Sisters and Busan,
The Duality of MHan

“South Korea” arrives in the wake of the fascism’s transmutation into its corresponding ideological seeds of neo/realism and neoliberalism, forever marring the nation’s onset of international relations in this war of fractured identities reflected in its geopolitical condition. A Tale of Two Sisters and Train to Busan depict this epistemological invasion (primarily of the latter: neoliberalism) at the level of the family and nation- respectively and relatively- instituting its regime of biopolitics on the social body. While Jee-woon relies more on juxtaposing formal conventions (particularly the Victorian melodrama and Korean gothic) to convey the tensions between a purportedly realist past- marred by wonton conflict and repressed cycles of abuse- and a violently imposing neoliberal horizon (just one aspect- the political- of hanya), Sang-ho, in the spirit of the zombie narrative, utilizes his arsenal of character subjectivities to explore “the continuity of society and its reproduction.” (Jaecheol 1) In essence, through the bifurcation of In-gil and Jong-il, the double is detached in a way- the ego slain in a way- that allows for unparalleled self-reflection: introspection without a subconscious, empathy without elision, to look at one’s self while (socially) alive and (socially) dead. This allows Jong-il to open “the door to extinction.” (Duong 2023) This door, the potential to deconstruct and remonster society, unseats the sovereign power; it is far too sad to watch with Su-mi as Eun-joo closes it.

Approaching this biopolitical argument Agamben’s necropolitics actually provides an interesting bottom-up reorientation for analysis, due to not just Jee-woon’s positioning of the homeless as the necropolitical (non)class but also, especially, Foucault’s siting of the origins of biopower in the late eighteenth to nineteenth century: fully articulated under the Victorian era. Moreover, Agamben’s conceptualizations of the homo sacer and (Nazi) camp paradigms rest on the power of the sovereign to prolong the state of exception as a liminal mode/modicum of being; Foucault distinguishes this sovereign from biopolitical power as one who “takes life and lets live… establish[ing] its power its through right to kill” whereas the latter is “continuous, scientific… making live and letting die.” This is supposedly the sovereign authority of “Sino-centric order and the system of universal empire,” or “‘事大字小 (the order of observing the great, taking care of the small),’” under which Korea had existed for half a millenium prior to the First Sino-Japanese War (Chun 75). The unique position of South Korea- a first world nation in the semi-periphery whose paradigm of power rapidly transitioned from sovereign rule (being under sovereign rule; to being sovereign; to Japanese colonization) to bifurcation and independent, eventually neoliberal, statehood in about a century and a half, twice as fast as the “Westphalian transition” (1)- permit the nation and national memory to incorporate the influx of political realist ideology from the West during its period of burgeoning statehood as not only a framework through which to engage in contemporary international relations but also a retrospective lens through which to evaluate the past. This is a very detailed way of suggesting that South Korea’s unique historical and geopolitical positioning- with rapid modernization- has allowed the public to witness firsthand, and quite abruptly, the descent of neoliberalism to fascism as a mode of relations rather reminiscent of (neo)realist pessimism. This is the lens from which this argument analyzes the films’ treatmeant of (neo)realism and neoliberalism.

A Tale of Two Sisters

The Brits are not exactly known for their self-awareness, but to label a Korean melodramatic gothic that directly alludes to the perennial crimes against humanity buried under the liberalism perfected in the Victorian Era as Asia Extreme is quite hilarious. It could be purposeful, but the answer of whether or not is just as useless as the answer of whether Eun-joo reacted to the sight of Su-yeon clawing out from under the fallen wardrobe in fear or anger. Both a reflection of abjection, but in these contexts they are towards horrors of the subject’s own making. This understanding- that (the degree of) the reaction of abjection is related to (the degree of) the subject’s reflection- further complicates the already unreliable narrativization by Su-mi, introducing an unstable locus of both guilt and blame. The unraveling of reality after the camera swivels to unravel the invisible thread encircling Su-mi and Eun-joo, revealing that the former had undergone psychosis and must be rehospitalized, serves to dislocate the traditional South Korean horror resolution that typically promises some sense of hope for the family. There is little hope here, but perhaps a deconstruction of the family is precisely Jee-woon’s point.

