If you like Burning, seek out this haunting… | Little White Lies

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If you like Burn­ing, seek out this haunt­ing Muraka­mi adaptation

01 Feb 2019

Words by Elena Lazic

A person in a dark coat stands in a long, teal-coloured hallway.
A person in a dark coat stands in a long, teal-coloured hallway.
Tony Tak­i­tani also explores themes of iso­la­tion, obses­sion and the per­va­sive influ­ence of capitalism.

Lone­li­ness, melan­choly and long­ing are recur­ring themes in the work of Japan­ese author Haru­ki Muraka­mi, whose short sto­ry Barn Burn­ing’ forms the basis for Lee Chang-dong’s lat­est fea­ture, Burn­ing. The film fol­lows Lee Jong-su (Ah-in Yoo), a shy young man whose blos­som­ing romance with the cute Shin Hae-mi (Jong-seo Jun) is nipped in the bud by the sud­den arrival of the rich and con­fi­dent Ben (Steven Yeun). Nat­u­ral­ly, Jong-su is jeal­ous and heart­bro­ken, but he’s also ter­ri­fied that this hand­some stranger might be more dan­ger­ous than he appears.

Burn­ing often feels like a thriller, walk­ing a tightrope between doubt and cer­tain­ty, between the hor­ri­fy­ing and the mun­dane, with bone-chill­ing grace. Ulti­mate­ly, the actu­al events feel less impor­tant than the assump­tions that the char­ac­ters make about each oth­er – the blind spots that peo­ple from dif­fer­ent class­es, dif­fer­ent gen­ders, or sim­ply dif­fer­ent walks of life may have in their per­cep­tion of others.

Muraka­mi was most famous­ly adapt­ed in 2010 by Anh Hung Tran in Nor­we­gian Wood, but the UK release of Burn­ing is an occa­sion to redis­cov­er anoth­er, rel­a­tive­ly unknown inter­pre­ta­tion of his writ­ing – and to iden­ti­fy more clear­ly anoth­er lev­el of inter­pre­ta­tion in Burning.

Based on a short sto­ry of the same name, Jun Ichikawa’s 2004 film Tony Tak­i­tani is the study of anoth­er gen­tle but inef­fec­tu­al man who falls for a woman only to then lose her in dra­mat­ic cir­cum­stances. But while Jong-su, pushed by Ben’s loom­ing pres­ence, acts on his long­ing for com­pa­ny, Tony seems resigned to his iso­la­tion and lone­li­ness. The one time he tries to change his sit­u­a­tion, the con­se­quences are dis­as­trous, as they are for Lee.

Lee’s film derives much of its emo­tion­al heft from the con­trast between its vivid present-tense thriller sto­ry­line – and so, the inten­si­ty of Jong-su’s anx­i­eties and desires – and the pro­found melan­choly sur­round­ing Jong-su. By con­trast, in Tony Tak­i­tani, Jun Ichikawa wil­ful­ly accen­tu­ates the sen­sa­tion of res­ig­na­tion and fatal­ism in Murakami’s writ­ing. A voiceover tells us about the life of the epony­mous pro­tag­o­nist in the past tense – Tony (Issei Oga­ta, seen recent­ly in Mar­tin Scorsese’s Silence) doesn’t even get to tell his own sto­ry. But he does some­times fin­ish the narrator’s sen­tences, as though he was a stranger to his own life.

Through­out the film, the cam­era slow­ly glides across the scenes from left to right; just as they appear, the char­ac­ters are already in the process of dis­ap­pear­ing. We feel the inex­orable progress of time and the fleet­ing nature of every moment. Tony’s life is a series of episodes that are over just as they begin, and as though hyp­no­tised by this qui­et rhythm, he doesn’t even try to fight against the current.

