It was when The Land on the Waves was still wandering in its conceptual form without a title. I came across an article about a fisherman who was found innocent after being framed as a spy for being abducted by the North. I was fixated on his life as well as his family’s. Society shunned them for being blood-related to the fisherman, and in the end, they had to cut ties with him. I felt sorry that their relationship had to be inevitably shattered and how helpless and devastating their daily lives must have been. At the same time, I got a strange feeling that different film ingredients scattered all over the universe had suddenly come together as one. I was working on a story about a father and a son who just can’t seem to get close, and it overlapped with the dramatic lives of this victim and his children. And in April 2014, another tragic case caused by state violence happened at sea, and I had no choice but to summon this story as well. One commonality in these two chaotic issues was that both incidents destroyed relationships. They forced the separation of family members, and their lives were damaged beyond repair. I thought about the decades between these two cases, the sea as a space, and the empty, broken hearts left behind. The two stories that seemed so far apart suddenly sped up and came together when they encountered the main character of The Land on the Waves.

Perhaps it was how this project started, but because it was made from fictional and factual elements, it was challenging to develop the idea into a script and finally into a film. Should I create a literal visual representation or hint at it indirectly like a metaphor? I had to be extra sensitive in this respect compared to other films. My mind was in constant conflict between fiction and non-fiction, and the desire to be creative while bound by self-censorship. The two cases that had traveled beyond space and time to come together started to break apart into their worlds again. This was the moment the JEONJU Cinema Project’s trust created a path and a doorway for the story to enter the world of film. The Land on the Waves was close to being stillborn, but it started to recollect itself at an unbelievable speed to form into a film, giving me the thrills.

Thank those who gave me their infinite trust, including the former festival director Lee Choong-jik, former programmers Kim Young-Jin, Lee Sangyong, Jang Byungwon, and the former executive producer of Jeonju Cinema Project, Song Hyun-young. I hope other lonely periods scattered in space will gather at subsonic speed through the help of the JEONJU Cinema Project and find their light to shine as a film as well. LIM Taegue

The Seeds of Violence (2017), The Land on the Waves (2018)

In the Face of the Waves
Abducted fisherman, falsely accused spy, sinking of Sewol Ferry, and state violence. The words that sway on the surface of The Land on the Waves are big and heavy. But considering that, it’s hard to find emotional moments in the film. You won’t see any screaming, wailing, or expressions of grief or frustration. The protagonist Munseong (Park Jeonghak), is seen in a period of many troubles, but he’s a person you can’t read. Is he angry right now? Is he sad? Does he want to cry? Is he trying to smile? Nothing is certain about his emotions or his state of mind. He’s on bad terms with his father, but at the same time, he seems to sincerely pity him. His mind hovers back and forth over the compensation that’ll be left in his father’s name, his worries about his son, and the scenery of the neighborhood that will soon disappear. Instead of having clear motives or emotions, he seems to wander between the scars of history without knowing why.

Munseong’s journey might be a bit peculiar, but it loosely ties the many contradictions in Korean society. His father Gwangdeok was an ordinary fisherman, but he was falsely accused as a spy and had to serve time behind bars. After getting discharged, Gwangdeok lived his life suffering the aftereffects of torture, and he was nearing death. The three generations have difficulty communicating; meanwhile, Munseong and his son watch the tragedy of Sewol Ferry unfold. As Munseong says in the film, he encounters a scenery he “can’t understand.”

When a stationary camera studies the subject in front of it, we often indirectly feel a sense of distance. The distance between two individuals reminds us of the distance between an individual and history, and the distance between an individual and the camera makes us ponder the distance between cinema and reality. The Land on the Waves sometimes hesitates amid these distances, but it eventually takes a step forward in determination. SON Sinae

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