In the traditional narrative of The Story of Rose and Lotus, both sisters commit suicide relatively early into the narrative and then posthumously seek justice to prove the stepmother’s dupilicity. It appears the men have little to do with the stepmother-child conflict in the original either, especially with Jee-woon’s omission of Eun-Joo’s son; in a sense, he is emphasizing that not only is there an obvious geminate nature inherent in premodern Korea- the two sisters who were named in the folktale and first film’s title, conspicuously left out here- but also potentially hidden dualities lurking right below the surface- the two personalities of Eun-joo that allow her abuse to go unchecked, reflected most starkly (abjectly) by being the nurse who kills her patient.

The most harrowing shot of the disjointed scene being analyzed here (the unravelling of reality marked by the melodramatic piano and nostalgic yellow filter) is when the pill bottle falls over right before the wardrobe. (01:47:36) It was poetic, the rhythm; it all happens in three beats. Su-yeon yells umma when we cut from her to the pill bottle; she takes a breath then pulls again, yelling umma once more; then she screams as the wardrobe engulfs her. The first person shown reacting is Eun-joo. Why, all the way downstairs, did she make it in and out of the room before Su-mi who was upstairs in her own? Je ne sais pas… but it highlights just how close this family was to surviving without her and Moo-hyeon’s affair. Ignoring how insane it is of those two to invite Eun-joo’s brother and wife into Mrs. Bae’s home as if Moo-hyeon and Eun-joo are some sort of couple (because although the memory clearly happened, whether Su-mi’s dramatic interpretation of Eun-joo breaking the news is mocking the past or the present is indecipherable (00:17:45)), the implication is that he did not hide the affair at all. How could this not have contributed to her declining health? Even though the mother was already very sick, we have no idea if her illness would have been terminal without the affair. Likewise even though we do not know just how abusive Eun-joo was to those girls on account of Su-mi’s unreliable memory, she did definitely watch Su-yeon reach out for help then shut the door. I am not well versed in Korean history to offer a predmodern explanation for this nascent, ignored duplicity that Jee-woon is displaying, but post-World War II realism and liberalism is a modern equivalent.

Henry Kissinger may be rotting in hell but he’s still at the scene of the crime, with Korea importing and translating his political realist theory alongside the likes of “E. H. Carr, Hans Morgenthau, George Kennan… Despite South Korean scholars’ efforts, American theories, especially realism, had a great influence on South Koreans’ thinking, leaving them in a position of applying those theories to South Korean international situations.” (Chun 71) The primary contradiction of political realism is nomenclatural, as its terming is a linguistic a priori typical of Western nomenclature; it of course assumes its ideas are reflective of every unit or state in the international system, but its cognation with cinematic realism allowed (especially fascist) postwar political interests to greatly influence both neo- descendants. The very restrained, realist supernatural horror becomes rather offputting for earlier scenes- such as Su-mi’s dream of her mother’s ghost (00:34:34) where her shriek is met with the apparition simply continuing to crawl along; or Mi Hee very violently seizing out of nowhere at the dinner table (00:57:24) with no music overlaying the sounds of her convulsions- serves to (abjectly) juxtapose reality with the signs, symbols, and illusions we fill the void with to create it. Eun-joo thus represents all that the West has pumped into Korea (Su-mi) to fill that void, forcing Su-mi to revisit her past with a very realist (implicitly fascist) lens and making it all the more difficult to discern reality from illusion. Even with han being purportedly birthed in the wake of Japanese colonization, this was an explicitly modernizing project opening Korea up to both Japanese and Western globalization; a dualistic retroactive application of han to premodern realities/lens is risky when the term is tied to actors who were already responding to modern realist international relations imperatives.  

