※ This text was originally published under the title "Discovering/Capturing Asian Cinema" in When East Meets East: The Emerging Asian Film Co-Production Landscape (Philip Cheah Ed., KOFIC, 2023). It was subsequently revised and published as a booklet titled A Phantom Without a Body Can Possess Any Body (Common Imprint X The Book Society, 2024).
Courtesy of the publisher, you can download the original PDF version of this booklet here.
“Only style or form can materialize the formless monsters (…) who roam in our social atmosphere.”
—Jean-Luc Godard’s France/tour/détour/deux/enfants (TV mini-series, 1977-78)
1
Nathaniel Dorsky, in his slim yet insightful book, Devotional Cinema, once wrote, “if Dante were writing the Inferno today, the first ring of Hell would be a large circular desk of newscasters.” As we envision the path leading to that ring, we can undoubtedly see a red carpet, teeming with cameramen and journalists. We might also catch a glimpse of a film market bustling with salespeople buying and selling movies somewhere beyond the carpet.
Film festivals held in Cannes, Berlin, and Venice receive unparalleled attention from film professionals worldwide. However, while Cannes and Berlin continue to attract industry people, the Venice Film Festival, which does not have a large film market, seems to have lost some of its appeal to the industry. In recent years, the Toronto International Film Festival, which takes place right after Venice, has emerged as the primary promotional venue for films.
Being officially selected by or invited to these film festivals is still considered a prestigious achievement, and winning an award in the main competition only adds to the honor. The screening and award-winning at these festivals, however, do not necessarily guarantee any artistic value, but rather allocate artistic (and sometimes commercial) function at best, which can be tentatively called “work-function.” In other words, the film does not gain any additional attributes that it did not have before. This is a fact that anyone can easily discern if they critically analyze the politics surrounding film festivals.
Therefore, what I have in mind here is not to answer questions such as “how could a bad film like this be invited to the Cannes Film Festival?” but to shed light on the subtle yet formidable censorship-effects generated by the work-function system of major international film festivals, especially in relation to Asian cinema. This article will explore this issue by focusing on the cases of Japanese and Filipino cinema. Subsequently, it will reflect on the so-called K-movie phenomenon and the role of the work-function system in the landscape of Asian co-production and collaboration.
2
Ever since Kurosawa Akira’s Rashomon (1950) won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival, putting Japanese cinema on the global map, Japan has been recognized as a leading nation in film art for a considerable time. More recently, Japanese cinema seemed to have regained international recognition as Hamaguchi Ryusuke's Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (2021) and Drive My Car (2021) were awarded at the Berlin and Cannes successively and garnered widespread critical acclaim.
Let us take a moment to look back at the situation of a decade ago. Around 2010, many journalists and critics often remarked that contemporary Japanese cinema fell short of its once esteemed status. At the time, they would often voice their dissatisfaction with contemporary Japanese cinema, claiming that it could not measure up to its predecessors. However, looking at the situation from a different perspective, away from their common and hackneyed criticisms, reveals that the issue at hand was not a decline in the quality of Japanese films, but rather a discrepancy that had increased between the function assigned to Asian films and that assigned to Japanese films in the global film culture or at international film festivals. Historically, Japanese cinema has played a paradoxical role by positioning itself outside of Asian cinema while also playing a central role within it.
When examining the works of Abbas Kiarostami, Jia Zhangke, Apichatpong Weerasethakul, Tsai Ming-Liang, Lav Diaz, Hong Sang-soo, and other leading figures of contemporary Asian cinema since 1990s, the following is brought to our attention: there might be some differences, but to some degree they all make use of the effects of narratives and mise-en-scène that have been traditionally respected, while also employing a contemporary aesthetic that positions them within some unique “conceptual” framework. This is what could be considered the work-function of contemporary Asian cinema, which these directors are responsible for and have been encouraged by international film festivals. Interestingly, higher international acclaim is often bestowed upon works that appear to achieve a “harmony” between the traditionally respected and the contemporary, rather than works that explicitly bring to the fore their conceptual framework. For instance, when it comes to the films made by the same director, it is true that Weerasethakul’s Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives (2010) is more widely embraced and accepted than his other films such as Syndromes and a Century (2006), and Lav Diaz’s Norte, the End of History (2013) more than others such as Evolution of a Filipino Family (2004).
