Asked directly what the title “Decision to Leave” means at the TIFF premiere of his new movie, Park Chan-wook answered that it is a mystery, and indeed it is meant to provoke that very kind of question. He elaborated a little bit that a decision is something that comes with the insinuation of a choice that could go wrong and that we’re to think on that in pondering his beautiful and enigmatic movie. Park has been provoking those kind of questions for decades now, but Decision to Leave is maybe his most alluring film yet -mystery is both an essential part of its’ premise and its’ effect.
It is a very Korean procedural thriller, by which I mean a movie that in some ways resembles a Hollywood take of yesteryear, but of course done with so much more style and skill -Korea really is the most exciting cinema market in the world right now. It is also though a strange kind of romance that initially has shades of Vertigo before transforming into something entirely unique: a love story tied to a murder mystery that is its’ own bewildering mystery. And one that actively challenges its’ audiences’ reception. What are we to make of it? How much should we trust it? What exactly is Park’s game here? And each question only makes the whole that much more intoxicating, more curious, and more tragic.
It's the story of a police investigation led by Detective Hae-jun (Park Hae-il) into the apparent murder of a Chinese man on a mountaintop in Seoul. The prime suspect is identified to be his widow Seo-rae (Tang Wei), a woman with a suspicious character and no strong alibi, yet a curious interest in her interrogator. An insomniac, Hae-jun takes to staking out her home and her job, gradually forming an obsession that transcends the investigation into dangerous territory.
Park Chan-wook won the Cannes Award for Best Director for Decision to Leave and his inventive direction as it pertains to the storytelling is one of the films’ most distinct and engaging attributes. Several times he will place Hae-jun in the scene with Seo-rae when watching her, as though we’re glimpsing his minds’ eye based on the facts he has. It’s a fascinating and quite often beautiful device I haven’t seen from a movie like this before, that both serves an aesthetic and narrative purpose in illustrating his growing invasive intimacy to the world of his target. What’s also impressive are the smooth scene transitions Park occasionally employs which use camera movement and images to reorient a scene or better convey flow, such as where he spins around an actors’ profile until they are in a new location. It’s an intrinsically cinematic way of approaching the storytelling and I applaud that, while also hinting more emphatically at a characters’ emotional state. Park uses technology to interesting effect too, visually as a kind of a window -most specifically in his POV shots of smartphones; and narratively in his employment of a translation app for Seo-rae to occasionally vocalize what she can’t in Korean, which creates another layer of ambiguity to her in the things that could be lost in translation. It is a gorgeous movie in all of this, Park’s best-looking one in a while -a number of his shots and framing choices so picturesque as to be an opiate for the senses.
But credit must also be given to his collaborators, his co-writer Jeong Seo-kyeong and his actors. Because it is a difficult movie in the movement of its’ characters’ psychology with the plot, that regularly shifts in new directions, even seeming to resolve at a mid-act break. It’s a mystery where the most compelling facet is a character more than a crime, and it’s a romance bound by a kind of devilish mistrust. And those are starting points tremendously difficult to play. But these actors do an astounding job, starting with Park Hae-il whose character is a bit of a stereotype troubled cop at first, only to evolve in fascinating ways as he becomes more and more intertwined with Seo-rae. With the desperate devastation of someone aware of the values he’s compromising but unable to stop himself, Park delivers an entrancing performance of obsession and guilt, especially in the films’ latter half, where in his bewilderment he continues to push into Seo-rae’s orbit to reach some conclusion to her mystery. For her part Tang Wei reveals layers both expected and unexpected to this widow, whose situation isn’t cut and dry and whose motivations are increasingly psychologically complex. Seo-rae would both toy with Hae-jun and endeavour to reach out to him. The femme fatale who may be a black widow, while also the sentimental love interest -and whom it becomes clear obsesses over Hae-jun in her own way. Wei plays it subtly, but with all of these aspects clear beneath the surface, an emotional core that can give way to a manipulative edge.
To fans of Park Chan-wook, the dynamic might sound vaguely familiar to that between the protagonist and antagonist of Oldboy -but to a degree of tenderness, even unspoken desire, that is such an intriguing area to explore and an original one in the sphere of noir that Park is dipping his toes into. As much as mistrust, hints of real romance permeate the relationship; there’s an alluring, sensual dialogue between them, on some level a genuine understanding and empathy and affection. And yet these are expressed in mystifying, emotionally extreme ways -Hae-jun and Seo-rae can’t resist one another, much as they might try to. And Seo-rae especially has her own warped way of keeping that connection steady, though it’s not like Hae-jun’s mind ever truly wanders from her. It is toxic and intoxicating, and all the while mystery pertaining to crime and personal intent alike, enshrouds them. We don’t know exactly what they want out of their impassioned but abstinent affair, they probably don’t either.
For as hard as this film may go in plot and in tone, it is also unmistakably delicate. There’s a certain grace to how it plays several scenes in spite of the subject matter -it is not the harsh freneticism of the Vengeance trilogy. It’s also quite funny when it wants to be, tapping into a number of little relatable absurdities and even a few very solid jokes. I particularly liked Go Kyung-pyo as Hae-jun’s rookie deputy for much of the case, vastly unequipped for the arduous tasks required of him as a cop, and who spends much of his screen-time whining. There’s also a song that frequently shows up in the film, first as a favourite of one of the grannies whom Seo-rae looks after as part of her day job, and then is referenced with fuller significance in the latter parts. It is “Mist”, a classical folk song by Jung Hoon Hee that is relatively popular in Korea (it’s even been covered in the K-Pop world), and which was Park’s primary inspiration behind this movie. From what I can gather, it is about a person wandering through fog in search of someone who may or may not be there with them. Certainly it conjures images of that type that Park ultimately leaves us with in his harrowing, haunting yet gorgeous ending.
Decision to Leave is incredible. One of those great movies that continues to thrill the mind long after it ends, its’ psychological mysteries as exciting as they are perplexing. It is as good as any Hitchcock film in the manner it unfurls its’ curious plot and reveals hidden compulsions. A magnetic, marvellous film that may be one of Park’s very best, and personally perhaps the favourite of the crop I saw at TIFF. Keep musing on that title, Park encourages. And keep musing on the movie itself I would add.
Decision to Leave releases October 14th in theatres and on MUBI.
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