THE DUKE ON
SYMPATHY FOR LADY VENGEANCE
SYMPATHY FOR LADY VENGEANCE
Who, tell me now, who in this day an age is makin better flicks
than Chan-wook Park? What baseball-cap crowned vision-flinger is
producin pictures fit even to lick the bloodied knees a this man’s
lowest frames? Who? Set the fucker up front me this second, sayin,
that I might bow down wi the yap all platitudes ‘fore this God a
the widescreen epiphany.
Because the truth is no-one, that’s who, that’s who’s makin better
flicks than Chan-wook Park. No-one outside a the most fantastical
deities conjured midst the deranged complexities huggin the brains
a the damned. Only the snarlin denizens a some colossal hole in the
darkest caverns a eternity could conceive of such a creature.
Chan-wook Park is why a fella bothers watchin anything anymore,
because he knows, see, he knows that for every R-Point or
The Ring 2 or some remake of a flick I never seen but pretend to
adore, for every one a those foul fucks all ball-rot green wi
incompetence, for every one a them there’s a moment in some Chan-
wook Park flick that’s fit to blow the eyes out the back a the
arsehole bindin.
Like the proverb says – A man’ll endure any number a soul-destroyin
torments for half a second spent in the glow a some Chan-wook Park
feature about smashin someone’s yap up wi a claw-hammer.
An how many a those ‘forementioned mounds a cinematic arse-grot has
a man suffered since that crushin denouement coiled round the legs
a Oldboy?
Too many, for sure, a buncha much too many.
Endless ropes a manky yellowed jissom hangin from the rafters a the
picture-dens, bubblin sickenin twirls a deplorable muck, crawlin
through these troughs all overflowin wi noxious insufferable grue,
an sayin “Why, tell me now, why did I get down on the knees in the
first place? Surely there must be some reason for the bein battered
back an forth from catastrophe to catastrophe, for the bein shafted
in the back-hole by hack after hack, an at the end of it all wi the
eyes all hang-dog sayin can I have it again, mister, the kick in
the throat an the fuck in the arse? Why would a fella bound t’wards
such malignant joyless jousts if’n all he’s ever left with is a
curious emptiness somewheres around the fulfilment gland?”
And the answer, oh aye, clear as the melancholy hung on the fringe,
there it is; Because sometimes a flick like Sympathy For Lady
Vengeance arises out the mire, sometimes a fella like Chan-wook
Park steps up wi the heads a those soulless fiends clasped in the
grip, toss those skulls screenwards, Mr Park, an lo! What majesties
result!
Pristine slices a cinematic perfection so ineffably, unspeakably
beautiful that all a fella can do is bound topa the upturned
fridges litter the skip out back the estate, bound on up there an
evangelise; “See here! See here now, this is why we bother, this is
what it’s about, right there, over yonder, this motion picture is
exactly why we traipse from humiliation to humiliation to
humiliation!”
Ye net-critics all fag-stained digits an stinkin o’ molested hope,
fire up yon modem, sayin now, an have those words lick the keys
like the tongues a Cerberus!
But no, they scowl cross the forums mutterin ‘bout how much that
Superman carry-on’s gonna suck the rancid balls a Charon, how
shitty everythin is, how a man may as well pop an Uzi 9mm upside
the face an blow the brain-guts fuckless, how he may as well do
that as expect anythin to be worth two hours worth a sit-down
anymore.
Who can blame them?
Who can blame The Priest, good friend a mine knows a thing or two
about the Catholicism an the Cinema, who can blame this disgruntled
clergyman for kickin a fella’s door down earlier this eve, for
standin there twixt the knackered frame, silhouetted by the street-
light hum, pointin yon crack-stained digit at a man’s terrified
fizzog?
“You!” he’s hissin, “What’s this shite I hear about some flick’ll
make my fuck fall tartan from my eyes, so uncommonly gorgeous is
its aura?”
Sit the hell down, sayin, best you take yon cardigan off, reekin a
mentholated spirits an a fella can’t be inhalin anythin a the sort
this far shy a the last swallow.
Sit down an be done wi your yackin, for I got a tale to tell, a
tale of a lady done been slighted by a crooked ol’ bastard wi a
habit o’ kidnapping youngsters for the purposes a killin them.
Lady Vengeance, oh aye, there she is, imprisoned on account of she
took the blame way back when, an who among us can say “You foul
bitch from Satan’s guts!” Who?
“Me”, The Priest hollers, “I’ll say it this second!”