However, when it comes to Japanese cinema, films that make use of a conceptual framework are exceedingly rare, and even if such films exist, they are often excluded from prestigious international film festivals because they are not in accordance with the work-function of Japanese cinema in the global film culture. As a result, even until the early 2010s, most Japanese films invited to international film festivals tend to be limited to expressive films based on highly manipulated mise-en-scène or excessive genre films such as the so-called “Asian Extreme.” In 2011, for instance, the Venice Film Festival, led by Marco Müller, invited Sono Sion’s Himizu, Tsukamoto Shinya’s Kotoko, and Shimizu Takashi’s Tormented, while the Cannes Film Festival, led by Thierry Frémaux, invited Kawase Naomi’s Hanezu, Miike Takashi’s Hara-Kiri: Death of a Samurai, and Sono Sion’s Guilty of Romance. In terms of the work-function imposed on Japanese cinema by the film festival circuit, it seems that it was trapped in a kind of double-bind, where it must produce cutting-edge contemporary dramas or genre films without solely relying on aesthetic trends utilising a conceptual framework.
In the 21st century, Japanese cinema was expected to take on the responsibility of filling the void left by other modernised Asian art films and of creating a new center again by being an outsider inside Asian cinema. However, even this function was being threatened by the works of Korean directors such as Bong Joon-ho and Park Chan-wook. Among those who have attempted to escape from the double-bind were Kurosawa Kiyoshi [via Bright Future (2002), Retribution (2006)], Zeze Takahisa [via A Gap in the Skin (2004), Heaven’s Story (2010)], Manda Kunitoshi [via Unloved (2001), Seppun (2007)], Suwa Nobuhiro [via M/Other (1999)], Aoyama Shinji [via Eureka (2000)]; and others. Their films, however, unlike those “Japanesery” films of Kore-eda Hirokazu or Kawase Naomi, are still not fully appreciated or understood in foreign context outside Japan.
3
From the moment Hamaguchi incorporated the Great East Japan Earthquake as a crucial element into the fictional world of Asako I & II (2018), he began to wear his ambition on his sleeve towards making a contemporary Japanese film “universally acceptable.” In Drive My Car, he eventually succeeded in making a universal drama that can be accepted without requiring specific knowledge of the politics, economics, society, and culture of Japan. How long has it been since we watched a film like this, that is, a contemporary Japanese film set in contemporary Japan that can be widely accepted regardless of contemporary Japan?
Even before going to see Drive My Car, I felt somewhat uneasy upon seeing a promotional still photograph of a red car standing against a snowy backdrop. When I saw Kafuku and Misaki heading towards Hokkaido, with a sudden shift, I started to regard this film with a rather skeptical perspective. (In Shinkai Makoto's Suzume (2022), which was nominated in the 2023 Berlinale competition, we once again encounter a red car heading towards the land of trauma: Sendai, a place associated with memories of the earthquake.) At that moment, the climax feels nothing short of predestined, in which they share their traumas and embrace each other while overlooking the ruins of Misaki's home destroyed by a landslide. Why did Hamaguchi choose to take such a predictable path? At some point, it occurred to me that he might have had the ambition to be not only an internationally acclaimed filmmaker but also the successor to the tradition of Japanese cinema, which had come to a halt at the end of the 20th century and was starting anew.
To achieve such ambition, however, he must above all break free from the double-bind imposed on Japanese cinema within the global arthouse film culture. How can a Japanese film director create a cutting-edge contemporary drama or genre film by solely relying on aesthetic trends utilising a conceptual framework? To escape from this situation, he must make a film like Bong Joon-ho, even if or while he pursues the aesthetics of Abbas Kiarostami or Apichatpong Weerasethakul.
Why does Japanese cinema face such a situation in the 21st century? The reason is as follows: making Japanese films used to mean leading contemporary aesthetics and styles through creating universal dramas or genre films, represented by figures such as Kurosawa Akira of Rashomon and Seven Samurai (1954), Oshima Nagisa of Death by Hanging (1968) and The Man Who Left His Will on Film (1970), and Kitano Takeshi of Sonatine (1993) and Hanabi (1997), but the halcyon era of Japanese cinema had faded away after Kitano’s downturn. Nevertheless, global, and particularly Western, arthouse networks continue to demand Japanese films that seemed to belong to that era. However, moving on from this double-bind is not easy, and as a result, Japanese cinema in the 21st century became a kind of “local cinema,” with directors like Kore-eda Hirokazu and Kawase Naomi making “Japanesery” films that appealed to a small number of overseas arthouse fans.
