Tale of an Unknown Number of Sisters

I know I promised to do these film reviews with some semblance of regularity but things got in the way: art shows, the discovery of a new fish market near our apartment, drinking (always drinking), trekking through Nepal and a visit from my parents. So I apologise. Deeply and profoundly. And offer you this, my thoughts on another example of Korean horror: this is one hell of a film, completely defying the idea that one thing leads to another. During every movie we watch our brain makes hundreds of tiny connections through which we understand, decipher and appreciate. A Tale of Two Sisters, however, is determined to make this process as difficult as possible.

It opens in a psychiatric hospital ward: the perfect setting for a film to be told in reverse. Su-mi is questioned by a doctor who, after receiving no response, pushes a photo of her family across the table. Cue the story (whether it be past or future, we're never sure): a much less haggard Su-mi exits a car with her sister, Su-yeon, and stands in the shadow of a house both seem to recognise and neither wish to enter. The girls run to play at the riverside wharf until called inside by their step-mother. From this point, barely ten minutes in, the film cements its gender position: Two Sisters is a film not about siblings but about women. Female power is expressed through loyalty to memory, jealousy and the fear of loss. Both sisters lament the death of their mother but Su-mi is fiercely opposed to the step-mother's presence who, in turn, uses discipline as a form of parental pretence. Her every motherly effort is edged with her own knowledge that she isn't welcome, paired with a refusal to accept this rejection. It is this stubbornness that makes her ugly. Her beauty is overshadowed by the lingering shots on her face and shoulders; almost instantaneously she is set up as a threat but what gives her such force is the envy she directs at the daughters and her own suspicion that they will succeed in pushing her from the family. Each scene comprising these three women is tense with things unsaid and overtures unmade. But I for one wanted some answers. Su-mi's fury could have been extraordinary if her reasons for such hatred were given room to move before the closing scenes.



First impressions suggest a straightforward collection of characters including two sisters, a father and step-mother but through a series of complicated flashbacks and dream sequences, I was left not really knowing who anybody was; there are two sisters, no there's only one, oh wait the other one lives inside the other, no she is real but isn't around any more, and now the other sister is the step-mother as well, okay no they are definitely two people but the step-mum was in the picture beforehand, the mother is dead but she seems to be haunting them, now there might be another ghost, oh right it's over. Suddenly this demure main cast of four seems much bigger and the effect is anything but successful. These switches are confusing and over complicated by the slow speed of the scenes. Korean cinema is famous for the beauty and exactitude of its shots but they are best utilised in films with single plot structures. Two Sisters comprises so many twists designed to throw the watcher off that it accomplishes its goal far too completely. What are two relatively simple story lines are butchered and combined in an attempt to create psychological synergy; the seams are just too visible. Place on top of this an unrelenting sense of suspense and the film becomes a hypocrite of itself. Horror is designed as a surprise genre where sharp sudden scares are what keep you on your toes. The horror in Two Sisters is too prevalent, too continuously possible. Both ethereal and physical violent manifestations lurked in the corners of each scene and the stress of waiting for them was overwhelming. When every minute of a film threatens to uncover something nasty the story can quite easily slip you by. And woe betide you if the story happens to be as astoundingly perplexing as this one.


The film's director, Kim Ji-woon, began his career in the theatre, a fact that is immediately obvious due to his use of colour and space. Vivid red shades are a constantly recurring image in the form of clothing, shoes, cupboard doors and flowers. And, of course, blood. The function of these objects is to hint toward eventual violence and while it's a heavy-handed symbol, the scenes in which they are included are visual poetry because they are so wonderful in their aesthetic balance. I have a deep and abiding love for the methods Korean film makers utilise to make dark scenes seem light with colour alone. Poorly lit interior settings are illuminated by a piece of clothing or table top or coat of make-up. Sunny exterior shots are made dangerous with shadows and discoloured buildings. The point is, they are never too heavily portrayed in either direction. Kim employs space in a similar way. While I remain steadfast in my belief that his timing would have improved had he directed them with more speed, spatially they are perfectly measured. In each outdoor scene the amount of surrounding landscape is directly related to the emotional state of the character, as are closeted indoor shots used to focus on isolation and desperation. No matter how much space in the shot, no character ever seems too small. Unless that is the aim. And of course, when necessary, a single body fills the entire scene. As if by cinematic magic.


