Time
Directed by Kim Ki-duk
Lovers may often claim undying devotion to the object of their obsession, but we know them to be fickle with their affections, forgetting their promises of eternal fidelity once the first waves of overwhelming infatuation have passed. Kim Ki-duk explores the shallowness of these absurdly intense love pangs in, Time, his tragi-comedy about a codependent couple that seems committed to screwing up everything in their lives as they prostrate themselves on the altar of passion.
Seh-hee (Seong Hyeon-ah) and Ji-woo (Ha Jung-woo) are an attractive pair who seem happy together—except Seh-hee flies into jealous rages (which female bystanders interpret as authentic love) and Ji-woo can’t seem to get it up as easily when they’re in bed together. One lusty night, Seh-hee tempts Ji-woo by telling him to imagine another woman, but when he gets excited, she falls into a funk, ultimately deciding, to salvage what they have, she must change her looks to combat her lover’s apparent boredom.
Seh-hee decides on some major plastic surgery and disappears, only to reemerge six months later with a new stunning mug (now played by Seong Hyeon-a) to seduce her man as See-hee. Her slight name alteration and new face is somehow enough to trick Ji-woo, who is still heartbroken to have lost his girlfriend, and the plot begins to play out like a Shakespearean comedy where mistaken identity can cause all hell to break loose. Things do begin to spiral out of control until Ji-woo also seeks the help of the surgeon’s scalpel and tragedy soon follows.
Instead of becoming a moralistic tale against the crimes of plastic surgery or a salacious “Nip/Tuck” episode, Kim utilizes his incredible eye for metaphor and symbolism to pry open the cruelty of crazed lovers—who are often too focused on surface rather than something deeper (duh).
The most jarring bit for fans of the director’s work can be the verbal exchanges between the two after Kim’s previous quiet, meditative films (Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring and 3 Iron). Instead of rhetorical flourishes or witty sitcom banter, they have banal trials and stupid tantrums (like most real couples) set against a surreal stage of psychosexual sculpture parks and crying paper masks. Ultimately, it’s a strange and subtly told tale that successfully hacks into the desires and fears of most us who are trying to figure out how to make love work—without sewing it all back together into a nice, pretty package.
