A Film About Poetry and a Poem as a Film
CW: rape and suicide.
Ah, poetry. The scary big sister of novels, who says things that utterly baffle you and you don’t know why they do. It’s a tough thing to get to grips with, which is probably why I never really have. Aside from some brief, largely compulsory dalliances with it during my Literature degree (and even then, a lot of that was to get the kudos of being able to quote poetry rather than knowing what the hell is going on) it’s not been much on my radar. Not that I dislike it in any way. Poetry can, and indeed aims to be, piercingly beautiful in its expressiveness and succinctness (well, if you’re not Wordsworth. Or Milton. Or T.S Eliot…). But, because of these very qualities, it can also just be so bloody hard to get your head around.
And so, with a great irony, it’s hard to express exactly how I feel about this film. Released in 2010, Poetry falls into the latter half of Lee Chang-dong’s directorial filmography, the last film that he made before Burning, and three years after Secret Sunshine. Like both of these films, there is a fundamental ambiguity at the core of this story, set to a gentle pace with no veering into overstatement at any point. But, unlike these other two (I’ve yet to see any others), I’m fundamentally unsure how to feel at the end of it. And I wonder if that might be the ultimate point.
Poetry tells the story of Mi-ja, a grandmother in her 60s who develops the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease as she goes about her hard and unacknowledged life. Whilst she is poor herself, she is looking after her horrifically ungrateful grandson, whilst also working as a part-time carer for a stroke victim. As I said, it’s a difficult existence, but one that doesn’t seem to faze Mi-ja much. Dressed in flowery jackets (the preserve of Korean ajummas the world over) and delicate scarves, Mi-ja is introduced to us as friendly and unassuming from the start. She’s pleasant with the doctor, chatty with the daughter-in-law of the man that she cares for, and quietly compassionate when she comes across a grieving mother at the hospital in the film’s opening.
Why this mother is grieving is the centre of this film, slowly unfurled to us right from the opening sequence. Whilst children are peacefully playing at a riverbank, we see something in the distance floating in the water. Closer shots reveal that this is the body of a schoolgirl, the daughter of the mother from the hospital. She took her own life due to the inability to cope with being repeatedly gang-raped at school. Who by? Well, it turns out that Mi-ja’s grandson isn’t only horrifically ungrateful. He’s also just plain horrific.
This event is not within the film, but reported to Mi-ja and the audience through the fathers of the other five boys who committed the crime. They gather with her to arrange a settlement for the girl’s mother, in order to save the boys’ futures (pause for retching) and the reputation of the school. It is these decisions that spur on the narrative of the film, so you may be, quite fairly, wondering, where on earth is the poetry in all this?
Well, exactly, is one way to answer this. But more on that later. The actual poetry comes in the film from Mi-ja joining a poetry class at the local cultural centre, keen to write just one poem as her goal. It’s a tender and gentle aim, much like Mi-ja herself, even if it seems at odds with the unpleasantness and difficulty of her surroundings.
Throughout the film we see her, notebook in hand, desperately seeking inspiration from everything, from roses to poetry readings, and even to the sight of the dead girl’s suicide. We see brief glimpses of her notes, and hear tiny snippets of her attempts to see her world in a literary way. Given the circumstances in which Mi-ja is doing this, just explaining it may make it seem that this lean into poetry is a callous decision at worst, and a naïve one at best. How could she possibly be trying to write poetry whilst her unfeeling grandson does nothing to atone for his terrible sins, and everyone who knows about it just wants to cover it up? Isn’t this the most insensitive, intellectual ignorance possible?
This is where the depth of the poetry metaphor comes in. Whilst it would be ignorant to assume that Lee Chang-dong would ever be that simplistic with a character, here he employs all the ideas around poetry to create a study that is moving, if confounding. Because yes, poetry can be alienating for certain people, too obscure or too referential. But, removed from these possibilities, it can be a powerfully simple form of expression. For Mi-ja, whose mind is starting to fall away from her, and whose community pays less and less attention to her, that is what the poetry becomes.
Her removal from the world of the film is presented in varying ways. Not only through her dress (commented on at several points for its stylishness), but also through her framing and her interactions, Mi-ja is outside, away, apart. Tracking her life and movements as the camera does, she is often the sole figure in the shot, even in houses, churches and classrooms where others are present.
We also see her babbling when others are not listening, or actively removing or distancing herself when conversations are happening. In perhaps the most visually symbolic moment of the film, when the fathers of the rapist boys are discussing the details of the settlement they plan to pay in a local restaurant, Mi-ja simply steps outside. We and the fathers see her through a window, wondering among the flowers outside. She is apart from the world, and she is trying to find beauty. When poetry is apart from obscurities, it is beauty: Mi-ja is the poem and the poet here.
When this is considered in tandem with poetry as an expression of the mind and heart, this metaphor only goes deeper. As the film progresses, Mi-ja becomes gently more and more confused. Even on a surface level, the motivation to create beautiful words when they are slipping away from you is moving. But even more deeply, this choice of Mi-ja’s questions permanence and the role of art to endure. It’s no coincidence that the film begins and ends at a river, constantly flowing and changing, or that the light in the film is often bright and sunny. The river, like a poem, is constant, but always moving in meaning. The light, bright and clear, shows everything in its starkest form. Even if Mi-ja is losing her sense of self, her connection to poetry allows her to accept change like flowing water, and lay her emotions out in the sun to be clearly seen.
All of this depth of metaphor is beautifully portrayed by actress Yoon Jeong-hee, who was actually coaxed out of retirement to play the role. Much like Jeon Do-yeon in Secret Sunshine, hers is a quiet performance. Her face is a wonderful picture of innocence and understanding combined, never swerving into doe-eyed mistiness or coldness. She perfectly pitches the character at the points of sympathy and realism, making her decisions seem understandable even if they are often unfathomable. Apparently, director Lee was actually slightly concerned if Yoon, with over forty years of experience, would be able to adapt to his naturalistic style, though she evidently coped with aplomb.
Unlike Secret Sunshine and Burning, I think this film does suffer slightly in the lack of similar depth in other characters. No one is a two-dimensional cut-out, and of course it could be argued that we don’t see as much depth because we are looking from the perspective of one person who is themselves detached. There are many questions left unanswered, as always with Lee Chang-dong, though here it feels just a little more frustrating than ambiguous in certain moments.
So to my own feeling of ambiguity at the end of the film. I won’t describe exactly what happens, but suffice to say that there is both a) a poem and b) a lack of clarity as to exactly what has happened to our main character. The poem itself is everything that the film has been setting up poetry to be: beautiful, expressive, and simple. Nevertheless, I didn’t really know what emotional reaction to bring to things. Sadness for Mi-ja and the dead schoolgirl? Satisfaction at the completion of the poem? Frustration at the utter callousness of the film’s central event, tied up neatly but largely unfairly?
These questions, in combination with images of Mi-ja walking through picturesque scenes or staring off into her own world, have lingered with me. They make me eager to read about the film, to discuss it, to delve deeper into the symbols and ideas it discusses. And god damnit wouldn’t you know, that’s exactly how one approaches a truly great poem. I can’t say I fully ‘get’ Poetry, but now I know that that’s because I’m not meant to in that way. It is a package of symbolism to be poured over, simple ideas standing for deeper things, and a simple piece of beauty. Truly, this is one for the literature seminars.
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