No, The Priest, no you won’t, because she herself was a young
child, a high-school student under the tutorage of this
aforementioned wretch, an so when he says “Take that ol’ blame,
honey baby”, she has neither the courage nor the maturity to say
“Actually, how bout I don’t, an how bout you get flung ‘hind yonder
bars till such times as I can see the rehabilitation risen on your
chest?”
Other side a those years spent dodgin the Top Dog an pushin laundry
carts up an down the corridors, mind, different kettle a Lady
Vengeance emerges, oh aye.
She’ll find you, y’rotten fuck, an more than this, she’ll kill you,
kill you till the very death is hangin off a your deathed-up
knuckles. For sure, it’s been a few years since she’s been in his
company, but most likely she’s seen Oldboy, she knows this
bastard’s yap like the back a her own gorgeous hands.
Because they are gorgeous.
Safe to say, The Priest, I could well be in love with Lady
Vengeance. She’s no Kirsten, but look at those eyes all awash wi
fathomless sadness, look at that smile hard won by way a years
spent weepin o’er the stash a sins piled up back the psyche. Look
at the way she says “How bout we have some filth” or similar, look
at how she walks wi all the elegance o’ Seraphim stirred by God’s
yawns.
If Sympathy For Lady Vengeance is as a colossal Cathedral towerin
o'er the shitty bus-stops a most Cinema De 2005, then on the
stained-glass roofways, stretched o’er the crest a the Altar, there
she is. Lady Vengeance herself, Yeong-ae Lee, among the most
beautiful creatures I’ve gazed upon since the time I lost my mind
an half a wrist-worth a body-weight in the pulsin savage purple
glow a the dyin Dublin summer.
An Chan-wook Park, he knows how blessed her steps are, an so he
fills the flick wi Catholic imagery, he has Lee painted in shades
unheard of this side a some Martyr hung on the walls a the Vatican
gallery.
So beautiful is Lady Vengeance, in fact, that a man could feasibly
overlook the demented invention goin’ on around her.
The first hour of Sympathy For Lady Vengeance, see, is a
freewheelin dizzy-flingin tapestry a cinematic tricks an trysts an
whiplash fizz. Kaleidoscopic mania every which way, a leg-bucklin
orgasm a filmic warlockery.
“Warlock!” The Priest says, “That was a fuckin amazin flick!”
That it was, The Priest, that it truly was. (And what of Warlock
Armageddon, wherein Julian Sands sprang full grown out a lady’s hoo-
hah right there on a car-seat?)
Chan-wook Park shits style, is what. He sits pon porcelain an cacks
effortless cool left an right. He pisses style. When he cracks one
off he sprays style out the maw a his man-pump. And yet, no empty
wank, no, that drippy dropped o’er tile rumbles wi substance, wi
Point.
Followin this ingeniously threaded collage o’ spasamin marvel,
these 60-odd minutes a purest spectacle, a final hour soaked in
uncertainty, misery an doubt.
What price, this here vengeance?
Hardly a fresh thought, that right there, but one Chan-wook Park’s
spent the best part o’ a decade frettin o’er, an so if anyone’s
gonna flick the switch an illuminate some area’s hitherto cowered
in the shadows, s’gonna be him, bet your last ball on that.
The price, it ain’t as immediately crushin as that paid by poor ol’
Oldboy, but it’s potentially just as soul-destroyin in the long
run, oh aye, when the fanfare’s passed an it’s standin in the snow
wonderin just how thin that line might be, the one separates
Avenger from He What Done Got Avenged On.
These notions of Justice bein served an such, but was it?
Thoughts fit to keep a fella kickin the duvet off an pullin it back
for weeks on end, Nietzsche an Spinoza flingin spite an rebuttal at
one another’s teeth o’er the bedposts.
“Sod your philosophical tooth-grind”, The Priest spits, “What about
the guts? How many guts get spilled?”
An considerin, how many indeed? Seems like guts musta been shat out
bellies every which way, but no, it’s all implied herein. Similar
sorta vibe as yon hallowed Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Can hardly
stand on my feet, sayin, surely the screen musta throbbed wi
innards?
But no.
A holy trinity! Sympathy For Mr Vengeance, Oldboy, Sympathy For
Lady Vengeance.
A holy trinity! Cinematic razzle-dazzle, violence, issues heavy as
night.
A holy trinity! Elation leadin to Discomfort leadin to Glorious
Exhaustion.
This is cinema, pointin at the frame, this is what those folks felt
when yonder train looked set to roll onto their pissed-o’er laps
way back when.
Chan-wook Park, he’s flingin trains at us every chance he gets.
Astonishment an terror an endless contemplation regardin what the
hell we just experienced.
