The Day He Arrives (북촌방향), or: Fleeing from a life you can never escape

The Day He Arrives (북촌방향) (2011)

Directed by Hong Sang-soo

***SPOILERS***

It’s an inadvertent compliment to director and writer Hong Sang-soo when people complain of The Day He Arrive’s cluttered, sporadic narrative structure. Such a style allows the film to meander among insignificant conversations regarding love and coincidence, with each of those conversations dissecting the given characters or becoming uproariously hilarious. It’s a style that’s fittingly earned Hong comparisons to Woody Allen, another director who perpetuates the same self-obsessed themes and fixtures over and over, which all lend some insight into the given filmmaker's psyche. And since Hong loves to make films about filmmakers, The Day He Arrives lends itself a helping hand: it’s packed full of filmmakers and film lovers, with only one or two characters owning other professions. But as much as The Day He Arrives is about film, it’s (more importantly) about how film affects Sungjoon (Yu Jun-sang). And as a filmmaker, the unorthodox manner in which The Day He Arrives unfolds represents his role as a constructor and how such puppetry commands his characters’ existences—even if it’s a unintentionally melancholic result.

Visiting Seoul to meet an old film colleague, Sungjoon greets his old town with a sense of detachment, towards both fellow cinephiles and his own body of work. With only four films under his belt, Sungjoon seems utterly exhausted and unwilling to dissect his own work. He grazes over questions from naïve film students, and manages to completely sidestep questions from colleagues. And during these moments, we see the first distinction that defines Sungjoon’s role as a filmmaker and the effect it has on his characters. During the day—or when the alcohol isn’t flowing—Sungjoon seems removed, not only from discussing his films, but also from general human interaction. Really, we can view these moments as self-awareness, as Sungjoon cannot connect on a human level in such a clear mindset. When he meets with the film school students, he’s bashful, cheery, and open to discussing his work. When he meets with Youngho (Kim Sang Jung) and his colleagues, conversation is light and breezy, with each intellectual offering their own pieces of “wisdom.” And in each of these cases, we never see Sungjoon become impassioned, enraged, or emotionally involved. It’s all very academic and relevant, pertaining solely to the process of filmmaking and the composition of life—which, for Sungjoon, are one in the same.

Sungjoon attempts to distance himself from his work in order to reclaim the buoyancy he once shared with his colleagues. Now a beleaguered and torn director, his non-drunken confrontations showcase a version of Sungjoon searching for societal acceptance. We can see his director mindset at work when Borma (Song Seon-mi) speaks of a series of random meetings with filmmakers during her daytime walk. Sungjoon immediately attacks such a statement, claiming that fatalism doesn’t exist, and that the series of events can be explained away by coincidence. Using tools at his disposal (in true director fashion), he maps out a scenario where a particular series of events leads to him spilling his drink. Such a theory contradicts his role as a filmmaker, but not in the sense that fatalism cannot be practiced in filmmaking. But as far as coincidences in film go, they can remain disconnected in nature and still own a cohesive meaning. Denying any sense of meaning seems adverse to a filmmaking point of view, and it’s a glaring sign that Sungjoon is trying to distance his romantic side that would normally side with such a life-affirming view—a romantic side that still exists within Borma, a fellow film lover.

But when the alcohol pours, so do the emotions. Once taken out of his attentive mindset, we see Sungjoon creeping back into his former life, attaching meaning to happenstance, finding beauty in music, and reminiscing in nostalgia. For nostalgic purposes, Sungjoon stumbles his way to his ex-girlfriend’s apartment. Just before this, we see Sungjoon physically denying his filmmaking prowess, screaming at three boys who admire him for his prestigious career. In a drunken stupor, he pleads for this woman to take him back, begging for the life they used to live. They embrace, bringing forth the sheer power behind Sang-soo’s voyeuristic camerawork, which always hovers from a safe distance, but remains suffocatingly claustrophobic in its attentiveness. And when Sungjoon leaves the apartment, we find him autonomously apathetic, seemingly saying goodbye to this woman forever. She agrees, but breaks her promise several times, texting Sungjoon of her loneliness and the frigid weather.

His indifference to these texts extracts Sungjoon’s drunken mindset, which has found fascination in Yejeon (Kim Bo-kyung), a doppelganger of Sungjoon’s ex-girlfriend (also played by Bo-kyung). No longer intrigued by the prospect of revisiting an old fling, Sungjoon goes against his striking comments  to Borma regarding coincidence and finds indefinable resonance in Yejeon’s presence. She intoxicates him, only fueled by her mere existence and physical correlation to his previous life. Borma walks outside during his cigarette break and immediately echoes a comment made by his ex-girlfriend (via text) about the snow falling. It’s a wonderful moment that captures the very connected nature of cinematic narrative, but it also displays how fixated Sungjoon has become on Yejeon…for no apparent reason at all. Borma expresses a passion for film, claims to be the very “perfect woman” Sungjoon describes, and even lovingly stares as he plays piano. But clouded by the romantic within, Sungjoon remains invariably obsessed with Yejeon.