So what would I make of this film overall? I stand by my judgement on the story: too complex, never clearly expounded and far too tense. I appreciate psychological thrillers and don't mind a movie taking advantage of supernatural elements to scare me stupid but A Tale of Two Sisters was too concerned with its own ability to frighten. If it had a voice I imagine it would say, 'are you frightened now? What about now? And now and now?' Despite these detrimental shortcomings it is a beautiful looking piece of cinema. The cast are not simply attractive (a given when studying these films) – they are beautiful in their emotions. The trembling torment of the step-mother, Su-mi's living sorrow, even the largely absent father's bewilderment; all are poignantly memorable and almost make up for the exhaustive process necessary to finish this film. Try and get to the end but if you don't, I will sympathise.


Lara looks even better than this after a heavy night of drinking and horror watching.

The Fever Called Living

'The crisis, the danger is past and the lingering illness is over at last,

and the fever called “Living” is conquered at last'
- Edgar Allen Poe.

What is this fever? Is it not hypocritical to identify living as a feverish state because surely if we live, we are healthy? And if it is conquered then surely we have ended our lives; ended our breathing, feeling and passion. We need fever to have life; it is what gives us power to endure and suffer and enjoy. But what does the end of fever and illness bring? Recovery, certainly, but also equal parts loss. You have experienced a kind of ultra life in which everything is accentuated, everything prolonged, everything memorable and afterwards you are left weakened and in shadow of your former feverish self. What we take away from this is a sense of balance between what we remember with healthy retention and what is burned into us through malady.

As young, adventurous travellers, East and I were attracted to Nepal for the trekking routes through the Himalayas toward Mount Everest. On our third day in the country we flew from Kathmandu to the notoriously treacherous Lukla Airport where the runway fell dead from the mountain side between smudgy firewood piles and stone and steel homes. It was warm there, high in the peaks with the tips of the Himalayas shifting underneath low cloud lines. Our first climbing trail was an easy uphill trot that put us at Phakding by midday just in time for the rain. Our accommodation had no hot water, no electricity and no food that didn't need to be killed and plucked but spired around us were the most beautiful compensations for any discomfort. We opened our books, drank milky sugar tea and tried to believe we were actually where we were. That we deserved such stunning surrounds. Before any of this could be realised, East complained of feeling nauseous and suspecting altitude sickness he went to rest. I ate my chicken curry and read by candlelight until a tiny torch beam alerted me to East's movements. He was ill enough to warrant visiting the bathroom but not to recognise the severity of his symptoms. I made the mistake of assuming he was simply purging a temporary sickness and left him to find his own way back to the room. When I returned to check he was bent in thirds on our thin double mattress, head hanging from the side, unable to lie flat or sit straight and moaning in a way that made my heart hurt. Altitude and our guide's advice be damned, this was something far more serious. Lukla hospital was two hours downhill in the dark moonless mountains. Down steps which in daylight were dangerous.

From the moment East voiced his troubles, illness became the focal point of our climb up Everest. Those moments reaching Phakding as we walked past daisy spotted rice paddies, stray dogs loving our enthusiastic steps and mist - the mist drowning its way up into the valley - paled in white-washed comparison next to the horror of illness. Suddenly our recent lives were defined by this sickening fever. My feelings of helplessness accentuated with every minute that East lay insensible except to run and vomit out a second floor window. Never have I been less in control of a situation, nor been swamped with such a powerless rush of love. His suffering became mine; shivering on the dust-blown floorboards, restless on a windowsill spat with cold rain and bile. From his pain I gathered more than sympathy. As he was carried by sherpas back down the trail I was struck by how incredible these moments were. Here we stood, in the close company of Nepalese legends, in a midnight Himalayan mountain range. Despite the exactitude of the circumstances, we were experiencing magic within terror. I stumbled behind them listening to East moan and retch and was truly frightened that my beloved would die outside an empty mountain lodge. Everything around me was hyper sensitive; my feet sliding in my unlaced boots, the young leech nibbling between my third and fourth knuckle, torch light too weak to illuminate my way down the rocks and so I fell behind in mud. I felt an overwhelming urge to say goodbye to him in case he slipped away on the backs of those giant men while I was too far back to be called. Exhaustion led us to rest in the hospitable front room of a supplies store and East was able to take some water and sleep and I, still in my raincoat, curled around his bent legs and and touched him to know he was still there. He woke to tell me he had hallucinated fiery snakes weaving in the air before him and his fear was so great he tried to show me where they had been. I told him nothing was there, nothing would hurt him and was compelled to lie with him until he calmed. But his hallucinations were also mine; the hour walk downhill was as vivid in my mind as his feverish imagination. I was compelled to take photos of this lodge the next day so I would remember how it looked after the storm. Where East suffered illness, I experienced heightened living and in that room, under blankets that smelled of sweat and smoke, fever became the great communicator of human emotion.


