-ho’s Snowpiercer (2013) takes place in a train, carrying the last remnants of humanity after a climate engineering debacle. The survivors in the train are divided into different social classes and experience discrimination based on their social status. While the social elites enjoy a luxurious and extravagant lifestyle, people who live in the train’s tail section are in brutal conditions. Curtis, the leader of the tail section challenges the social order of the train and instigates a revolution against the elite in the front section of the train. By the near end of the film, Curtis, Nam, and Yona reach the front section leaving one door left to the engine room, where Wilford, the inventor and ruler of the train, resides. When Curtis asks Nam to open the last gate. Nam refuses to open the door to the front but points to another door on the side of the train. Fig. 1-1 Fig. 1-2 Nam’s intervention to Curtis’s revolution to the front is not part of the original story of the French graphic novel, Le Transperceneige, on which the film is based. In fact, the character Nam does not exist in the original. Le Transperceneige shows the social order of the train from 138 the tail to the front from a couple’s perspective. 187 Curtis substitutes in place of the couple, but Nam replaces no one. Nam is also different from other characters in the sense that he speaks Korean, which is the only foreign language the spectator hears in the train. By adding the plot of Nam and his daughter Yona within the larger frame of Curtis’s revolution, the film departs from the original novel and employs a new ending with an entirely different message. If Nam is a deliberately designed figure who specifically represent Korea, what does the film try to say by suggesting a new direction of revolution through Nam? The new direction of Nam’s revolution illustrates how Snowpiercer refuses to be assimilated into the logic of globalization and suggests the possibility of the multiplicity of reality within transnational space. Since the 1990s, the Korean government has promoted the slogan “Globalization,” through which the state has encouraged and supported the outflow of Korean culture to Asia and other regions. Bong Joon-ho is one of a few directors who has achieved the global status. Yet, the globally marketed film Snowpiercer paradoxically rejects the state’s vision of arriving at the center of the global. Nam and Yona are distinguished as the Koreans by the Korean director but are not celebrated as the heroes of Curtis’s revolution. They do not mingle well with the rest of people in the train. Although they hold critical keys—Nam’s ability to open gates and Yona’s clairvoyance—to Curtis’s revolution, they are portrayed as bystanders of the revolution. The film initially depicts Curtis’s revolution but once Nam and Yona are introduced the film depicts two separate arcs within the same space of the train. Their presence interrupts the dominant trajectory of globalization narrative, which creates a hierarchy between cultures and invades the socio- political, economic, and cultural spaces of other nations. 187 They are imprisoned and headed to headquarters, which is on the front section of the train. While the film focuses on the process of revolution, the graphic novel is more interested in showing the social reality of each section of the train without making the journey too violent or revolutionary. 139 Insofar as Nam tries to free himself from the train and seeks a possibility of living outside of the train, the train signifies the order of the world and the global structure of power. The film begins by clearly indicating that the train carries the last remnants of humanity in the new era of apocalypse and makes the train the representative of the whole world. In the history of cinema, the train has symbolized multifarious meanings—capitalism, modernity, male sexuality, and the fascination of movement to name a few. In the context of transnational cinema and the film’s apocalypse setting, I argue that the train in Snowpiercer represents the liminal condition of transnational space, which emphasizes the way in which ambiguity discloses the various facets of reality and the possibility of valorizing transnational subjects without any mediation by the center (the global). The film indicates the liminality of the train in the narrative world by using an apocalypse setting where the train has to endlessly run in a loop and traverses the globe without any sense of national boundary. More importantly, Bong makes a number of editing and stylistic choices in order to create the temporal and spatial ambiguity for the subjects in the train. By means of adopting M. M. Baktin’s notion of chronotope, which means “the intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships that are artistically expressed,” I examine how space and time in the train are reconfigured. 188 In particular, the train no longer embodies the chronological structure of time (past-present-future) and the linear progression of space. The film refuses to depict space and time in a progression. The film instead engenders the moment of digression by perpetuating the present. The film’s preoccupation with the present is manifested in the ways in which the film creates the self-awareness of the anarchic gaze. Michel Foucault argues that the gaze is an 188 Mikhail M Bakhtin, "Forms of Time and of the Chronotope in the Novel: Notes toward a Historical Poetics," Narrative dynamics: Essays on time, plot, closure, and frames (2002)., 84. 140 apparatus for locating the social dynamics of power relations. 189 Marita Sturken and Lisa Cartwright also write, “the gaze is integral to systems of power, and ideas about knowledge.” 190 Bong employs a number of editing and narrative choices—extensively using slow motion, presenting props that are associated with the notion of visibility, problematizing the binary structure of the direction of the gaze— which reflect his intention of rejecting the conventional paradigm of the space of the train. By calling it ‘anarchic gaze,’ I do not argue that the film supports a specific type of socio-political anarchism. I simply utilize anarchism for its definition of rejecting the structure of power and seeking individual freedom. Whereas Laura Mulvey’s concept of the male gaze recognizes the masculine and heterosexual perspective of films that presents women as sexual objects, the anarchic gaze recognizes the self-reflexive perspective of the film that presents the train as a liminal object, through which the viewers acknowledge the possibility of other narratives in the transnational. 