Trivial matters and discussions extract from interiors, but the wonderment of a drunken twilight stroll brings out the romantic in Sungjoon, as he accompanies Yejeon on a grocery trip two nights in a row. On the first night, we find Sungjoon physically plunging himself into Yejeon, who reciprocates without hesitation. Clearly stricken by the lonely bug, she suddenly becomes the very embodiment of his ex-girlfriend, fueling the unexplainable passion. On the second night, Yejeon claims to not remember the former night’s embrace, but also willingly steps right back into the affair. This spiritual night's journey creates a sense of déjà vu that sprouts at various moments throughout the film, owning no cohesive meaning, but merely reflecting the innate desire to relive life’s most impassioned moments. It’s a mindset that works wonderfully for Yejeon and Sungjoon’s fling, but becomes a rather banal and monotonous view as meaningless conversations repeat themselves. This dynamic captures the very heart of filmmaking and the art of “coincidences,” but also congruently portrays two aspects of Sungjoon’s life that will forever remain unavoidably connected.

It’s then no surprise that Sungjoon leaves Yejeon’s home in the same manner as his ex-girlfriend’s—except this time, he won’t be leaving his phone number. Free of his inebriated self, he realizes the reality of the situation, which finds Sungjoon leaving Seoul soon with no signs of returning and no intentions of continuing a meaningless fling. It’s another moment that unintentionally connects two characters from the same film (Yejeon and Sungjoon's ex), but more appropriately, it reflects Sungjoon’s role as a filmmaker. In an attempt to become more socially accepted, he integrates into these people’s lives, only to inadvertently meddle in their affairs. As he describes a woman he’d like to date, Borma claims to be the very embodiment of such a description. Youngho, who owns an infatuation with Borma, is stricken by the statement, especially since Sungjoon’s on-the-surface, offhand comment echoed an earlier conversation, in which Youngho and Yejeong discussed how offering two extremes of a personality will pertain to any given individual. Borma, who then becomes obsessed with Sungjoon, is walloped by Sungjoon’s fascination with Yejeon. On the final night, which followed Sungjoon’s first midnight stroll with Yejeon, Borma becomes enraged by Yejeon’s absence in her own restaurant, which is really an iniquitous transfer of hurt feelings. And when Sungjoon leaves Yejeon, we find a man who has misled a fellow lonely soul to cope with his given situation. In all three cases, Sungjoon maneuvers his characters, dictating how they feel and abandoning them at a moment’s notice for his own self-betterment, echoing the very role of a filmmaker and the power that comes with it.

It’s strange how The Day He Arrives’ ending differs from its opening moments. In the beginning, Sungjoon turns left onto a busy street and carefully waddles around town, hesitant to interact with old friends. But upon meddling with these people’s lives, Sungjoon turns right on the very same street in the film’s closing moments. He glowingly greets fellow filmmakers, who either respond with gloom or glee. And in both cases, we see Sungjoon walking away with a forced smile, hopeful to once again become part of such a precious inner film circle and find his love for film (alcohol-free). It’s almost as if Sungjoon reaffirmed his power as a filmmaker, and then proceeded to showcase such prowess to a community that remains his equal. For as the Youngho’s and Borma’s of the world practice in film theory and analysis, Sungjoon is the ultimate decision maker. He can come and go as he pleases, intervening and plotting coincidences as he sees fit. But as he ruses through these new streets, we find a Sungjoon that’s suddenly looking for acceptance. As he continuously is unable to find it, a woman with a camera approaches him and asks for a portrait. Sungjoon stands against a wall, and suddenly his forced smile fades. Detachment sets in as apathy spreads across his face. Faced with a camera, Sungjoon finds himself on the other side of the glass, forced to evaluate himself. The worthless coincidences and dismembered lives that flooded the previous three days come to light, and all Sungjoon is left with is isolation. It’s a parallel that’s been building for the entire film: Sungjoon has continuously fought off his filmmaking life, while unknowingly nourishing such an innate craving. Upon this self-evaluation, he’s forced to accept such a lifestyle and, in turn, step up and analyze himself. It’s a moment he’s been wholeheartedly avoiding, but a moment that inevitably, unavoidably had to occur.