Can you mourn for a person of whom you have no… | Little White Lies

Festivals

Can you mourn for a per­son of whom you have no memory?

09 Nov 2019

Words by Beth Webb

A person in traditional clothing, facing away, stands on a ship's deck overlooking a vast, calm sea under a cloudy sky.
A person in traditional clothing, facing away, stands on a ship's deck overlooking a vast, calm sea under a cloudy sky.
Kore­an direc­tor Noh Young Sun reflects on her deeply per­son­al debut fea­ture, Yukiko.

In North Korea at the tail-end of World War Two, a baby girl was born to a Kore­an father and a Japan­ese moth­er. The lat­ter had trav­elled to Pyongyang to be with her lover dur­ing the Japan­ese occu­pa­tion of Korea, but left upon giv­ing him their daugh­ter. She returned to Tokyo alone.

The baby grew and became a moth­er her­self, bring­ing Noh Young Sun into the world, an exper­i­men­tal film­mak­er and doc­u­men­tar­i­an who now lives and works in France. Ahead of a Q&A screen­ing of her deeply per­son­al debut fea­ture, Yukiko, at the Lon­don Kore­an Film Fes­ti­val this month, Noh spoke to LWLies about the imme­di­ate chal­lenge posed by trac­ing her elu­sive lin­eage. When my moth­er spoke about my grand­moth­er for the first time, she referred to her as The Woman’,” she says. They were strangers to each other.”

Noh only dis­cov­ered her grandmother’s iden­ti­ty eight years ago, when her moth­er even­tu­al­ly revealed the sto­ry of her birth. I was very shocked to learn that my grand­moth­er was Japan­ese,” she recalls, and I was shocked that I didn’t know a huge part of my mother’s life. I pic­tured my moth­er and my grand­moth­er on two sep­a­rate islands, both iso­lat­ed from each oth­er. Two islands, two women.”

Yukiko’ came as a sug­gest­ed name for Noh’s grand­moth­er as she had no offi­cial doc­u­men­ta­tion or record of her exis­tence. It was like try­ing to pin­point a ghost. I start­ed my research but I couldn’t find any pho­tos of her,” Noh explains, I couldn’t find any­one who knew her. I couldn’t catch this char­ac­ter. I couldn’t see her. She’s invis­i­ble in this movie.”

Instead, Noh built an imag­ined pic­ture of her grand­moth­er through inter­views with sev­er­al women who had seen war first-hand, or who had grown old in the way that she believed Yukiko might have, and of course through con­ver­sa­tions with her own mother.

She brought on a musi­cian as her sound design­er, and used ambi­ent or diegetic sound to set the film’s pace and mood, fill­ing long shots of rur­al land­scapes with the swish of wind­screen wipers or a work­er hack­ing through long grass. Sound was very impor­tant to me,” she says, I want­ed to work with sound to cre­ate musi­cal­i­ty. When I’m telling my sto­ry, it’s not just the words – there’s words in the music, and music means emo­tion to me.”

As an inter­gen­er­a­tional sto­ry about strangers, Yukiko ulti­mate­ly offers more ques­tions than answers. But here­in lies its pur­pose: it is a jour­ney of accep­tance over the promise of a grand reveal. What has real­ly changed through mak­ing this film is my rela­tion­ship with my moth­er,” Noh reflects. We had a very com­pli­cat­ed rela­tion­ship, but I realised that I was accept­ing my moth­er in the way that my moth­er nev­er accept­ed my grand­moth­er. And in accept­ing my moth­er I was accept­ing myself as a daughter.”

Yukiko screens at the LKFF on 11 Novem­ber. For more info vis­it kore​an​film​.co​.uk

You might like