By morning he was partly recovered but I had woken in the early hours with similar symptoms. In ordinary situations the tables would simply have turned and I, the ill member, would be cared for by the healthy party. But East was still sick and once I had finished emptying my stomach we had to endure the remaining hour trek back to Lukla hospital. So we both, torsos cramping, quite miserably continued a retreat that hours earlier was luminous with agony and panic. Fever gone, all we had was debilitation – retracing the path in a defeat so pristine that even the monumental prayer rocks scattered amongst the valleys did nothing to lift our spirits. At every flat stretch of ground we stopped to lie our bodies long to ease our pains. It started to rain but I had no strength to pause and dig out my raincoat and so the water soaked through to my shoulder and collar and I grew cold but continued to sweat. We reached Lukla in a state of black and white, headed only for the hospital and relief. East was told he had contracted e-coli poisoning from bad water and given a series of pills and instructions to rest until the worst was over. And so, unable to enjoy our incredible surroundings, we slept to recover a sense of our former strength. Worse still, my illness, not serious enough to grant medication, made me selfish; my fever eased and morphed into narcissism. The danger to East's safety had surfaced in me as surges of affection but now, with him still weak and myself equally sick, concern became self-pity and I stopped caring for him. I obsessed about getting back up the mountain and pressured East into believing he would be well enough to try again the next day. I focused entirely on my frustration and pain and gave no more thought to how truly sick he was. It took antibiotics and two days sleeping in a wooden, waterless room for me to regain my tourist euphoria. As soon as I was well enough I read through our books and silently wandered the cobbles of Lukla while East remained in bed. On one of these walks I met an older Italian man who sheltered with me under a restaurant's eaves and told me about the thousands of places he had gone and things he had seen; all things I wanted in my life. He had travelled when white skin was enough of a rarity to send an entire African village chasing after his motorbike thinking him to be an angel, and in days when meals were cheaper than wine or petrol. I told him about our failure and he, seeing my disappointment, said it didn't matter because I had so many years to come back and try again. With his words I rediscovered my tenderness that had been so completely removed by sickness. I forgave setbacks, frustration and change; I regained my compassion. But with my selfishness went the final vestiges of fever and I missed its intensity. The fever of lives lived too powerfully.


The fever of life isn't a sickness or prolonged suffering, nor is it a state of weakened being where hallucination becomes reality. It is those moments when experience, be it positive or painful, clouds over every day sensation. When memory is accentuated to the point where if you were to close your eyes years later you could still relive every second with exact clarity. And always will there follow a period of silence and disillusionment within the convalescence; a mourning for the slow recovery of body and mind. For East and I, fever changed the direction of our entire trek and forever manipulated our memories of Nepal. We could not walk away with stories about reaching Everest base camp and even conquering the illness couldn't take that fact away. What we got was another tale with more human endeavour and strength than any difficult mountain trek. And the fever, while it burned, was all we needed to live.


Lara will probably never die. Her stubborn streak is far too powerful.

Modernity of Acceptance Versus Adaptation

It wasn't the crowds of hawkers that followed me fifty feet down the street, the horns soaking the air with an opera of calls, the blood in the gutters or the fleshy stink of faeces that I will forever remember about Nepal. All the things I couldn't see, couldn't understand, didn't know; these were the ingots of gold appreciation in the piles of muddy confusion. They made me, for the first time, seriously consider if I could ever live in a country with such enormous cultural and religious differences. Three weeks was enough time for me to accept what I was experiencing but not enough to adapt myself. I recognise the difficulty with a word like 'accept'. It suggests that there is something negative we must become accustomed to, or else ignore in order to function. To adapt is to become one with what surrounds you, to live without second-glance or surprise. We, the foreigners with an open-mind, accept due to our limited amount of time in one place. They, the locals, are adapted from birth to the condition of their country. And so where we see, they are blind. We are visible, they and their view of the world is invisible. The face of Nepal is changeable depending on who's eyes are looking.