191 In this chapter, I first discuss how the film depicts the train as a liminal space, which has an intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships. In the chronotope of the train, the anarchic gaze attempts to free subjects from the restraints of temporal and spatial norms. After explicating the way in which I employ the elements of anarchism, I analyze the three distinctive characteristics of the anarchic gaze, that is, the ambiguous speed, direction, and visibility of the gaze. Among other images and scenes, I provide the in-depth analysis of the Yekaterina Bridge sequence, which occurs in a single compartment of the train. The train’s sequential compartments resemble the syntagmatic structure of cinema (sequential arrangement 189 Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish : The Birth of the Prison, 2nd Vintage Books ed. (New York: Vintage Books, 1995). 190 Marita Sturken and Lisa Cartwright, Practices of Looking : An Introduction to Visual Culture, Third edition. ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2017). 191 Laura Mulvey, "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema," in Visual and Other Pleasures (Springer, 1989). 141 of scenes or sequences) and also the linear progression of globalization narrative. Examining a specific compartment of the train through the anarchic gaze allows the viewer to recognize the paradigmatic structure of cinema (the different ways of capturing one scene or image) and the multiple trajectories of transnational narrative. 192 The Chronotope of the Train as the Liminal Space of the New Era In the history of cinema, the train has conveyed multifarious meanings: a symbol of capitalism, modernization, global social structure, fascination of movement, sexual connotations of train entering a tunnel. The train in Snowpiercer defies these traditional connotations. Instead of celebrating the train as the trope of modernity and future, the film constantly refers to materials—cigarette, bullets, and machine parts—being extinct in the train. The fascination of train movement in Lumiere’s’ film turns into the dreadfulness of confinement to people in the train. The sexual connotation of the train also shifts from men’s sexual organ to the female’s organ. Instead of train passing through a tunnel (sexual penetration), the film shows Curtis passing through the train itself. He finally arrives at the divine engine (mother’s womb) and the film shows him experiencing a warm and peaceful moment in the engine. 193 Hence, the train appears as a symbol of female sexuality instead of the traditional male. Lastly, Lynne Kirby states that the train has often been associated with national identity, but in this film, the train 192 A Syntagmatic relationship is one where signs occur in sequence or parallel and operate together to create meaning. A paradigmatic relationship is one where an individual sign may be replaced by another. http://changingminds.org/explanations/critical_theory/concepts/syntagm_paradigm.htm 193 Bongseok Kim, Jongchul Kim, and Jun-o Baek, “seolgugyeolcha bongjunho gamdok inteobyu,” 설국열차 봉준호 감독 인터뷰 [Snowpiercer director Bong Joon-ho interview], Extreme Movie, last modified August 6, 2013, http://extmovie.maxmovie.com/xe/article/2230577#csidxb447b46897c122bb02f804764b5a56 8 (accessed August 20, 2019) 142 symbolizes the system of the global or transnational in the sense that the train traverses the globe and ignores the boundary of a nation. 194 Among all the new meanings that challenge traditional perspectives, the distinctive configuration of time and space in the train is especially pertinent to this chapter inasmuch as the chronotope of the train constructs a liminal condition in the film. The term ‘chronotope’ comes from M. M. Bakhtin who used the term to show how different literary tradition and genre work in diverse configurations of time and space. Bakhtin writes: We will give the name chronotope (literally, "time space") to the intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships that are artistically expressed in literature…What counts for us is the fact that it expresses the inseparability of space and time…In the literary artistic chronotope, spatial and temporal indicators are fused into one carefully thought-out, concrete whole. Time, as it were, thickens, takes on flesh, becomes artistically visible; likewise, space becomes charged and responsive to the movements of time, plot and history. 195 The notion of chronotope has often been used to comprehend the genre of traveling. The train in Snowpiercer is no exception. A clear example of the conflation of time and space is the celebration of the New Year on the Yekaterina bridge. The train traverses the globe in a loop. People on the train celebrate the New Year when they pass through the Yekaterina bridge. In other words, the Yekaterina bridge is a temporal marker where people celebrate time in terms of space. 194 Lynne Kirby, Parallel Tracks : The Railroad and Silent Cinema (Durham: Duke University Press, 1997)., 189. 195 Bakhtin, "Forms of Time and of the Chronotope in the Novel: Notes toward a Historical Poetics.", 84. 143 Fig. 2 The conflation of time and space is evident in a scene where Curtis and other members of the revolution visit a compartment of the train for educating children. In the scene, children watch a video about Wilford and the train. In the video, fig. 2 appears to introduce the everlasting journey of the train that runs on the railroad track connecting the globe. What is intriguing about fig. 2 is that the world map has neither the names of nations nor other markers of location. Instead, time markers are placed over the world map: New Year’s Day, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter Sunday, and so on. In so doing, the film clearly presents space as time in the train. If space is time in Snowpiercer, how should we interpret the fact that the train has no departure or destination? The train returns to the same location every year running in the same loop. In terms of temporality, the return of the train can be interpreted as the repetition of time or an emphasis on the temporality of the present. Either way, Snowpiercer disregards the structure of temporal progression: past-present-future. The train incessantly moves but the passengers are stuck in the same temporality. The stay in train which is supposed to be temporary in reality becomes permanent or perpetual in Snowpiercer. Earlier Korean films did not approach the trope of train in the same manner that Snowpiercer has. In light of temporality, Snowpiercer is interested in the present whereas other films in the history of Korean cinema have utilized the trope of train as a temporal indicator of 144 either future or past. During the colonial era and the post-WWII, the railroad along with a streetcar was a symbol of Western civilization. 