Li Cangdong/Wen Muyan/Translation
Note: Korean director Lee Cang-dong, who has been away from the film industry for four years, completed the screening at the Jeonju International Film Festival with his latest short film "Heartbeat". Every Li Cangdong film is a long wait, but also a happy, unsuppersive wait. The same is true of Heartbeat (심장소리/Heartbeat). This is actually Li Cangdong's first short film, which follows a 25-minute long shot of a primary school student named Chul skipping class and crossing the street to return home to visit his mother who is disturbed by depression. How complex the technology is, how simple the story is, how moving the movie is. It can't help but feel desperate, but we can't help but admit that at the moment the end of the movie, a strong sense of comfort fills the whole body. It is clean and pure, and it makes people truly appreciate the beauty and beauty of film as art.
It also reminds me of Li Cangdong's short story "A Light Green Bird", published four years ago in the French film magazine Positif, perhaps because they share a common theme — the fear of death or the desire for life, or simply because "Heartbeat" and this novel leave me with the same impression or feeling, a kind of Li Cangdong-style power. The novel began when Michel Ciment, the editor-in-chief of the film, asked the director to write an essay describing his experiences, especially his early life. Li Cangdong wrote after sending the novel out: "I wrote this article based on my own personal experience, and then hid myself in the fictional novel, so that readers no longer know who I am." Like Salinger said, I'm in this story, but you'll never know who I really am. "The novel, licensed by Li Cangdong and the magazine "Positive Film" and translated in French, is dedicated to those who live in the darkness temporarily, hoping that it will give some meager power." When the wind blows, try to live", as Paul Valéry put it.
On April 28, 2022, Lee Cang-dong attended the opening of the 23rd Jeonju International Film Festival in Jeonju, South Korea
He walked in total darkness, haunted by the sense of loneliness he had become accustomed to. It was too late, there were no more people around, except for the hordes of cars that kept tearing apart the dim light emitted by the street lamps with deafening noise. Very cold. That night, weather forecasts said the Korean Peninsula was suffering from record low temperatures in decades. He thought, this is a good day to commit suicide.
He calculated to put it into action that night. He was nineteen years old. Although he learned earlier than ordinary people what is the cruelty and injustice of life, it was still too early for him to end his life because of it. That night, he went into all the pharmacies he passed to buy sleeping pills, none of which sold him enough to kill. Whenever he stepped into another pharmacy, he would touch the medicine in his trouser pocket with his hand, like a gambler confirming the money he was about to bet in his pocket.
Death was approaching, but he didn't feel like he was being consumed by uneasiness or pain. Churning in his chest was a melancholy similar to self-pity. Maybe deep down he didn't want to die. Or maybe the level of despair wasn't enough for him to truly realize his imminent imminent death. This feeling often does not prompt a person to choose death. It can be a trigger, but in fact it can only be (for death has occurred?). Desire stimulates such an irrevocable decision. For example, to inflict blows or pain on others by leaving yourself out of this world, to take revenge or to scream from within – so that you don't continue to ignore me, right? [It's rather] a desire to be born, in short.
He was looking for a hotel. Before ending his life, if possible, he hoped to sort out his thoughts and write his will in a room with floor heating. All buildings have light signs that are extinguished and gates closed. He began to get anxious. Soon it will be midnight, and from midnight to four o'clock in the morning, it is the time of martial law promulgated by the dictatorial military government.
He saw that in a dimly lit corner in the distance, there was a police station. It's the only shiny building in a dark, deserted neighborhood. A policeman is setting up a barricade in the middle of the road. Suddenly, a cacophony filled the icy night sky. It was the siren that announced the start of the lighting control. He stood motionless, as if frozen. He was likely to be arrested before carrying out his grand plan.
A cry echoed in his head. Why not roll the dice to decide if you end your life with sleeping pills in your pocket? If I am arrested for not complying with the curfew, is it not a sign that I am not dying?
The sirens continued to sound, and he walked straight to the police station. In order to roll this last dice, the dice of destiny — perhaps he was simply looking for a reason to escape death at this last moment. The moment he reached the door, the endless sirens, like the screams of a desperate man, gradually weakened and then stopped. He began to pace back and forth in the doorway, in order to make himself discovered. But the police paid no attention to him, even though they stared at them unabashedly through the window. His confident and reliable behavior must have made the police think that he was a resident of the district. Only the familiar dictator hanging on the wall was observing him with a melancholy face. A trumpet sound came from the radio station playing in the window, the prelude to a program he often listened to on the regional radio station called "To You Who Forgot the Night." Compared to the sirens that haunted the universe a second ago, this is simply another world. If the former is coming out of hell, the music is like coming from heaven. He later learned that the music was actually Jean-Claude Bollery's Dolannes Melodie, and he had never heard such a beautiful trumpet sound.
