Bad Guy is a South Korean film by director Kim Ki-duk

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Aesthetics / Cinéma du corps/Cinema of the Body / cinema / cinema of the body / culture / film / film reviews / graffiti

forum.santabanta.com 2014-12-20 10 44 15This film woke me up last night with an insight that Kim Ki-duk’s films are more akin to the horror genera than they are to gangster styled films. The monster is not the lead protagonist Cho Jae-hyun, but the forces that act upon those within the context of a society seemingly ruled by sex and violence.

And I find similarities with horror films because he never seems to die, the story brings us up to a point where we think he will die, and next we know he has recovered; we allow this because we want the story to go further; we don’t want it to end though we suspect it will have to end with him finally dying. And we suspend belief because we really feel he is immortal. I have yet to finish the film, the last section is left for me to watch.

As a viewer you feel horrified by the orchestrated violence much like watching Jason taking out one by one the victims in the movie Halloween. We want to protect those we love and quickly we come to love the silent man and the woman he has forced into prostitution.

Kim Ki-duk conveniently adds what he wants when he wants. Like the strange beach scene where we watch a woman who sits in front of the two main characters and she walks into the ocean to drown herself while they do nothing. But Sun-hwa, the indentured servant, finds where the apparent suicide victim has left in the sand buried a torn up Polaroid of the her and her lover. It was strange that they did nothing, what purpose did this serve.  It makes me think of the Greek tragedies where there is of a sudden a plot reversal, or something inserted to bring more force to the story. It is strictly a poetic device. But as well, it is thematic, this subject of suicide for Kim Ki-duk’s films to explore.

In order to live nobly, death has to be viable, has to be an option, a way out when the world we live in bottoms out. This is more in line with Seppuku, part of the samurai bushido honor code. We forget in the west how closely are the ties of the east. Who influence whom? This idea of honor is very real for Kim Ki-duk. That’s why we buy into their world, this dystopian world, this underground existence because we see first hand who is honorable and who is scum.

The concept noble savage comes to mind. The lead character is the same so far in two of Kim Ki-duk’s films but wholly nuanced differently. I feel a kinship with this animal wanting to touch what is beautiful and having to learn to temper his raw desire. I have felt more like an animal in my life than a human. That’s what drives Cho Jae-hyun roles, this movement through the pain of wanting something, not having it and growing towards it.

These films, Bad Guy and Crocodile, both portrey the protagonist, the anti-hero at a moment where growth is required. And the beauty is that he is a latent artist, that beauty touches him in a way he is wiling to stretch what is possible. And what is more beautiful than coming into contact with a woman just as honorable and willing to die and to acknowledge beauty when she sees it.

 

 

I am a visual learner 청룡영화제

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Aesthetics / art & design / art and design

 

 

In that I can pick up on patterns.

I see something that is different and because of this difference, i seek to understand what makes it different. Take for example, my new interest in Korean films has exposed me to their unique calligraphy. I look at as the films opening credits and think what is it that appeals to me about these certain shapes. Those round O’s and boxy squares so cleanly drawn and the way they are stacked, juxtaposed. I think this is way different than say Japanese calligraphy which now has involved me in learning by looking at images which has now brought with it printed explanations that explain the simplicity that appeals to me.

In my search, I found that the Korean alphabet named Hangul was created in 1443. In explaining the need for the new script, King Sejong explained that the Korean language was fundamentally different from Chinese; using Chinese characters (known as hanja) to write was so difficult for the common people that only privileged aristocrats usually male, could read and write fluently. The majority of Koreans were effectively illiterate before the invention of Hangul. Hangul was designed so that even a commoner could learn to read and write; the Haerye says “A wise man can acquaint himself with them before the morning is over; a stupid man can learn them in the space of ten days.”

 

en.wikipedia.org 2014-12-17 11 55 46The word hangeul, written in hangul.

The calligraphic tradition of East Asia originated and developed from China, spreading to Japan, Taiwan, Korea and Vietnam.