196 Money (Kim So-dong, 1958) begins and ends the film with the scene of the railroad arriving and leaving the rural area. The imagery of train represents fast-paced modernization. The train during this era is a means of engaging the viewer with the progressive temporality of modernization. The protagonist suffers from not being able to grasp what the temporary stay of the train in the rural area signifies. He is not able to adapt to the new environment that the fast-paced modernization has brought. When he visits Seoul, for example, he gets conned by a man in Seoul. The famous scene at the end of the film shows the protagonist letting out a painful cry while looking at the train leaving. Whereas Money shows the progressive and future-oriented nature of train, the train in Peppermint Candy (Lee Chang-dong, 1999), on the other hand, directs the viewer’s attention to the past. With the famous line of the protagonist, “I want to go back again,” the film starts with the scene of the protagonist committing suicide by blocking the way of a train on the railroad. The film employs a flashback structure of the narrative where time regress in seven chapters. Each chapter begins with a pillow shot of the train running. The camera is positioned on the train only showing railroad. The pillow shots of the train are played in reverse time and everything is played in backward emblematizing the temporal structure of reverse time. Unlike other Korean films, Snowpiercer does not direct the spectator’s gaze to the past or future. In the film, there are moments where the film could actually present the events in flashback or flashforward, but the film stubbornly stays with the present instead of visualizing other temporalities. For example, Curtis tells Nam the shameful past of his own in front of the door to the engine room. The camera stays with Curtis in close-up shots, though Curtis’s story 196 Bae Chang-Ho, "Seoul in Korean Cinema: A Brief Survey," SPECIAL ISSUE ON THE CITY AND CINEMA (1988)., 97. 145 lasts more than five minutes. The conventional approach to this emotional moment would be visualizing the past incident in flashback while Curtis narrating the incident. For about five minutes, the spectator only sees Curtis’s face except short reaction shots of Nam. Another example is the clairvoyance of Yona. There are a number of instances where Yona sees things ahead or beyond. For example, Yona sees soldiers waiting behind the closed door and also finds a child under the floor of the engine room with her ability. Translating space as time, Yona’s supernatural visibility, which see things through, allows her to access the future. The camera could employ point of view shots in flashforward structure of the narrative. Yet, the camera does not visualize the future that Yona sees and only captures Yona telling others what she sees. The film’s preoccupation with the present and the perpetual journey of the train without departure or arrival evidently show that the film rejects the chronological structure of time and the linear progression of space. When the chronotope of the train conflates and confines space and time to the present moment, the film recognizes the possibility of digression from the progressive nature of globalization. Fredric Jameson in his discussion of Utopia and the genre of Science Fiction makes a similar observation. Instead of comprehending future as a simple temporality, Jameson recognizes “the future as disruption of the present, and as a radical and systemic break with even that predicted and colonized future which is simply a prolongation of our capitalist present.” 197 Bong adopts the futuristic temporality of the film’s SF genre to paradoxically “demonstrate and to dramatize our incapacity to imagine Utopia.” 198 As the train perpetually runs in the present space and time, the chronotope of the train clearly disrupts the progressive nature of the train and the teleological future that the logic of globalization 197 Fredric Jameson, “The Future as Disruption,” Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions (2005), 228. 198 Fredric Jameson, “Progress versus Utopia; Or, can we imagine the future?(Progrès contre Utopie, ou: Pouvons-nous imaginer l'avenir),” Science fiction studies (1982), 152. 146 constructs. The present refuses to be the determinate past of the prescribed future yet to come. If the linear progression of global narrative has a single prescribed path connecting present and future, the chronotope of the train disrupts the status quo of the present and seeks the multiple directions of transnational narrative. The Anarchic Nature of the Gaze The original graphic novel invests many pages showing the social and economic hierarchy of the train. As the protagonist couple heads to the front, they notice not only the economic development, but also witness a number of social issues like religion, sex, alcohol, and drugs. The train resembles the structure of our society. Notwithstanding, Nam is not interested in changing the social order of the train but wants to be free from train. Whereas Curtis leads people to resist against social inequality and discrimination, Nam refuses the social structure of the train as a whole. As the film discloses at the end, Curtis’s revolution is part of the scheme arranged by Wilford, the creator of the train. To keep the balance of the closed ecological system in the train, Wilford needs to reduce the population and Curtis is chosen as a tool. That is to say, Curtis’s revolution does not change the social structure of the train in any way. Instead, the class struggle of Curtis enhances the logic of the train, which I construe as the logic of globalization. When Nam points to another door that leads to outside, the spectator is introduced to a new paradigm away from the conventional structure of society. Insofar as the new direction defies the current structure of power, the concept of anarchism explains the gaze to the outside. Since anarchism has been defined and discussed in many schools of thought, anarchism does not have a unified worldview and does support anything from extreme individualism to complete collectivism. In this chapter, I want to note that 147 anarchism in general has an idiosyncratic nature of “opposing the centralized, hierarchical mind- set that informs and structures the power of the state.” 