Train To Busan - A Masterpiece of Social Commentary 20/08/18
I. An introduction
Train To Busan was one of the biggest box office successes in South Korea’s history, over 10 million people saw it. Key to it’s success is the film’s balance of high-grade, unadulterated action, and its sensitive, layered character work that personalises the unfolding drama through they eyes of a 10-year old girl who vies for the love of her father. These two sides of the coin belie a third: a searing social commentary that critiques the South Korean social hierarchy.
With the recent announcement of a sequel in the works, Filmosophy is taking a look at what made Train To Busan one of the greatest social commentaries of the 21st century, while simultaneously being a kinetic, edge-of-your-seat action film.
Seok-woo (Gong Yoo) is a workaholic fund manager and absentee father who in a rare act of attentiveness, agrees to take his young daughter Su-an (Kim Su-an) to see her mother in Busan. They board a train along with a pregnant couple, a young baseball team, a pair of elderly sisters, a PTSD suffering homeless man and a decidedly despicable executive named Yon-suk. Travelling with them on the high-speed train is a rapidly spreading virus that turns the passengers into rabid zombies.
The film is refreshing in its depiction of zombies, at a time when the genre not only felt tired, but unlikely to be reanimated at all. They’re fast, they pile over each other in the cramped space and the film’s set-pieces, when the train does on occasion stop, are breathtakingly inventive and truly scary.
The real genius of Train To Busan, however, is in its setting. The train provides a joint space for a socially diverse group from South Korean society, placing them on generally equal footing but via the separate carriages, a handy mechanism to - by chance, and sometimes intentionally - prevent mobility. In the context of a zombie apocalypse, to quote Brad Pitt from World War Z, “movement is life.”
Social hierarchy in South Korea is particularly complex and ruthless. Conformity and social expectations, place of birth, job, place of residence, accent, and clothing all factor into the endless judgement of status in the country, which rises from a complex web of history and development that has culminated in an autocratic, work-driven society that pays the majority of its workforce (with large numbers of ‘migrant labourers’ that are distinguished from ‘expats’ in another example of hierarchy) a severely low wage. In such a consumerist society, social mobility becomes a primary motivation, and in South Korea, according to Seoul based economics professor Ju Biung-ghi, the best way to get rich currently is to be born that way. “Inequality of opportunity will make it increasingly difficult for poor children to move up, which is expected to lead to more conflict between different social classes." The country has industrialised so quickly precisely because there is little chance of social mobility. Much like the separate carriages in the train, when someone shuts the door in your face there’s little chance of becoming anything other than one more drone in the horde of ignored working class people behind you.
This is at the heart of Train To Busan. Sure, it’s primary conflict (on a wider scale) is between human and zombie, but presented with nothing else it is an over-worn, boring concept. The conflict between characters is where the true drama lies, and where we can find damning statements about South Korea as it is now. To go into each interpersonal conflict would be dry and serve little purpose other than nailing excessively into a coffin that doesn’t need it, so I will look at a few key instances from the film to illustrate.
With the recent announcement of a sequel in the works, Filmosophy is taking a look at what made Train To Busan one of the greatest social commentaries of the 21st century, while simultaneously being a kinetic, edge-of-your-seat action film.
Seok-woo (Gong Yoo) is a workaholic fund manager and absentee father who in a rare act of attentiveness, agrees to take his young daughter Su-an (Kim Su-an) to see her mother in Busan. They board a train along with a pregnant couple, a young baseball team, a pair of elderly sisters, a PTSD suffering homeless man and a decidedly despicable executive named Yon-suk. Travelling with them on the high-speed train is a rapidly spreading virus that turns the passengers into rabid zombies.
The film is refreshing in its depiction of zombies, at a time when the genre not only felt tired, but unlikely to be reanimated at all. They’re fast, they pile over each other in the cramped space and the film’s set-pieces, when the train does on occasion stop, are breathtakingly inventive and truly scary.
The real genius of Train To Busan, however, is in its setting. The train provides a joint space for a socially diverse group from South Korean society, placing them on generally equal footing but via the separate carriages, a handy mechanism to - by chance, and sometimes intentionally - prevent mobility. In the context of a zombie apocalypse, to quote Brad Pitt from World War Z, “movement is life.”
Social hierarchy in South Korea is particularly complex and ruthless. Conformity and social expectations, place of birth, job, place of residence, accent, and clothing all factor into the endless judgement of status in the country, which rises from a complex web of history and development that has culminated in an autocratic, work-driven society that pays the majority of its workforce (with large numbers of ‘migrant labourers’ that are distinguished from ‘expats’ in another example of hierarchy) a severely low wage. In such a consumerist society, social mobility becomes a primary motivation, and in South Korea, according to Seoul based economics professor Ju Biung-ghi, the best way to get rich currently is to be born that way. “Inequality of opportunity will make it increasingly difficult for poor children to move up, which is expected to lead to more conflict between different social classes." The country has industrialised so quickly precisely because there is little chance of social mobility. Much like the separate carriages in the train, when someone shuts the door in your face there’s little chance of becoming anything other than one more drone in the horde of ignored working class people behind you.