 

Chinese Calligraphywww.google.com 2014-12-17 12 33 20

Japanese Calligraphy

www.google.com 2014-12-17 12 36 6Korean Calligraphy

hangukyeonghwa.files.wordpress.com 2014-12-7 8 23 38

They are all so different. But I like best the simple lines of the Koreans.

h33t.to 2014-12-17 12 29 33

 

 

 

 

 

 

The inner need is the basic alike of small and great problems in writing

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graffiti

What is the starting point to begin a writing project that is bigger than anything you have approached thus far? How to enter? How to position your mind to conceive an idea that can be employed to serve your inner need to create? Granted, nothing is forth coming; you sit and you await a slight notion, a point of view, something to indicate a direction. It’s like you are courting your subconsciousness, bringing it flowers, doing its laundry, inconspicuously laying down preconceived thoughts of how it could be done. Be done with the thinking mind, look where it has taken you; you alone are afloat.

Prepared your self by setting aside time to probe, to push, to coax. Make it a point to do nothing. But whisper for what, for how? Listen for the silence. Be tired of speaking your mind. Silence is solace. Beethoven thought in terms of composition much like a painter. Your writing must share of this finality, this bringing together sounds and color and lines and form.

It’s not enough to name a thing; that has been done. How to come away renewed, refreshed by the froth that comes of the churning? How to be one step ahead of not knowing what or how? How to turn the other cheek? To kiss the eyelids of the keeper of your soul.

Yellow and blue turning your world into a blur…

 

The hard part would not be the actual writing of the novel

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art & design / philosophy / art and design / culture / personal / architecture / Aesthetics / love making / grammer / blogging / Questions / essay / Journaling

But the work that comes before it.

This I understand. Now; whereas before, I thought it was enough to write. No, there must be some time towards design. It’s no different than when I design a garden. But for one difference, when I commission a garden design; it begins with a prospective client, their stated needs and desires concerning a specific plot of land. I take down their ideas and draw out the lay of their land. often. i get a rush of initial ideas that I jot down too.

Then when i reach home, I go through stacks and stacks of images i have saved over the years. Then I select a group of images that mos nearly expresses what I am after, but that’s not true, not totally. These images that I have selected are just ideas in themselves.

What happens next, is i daily look and think, forget and look and think again until finally some weeks later an idea pops fully formed into my head. i sketch it out and it is done. I always say I don’t have to actually build it, it is done, the work is done there on the paper.

Why have I not approached writing the same way?

What incentive moment could I create that would be part of a whole piece? I have lived all my life for this moment. You laugh. I cry at my silliness. Fault me for my naivety.

But it seems it would serve me to have one of you to commission me to write a piece; what I won’t do for myself, I may do for you. Or, i may just fall flat out. Who knows.

What would you want me to write about? Do you want me to write a novel, a short story, an essay? But you will have to take part in what shape it will take. My ideas will be sprung by you.

What is our incentive?

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2014 / Aesthetics / architecture / art & design / blogging / Cinéma du corps/Cinema of the Body / cinema / cinema of the body / culture / entertainment / Journaling / love making

 

www.google.com 2013-1-9 9:20:2

What drives us to even think for a second that you have a chance to actually write a novel? How is that possible when there is so little you know and even less that you understand? Your obstinacy can only carry you so far; there is no one to blame but your own blockage put in place by you; yes, you are to blame; when you should have been listening you were talking; when you should have taken upon yourself to learn how to fly, you were grounded, sent to bars to find your way. Drinking. Drinking to excess.

Underlying your debauchery was this hidden jewel covered over with piss and fecal matter, that there was beauty in all things. Nothing surprised you. Everything amazed you. You were meant for great adventure. But you lacked talent. That would be denied you. That would motivate. This supposed talent. What of it?

Now you must ask yourself over and over again, till in sinks deep into your soul: provide I had a character, someone written up by me, what would be the totality of the novel beginning with a cause that culminates into an effect. Damn it, make it more feasible: what incentive would drive a person towards a finality built within the register of music. That it would be of a piece. By itself it would flounder. But taken together into the whole it would round out into a novel.

The rule we must follow is what starts the cause-and-effect chain be not be dependent on anything outside the compass of the novel. We must stay true to our plot.

Say one hundred times: incentive…

Say it again. Learn what it means. It is a gem of a word. It drives me.

Funny, I think the point of writing is to forget you have a reader. Much like in love making we forget ourselves. Lost to the feeling, the sensation, the circumstances- the person wielding the juice. The love machine that is your woman makes you forget that there is another world. She circumvents all your preconceived notions. She performs as if you were a stranger that has pushed against a wall. All you can do is close your eyes.  And push away any thought that may misrepresent her chastity. She is yours. But before that time occurred, she was others.