199 Harold Barclay remarks: Anarchism…should not, however, be seen in any sense as a single monolithic conception, or a grand theoretical system…no anarchist theoretician has ever presented an integrated theoretical system. Yet all anarchist theory shares a common concern for the individual and freedom, opposition to the state. 200 Opposing to the state, however, does not necessarily mean that anarchists defy order in life. In fact, one of the common misunderstandings about anarchism is that it seeks the breakdown of order. 201 But in reality it is the opposite. Anarchism is against the structure of power which limits one’s individuality and freedom, but not against order itself. According to Normand Baillargeon, “the absence of power or authority…does not mean confusion or disorder if we accept that the order imposed by authority is not the only possible kind of order.” 202 I construe anarchism as an ideology of seeking ‘order without power.’ In the context of transnational, ‘order without power’ encapsulates the self-reflexive perspective of hallyu without the state’s intervention to the multiple trajectories of the transnational imaginations. Since the 1990s, by encouraging the outflow of Korean culture, the state has endorsed the export-centric view of hallyu and Korean cinema as a path toward the global. However, Bong, who has become a globally celebrated filmmaker, refuses to follow the path assigned by the structure of power. Snowpiercer does not celebrate the global status of Korean cinema. Nam and Yona, who specifically represent Korea in the film, by no means aspire to be the head of the train. They 199 Sean Sheehan, Anarchism (Reaktion Books, 2003)., 17. 200 Harold B. Barclay, People without Government : An Anthropology of Anarchy, Completely rev. ed. (London Seattle: Kahn & Averill ; Left Bank Books, 1990)., 15. 201 Ruth Kinna, Anarchism: A Beginner's Guide (Oneworld publications, 2012)., 5. 202 Normand Baillargeon, Order without Power : An Introduction to Anarchism, History and Current Challenges, A Seven Stories Press first edition. ed. (New York: Seven Stories Press, 2013)., 10. 148 want to free themselves from the structure of the train just as the self-reflexive perspective of Korean cinema frees itself from the linear progression of nationalist narrative. By rejecting the nationalist ambition of becoming a central partaker of global cinema, the anarchic gaze imagines a space without a hierarchical structure of power. The train, which represents the structure of power, is the object of the anarchic gaze. Whereas Laura Mulvey’s concept of the male gaze recognizes the masculine and heterosexual perspective of films that presents women as sexual objects, the anarchic gaze recognizes the self- reflexive perspective of the film that presents the train as a liminal object, which acknowledges the possibility of other narratives in the transnational. 203 By rejecting the linear trajectory of the train, the film envisions the multiple trajectories of the revolution, namely, Curtis’s and Nam’s revolutions. I identify and analyze three distinctive ways in which the anarchic gaze attempts to free subjects from the constraints of temporal and spatial norms: direction, visibility, and speed. First of all, the camera is invariably positioned on the right side of the train, horizontally showing the progression of the revolution in a specific direction: from left to right. When Curtis has to make a decision in a number of crucial stages of the revolution, his choices are shown in terms of direction. He has to either choose left or right. Nam, however, breaks free from the directional paradigm that the structure of the train creates and suggests a third direction, that is, the outside of the train. Second, the film employs the leitmotif of visibility, which equates power with visibility. The film often creates visual ambiguities such as a dark tunnel and a misty sauna room questioning the structure of power. The leitmotif also draws the viewer’s attention to the subversive power of visibility through a number of visual cues such as night vision goggles, 203 Mulvey, "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema." 149 masks without eye sockets, torchlight, and Yona’s clairvoyance. The leitmotif of visibility creates a narrative formula, that is, whoever has better visibility wins the battle. Finally, Bong extensively uses slow motion and challenges the temporal constraint of cinema. The slow movement of subjects makes the fetishization of movement possible. In so doing, the film engages with the temporal mode of expression, ‘zombie time.’ The film employs certain elements of zombies and situate the film in another structure of liminality. These three characteristics of the anarchic gaze can be found in many scenes throughout the film but my analysis mainly focuses on the Yekaterina sequence since all three characteristics are manifested in the same sequence. Exploring the Paradigmatic Structure of the Space in the Yekaterina Bridge Sequence Curtis’s revolution is constantly stopped by gates between compartments. After successfully conquering each compartment, they have to wait for Nam to open the gate to next compartment. Before each door opens, Yona foretells what is behind the door. The film distinguishes the Yekaterina bridge sequence from other sequences by beginning the sequence with Yona shouting, “don’t open that door.” The door opens just as Yona shouts and the spectator sees men in black masks waiting for the thirteen minutes sequence of the battle. The battle begins. When the train arrives at the Yekaterina bridge, however, everyone stops fighting and celebrates the New Year. The awkward moment of a truce is extended by the ice blocking the railroad. The train receives several impacts, after which Minister Mason gives a speech. After the speech, the train enters a long dark tunnel. The soldiers have prepared night vision goggles and dominates the battle. People counterattack with torchlight and takes back the momentum of 150 the battle. The sequence ends when Curtis finally captures Minister Mason and orders everyone to stop the battle. While the film progressively and chronologically follows the Curtis’ revolution in the train’s sequential compartments, the Yekaterina sequence stands out as the paradigmatic moment of freedom from the syntagmatic structure of the revolution. In the semiotics of film, syntagmatic analysis and paradigmatic analysis are two axes of examining film structure. On the one hand, the train’s sequential compartments resemble the syntagmatic structure of cinema (sequential arrangement of scenes or sequences) and the linear