An The Priest, he just shrugs. “I prefer Kitano.”
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Sign The Mondo Guestbook
than Chan-wook Park? What baseball-cap crowned vision-flinger is
producin pictures fit even to lick the bloodied knees a this man’s
lowest frames? Who? Set the fucker up front me this second, sayin,
that I might bow down wi the yap all platitudes ‘fore this God a
the widescreen epiphany.
Because the truth is no-one, that’s who, that’s who’s makin better
flicks than Chan-wook Park. No-one outside a the most fantastical
deities conjured midst the deranged complexities huggin the brains
a the damned. Only the snarlin denizens a some colossal hole in the
darkest caverns a eternity could conceive of such a creature.
Chan-wook Park is why a fella bothers watchin anything anymore,
because he knows, see, he knows that for every R-Point or
The Ring 2 or some remake of a flick I never seen but pretend to
adore, for every one a those foul fucks all ball-rot green wi
incompetence, for every one a them there’s a moment in some Chan-
wook Park flick that’s fit to blow the eyes out the back a the
arsehole bindin.
Like the proverb says – A man’ll endure any number a soul-destroyin
torments for half a second spent in the glow a some Chan-wook Park
feature about smashin someone’s yap up wi a claw-hammer.
An how many a those ‘forementioned mounds a cinematic arse-grot has
a man suffered since that crushin denouement coiled round the legs
a Oldboy?
Too many, for sure, a buncha much too many.
Endless ropes a manky yellowed jissom hangin from the rafters a the
picture-dens, bubblin sickenin twirls a deplorable muck, crawlin
through these troughs all overflowin wi noxious insufferable grue,
an sayin “Why, tell me now, why did I get down on the knees in the
first place? Surely there must be some reason for the bein battered
back an forth from catastrophe to catastrophe, for the bein shafted
in the back-hole by hack after hack, an at the end of it all wi the
eyes all hang-dog sayin can I have it again, mister, the kick in
the throat an the fuck in the arse? Why would a fella bound t’wards
such malignant joyless jousts if’n all he’s ever left with is a
curious emptiness somewheres around the fulfilment gland?”
And the answer, oh aye, clear as the melancholy hung on the fringe,
there it is; Because sometimes a flick like Sympathy For Lady
Vengeance arises out the mire, sometimes a fella like Chan-wook
Park steps up wi the heads a those soulless fiends clasped in the
grip, toss those skulls screenwards, Mr Park, an lo! What majesties
result!
Pristine slices a cinematic perfection so ineffably, unspeakably
beautiful that all a fella can do is bound topa the upturned
fridges litter the skip out back the estate, bound on up there an
evangelise; “See here! See here now, this is why we bother, this is
what it’s about, right there, over yonder, this motion picture is
exactly why we traipse from humiliation to humiliation to
humiliation!”
Ye net-critics all fag-stained digits an stinkin o’ molested hope,
fire up yon modem, sayin now, an have those words lick the keys
like the tongues a Cerberus!
But no, they scowl cross the forums mutterin ‘bout how much that
Superman carry-on’s gonna suck the rancid balls a Charon, how
shitty everythin is, how a man may as well pop an Uzi 9mm upside
the face an blow the brain-guts fuckless, how he may as well do
that as expect anythin to be worth two hours worth a sit-down
anymore.
Who can blame them?
Who can blame The Priest, good friend a mine knows a thing or two
about the Catholicism an the Cinema, who can blame this disgruntled
clergyman for kickin a fella’s door down earlier this eve, for
standin there twixt the knackered frame, silhouetted by the street-
light hum, pointin yon crack-stained digit at a man’s terrified
fizzog?
“You!” he’s hissin, “What’s this shite I hear about some flick’ll
make my fuck fall tartan from my eyes, so uncommonly gorgeous is
its aura?”
Sit the hell down, sayin, best you take yon cardigan off, reekin a
mentholated spirits an a fella can’t be inhalin anythin a the sort
this far shy a the last swallow.
Sit down an be done wi your yackin, for I got a tale to tell, a
tale of a lady done been slighted by a crooked ol’ bastard wi a
habit o’ kidnapping youngsters for the purposes a killin them.
Lady Vengeance, oh aye, there she is, imprisoned on account of she
took the blame way back when, an who among us can say “You foul
bitch from Satan’s guts!” Who?
“Me”, The Priest hollers, “I’ll say it this second!”
No, The Priest, no you won’t, because she herself was a young
child, a high-school student under the tutorage of this
aforementioned wretch, an so when he says “Take that ol’ blame,
honey baby”, she has neither the courage nor the maturity to say
“Actually, how bout I don’t, an how bout you get flung ‘hind yonder
bars till such times as I can see the rehabilitation risen on your
chest?”