I like now writing with the idea that I refuse to touch to close to what occurs, to what is literal; when what i am after is more metaphorical.

The plot must be “a whole”

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Art / philosophy / photography / Psychology / Questions / review / Transgressive literature / Uncategorized

 

images.search.yahoo.com 2014-12-12 11 31 1

It begins with an incentive moment, something that motivates an individual to perform an action. Must jump start the cause and effect; causes are downplayed, but its effects are key.

Take for instance, the Movie OldBoy, the main character, the one we think has the most incentive to wreak revenge on his captors, his revenge motives are actually secondary, to the mystery man, the man that paid for Dae-su’s imprisonment, a wealthy man named Lee Woo-jin. Woo-jin has become pathologically connected to Dae-su. Dae-su sees benefit from having been isolated in a room where he has practiced and perfected his fighting skills, shadow boxing the wall with full force contact. Without hesitation, he takes on a slew of men bent on hurting him. The scene itself is magical to watch and one feels the adrenaline as it pulses through undying resolve to find the man that had giving him this supernatural strength born of his hate at having been jailed for not apparent reason. Like an AA reformed drunk, he searches his past for anyone he may have wronged, searching for that clue that may lead him to his captor.

The real disadvantaged person is Woo-jin who has all the supposed advantages.  By degrees, we find out he has been sleeping with his sister and thinks that she is pregnant based on a rumor started from Dae-su. He shares in his sister’s suicide as an accomplice. He creates a context where Dae-su make love to his own daughter. When Dae-su finds out, he cuts out his tounge in atonment but before he does he admits his guilt for the wrong he did to Woo-jin’s sister and to Woo-Jin himself and tells Woo-jin he will be his dog/slave if only he not tell Mi-do, his daughter.

What is our incentive? What drives us to even think for a second that you have a chance to actually write a novel? How is that possible when there is so little you know and even less that you understand? Your obstinacy can only carry you so far; there is no one to blame but your own blockage put in place by you; yes, you are to blame; when you should have been listening you were talking; when you should have taken upon yourself to learn how to fly, you were grounded, sent to bars to find your way. Drinking. Drinking to excess.

Underlying your debauchery was this hidden jewel covered over with piss and fecal matter, that there was beauty in all things. Nothing surprised you. Everything amazed you. You were meant for great adventure. But you lacked talent. That would be denied you. That would motivate. This supposed talent. What of it?

Now you must ask yourself over and over again, till in sinks deep into your soul: provide I had a character, someone written up by me, what would be the totality of the novel beginning with a cause that culminates into an effect. Damn it, make it more feasible: what incentive would drive a person towards a finality built within the register of music. That it would be of a piece. By itself it would flounder. But taken together into the whole it would round out into a novel.

The rule we must follow is what starts the cause-and-effect chain be not be dependent on anything outside the compass of the novel. We must stay true to our plot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

nobody knows what art is and it’s up to the artist

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Aesthetics / Art / art & design / writing

To communicate her ideas. And it concerns discernment. That place where we feel cut off from the herd. That’s where it begins. We have to help the cause of art by pursuing what others suppress. It begins with simply wanting to step outside of what you thought were possible. At the place where you break down, at the place you are your weakest. Begin there.

Do you remember why you liked art in the first place? Were you a star struck teenager? Your mind connected the dots between pleasure and stimulus. You ran with people who had to name their art, they were not just people. But they were subject to their mantle they elected to wear. I am a painter. Me a writer. I like to take pictures. The human form intrigues me. I play the guitar. I write songs.

When we like something we want to know more about it. We move in constellations.

Oldboy (2003 film)

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Cinéma du corps/Cinema of the Body / cinema / cinema of the body / culture / entertainment / fashion / film reviews / graffiti / review / Transgressive literature

images.search.yahoo.com 2014-12-11 10 2 17

 

When we left the land behind and we moved into cities, we changed into something that needs to be entertained. The internet has made us circle it like men of yore used to circle the fire. We live our lives in quiet desperation. To soften its blunt, hard edge we read books, watch movies. Read books. Watch movies.

Or write blog post, missives to other misbegotten people.