This is at the heart of Train To Busan. Sure, it’s primary conflict (on a wider scale) is between human and zombie, but presented with nothing else it is an over-worn, boring concept. The conflict between characters is where the true drama lies, and where we can find damning statements about South Korea as it is now. To go into each interpersonal conflict would be dry and serve little purpose other than nailing excessively into a coffin that doesn’t need it, so I will look at a few key instances from the film to illustrate.
I. Corporate Greed and Power Dynamics
Yon-suk is perhaps the most obvious example, so we’ll begin there. Yon-suk represents the most odiously cruel aspects of the work-focused culture in South Korea. He is a man obsessed with saving himself, and despite the horrific situation never shies away from judging his fellow passengers based on their social status. He predictably acts in a selfish manner, causing the death of several people by sacrificing the wellbeing of those he deems ‘less’ than himself. In most films, we would perhaps see that Yon-suk represents corporate greed, and a selfishness that will be his downfall as we learn the lesson that looking after our fellow man is what is most important. Indeed, that lesson exists here too, alongside another, more sinister one. For it is in the reactions of the people around him that Yon-suk draws the bulk of his power.
When some survivors attempt to reach the carriage that Yon-suk and some crew members are taking refuge in, he forbids it, stating that they could be infected and that it’s too dangerous. Important to note here is that he does not actually act himself, but rather commands the crew of the train to act for him. This parallels a growing problem in South Korea where the media kowtows to government demands, and corporations hold the true power. The quick adoption of capitalism in the country’s post-fascist era has placed value and trust in corporations and business over all else, where they must be respected and seen to be infallible. In 2014 when a ferry overturned and killed 300 people, the media (following the government’s wishes) initially stated that everyone survived. It was only later after an investigation that the truth was found out: that the captain and crew had abandoned ship on lifeboats without passengers, and that the owners had overloaded the ferry to save costs. It was seen as a national tragedy.
When Yon-suk directs the train crew to lock the doors, he places his own value above all others, while the crew’s willingness to bend to his demands (as they do several times in the film) represents that complex, immoral connection government, media, and business have in South Korean society, one in which social status dictates the deference that must be shown towards those who ‘deserve’ it.
When some survivors attempt to reach the carriage that Yon-suk and some crew members are taking refuge in, he forbids it, stating that they could be infected and that it’s too dangerous. Important to note here is that he does not actually act himself, but rather commands the crew of the train to act for him. This parallels a growing problem in South Korea where the media kowtows to government demands, and corporations hold the true power. The quick adoption of capitalism in the country’s post-fascist era has placed value and trust in corporations and business over all else, where they must be respected and seen to be infallible. In 2014 when a ferry overturned and killed 300 people, the media (following the government’s wishes) initially stated that everyone survived. It was only later after an investigation that the truth was found out: that the captain and crew had abandoned ship on lifeboats without passengers, and that the owners had overloaded the ferry to save costs. It was seen as a national tragedy.
When Yon-suk directs the train crew to lock the doors, he places his own value above all others, while the crew’s willingness to bend to his demands (as they do several times in the film) represents that complex, immoral connection government, media, and business have in South Korean society, one in which social status dictates the deference that must be shown towards those who ‘deserve’ it.
II. Complicit Guilt and Culpability
Su-an’s father, Seok-woo, represents this too, in a different light. His character arc allows him to come to an understanding of himself, and his wrongdoings. He eventually realises that his daughter is the most important part of his life, after early-on in the film informing her to ‘only look after yourself’ in a statement that seemed ominously detached from her. He is not innocent, however. It is heavily implied in the film that he is indirectly responsible for the continued outbreak, through his greed when he is selling shares at the company that just had a chemical leak. Realising this, he breaks down and attempts to wash the blood off his hands that has come from zombies, who have become a manifestation of guilt and revenge for the deaths he is responsible for.
Like Yon-suk it is his corporate greed and desire to conform to rigid social expectations that causes his downfall, hurts others and places his daughter at risk. His is more of a complicit moral failing, than the direct evil actions of Yon-suk but these both stem from the same branch of society and director Yeon Sang-ho achieves an incredible feat of careful character development to differentiate between the two. They are objectively very different, we can see that Seok-woo is a decent person, but that is not enough to absolve one from the guilt and responsibility of being complicit in behaviour that ignores all social responsibility to your fellow human. The distinction is an important one, on a narrative level and morally speaking.