Train to Busan

When Su-mi ignores the wardrobe then coincidentally walks out just as Eun-joo turned around, but then still chooses to walk away in disbelief that Eun-joo was genuinely worried about Su-yeon, it both reflects Eun-joo’s first question- didn’t you hear anything- instead of simply stating the reality that she knows Su-yeon is trapped, and also that her conflict-seeking nature as finally instilled completely into Su-mi such that her hatred for Eun-joo has overcome her love for and transcendent connection with Su-yeon; she, as Korea, has applied this realist han to premodern reality. Maybe this was her goal, to tear apart the sisters like in the story’s earlier versions; or maybe the scene of her return to the now fully gothic house- juxtaposed with the nostalgic Victorian flashbacks- really is meant to display remorse (01:40:33). If she really does represent the invasion of a (neo)liberal state apparatus monster- in the form of the new upper middle-class working woman, “in what appears to be a man’s suit… at the film’s shocking dénouement… is trusted and believed, while the girls and their mother (seen alternately as immature and hysterical) are not” (Cagle 165)- then her remorse is probably fleeting at best. This is punctuated by the film closing not with Su-mi smiling on the hospital bed, but with Eun-joo shutting the balcony doors on her. 

In-gil and Jong-il unfortunately live in a world in which the spirit of Eun-joo has infected much of the country, especially Yon-suk- as the symbol of an unforgiving national apparatus- and Seok-woo, as the symbol of potentially remorseful- and in his case fully accountable- agents of neoliberal patriarchy. Sang-ho, like Jee-woon, decides that the requisite fate is to be consumed by one’s own abject creation, and Seok-woo does not go gentle into that goodnight. Jaecheol surmises that, because of this ending, the film remains a, 

patriarchal narrative, where a father should be a self-sacrificial hero to make social reproduction possible. Because the society and government fail to protect people and maintain a healthy social order, the only fragile shield the film offers is a family structure ruled by a protective father. The ending of Train is dystopian, as the only safe haven outside of capitalist inhumanity is imagined as strong and self-sacrificial fatherhood. (447)

Inasmuch as, “Neo-Confucianism succeeded in establishing a hierarchal system of values from the level of the family to the ones of the nation, and the world,” the deconstruction of the Korean neoliberal apparatus would thus necessitate a genesis at the family level as well (Chun 75). If there is any patriarchal narrative, it is Two Sisters, for its usefulness as a critique of neoliberalism is strong inasmuch as its uselessness as a critique of patriarchy. It does not address the root betrayal of the father in its resolution, and his first dialogue of the film, with Eun-joo, heavily implies were it not for Su-mi’s mental state they would still be a domestic couple; with no resolution and little character interiority/curvature other than platitudes about being a bad father, there is little in the way of Moo-hyeon becoming more like Yon-suk than Seok-woo and still leading a duplicitous (neoliberal) lifestyle. It is very interesting to note that Yon-suk has no children, yet Seok-woo redeems himself and Moo-hyeon escapes a punishment on par with Eun-joo’s. It is precisely their fatherhoods that potentialize remorse and atonement- proffering an alternative to abject individualist capitalism- but they were not the only ones.

In-gil and Jong-il had an interesting journey with their short screen time, but their last scene together is probably the most popular scene of the entire film. Their first scene- when Seok-woo gets a call from his coworker and the trainworkers investigate a seizure and they are watching the police try to handle nationwide riots- Jong-il retorts, “People nowadays will riot over anything. In the old days they’d be re-educated.” (00:20:32) Her motives in the scene for which she is most known are nowhere to be found in Seoul. Rather, through bifurcation- Jong-il is noticeably more shaken up at their first split (00:47:30)- Jong-il must reconsider her values. As explained earlier, the permeation of (neo)realist thought throughout Korea during the Cold War- although supposedly an international relations paradigm, rapid modernization and the elision of sovereign borders has muddled this dichotomy of international and domestic relations- created not only a very politcal realist Korean public but also a “particularly unique and unforgiving implementation of neoliberalism.” This introductory framing as a riot, then, further emphasizes the director’s representation of the homo sacer and people of all strata who build their identities on these peoples’ erasure. It was not until she could see her sister erased- see herself erased- that the memories of war reminded her that han must be directional, it must not be wayward.