progression of globalization narrative. On the other hand, the narrative and stylistic emphasis on the Yekaterina allows the paradigmatic structure (the different ways of capturing one scene or image) and the multiple trajectories of transnational narrative. The three characteristics of the anarchic gaze reject the conventional norm of comprehending the Yekaterina as part of the syntagmatic and seek the alternative interpretation of the space by manipulating the temporal and spatial relationships. The new approach initiated by the anarchic gaze shows the multiplicity of reality and the multiple trajectories of the narrative. Fig. 3 Fig. 4 1) The Directions of the Gaze 151 The film takes advantage of the train’s horizontal space and creates a progressive movement from left to right. The sequence begins with point of view shots from both sides. A shot of fig. 3 and the reaction POV from men with masks. The brutal battle begins, and the camera continually shows the battle from both sides. Then the spectator watches Curtis for forty seconds in a long take of fig. 4. The spectator watches the battle from the side for the first time. The horizontal movement from the left to the right represents the movement of the revolution from the tail to the top. Before the angle changes to fig. 4, the camera is either stationary or shaky without clear direction. The long shot long take of Curtis’s fight in fig. 4 is accompanied by camera movement to right in parallel with Curtis’s movement. Fig. 5-1 Fig. 5-2 The film’s emphasis on the horizontal space of the train clearly reveals the binary structure—left or right—of the space. The film dramatizes Curtis’s dilemma of having to choose either left or right. On the left, Edgar who is Curtis’s second-in-command and his best friend has a knife on his throat. On the right, Minister Mason, who is in command of the soldiers, is about to escape the battle scene. Does he save his friend or capture the enemy? Does he regress back to where he was or move forward toward the engine? In terms of temporality, he has to choose either the past (the tail section of the train on the left) or the future (the engine room on the right). The image of fig. 5-1 is juxtaposed with the image of fig. 5-2. He chooses to move right, 152 showing his determination to the progression. The direction of the gaze clearly represents the choice Curtis makes. Later in the film Curtis faces another choice when he arrives at the engine room. Wilford convinces Curtis to take over Wilford’s job of accompanying the divine engine and ruling the train. Curtis does not say a word, but the film implicitly indicates his willingness to be the new ruler by turning Curtis’s gaze from right to left. The right direction that represents Curtis’s revolution is not really a revolution inasmuch as the revolution is actually engineered by Wilford. When Curtis was in the tail, he receives secret messages from the front section of the train. In the middle of the revolution, he again receives a message, which gives him a clue to what he should do next. Later in the film, it is revealed that the messages are sent from Wilford. In order to maintain balance in the train, Wilford thought the train needed to reduce the number of people on board. Wilford has periodically incited revolutions to occur, which would give Wilford a legitimate reason to kill people. Throughout the film, Curtis constantly chooses to go right, but his decision is not really his. His revolution is already part of the system and within the paradigm which is provided by the structure of power and authority. On the contrary to Curtis’s predetermined choices of left or right, the Yekaterina sequence introduces the possibility of the third direction through the Nam’s gaze, that is, moving from the inside to the outside of the train. During the long battle, Nam does not participate in physical combat. Although he is the one who opens the gate for the Curtis’ revolution, he is not interested in the Curtis’ direction of the revolution. Instead, Nam’s gaze is headed to the space behind a window. When the battle temporarily pauses due to the train crashing into the thick block of ice on the track, Nam and Yona look out to the window and check what they can see under the Yekaterina bridge. Nam has actually done this every year to see if the ice has melted or 153 not. As Nam tells Curtis later, Nam found out that the ice is melting outside. Nam thinks that humanity can survive the weather now. When everyone celebrates the repeated cycle of controlled life in the train by shouting “Happy New Year” on the bridge, Nam breaks free from the binary structure of the gaze and strives to seize his own destiny by looking for the third direction. 2) The Power Dynamics in the Visibility of the Gaze If Nam has the ability to open the gates that connects one compartment with the next, Yona has the supernatural power of clairvoyance to see through the gates. Her visibility is in stark contrast to that of the soldiers in the beginning of the Yekaterina bridge sequence. Right after Yona shouts, “Don’t open the door,” Nam opens the door and the spectator sees soldiers wearing black masks in fig. 3. Her supernatural ability to see is clearly compared and contrasted to the limited visibility of the masked soldiers. Note that the masks the soldiers wear are uncommon in the sense that they have no holes for eyes. Hereafter, the battle is presented in terms of visibility. The situations of the battle constantly change depending on who has superior visibility. Fig. 6-1 Fig. 6-2 154 Fig. 6-3 Fig. 6-4 In the beginning, the battle goes well for Curtis in the sense that the group was slowly moving to the right. However, after celebrating the New Year, the momentum shifts to the soldiers’ side. Knowing that there is a long dark tunnel after passing the Yekaterina bridge, the soldiers have prepared night vision goggles. After announcing that precisely 74% of the group shall die, Minister Mason puts on the night vision goggles to watch the show of massacre. Soon, people adapt to the darkness of the tunnel by lighting the torches from Nam’s match. With torchlight, Curtis and other members of the revolution dominate the battle again. The film clearly associates the control of superior visibility with the control of power. Fig 7-1 Fig. 7-2 Every time the film associates visibility with power, the spectator becomes more aware of the act of looking within the film. In addition to props that are relevant to vision, the film 155 enhances the association between visibility and power by employing numerous POV shots. Since the spectator is following the