Souffle

Kim ki duk gets his magic from his mysterious characters, and this is another example of that. I cannot guess whats going on in the character's mind and what they will do next.

In Dancer in The Dark, Lars von Trier told the story of a girl who could create such a vivid interior life that it could soar over any misfortune, even death. In Breath, Director Ki-duk Kim tells the story of a girl who tries to transfer a similarly strong vision to a condemned man on death row.

What do you do to raise your spirits? Listen to a song? Walk through the countryside? Go on holiday somewhere nice? Take any of these things, and they are heightened if love and desire are added.

When I was seventeen, I used to walk five miles every night. Just to hold my sweetheart's hand and kiss her goodnight. Even in winter, I felt as if I were walking on air. Sounds kinda stupid, looking back. Especially as it didn't last. But those miles disappeared in seconds.

Breath opens unremarkably. Jang Jin is on death row and attempts suicide by sharpening a toothbrush and stabbing himself with it. (He's played by Chen Chang, the sexy outlaw suitor to Zhang Ziyi in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.) The incident makes the evening TV news.

Yeon's husband is having an affair. He tells her to get out and meet people instead of staying at home making sculptures. On an impulse, she goes to visit Jang Jin. On a subsequent visit, she decorates the visiting room with blown-up pictures of spring, fills the area with artificial flowers, and sings to him. She wears a summer dress even though it is mid-winter. Yeon's poetry of life has a profound effect on Jang Jin. They fall passionately in love. But trouble brews from Jang Jin's jealous cellmates and Yeon's violent husband.

When Breath started, I admit I found it less than engaging. But suddenly these scenes that Yeon constructs for Jang Jin explode with a powerful emotional force. Have you ever been on one of those simulator machines where you step in and it starts moving about, replicating sensations that match the screen in front of you? It's that sudden. One second you are watching an ordinary prison drama, interspersed with inconsequential domestic stuff. Then Wham! You are suddenly catapulted, knocked sideways, jolted out of your seat. And that, of course, is a pale reflection of the effect we realise it must be having on Jang Jin. We start living for these intense (yet emotionally draining) moments in the film, just as Jang Jin does.

Throughout precisely architectured cinematography, Ki-duk Kim weaves a poetry of life and death. "We are already crazy inmates on death row. Until we can breathe no more." Contrasts between the two protagonists' lives outside the meeting room and what goes on inside are mirrored in verbal contrasts where one person will speak and the other stays mute. Breathing in and breathing out. Locked in a passionate kiss. Or holding one's breath underwater.

Breath also has a bitter edge. Is she preparing him for the moment when he takes his last breath? (South Korea is one of the very few fully developed democracies where the death penalty is still allowed.) Don't expect any nice redemptive ending. Like Dancer in The Dark, Breath mostly gets darker. "Even though I call with sorrow, Only the white snow falls." It may also be too laboured – even artificial – for some audiences.

Breath is an icy, chilling love story. It looks at a bond that goes beyond the simplicities of life and death. And it's as finely chiselled as a piece of sculpture. Some scenes contain a rare combination of animal intensity and poetic tenderness. The whole unfolds as a dazzling testament to the artistry of Ki-duk Kim.

Ki-Duk Kim has done it again. The South Korean writer/director is best known universally through his 2003 minimalist, Buddhism-inspired fable 'Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring' and once again he demonstrates that with very minimal resources he can create a story at once complex and compelling in this new film BREATH. Not only are his ideas for film unique in the technical aspects, his concept of telling a story is always surprisingly subtle.

