It's as if providence was diabolically teasing you, implying that the endless test which seemed to be tormenting you from day one would never end, as she would be constantly re-writing the rules. After you worked hard for so many years to fulfill the dreams which inflamed your adolescence, Lady Luck plays a sneaky trick on you, as you start to leave behind pieces of your youth along the path to adulthood. Some of them vanish into oblivion, to never again be found. Others become memories, joyous fragments of life's history which have to co-exist with sad and painful ones, shadows which only make those lights shine even brighter.
Lost in the comfortably apathetic routine that life becomes – as a wife, husband, mother, father and part of a greater family – you start to forget what brought you there in the first place, and those memories become almost like a film, a fantasy you can only daydream about. Reality, that scary rose which hides enough different thorns to scare away even the most fearless amongst us, becomes a little raft you traverse the river of life with. It's your lifeline, but also a maddeningly constraining entity – so much that you'd like to, even if just for once, try to experience how it would feel to go for a swim into the unknown.
Yoon Seo-Rae's life would appear to just about everyone as a success. Her husband is an accomplished broadcast journalist from a well-off family, about to get his own program on TV; after an early childhood marred by endless physical problems, her son Gyeol seems to finally have found the health that should have long blessed him. And although their decision to move to Daechi-Dong (the expensive Mecca of elitehakwon
in the upscale Gangnam district) was mostly motivated by the wish to give Gyeol a better education, she's still proud of having tutored him for years, fostering his creativity and personal identity.
But, haunted by the realization that her educational methods might not be competitive in the Gangnam jungle, and the fact that the man she loved had turned into the quintessential Korean “social alpha male” – a life of ruthless competition, weekly
good shots, bad livers and probably dubious fidelity – Seo-Rae begins to ponder when life started becoming such an oppressive prison. And wonder who had the keys.
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For Kim Tae-Oh, things don't seem to be going too badly, either. Better yet, he might even have the perfect life: his beautiful and talented wife is perhaps the top name in her sector (not to mention that in Korea you can make serious money as a star
hakwon
instructor), and has come to realize that she makes enough to allow her husband to fulfill his vocation – as a socially-conscious dentist. They've got a beautiful daughter, lead a successful and rewarding professional life... and yet. There's a yet. His wife is so busy, they almost have to plan ten minute “pillow shots” of discussion days in advance, lest her schedule might not allow it. And the pre-packaged and schematically planned lifestyle they've been leading for years has started to bring some ennui. Not necessarily an irresponsible impulse to enjoy the rather garish Gangnam nightlife to run away from the routine. But just the need to feel alive again, talk to people about something more than your kid's education or work, and be moved by a sense of purpose that isn't limited to fixing some granny's cavities for one-third of market rates.
Yeah, I know.
Makjang, right?
Although what has now become a rather overused piece of industry jargon – suggesting frivolous histrionics shoved down the viewers' throat for the sole purpose of creating shock value that is not actually backed up by any logical
raison
d'être
– is only a few years old, many drama historians tend to believe that the first evermakjang
drama was MBC's
개구리 남편
(Frog Husband). This was a 1969 daily starring Choi Buram as a married section chief who falls for his newly hired underling, played by Kim Hye-Ja (in one of the first of many legendary encounters). Given the period, you can imagine how it went: the show was so controversial, the government unilaterally pulled the plug after 100 episodes. And of course it ended as a failed tentative to commit adultery.
But if you think about it, the narrative tenets which drive most
makjang
potboilers are the same genre tropes you could find in most Korean melodramas of the 1950's, both on the big and small screen. The crucial difference, then, is that tiny backing up your histrionics detail – otherwise if anything swimming against the social tide of the time had to be considered
makjang, even 1950's classics like
자유부인
(Madame Freedom)and
운명의 손
(The Hands of Fate)
would have to qualify. That is really what makes all the difference: today's industry has been bastardized to the point that few writers are able to tread such troubled waters without just throwing shock value at the wall, hoping it will stick. Actually surrounding histrionics with a believable narrative backbone, like Jung Ha-Yeon did marvelously in
욕망의 불꽃
(Flames of Desire), is something that only a selected few can aspire to achieve. Perhaps because it's much easier to toss two women out there and have them stare at each other like the Martian baddies in
Mars Attacks!
| I did mention in my
preview
that
아내의 자격
(A Wife's Credentials)
would be dealing with a rather inflammable subject. Basically it's the perfect synopsis for a morning daily drama, the X-shaped type of adultery involving two couples -- assuming that's where the show will go. But I also suggested that Ahn Pan-Seok and Jung Sung-Joo weren't exactly going to serve us with deluxe
makjang
on a slightly shinier platter. They are too good for that. And boy, does it ever feel good to be right, from time to time. Especially when the end result is as lovely and incredibly rewarding a little gem as this.