Other side a those years spent dodgin the Top Dog an pushin laundry
carts up an down the corridors, mind, different kettle a Lady
Vengeance emerges, oh aye.
She’ll find you, y’rotten fuck, an more than this, she’ll kill you,
kill you till the very death is hangin off a your deathed-up
knuckles. For sure, it’s been a few years since she’s been in his
company, but most likely she’s seen Oldboy, she knows this
bastard’s yap like the back a her own gorgeous hands.
Because they are gorgeous.
Safe to say, The Priest, I could well be in love with Lady
Vengeance. She’s no Kirsten, but look at those eyes all awash wi
fathomless sadness, look at that smile hard won by way a years
spent weepin o’er the stash a sins piled up back the psyche. Look
at the way she says “How bout we have some filth” or similar, look
at how she walks wi all the elegance o’ Seraphim stirred by God’s
yawns.
If Sympathy For Lady Vengeance is as a colossal Cathedral towerin
o'er the shitty bus-stops a most Cinema De 2005, then on the
stained-glass roofways, stretched o’er the crest a the Altar, there
she is. Lady Vengeance herself, Yeong-ae Lee, among the most
beautiful creatures I’ve gazed upon since the time I lost my mind
an half a wrist-worth a body-weight in the pulsin savage purple
glow a the dyin Dublin summer.
An Chan-wook Park, he knows how blessed her steps are, an so he
fills the flick wi Catholic imagery, he has Lee painted in shades
unheard of this side a some Martyr hung on the walls a the Vatican
gallery.
So beautiful is Lady Vengeance, in fact, that a man could feasibly
overlook the demented invention goin’ on around her.
The first hour of Sympathy For Lady Vengeance, see, is a
freewheelin dizzy-flingin tapestry a cinematic tricks an trysts an
whiplash fizz. Kaleidoscopic mania every which way, a leg-bucklin
orgasm a filmic warlockery.
“Warlock!” The Priest says, “That was a fuckin amazin flick!”
That it was, The Priest, that it truly was. (And what of Warlock
Armageddon, wherein Julian Sands sprang full grown out a lady’s hoo-
hah right there on a car-seat?)
Chan-wook Park shits style, is what. He sits pon porcelain an cacks
effortless cool left an right. He pisses style. When he cracks one
off he sprays style out the maw a his man-pump. And yet, no empty
wank, no, that drippy dropped o’er tile rumbles wi substance, wi
Point.
Followin this ingeniously threaded collage o’ spasamin marvel,
these 60-odd minutes a purest spectacle, a final hour soaked in
uncertainty, misery an doubt.
What price, this here vengeance?
Hardly a fresh thought, that right there, but one Chan-wook Park’s
spent the best part o’ a decade frettin o’er, an so if anyone’s
gonna flick the switch an illuminate some area’s hitherto cowered
in the shadows, s’gonna be him, bet your last ball on that.
The price, it ain’t as immediately crushin as that paid by poor ol’
Oldboy, but it’s potentially just as soul-destroyin in the long
run, oh aye, when the fanfare’s passed an it’s standin in the snow
wonderin just how thin that line might be, the one separates
Avenger from He What Done Got Avenged On.
These notions of Justice bein served an such, but was it?
Thoughts fit to keep a fella kickin the duvet off an pullin it back
for weeks on end, Nietzsche an Spinoza flingin spite an rebuttal at
one another’s teeth o’er the bedposts.
“Sod your philosophical tooth-grind”, The Priest spits, “What about
the guts? How many guts get spilled?”
An considerin, how many indeed? Seems like guts musta been shat out
bellies every which way, but no, it’s all implied herein. Similar
sorta vibe as yon hallowed Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Can hardly
stand on my feet, sayin, surely the screen musta throbbed wi
innards?
But no.
A holy trinity! Sympathy For Mr Vengeance, Oldboy, Sympathy For
Lady Vengeance.
A holy trinity! Cinematic razzle-dazzle, violence, issues heavy as
night.
A holy trinity! Elation leadin to Discomfort leadin to Glorious
Exhaustion.
This is cinema, pointin at the frame, this is what those folks felt
when yonder train looked set to roll onto their pissed-o’er laps
way back when.
Chan-wook Park, he’s flingin trains at us every chance he gets.
Astonishment an terror an endless contemplation regardin what the
hell we just experienced.
An The Priest, he just shrugs. “I prefer Kitano.”
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Sign The Mondo Guestbook
