Courtesy of Netflix

Korea is a country of revenge. A country of scars. Resentment. Hatred. Love. Resilience. Triumph and tragedy in equal measure. Never more has this idea been more evident to me than today: March 1st. One hundred and six years ago, the people of this land voiced their desire to be free from the oppressive rule of a foreign colonial force. They raised their flags. Shouted in unison. And demanded what was rightfully theirs. It was the voice of the oppressed. That history is still alive today, breathing, in the politics, the media, the art, and the soju-soaked conversations of dive bars from Cheongnyangni to Changwon. It's a voice that should resonate with many around the world, from Gaza to Donetsk .

Perhaps one of the best ways to understand Korea's attitude towards revenge is through the stories it has told itself. How it has best tried to communicate this most destructive of human emotions. The West had Hamlet and all that befell the Shakespearean prince in his quest for retribution. It had the Bible and the command that vengeance was the Lord's and not right for humans of this earth. Later, Hollywood would create a series of Revengeamatics: "The Searchers" starring John Wayne, Charles Bronson's "Death Wish," "Taxi Driver," "Rolling Thunder," "Hardcore" and basically much of Tarantino's recent output, from Jews killing Hitler in "Inglorious Basterds" to slaves killing their masters in "Django Unchained." In Korea, there's the early work Park Chan-wook.

Here vengeance runs through the lives of the downtrodden, mixed with Confucian ideals of duty, retribution, and familial honor. "Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance" (2002), the first film in Park's revenge trilogy, is a tragedy in the purest sense — one that unfolds like a Shakespearean bloodbath, but stripped of soliloquies and instead told through cinematography, cathartic violence, and an unrelenting sense of moral ambiguity.

The silence of the unheard

Ryu, the deaf protagonist, is the film's mute Cassandra, doomed from the start. The moral conscience who predicts ill to come and warns that punishment will follow and grief arise. His disability is not just a plot device — it's a metaphor. Korean society, particularly in the 80s and 90s, often ignored those on the margins: the deaf, the disabled, the poor, the radicals, the ones who didn't fit the rigid mold of success. Park returns to this trope across his films, as does Bong Joon-ho ("Memories of Murder," "Mother"). It's the voiceless who suffer most, who resort to desperate measures, and who, in the end, remain unheard even in their own destruction. Ryu's green hair is a wonderful touch, too. You can't ignore him even if you want to. Bong repeated this trope by giving Song Kang-ho's character of Gang-du blonde hair in "The Host." "Squid Game" tried it with Lee Jung-jae's bright red hair, but that felt far more gimmicky in comparison and was quickly abandoned in embarrassment.

A point worth emphasizing is that directors like Park and Bong have been speaking of these people, their lives, and their tragedies in powerful ways for a long time. They have warned us of the dangers of socio-political inequality. They have crafted terrifyingly beautiful visions of what lurks beneath. And yet we have ignored them. We continue to worship idols. We watch "Parasite," admire its message, and then retreat to our Instagram reels and 8-dollar coffees. And the more time you spend in Park and Bong's earlier work, the more you realize how their recent films, unlike Tarantino's perhaps, have been toned down. Sanitized and cleaned. The oppressed have been given a bath. Made likeable. Pretty, almost. The physical and mental disabilities have largely disappeared. In their early movies, however, they lurch and jolt, stare at the screen with their mouths open, their eyes shooting off in different directions. They are what you watch, whether you want to or not.

Anarchist's tragedy

The story of "Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance" unfolds in an era overshadowed by the failed dreams of Korea's left and the minjung movement's longing for a better nation — one free from capitalism, rooted in the traditional values of pre-modern Korea. A time when the sun rose over harvested rice fields, songs filled the air, women were married off, and as night fell, stories of dragons and tigers were passed down. But instead of realizing these dreams, they are met with a world of exploitation — made even harsher by the fact that wealth and success are now painfully visible, no longer hidden behind palace walls.

Ryu's girlfriend, Cha Yeong-mi, is part of an underground radical group. Their ideology is simple: dismantle American influence, abolish the chaebols, create an egalitarian society. Yet, in Park's world, ideology is powerless in the face of human desperation. Money — or the lack thereof — drives every decision. Medical bills, factory layoffs, the gap between rich and poor. Capitalism doesn't just breed injustice; it kills. The policeman needs money for his dying child. The company president is divorced and sent into a spiral of murder and bankruptcy. And in the end? Those who survive? In this movie, it's the cigarette smokers. Only those who have seen it will understand. And then the discussion can be had about what Park's message was.

What is undeniable, however, is how effortlessly magnetic Bae Doona is. Raw. Revolutionary. Without bra. Chain smoking, manifesto writing, and perpetually pouting. Her performance here is pure cinema, pure sex. Korean film has rarely seen something has hot as this. Kim Hye-soo's Madam Jung in Choi Dong Hoon's 2006 "Tazza" is one of the few that comes close.

Poetry and humor in Stillness

There's an art to Park's cinematography that sets him apart. Each shot is composed with such confidence that dialogue becomes secondary. It even becomes like a silent movie at times with the appearance of Chaplin-esque titles instead of words. Park lingers, forcing the audience to look — to really look — at what is happening. The framing is stark. It doesn't move unnecessarily. It imprints itself like a Rorschach test, revealing something different to every viewer. Language becomes irrelevant; subtitles unnecessary. The violence, the sorrow, the humor — it is all seen, not told.

And no guns. That's what makes it terrifying. The knives, scalpels, the quiet brutality of physical confrontation. Violence is never distant in "Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance"; it is always intimate, always personal. When the final scene plays out — underwater, unseen, and then revealed — it is almost unbearable. The mere suggestion of what is happening is enough to make one's stomach turn. This is Park's genius: the ability to force his audience into a visceral reaction without ever resorting to spectacle. This is revenge at its rawest, revenge as a sensory experience. A mile away from the explosions and rocket launchers of Hollywood blockbusters, but far more effective.

But don't ignore the comedy. The film is funny. Genuine, unexpected humor laced through the grotesque. Park turns up the comedic dial later in "I'm a Cyborg, But That's OK," but even here, amidst the bleakness, there are moments that make you chuckle before yanking you back into despair. It's the dissonance, the lurch between laughter and horror, that makes the film all the more unsettling. A reminder that tragedy and comedy are often inseparable.

The pre-Korean wave masterpiece

This film predates the Hallyu explosion, before K-pop idols were international icons, before K-dramas commodified mental health struggles for mass appeal. "Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance" existed in an era when Korean cinema was still underground to much of the world, when Park wasn't yet a global auteur. And yet, watching it today, it feels prophetic. The moon villages, the city's hidden corners, the economic disparity, the anarchist ideology — so much of what was depicted in 2002 remains relevant, if not more so, today. There are no heroes, no lessons, no moral takeaways. Just the lingering question: Who is the victim when everyone is a criminal?

Park Chan-wook quite simply does not f**k around.

David A. Tizzard has a doctorate in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social-cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the "Korea Deconstructed" podcast, which can be found online. He can be reached at datizzard@swu.ac.kr.