#house of hummingbird

house of hummingbird is a coming-of-age tale of how an ordinary 14 year-old girl finds herself amidst the relationships she develops with the people around her. in doing so, the film draws on themes big and small, which effectively paints a scarred national psyche and depicts the struggles of normal people as they try to keep apace.

the film can be described as a quiet feminist criticism of gender inequality in a “modern” society. eun-hee and her good friend, ji-soo, are victims of domestic abuse by their older brothers, who have been conditioned by patriarchal notions that empower them to assault their sisters as a means of “reprimanding” them and keeping them in order. when eun-hee and ji-soo are caught for shop theft, ji-soo trembles at the fear of being hit by her brother back at home. when eun-hee bravely tells her parents over dinner, in the first third of the film, that her brother had hit her, her older sister gives her a glance. initially i thought the glance was a glance of surprise and reproach, as if to tell eun-hee to remain silent. but i later realise the glance meant that she herself was a victim of her brother’s abuse, and the glance was a pleasant surprise at her courage. the uncomfortable coexistence of domestic assault and women’s education empowerment (the daughters are enrolled for after-school tuition), points to how society’s claims of modernisation will always ring hollow if women cannot even have basic human rights.

the exhortations of gender inequality are constantly woven in the film. eun-hee’s mother knows that her father is having an extramarital affair, but never explicitly addresses it. nonchalantly asking eun-hee “what was your father wearing when he went out today?” and then checking his closet to see whether he wore his best suit out on a date, eun-hee’s mother is the film’s closest representation of the virtuous traditional asian wife. eun-hee almost walks in her mother’s footsteps - even after seeing her boyfriend flirt with her schoolmate, she takes him back immediately with little questioning. it is only with young-ji’s advice that she needs to not live her life passively that eun-hee starts to assert herself and retaliate. when eun-hee is caught for shoplifting, her father tells him he would rather the shopkeeper send eun-hee to the police station than send some rice cakes over as a “favour”. this is in contrast with her father’s treatment of her brother, offering him money to buy burgers to bribe his schoolmates to vote him as school president.

eun-hee’s relationship with yoo-ri, her junior at school, is less significant as an exploration of sexuality but rather an example of how eun-hee is desperately trying to find true companionship in the people around her. contrasting her friendship with ji-soo (they had a falling out but later reconciled) and her relationship with yoo-ri (yoo-ri fell out of affection and ended the relationship coldly), eun-hee learns that lasting relationships need to be built and are hard to come by. this is why her relationship with young-ji, a teacher at her chinese hakwon (after-school tuition), is extra special. 

it is easy to see why teacher young-ji is a figure of admiration for the impressionable eun-hee. young-ji lives a quasi-ascetic and independent lifestyle - she dresses in baggy linen, brews oolong tea in a set of china, and in their first meeting teaches eunhee “out of all the people you’ve met in your life, how many of them really know you?” in hanja. she quits her job at the hakwon out of the blue, because she felt like it; she is on a long break from her undergraduate studies at Seoul University, because she felt like it. of course, this independence is afforded by young-ji’s privilege (her family is well-off). but her non-traditional behaviour teaches eun-hee that there are ways to live without conforming to society. she never talks to eun-hee with condescension, but treats her as a mature equal and genuinely cares for her in ways that eun-hee has never received.

in terms of style, i very much appreciated the sensitive directing of kim bora, which drew the viewer very close to the protagonist. there were very clever tricks deployed. there is a moment when eun-hee is caught shoplifting and the shopkeeper asks for her father’s number, to which she whispers “555-2589″. when eun-hee frightfully presses this number into the public phone after she sees the bridge collapse, kim borrows this memory, as the viewer knows who she is calling before she even says a word.

but the best moments were always personal. as a 24 year-old asian female, even the slightest scenes were poignant. when eun-hee ended off her never-delivered letter to young-ji with “when will my life start to shine?” i just started crying, because i wanted to tell eun-hee that her beloved teacher probably doesn’t know. i don’t know too. when the film ended with eun-hee having found an internal peace, through young-ji’s words of advice, that would help her navigate life’s tribulations - big or small - i started to cry again. we have all struggled to find ourselves, amongst the many expectations placed on us in the different roles we play in society. even though not all of us have a figure like young-ji when they were growing up, the answer to finding life tolerable is always the same.

i love this film - i really, really do. i am eun-hee when i was 12, i am young-ji now. i love this film with a camaraderie that is shared between all asian women who have struggled and are struggling to find their places in society. –10/10