Confronting half of her mother’s life—her mother who had survived the Jeju April 3 Incident—the director tries to scoop out disappearing memories. A tale of family, which carries on from Dear Pyongyang (YIDFF 2005), carving out the cruelty of history, and questioning the precarious existence of the nation-state
nWhat drew me in at first was the unusual title. It’s a documentary that opens in a small family home. The director is a Korean living in Japan. At the beginning, the mix of Japanese and Korean made it hard to follow, until the director began narrating her mother’s escape story — only then did it all become clear.nnThe first thing that moved me was the entangled yet fragmented relationship among the three East Asian countries. As someone about to attend college in the U.S., the discussions I’ve seen around immigrant identity are mostly confined to Asian American and African American films and essays. This was the first time I realized that similar issues exist just across the strait from where I live. “The Japanese discriminate against Koreans, so the Koreans band together and form Korean villages.” Similar to Chinatown, but not quite the same. People often call on us to focus on the macro and ignore the micro; they don’t realize that even within the culturally homogenized concept of “East Asia” — often treated as a singular region in cultural studies — the same kind of systemic oppression and recurring stories are unfolding, unseen by the mainstream world.nnThe second moment was the distant call of Jeju Island in the story. The backdrop itself was unfamiliar — I only learned about the “April 3rd Massacre” on Jeju Island through this film. It was a horrific event where the South Korean government, in its push to assert authority over the South, slaughtered civilians. Coincidentally, I had visited Jeju Island just a few months earlier. At the start of the film, the director’s father is sitting on a tatami mat in the living room, singing a folk song: “The sunrise is Seongsan.” Seongsan Ilchulbong — jagged and sharp, the sea around it icy and bracing. Located at the southeastern tip of Jeju, I rode a bus for over two hours to get there. Even in the off-season, it was crowded. I was struck by the mountain’s lasting place in the hearts of Jeju people. That tourist spot, where sea winds once blew so hard I couldn’t open my eyes, now felt stained with the ochre of history. Later in the film, the director’s mother is invited to a memorial ceremony for victims of the April 3rd Massacre. On a bumpy bus ride, she looks out at the cherry blossoms along the road. “So this is what Jeju has become.” She is nearly moved to tears as the South Korean president delivers a eulogy, saying, “Look at this little island — spring is just arriving in Jeju.” Instantly, I was brought back to that March day when I stumbled upon cherry blossoms blanketing the roads. Looking back now, it feels like a quiet lament and tribute to the dead and the missing.nnThe third and perhaps most powerful point lies in the contradiction of the title itself. “Soup” refers to the director’s mother’s traditional chicken soup — a Jeju Island specialty made by stuffing a whole chicken with garlic and simmering it for three hours until it becomes rich and aromatic. Though the mother constantly insists that her daughter can only marry a Korean, when her Japanese fiancé visits, she can’t stop smiling. Eventually, he learns to cook the chicken soup just like her. In the face of everyday happiness, obsessions with culture and politics melt away. A person is simply a person — he is a fiancé, not a Japanese or a Korean.n“Ideology” refers to the pain of the Korean Peninsula’s division. The film explains how the peninsula was forcibly split due to political conflict, and how even Koreans who fled to Japan were required to declare a political allegiance to obtain “citizenship papers.” I’d always thought of North Korea as traditional, conservative, even maniacally authoritarian. But in this film, the director’s two older brothers both moved to North Korea as adults — a place they believed to be “brighter.” The eldest brother, once a lover of classical music, took his own life in North Korea due to a music ban. The director and her mother, who stayed behind in Osaka, could never cross the man-made border to reunite with their blood relatives. People are torn apart by ideology and political strife — even separated by death.nnThough labeled a documentary, it feels more like an ethnographic film. Nearly the entire thing is shot by the director herself with a small handheld camera, recording the people around her. I had never seen a narrative told this way. Yet like the director, I’ve come to see that simply paying attention to the people around you can become a modest yet deeply moving documentary.