We arrived in Kathmandu in the darkness of a Friday night and so were eased into streets that during the day are near impassable. On our first walk we went only two blocks and were overwhelmed by our own senses. Everything smelt of incense, smoke, skin, blood, cooking food and body fluids. People were crouched on the crumbled edges of the road and cars navigated by the bouncing echoes of their horns. We got to the corner of the street and felt so vulnerable in our backpacks that we retreated like rabbits frightened by a nest of hawks. Never in my life have I felt more visible than in those ten minutes. I was illuminated as though my bones were glowing. I am Caucasian but there have always been levels to this distinction; in Spain I am pale, in Australia I have a healthy glow, in England I'm extremely tanned but in Nepal my skin was simply white. I was white and the people were not and there was a tangible hostility in the stares directed my way. Their eyes tagged me as a privileged foreigner and disallowed the other facets of what made me, me. My discomfort accelerated into a powerful feeling of threat that had no basis but my own visibility. Their attention was nothing but focus being given to a figure that stood out physically. Psychologically, I was invisible. There were hundreds of me passing every day, all white, all displaced. These Nepalese women with food loads on their backs and men on tuk-tuks whistling people out of their way had adapted to the presence of foreigners while I hadn't yet accepted my placement as one. Because of this I interpreted the atmosphere as dangerous. After three days this feeling abated. I accepted the tension of the street but had not adapted to the point of neglecting it. I still saw the starving dogs, roadside shrines, burnt-out homes and rickety bamboo scaffolding but they no longer frightened me. My skin had darkened just enough for me to hide from my own vision. I accepted what I saw but the emotions tied to these sights were still those of an outsider's.


Culture shock is a dangerous thing because of its power to change our perceptions of an entire country. Even after we accept cultural differences, we still judge them from a place of misinterpretation. Whilst discovering the religious sights of Kathmandu we visited the largest Shiva-dedicated temple on earth. As neither of us are Hindus we were only allowed to stand at the river but from our vantage point we could make out an infinite line of men and women entering through the white double doors and crowding onto the balcony overhanging the courtyard. There were exhalations of smoke and drums and so many voices humming I could feel them on the back of my neck. These were beautiful details with basic meanings at their roots to which I could connect; sweet smells, music and rejoicing. But in the river, something very different was occurring. Evenly spaced along the water's edge were pyres of grey stone and built up on one was an intricate layering of wood, straw and a body burning tall and bright. I couldn't smell anything but the fumes were so thick and black I found myself putting a hand to my nostrils. I sat for a time and watched the Nepalese people around me talk, walk, eat, and noticed the lack of attention they gave to the body. If this was the equivalent of a funeral, there were no mourners; only men keeping the flames lit. Our guide explained that bodies were cremated every week at this spot and people came here to pay respect. When I asked what they did with the ashes, he frowned as though I had asked him if it were day or night and pointed into the water. This grey river took on a horrifying aspect, made worse when we walked further along and saw a group of seven or eight boys playing ball and leaping around in the waist-high shallows. Once again I turned to our guide and he smiled at how haunted I appeared and simply said, they are local boys, they're used to it. And it was his choice of words, 'used to it', that made the most sense to me. Their particular adaptability wasn't an ongoing development, it was fixed and solid and as I sit writing this piece, I still shudder at the thought of that water and those boys' black bodies touching the last remains of men taken too early, women passed through pain and children young enough to go unmourned.