Kurosawa Kiyoshi is a virtuosic filmmaker who has revitalised popular genres in highly unique ways, from his early soft-porn works such as Kandagawa Wars (1983) and The Excitement of the Do-Re-Mi-Fa Girl (1985). However, outside Japan, his films still seem to be accepted with some suspicion or indifference and remain in an obscure position, except for a few works like Cure (1997) and Tokyo Sonata (2008). It implies a great deal that Kurosawa’s The Wife of a Spy, which seemed to mark a departure from the double-bind and won the Silver Lion at the 2020 Venice Film Festival, was co-written by Hamaguchi.
4
The censorship-effect of the work-function system, operated by the film festival circuit, has a much more pervasive impact on cinema today than traditional censorship systems aimed at controlling excessive depictions of violence or sex, or explicitly political comments. Such impact is far-reaching, regulating a wide range of global arthouse films all around the world. This is justified by the politics of international film festivals that divide and allocate, or in Foucaudian terms, “normalise” categories of aesthetic work-functions. It might be a misconception to assume that the division and allocation of aesthetic work-functions is exclusively carried out by programmers or curators. To judge which film has the potential to be accepted “internationally” and decide which festivals they should be premiered at falls under the purview of sales agents, who sometimes are even involved from the production stage. Therefore, to discuss the politics of film festivals without considering their function would be pointless.
If we look beyond major film festivals like Cannes, Berlin, Venice, and Toronto, there are other intermediate festivals where the programmers’ tastes and their personal networks with individual directors or specific countries have a much greater importance, such as Rotterdam, Vienna, and others. Busan International Film Festival (BIFF) in Korea has been striving to establish itself as a festival that embodies the spirit of the latter while struggling to earn a place among the former. To discuss how the Busan’s “cross-eyed” attitude and its censorship-effect has distorted and normalised Korean independent cinema over the past two decades, it would require a separate article. On the other hand, even within large film festivals, there are independent sections that include films distinct or pushed out from the official selections, such as the Director's Fortnight at Cannes and the Forum at the Berlinale, as well as official sections that showcase more experimental films, such as Orizzonti at Venice or Wavelengths at Toronto. However, these complementary sections only re-divide and re-allocate the work-functions that were already divided and allocated through the main sections of the “A” festivals, and are in fact part of a larger system.
In today's world, numerous film festivals take place all around the globe, and some have dubbed this phenomenon the “Festival Galaxy.” However, there is no galaxy, but rather only the feudalism. Then what are the films outside the overall domination of work-function system operated by the feudalistic festival circuit that assigns artistic or commercial functions to individual films? These might be as follows:
A. Films for the domestic consumption in each country that do not require immediate international recognition.
B. Films circulated within the enthusiast community through specialised fan websites, festivals, events, which sometimes operate a sort of quasi or “dark” work-function systems. The most extreme example would be pornography.
C. Films that strongly resist to accept work-function assigned to national cinema.
The films in the third category are often seriously damaged by the censorship-effect of the festival circuit. The fluctuation of the status of Philippine cinema in the festival circuit over the past two decades is a representative case.
5
The work-function assigned to Philippine cinema can be traced back to the socially engaged realism stamped by the West mainly on the films of Lino Brocka in the 1970s. It is significant that Brillante Mendoza’s Serbis (2008) was the first Filipino film to be invited to the main competition of the Cannes Film Festival since Lino Brocka’s Bayan Ko competed in 1984. In 2009, Mendoza won the Best Director award at Cannes for Kinatay.
Since then, the aesthetics once referred to as “real-time cinema,” which he first attempted in Manoro (2006) and established in Foster Child (2007), led to many imitators in the Philippines. While such Filipino films were first assigned their work-function on an international level, the task of assigning work-function to those who employ more conceptual and contemporary aesthetics, such as Lav Diaz, Raya Martin, John Torres, and Khavn de la Cruz was left to the re-division/re-allocation systems such as Orizzonti at Venice, Directors’ Fortnight at Cannes, or the International Film Festival Rotterdam and others. And those films that had not been assigned their work-function in such systems were passed on to even smaller festivals or had to settle for limited showcases inside the Philippines.
Especially in the case of artistic and auteur-driven Filipino films, unless the director was already established through “A” festivals like Cannes, there was almost no chance to attract the attention of international sales agents. As a result, those hoping that their films would not be confined to the domestic showcase had to cling desperately to the hierarchical official work-function systems operated by international film festivals.