revolution of Curtis, one might expect most, if not all, POV shots come from Curtis’ perspective. But the film visualizes the POV shots of diverse people from both sides. Fig 7-1 and 7-2 are good examples of how the spectator attains a new kind of visibility. Fig. 7-1 and 7-2 are the POV shots of a soldier who is wearing night vision goggles. By employing multiple POV shots from both sides, the film liberates the viewer from the predetermined choices of vision. Instead of just comprehending the situation from the protagonist’s perspective, the film encourages the viewer to explore the space from multiple perspectives. The self-awareness of the gaze ultimately changes the spectator’s relationship with the film. As the spectator acquires multiple gazes and visual cues, the spectator has to participate in the power dynamics of visibility. Fig. 8-1 Fig. 8-2 156 Fig. 8-3 Fig. 8-4 Similar to the POV shots, the construction of opaque spaces also raises the self-awareness of the gaze. The film endows characters and the spectator with ambiguous visibility. When Curtis and Nam get closer to the engine room, they find each compartment with foggy air and darkness. The spectator’s active participation of looking or searching is required. The limited visibility of ambiguous spaces ironically provides the viewer with the freedom of the gaze. The Rules of the Game (Jean Renoir, 1939) is known for the elaborate use of deep focus cinematography and its depth of field. Renoir employs a long shot with deep focus and captures multiple characters and events in the same frame. In so doing, he gives the spectators freedom to choose what they want to see. 204 In other words, the film does not dictate what the spectator should see. Snowpiercer is similar to The Rules of the Game in the sense that the film does not dictate what the spectator sees. But the meanings of freedom in two films are vastly different. Whereas the freedom of the gaze in The Rules of the Game is a means of seeking pleasure, the freedom of the gaze in Snowpiercer is a means of questioning the structure of power. When Curtis enters the visually ambiguous compartments, the entrance and the exit of a compartment disappear and the progressive movement of the train is disrupted. The opaqueness blurs the rigid trajectory of the narrative arranged by the structure of power. 3) The Fetishization of the Gaze and The Slow Meanders of Zombie Time When the spectator sees the long take of Curtis from the side for the first time during the Yekaterina sequence, those who are familiar with Korean cinema would automatically associate the image with the famous hallway fight scene in Oldboy (Park Chan-wook, 2005). In the film, the protagonist moves from left to right and fights against a mob of men. 204 André Bazin and François Truffaut, Jean Renoir (Simon and Schuster New York, 1973). 157 Fig. 9 The director Bong is definitely paying homage to the director Park, who is also a producer of Snowpiercer. One difference between the two films is that Curtis uses a hatchet instead of a hammer. Another more important difference is that Bong captures Curtis’s battle in slow motion in lieu of real time in Oldboy. Through the long take in Oldboy, the spectator comprehends the gruesomeness of the fight and empathizes with the exhausted protagonist. Instead of empathizing with the emotions of the protagonist, Snowpiercer seems to be more interested in showing actions and accentuates the perpetual temporality of the train. The slow motion is employed not just in Curtis scenes, but in other scenes, too. For example, in the Yekaterina bridge sequence, the regular and the slow motion occupy the screen back and forth. Out of 12 minutes 40 seconds, 5 minutes 8 seconds is in slow motion. Speed of the Film Time Length Slow motion 41:10 – 42:53 1m43s Regular 42:53 – 43:43 50s Slow motion 43:43 – 45:23 1m40s Regular 45:23 – 50:33 5m10s Slow motion 50:33 – 50:55 23s Regular 50:55 – 51:54 59s Slow motion 51:54 – 51:59 5s Regular 51:59 – 52:33 34s Slow motion 52:33 – 53:50 1m17s Regular 53:50 – 158 Usually, in films, slow motion is employed only in a few scenes, dramatizing the moment. Because of the ubiquity of the slow motion in Snowpiercer, however, the slow motion loses the main function. Slow motion also has a function of guiding the viewer to the details of a character’s action or mis-en-scene, but there is not much for the spectator to notice during the slow motion in Snowpiercer. 205 What it does in Snowpiercer is the interrogation of temporality of the film and the train. Vivian Sobchack in her discussion of slow motion notes: Unlike the ‘freeze frame’ and against the increasing accelerations of cinematic and social life, the operations of slow motion visibly and sensually interrogate those accelerations in what seems a ‘revelation’—not of immobility or stillness but the essential movement of movement itself. Furthermore, this revelation of the essence of movement emerges correlatively with an extended sense of time— precisely what today we feel we lack. 206 Both freeze frame and slow motion stand out as a pivotal moment in many films, but unlike freeze frame, which connotes death and stillness, slow motion is solely invested in movement. The actual purpose of slow time is not to see the objects better—freeze frame would be better in this case—, but to see the movement itself, which is the fetishization of movement. The fetishization of movement allows the spectator to question the structure of temporal progression: past-present-future and acknowledge the presence of liminality in the film. The long take of Curtis in slow motion exemplifies how the film questions conventional temporality— 24fps as the standard frame rate—that the spectator is accustomed to and rejects the social order of the train (regular speed). Right before the slow motion scene of Curtis, the film captures a brutal battle between the two parties with the extensive use of fast cutting, which creates a fast rhythm and pace. After fifty seconds of fast-paced rhythm, the spectator is introduced to one 205 David Cox, “Speed Ramping,” https://journals.uvic.ca/index.php/ctheory/article/view/14714/5585 (accessed August 20, 2019) 206 Vivian Sobchack cited in Fetishism and Curiosity: Cinema and the Mind’s Eye by Laura Mulvey. I will find the primary source later. 