There was an easiness to leaving the city and disappearing into musky wet quietude of Himalayan earth. I assumed this area of Nepal would be less challenging if only for its lack of inhabitants but the natural environment more than made up for this absence. Halfway through our first day of trekking we came across an open field beside the path and growing there, in public ground overhanging the sloped walk, was a marijuana plant the size of a single garage. For long moments both East and I stared at it like we'd never seen one before and of course we hadn't ever seen one like this before. Not only in size but freedom. It belonged to no one and so owed nothing to anyone. While the plant seemed public property we asked our trekking guide if there were rules to roadside hash. He assumed a great deal of ignorance on our behalf by explaining what effects we could achieve by rolling some dried buds in paper and smoking them. Which we did, in the company of several Nepalese lodge owners who, when offered some, refused based on religious integrity. While it took me until morning to put my thoughts together I immediately realised that people in the mountains were no different to those in the city: adapted to the point of objective desensitisation. They lived surrounded by a free-growing substance that we the foreigners were accustomed to hiding and controlling in order to enjoy, yet they omitted its use due to cultural practice. While we giggled and danced like children each time we came across another plant, they had it growing next to their lettuces and peach trees with barely a look in its direction. No cultivation or care but for them it was nothing more that weeds popping up amongst their food; by the end of the trek, most of the bushes we came across had seeded and gone to flower for want of harvest – little yellow sparks that fell apart when we touched them.


So where does our ability to accept leave us? Are we, as I suspect, committing the awful crime of looking without feeling? Are we widening our world with snippets only the adapted can truly appreciate? Or, if you prefer a more promising outlook, maybe we're opening up. If acceptability is the first step towards an adapted lifestyle then every time we step outside our narrow perspective we slide inextricably closer to becoming a different person with varying degrees of cultural ambiguities. But once we have adapted we run the risk of losing the beautiful horrors that make us struggle to reach the centre of another world. And so perhaps we are creatures of singularity only able to exist on one plane as adapted or accepting. Maybe we can choose which one we will be. Maybe we risk being accepted by our world, or adapted into non-existence.

Lara has learnt many truths in this world but the most important remains just inches from her fingertips.

The Bastards Learned How to Swim – Frida Kahlo

I've been swimming since I was two and the feeling it gives me, of such wonderful lightness, is approximated by nothing else on earth. Except maybe alcohol. As adulthood came and passed me by I indulged in liquors that lifted my head two feet above my body and by waving my arms I could follow it up into the air. My drinking has always had a very narrow purpose, one that I've repeatedly given up without issue or pain; it is a bonus to rather than a facet of my days. But when I moved to Seoul I was confronted with a type of drinking attitude that insisted my commitment to alcohol be put to the test. For the first time I was taking part in a night life that had no half measures, no flip side to the coin: it's go for a drink or go to bed. And if you choose bed, you better take a drink along.


“Work is the curse of the drinking classes” - Oscar Wilde


In South Korea it is the social aspect of their drinking culture that puts the country on a whole new level of consumption. Alcohol has moved beyond an accepted overindulgence into a necessary function within Korean life. A business dinner in Seoul looks much the same as a celebratory drinking session. These men keep their shirts neatly buttoned, ties knotted tight, jackets folded in half over chairs and proceed to completely let themselves go with numerous bottles of beer and soju. On the many weeknights when I've been wandering the city until early hours, buying cheap alcopops in seven elevens, it's easy to lose count of the men, always in pairs, holding hands for balance, staggering from bar to restaurant to bar with little heed toward their working day fast approaching. They look like the walking dead and they do it over and over again. In my eyes, Seoul was populated by eighteen year olds trapped in middle aged bodies and these newly-turned adults were a decade away from learning their lessons on heavy drinking. At first I wondered how South Korea's growing economic strength could continue when these were the citizens thrusting the country forward into a successful monetary future. Then I realised, the impressive work ethic of these people isn't focused on a high standard of pride but on shameful necessity due to their night time distractions. So many men and women work until seven, eight, nine at night but these extensive work hours make sense when you remember that many of them haven't sobered up until early afternoon. I don't care how committed a worker you may be, if you spend your night sleeping off three bottles of soju on a train station bench, you're not doing anything of any worth until at least lunch time.

