Hong Sang-soo’s filmography is known to be minimalistic and emotional, and Hotel by the River (2018) is no exception. Explore family, feeling, fortune, and grief, in all the complex simplicity contained in this black and white film.

Delving deeper into the minimalistic and autobiographical world that is the filmography of Hong Sang-soo, Hotel by the River (2018), which saw its premiere at the 71st Locarno Film Festival, is just about what you’d expect from the auteur.

In characteristic Hong fashion, the plot follows an ageing, self-important artist (Young-Hwan, played by Gi Ju-bong) who takes up an interest in a young woman (A-Reum, played by Kim Min-hee) and their respective stays in a hotel by the snowy scenery of the Han River.

It is evidently not too uncommon for a Hong Sang-soo picture to start with the male lead spying on a significantly younger woman out of a window overlooking the space she occupies, unaware of surveying eyes. The woman in question in this case—as in many others in Hong’s catalogue of films—is played by none other than his muse and lover, Kim Min-hee, the talent that she is. 

A brush with death

Young-Hwan is a poet who predicts his own death, entirely based on a feeling. He has called his two estranged sons to visit him before this unlucky fortune takes place and explains to them confidently that he will die sooner rather than later. Naturally, they have a hard time taking this statement seriously, given that their father is in no way unwell.

Every now and then, we get a glimpse into the inner workings of the minds of our two leads, through a scarcely used narration by each of them respectively.

The relationship between Young-Hwan and his sons is nothing if not strained and sombre. The pressure begs to build up throughout the duration of the film, and as we near the end, we come to realise that that is indeed what has been going on.

Once again, in typical Hong Sang-soo fashion, the men go to an almost empty restaurant and get drunk on soju together. This gives the perfect opportunity for a tide of honesty to wash away doubts of how each of them feels.

To some degree, this does happen. Still, something inside of them feels held back, like they are incapable of telling their father—this old man they’ve made up in their minds to be a formidable figure—the full and true contents of their hearts. Instead, they pussyfoot around confronting their dying father, humming and hawing in what could be one of the last moments for them to do so. 

Father and sons are not exactly brought any closer by this. In fact, Young-Hwan stays behind to pompously recite poetry to the ladies in the restaurant after telling his sons via text that he’ll be walking home instead of catching a ride with them. Perhaps a smart move considering how much soju was consumed between the three of them. Regardless, they make it back in one piece. 

A-Reum and her friend happen to be eating dinner at the same restaurant, not so much by chance, but rather because they knew Young-Hwan and his sons would be dining there. The restaurant is completely silent, save for the loud outpour of drunken feelings at the table next to them. In contrast, A-Reum and her friend share their feelings to their hearts’ content, while snuggled up in bed at the hotel, without the need for a buffer such as liquor, or for increasing the decibels past what could be a whisper. In other words, gently.

The sons wake the next morning to find that their father’s incredible prediction has indeed come true. The men cradle the body of their recently deceased negligent father in a puddle of tears. In a moment, all the mental agony experienced on his account is forgotten by his weeping offspring. Such is family—endlessly perplexing and forever beyond reason.

The father, whose antics can easily be put under scrutiny, is a character whose philosophy of living for yourself and not in regret and other nasty emotions is one that one may find attractive but ultimately doesn’t go too far past the fantastical. A world where everyone was to live according to such philosophies would be something entirely dystopian, to say the least.

Black and white in movies has a tendency to be used as a gimmick or out of necessity, especially in lower budget films. In Hotel by the River, though, it is used quite wittingly and with good cause. The same film in colour would, quite paradoxically, not be the same film at all. The monochrome palette makes the snowy landscapes we see all the more dreamlike and serene, and shapes the overall mood of the entire story to what it’s meant to be.

Regardless of what one may think about the man himself, Hotel by the River is a safe and familiar, yet solid addition to Hong’s body of work. One must admire the complex simplicity that he continues to put on the silver screen year after year.

Edited by Ciara Carson.