汤与意识形态n一开始是被这个特殊的名字吸引了。是一部纪录片，影片开始在一个小家里。导演是驻日韩国人，刚开始的时候日语混杂着韩语还有点搞不清，直到导演开始讲述母亲的逃亡故事才开始清晰。n第一个触动我的点是东亚三国藕断丝连式的联系与隔离。即将去往美国上大学的对世界对于immigrants移民者的文化认同问题探讨仅限于Asian Americans， African American的电影和论文。这是我第一次发现离我仅一个海峡的地区也有相似的问题。“日本人歧视韩国人，韩国人们聚集起来成为了韩国村。”和China town相似却又不同。总有人呼吁着我们关注宏观而忽视微观；却不知道不被主流世界所看到的，被文化研究都视为一体的“东亚地区”里也发生着同一种系统压迫和同一套故事。n第二个是故事里对济州岛遥远的召唤。故事背景和特别，我也是看过这部纪录片才第一次知道济州岛以前发生过“四三事变”，韩国政府强迫民众服从南韩政府于是发生了一场惨绝人寰的屠杀。恰好我在几个月前去往过济州岛。在最开始导演的父亲坐在客厅的榻子上唱着“日出是城山呀”的民谣。城山日出峰锋利，海水泠冽。这座山在济州岛的最东南，我在旅游时坐了两个多小时的公交车来这里，即便是在旅游淡季人也不少。震惊于这座山在济州人心中一以流传的地位。几个月前去到的那个海风吹的我睁不开眼的景点平添了一份岁月的黄褐。在后来导演的母亲被邀请前往济州岛参加四三事件受害者追悼会，她坐在颠簸的公交车上望着路边的樱花。“济州岛已经变成这样了啊。”在南韩总统宣读悼词时几近落泪，在最后他说到“看着这座小岛，济州岛的春天正要到来呢。”瞬间带回我三月在济州岛偶遇的满路樱花。三月的时候无数次路过了路边樱吹如雪，现在回看像是对受害者和故人何在的哭诉和默哀。nn说是纪录片，更像是人类学影片。全程几乎都由导演本人手持一个小小的录影机，拍她身边的人。我以前从未看过这样的叙事形式。但就像导演一样，从关注自己的身边人就是一部简陋却感人的纪录片。
一开始是被这个特殊的名字吸引了。是一部纪录片，影片开始在一个小家里。导演是驻日韩国人，刚开始的时候日语混杂着韩语还有点搞不清，直到导演开始讲述母亲的逃亡故事才开始清晰。n第一个触动我的点是东亚三国藕断丝连式的联系与隔离。即将去往美国上大学的对世界对于immigrants移民者的文化认同问题探讨仅限于Asian Americans， African American的电影和论文。这是我第一次发现离我仅一个海峡的地区也有相似的问题。“日本人歧视韩国人，韩国人们聚集起来成为了韩国村。”和China town相似却又不同。总有人呼吁着我们关注宏观而忽视微观；却不知道不被主流世界所看到的，被文化研究都视为一体的“东亚地区”里也发生着同一种系统压迫和同一套故事。n第二个是故事里对济州岛遥远的召唤。故事背景和特别，我也是看过这部纪录片才第一次知道济州岛以前发生过“四三事变”，韩国政府强迫民众服从南韩政府于是发生了一场惨绝人寰的屠杀。恰好我在几个月前去往过济州岛。在最开始导演的父亲坐在客厅的榻子上唱着“日出是城山呀”的民谣。城山日出峰锋利，海水泠冽。这座山在济州岛的最东南，我在旅游时坐了两个多小时的公交车来这里，即便是在旅游淡季人也不少。震惊于这座山在济州人心中一以流传的地位。几个月前去到的那个海风吹的我睁不开眼的景点平添了一份岁月的黄褐。在后来导演的母亲被邀请前往济州岛参加四三事件受害者追悼会，她坐在颠簸的公交车上望着路边的樱花。“济州岛已经变成这样了啊。”在南韩总统宣读悼词时几近落泪，在最后他说到“看着这座小岛，济州岛的春天正要到来呢。”瞬间带回我三月在济州岛偶遇的满路樱花。三月的时候无数次路过了路边樱吹如雪，现在回看像是对受害者和故人何在的哭诉和默哀。n第三个就是影片标题的矛盾。汤是导演妈妈传统做法的鸡汤，把鸡肚子里掏空塞满大蒜炖煮三个小时便是济州岛特色的浓郁鲜香的鸡汤。导演妈妈虽然一直嘴上说着只让她和韩国人结婚，她未婚夫前来见面时却笑得合不拢嘴。后来未婚夫也学习着妈妈的样子做鸡汤，文化与政治的执念在平凡幸福前面不值一提。人只是作为人，他只是未婚夫，不管他是韩国人还是日本人。ysxt写的便是南北韩的分裂之痛。影片中说到因为zz斗争cx半岛被迫分裂，就算是已经逃往到日本的人民也被迫表示自己的政治主张以获得“公民证”。bbh在我的印象里一直是传统的，保守的，专政到有些疯狂。但在这个影片中导演的两个哥哥都在成年以后去往了cx这个“更光明的地方”。大哥曾经热爱古典音乐，在bh因为音乐禁令逝去。留在大阪的导演母女始终无法跨越人为画出的线，见不到血肉之躯连系的亲人。人们被迫因为ysxt与zz斗争分开，甚至天人两隔。n说是纪录片，更像是人类学影片。全程几乎都由导演本人手持一个小小的录影机，拍她身边的人。我以前从未看过这样的叙事形式。但就像导演一样，从关注自己的身边人就是一部简陋却感人的纪录片。
nWhat drew me in at first was the unusual title. It’s a documentary that opens in a small family home. The director is a Korean living in Japan. At the beginning, the mix of Japanese and Korean made it hard to follow, until the director began narrating her mother’s escape story — only then did it all become clear.nnThe first thing that moved me was the entangled yet fragmented relationship among the three East Asian countries. As someone about to attend college in the U.S., the discussions I’ve seen around immigrant identity are mostly confined to Asian American and African American films and essays. This was the first time I realized that similar issues exist just across the strait from where I live. “The Japanese discriminate against Koreans, so the Koreans band together and form Korean villages.” Similar to Chinatown, but not quite the same. People often call on us to focus on the macro and ignore the micro; they don’t realize that even within the culturally homogenized concept of “East Asia” — often treated as a singular region in cultural studies — the same kind of systemic oppression and recurring stories are unfolding, unseen by the mainstream world.nnThe second moment was the distant call of Jeju Island in the