Three heartbreaking scenes from the golden age of Korean cinema in the 1960s, a period that blossomed with melodramas. Out of the scourges of the Korean War emerged this beautiful genre of films that reimagined the essence of being human.
The country’s infrastructure had been reduced to ground zero, alongside much of the nation, in the aftermath of the war. Yet the 1960s witnessed a remarkable boom in both the production of and attendance at cinemas in Korea, with nearly 200 films produced annually. The directors of this era, now revered as the early pioneers of Korean cinema, brought forth creativity, intensity, and a profound understanding of what cinema could offer to Korean audiences living through the most harrowing moments of collective trauma and the division of the peninsula. Their work laid the foundation for the unique brand of Korean cinema exemplified by contemporary directors like Bong Joon-ho and Hong Sang-soo.
Among the various genres explored during this period—including comedy, action, war films, and monster films—melodramas left an indelible mark on the history of Korean cinema. The following are three of the most heartbreaking and memorable scenes from the three melodramas of this era.
1. The Farewell Scene in Mother and a Guest (1961)
The film quietly follows a widow raising her six-year-old daughter, a posthumous child. Still under the watchful eyes of her devout Christian mother-in-law, who upholds the virtues of widowhood, she leads a modest, comfortable, yet lonely life. Her brother, either unwittingly or perhaps intentionally, suggests she take in a lodger—a young man the same age as her late husband—from his workplace. This decision leads her down an unthinkable path of burgeoning romantic feelings.
Mother and a Guest captures the nuanced arc of her emotions, from the trembling of her heart to guilt, rising passion, and eventual desolation, with remarkable attention to her subtle expressiveness. She rarely speaks of her feelings, nor does the lodger. The emotions linger in the quiet spaces, mulled over but never fully experienced.
In the final scene, the lodger leaves the house and waits at the station for his train. She ascends a hill with her daughter and looks down at the station. Her eyes are teary, though she does not cry. His face is stern, marked by uncertainty. Bound by societal expectations that a widow must remain loyal to her late husband and his family, and perhaps by guilt for prioritizing her desires over her daughter’s upbringing in a respectable family, she sacrifices her happiness.
2. The Reunion Scene in The North and South (1965)
This film is hysterical, tragic, overly sentimental, and affectionate at the same time. The force behind this compound emotional effect is the North Korean major, Jang Il-gu, who fled to the South during the final phase of the Korean War to search for his woman, Eun-a. Major Jang risked his life and crossed the war front to reunite with Eun-a, who was pregnant with his child at the time of their unfortunate separation, without knowing that Eun-a had remarried a South Korean man, Captain Lee Hae-ro.
The plot might seem overwrought or contrived to audiences who did not share direct or indirect experiences of the war. However, for those who lived through it or knew someone who lost or was separated from family, this story resonated profoundly. It was remade several times until the 1990s as TV dramas, radio shows, and films.
The scene is where Major Jang, in exchange for information about the North’s offensive plan, meets Eun-a. Still unaware of her marriage, he bursts forth with his undying love for her. Eun-a cannot even raise her head to look at him and repeatedly says she wants to die. The modicum of happiness she had found with Captain Lee, even in the middle of this brutal war, shatters into countless pieces. Shock, remorse, regret, guilt, frustration, and a sense of defeat all come crashing in. This unbelievable cocktail of emotions might be the truest face of war.
3. The Fog Scene in Mist (1967)
This film is based on the short story A Journey to Mujin, which also inspired Park Chan-wook’s Decision to Leave (2022). Mujin, a fictional place, is a shabby seaside town with little to be proud of. Its only notable feature is the fog that descends on the town like a wet blanket every night. The story unfolds with the journey of the protagonist, Yoon Ki-jun, returning to his hometown of Mujin.
The fog in the film serves as a metaphor for the stifling reality of Yoon’s life. As a tuberculosis patient, he evaded the draft during the Korean War. He later moved to Seoul in search of better opportunities and eventually married the widowed daughter of a pharmaceutical company owner, securing material comfort. Yet, despite this stability, he feels trapped in a life devoid of purpose.
Back in his hometown, Yoon has an affair with Ha In-sook, a middle school music teacher who dreams of breaking free from the town’s suffocating lack of opportunities, hope, or self-fulfillment. In the scene, Yoon walks her home at night, the fog enveloping them. Their conversation drifts toward how dull the town is and her longing to move to Seoul. Yoon sees a reflection of himself in her and feels a fleeting moment of empathy. But as she disappears into the fog, he realizes that even if she escapes Mujin, the fog will follow her.
The next morning, Yoon witnesses a police detective inspecting the body of a young woman who killed herself. He asks, “Is it because of the fog?” This ominous scene serves as a grim premonition of what may lie ahead for Ha.
The story leaves viewers questioning its deeper meaning. Is it about the rapid industrialization that devastated agricultural communities? Or the rise of authoritarianism that crushed individual freedoms? These questions linger long after the film ends, contributing to its haunting charm.