Tell me if you've ever seen things like this in your average morning or weekend potboiler: our heroine on her way to what is going to be her first “date,” struggling to even put on her shoes, as the camera placidly focuses on her moving about with the frantic frenzy of an excited teenager. Her husband 's father at a lunch with relatives, gently stepping on his son's foot as a signal to stop drinking and avoid any embarrassment, without any other visual or verbal hint that would have erased all the subtlety. They're only two of countless little details that tremendously enrich this show, adding a pleasant and sophisticated layer of realism to what is an already very well balanced script.
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It's that lack of urgency, the absence of that annoying frenzy which desperately tries to bank everything on cheap histrionics, that elevates this drama above just about every other recent genre offering. That is because Ahn, the expert hands behind classics as varied as
장미와 콩나물
(Roses & Beansprouts)
and
하얀거탑
(The White Tower), couldn't care less about histrionics. He even mentioned it at the show's press conference -- when he said that scoring only 1% on the hybrids had its charms, as he could finally do whatever he wanted without having to worry about what choice of his could have meant the morning after, when he'd have to stare at that daunting piece of paper filled with percentiles. Not having to worry about silly, virulent dramatic excesses to satisfy a viciously undemanding crowd means that you can focus on much more important factors. Like the world populated by your characters, for instance.
Just about every drama out there sticks the fact that they're using a set straight in your face. All you see is four ordinary walls surrounded by shiny house appliances (fruit of lucrative sponsorships, of course), splendor which only foments the sneaking and intrusive suspicion as you watch that there might be an expensive set of broadcast equipment behind that sofa, and not the rest of a human being's house. Paradoxically, neither jTBC nor its drama production shingle Dramahouse had any proprietary sets at their disposal, so instead of going out and renting one Ahn is mostly shooting in real places. The added effect is incredibly effective: not only does everything here looks the part, from the interior design down to the pleasantly unflattering costumes. It feels like a place where people have lived for years, clothes that have been worn, cars that have been driven. These are real people, living realistic lives. They just happen to have been put in one of those situations which from time to time feel unreal.
At least to those who aren't directly experiencing them.
Jung and Ahn earn all their coincidences that way. As always it's a small world, but they try to give a logical explanation for what happens here, even when it seems rather far-fetched. And you know what is the effect of banking so much on realism? That whatever histrionics borne out of a narrative crescendo we might encounter, they never feel like excesses thrown at the viewer to retain his attention, like a succession of car wrecks. No, everything here feels plausible. Seo-Rae and Tae-Oh falling into a strange and sudden vortex of emotional affinity is perfectly understandable, given the fact that who they are right now fills exactly the kind of voids their respective lives were haunted by.
That sensation of being able to witness something that would otherwise be construed as
makjang
but is completely natural and logical here is irresistibly charming, as are the fantastic performances of Kim Hee-Ae and Lee Sung-Jae – finally finding a thespian pair of clothes which suit him, harkening back to his
동물원 옆 미술관
(Art Museum by the Zoo)
origins. Nothing, not a single thing is wasted. Not an emotion, a line of dialogue or a prop. It's all expertly intertwined by a master of details, for the sole purpose of creating a world which constantly throws input at us, information which legitimizes the histrionics which are about to come. Then if someone ends up screaming, fighting, doing whatever his personality will allow... you just understand. They're human beings, and those extremes are part of the greater picture.
But set aside the wonderfully three-dimensional characters, what is most striking about
아내의 자격(A Wife's Credentials)is its mood and pacing, its laid back visual luster reminding of early 2000's rom-coms like
나도 아내가 있었으면 좋겠다
(I Wish I Had a Wife), and the excellent use of music, which almost becomes a character of its own – all western at that, from a cover of The Monkees' Daydream Believer to Jane Birkin and The Byrds.
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What is more, this is not merely a tale of a realistic love-affair between two adults, but also a sort of love child of
하얀거탑
(The White Tower)
and
강남엄마 따라잡기
(Gangnam Mom), exposing the hypocrisy and damaging fallacies of Korea's obsession with private education, not to mention the impact it has on those children's creativity and the way they interact with other people.
It's hard to believe that what could have become a mere excuse to scream in people's faces could blossom into such a breezy, eclectic and intellectually stimulating show. But that is what happens when you actually use genre tropes as a supplement to a solid story, as the dots that connect a narrative structure supported by realism that sponsorships cannot and will never be able to pay for.
A Wife's Credentials
feels like a daydream you want to believe in, like a human being who had been stuck in that gloomy, oppressing prison for far too long, and has now found the key.
At last.
http://dramatic.weebly.com/wife01.html
[ 本帖最后由 lovesungjae 于 2012-3-13 20:19 编辑 ] |
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发表于 2012-3-13 11:23
