A friend who sometimes reads my film reviews asked me why I often fuss over “atmosphere” in film, or the lack thereof. He asked, “Aren’t competent acting, writing, and direction enough to make an effective movie?”
Creating the right atmosphere of a movie makes us feel involved in the story. If it’s a slow-burn horror, we start dreading what’s coming next. It frightens us without having to rely on gimmicky jump scares or gore. In non-horrors, we find empathy and share in the anger or joy or curiosity of a protagonist. We’re not just observers, we’re active participants. It makes us yell at the screen, laugh, or even weep. It takes atmosphere to put the audience under a film’s spell.
Even a flawed movie can seem good if the right atmosphere is there. Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo is riddled with plot holes. Yet he often creates an atmosphere that is foreboding and enigmatic. His storytelling is hypnotic; under his guidance, he lulls us into forgetting the story’s shortcomings.
Michelangelo D’Antonini’s Blow Up keeps us on edge as we hope that the fashion photographer, played by David Hemmings, solves the puzzle in the intriguing candid photographs he had shot in a park. The denouement is ambiguous and baffling. It would take a talk-back with the filmmaker to get to the bottom of things. Blow Up plays like a conversation piece and an abstract painting. It’s a psychedelic cinematic experience. We’re left intoxicated by the director’s style.
It’s hard to explain how a filmmaker does it. I’m not a film scholar, I’m just a fan like everyone else, but I think cinematography and editing have a lot to do with it. Of course, an effective cast of actors is essential. The camera work and music also set the tone and look of a film. Minimal dialog can sometimes do the trick. Sparse music can do wonders, as it did for Celine Song’s Past Lives. In contrast, 50 percent of what made Jaws scary can be attributed to John Williams’ iconic score.
Only a handful of Filipino filmmakers have the expertise to create a distinct character in their storytelling technique. First and foremost is Mike de Leon. And there’s the underrated Butch Perez who directed the creepy yet exquisite horror movie Haplos (starring Vilma Santos and Rio Locsin). Filmmakers from other Asian countries have mastered the art of creating atmosphere, especially the Japanese. They probably invented the minimalist way of telling a story, particularly the minimalist horror. The Koreans, however, have matched—if not surpassed—the Japanese at their game.
Hence Filipinos were enticed by K-dramas, of which many have been beautifully conceived and realized. Once we tasted this elixir, there was no looking back. Because of shows like Pachinko, we only feel exasperation over a local network’s attempt to make its own historical epic (Pulang Araw).
A pachinko, as we all probably know, is like a slot machine. It’s popular in Japan and in the series, one of the protagonists based in Osaka owns a pachinko gaming center. He’s the son of Korean immigrants. Set in the 1980s, the story centers on a nephew, who has been based in New York to make a lucrative business deal for the American company he works for.
Meanwhile, his grandmother’s story is told in flashback. The show turns into an epic series in the tradition of Gone with the Wind and The Thornbirds. Like those two classics, Pachinko revolves around a girl whose life is profoundly affected by historical events. Her name is Kim Sun-ja, and she grew up in a farm in Busan under stifling rules. The tone of the show changes during the flashbacks. From what seems like a contemporary drama series, it turns into an edgy period piece that envelops the audience with lovely cinematography, but with a tense and gritty atmosphere created by the nuanced acting of the cast.
From what seems like a contemporary drama series, it turns into an edgy period piece that envelops the audience with lovely cinematography
Kim Sun-Ja’s life as a girl growing up in Korea under the Japanese occupation was far from idyllic. Koreans were treated like dirt in their own country. They had to toe the line, as there was always that danger of being bullied or accused of rebellion. Even as the camera weaves through such picturesque fields and lakes, the threat lingers in our minds. Yet the bloodshed is minimal. It’s the actors playing the Japanese who make us feel frightened for the Koreans. Through their own artistry, the actors convey callousness without having to go overboard in the acting department.
Much of the violence is created by the character of Lee Min Ho—the Korean businessman based in Osaka, Koh Hansu. He’s handsome, intimidating, and anyone who upsets him is beaten to a pulp. This is the man who falls for Kim Sun-ja. She gets pregnant, but she learns that he’s married. While he‘s willing to support her and continue the relationship, Kim Sun-ja won’t allow herself to be a mistress.
Instead, she marries a Protestant minister who is willing to raise her baby as his own. The newlyweds migrate to Osaka, only to learn that opportunities are few and the discrimination rampant. The first season ends with the minister being arrested for inciting labor unrest.
In the second season, we see Kim Sun-ja raising her two young sons—the older one being the son of Ko Hansu, the second the son of her imprisoned minister husband. He’s later released because he had been seriously ill. The family reunion is short-lived. He passes away after just a few days. Much of the second season centers on their two boys.
Lee Min Ho behind the scenes of Pachinko 2, and in New York with costar Kim Min Ha (IG @actorleeminho)
Lee Min Ho is still around as the enigmatic merchant. Viewers will see his generous side. He becomes Kim Sun-ja’s guardian angel in times of crisis, especially during the Second World War. He also tries to be fatherly to their son. However, being too close to him can have its downside.
As with the first season, a great part of the second season shows Kim Sun-Ja as a grandmother in 1980s Osaka. The filmmakers correctly chose to veer away from the original novel’s chronological storytelling. Had they followed the novel’s structure, it won’t be until season three when viewers get to see a pachinko machine in the series.
It’s interesting to see the story switch from the 1980s to the 1930s and back. It explains how Kim Sun-ja’s past circumstances shaped the way she looks at her present life, and how she would react to a current crisis. The actresses playing the young Kim Sun-Ja and the elderly one give such sterling performances. They’re never showy and thankfully; they weren’t given campy lines that might have provided material for our flamboyant entertainers in the comedy bar circuit.
Actress Kim Min Ha is a relative newcomer, but she has the presence and spunk to carry such a major epic. She’s the central figure in the flashbacks, and despite the sweep and the authentic production that recreates the impoverished side of Osaka in the 1930s, she transcends elaborate sets and CGI effects. Surviving one turmoil after another, this new star deftly projects our heroine’s pragmatism, forgiving attitude, and determination to rise above a crisis.
Cast as the elderly Kim Sun-Ja is Oscar-winning actress Youn Yuh Jung. As with her young counterpart, she never goes into histrionics (we also have to thank the screen writers and director for that). Her Kim Sun-Ja is almost always calm, but yet in her face, we see a survivor who’s been through worse situations than what her family’s younger generation has to contend with. The two actresses are the source of this epic’s humanity, and its atmosphere. They’ve placed us under their spell.
On a side note, we had a kick watching Pachinko 2’s opening credits. Filmed in the pachinko gaming center of the story, it’s enjoyable to watch the entire cast dance like they’re part of a sitcom or a music video. It’s a radical departure from the heavy drama that’s about to take place. This appears to be the trend in current miniseries. Nicole Kidman, Isabel Adjani, and Liev Schreiber also grooved in the opening credits of their miniseries The Perfect Couple.
Not to be outdone, Lee Min Ho, who’s made to brood through two seasons of Pachinko (did he ever smile in any scene at all?), goes completely out of character as he shows off his moonwalking skills. It’s no wonder my 90-year-old aunt would point to him on the screen and girlishly declare, “My husband!”