Like Yon-suk it is his corporate greed and desire to conform to rigid social expectations that causes his downfall, hurts others and places his daughter at risk. His is more of a complicit moral failing, than the direct evil actions of Yon-suk but these both stem from the same branch of society and director Yeon Sang-ho achieves an incredible feat of careful character development to differentiate between the two. They are objectively very different, we can see that Seok-woo is a decent person, but that is not enough to absolve one from the guilt and responsibility of being complicit in behaviour that ignores all social responsibility to your fellow human. The distinction is an important one, on a narrative level and morally speaking.
III. The Working Class and Social Responsibility
While greed and disregard for others are prevalent in Train To Busan, the film is also full of people who understand their social responsibility and work to help others. The pregnant couple stand as moral compasses in the film, representing the height of guidance for Su-an, who witnesses developments with watchful eyes. The couple - Sang-hwa and Seong-kyeong- are tough and working class, who understand the dynamics at work and have an empathy for those around them that need it. Sang-hwa gives his life for the good of the group, and acts like this are consistently rewarded in the film with positive results. For Su-an, they initially act as surrogates until Seok-woo steps up to the plate. Seong-kyeong prevails in the end, a narrative reward for the selfless actions of her partner. The film supports their view of the world, and gives them a strong voice as they stand in direct opposition to impersonal, socially irresponsible greed.
Their actions throughout the film, as well as saving themselves, are also generally for the greater good of the group as a whole. Yeon Sang-ho places them in situations where their actions naturally benefit more people than themselves, and their ferocity (especially Sang-hwa) is presented as courageous and is wonderful to watch.
Their actions throughout the film, as well as saving themselves, are also generally for the greater good of the group as a whole. Yeon Sang-ho places them in situations where their actions naturally benefit more people than themselves, and their ferocity (especially Sang-hwa) is presented as courageous and is wonderful to watch.
IV. Rapid Industrialisation and the Elderly
Linked, though not explicitly, to this consumer culture is the treatment of the elderly sisters. They are often left to their own devices, never much of a concern to anyone as they also struggle to survive. Their dependency on each other, and their companionship is an endearing part of the film until the death of one of them. The surviving sister commits suicide, surrendering herself to the horde behind them.
It is at this point we realise they are companions because they have no one else. South Korea is on track to have the highest life expectancy in the world by 2030, with women expected to live, on average, to 90 years old. Their elderly workforce now exceeds their younger one, but contrary to all of this, almost half of all pensioners in South Korea live in poverty. 25% live alone. In 10 years the suicide rate amongst retirees has doubled. All of this according to surveys by the OECD. The rapid industrialisation of South Korea has exploded their population, in part because life expectancy has increased so dramatically and with such speed, but they have neither the infrastructure, nor the job availability to allow the elderly to live out-with poverty.
This problem has not gone unnoticed (especially in Train To Busan) however it has been pushed to the margins in South Korean society, which has become more and more polarised over time. Traditionally, observing Confucian ethics would suggest that the younger generations look after their elders as Japan currently does, but the changes in South Korea have happened so quickly that this is not the case, and the welfare state is simply unable to cope as it was formed at a time when these ethics were more prominent; the need for welfare was seen as low on the list of priorities. Part of this is because of the economic polarisation that has occurred, embodied by the working class Sang-hwa and Seong-kyeong and the rich Yon-suk.
Contrasted to the concern placed on the well-being of the young Su-an, and the tragedy of the deaths of the young baseball team members, the deaths of the sisters, while sad, are understood in the film as simply something that happened. It made sense for the elderly woman to follow her sister, since she was now alone and Yeon Sang-ho paints a sombre portrait of a society (represented by those in the carriage) that would rather this happened to the elderly ladies than having to focus on helping them. Key to the film’s masterful quality of it’s social commentary, Yeon does not pass judgement here, presenting us with myriad reasons that South Korean society does this.
It is at this point we realise they are companions because they have no one else. South Korea is on track to have the highest life expectancy in the world by 2030, with women expected to live, on average, to 90 years old. Their elderly workforce now exceeds their younger one, but contrary to all of this, almost half of all pensioners in South Korea live in poverty. 25% live alone. In 10 years the suicide rate amongst retirees has doubled. All of this according to surveys by the OECD. The rapid industrialisation of South Korea has exploded their population, in part because life expectancy has increased so dramatically and with such speed, but they have neither the infrastructure, nor the job availability to allow the elderly to live out-with poverty.
This problem has not gone unnoticed (especially in Train To Busan) however it has been pushed to the margins in South Korean society, which has become more and more polarised over time. Traditionally, observing Confucian ethics would suggest that the younger generations look after their elders as Japan currently does, but the changes in South Korea have happened so quickly that this is not the case, and the welfare state is simply unable to cope as it was formed at a time when these ethics were more prominent; the need for welfare was seen as low on the list of priorities. Part of this is because of the economic polarisation that has occurred, embodied by the working class Sang-hwa and Seong-kyeong and the rich Yon-suk.
