A Bittersweet Life's narrative walks a difficult and stylish tightrope between philosophy and violence, reflection and recklessness. Partially redeemed by some well-choreographed action set pieces, it sits between the more meditative type of Asian gangster film epitomised by Burning Fire (1997), and the more common angel-of-revenge tale, such as was to be seen lately in Oldboy. After early critical successes director Kim Ji-woon is flagged as a talent to watch in the emerging Korean cinema. The subtleties of his A Tale of Two Sisters created a disturbing cocktail of suspenseful horror, one in which the audience was often left guessing as to the exact relationship between major characters. In Bittersweet, although there remains a central question of the heart of the narrative just as subtle - the exact emotional attachment between Sun-woo and Hee-soo - other relationships are far more stereotypical and less imaginative: the tough gang boss, bound by codes of honour for instance; or his femme fatale girlfriend, who throws such a dangerous attraction over her minder; the threatening criminal rivals, the swaggering henchman, etc. Kim Ji-woon's film works best when one instead concentrates on its more interesting aspects, notably the exact mental state of the hero, the bloody transformation from a man who starts out as a loyal employee who pours out his master's drink, to end as a blood soaked avenger, holding a gun at his head.
Sun-woo is a reliable man who has served his boss without complaint for seven years. His attraction for Boss Kang is that he has apparently never been in love, or even had a girlfriend, an un-distracted state of affairs that allows him to give his role full dedication. He does his job, as evidenced by the opening scenes, very efficiently and reliably. Like his boss, an honourable man, who knows how "One mistake can undo the work of many years." In the light of this daunting recognition, the question the film ultimately poses is whether it is wise to restrict an emotional life around blind loyalty, or whether the heart and mind can ultimately make something else out of that which seems almost mechanical. Ultimately one cannot just 'erase memories' or the start of real human feeling just like overcoming an opponent, even though such concerns can be hidden behind fierce notions of honour.
When Sun-woo is given the three-day job of monitoring his boss' girlfriend, the coming drama seems obvious. Most films would promptly have minder and moll strike sparks off each other before falling into a predictable game of dangerous sexual intrigue. Kim Ji-woon's approach is more interesting: following his boss' strict instructions, Sun-woo finds that he is still given a choice of whether to report any liaison or to handle it "in his own way" - a fatal phrasing which allows him, for whatever reason, to exercise some humanity while giving the director a chance to suggest his awakening interest in the girl. But any connection between the two is largely one sided, suggested without passion. Instead Sun-Woo is permitted something which is best described as a moment of spiritual affirmation, listening to the girl play the cello. Much is just suggested, until the audience almost reads into innocuous events a love story of its own devising (in fact it is not until Hee-soo opens her present at the end that anything concrete is really confirmed between them and then obliquely).
Rigorous in following instructions in the case of the girlfriend, and unbending when facing down the threatened predations of gangland rivals, Sun-woo is a proud to the point of recklessness in fact, as his refusal to say "three little words" to avoid a crisis shows. Such refusal can be equated to his lack of verbalisation in the romantic sphere, when he cannot admit to his boss the likelihood of human interest outside of duty, even at pain of death. Whether or not its because he does not know himself is central to our understanding of events, and hard to decide. Like a novice gazing at trees caught by the wind (a key image), he's not yet learnt to project his emotions outwards to interpret the world. During a press conference after the film's premiere the director apparently emphasised the way lack of communication is at the heart of his film. To be more precise, one might restate this lack as being of missing *empathy*. And where either minor or major misunderstandings easily happen, its absence can lead to disaster.
But in a bittersweet world besides sadness and tragedy there's room here for some comedic moments, notably in the scenes where Sun-woo attempts to buy guns from some incompetent gangsters; even in some of the shootouts where the tough guy, being presumably unused to working with guns rather than fists, proves an unreliable shot. The ambiguity of the main character (although arguably one of the film's strengths), the temporary change in tone to black humour after Sun-woo's initial downfall from grace, as well as the stereotypical nature of various character elements, I think, are hard to reconcile. Two or three powerhouse action sequences - a standout being Sun-woo's escape - redeem matters considerably, but one yearns for more imagination amongst incidentals, echoing the central theme which relates the implied vacuum in a hard man's heart to his empty lifestyle. Ultimately, like a man shadow boxing in a window, the question of why he does it, and for whom, remains a mystery.
Sun-woo is a reliable man who has served his boss without complaint for seven years. His attraction for Boss Kang is that he has apparently never been in love, or even had a girlfriend, an un-distracted state of affairs that allows him to give his role full dedication. He does his job, as evidenced by the opening scenes, very efficiently and reliably. Like his boss, an honourable man, who knows how "One mistake can undo the work of many years." In the light of this daunting recognition, the question the film ultimately poses is whether it is wise to restrict an emotional life around blind loyalty, or whether the heart and mind can ultimately make something else out of that which seems almost mechanical. Ultimately one cannot just 'erase memories' or the start of real human feeling just like overcoming an opponent, even though such concerns can be hidden behind fierce notions of honour.
When Sun-woo is given the three-day job of monitoring his boss' girlfriend, the coming drama seems obvious. Most films would promptly have minder and moll strike sparks off each other before falling into a predictable game of dangerous sexual intrigue. Kim Ji-woon's approach is more interesting: following his boss' strict instructions, Sun-woo finds that he is still given a choice of whether to report any liaison or to handle it "in his own way" - a fatal phrasing which allows him, for whatever reason, to exercise some humanity while giving the director a chance to suggest his awakening interest in the girl. But any connection between the two is largely one sided, suggested without passion. Instead Sun-Woo is permitted something which is best described as a moment of spiritual affirmation, listening to the girl play the cello. Much is just suggested, until the audience almost reads into innocuous events a love story of its own devising (in fact it is not until Hee-soo opens her present at the end that anything concrete is really confirmed between them and then obliquely).
Rigorous in following instructions in the case of the girlfriend, and unbending when facing down the threatened predations of gangland rivals, Sun-woo is a proud to the point of recklessness in fact, as his refusal to say "three little words" to avoid a crisis shows. Such refusal can be equated to his lack of verbalisation in the romantic sphere, when he cannot admit to his boss the likelihood of human interest outside of duty, even at pain of death. Whether or not its because he does not know himself is central to our understanding of events, and hard to decide. Like a novice gazing at trees caught by the wind (a key image), he's not yet learnt to project his emotions outwards to interpret the world. During a press conference after the film's premiere the director apparently emphasised the way lack of communication is at the heart of his film. To be more precise, one might restate this lack as being of missing *empathy*. And where either minor or major misunderstandings easily happen, its absence can lead to disaster.
But in a bittersweet world besides sadness and tragedy there's room here for some comedic moments, notably in the scenes where Sun-woo attempts to buy guns from some incompetent gangsters; even in some of the shootouts where the tough guy, being presumably unused to working with guns rather than fists, proves an unreliable shot. The ambiguity of the main character (although arguably one of the film's strengths), the temporary change in tone to black humour after Sun-woo's initial downfall from grace, as well as the stereotypical nature of various character elements, I think, are hard to reconcile. Two or three powerhouse action sequences - a standout being Sun-woo's escape - redeem matters considerably, but one yearns for more imagination amongst incidentals, echoing the central theme which relates the implied vacuum in a hard man's heart to his empty lifestyle. Ultimately, like a man shadow boxing in a window, the question of why he does it, and for whom, remains a mystery.