This scene (01:18:52), when Jong-il “opens the door to extinction” works- like Eun-joo’s nondiegetic scream works, like Natre dropping Tun off the roof in Shutter works- because of contrastive narrative framing from monsters with indiscriminate terror, implicitly building a tension and personal investment in the primary transgression before it is revealed, in order for a personal hatred of the real monster to brew in the audience. In Two Sisters, multiple twists serve as entertainment and payoff for the overall message and narrative, but the melodramatic narrative structure and perspective itself serve to passively cultivate a sisterly love for Su-yeon from the audience so when all the twists devolve into her death, we are just as anxious for Eun-joo’s murder and guilty about Su-mi’s decision. In-gil and Jong-il’s relationship unfortunately did not have as much cultivation, but the hatred for Yon-suk and the other passengers did. This reflects the train and film’s high speed run through Korean history, in which Chun established that about 360 years of British modernization took place in half the time, about half of which these sisters were likely alive for. That’s a lot of life, and yet Jong-il could not realize how that had molded them so differently; she accepted this reeducation of simply acquiescing to “recurrent patterns of power politics,” or political realism, while her sister resisted through kindred love, something diametrically opposed to realism and liberalism. Jong-il’s liminality- both living and dead, as the only reason she would keep fighting was now a zombie; the only passenger in this car who does not acquiesce to Yon-suk’s authority; these are both highlighted by her sitting separated from the rest of the passengers who, from a distance, are choreographed and emoting almost similarly to the directionless zombies- following the expulsion of the new passengers places her in the necropolitical state of exception. However, she is clandestine. She shares their realist han; she believes there needs to be an expulsion of unhealthy bodies; but they do not realize she wishes to destroy the modern realist-cum-liberal paradigm until the door is reached.

Before opening the door, Jong-il chides her sister, saying good riddance for “Always helping others before yourself.” Up until death, she maintains her realist disposition. Finally, staring in the door-mirror, Gardener explains what she really says: “You’ve really suffered a lot.” (47) In finally seeing the zombies as her kin, Jong-il is symbolically talking to every Korean behind that glass; they all suffered in their transformation into the necropolitical. She saw firsthand the unjust processes through which this class is created, as a process of exclusion and projection. Nothing, to her, is more monstrous than those who can consciously do such things; she would rather be “stupid” and infected like her sister- the only docile zombie- than included in this “load of shit.” So perhaps, with revisitation, maybe there is some solace in the ending of A Tale of Two Sisters. The recollection of memory- by reflecting through the Self and Other- allowed both Su-mi and In-gil to see the error in their realist ways when responding to the failures of neoliberalism. Both end in tragedy, but the imperative of immense, concomitant world-building, world-destroying, and world-crossing for sibling communication and rebellion is an incredibly inspiring indication of hope for kindred, even if not legal, reunification of the Korean peninsula. One day.

Works Cited

Chun, Chaesung. "Why is there no non-Western international relations theory? Reflections on and from Korea." Non-Western International Relations Theory. Routledge, 2009. 79-101.

Gardener, Ryan. “Storming off the tracks: Zombies, high speed rail and South Korean identity in Train to Busan.” Asian Cinema, vol. 32, no. 1, 2021, pp. 37–53, https://doi.org/10.1386/ac_00032_1. 

Kim, Jaecheol. “Biocalyptic imaginations in Japanese and Korean films: Undead nation-states in I Am a Hero and Train to Busan.” Inter-Asia Cultural Studies, vol. 20, no. 3, 2019, pp. 437–451, https://doi.org/10.1080/14649373.2019.1649015. 

Peirse, Alison, et al. “Diary of a Lost Girl: Victoriana, Intertextuality and A Tale of Two Sisters.” Korean Horror Cinema, Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh, 2012, pp. 158–172.