story. The backdrop itself was unfamiliar — I only learned about the “April 3rd Massacre” on Jeju Island through this film. It was a horrific event where the South Korean government, in its push to assert authority over the South, slaughtered civilians. Coincidentally, I had visited Jeju Island just a few months earlier. At the start of the film, the director’s father is sitting on a tatami mat in the living room, singing a folk song: “The sunrise is Seongsan.” Seongsan Ilchulbong — jagged and sharp, the sea around it icy and bracing. Located at the southeastern tip of Jeju, I rode a bus for over two hours to get there. Even in the off-season, it was crowded. I was struck by the mountain’s lasting place in the hearts of Jeju people. That tourist spot, where sea winds once blew so hard I couldn’t open my eyes, now felt stained with the ochre of history. Later in the film, the director’s mother is invited to a memorial ceremony for victims of the April 3rd Massacre. On a bumpy bus ride, she looks out at the cherry blossoms along the road. “So this is what Jeju has become.” She is nearly moved to tears as the South Korean president delivers a eulogy, saying, “Look at this little island — spring is just arriving in Jeju.” Instantly, I was brought back to that March day when I stumbled upon cherry blossoms blanketing the roads. Looking back now, it feels like a quiet lament and tribute to the dead and the missing.nnThe third and perhaps most powerful point lies in the contradiction of the title itself. “Soup” refers to the director’s mother’s traditional chicken soup — a Jeju Island specialty made by stuffing a whole chicken with garlic and simmering it for three hours until it becomes rich and aromatic. Though the mother constantly insists that her daughter can only marry a Korean, when her Japanese fiancé visits, she can’t stop smiling. Eventually, he learns to cook the chicken soup just like her. In the face of everyday happiness, obsessions with culture and politics melt away. A person is simply a person — he is a fiancé, not a Japanese or a Korean.n“Ideology” refers to the pain of the Korean Peninsula’s division. The film explains how the peninsula was forcibly split due to political conflict, and how even Koreans who fled to Japan were required to declare a political allegiance to obtain “citizenship papers.” I’d always thought of North Korea as traditional, conservative, even maniacally authoritarian. But in this film, the director’s two older brothers both moved to North Korea as adults — a place they believed to be “brighter.” The eldest brother, once a lover of classical music, took his own life in North Korea due to a music ban. The director and her mother, who stayed behind in Osaka, could never cross the man-made border to reunite with their blood relatives. People are torn apart by ideology and political strife — even separated by death.nnThough labeled a documentary, it feels more like an ethnographic film. Nearly the entire thing is shot by the director herself with a small handheld camera, recording the people around her. I had never seen a narrative told this way. Yet like the director, I’ve come to see that simply paying attention to the people around you can become a modest yet deeply moving documentary.
