February 26, 2024

Right Now, Wrong Then (Hong Sang-soo, 2015)

That week I was showing Right Now, Wrong Then by the Korean filmmaker Hong Sang-soo. I was hoping Hong’s unique working method would be a starting point for a class discussion about alternative forms of filmmaking and that his unconventional poetics would stimulate the students to experiment stylistically within their own practice.

Like every week, I introduced the film. However, towards the end of my introduction, I did something I usually try to avoid when I’m teaching. I expressed my personal taste by calling Hong one of my favourite filmmakers. My careless remark would profoundly affect the viewing experience that followed. Suddenly, the students’ judgment was not only directed at the author but also at me, as if I gave them a glimpse inside my head through the screen. Every sigh seemed to indicate boredom and every time a phone screen lit up, I saw it as a sign of disapproval. Looking through the eyes of young filmmakers, it struck me how slow and demanding the film is. Scenes seemed longer than I remembered and even less happened in them than I thought. I tried to speed up the film in my head and mentally add suspense, but Hong refused to cooperate. Despite my stern look, he stuck to his usual austere approach.

After an hour, the screen turned black. While the students started to stand up (relieved?), the title suddenly reappeared on the screen and the film seemed to start again. I got confused looks. Is the film looping? What I deliberately didn’t tell was that Right Now, Wrong Then consists of two parts, the second part repeating the first with some subtle and less subtle differences. Everyone got back into their chairs, except for one student, for whom, apparently, the second hour was too much. He had seen enough. While he left the classroom, I thought to myself that he hadn’t seen anything yet.

Right Now, Wrong Then is a film that takes form through repetition in the sense that the two parts receive meaning only in relation to each other. Hong encourages the viewer to search for similarities and to explain the differences. Why does the paint change colour in the second part? They are seemingly functional details through which the filmmaker seems to want to say something, but each time the direction they point in seems to be a dead end. Meaning never crystallizes but always remains fluid and slips through your fingers. What matters to Hong are not the individual parts but the virtual, in-between space that transcends the concrete worlds by conjuring an infinite possibility of worlds. Since characters in the same situation make different decisions, the same motives keep returning in different forms. The result is an obsessive exploration of the relationship between chance and necessity.

It's not only in Right Now, Wrong Then that Hong elevates repetition to a structuring principle; he also does this in the relation between his films. It’s sometimes said that Hong keeps making the same film but slightly different each time. Also here, it’s about the difference that emerges from repetition. As a variation on the same motive, every new film derives its meaning from all the films that preceded it, while simultaneously redefining Hong’s oeuvre as a whole. Although the films stand on their own narratively and can be watched and enjoyed as such, they acquire a special dimension as part of a whole, their interconnectedness indicating an underlying project. Hong doesn’t make individual films, he molds a body of work that remains in motion, with each addition opening new perspectives on what already existed, while simultaneously holding the promise of something yet to come.

It makes Hong’s work an acquired taste that, just like coffee or wine, can be appreciated only after multiple experiences. I too was only mildly impressed by my first encounter with Hong. My fascination started to develop only after having watched several of his films. Only then does every new viewing experience become like a different hammer beating the same nail deeper into your mind.

I no longer took the indifferent reactions during the class discussion personally. After all, who likes their first sip of coffee?

Image from Ji-geum-eun-mat-go-geu-ddae-neun-teul-li-da [Right Now, Wrong Then] (Hong Sang-soo, 2015)

ONE DAY, A FILM
23.10.2024
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In Passage, Sabzian invites film critics, authors, filmmakers and spectators to send a text or fragment on cinema that left a lasting impression.
Pour Passage, Sabzian demande ` des critiques de cinéma, auteurs, cinéastes et spectateurs un texte ou un fragment qui les a marqués.
In Passage vraagt Sabzian filmcritici, auteurs, filmmakers en toeschouwers naar een tekst of een fragment dat ooit een blijvende indruk op hen achterliet.
The Prisma section is a series of short reflections on cinema. A Prisma always has the same length – exactly 2000 characters – and is accompanied by one image. It is a short-distance exercise, a miniature text in which one detail or element is refracted into the spectrum of a larger idea or observation.
La rubrique Prisma est une série de courtes réflexions sur le cinéma. Tous les Prisma ont la même longueur – exactement 2000 caractères – et sont accompagnés d'une seule image. Exercices à courte distance, les Prisma consistent en un texte miniature dans lequel un détail ou élément se détache du spectre d'une penséée ou observation plus large.
De Prisma-rubriek is een reeks korte reflecties over cinema. Een Prisma heeft altijd dezelfde lengte – precies 2000 tekens – en wordt begeleid door één beeld. Een Prisma is een oefening op de korte afstand, een miniatuurtekst waarin één detail of element in het spectrum van een grotere gedachte of observatie breekt.

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