One of the most unusual motion
pictures of the year, Spring, Summer,
Fall, Winter… and Spring (the title is probably less unwieldy in the
original, which renders each section with a single beautiful character),
indicates that even in the midst of American cultural hegemony, a world cinema
continues to exist and even thrive.
The
movie comes from Korea, an oddity in itself, since few Americans, even students
of the art, know anything about Korean film. Its writer-director, Kim Ki-duk,
who also appears in the picture, has, however, attained a measure of
international recognition, including prizes at numerous film festivals from
Venice to Pusan, and this work is the Korean entry for Best Foreign Film at the
Academy Awards.
As
any Western viewer would expect, the movie differs drastically from the
familiar product of the American film industry. The deceptive simplicity of its
plot, its limited cast, its single setting, its subdued emotions, its absolute
lack of glamour, and its somehow overpowering stillness contrast acutely with
the rapid pace, violent action, dazzling effects, polished technique, and
formulaic slickness of the typical contemporary Hollywood flick.
In
keeping with its story and characters, moreover, Spring, Summer also presents an entirely Eastern approach to its
material practically guaranteed to disappoint the expectations of a great many
Western audiences.
As
its title promises, the movie follows the seasons, placing each of its five
chapters in the designated period over the span of many years, and setting its
action in a small monastic retreat that floats on a raft in the middle of a
placid lake surrounded by mountains. In “Spring,” an elderly monk, referred to
in the materials as Old Monk, lives there with his pupil, Child Monk, whom he
apparently instructs in Buddhist practice.
When
the boy tortures some small animals by tying stones to them, the monk punishes
him and tells him that he will carry that stone in his heart for the rest of
his life. The statement proves unexpectedly prophetic in a later episode.
In
“Summer,” Child Monk, now the adolescent Boy Monk, falls in love with a young
woman brought to the monastery by her mother for spiritual healing. The two
young people make love, which the Old Monk understands as a natural act, but he
also warns them against the results of lust, which he believes will lead to the
desire to possess, followed by the desire to destroy. Ignoring the lessons of
his master, the young man deserts the hermitage and his vocation to follow the
urgent demands of his passion.
The
pupil, now called Young Adult Monk in the script, returns years later in
“Fall,” on the run from the police for committing the act the Old Monk warned
him against, searching for both sanctuary and forgiveness. The peculiar form of
penitence the master assigns him ends up involving the two detectives who come
to arrest him and beautifully seals a sort of spiritual connection among them
all. His departure also engenders a further, tragic, surprising, but also
inevitable act that defines something of the peculiar spirituality of the
situation and its people.
In
“Winter,” perhaps the strangest and most mysterious of all the episodes, a new
character, Adult Monk, played by the director, reopens the empty hermitage and
voluntarily undergoes a curious act of repentance that presumably expiates all
the previous deeds of cruelty and violence. When the final season, the last
“Spring,” arrives, the cycle promises to begin anew, with a new monk and a new
child disciple.
The
movie of course amounts to much more than the sum of those parts or the scanty
survey of the several brief plots. Its almost purely visual narrative,
refreshingly, forces the viewer to comprehend the characters and action without
any explanation and with barely any dialogue. In keeping with its themes, it
practices a sort of Zen minimalism, combining a stylized austerity of texture
with a static but constantly evolving sense of scene and surroundings.
The
picture’s visual beauty fuses its subjects and themes with a remarkable sense
of balance and completion. Its style almost entirely expresses its meanings,
and its stringent control of action and gesture creates a resonance and
lyricism that transcend the simple details of its surfaces. Its familiar
Buddhist understanding that desire — the desire to have, the desire to be —
engenders suffering may suggest a bleak attitude toward both flesh and spirit,
but seems perfectly suited to its concentration on the small actions of
ordinary life.
Finally,
Spring, Summer displays a decidedly
unusual and completely un-Western sense of quietude. Its repeated shots of the
hermitage floating serenely in the middle of the lake through the changing
seasons, its mere suggestions of setting and movement, its absolute control of
speech and gesture, create a kind of small masterpiece of what I can only think
of as Zen understatement.
Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring (R), starring Oh Young-soo, Kim Ki-duk, Kim Young-min, Seo Jae-kyung, Ha
Yeo-jin, Kim Jong-ho, Kim Jung-young; written and directed by Kim Ki-duk. The Little Theatres
This article appears in May 26 – Jun 1, 2004.
