NYAFF Review: A Bittersweet Life

The New York Asian Film Festival is celebrating its fifth birthday this year with its largest-ever slate of films: 25 features on just two screens, most of which are making their New York or US debuts. The festival is dedicated to exploring "the latest and greatest movies from Asia," and the 2006 line-up includes works from Japan, China, Korea, India, Thailand, and Malaysia. The festival runs from June 15 to July 1; watch the official website for ticket and showtime information.

A Bittersweet Life is an utterly gorgeous film. Filled with surfaces so polished they seem to glow, and tableaus so carefully composed they look like paintings, it aspires to and often achieves a magical sort of visual perfection. Each scene and face is lit with aggressive disregard for reality; director Kim Ji-woon's only concern is what looks best, and his meticulous attention to detail is our reward as we take in one sumptuous image after another.

For a time, the film's content matches its look. At the center of A Bittersweet Life is Sun-Woo, a tightly controlled gang enforcer who, after seven years of service, has earned the trust of his employer. Played by Lee Byung-hun in a narrow black suit, Sun-Woo's resemblance to Alain Delon's Jef in Le Samouraï couldn't possibly be accidental. Lee shares Delon's wide, blank eyes, as well as his uncanny ability to make his face go completely slack. Like Jef, Sun-Woo is disciplined, unquestioning, and careful. And, like Jef, he make a conscious choice to disobey his employer over a woman. After the betrayal, both men use their ruthlessness and skill for themselves for the first time, a choice that makes turning back impossible. In Le Samouraï, Jef's actions are smart, informed, and decisive. In A Bittersweet Life, however, both Sun-Woo's and the film's careful control fall apart, and what had been an intelligent, highly promising convergence of character and structure turns into a bloody mess with a sky-high body count and very little in the way character development.

From the start, Sun-Woo is a fascinating character. When we first meet him, he quietly, carefully finishes a chocolate tart in the dining room of a luxury hotel before descending into the building's bowels (his shot-from-behind, Goodfellas-style walk through the kitchen is only the first of many visual references to other crime films) to viciously dispatch three men sent by a rival gang to do business. Throughout the beating, Sun-Woo maintains the same air of control he exhibited while dining; there is never a sense of panic or even urgency in anything he does. He is impatient with those who lack his decisiveness and discipline, and because of that sometimes come across as arrogant. In fact, he's simply a man who makes it a priority to be good at his job, and expects the same from others.

As interesting as Sun-Woo is on paper, however, his primary depth comes from Lee's performance in the role. His long face, framed by shaggy, black hair, is unlined and completely blank: Without any hint of sympathy or fear, he is the perfect hired gun. What's most incredible about that face, though, is the range of emotions it expresses, all without seeming to change at all. One moment, Lee seems to be all of 19 or 20 years old; just a beat later, he has the weariness of a man of 40. And he goes from impassivity, to fear, to fury, all in a matter of seconds, and without moving a muscle. It's a strange, incredibly accomplished performance, and it's the movie's greatest, quietest strength.

The fact that Lee's subtle brilliance isn't supported by the film is one of the things that makes A Bittersweet Life so disappointing. When the movie collapses and becomes simply another adventure in stylized violence, it sacrifices the character development and relationships that had driven its first half. Had the film continued along its original path, it could have been an original, memorable work. As it is now, it's just another title to put in the growing file of good-looking, bloody revenge sagas from Korea.