Come Rain, Come Shine (Saranghanda, saranghaji anneunda)

South Korean extreme cinema was on a roll in the first couple of 21st-century decades, but it was not the sum of the nation’s output; in presumably deliberate contrast, Come Rain, Come Shine is an exaggeratedly quiet divorce drama.

A young unnamed couple are separating. We learn this in the long, long single hood-mounted shot that opens the film. She drops the news almost casually; his reaction is so non-existent that we wonder for a moment if we heard right. This sets us up for the film’s remarkably subdued tone. The rest plays out on rainy Sunday afternoon/evening, entirely in their handsome apartment, as they consider whether or not to go to dinner in the torrential rain, find a lost kitten, are visited by their neighbours looking for the same and, occasionally, discuss their impending break-up after five years of marriage.

He remains terminally okay about everything, carefully packing some china for her, suggesting she call her lover to arrange things. He admits to sharing blame for the end of their relationship; she calls that selfish. And that’s as pointed as it gets; they let it drop. For the rest, they wander slowly about their apartment, carefully make dinner, look out of windows, and suppress their emotions completely. One wonders why she is not mad that he is not mad, not trying to hold on to her. Apparently, he is used to her unwavering resolutions, so anger would change nothing; we learn little else about the past of their relationship, but it has clearly been a comfortable, possibly happy one, as they work together with the ease of habit in the kitchen, and converse with complete, intimate understanding.

The leads persuasively convey character and feeling with the minimal detail made available to them (Hyun was already a superhot star, and just about to start his marines conscription, Elvis-style). Their intimacy and peaceful interaction is itself enough to evoke the melancholy and mourning of a relationship’s end. When he finally cracks, it takes the form of complete inaction; downstairs she tells the kitten that everything will be alright, as though not just for the cat. We have no idea what her conception of alright may be in terms of her relationship, and from their comfort together we wonder if perhaps a divorce will not go ahead after all, but he has, apparently, been okay with her having a lover for some time, so no less probably not. Everything will be alright because it already has been.

Drama is removed: the film is a mood piece, concentrating on the actors’ baleful miens, fetishising their smart apartment, juxtaposing the gloom of the indrawing, rain-drenched evening with occasional (and more-or-less superfluous) shots of the same in bright morning sunlight. It’s a dangerous game to play; indie productions the world over founder everyday on an unexamined awe before slow-cinema. The understatement is almost fatal here, but the leads are quietly captivating (plus, both are gorgeous). Rhythm and pacing are seductive rather than soporific; and the camera is occasionally sinuous, but most importantly, beautifully captures the dim, bathetic light of a long wet Sunday afternoon, to imbue everything with a real feeling of melancholy and sad acceptance. Not quite satisfying, but improbably gripping.

d/sc Lee Yoon-ki p Oh Jung-Wan ph Jang Hyeong-wook ed Kim Hyeong-ju cast Hyun Bin, Lim Soo-jung

(2011, SKo, 105m)