This situation applies similarly to most films from Central Asia, Southeast Asia, and the Middle East. The films from these regions have mostly failed to be assigned a work-function that can be recognised internationally. As a result, within the international film festival circuit, Central Asian films are judged against the work-function of Chinese or Russian cinema, Southeast Asian films are judged against that of Taiwanese or Thai cinema, and Middle Eastern films are judged against that of Iranian cinema. This situation continues to persist even today, where many Asian films are being evaluated (and excluded) based on a bizarre system of comparison to those from different cultural and linguistic backgrounds.
This kind of stringency forces Asian filmmakers to conform to the work-function of their national cinema as regulated by the festival circuit, while also self-censoring to exclude anything that deviates from it. It is significant that even during the period when Philippine cinema was rising as a new “New Wave” of the 21st century, Sherad Anthony Sanchez's groundbreaking film, Imburnal (literally translated as “Sewer,” 2009), was rejected not only by major festivals but also by many adventurous festivals, as it was the kind of film that refused to conform to the familiar work-function of Philippine cinema.
6
In his Aesthetic Theory, Theodor W. Adorno argued the following: “modern art is questionable not when it goes too far—as the cliché runs—but when it does not go far enough, which is the point at which works falter out of a lack of internal consistency. Only works that expose themselves to every risk have the chance of living on, not those that out of fear of the ephemeral cast their lot with the past.” However, if that is the case, cinema can never be modern art, or films that are willing to “go far” must risk just simply “living on” without proper recognition. This situation could be even more harshly felt by Asian filmmakers.
For filmmakers working within any national cinema that has already been historically assigned one or more work-functions, their allowable acrobatics are limited to discovering an untrodden field within the confines of the work-functions regulated by the festival circuit that holds international influence, without deviating from them. If they fail to discover it, they will soon be labeled as mere epigones or second-rate filmmakers. However, as the number of untrodden fields decreases, internationl attention to the national cinema diminishes, except for the films of the “pioneers” who were the first to contribute to a national cinema being assigned work-functions.
Since the 1960s, Western film experts have assigned work-functions to non-European films under the cloak of the “New Wave,” mobilising rhetoric of novelty, innovation, and discovery. Today, their logic is being amplified and reproduced at an even faster pace through the work-function division/allocation system that is widespread across film festivals worldwide. Even more problematic is the situation after the decline of such New Wave phenomena. What was once seen as the only viable aesthetic for entering the festival circuit now becomes something to be avoided at all costs. The work-functions that were once assigned to national cinemas are now paradoxically subject to censorship-effect. In the case of national cinemas, such as Japanese, (now defunct) Hong Kong, Indian, and recent Korean cinema, which are ambiguously recognised as a genre themselves, the situation may be different.
Perhaps Adorno was right after all. A genuinely modern film may not merely reject outdated styles or work-functions, but rather renounce the entire system of division and allocation. As a result, it must perform daring acrobatics that run the risk of being deemed unacceptable by the establishment. They are akin to a dance with death, a high-wire act, teetering on the edge of the acceptable, as exemplified by Ritwik Ghatak's masterpiece Reason, Debate, and a Story (1974), which could be considered a film that he risked his life to make. He once referred to Indian films made by directors like Satyajit Ray as “clinically disinfected realism of poverty.” Though it is difficult to agree with his criticism on Ray, we can somewhat understand his remarks as pointing out the work-function of Indian cinema that had been approved in the global arthouse film culture.
7
It is often said that Korean cinema is receiving unprecedented attention today, but the truth is that critical analysis of Korean cinema remains extremely challenging, and insightful discussions are rare. Above all, this is because the very existence of Korean cinema as an object is quite obscure and problematic. If such a claim sounds absurd, then consider the following two questions before thinking about it again. Among the so-called specific characteristics of Korean cinema promoted or loudly proclaimed by those who tout the rise of K-movie, what is there in them that hold more significance than mere advertising copy? The more fundamental second question is whether there really are any specific characteristics of Korean cinema.
In an era where the film industry is heavily influenced by transnational capital, a naive technical definition such as “a collection of films mainly made by directors or producers with Korean nationality using capital invested in Korea” is almost useless. Such a technical definition can only be used for futile categorisation. For instance, while Kore-eda Hirokazu’s Broker (2022), produced by ZIP Cinema and distributed by CJ ENM, is considered as a Korean film, Bong Joon-ho’s Okja (2017), which was produced and financed by Netflix, is excluded from this category.
