Thirst
Thirst is
a 2009, Korean vampire film directed by Park Chan-Wook. In many ways
it takes on traditional aspects of both horror films in general and
the vampire myth. However, Park brings this very relationship to the
forefront of his film. In other words, Thirst depicts not only
vampires in the modern world, but also what their infliction
represents of mankind. As the story and characters develop, we see a
dichotomy form between the two vampires representing their human and
inhuman traits as “monsters.”
The film
starts with a catholic priest, Sang-hyun, who is overtly dedicated to
helping others. Shortly into the film, he decides to volunteer for an
attempt at curing the Emmanuel Virus; something he knows to be nearly
certain death. During the experiment he contracts the disease; yet,
he doesn't die. In fact, the physical afflictions caused by EV
seemingly disappear from his body. As it turns out, one of the blood
transfusions he received during the experiment infected him with
something else: vampirism. From here on he is hailed as a healing
hero. He fights his cravings for blood, unsure of what his body
actually desires, until he finally figures it out. He is torn between
his faith and love for his fellow man, and his own obvious need to
feed upon them. The longer he goes without feeding, the more his EV
comes back. Eventually he discovers he can simply siphon blood out of
hospital patients' IVs. Of course he can't continue doing this
forever, otherwise the film would just be about his immortal life.
Sang-hyun
goes to pray over a hospital patient as he usually does only to
discover the patient is an old childhood friend of his. He reconnects
with his friend and the man's family. Eventually, he discovers he
loves his friend's wife, Tae-ju. As their relationship grows, he
reveals to her his affliction. At first she denies him, sickened by
what he his. But, eventually, she is entranced by his power. Inhuman
strength, the ability to “fly” and immortality all entice her.
Together, they kill her husband and make it seem like a fishing
accident. She manipulates Sang-hyun over and over again until he
gives her what she wants: his blood. Finally, Tae-ju is also a
vampire.
In stark
contrast to Sang-hyun, Tae-ju feels no remorse for her feeding. She
kills for the joy of it. To her, she has evolved beyond humanity. She
views humans as less than her and cares nothing for their well-being.
Here we see the dichotomy. Each is considered a monster. But, where
Tae-ju fills that role, Sang-hyun pushes against it. They argue over
that difference directly in multiple scenes of the film. Ironically,
Tae-ju doesn't recognize herself as a monster while Sang-hyun does.
He recognizes it in both of them and regrets ever infecting Tae-ju as
well. Even though Sang-hyun doesn't necessarily act as one, he even
views himself as a monster; an abomination even. He sees them as
something against God; almost like he himself is now attempting to
play God by avoiding death. Tae-ju, on the other hand, embraces her
new-found “divinity.”
When
discussing horror films, and more specifically those about actual,
inhuman monsters, it is impossible to avoid the relationship monsters
have with humanity. Vampires represent gluttony and the desire to
live forever. In this sense, vampires (or monsters in general) depict
the monstrous traits of humanity. Tae-ju embodies this stereotype.
She becomes the spectacle we all want to see when viewing horror
films. From bloody killings to intensely inhuman facial expressions,
Tae-ju reminds us time and time again of what we might become.
Sang-hyun
takes another path. He embodies the human traits existent in
monsters. In many ways, he represents the spectacle we don't want to
see in a horror film. Sang-hyun is the fallen hero. He is the rapist
who takes up gender equality beliefs in jail; the murderer who gets
his law degree and fights to get others in his position a fighting
chance at reformation. In many ways, Sang-hyun represents the concept
of reformation itself. He consistently believes in giving second
chances. When we view a horror film, we want to see good get beaten
back by evil only to eventually turn back and defeat the evil once
and for all. Thirst stands outside of this desire. We see good lead
to evil multiple times. Although we do end up seeing good “defeat”
evil, Thirst leaves us with an ultimately ambiguous ending. Thirst
shows that monsters, and in that sense humans, all die eventually;
even the “good” ones.
I found Thirst to be a compelling movie, too, and you render an articulate summary of it here. It's always intrigued me to see the directions that the vampire myth has taken since Stoker wrote of Count Dracula, who was really much different than the representations you've discussed in Thirst. The Count in the novel is more often described as a kind of new middle manager--an investor in both physical and architectural real estate. He's remorseless, of course, but only as amoral as is money itself (or the spreading capitalism of the early twentieth century). Thirst clearly verges from such a depiction of vampirism--at least according to your summary. So I wonder: would you call the vampires in Thirst "ahistorical" (less aligned with any clear historical commentary?).
ReplyDeleteBy the way, I think you'll be glad to find several of our films in the 70s and 80s to embrace the ambivalent ending, when "evil" is allowed to continue lurking , whether or not into a sequel.
Thanks, Nolan--a pleasure.
Nolan--
ReplyDeleteI’m not familiar with this film, but I enjoyed your discussion of the human/inhuman traits within it. It’s strange how we tend to classify monsters by how unlike us they can be (and, maybe more horrifying, in how very like us they can be).
I appreciate your recognition of these “monstrous traits of humanity” in the characters you mentioned. Sang-hyun’s cravings are seen as sinister, and attributed to his infection/infliction, but by that contrast he is seen as more human and more admirable for resisting them at first. On the other hand, Tae-ju’s initial repulsion and eventual attraction to these cravings shows us, as you say, what we would really rather see. It’s interesting that you refer to her as a spectacle, because we do want to see the fallout through the lens of a someone-else—to wholly give into these impulses without carrying out the evils ourselves, and without any danger of consequence. It reveals something sinister in us, I think, in our ability to watch, and then to walk away without any blood on our hands.
In terms of evil lurking and ambiguous endings, they seem like useful tropes in this genre and in this context—we don’t (can’t?) make a clean break from these films back to our physical reality. The “evil” hasn’t been resolved. In taking some of that panic with us I think (I hope) we’re compelled to pay better attention to our world and how we might inhabit it—whether as humans, or as something else.