While on the outside this may appear to be the polar opposite of Sun-Woo Jang’s Lies (the other South Korean import to play Austin this month), there are some striking similarities: Both films deal with illicit affairs of the heart, both pairs of lovers come from opposite ends of the social spectrum, and both are couched in highly stylized, almost experimental narrative formats. But whereas Lies is a bold, erotic slap in the face to staid Korean sensibilities, Chunhyang feels more like a conscious attempt to revitalize a more florid — and deeply romanticized — Korean history. The two films might as well serve as bookends not only for Korean cinema as a whole but for the changing sensibilities of the nation itself. Although Im Kwon Taek has more than 90 films to his credit, this is the first to secure an American distribution deal. It’s a great place to start, I suppose, though I’ll say right here that I haven’t seen any of the director’s previous films. Set against the backdrop of medieval Korea, the film plays out on a grand scale, replete with lavish sets and costuming. Scores of extras highlight this period drama of two star-crossed lovers (comparisons to Romeo and Juliet aren’t far off the mark): the intellectual Governor’s son Mongryong (Cho) and the object of his affections, Chunhyang (Lee), a courtesan’s daughter. When Mongryong spies the headstrong young nymphette carousing atop a forest swingset one lush afternoon, he sends his manservant Pangja (Kim Hak Yong) to fetch her. Predictably, she rebuffs his advances, which only spurs him on to greater lengths. Once they are face to face, however, sly glances escalate into a formal ballet of desire. These two were destined to be together long before Im decided to film their story. Impetuously, Mongryong secretly marries his love against the wishes of his father, and then is sent away to Seoul for schooling for several years. In the interim, Chunhyang finds herself increasingly imperiled by a new governor (Choi), who, in his vibrant robes and Snidely Whiplash mustache and demeanor, seeks to take her as his own. She declines, as would any good and affronted wife, and is imprisoned. The film moves on from this with the staid resolution of a love sonnet, and while there are precious few surprises in store for the viewer, the director’s keen eye for the nuances of the situation and, specifically, some breathtaking cinematography by Jung Il Sung, keeps things moving. Which isn’t to say that some people might find Chunhyang a chore to sit through, including me. Despite all of its accumulated period gorgeousness, or perhaps because of it, the film moves at a snail’s pace, telegraphing plot twists miles before we actually arrive at them. Much of this, I think, is purportedly in the service of the story’s labyrinthine twists and turns, which arrive packing little or no punch, simply because this sort of chronicle of romantic entanglement is hardly new to Western eyes. No matter how lovely it is to look at (and it is, make no mistake), we’ve seen this a dozen times before. Im Kwon Taek breaks up the proceedings by intercutting shots of legendary Korean opera star Cho Sang Hyun singing the events beneath a bare proscenium arch as they occur onscreen. This style — called Pansori — may be well-loved, but the director’s choice to incorporate it into the body of the film only serves to take us out of the moment. It’s jarring watching this lone vocal orator regaling the modern-day movie audience and then — bam! — back to 18th-century Korea. Twentieth-century interruptions not withstanding, the film is an epic, splendidly colorful love story, albeit one whose ending our jaded Western eyes can spot coming a century (or two) away.
This article appears in February 16 • 2001.