A Slow, Sideways Glance at Different Perspectives
And so, we come to the final review of Cinema September, and one of only two that I’ve actually written since the month began (yes, it’s true: pull back the curtain and the wizard turns out to be someone who wrote most of these months ago!). It seems neatly fitting that we end on such a gentle note, given that some (OK, most) of the films on this list have explored the darkest subject matter out there. Our final film actually marks the only one on the list where no one dies (spoilers lol), so that’s something! Look Mum, this one’s not grim!
And what is ‘this one’? Well, you read the title, but let me tell you anyway. It’s domestic realist director Hong Sang-soo’s 2015 film Right Now, Wrong Then. A calm, gentle, noodling character piece from a director famed for, well, calm, gentle, noodling character pieces, Right Now tells the story of a film director (self-insert much?) meeting and falling for an artist on the streets of Suwon, the night before he is due to give a talk at a film screening.
Consisting of not much more than conversations and strolls through empty streets, this film is the exact opposite of a thriller like Train to Busan, and even lacks the clear narrative of works like Lee Chang-dong’s Secret Sunshine. If I was going to be brutally essentialist, this is effectively a film where artsy people have conversations about how they love art, and maybe each other.
But, here’s the thing. Whilst this is, narratively, basically what happens, the film manages to be so much more through its stylistic choices. These choices are famous signatures of Hong Sang-soo, who has produced over 20 films since 1996, all fitting into pretty much the same style. I say this, having not seen most of them, because this is well-noted in regards to his filming techniques, to the point where I was easily able to find a YouTube video comparing the tone of various movies directly in montage form.
Some of the common tropes in Hong’s films; conversations; strolling aimlessly; people drinking soju together; characters being film directors or other creatives. And to follow, a summary of Hong’s process: get up at 4am, write the script for the day, give it to the actors (who he bonds with over drinks and cigarettes) and often make changes as the day goes on. As you can see, this is a director who is clearly working in a loose, more spontaneous framework, and this is very evident in the entire atmosphere of Right Now, Wrong Then.
As mentioned above, this film is the story of a director meeting an artist (who, thank god, used to be a model so she’s definitely pretty) in Suwon in the winter. He first encounters her while visiting an old palace, and precedes to have multiple conversations with her over tea, then over her paintings, over soju, and finally, at a gathering of some of her friends. So far, so mundane. However, as I said, it’s all in the delivery here. About five minutes into the film, I was put in mind of every female millennial Arts or Humanities graduate’s favourite, Before Sunrise.
Much like this seminal meandering romance, Right Now is all about the naturalism in the presentation in this story. Whilst I doubt that I would ever have conversations as profound as any in either of these films, especially when first meeting someone, the dialogue is constructed and delivered in such a way as to truly feel realistic. These are conversations with awkwardness, pauses, saying the wrong thing, glancing and fidgeting. Knowing the director’s on-the-day approach, this result feels like a logical outcome, and his spontaneity really does translate into a freshness of characterisation.
The cinematography is, of course, only going to add to this. We mainly see fairly wide, static shots, a still gaze focusing in on our characters as they chat. However, Hong Sang-soo is also known for his use of zoom. Though this may seem out of place in a piece of domestic realism (as this piece points out, the zoom is pretty much the enemy of this style of filmmaking), it does create an intriguing effect. As well as the obvious drawing of our attention to the significance of a particular moment or image, the zoom effect also hints at something beyond the naturalistic at work.
And this is ultimately extended upon in the film’s structure. Because Right Now, Wrong Then isn’t only one story. It’s one story, twice, from about a forty-five-degree difference. After the midpoint of the film, when our central couple has parted ways, the director has delivered his talk and is heading home, the film simply begins a Part Two. In this section, we are taken right back to the initial meeting between our two protagonists, and we see the same night play out, but ever-so-slightly differently.