Some may argue against the above claim, saying that there is something unique in the films of Hong Sang-soo, Bong Joon-ho, Lee Chang-dong, and Park Chan-wook. It is understandable. However, the relationship between their films and the provisional construct known as “Korean cinema” appears fundamentally different from that of John Ford’s films with Hollywood, Jean Renoir’s with French cinema, Ozu Yasujiro’s with Japanese cinema, or Guru Dutt’s with Bollywood. Although films by Ford, Renoir, Ozu, and Dutt are often cited as examples of specific characteristics of the collective modes of representation that presumably gave rise to them, they are also recognised as unique exceptions that challenge the consistency of these modes. In contrast, Korean cinema associated with the films of Hong, Bong, Lee, and Park has never historically produced any collective modes of representation. To be sure, their films are not products derived from Korean cinema, nor can they be merely regarded as exceptions to Korean cinema; they are only labeled collectively as Korean cinema or K-movie. In other words, Korean cinema is a phantom name, or the name of a phantom. Kim Ki-young, whom Bong often mentioned with admiration, assimilated the inherent abjectness of Korean cinema, which had long drifted as a phantom without any concrete form, and turned it into his own idiosyncratic style.
8
Im Kwon-taek's Chunhyang (2000) was the first Korean film to be nominated for the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival. At the onset of the 21st century, he conducted an exploration of the possibility of Korean cinema primarily regarding its form. However, his experiment did not bring about any changes in the Korean film industry. Like Bae Yong-gyun’s The People in White (1995), his film was exceptional but remained isolated from other films of the New Korean Cinema period. Both films were screened at Cannes, but neither was assigned any work-function related to Korean cinema.
In retrospect, these films were made and released during a period of major industrial restructuring in the Korean film industry. This was a time when the desire and aspiration to transplant not only the forms derived from various foreign films but also the post-1970s Hollywood-like system into Chungmuro (the Korean equivalent of Hollywood) reached its peak. This was exemplified by the release of Shiri (1999), promoted as the “Korean-style blockbuster.” If Im Kwon-taek’s Seopyeonje (1993), which drew an audience over one million in Seoul alone, symbolised the height of the encounter between art and business within the old system of Chungmuro, Bong Joon-ho’s The Host (2006), which drew an audience over 13 million nationwide, symbolised the summit of the encounter between art and industry within the emerging new system of K-movie. It was through this another “Korean-style blockbuster,” titled Gwoemul (Monster) in Korean, that Bong received his first invitation to Cannes. This film, along with Kim Ki-duk’s Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring (2003) and Park Chan-wook's Oldboy (2003), was one of the films that contributed to Korean cinema being assigned a work-function within the international film festival circuit.
In 2019, the year that marked the 100th anniversary of Korean cinema, Bong Joon-ho’s seventh feature film, Parasite, became the first Korean film to win the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival. It had been 19 years since Chunhyang was nominated for the Cannes competition. Since its premiere at Cannes, numerous articles, reviews, and interviews were done. Many foreign critics have marveled at the film’s free and seamless flow between various genres. To those familiar with Korean films, as well as TV programs and YouTube content from Korea, such reactions may seem somewhat baffling, for it is not an exaggeration to say that genre hybridity or genre switching is the default setting of Korean popular culture forms.
In some ways, we can say that while there may not be a uniquely Korean cinema, there is a uniquely Korean hybridization or switching between genres. This phantomlike charateristic has been prevalent in Korean films and was once often referred to in a derogatory sense as Chungmuro yeonghwa or Banghwa. It runs so deep that it can be found in most films from past to present. Even today, it is considered a selling point for Korean films in terms of appealing to audience. However, in most cases, it is not intentional but rather the byproduct of abortive attempt to construct a film with coherent structure while appealing to a wide audience.
For instance, films like the two-part Along with the Gods series (2017/2018), both of which surpassed 10 million viewers, and Extreme Job, which drew 16 million viewers upon its release in early 2019, also exhibit a similar genre-bending characteristic as Parasite, but often jarringly switched between them. However, these films lack Bong’s delicate cinematic tools and do not even have anything like Kim Ki-young’s excessively grotesque strength, so they remain just jumbled and indeterminate, not going any further. If the Along with the Gods series and Extreme Job demonstrate the persistence of the hybridity of Korean cinema once derisively referred to as Chungmuro yeonghwa, and Kim’s films excessively push this hybridity to the point of overkill and formalise it in a very local way, Parasite turns this formalised hybridity into a “genre” internationally acceptable in contemporary global film culture.