In describ­ing the life of Tony’s father (also played by Issei Oga­ta) at the begin­ning of the sto­ry, Muraka­mi con­tex­tu­alis­es Tony’s pas­sive atti­tude and sug­gests anoth­er, more sub­tle key into Burn­ing: the idea of cap­i­tal­ism as a destruc­tive yet unavoid­able force. A Japan­ese jazz trom­bon­ist, Tony’s father was impris­oned in Chi­na dur­ing World War Two. Back in Japan, the Amer­i­can name for his son was sug­gest­ed to him by an Amer­i­can Major; with Amer­i­can influ­ence grow­ing, Tony’s father thought the idea wasn’t half-bad.

Tony then grew up to be a lon­er with an emo­tion­al stunt­ed­ness echoed in his work as a graph­ic design­er, where he is more inter­est­ed in draw­ing machines than peo­ple. The metaphor is obvi­ous: Tony is a prod­uct of Amer­i­can impe­ri­al­ism and cap­i­tal­ism. And yet, he goes through an emo­tion­al awak­en­ing lat­er in life when, after years spent unen­cum­bered by the inner tur­moil of feel­ings, he falls in love with a woman (Rie Miyaza­wa). They get mar­ried and are very hap­py togeth­er, but what strikes Tony the most about her is the incred­i­ble ease with which she wears her clothes. He soon learns her dirty secret: she is obsessed with shop­ping high-end fash­ion, so much so that the cou­ple has to turn an entire room of their flat into a closet.

Rather than seem­ing odd and ran­dom, this plot point here feels incred­i­bly unset­tling, as it sud­den­ly under­lines the way these char­ac­ters are pow­er­less against the per­va­sive influ­ence of cap­i­tal­ism. Tony is cured from his mate­ri­al­is­tic vision by his love, but his wife is still a pris­on­er of it; when he gen­tly asks her to try and pur­chase less clothes, she returns some, but dies in a car acci­dent on her way back to the store. In Murakami’s work, cap­i­tal­ism is a pow­er­ful struc­tur­ing force which only hurts those who try to resist it.

When his wife pass­es away, Tony con­sid­ers hir­ing a looka­like (also played by Miyaza­wa) to work around the house wear­ing her clothes, just until he can get used to her being gone. The looka­like, pushed by eco­nom­ic des­per­a­tion to for­go morals and do some­thing uncon­ceiv­able, breaks down and cries in the mid­dle of the giant clos­et. Her reac­tion recalls that of Hae-mi in Burn­ing; in both cas­es, those tears are unex­pect­ed, and nei­ther the men nor the women real­ly under­stand where they’re com­ing from in the moment. It’s a heart­break they can feel in their soul, but not put into words.

Though both films con­verge in this moment, they ulti­mate­ly go down dif­fer­ent paths in their cri­tiquing of cap­i­tal­ism. Burn­ing is ter­ri­fy­ing because the spec­tre of cap­i­tal­ism is embod­ied by an out­sider whose casu­al atti­tude towards moral­i­ty (he burns green hous­es for plea­sure) and respect (he mocks Hae-mi con­stant­ly) could real­is­ti­cal­ly evolve into mur­der. By con­trast, Tony Tak­i­tani is more heart­break­ing than it is scary, because that emo­tion­al and moral void isn’t embod­ied by a sin­gle per­son. Rather, it is an invis­i­ble, per­va­sive, and dead­ly force.

Unlike Jong-su, Tony can­not find one per­son respon­si­ble and attack them. Even worse, he finds him­self falling prey to the same ubiq­ui­tous force when he believes, for a while, that he could replace his dead wife with a copy. He realis­es his mis­take, and resolves to live a life where he doesn’t use peo­ple the way he tried to use this looka­like. But, like Jong-su, he ends up alone.

Ben in Burn­ing and Tony’s wife in Tony Tak­i­tani are con­tent because they embrace cap­i­tal­ism with­out ques­tion – both are extreme­ly charm­ing because they are total­ly com­fort­able in this world where mon­ey can get you any­thing. In both films, it is only by accept­ing the cru­el manip­u­la­tion that mon­ey affords and the hier­ar­chy of class inher­ent to cap­i­tal­ism that one can escape loneliness.

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