Jang Ji (Chen Chang) is on death row in a Korean prison for the murder of his family. He shares the bleak cell with three other prisoners, one of whom (In-Hyeong Gang) is young and obviously in love with and is very possessive of Jian Ji. Jian Ji attempts suicide and the media focuses on the transfer of the prisoner to the hospital where he barely survives his self- inflicted stab wound to the throat. One woman on the outside, Yeon (Zia - or Ji-a Park) watches the coverage on the media in silence (: she is married to a man (Jung-Woo Ha) who apparently is having an extramarital affair and pays little attention to her, finding Yeon's obsession with the prisoner 's exposure in the media this foolish and repulsive. They have a young daughter who observes the lack of interaction between her parents. Yeon is a sculptor and quietly works at her art, watching the coverage of Jian-Ji's plight. Something in her relates to the prisoner and she begins making trips to the prison where she sets up the visitor room with wall photographs, paintings and flower props that look like Spring. It is in this atmosphere that she meets the handcuffed Jian Ji and there is obvious exchanged compassion between them. She returns to the prison, each time to visit Jian Ji in a room she has transformed to Summer and to Autumn and with each visit she sings a seasonal song of love to him. The relationship becomes physical: of note, in a room behind one way glass a prison official (Ki-duk Kim himself, as though he were directing the romance) observes the trysts. Yeon finds evidence, a broach, of her husband's affair and confronts him: the husband explores the reason Yeon visits the prison and follows her, observing her passion behind the one way mirror. The husband parts with his lover, demanding Yeon do the same, and the last visit to the prison is a Winter scene where Jian-Ji and Yeon consummate their passion. The ending is a surprise to all and sharing that would spoil the effect of the film: the key is in the title.

Ki-Duk Kim weaves so many subliminal aspects into this film, a technique few other directors can match. He explores alienation, contemporary relationships between husbands and wives, prison tensions that result in other kinds of relationships, and again uses the cycle of season changes to mark the steps of his story. His cast is small and incredibly fine. This is a very small film with a very big message. It is a gem.

Grady Harp

South Korean author Kim Ki Duk is famous for the manner in which he takes an obscure idea to weave a convincing story around it.He is so good at his craft that even highly improbable ideas are transformed into remarkably good films which not only provide wholesome entertain but also make potent cultural statements about South Korean society.By making such socially relevant films,he reveals what kind of people South Koreans are.This is also the case with Kim Ki Duk's film Soom/Breath.It is a different matter if people start to take to heart the behavior of South Korean people based on his films.This is a film where viewers get to see a frustrated wife wearing her heart on her sleeve.After critically acclaimed "Bin Jip",this is the second film by Kim Ki Duk which talks about a neglected wife with a highly unusual end.A positive thing about this film is that despite initial differences matters are sorted amicably between a bickering couple.Tit for tat seems to be the film's message as Kim Ki Duk suggests that if a man cheats his wife, there are high chances that she would also do the same thing.

This is the third film I have seen by Kim Ki-duk. Each one has been very different to the other, and I have loved them all. Address Unknown was bleak and emotionally challenging, Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter… and Spring was beautifully poetic, while Breath is hard to describe. It has aspects of the earlier films - it's visually poetic and bleak - but it's very different to both most notably for its surreal/absurdist devices combined with very black humour (slightly reminiscent of some of the work of Raúl Ruiz).

Sparse dialogue makes for great intrigue as we attempt to make sense of the two main protagonists and what they have in common. One, a man on death row, the other a suburban mother who follows news of his exploits on the TV. To discuss how the story unfolds is to spoil the film if you haven't watched it. However, the story is so elusive, that even with the details, much remains unexplained, adding to the mystique of the film. The prisoner does not speak during the film and the mother does not speak to her family; she is on screen for about twenty minutes before we hear a word uttered from her mouth.

There is a really competent and confident film-maker at work in Kim Ki-duk, and he's not afraid to experiment. Beautifully photographed in winter, the use of steel/blue tones indoors accentuates the sense of cold and contrasts some of the surreal aspects. The film is contemplative, giving one ample opportunity to appreciate the superb visual aesthetics and make sense of the narrative.

I enjoyed this film immensely, and highly recommend it. It screened as part of the Melbourne International Film Festival, where Kim Ki-duk's films are always well-received.