To many foreign critics, the “tooling” that Bong performs to handle all sorts of incongruity is seamless, and instead what stands out more are the various genres that serve as the target of that tooling and the extraordinary genre that emerges through it. As a journalist put it, “Bong Joon-ho has become a genre unto himself.” The reason why such characteristics are not easily perceived by Koreans, rather ironically, might be because they have become “immune” to the inconsistent and hybrid elements through their periodic exposure to Korean cinema as their cultural “Host.” Anyway, to paraphrase that journalist’s words, Korean cinema has finally become a genre unto itself. In other words, a phantom name has finally become a genre unto itself. But a phantom has no body.
9
Miss Granny (2014) is the third feature film by Hwang Dong-hyuk, known for the Netflix series, Squid Game (2021). It was distributed by CJ Entertainment and attracted over 8.6 million viewers in Korea. It has been remade in China, Vietnam, Japan, Thailand, Indonesia, the Philippines, and India so far, and in 2022, a Mexican remake was also released. While some of the remakes were co-produced with CJ or its related companies, none of them were released or showcased in Korea, except for the Vietnamese version, Sweet 20 (2015), which was screened at the Bucheon International Fantastic Film Festival in 2016.
CJ is one of the major companies for co-productions between Korea and other Asian countries, but the results of these collaborations are rarely shown to the Korean audience, partly due to the peculiar racism and prejudice that some Koreans exhibit towards other Asian countries (excepting Japan and Chinese-speaking countries). As a result, these films have difficulty gaining acceptance in the Korean domestic market. In addition, there is a lack of cultural facilities in Korea that cater to foreign residents, and despite the estimated tens of thousands of immigrants from Southeast Asia living in Korea, there is a complete absence of film distribution networks targeting them.
CJ is not targeting the global market outside Asia through these co-productions nor investing in them for that purpose. The primary goal of these co-productions is only to produce “films for domestic consumption in each country that do not require immediate international recognition,” as I mentioned earlier. The co-produced films, localised for each country, do not have any work-function in the global film culture and any significant impact on it. In the case of Korea-Southeast Asia co-productions, the films deployed are often Korean movies optimised as “items” or “contents” suited for “one-source multi-use.” A phantom without a body can possess any body.
10
The Busan International Film Festival not only assigns work-functions to Asian films but also exercises a censorship-effect upon them. The work-functions assigned by BIFF are limited to the film festivals held in Korea and Asian countries, with few exceptions such as the Berlinale Forum or the International Film Festival Rotterdam. Its censorship-effect extends beyond simply excluding films without distinctive qualities and applies to more experimental films. Lav Diaz’s films, for instance, were not showcased in BIFF before Norte, the End of History was invited to the Un Certain Regard section at Cannes in 2013. However, since Diaz’s films had been consistently accepted and showcased at Venice’s Orizzonti, Rotterdam, and other respected festivals before Norte was invited to Cannes, in this case, BIFF’s censorship-effect had a limited impact solely on Korean cinephiles.
Furthermore, the system in which BIFF exercises a censorship-effect and divides/allocates work-functions is not autonomous and reproduces the problematic systems of other major film festivals such as Cannes, Venice, and Berlin. In other words, while BIFF claims to be a platform for cultural exchange among Asian films and filmmakers, in reality, it tends to select and showcase Korean films that can be accepted at major Western film festivals, and mainly promote Asian films that have already been approved and assigned a work-function at those festivals. There is a handy tip well-known among Korean cinephiles who visit BIFF every year: just skip the Asian films that have their world premiere in Busan. I suspect that this exclusionary attitude could be a byproduct of Busan’s “cross-eyed” policy that I mentioned earlier.
EXIT
It is undeniable that CJ ENM and BIFF have been major players in the international growth of K-movie. However, as we have seen earlier, despite claiming collaboration with Asian cinema, they have often utilised and sometimes even excluded it from the main stage. Exploring the new possibility of collaborations between Korea and Asian countries should begin with reflecting on how these exclusionary mechanisms operate. The three-year hiatus caused by the COVID-19 pandemic has forced us to take time for reflection on this matter. Was this period a dawn or a sunset? Concerning Korean cinema, I hope that it was a sunset. The reason is as Claude Levi-Strauss wrote in Tristes Tropiques; dawn is simply the day’s beginning, but sunset the day run through again, but 50 times as fast.
