Perpendicular Lives Intersect in ‘Possible Love’

Early in Lee Chang-dong’s excellent new film, Possible Love, newfound “friends” Mi-ok (Jeon Do-yeon) and Ye-ji (Cho Yeo-jeong) sit on the patio of a luxe café. Mi-ok tells Ye-ji that as a child she watched her mother work at a car wash, washing vehicles by hand. In particular, she was fascinated by the rainbow that appeared when the sun hit the stream from the hose. One day, while young Mi-ok was playing with the hose, her mother grabbed it out of her hand and scolded her, likely because, as Mi-ok surmises, her mother didn’t want to imagine a future where her daughter lived the same life as her.

Possible Love ★★★★ (4/5 stars)
Directed by: Lee Chang-dong
Written by: Lee Chang-dong, Jungmi Oh
Starring: Jeon Do-yeon, Cho Yeo-jeong, Sul Kyung-gu, Zo In-Sung
Running time:  164 mins

Technically, we hear this story twice. Ye-ji listens to the beginning before she quickly stops Mi-ok, asking her to pause so she can go grab her camera; she should be recording this interaction, she notes. At this point, we know the extent of their friendship: Mi-ok is a working-class woman who works at a surgical mask factory and Ye-ji is a documentarian who wants to film Mi-ok and Ho-seok (Sul Kyung-gu), her husband who has essentially disassociated from his life and reality after being fired from a factory job. The scene is short and to-the-point, illustrating the dynamic between the two characters, exploring the exploitation of one’s reality for another’s gain, and even addressing the reality-bending nature of documentary filmmaking. It’s also one of the most direct and unflinching moments in a film that is gracefully complicated, thematically intricate, and jaw-droppingly expansive.

On its surface, Possible Love is a well-examined treatise on class differences and the intricate (and sometimes unexpected) ways that the rich exploit the poor. Here, this plays out through the live of two couples and their peculiar relationship. From the second Ye-ji attaches herself to Mi-ok’s and Ho-seok’s lives, every moment that she’s around them feels like exploitation. Every conversation and interaction is captured on film, despite Ho-seok’s reluctance about the entire process and their son’s fear of the camera (he even hides himself in the closet at one point to avoid its gaze).

Early in the film, Ye-ji even reveals her true wishes to her generationally wealthy husband (through inheritance), Sang-woo (Zo In-sung). In the car one night she confides that though her numerous interviews and “observational” footage of Mi-ok have yielded great content, her true desire is to have Ho-seok as the subject of the film. His refusal to concede is the only thing Ye-ji can’t have; she’s been given unfettered access to the rest of the family’s lives.

As a filmmaker, Lee never rushes through stories. Throughout his works, scenes function as meticulously paced puzzle pieces, their true meaning often revealed (and recalled) far later in the story. That’s certainly the case in Possible Love. Even the characters themselves are silhouettes that get gradually pencilled in throughout the film. When we meet Mi-ok, Ho-seok, and their 10-year-old son in the film’s first scene, the three are in their car, travelling to a funeral. At the funeral, we learn who they’re mourning: one of Ho-seok’s coworkers fired at the same time as Ho-seok who was so affected by his firing that he took his own life.

We learn about Ho-seok’s grief and derealization through how he avoids interacting and engaging with others, even if they’re all undergoing the same grief. Ho-seok can’t even get himself to walk in the room holding the casket; he only shows up at the reception hours later. It’ll be far later in the film when we learn the unique circumstances that have contributed to Ho-seok’s specific demeanor, and why his behavior is strikingly different from even those of his former coworkers. You almost need to bring a notepad to the movie theater to keep track of characters’ different motivations and quirks; moments and expressions that may feel innocuous in the moment eventually become pivotal.

The film never stops unfurling each of the four principal characters and their motivations. Perhaps the most enigmatic of them all is Sang-woo, who spends his time with the other characters either quietly or on his phone, trying to secure an unspecified deal with an American company. There’s a subtle sexual tension between him and Mi-ok — whenever the two share the screen, particularly in the film’s second half, you can’t help but feel like you’re waiting for something devious or show-stopping to happen between them.

But there’s also a disengaged relaxation to Sang-woo’s persona that perfectly represents his character. Sure, he wants to secure this enigmatic deal, but the stakes never feel that high. He treats his lifestyle as sport, knowing that, regardless of the current situation’s outcome, he can’t really lose. The same goes for Ye-ji: She doesn’t really need to make this documentary (in the only scene in the film showing her securing funding, her presentation is so lackadaisical that it’s quite obvious her husband is bankrolling her film), and if the film doesn’t get made, her life will go on exactly as it did before.

Describing these characters this way seems to undercut Mi-ok’s and Ho-seok’s complexity, but that’s not the case. The film is called Possible Love, after all, and buried within all of these layers is a love story; it’s just rendered in a way that goes against what you’ve come to expect from love stories. Despite them both undergoing the same trauma, though from different angles, Mi-ok just wants to understand her husband and be there for him. Their journey of advancing towards each other is a slow-burning one, but it’s not unaccounted for within Lee’s intricate script.

Their blooming love story is set in direct contrast to Ye-ji and Sang-woo, a couple so defined by their attachments to other things (and people) that none of their interactions or conversations ever dig deeper than the moment they’re living in—whether that’s Ye-ji’s documentary, Sang-woo’s deal, or the luxury that shields them from the real world (and lets Ye-ji craft her own version of it). Witnessing their tepid, lackluster affection only strengthens your perception of Mi-ok and Ho-seok’s complicated relationship. It’s not perfect (in fact, it’s far from it). As the film progresses, you get the sense that, through their own complicated ways, they’re working toward an understanding of how not to lose one another in a world that doesn’t care about them (or falsely pretends to care about them). In the hands of any other filmmaker, that could feel overly sentimental. In Lee’s hands, it never gets close.