"Obal'tan" as a Human Phenomenon

After watching "Obal'tan" or "The Stray Bullet" from an foreign position, it is strangely fascinating to see its storytelling described over and over again as a pinnacle of a specifically "Korean" cinema. This is not to say in any sense that it depends upon a structure of commercial filmmaking established by Hollywood; while as Cho notes, it draws at times upon stylistic characteristics of the Hollywood noir film, it is in a metaphoric sense designed not to mimic American success but highlight the emasculation of the Korean man by his occupiers. The reason this characterization strikes me as overly simplistic has everything to do with the story, which transcends national, ethnic and cultural barriers to represent a sort of universalized human condition, and as such, to treat it as a solely Korean phenomenon seems unfairly limiting. It is not unreasonable for nationalist filmmakers to take pride in their success outside the Hollywood paradigm, but a deeply human story of poverty and struggle such as this one cannot be restricted to any one nation: it is one of the few universal questions of the human race.

If there is any one thing that makes this story essentially Korean, it is the presence of the American occupying troops, a second level of emasculation appended to the first. Yet while the American presence feminizes our characters as Korean men, it is the dire economic circumstances that feminize them as fathers, brothers, husbands. The bond of blood here is far more direct, and far more pressing; it is hard to see Ch'or-ho suffer the constant pain of his rotten teeth for anything less than the security of his nearest and dearest, his flesh and blood. In this sense the American occupation becomes the insult added to the fundamental and deeply piercing injury of joblessness and the impotence of the breadwinner: obviously important, but not supreme. Director Yu Hyon-mok clearly intended the images of American colonialism to make a point that would resonate in the context of his native Korea, but in a nation where as Cho notes, Anderson's "imagined community" has been disrupted as a central and cohesive force, the family must take immediate precedence, and he does not deny that this is the case. It is this latter focus that becomes something that can be considered universal, for nowhere in the world is entirely free of the horrors of unemployment, oppressive poverty, and starvation. Even the views of ironically-named "Liberty Village" evoke never-forgotten memories of Hooverville and our own Great Depression. These memories exist viscerally in the fabric of every language and every nation; they are not only universally comprehensible, but universally relevant.

The concept of foreign film is always dangerous, for its very nature implies a certain "otherness" or distance from our own reality and history. Yet, this is not always true: the structures and styles of film may shift dramatically in the crossing of any border, but the human condition remains largely the same. Taken on their own, the family at the heart of "The Stray Bullet" could be anyone's family, their struggles taking place within any national paradigm. I do not mean to contest that this film has a place within the confines of a strictly Korean aesthetic, nor that the images of occupation speak directly and forcefully to the Korean people; these arguments have been soundly made and well-supported by countless others. I simply offer an alternate reading of its international relevance, one rooted in the universal story of hardship and poverty it presents. When it takes it upon itself to depict something that transcends our frequently arbitrary divisions, film can become global, and "The Stray Bullet" is a profound example of this phenomenon.