Is This Isolation I See Before Me?

It is officially two months into autumn and still we sleep with the air-conditioner running. Midday brings the false promise of clouds hanging so low over the city that tips of apartment blocks disappear in moisture; so humid that breathing becomes a task akin to swimming. I suffer in these conditions. My logical prowess lowers, my temper thins, I become fiercely unhappy and from these emotions spring a desire to find somewhere removed from the heat. A place of isolation in which weather can no longer dictate my moods. A lonely spot near water and cold breezes where I could read and write. For the Chuseok holidays we chose an island off the coast of Incheon, a location few foreigners are aware of and far enough away that Koreans don't think to travel there. I wanted emptiness and space but it came to me that isolation, as everything, isn't what it seems. Perhaps we isolate ourselves from particularity rather than human contact. So what was I retreating from?



Irony, in a roundabout way. More concisely, loneliness. Our apartment is my much needed refuge from noise on the street, distraction and the last nine years of almost full-time work and schooling but there are moments when I take a break from my dedicated writing schedule and realise that between the hours of eight and five, I am quite alone. And while I use this loneliness to great creative advantage, eventually I feel my hunger for changeable environments gnaw at my belly. Note my hunger for environment, not company. So we left, I and twelve others, on the Rainbow Ferry bound for seclusion and relaxation. Upon hitting port we were driven ten minutes up mountain to a small collection of min-boks overlooking a chocolate sand tide. One of our fellows had brought her dog and we took him to the water where we ran, paddled and smoked until chips and dip lured us back to our personal patio. There I reconnected with foods I haven't seen let alone tasted for months; Camembert, Kettle chips and French Onion and salsa dips. The surrounding conversation was stimulating and as I noticed the minute differences in each person's behaviour, people I'd met only a few hours earlier, it came to me that these signs identified their own attempts at isolation. They were retreating from work, crowds, relationships and, like me, loneliness in a city. After the snacks were demolished we all floated apart like drunken moths but there was a beautiful sense of togetherness. Gone was the common stress I have encountered on many group holidays: that of interaction. During my quiet hour on an out-of-sight balcony I didn't feel I was letting anyone down for want of companionship. I could retreat with nothing to consider but my own reasons for being there. We each went to indulge personal motivations and when we crossed paths I had to smile at the comfort of this arrangement. Talk and humour, if desired, was in the next room or sitting at the edge of the surf, while undisturbed contemplation was easier to grab than a slightly warm rum and coke. We had created our own separate islands but they, so unlike the rigid rock walls we walked along that afternoon, were flexible and hungry for regular fellowship . And when darkness fell in with the ocean mist we let the distance between us shrink, our isolations satiated.


There was a second reason for my choice of holiday location, one that tipped the scales from our original plan of south-east Busan. The heat, the suffocating heat in Seoul, made me search out a place where I could experience cold for the first time in three months. Our morning of departure was foggy and wet and the further from land we travelled the cooler the breeze became until, joy of joys, I had to dig out a jumper. The island was equally chilled and while some of the group bemoaned the lack of sun I found a nest in the sand and offered my head to the drizzle. I seem to have lost my joy for beach swimming in recent years but the water was warm enough that I went in to my thighs and enjoyed my shivering shoulders and tingling feet. That night there was a deluge and we rigged open umbrellas between the gaps in the patio roof and sprinted from room to room for extra food and spirits. Drinking games aside we kept warm with blankets and huddling and long after East had gone to bed I stayed up just to feel my skin prickle with chill. Unfortunately, once inside I had to succumb to another form of Korean overheating: the ondol, turned up to such degrees that even if I could find the off switch I doubt it would have made any difference. Our final day was one of tragic contradiction made bearable by the continually amusing company. The skies cleared, heat rose and the view from the mountain top revealed itself to be one of exquisite beauty and I thought, oh yes another impressive piece of landscape. And while I thanked the powers above that gave me such incredible experiences, I couldn't judge my enjoyment based only on environment; I valued temperature. And to see the island sights the sun had to be out which meant one thing: Lara lost the ability to function. Which felt a tad unfair. But I suppose life is about give and take. I was given beauty and took the bother that came with it.


So what does all this mean for my future travelling plans? Am I discarding whole countries and cultures for fear of heat-induced bewilderment? Is it something I can ever accustom myself to, like spicy food or cigarettes? The real question is, do I want to. I say no. My weather preference isn't only part of me, it has built me. My very personality has been sculpted by a history of living in cold climate areas, so much so that I have come to believe heat has the power to change who I am and who I will be. This then impacts on how I view what is around me, whether it be crowds or emptiness. Perhaps more so in regards to isolation. I have trouble appreciating these quiet expanses if they come to me through heat and humidity. So what do I do? I tolerate; in fact, that is the perfect word – I don't like it but can accept there's nothing to be done. Still, there's always the chance to heap insult on injury. When we got back to Seoul it was hot. It was bloody hot.


Lara tells lies. It's always about the puppies.

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.