South Korean director
Lee Chang-dong’s achingly poignant Peppermint Candy chronicles the loss
of innocence of a young man, Yong-ho (Sol Kyung-gu) that mirrors the decline
of his country during the period of military rule in the 80s and 90s. Like
Hou Hsiao-hsien’s eloquent City of Sadness which dramatized the February
28th (1947) massacre in Taiwan, Peppermint Candy brings to light the Kwangju
massacre of 1980 in which massive student-led demonstrations in Kwangju,
South Korea protesting the imposition of martial law resulted in the death
of hundreds and possibly thousands of people. Though the demonstrations
were brutally crushed with the acquiescence of the U.S. government, the
incident is now recognized as a milestone in the struggle for democracy
in Asia.
Named after a treat provided
by Yong-ho’s first love Sun-im (Mun So-ri), the film opens in 1999 in a
park-like setting adjacent to a railroad bridge. A group of friends have
gathered to celebrate a 20-year reunion and express surprise when they
see an old friend who has come uninvited. Dressed in a gray business suit
and now in his forties, Yong-ho looks disheveled and seems to be drunk
or on drugs. At first congenial then suddenly belligerent, he grabs the
microphone and engages in a karaoke song, then, after walking into the
water fully clothed, climbs onto a railroad track on the bridge and awaits
his fate screaming, “I’m going back”.
As if Yong-ho is now looking
back at his life from beyond the grave, the film unfolds in reverse chronology
over a twenty year period as we witness the crucial events in the man’s
life that have led him to his present state. Each of the seven periods
is separated by the poetic image of a train running backwards. We learn
that three days ago Yong-ho was living in a run down shack, a victim of
the economic crisis that spurred high bankruptcy and suicide rates throughout
Asia in 1999. He has lost all of his money because of the betrayal of his
business partner and the collapse of the stock market. With his last bit
of cash, he buys a gun and expresses the wish to die and to take those
people along with him who have made his life a torment.
When the husband of his
former girlfriend, Sun-im, visits to tell him that she is dying, however,
and asks him to see her in the hospital, his plans are put on hold. The
scene then shifts to 1994 when Yong-ho was a small businessman taking advantage
of the thriving Korean economy, and married to Hong-ja (Kim Yeo-Jin) in
a marriage that seems devoid of love. Though Hong-ja is pregnant and the
birth of his daughter is imminent, the increasingly unpleasant Yong-ho
refuses to accompany her to the hospital and continues an affair with an
office employee that foretells the breakup of his marriage. During this
segment, Yong-ho runs into a man at a restaurant who recognizes him from
the past but it is only when we go back further to 1987 do we learn that
the man in the restaurant was a student who Yong-ho, then a policeman,
brutally beat and tortured to extract a confession.
In 1984, Yong-ho is a
police officer just learning his trade as he watches fellow officers sadistically
beat prisoners. One of the officers tells the recruit that he will never
forget the smell, a metaphor that could apply to the odor of military dictatorship
running the country. The moment of truth, however, comes in 1980 during
the demonstrations at Kwangju when Yong-ho, in a moment of weakness, takes
an action against a student that will cause him guilt and regret for the
rest of his life. Sol Kyung-gu’s performance through shifts in time and
appearance is little short of a revelation. He totally inhabits the character
of a once idealistic young man who, stripped of his humanity by a brutal
society, is driven to degradation. Yong-ho has convinced himself that he
is an unworthy person and acts accordingly, extending his suffering and
bitterness to the lives of the people around him without taking responsibility
for his actions.
In 1979, however, in the
film’s last segment, he is still a sensitive dreamer who wants to become
a photographer. The poignancy of the scene is magnified because we know
how his life unfolds from this point and because it can be an unsettling
reminder of how our own dreams may have fallen short. As Yong-ho sits in
the very spot where the film began, looking up towards the light with a
beatific smile on his face and a tear in his eye, he tells Sun-im that
he has a strange feeling that the scene is familiar. In that moment of
grace, Peppermint Candy allows us to see beyond the surface of life to
its center.
GRADE: A
Howard
Schumann