My life is not one thing. But many. Like yours, it begins with saying hello to the sun. It makes us blink, come alive. How we spend the day. That changes. I am divided. It seems I like being out of doors. But just as well, I can spend hours reading, exploring, thinking, watching all towards this greater idea that to exist is to be creative. I see art as something to aspire to, not something to be entertained by to be inspired or to be entertained, that is the question.

Years ago, I tried to watch Park Chan-wook‘s Oldboy and stopped. The violence seemed gratuitous. What has changed my point of view was having watched Crocodile, another film by a South Korean film maker. To enter in upon their world. Is to habitat another world. Remote from the West. How can people be so different? Look so different. Act so different. Their culture is apart from ours, the West.

I sit and literally squirm watching their films. They make me uncomfortable. It’s like no, no I don’t want to go there. But between my fingers, I peer into their world. But for their highly philosophical bent, their scathing look at society,  their bent to uncover social ills. But for these things, I would not watch.

I will restrict this post to Park Chan-wook‘s Oldboy. First off, there is nothing hoaky, contrived or corny. Nor sentimental. About this film.

I have ulterior motives here. I confess, I want to improve upon my critical writing. For years, I have attempted to write reviews. These years have not advanced me. The me who wants to write, to express. It’s hard for me just to write a straight review. I am not made for such an exchange.

Back to the film, my interest deepened when I read that Oldboy has been grouped as a Park Chan-wook’s revenge trilogy, this grouping was devised by movie critics, not the director. Park said his films are about the utter futility of vengeance and how it wreaks havoc on the lives of everyone involved. Like a dart hitting the target, I became enamored of this reason. This ability to explore themes.

But to be true, to go to the source, we must state where the ideas for Oldboy came from. The movie is based on the Japanese manga of the same name written by Nobuaki Minegishi and Garon Tsuchiya.

Granted, the movie has been made and made well. But it’s juice was derived from manga. In the West, we have graphic comics made into movies. Manga is a close relative. There must be something that comes from working in images as you write. The hand, the hand drawing outruns the mind, the mind writing.

The film follows the story of Oh Dae-su, who is locked in a hotel room for 15 years without knowing his captor’s motives. When he is finally released, Dae-su finds himself still trapped in a web of conspiracy and violence. His own quest for vengeance becomes tied in with romance when he falls for an attractive sushi chef. Don’t be misled by that cursory plot line. The complexity of this movie is its mystery. It reminds me of those Russian dolls that of decreasing size are placed one inside the other.

If this film shares  any affinity with another film, it would have to be A Clockwork Orange, that dystopian crime film adapted, produced, and directed by Stanley Kubrick, based on Anthony Burgess‘s 1962 novella A Clockwork Orange. It too employs disturbing, violent images to comment on man against man.

As I write, I think who has the time to read what I write. Why would they bother when there is no point? I would not give you the same consideration I ask of you, to sit for a spell and to be force fed words that are employed to beguile. You dear reader would be wise to return to the land, plant a crop and live out your days in obscurity. If you are faint-hearted, your time would be better served to do a Google search for a Jordanian comic book author- Suleiman Bakhit who creates Middle Eastern stories that are an alternative to terrorist ideologies.

blog.ted.com 2014-12-11 11 11 0 

 

 

I want to write more

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bad writing

Not less. But less is more: less bull shit, less other people’s words, less being afraid, less resistant; more resilient, more ready to step up. Writing is picking a fight with yourself losing ground as you find your footing, stepping down on the pavement of the blank page. Damn it all to hell; hell, hell: what the hell!

Touching nerves. Speaking out of turn. Slap to the face. Losing grace. Too, too often picking up the pieces. Gray is the dawn, pissing on the ground, listening to the howling wind. This morning. This morning peeling away yesterday. It climbs up on my shoulder. A fair view sets me in motion. She is near to hand.

Stop before you write some ill-suited cliche, steeping your writing in the browning shit that spills from lesser writer. Yourself included. Build the fire and your books will burn. Kindled by the night sky, dusted with moon light. You fight forever no more. You would like those words to be yours. To say something so pure.

Eluded by a handful of Quaaludes. You understood nothing. Bent as you were on self-disruption. Her name was Sonja. She made you write poems in you head as you walked, skipped home. When you thought of her. She turned to kiss you. The wind, the river, the night. they attended that kiss.