159 minute and forty seconds of the long take of Curtis in slow motion. The moment the camera shows the image of Curtis, the spectator starts to hear the non-diegetic sound of piano. The slow and melancholic melody of the piano accompanies the slow movement of Curtis. The new temporality created by the slow motion and music makes the meaning of the scene ambiguous. By awkwardly changing the tempo of the sequence, the film abruptly changes the genre from action to something else. The film disrupts the spectator from being immersed in the pleasure that the action scenes offer. Instead, the film creates the moment of ambiguity. The spectator watches the slow motion without knowing the fact that it is one minute and forty seconds long. Once the spectator realizes that the film has no intention of stopping the slow motion, they do not know what to expect and how to react to the lengthy slow motion. Contrary to the viewer’s expectation to see escalating dramatic moments with the fast-paced action images, the editing choices that Bong makes for this specific scene lessen the energy and intensity of the battle, slowing everything down. The fast action turns into ballet. Instead of anger and rage, the slow motion of Curtis seems to express sorrow and grief. With regards to the way in which the slow movements of Curtis and other figures alter the viewing experience, David Pagano remarks, “the slow meanders of zombie time emerge out of the paralysis of the conventional time of progressive narrative. This strangely empty temporality also corresponds to a new way of looking, a vertiginously passive fascination. The usual relation of audience to protagonist is inverted.” 207 The fetishization of the gaze not only questions the temporal structure of progression but also creates “zombie time.” “Strangely empty temporality” allows the new way of looking and associates the image of Curtis with the uncanny nature of zombie. What the spectator sees on a surface level is the successful revolution led by 207 Steven Shaviro, "Contagious Allegories: George Romero," The Cinematic Body (1993)., 99. 160 Curtis. But during the ‘inverted’ time of zombie, Curtis represents liminal subjects whose existence is not permitted in the traditional form of space and time. The uncanny speed of the gaze valorizes zombie as a legitimate subject of the new way of looking. Zombie has malleable and flexible connotations that make the image of zombie applicable and accessible to diverse situations. Kyle William Bishop notes, “zombies can be whatever we need them to be, and their various natures, manifestations, and mutations lend themselves to explaining ideas and concepts efficiently that would otherwise be difficult to understand.” 208 Zombie films have recently gained popularity in Korea cinema. 209 While the trope of zombie has been used in many contexts, I emphasize the fact that the image of zombie is often “connected to anxieties about enclosed spaces as well as the collapse of boundaries between interior and exterior.” 210 The combination of train and zombie in Train to Busan (Yeon Sang-ho, 2016) is by no means coincidental. The trope of train connotes the ambiguous boundary between space and time. Zombies blur the boundary between life and death. Snowpiercer also adopts the combination of train and zombie. The film specifically employs two elements—“anxieties about enclosed spaces” and “the collapse of boundaries”—of zombies and demonstrates how the slow motion evokes the zombie time. The film allegorically shows the process of people turning into zombies through the slow meanders of zombie time. Through the inverted time of zombie, both Curtis and the soldiers look alike with the awkward 208 Kyle William Bishop, How Zombies Conquered Popular Culture: The Multifarious Walking Dead in the 21st Century (McFarland, 2015)., 6-7. 209 Some of the titles include Dark Forest (Kim Jung-min, 2006), The Neighbor Zombie (Jang Youn-jung, Oh Young-doo, Ryoo Hoon, and Yeong Geon, 2009), Doomsday Book (Yim Pil- sung, 2012), Ambulance on the Death Zone (Kim Gok and Kim Sun, 2012), and Zombie School (Kim Seok-jung, 2014), and Kingdom (Kim Seong-hun, 2019). 210 Edward P. Comentale and Aaron Jaffe, The Year's Work at the Zombie Research Center, The Year's Work: Studies in Fan Culture and Cultural Theory (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2014). 161 movement in slow motion. The anarchic gaze ridicules the fact that Curtis and the soldiers become the same in the Yekaterina sequence. Curtis’s battle against the soldiers loses its meaning as the zombie time slows down the momentum and intensity of the battle. The battle loses its directionality as well. Instead, the zombie time makes both parties look as if they are choreographing a ballet. In the zombie time, the two parties are no longer enemies. 211 Interestingly, Nam is not captured in the zombie time and the film separates Nam from the rest of the people in the train. Fig. 10-1 Fig. 10-2 Fig. 10-1 and 10-2 show another moment of zombie time. Many people in the front section of the train are addicted to Kronole, which is a hallucinogenic drug made out of chemical waste. The camera captures their movement in slow-motion. The addicted people have slow meandering movement resembling that of zombie. 212 They try to kill Curtis and Nam without a clear reason. The film does not specify what motivates them to be hostile to Curtis and Nam. The 211 Though not in zombie time, a critical moment during the battle also depicts Curtis and the soldiers being on the same team. It is when the train arrives at the Yekaterina bridge. The battle suddenly stops and everyone except Nam celebrates the New Year together. The awkward moment of a truce is extended by the ice blocking the railroad. When everyone embraces the impact from the ice, the camera captures one of the soldiers smiling at Curtis in a close-up. 212 It is not clear whether the camera slows down or the people voluntarily imitate the slow meandering movement of zombie. 162 only speculation I can make is that they don’t have an individual ability of decision making. With or without knowing, they follow the will of the train. They never speak any language but make the sound of animals. They only move as a large crowd and display no individual emotion. In sum, they do not have the sense of the self, but have the collective identity as the follower of the train. During the zombie time, the anarchic gaze problematizes the way in which these figures attain collective identity without individuality and succumb to the system of power. According to Wonser and Boyns, “the hallmark of the zombie is that it is characterized by sociality without individuality, matched with a concomitant suspension of personhood, the social construction of the zombie is such that it is defined as a human that is ‘other’ than human.” 