When this happened during my viewing of the film, I’ll be honest, I wondered if I’d missed something, or something had happened with the version I was watching. I’ve already seen this conversation, he’s already gone for coffee with her. Am I really that stupid? And then it dawned on me. I am literally seeing the day play out again. But, far from an alternative universe or time-loop narrative, there is no magic or science at play here. We simply get to see the same story played out again, with characters making slight changes to their behaviours. As hinted at by the zoom effects, this is not a simple film. It’s a film with a story that we get to retread through, wondering what would be different if different things were said.
What are these different things? Well, they’re things like; the director admitting earlier in his relationship with the artist that he is in fact a married man, a fact that devastates her to learn too late in Part One; said director giving a much harsher critique of the artist’s painting in Part Two than in Part One; and him behaving far more embarrassingly at the artist’s friends’ friendly gathering in Part Two than One. Whilst hardly life-changing, these small decisions lead the two evenings down very different emotional paths. But more than this, it’s the tinier details that really get to shine through this structural choice.
By having a pretty equally-divided Part One and Two, these tiny differences end up becoming focal points, thus highlighting the importance of the tiniest decisions in behaviour on relationships. One example that stood out to me was in the scene where the artist and the director go to her atelier studio for the first time. In Part One, we see her smoking in the room, whilst fussing over what to offer the director as a snack. However, in Part Two, the scene begins with her simply preparing paint, and she asks the director to go and smoke outside when he gets out his cigarette. These are wonderful little touches that demonstrate the difference in the attitude of her character in both narratives, and they are accompanied by slightly different shooting angles in each part.
This dual narrative is all about these subtle touches, bringing the structure of the film back into the world of the realistic in the sense that the differences we see are consequential, not monumental. Whilst the two narratives do have very emotionally different endings, they do not dwell in butterfly-effect-style science fiction questions of ‘what if’. The division of the story here is simply to demonstrate that interpersonal relationships are so delicate, so complex, that another chance at them could lead its participants down a completely different path, act of God-free.
It seems like the beautiful display of humanity allowed by this structure is what makes it one of the most highly regarded among Hong Sang-soo’s works. It’s actually why I picked this one specifically, as I had never seen his work before, and this seemed like as good a place as any to start. It’s conversational, it’s structurally clever, it’s got Kim Min-hee in it.
(Side note—one of the more salacious facts about this film is that it was the starting ground for Kim’s affair with married Hong, which they openly admitted to and may even be continuing. Life imitating art a little mayhaps? It does cast an even more unfavourable light on the film’s director character, also a married man who openly pursues Kim’s actress character. Ugh. Men, amirite?).
However, upon looking into his work, it turns out I actually had seen one of his movies before, 2018’s Hotel by the River, at the 2018 London Korean Film Festival. The fact that I didn’t realise this probably speaks to just how understated and quiet his works are: whilst I don’t remember having any issues with Hotel, I also don’t remember a huge deal else either.
Nevertheless, back to Right Now, Wrong Then. Whilst Kim Min-hee and Hong Sang-soo may be certified naughty people, their film truly is the best that can come of people walking around and having deep conversations. Bolstered by the fairly experimental, and yet somehow still gently questioning structural innovation, this film brilliantly opens up perspectives on individuals and the potential we all have in our interactions with other people.
Much as it reminded me of Before Sunrise, a film set in Europe and dining off European film sensibilities, Hong Sang-soo was heavily influenced by French New Wave director Éric Rohmer. I won’t claim to have seen a single thing by Monsieur Éric (or honestly, basically any French New Wave except Jules et Jim, sorry I know, I suck), it’s not hard to see the echoes of this most famous arthouse style on Hong’s work. The characters are almost flâneurs, making controversial life decisions in a truly atypical narrative. It’s exciting to see this most liberal style of film-making from a Korean filmmaker. Even more relaxed than Lee Chang-dong’s work, it makes me excited to see what else Hong Sang-soo has to offer, and also whose work it has influenced in turn. Because I’m always happy to wonder around Korea, drinking soju and talking about life and art.
beautifull movie