Imps of the Perverse

I read someplace (it might even have been last week's Village Voice) that Korean food was the cuisine du jour. If so, it's appropriate that Jang Sun Woo's Lies—nothing less than the hottest movie in South Korean history—opens Friday at the Screening Room, Tribeca's fashionable movie house cum restaurant.

Lay on that five-alarm kimchi: Lies tells the tale of the virginal schoolgirl "Y" and the 38-year-old sculptor "J," who embark on an obsessive affair that, beginning with a graphic three-orifice defloration in a cramped hotel room, escalates into full-blown amour fou, complete with consensual s&m slugfest. Some things were meant to be. By the second passionate tryst, J is asking Y if he can beat her; afterward, she happily shows her friend the welts. (Not long after, she starts setting the erotic agenda.) Variety estimates that 90 percent of Lies is devoted to sex scenes. There's an abundance of action—kinky and otherwise—which, voyeuristically shot by a roving camera and characterized by a naturalistic struggling out of clothes, doesn't entirely seem to be faked.

Does the camera not lie? Jang, who maintains that both performers confided in him that "they could enjoy the whippings and beatings" and that this "probably lent [their scenes] a certain credibility," is the arch transgressor of South Korea's increasingly daring filmmakers. (His previous feature, a quasi-documentary on Seoul street kids, had the flavorsome title Timeless Bottomless Bad Movie.) Lies was made to shock, as well as to challenge local censorship—based, as it was, on a notorious Korean novel that was published in 1996 and immediately banned and pulped as pornographic. The author Jang Jung Il (no relation to Jang Sun Woo) was sentenced to six months in prison.

Either/orifice: Lee on Kim in Lies
photo: Offline Releasing
Either/orifice: Lee on Kim in Lies

Details

Lies
Written and directed by Jang Sun Woo, from the novel Tell Me a Lie by Jang Jung Il
An Offline release
Screening Room
Opens November 17

Luis Buñuel: A Retrospective
Museum of Modern Art
Through January 2

Little Nicky
Directed by Steven Brill
Written by Brill, Adam Sandler, and Tim Herlihy
A New Line release

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Intermittently, Lies complicates its truth with self-reflection. J provides a voice-over, even at one point referring to the novel in which he is a character. There's a scene that's broken up by the director and an introduction in which the principals, Lee Sang Hyun (a real-life sculptor) and Kim Tae Yeon (a fashion model), neither of whom had ever acted in a movie before, are interviewed as to their feelings about appearing, mainly nude, in so explicit a drama. Y's avid, bemused personality—or is it Kim's?—complements J's dogged single-mindedness. So does the film. Jang ignores the interlude in which J leaves for three months in Paris, picking up the narrative only with the sculptor's return to Korea, where J goes straight from the airport to the college campus where Y is studying statistics.

Appropriate to its celebration of antisocial individualism, Lies is shot in a loose, semi-vérité style; it has a jagged construction and a fresh, jazzy look. Jang is fond of using a wide-angle lens in narrow spaces or shooting a scene from the perspective of an elevator surveillance camera. The music pulsates; the sex scenes are sometimes pixelated to enhance their mania. The movie is not without perverse humor. Nor is it entirely devoid of tenderness—even when the beatings, now administered by Y, get a bit more extreme. After Y's jealous brother burns down J's house, the couple—who often suggest a pair of sulky babies—begin a voyage from motel to motel, living on sex, fladge, and J's maxed-out credit card.

At once distanced and heedless, Lies manages to be lighter and less pretentious than any description suggests. The movie's playful aspect can't be denied. There's a priceless scene wherein J and Y are rummaging around a construction site, oblivious to the workaday world in their search for a suitable thwacker. Not for nothing has Jang described the couple's total self-absorption as a failed utopia, the "dream of living, eating, and fucking without having to work."


Liesis a movie that, in its humor, sadism, and deliberate provocations, evokes the more discreet outrages perpetrated by Luis Buñuel. "We all feel the urge to prescribe her a whipping so that we can give her a sweet afterwards," the young Buñuel wrote of Maria Falconetti in a contemporary appreciation of The Passion of Joan of Arc. "To take away her dessert from her, to punish her childlike integrity, her transparent obstinacy."

The current subject of a full retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art, Buñuel (1900-83) enjoyed one of the great careers in movie history. Beginning as an enfant terrible, he reinvented himself as an underground auteur and wound up a celebrated old master. For both longevity and productivity, Buñuel's only peers are Fritz Lang and Alfred Hitchcock, but the onetime surrealist had a far more philosophical bent—as well as a greater intimacy with 20th-century war, exile, and political upheaval.

Before he was 30, Buñuel teamed with his homeboy Salvador Dalí to astonish Paris with Un Chien Andalou and the most notorious opening sequence in movie history. An expressionless actress sits facing the camera; Buñuel himself enters the frame and appears to slice her eye with a razor. Tight closeup of socket, wound, and viscous fluid plopping out. That slit eye, as any first-year film student can tell you, belongs to a dead sheep. Still, Un Chien Andalou was the original movie that sought to assault, rather than please, the spectator—and thus remains the founding gesture of cine-transgression.

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