“People got attached” - Charles Bukowski


I've been to dinner many times with my co-workers and one in particular, a Korean reporter known to me under her Japanese name of Harue, has a peculiar habit when we drink soju. Not only must our glasses always be full but each time we drink, she insists that we toast and when we clink she says 'I like you'. Originally I thought she was tailor making a toast just for me, to bring us close and cement our friendship. Each time was ritualistic; she spoke in the same pitch, with the same intonation and the same nod of her shiny-haired head. Late one night over beef tendon kebabs I asked her what it meant and she said it was her habit every time she drank with others. So it wasn't a performance for my benefit but it was an integral part of our drinking. During these moments, Harue finds it appropriate to express her affection toward me; the walls between us as women hailing from different countries are knocked down and drowned in 20% alcohol. When she pours my soju she holds one hand to her chest, a gesture meaning 'you are in my heart'; while ordering a new bottle she puts an arm around me and calls me Iseul, my Korean name. I am constantly touched by these overtures but part of me wishes that drinking could be removed from how we connect to one another. If I told her I loved a film that she also adored and she embraced me in excitement, I think I would take more from the moment. But its important to remember that the society I am now playing within doesn't work like that and it would be insulting for me to look for affection in ways I personally find meaningful when they are already offering me their love and acceptance. At our first dinner I drank my entire shot in one mouthful and each one of my co-workers' reactions were of such wonder that I realised this was the way to a Korean's heart: one hell of a strong stomach. Sipping or tasting a drink is an entirely satisfactory method of partaking in the festivities but downing with one swallow shows you are there with them, ready for the night and, most importantly, their friend.

“First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you” - F. Scott Fitzgerald


Most of all it's the novelty and availability of alcohol that I appreciate. Methods and places of drinking have become as important as what's in the glass or, as you can see above, the IV. The extent of packaging and beautifying alcohol have been realised in South Korea mainly due to the looseness of social drinking practices. At a popular bar in Seoul, known as Vinyl, drinks are mixed and served in an IV bag which you can enjoy whilst relaxing inside or take with you through the streets. A mere two blocks away is a permanent street vendor who sells very cheap cocktails in plastic cups and, as there is no seating area, the customer is forced to consume on their feet. Coming from a heavy drinking culture, I am accustomed to the violence and destruction that walks hand in hand with such easy overconsumption but here, in a world where public drinking is offered and encouraged, there are little to no problems of this nature. These people can hold their alcohol and if it does get the better of them, they go to sleep where they stand. Considering the lack of alcohol control, this is extremely impressive self control, especially when you consider how easy it is to drink. The following list is an example of locations that supply alcohol to anyone, with no proof of age, who walks in:

newsagents;
train station convenience stores;
unlicensed coffee shops;
bakeries;
stationary outlets;
gift shops in hospitals.

This freedom has allowed anyone to drink any amount of anything they want at any time of day. And if this isn't enough incentive for extensive drinking, alcohol is offered in a shocking variety of sizes and forms. Soju is a basic staple in Korean diets and the regularity of which it is consumed is reflected in the many ways it can be bought (for identifying purposes I will be using the Jinro brand as an example). 360ml bottles are the favourite size for restaurants and they feel misleadingly like coke bottles. Needless to say, one is never enough. For a large family, or very thirsty couple, soju comes in two litre plastic bottles for a mere four dollars. When I saw it on the supermarket shelf I thought it was soft drink; when I showed it to my parents on Skype they thought it was mineral water. Its tricky appearance makes the massive amount of alcohol it holds relatively harmless when the power of human denial is properly utilised. Furthermore, the bottle is just big enough to feel bottomless; after all, we're only pouring single shots. And finally, soju can be bought in the smallest amount possible, that of a popper or children's juice box. This is marketed toward the Korean on the go, hard working, busy and looking for a quick fix. The packaging suggests a different story. Now I'm not saying that Korean parents give their children soju poppers. But am I saying they don't?

“Alcoholism isn't a spectator sport” - Joyce Rebeta-Burditt

South Korea is the first place I've ever visited where peer pressure is absent and general expectation so obvious. Perhaps it's the general pleasure of drinking in large groups, without the thunder of threat overhead, that draws me into late night sessions but I'm not entirely sure the reason doesn't lie in my own psyche. Where alcohol was once a release of my inhibitions it has now become a gateway into foreign affections. These people are hard as nails, quick to touch and often so drunk they can't stand after midnight. But damn can the bastards swim.

Lara may be a boozer but she's also a bruiser, a cruiser and a fan of Schmooz-a-Palooza.