Iodo

It may be no accident that one of Korean cinema’s most compelling, unnerving depictions of the primal forces that drive humankind was conceived during the mechanizing, industrializing era of the 1970s. As the military government pushed ahead with an all-out campaign for modernization, the warped genius of the cinema Kim Ki-young was busy shooting a film that peels off the many layers of modern society to expose human experience at its most primitive.
Iodo is centered on an island off the south coast of Korea populated by women who live off the sea, and who structure their lives “according to the old traditions”. Removed from the modern influences of the mainland, the island stands as a detached society where ancient customs prevail and the local shaman wields a great deal of power. When one of the island’s native sons (Choi Yoon-seok), who had gone to the mainland, disappears off the deck of a tourist ship, a businessman (Kim Jong-cheol) suspected of killing him travels to the island in hopes of uncovering the truth behind the man’s disappearance. This visitor comes to learn the tangled history of the man’s supposedly cursed lineage, while also getting caught up in the affairs of the island himself.
Not an easy film to absorb in one sitting, Iodo is told through a complex structure of flashbacks (each flashback signalled by the sound of bubbling water) that slowly lead us to an understanding of the film’s central narrative. The film juxtaposes and contrasts modern and traditional social practices, from environmental activism and aquaculture to superstitious rites and exorcisms. But what unites the primitive and the contemporary is an obsession with procreation. Whether for humans, pigs, or artificially farmed abalone, the ability or inability to successfully reproduce determines the fate of nearly everyone in the film.
From the opening shots of this work, Kim Ki-young dispenses with any pretext of pursuing psychological realism. With its breathless tempo, sudden detours, highly dramatized dialogue and extreme close-ups, the film revels in its own unpredictability and force. This, combined with the zoom shots, dated hairstyles and cheap special effects, makes the film seem at first to be inviting parody. Yet Iodo’s genius lies in the cohesiveness and weight of its central themes, together with its strange, unexpected beauty.
One unforgettable element of this work is the mesmerizing performance of Lee Hwa-shi as a barmaid who works on the island. Lee Eun-shim’s turn in Kim Ki-young’s Housemaid may rank as the most astonishing performance in 1960s Korean cinema, but Lee Hwa-shi’s collaboration with the director in the late 1970s and early 1980s is no less of an achievement. Seven of her first ten films, which were shot between 1976 and 1981, were directed by Kim, and the intensity, sensuality and intellect which she brings to the screen is the perfect complement to Kim’s madly inspired direction.
However, what viewers inevitably talk about as they file out of a screening of Iodo is its ending. The penultimate scene culminates with one of the most brazen, jaw-dropping sequences ever shot by a Korean director. It goes without saying that this image was censored from the film’s release print in 1977, but an uncut version was exported to Japan, and so modern-day viewers can enjoy Iodo in all its glory. Thank god for that, because this film is the very opposite of cheap thrills, or shock for shock’s sake. It’s one of the best Korean films ever made.