In recent years, Korean cinema has exploded into the mainstream, with audiences all around the world starting to pay attention to the work being produced in the tiny nation, particularly since many of these filmmakers tell stories that we can’t necessarily find elsewhere. The global obsession with the country’s cinematic output extends for around the last two decades, but there is a much wider world of Korean cinema that is waiting to be explored, with the country having a long and storied history of filmmaking that shows its originality extends over half a century, and some of its more interesting films were produced much earlier on. This is the case for A Flower in Hell (Korean: 지옥화), a thrilling drama that takes the viewer into the final days of the Korean War, and presenting us with a harrowing story of unrequited love, broken embraces and the haunting nature of the post-war period, which director Shin Sang-ok weaves into a deeply unsettling film with ventures of romance and harsh despair, which culminate in quite an unnerving demonstration of the extent to which some may go to achieve what they want, and the people who suffer their wrath along the way. A truly revolutionary work that captures our attention from the first moment, and leads us down a path of heartwrenching social commentary and action-packed fury, Shin produced something quite incredible, and while it may not be the most flawless film, nor one that is particularly easy to engage with, A Flower in Hell is nonetheless a thoroughly worthwhile journey into the nation’s complex history, and the relationship between the past and the present, told with a boldness that immediately makes it something worth watching, if only for the sake of seeing how the director extracts emotion from some seriously upsetting situations and weaves them into something meaningful.

From the first frame of A Flower in Hell, our attention is immediately caught by Shin’s peculiar manner of unveiling the story. We don’t have much information at the start, which mirrors the journey of the protagonist, who is going in search of his brother, who he doesn’t know has become corrupt as a result of the recent war, which has transformed Seoul from a bustling urban centre, into a destitute, barren wasteland of debauchery and criminal behaviour. Over the course of the film, the character of Dong-shik serves as our guide, the audience surrogate through whose eyes we see the rapidly deteriorating city, and the sacred social structures that are teetering on collapse alongside it. Shin understands that the bare-bones of this film tend towards being far too pedestrian since we’ve seen countless instances of films that endeavour to show the aftermath of a war on society – and rather than attempting to change the course of such narratives (since one can only do so much in regards to actively challenging conventions, particularly in such common stories), he instead infuses the film with a gritty realism that comes from his own experiences and insights. He extracts meaningful commentary from within, and focuses less on the nature of post-war despair (other than the presence of American soldiers, the Korean War isn’t mentioned directly at all, only existing through mere allusion, which conveys the sentiment that not everything can be blamed directly on wartime trauma), and instead combines the ravages of conflict with a more internal sense of social disorder, which creates a striking imbalance that Shin exploits perfectly, bringing out the complexity in a relatively simple narrative.

Stylistically and tonally. A Flower in Hell is quite an achievement, especially considering how it was clearly working from a shoestring budget. One can easily see how Shin didn’t have the resources to make a bold, extravagant post-war thriller, and instead had to settle for the bare essentials. Part of his genius comes in how he repurposes very simple resources into thoroughly compelling assets, which elevate the film far beyond its very simple style. Shin produced this film with something very close to nihilistic resignation, since so much of what informs this film is extracted from the more disconcerting moments that underpin the existence of these characters, which he approaches without any sense of overt sentimentality, showing himself as willing to dispose of these characters without a second thought if he helps progress the narrative. The third act of this film is truly harrowing, with the tensions that had been brewing over the course of the previous hour erupting into a haunting, violent melange of despair. A Flower in Hell is a film that depended solely on the conviction of those involved in its creation to convincingly take on these bold ideas, because without their full commitment to what could’ve easily have become an endless stream of violence punctuated by more human moments, Shin’s vision would’ve faltered, being replaced instead by a needlessly violent series of moments that don’t have much meaning outside of being there to frighten the viewer. The dedication portrayed here is staggering, and is perhaps even unexpected, since everything about A Flower in Hell, from its premise to the style, implies that it is nothing more than a rough exploitation film, but as we submerge ourselves deeper into this world, we see that there is far more to it than this basic premise.

Theoretically, such an approach should not have worked (especially since there was still the proverbial happy ending tacked onto the end of this otherwise incredibly bleak film), but through actively pursuing some deeper understanding of the issues that rise to the surface – but not neglecting the more subtle concepts that lurk below the surface – Shin was able to masterfully deconstruct the post-war experience in a way that feels authentic. A gritty and disconcerting slice of neo-realism that demonstrates a complete disregard for conventions outside of the skeletal structure of the narrative, the film is quite an ambitious undertaking, but one that is certainly worthwhile, particularly in contrast to other similarly-themed films, which wouldn’t dare to go about weaving a narrative from such disconcerting threads. Some moments in A Flower in Hell feel somewhat disingenuous, such as the falsely-sentimental ending (which is only made worse by the fact that the film could’ve easily ended with the previous scene and packed more of an emotional punch), and the style hasn’t aged particularly well – but these shortcomings don’t matter all that much when the intentions surrounding them are as admirable and interesting as they ended up being. Shin was a masterful filmmaker (and as the proverbial “Prince of South Korean Cinema”, he should be better-known by western audiences), and his work here was quite stunning. A Flower in Hell might be a challenge for those expecting something more traditional, but once we can move past the jarring introductory moments, we find ourselves drawn into this world, and taken through a series of heartbreaking snapshots of the post-war experience, produced with conviction, honesty and a sense of familiarity to the human condition that is often missing in more polished, elaborate explorations of such issues.