Since The Avian Kind, ten years have passed. My time as a feisty cinema kid has passed for some reason. If I had to pick one work that stands out as the most memorable in my film career, The Avian Kind would definitely be my choice. Like reservists who talk about the military whenever they get together, the people who worked on The Avian Kind go on and on about their heroic feats. Looking at its ending credits, you can see how much smaller the crew was than in other films. Each part had only the respective director working on it, without any assistants. Each had to do a hundred roles during our shooting schedule.

Most of the scenes are memorable, but the most intense is at Chungnyungsan Natural Recreation Forest in Namyangju, where Soyeon and Hanbi wander about in the snowy mountains. For nearly four days of our shooting schedule, we were marooned in that forest by blizzards. I remember going nervously to buy groceries at a store about an hour's drive away after the snow stopped, eating in a large room like college freshmen orientation, and the actors and crew sliding on the snow. In retrospect, all are excellent stories to talk about over drinks. I also remember the cave that appears at the film's end. Mosan Cave in Mungyeong was where we had to lower the equipment and props on ropes; even the actors and crew had to grab hold of ropes to descend inside. I remember the herbal medicine pharmacy in Ganggyeong, too. It had exactly the look we wanted, so we barely needed to do any set decoration before filming. I remember a lot of difficulties during the shoot, but I can also remember how I felt when I first read the script—how bowled over I was by this fantastical yet sad and majestic story. I remember how earnestly I longed to somehow bring it to fruition, marveling at the new way of presenting a story about identity. It was like making a film under a spell. That may explain how such a distinctive film emerged, with its bizarre storyline about people turning into birds. Looking back on it today, I see a lot of shortcomings, but I also think the same powerful aura remains intact.

Reflecting on The Avian Kind on the tenth anniversary of the JEONJU Cinema Project, I can recall how intense that energy felt. I also thank the JEONJU IFF for enabling us to make that film. As someone now doing so-called commercial work, I am thankful for the opportunity to remember that passion in the past.

PS. As a tip for those viewing The Avian Kind, it might be fun to compare the ending with the one for Dongju: The Portrait of a Poet, which our production company made! written by Producer Kim Ji-hyoung

The Russian Novel (2012), Dongju: The Portrait of a Poet (2015, Writer), Cassiopeia (2021)

Pecking Through the Shell and Taking Flight
Is The Avian Kind a human born as a bird or a bird born as a human? Women undergo physical and mental examinations, climb treacherous mountain slopes, and endure painful trials to see if they are worthy of the process of becoming a bird. They talk like humans, move like humans, and think like humans. Yet they experience discomfort—and even distaste—with their own (human) bodies. Once again, I ask: are they humans or birds? From the women's perspective, they would say that they were always birds. But if they were birds, would they have to struggle so hard to become one? Perhaps it is because they were not birds that they had to battle so hard to become birds.

From a queer perspective, we would have to conclude that they were already birds from the moment they took on human form. They are either born as birds or transition after realizing they were born as birds at some point. For whatever reason, however, all the bird people are female—and all the ones helping them to become birds are male. While he is not one of the helpers, the novelist Jeong-seok (Kim Jeong-pal) exists as the bird people's perfect antithesis: a man looking for his wife who left 15 years ago. Curt, with everyone, never smiles, and he speaks to nearly every person he meets without the expected polite language. To his wife, Jeong-seok may have been like the barren soil that helped her realize her birdness. Ultimately, every man in the film exists, for one reason or another, to enable the bird people to become birds. The birds peck through their shells and emerge, and at that point, the bird people are no longer bird people—they are birds. Represented only in the past within the film's time frame, the bird people forget the past and fly off for the present. HAHM Yeon-Sun

Production Luz Y Sonidos (woodyshin@hanmail.net)
Distribution Luz Y Sonidos (woodyshin@hanmail.net)
International Sales OPUS Pictures (opus@opuspictures.com)

2014 Moscow IFF Golden St. George (Nominee)

2016 Wildflower Film Awards Korea Best Screenplay (Winner), Best Narrative Director (Nominee)