Stills from Heartbeat
"Hey! What are you doing? Hurry home! A policeman who came out shouted at him, as if confronted by a disobedient brother. He had no choice but to walk away. The dice of fate did not work, and he had to go and find a room for himself. Following the path of the police station, he finally saw a sign that was still lit. However, after entering the narrow and cold hotel, the boss told him through the dirty glass window that there was no room available.
"Do you really not even have a room left?" The boss looked at him, who seemed to be frozen, and showed a look of pity. The chirping of birds came out. There is indeed a small room behind the counter filled with bird cages of various sizes. "Can you do it here?"
It seemed that this small, dirty little space that the innkeeper used to raise birds as a side business was the only place in the vast world where he could fit tonight. After closing the door, he began to look around. There were so many bird cages that it was only enough for him to lie down, and the plastic overlay of the floor was sprinkled with grain for feeding the birds. All the birds were still awake, presumably because of the neon lights outside. They looked curiously at the new guest, tilting their heads and chirping. His weary body leaned against the wall, staring at the little animals whose names he could not name, sadly ready to resign himself to fate and end his short life here. At this moment, very strangely, he felt a little comfort. Be comforted by the expressionless eyes of these almost expressionless animals, by their meager interest in him! Isn't that exactly the care and love he needs when he enters the hotel with sleeping pills in his pockets ready to die?
He pulled out a wad of white paper from his jacket. He bought it in a stationery store in between walks through various pharmacies. As if offering an offering on an altar, he placed a pen and a blank piece of paper and the pile of sleeping pills beside him.
"This will be my last word," he said to himself as solemnly as a dying man, but his heart was full of bitterness and sympathy for himself. This will be his will, because it was written before his death, but these words are about to have a more important meaning for him.
He had fantasized about becoming a writer, and that dream would soon disappear forever. Therefore these words that he is about to write should carry his whole story, in place of all the words he could have written. Or rather, it should be the work of his life, the only work.
All those who know Me will surely burst into tears when they read it! They must have been remorseful and pounded their chests! You must be trembling with the realization that you have lost someone so beloved and precious!
However, so strange. He wanted to write so much, but he didn't know what to write. Where should I start? He had no idea. He was supposed to write his life's work, but unfortunately, his brain was like a blank piece of paper, and he realized that he couldn't write a single line.
Then he had a ridiculous idea: to feed the birds with these medicines. Is it because death is too abstract and intuitive for him? Does he need to see for himself what death is in advance?
He took out the pills and crushed them in a cup, patiently turned them into a homogeneous powder, then mixed them with the grain into the water and put them in a cage. There were two birds with light green feathers— maybe a sparrow or a canary? They rush to food as if they are hungry. He watched their reactions, but for a long time they still barked and watched him. He waited patiently.
How long has it been? Half an hour? A bird's head hunched, its cry weakened, and finally flapped its wings and stopped moving, much to his surprise. At this moment his back shuddered. Of course, he had incorporated sleeping pills into the food, but it was still hard for him to believe that the little animal that was still chattering and eating a second ago was lying there, and his whole body was stiff. He stared motionlessly at the corpse for a long time. Then a fear he had never felt before struck him. A pale green bird that he didn't even know what it was planted died for him. The corpse he was staring at was also his own.
When the alarm announcing the end of the curfew sounded, he sneaked out of the hotel. Old signs clatter in the strong wind. "It's windy! Try to live! Who wrote this sentence? As he walked down the frozen path shivering with cold, he saw a bright lone star in the middle of the dim sky. A voice came from the deepest part of my heart: try to live. The star was so reminiscent of the eyes of the light green bird.
Years passed, first as a writer and then as a director. But to this day, when faced with a blank piece of paper and having to start writing, he still feels fear. It was like the fear he had that night when he wanted to write his last words. So he faced the blank paper and asked himself, "If this were his last words, what kind of story would you tell?" ”
Editor-in-Charge: Gu Ming
Proofreader: Shi Gong