Achilles and the Tortoise

A few days have passed since I watched Achilles and the Tortoise (2008) but I still think about its meaning and what the director Kitano Takeshi is trying to say. The film’s images lingered with me and I would wake up and jot down my thoughts on the film in the middle of the night. To me, that’s an indicator of a good movie.

Achilles and the Tortoise is the third installment in this Japanese director’s self-referential trilogy about creativity. I haven’t seen the first two of the trilogy – Takeshi’s (2005) and Glory to the Filmmaker (2007) – which received mediocre responses from critics, but I still anticipate watching them as a fan of Kitano's deadpan and often bizarre sense of humor.

The film starts with a short animation that describes the “Achilles and the Tortoise” paradox by an ancient Greek philosopher, Zeno, in the form of a “kōan” that consists of a series of questions and answers between a Zen master and his student to resolve a riddle or a paradox. In this paradox, a fast runner named Achilles runs a race with a tortoise, in which he allows the tortoise to start nine meters ahead of him. With contrary to our rational thinking, however, this paradox suggests that Achilles can never overtake the tortoise since the pursuer will always have to reach the point where the pursued has already been. Thus, the race goes on indefinitely while the slow tortoise will always be one step ahead of Achilles.

After this short animated sequence, the film follows Machisu Kuramochi’s life-long and unsuccessful quest for art and fame spanning from his childhood to the days of his youth and to his middle-age years. The director Kitano Takeshi himself stars as the aging artist and two other actors play Machisu as a child and as a young man. Kitano also painted all the artwork featured in the film. In this fable-like story, it is pretty obvious that Machisu is the Achilles trying to catch up with talented and revered artists before him such as Picasso, Mondrian, Miro, and Basquiat. He wants to become rich and famous and to be accepted by the art world but he seems to constantly miss the mark. His obsession with art and fame only leads to a poor and ridiculed life. However unappreciated his paintings may be, Machisu has a loving and loyal wife, Sachiko, who stands by him. Sachiko makes a living during the day so that her husband can focus on his art and devotes herself to helping him paint by night.

Throughout my viewing, I couldn’t help but wonder, “aren’t we all in a constant state of running trying to overtake the “tortoise”?” Whatever that “tortoise” means for each individual, we all desperately pursue something abstract that seems to run a little farther away as we make progress in our lives. In the process, we get frustrated, we are criticized, we lose our running mates, our friends and family members die, relationships fall apart, and yet the race continues.

Kitano paints (pun intended) his film with sad and gloomy stories about a failed artist to the point where this artist’s quest becomes morbid. The film then ends rather abruptly when Machisu’s wife, who has left him after finding his insane quest unbearable, returns to him and takes him home. And then a brief yet hopeful title appears on the screen: “And so Achilles did catch up with the tortoise.” Huh? Is this another paradox or a riddle, Master Kitano? So, all I have to do is find someone who understands my passion or even my obsession? Someone who accepts me as who I am? Not that I think it’s easy to find that person. But what about the tortoise? The tortoise I am chasing is just an illusion?

I have come to a conclusion that Achilles and the Tortoise is a film about “perception” – that is, the perception of art or the perception of what is perceived as art, the perception of creativity, the perception of success, the perception of the tortoise, etc. I’m struck by the notion that I may never reach an understanding of what a particular film is truly about. I guess I have to keep running and chasing in the hope that I will resolve this kōan by Kitano someday.

Postscript: Where did all the paintings go? I would like to buy one, particularly “Black Continent.”

JaeYoon Park © 2009

The Good, The Bad, and The Weird

Have you ever seen a Korean western? From its title, Kim Ji-Woon’s The Good, The Bad, and The Weird (2008) definitely evokes Sergio Leone’s classic spaghetti western, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly (1966). Its narrative structure (civilization versus wilderness and law versus lawless binaries), settings (a mythical space filled with rampant outlaws), iconography (guns, horses, cowboy hats, cigarettes, endless horizons), and soundtrack à la Ennio Morricone all confirm that this film heavily relies on the generic conventions of the western. Yet, the film is also a hybrid blending elements of action, adventure, and comedy. The director, Kim Ji-Woon is known for his experimentation with different genres and is particularly good at alternating between moments of tension and comedic situations.

The story is set in 1930s Manchuria during the Japanese occupation and revolves around three Korean “bastards” – the film’s original Korean title is translated as “the good bastard, the bad bastard, and the weird bastard” – who are each looking for a mysterious map.

What, then, are the motives of these three “bastards”? Money. Apparently, this motive links the three. Yet, the Good (Park Do-Won) is hired by the Korean Independence Army and therefore pursues “good” money. He is a tall and good-looking bounty hunter and wears a cowboy hat. Although he kills people, he does so with elegance and precision. His mission is to obtain the map before the Japanese Imperial Army thereby securing money to support Korea’s independence movement.

The Bad (Park Chang-Yi) is hired by a rich pro-Japanese Korean who “sold out his own country” and therefore pursues “bad” money. He is a ruthless killer who is motivated by greed and the desire to become a legend. His facial scars, asymmetrical hairstyle, and black wardrobe signify his evil nature.

The Weird (Yoon Tae-Goo) is a train robber who happens to obtain the map and becomes the target chased not only by the Good and the Bad but also by the Japanese Imperial Army and the Chinese Ghost Market Gang who are after the treasure’s untold riches. He is a petty thief who abides by his own rules and dreams of owning land in Korea. But might his rustic appearance and comedic demeanor mask a far darker side?

The pursuit of the map also becomes personal as the Good seeks the bounty on the Bad’s neck and the Bad pursues the Weird because of a personal grudge. There are three action sequences in the film that particularly stand out for their spectacle of violence. The first is in the train where the Weird stumbles onto the map and flees with it in his possession. The second is at the Ghost Market where the Good and the Weird team up and fight against the Bad and the Ghost Market Gang. Finally, the third chase scene takes place in an open field nearby the Russian border where the Japanese Imperial Army joins the race with its unmatchable firearms and forces.

What, then, does the map lead to? The map’s treasure is the film’s biggest twists and simultaneously represents the promise of modern civilization and the corrupting force that rips civilizations apart. I won’t reveal the treasure here in order to not spoil your future viewing experience, but it is definitely something that could have changed the modern history of Korea if only the Korean nation had had the power and skills to have access to it.

While the treasure in the film is something of a mystery, the film’s true treasure is Song Kang-Ho’s performance as the Weird. He appeared in Kim Ji-Woon’s films twice before starring in such black comedies as The Foul King (2000) and The Quiet Family (1998). Song’s acting prowess, which is evident in both his verbal delivery and physical performance, makes me say without doubt that he is one of the best actors and comics currently in Korean cinema.

JaeYoon Park © 2009