Recently, an independent film that was released directly through theaters without the help of a distributor wrapped up its run with a final audience count of 1,184. Whether you consider this many or few, it is dishearteningly low given the film's appeal. Other independent releases through various channels face similar struggles. Looking up audience figures for Korean independent films I've enjoyed in recent years reveals sobering numbers: 1,431, 1,385, 844, 698... This year, JEONJU International Film Festival received a record 1,510 entries for the Korean Competition for Shorts. To put it simply, Korean independent/short filmmaking has become an ecosystem where filmmakers outnumber viewers. I should correct myself: it has been this way for a long time. (The examples cited in this paragraph are mostly fictional, and any resemblance to actual cases is purely coincidental.)
These may be mere numbers, but they present a clear picture of our current landscape. Neither the claim that “creative democracy has flourished with many people participating in filmmaking” nor the opposing view that “only the talented few should make films” seems accurate. These numbers simply bring us back to contemplate the fundamental role of filmmaking. What drives someone to make a film? Why must this creative impulse find expression through cameras and microphones? Most importantly, what should a completed film share and communicate? In an environment where video production has become commonplace, our seven jury members found ourselves reevaluating the fundamental meaning of creating short films. Rather than offering a clumsy diagnosis of trends in the submitted films, we would like to highlight two contrasting dynamics where we observed certain compulsions and fears.
The first is the relationship between the camera-wielding 'I' and the world. Characters in many fiction films disconnect from social relationships, becoming absorbed in extremely private domains (family, lovers, lost memories), nervously severing connections with society, or choosing to blow them up entirely. Encountering strangers through film now seems increasingly difficult and unfamiliar. A considerable number of films focus on the filmmaking process and sites themselves rather than shaping social spaces, attempting to connect with others through videos and recordings around us rather than through direct engagement. This reveals both the sensibilities and certain fears of contemporary filmmakers, who seem safely confined within their familiar environments and spaces. In the same context, we find it concerning that the number of documentary submissions that patiently capture their subjects has decreased. The time devoted to research and waiting—observing others' lives and reflecting on the relationship between camera and subject—has diminished. Instead, there has been a marked increase in what might be called “essay-like” approaches that reconstruct seemingly unrelated historical materials through distinctive intellectual montage. While fascinated by the free-flowing thought systems and flexible forms these works present, we wonder if this trend stems from creators' compulsion and impatience to quickly translate their personal intuitions and interests into tangible short films.
The second is the relationship between completion and incompletion. Short films now regularly have substantial production budgets, professional crew, and recognizable actors. While the diversification of audiovisual elements in short films is certainly welcome, this technical standardization reflects something more than an internal change in film. Today's Korean short films are trapped within a circuit of film schools, production grants, film festival screenings, awards, jury reviews, and instant audience feedback. This system demands every work to function as a finished product. The environment where the path to becoming a mainstream filmmaker has narrowed to securing industry validation through acclaimed short films also plays a significant role in this system. In the rush to produce polished works and become accomplished directors, Korean short films seem to have forgotten their performative possibilities inherent in incompleteness and process. Short films should be a space of practice, where creators can present unique methodologies and rules despite unresolved narratives, imperfect filming and lighting, awkward performances and movements, or limited filming conditions. The jury found ourselves drawn to adventurous attempts that embraced creative possibilities even if their level of completion felt awkward and monotonous, rather than technically accomplished films that overlooked innovative possibilities.
We focused on works that break through these fears and compulsions surrounding 'Korean short films' in their own ways. With multiple jurors collaborating, we avoided creating a one-sided list. Nothing could be more antithetical to cinema than imposing a single perspective. In other words, the 30 films selected for this year's Korean Competition for Shorts represent our attempt to capture diverse approaches that explore the two dynamics as they negotiate, make compromises, and conduct discussion on the tensions between the camera-wielding filmmaker and the world, and between completion and incompletion. We extend our sincere gratitude and respect to everyone who submitted their work and contributed to these productions.
- Kim Byeonggyu, Kangyu Garam, Kim Bonyeon, Moon Hyein, Jeong Jihye, Choi Changhwan, Moon Seok
