The Woman Who Ran – first look review

Cat lovers, rejoice, for a small but per­fect­ly formed feline sub­plot is present in South Kore­an direc­tor Hong Sang-soo’s whim­si­cal lat­est. In The Woman Who Ran, a man knocks on a woman’s door to request that she stops feed­ing the neigh­bour­hood stray, there­by encour­ag­ing it to stick around, because it means that his wife, who is scared of cats, can’t go outdoors.

His request is met with abject dis­may. A minor dis­agree­ment ensues, pow­ered by a steadi­ly ris­ing, absurd ten­sion. Both par­ties stick to the rules of polite con­ver­sa­tion, yet their dif­fer­ent val­ues regard­ing the impor­tance of cats swift­ly emerge. Bat­tle lines are drawn. Once the neigh­bour leaves the cam­era push­es in on the cat (a chunky beast) who has been sit­ting inno­cent­ly on the side­lines for the dura­tion. In a press con­fer­ence, Hong said that the cat nailed its per­for­mance on the first take.

The Woman Who Ran is charm­ing from begin­ning to end, evok­ing the deli­cious, tick­ling breeze found in the every­day tales of Eric Rohmer. The nar­ra­tive con­tain­er is sim­ple: Gam-hee (Kim Min-hee) has been left alone by her hus­band for the first time in five years. While he is on a busi­ness trip she vis­its three friends in Seoul, Young-soon (Seo Young-hwa), Su-young (Song Seon-mi) and Woo-jin (Kim Sae-byuk). They hang out togeth­er, talk and eat. Male pests from the periph­eries of their lives stum­ble onto the scene, while Gam-hee watch­es on curiously.

Min-hee per­forms every tiny move­ment – bring­ing meat to her lips, stir­ring a spoon around a chi­na cup – with nat­ur­al grace. This poise take on an imp­ish ​‘who me?’ charm when those move­ments are, say, inch­ing clos­er to the CCTV cam­era the bet­ter to watch an argu­ment play out between Su-young and a spurned lover. Min-hee is Song-soo’s wife and muse and the way she embod­ies his com­ic sen­si­bil­i­ty is a tes­ta­ment to their cre­ative synchronicity.

A film about every­day inter­ac­tions lives and dies based on how well these are cap­tured. In this case, Hong does so exquis­ite­ly. His con­ver­sa­tion­al rhythms nail the dance that makes up art­ful com­mu­ni­ca­tion. Details of the women’s lives are scat­tered across their catch-ups, but so too are appre­cia­tive exchanges about how well cooked the meat is and the par­tic­u­lars of rent­ing in a com­plex where artists receive a discount.

It is enchant­i­ng to spend time in this atmos­phere of lilt­ing cama­raderie and female friend­ship. The cin­e­matog­ra­phy is sub­tle and ele­gant. The cam­era moves invis­i­bly, except for when Hong wish­es to empha­sise a sub­ject by push­ing into a close-up, such as he did with the con­tentious cat.