一直在想，为什么是鸡汤？直到鸡出现，鸡连结起了三个政治立场不同的人，儿子们在平壤生活的母亲、今年五十三岁的女儿，和比女儿小十二岁的日本伴侣熏，也因此联系起曾说“不能和美国人或者日本人”的已故的父亲。当然，也给了为什么放初次见面这又真实又再现尴尬的一段。
电影还不到一半，再一次给鸡装蒜煲汤，聊到的是去济州纪念会，和济州岛有什么关系呢？那是父亲出生的地方，在大阪那样一个韩裔占90%的城里与当时二十二岁的母亲结婚。边喝汤边用韩语说“真好吃”，母亲赞叹“发音很标准”，又再加了芝麻。说朝鲜人喜欢吃芝麻，对身体好，熏立刻说“英姬（女儿）煮味增汤也会放芝麻”。吃了很多顿饭，也把情节推进到了结婚，两个人都穿了汉服，以及，捧着父亲挂满勋章的照片合影。熏已经能自己买青蒜然后回来戴起围裙了，塞蒜封口，他有力气把锅接满水再端上灶，却忘了要把筷子夹在锅沿。
母亲收到葬礼见习会邀请，而实录打电话，展示了他的性格。这样的变化，显然不像第一次那样优雅了，但熏确实融入了这个家，包括在母亲调侃他妈妈看到会怎样，他也嘿嘿一笑。
没完，毕竟从四三事件开篇。母亲用日语和讲韩语的父亲对话，她自己也说是土生土长于日本，但我们却忽视了她的名字。
更想不到的是，阿兹海默症。面对亲人的孤独的无力感。
70年后再回济州岛，才恍然大悟这前面的80分钟，是自己民族犯下的错误啊。
惊觉，似乎也给《鲭鱼罐头》那个片段找到了回答。
还剩半小时，做了说明。历史，令人胸口堵住一般。英姬和母亲不会唱韩国国歌，可母亲依然认真跟唱。
“济州岛的春天来了”，正视历史。英姬无数次落泪，因为事件远比想象中骇人，一直埋怨母亲的她，也才明白母亲怎么会把三个儿子都送到北韩。她一个无政府主义者，深入事件本身，也因此理解了母亲的一生。
对于普通人来说，是无法回忆的过去。而阿兹海默症，或许是上天对康静姬最好的馈赠。毕竟她是那样一个用力在生活的人啊。
重新翻开了韩服结婚照。远远超出一个纪录片的部分，就是属于熬鸡汤的那些，关于爱与陪伴。
久久慨叹不已
因为要交作业写的，但对影片确实非常喜欢。
《汤与意识形态》是我在历史课上看完的，看完之后我便思考，历史是什么？对我而言，历史是我们在学过教科书，浏览过文学作品，看过影视剧及记录影像，读过野史，听过老人口口相传的故事以后，对过去的某段时间，作出的最客观的评价。有段时间我对朝鲜这个国家异常痴迷，这个与世隔绝的国家最吸引我的是它面纱之后的神秘主义。这种政治的神秘性应该存在吗？《汤》或许解答了我的一些疑惑，或许面纱之后的并非神秘主义，而是朝鲜人民柴米油盐的生活，被掩盖的历史悲剧之后，是一个又一个颠沛流离的个体。这便是历史的细末。rn我的爷爷是一个参加过越战的老兵，记事起就由他接送我上下学，事无巨细的参与我的成长，对他最深刻的映像是他喝了酒以后眉飞色舞回首往事的场景。这几年离家的时间愈多，上了大学以后，几乎是半年才能回一趟家，这让我更加直观的感受到岁月在他身上留下的印记。小时候通常是某天下午，我会看见爷爷奶奶互相帮对方染发，用塑料膜罩住涂过染剂的头发，黑色的染膏吐得洗手台上到处都是。从去年的某段时间开始，我发现爷爷已经不再去打理他的头发了，任由他变白，脱落，睡眠愈少，行动愈加迟缓。《汤》中的母亲康静姬，在短短的一年内被阿尔兹海默症侵染，从一个爱开玩笑的开朗老人，到分不清记忆与现实的老者。我能无比真切的感受到，那是生命，或者，有生命在枯竭。rn我并不喜欢写观后感，不管是看剧情片还是纪录片，抛去专业化的视听语言，只要是能够打动人的作品，观看后都会有丰富的情绪体验，这种情绪体验无法用语言去精确的描摹，或许可以把每一部电影标记上一种颜色，对我而言，《汤与意识形态》是一部棕色的电影，因为在仅有的两个小时里，它讨论了极其丰富的内核，从家国到意识形态，从家庭到生死，正是这种历史的厚重感，给我以古老的沉木般“棕”色的体验。但在庞杂的议题之中，最触动我的还是那些生活的细末，搅碎在影片里，又时常在生活中窥见。当我们谈论历史，可以谈论到鸡肚里塞下的四十粒青森的蒜瓣，谈论到某年某月拍下的一组照片，谈论到30公里的逃亡，谈论到纪念碑上没有刻下的某人的名字，或许我们对历史的了解又更深刻了一点。