Contrasted to the concern placed on the well-being of the young Su-an, and the tragedy of the deaths of the young baseball team members, the deaths of the sisters, while sad, are understood in the film as simply something that happened. It made sense for the elderly woman to follow her sister, since she was now alone and Yeon Sang-ho paints a sombre portrait of a society (represented by those in the carriage) that would rather this happened to the elderly ladies than having to focus on helping them. Key to the film’s masterful quality of it’s social commentary, Yeon does not pass judgement here, presenting us with myriad reasons that South Korean society does this.
VI. Social Obligations and the Youth
The young also suffer in the film but instead of being an economic burden they suffer through love and the expectations of love that are prevalent in South Korea. Pressure to marry in South Korea is huge, and is a prominent social norm and example of status. The better you can marry, the better you are. Companies exist to find marriage partners, and the more you can pay, the richer (and more socially acceptable) your matches will be. Predictably, the older you are, the more you have to pay, especially amongst women. At a certain transitional stage then, young love becomes not just a desire, but a social obligation for you and your family. This is embodied in the film by Yong-guk and Jin-hee, two young lovers who find themselves at the mercy of that obligation, metaphorically speaking.
Perhaps this one is a bit of a stretch, but I still believe it worth mentioning for a comprehensive analysis. Sacrificed by Yon-suk to save himself, Jin-hee is bitten and a heartbroken Yong-guk stays with her, until he himself is bitten. The obligation young people feel to marry in time is exemplified by the young couple remaining with each other, to both of their destructions.
Perhaps this one is a bit of a stretch, but I still believe it worth mentioning for a comprehensive analysis. Sacrificed by Yon-suk to save himself, Jin-hee is bitten and a heartbroken Yong-guk stays with her, until he himself is bitten. The obligation young people feel to marry in time is exemplified by the young couple remaining with each other, to both of their destructions.
VII. So What's Next?
But it’s not all bad news. Guidebooks have been published for women choosing to live single in South Korea, and the younger generations are increasingly pushing back against social expectations. South Korea can be a wonderful place to live, with one of the best public transport services in the world. With a sequel to Train To Busan to begin production soon, perhaps Peninsula will investigate this trend amongst young people more. My analysis of the youth in the film is unfinished, and perhaps inaccurate. If there is any demographic that benefits from further understanding in society, and in film, it is the younger generations. Culture is generally changed by them (or us, I suppose, though I feel further and further away from being young every day) and an understanding, from an empathetic point of view, of how and why it is changing helps us all to better predict the future, and better prepare from it. Many of the problems identified here with South Korean society seem to have, in part, arisen from a fast-changing socio-cultural and socio-economic situation, and perhaps with better foresight and preparedness they would not have been so pronounced.
Further, I should point out I am by no means an expert, or even a valid voice on the state of South Korean society. What I have read - though I try always to read broadly and fairly, using reputable, (generally) unbiased sources - has inflected what I've written, but the film wears it's heart on its sleeve and I'd be very interested in other readings of it, if anyone has any or can point me to any.
Yeon Sang-ho crafted a film as nuanced and subtle as the great works of Ken Loach or Mike Leigh in its unflinching, yet deftly hidden critique of South Korean society. As well as being a balls-to-the-wall action-horror, Train To Busan is equally an intimate and sensitive character drama, and searing social commentary. Lastly, the film features a star-turning, jaw-dropping, tear-shedding performance from the young Kim Su-an as Su-an which surely deserved more award recognition than it has done. Her final scene, approaching soldiers with Seong-kyeong is heartbreakingly sad.
Give me that sequel!
by Jack Buchanan
Further, I should point out I am by no means an expert, or even a valid voice on the state of South Korean society. What I have read - though I try always to read broadly and fairly, using reputable, (generally) unbiased sources - has inflected what I've written, but the film wears it's heart on its sleeve and I'd be very interested in other readings of it, if anyone has any or can point me to any.
Yeon Sang-ho crafted a film as nuanced and subtle as the great works of Ken Loach or Mike Leigh in its unflinching, yet deftly hidden critique of South Korean society. As well as being a balls-to-the-wall action-horror, Train To Busan is equally an intimate and sensitive character drama, and searing social commentary. Lastly, the film features a star-turning, jaw-dropping, tear-shedding performance from the young Kim Su-an as Su-an which surely deserved more award recognition than it has done. Her final scene, approaching soldiers with Seong-kyeong is heartbreakingly sad.
Give me that sequel!
by Jack Buchanan