213 The zombie time erases distinctive features of individuals and keeps their social and collective identity as the follower of the train. Through the collective identity, the structure of power ultimately turns humanity into something other than human. Humans exist for the ecological balance of the train. During the battle at the Yekaterina bridge, Minister Mason gives a speech and reads a note saying, “precisely 74% of you shall die.” This isn’t a number that she decided out of spite, but from a written order from Wilford, the creator and rule of the train. What is obvious in this scene is that humans in the train are there for the sake of the train. To Wilford, everything is for the divine engine. Humanity exists as the essential part of the balance, nothing more or less. That is to say, humans are not considered human but the collective being supporting and sustaining the system of the train. 213 Robert Wonser and David Boyns, "Between the Living and Undead: How Zombie Cinema Reflects the Social Construction of Risk, the Anxious Self, and Disease Pandemic," The Sociological Quarterly 57, no. 4 (2016)., 634. 163 Fig. 11-1 Fig. 11-2 Insofar as the humans exists for the balance of the train, the film equates the humans with fish. When the door opens for the Yekaterina sequence, the first thing the spectator sees is the above images of the masked soldier cutting a fish open in the zombie time. It is imperative to understand that Bong intentionally shows this scene in slow motion. In the zombie time, the visual exploration of the grotesque image of fish overlaps the fate of humans in revolution. The ritual of cutting a fish open is a metaphor for killing humans. In an interview, the director Bong explains, “I wanted to show a creepy ritual…The soldiers enjoy killing people from the tail section like a big event. Living in the enclosed space of the train for long, they must be bored to death.” 214 Prioritizing the fate of the train, killing fish or humans is a form of entertainment approved by the ruler of the train. Conclusion Zombie’s connection to the discourse of visibility goes beyond the zombie time discussed above. One indication of people turning into zombies and losing their individual free will is the 214 Bongseok Kim, Jongchul Kim, and Jun-o Baek, “seolgugyeolcha bongjunho gamdok inteobyu,” 설국열차 봉준호 감독 인터뷰 [Snowpiercer director Bong Joon-ho interview], Extreme Movie, last modified August 6, 2013, http://extmovie.maxmovie.com/xe/article/2230577#csidxb447b46897c122bb02f804764b5a56 8 (accessed August 20, 2019) 164 hazy eyes of zombie. When a person is infected, the person retains self-consciousness until the eyes turn grey. The murky eyes of the infected person denote the complete mutation of the person. In addition, the zombie has poor eyesight. Due to the loss of individuality and sense of the self, the zombie mechanically reacts to light. In Train to Busan, for example, zombies in the train only react to what they see. When protagonists block the view of the window between two compartments of the train, the zombies no longer recognize the presence of the protagonists in the next compartment and stop moving toward the protagonists. In Snowpiercer, either the characters have unusual eyesight, or the environment stops them from seeing things normally and clearly. Whereas the revolutionary desire against the structure of train is to get to the front section, the desire against the zombified humans is to attain superior visibility. Visibility is power and a way of defying the structure of power. The hazy eyes of zombies are in contrast to the clairvoyance of Yona. If the zombie motif represents the collective identity within the liminal structure of the train, Yona represents liminalized subjects, who retain the sense of identity and express the self-consciousness through multiple trajectories of narratives in the ambiguous nature of liminality. Yona, who has superior vision, survives until the end and successfully exits the train. Yona is Bong’s way of distinguishing Korean cinema from the linear structure of power in globalization narrative. In particular, it is interesting that Bong constructs Yona character as a symbol of liminality. By taking the name from a biblical story in the Book of Jonah, Yona’s stay in the train is allegorically compared to Jonah’s temporary stay in the belly of a huge fish. Just as Jonah’s liminal stay in a fish transforms him, Yona’s liminal stay in the train offers her a chance of transformation. She is seventeen years old and is about to be an adult. She is in a liminal stage 165 between adolescence and adulthood. Although the film does not focus the narrative around Yona, the film is an allegorical ritual for Yona’s coming of age ceremony. By showing how the transformation of Yona occurs in its rejection of the structure of power, perhaps Bong suggests a new direction for Korean cinema within the context of the global. The anarchic gaze recognizes the self-reflexive perspective of the film that presents the train as a liminal object, through which the viewers acknowledge the possibility of multiple narratives in the transnational. By rejecting the chronological structure of time (past-present- future) and the linear progression of space, the film interrupts the dominant trajectory of globalization narrative, which creates a hierarchy between cultures and invades the socio- political, economic, and cultural spaces of other nations. 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Contemporary European cinema in a transnational perspective: aftereffects of 1989

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Creator Kang, Wooseok (author)

Core Title Liminal visibility: exploring ambiguities of time and space in transnational Korean hallyu cinema

School College of Letters, Arts and Sciences

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program East Asian Languages and Cultures

Publication Date 11/13/2019

Defense Date 08/28/2019

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Tag ambiguity,Blood and Bones,Cool,Dooman River,hallyu,hallyu cinema,invisibility,Korean cinema,Korean film,Korean Wave,Late Autumn,liminal,liminality,Love of South and North,Manchuria,marginal,marginality,national cinema,North Korea,OAI-PMH Harvest,Our Homeland,Secretly, Greatly,Snowpiercer,South Korea,The Good, the Bad, the Weird,Train,transnational,transnational cinema,transnationalism,visibility,War of the Arrows,Worst By Chance,Zainichi,zombie

Language English

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Advisor Choe, Youngmin (committee chair), Lippit, Akira Mizuta (committee member), Park, Sunyoung (committee member)

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