‘Memories of Murder’: Violence Through a Nostalgic Gaze

What does it mean to be an ordinary person?

It is a simple inquiry with a complex answer, certainly not a question Detective Park (Song Kang-ho) would have entertained at the onset of “Memories of Murder,” Bong Joon-ho’s breakout film.

Though the auteur’s productions have recently cast a familiar Hollywood face (Chris Evans and Tilda Swinton in “Snowpiercer,” Jake Gyllenhaal and Lily Collins in “Okja”), Bong’s first few films were mostly domestic, and “Memories of Murder” stars an all-Korean cast. The leading actor, Song Kang-ho, continued his partnership with Bong in later projects such as “The Host,” “Snowpiercer,” and “Parasite.” The two remain heartwarmingly close to this day, evidenced by Bong’s inviting Song to the stage in his Palme d’Or acceptance speech.

Following its sensational Oscars victory, “Parasite” did more than simply increase its own public interest; it motivated cinephiles from across the globe to reappraise Bong Joon-ho’s previous films, including “Mother,” “Okja,” “Barking Dogs Never Bite,” and “Memories of Murder,” the latter of which will be rereleased in cinemas in October (or on Oct. 19 and 20) nationwide.

The film’s first scene reveals a young boy crouched in an open field, gazing intently at a grasshopper on a stalk of wheat. The boy catches it between his fingers and slowly rises. The frame is drowned in sunlight, and a mournful melody begins to play.

Why plant this seed of sadness so early? In a film focusing on the grisly murders of numerous female residents of the Gyeonggi Province, why does Bong introduce such intense nostalgia even before the first word is uttered on-screen?

In “Memories of Murder,” the camera is intentional in capturing the country’s distinct cultural fabric. In doing so, Bong successfully recreates a disruptive moment in Korean history — the unsuccessful chase for the nation’s first documented serial killer. Though the alleged culprit was identified in 2019, the decades-long search following the tragedies brought about nationwide pain and paranoia.

This long shadow of violence looms over “Memories of Murder.” Each scene evokes whispers of a psychological darkness, a mental obscurity that persists, even prospers, throughout the movie’s lifetime. The aftermath of violence is carefully chronicled by the camera lens.

“Memories of Murder” concludes in the same field that it began. An intensely disillusioned Detective Park, grown more mentally than physically exhausted by the throes of the killings, sits by the ditch where the first victim’s corpse was found. A schoolgirl approaches, explaining how she previously saw another man sitting exactly where Park was sitting. The detective quickly realizes that it was the killer.

Park’s eyes dart back and forth; it is impossible to discern whether he has encountered epiphany or is further receding into confusion. He turns towards the camera, his tearing eyes glazed in both craze and clarity.

As the cast credits scroll, mourning voices swell against an equally sorrowful instrumental track:

What happens when ordinary people face unordinary phenomena?

More frequently than not, Bong argues, ordinary people are guilty of perpetuating cycles of exceptional violence. This violence is not uniquely limited towards the serial killings. In the wake of the chase, police officers terrorize citizens with their own kind of brutality, exhibited through cruel interrogation mechanisms and a general apathy towards people, both innocent and suspected.

Park’s growth exhibits the moral ambiguity of harming others, especially when it is impossible to discern whether somebody is truly guilty. Near the conclusion of the film, the detective chooses not to shoot a key suspect, tiredly asking him whether he, too, is an ordinary person who does ordinary things. The detective’s attitude is not one of hatred, but exhaustion colored by wisdom, even if that wisdom begs more questions than answers:

What does it mean to be an ordinary person?