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Towards 0%
"Despite the hordes of people packing the theatre that day, I can't remember a single face."
An extended meditation on the world of Korean cinema, the blockbuster versus the independent artist, its trends and its characters and role in society, seen through the eyes of a film enthusiast narrator and their interactions with those around them, each on their own journey.
An extended meditation on the world of Korean cinema, the blockbuster versus the independent artist, its trends and its characters and role in society, seen through the eyes of a film enthusiast narrator and their interactions with those around them, each on their own journey.
- GenresFictionShort Stories
36 pages, Paperback
Published July 31, 2023
About the author
Ije Seo
1 bookSeo Ije graduated from the Film Department of the Seoul Institute of the Arts. She received the New Writer’s Award in 2018 from Literature and Society journal for her story “Zen for Celluloid Film.”
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
December 10, 2023
Logline: a film's theme and plot should be easily summarised in a single sentence.
Whenever I heard this, I wanted to shout, If I could say it in words, I would've done so. Do you think if I could express what I wanted to say through words, that I would've made a film?
Towards 0% is Rachel Min Park's translation of 0%를 향하여, a story by 서이제 (Seo Ije).
This is part of the Iyagi (이야기) series from Strangers Press, eight brilliantly designed chapbooks, each featuring a short story of around 30 pages, showcasing the work of some of the most exciting Korean authors and translated by a wonderful panel, the series edited by Anton Hur (who also translates two of the books). See here for my reviews of all the books. Strangers Press also previously published a similar Yeoyu (여유): my reviews here.
The author graduated from the Film Department of the Seoul Institute of the Arts and film is a common theme in her works, this story, the title story of a longer collection, written to commerate the 100th anniversary of Korean cinema.
The story was written to commemerate the 100th anniversary of Korean cinema in 2019 and opens with the cinephile narrator lamenting that despite all of the celebrations, including Bong Joon-Ho's Palme d'Or with Parasite (which the reader knows is to the followed next year with Oscar glory) it both was and wasn't relavent to my own life ... tickets for Korean arthouse films hovered at around 1% of total sales and the sector remained challenged.
The story deftly cuts between the history of Korean cinema, the current arthouse scene and the narrator's own personal place within it.
The 단성사 theatre, built in 1907 and picture around 1920.
She still remembers her first cinema experience:
Despite the hordes of people packing the theatre that day, I can't remember a single face. Instead, what I remember are the walls, the ceilings, hallways, chairs... the speakers fixed to the walls, the drone of the projector. The light radiating. The motes of dust drifting through the light and dissipating throughout the darkened air. The dust, dancing. As I took in all these sights, I ate my popcorn and squid.
As well as her first in an arthouse cinema:
When I arrived at the building that housed the Daejeon Art Cinema, I hesitated. Its exterior looked utterly different to any of the movie theatres I had visited so far, to the extent that I kept questioning whether this was indeed an actual theatre and was I allowed to enter. Though it seemed more like a shabby café, the countless film posters pasted on the walls reassured me I had come to the right place. There was no smiling employee wearing a uniform to greet me, no pungent smell of popcorn saturating the air. And while there wasn't anything remotely resembling a box office from where I could purchase tickets, there was a person sitting behind a counter who was keeping their distance. Simultaneously interested and uninterested in me, treating me both like a guest and a stranger. This was peculiarly calming. I felt an odd sense of freedom.
After buying my ticket, the worker handed me a lap blanket, mentioning that I'd probably get chilly while watching the film; I'd already started shivering. I took my seat and the chair creaked underneath me. Even before the film started, I was already having fun. I was all alone in the theatre, and continued to be alone until just before the film started, when one other person entered. Then, together with this unknown person, I watched a film by an unknown director, starring an actor of whom I was previously unaware.
And although I'm not a film fan particularly, it's that latter experience, as well as the quote that opens my review, that resonated in terms of literary fiction and the role of small presses in promoting novels that can not be easily summarised in a sentence or via another medium. Indeed there's a quote I misremember as being from Milan Kundera (as I can not find it in the original source) that expresses the same sentiment on the art of the novel.
This story ends with the narrator watching a film created by an older lady who has been studying cinema:
There is light, and there is darkness. Darkness, then light. Light, darkness, light—colliding against each other on the walls. Whatever film is, whatever it signifies, it's probably best to quit, I think. To no longer dream of independence. There's no future... there's no future... there's no future. For how long would this voice repeat its chant inside my head? Could I endure it? Turning my head back I catch a glimpse of the old lady. Light. Darkness. Light, then darkness. It is late in the year and the night will pass. The night was passing.
어둠이 있고 빛이 있다. 빛, 빛, 어둠, 빛과 그림자가 벽에 부딪힌다. 영화. 아무래도 영화 같은 건, 그만두는 게 좋을 것이다. 독립 같은 건 꿈도 꾸지 않는 게 좋을 것이다. 미래가 없고 [……] 미래가 없고 [……] 미래가 없다. 나는 언제까지, 이 생각을 언제까지 지속시킬 수 있을까. 지속시킬 수 있을까. 고개를 돌려보니, 할머니가 보인다. 빛. 어둠. 빛. 어둠. 연말이었고, 그렇게 밤이 지나고 있었다. 계속. 밤은 지나고 있었다.
The last of the Iyagi series for me, and my favourite.
Whenever I heard this, I wanted to shout, If I could say it in words, I would've done so. Do you think if I could express what I wanted to say through words, that I would've made a film?
Towards 0% is Rachel Min Park's translation of 0%를 향하여, a story by 서이제 (Seo Ije).
This is part of the Iyagi (이야기) series from Strangers Press, eight brilliantly designed chapbooks, each featuring a short story of around 30 pages, showcasing the work of some of the most exciting Korean authors and translated by a wonderful panel, the series edited by Anton Hur (who also translates two of the books). See here for my reviews of all the books. Strangers Press also previously published a similar Yeoyu (여유): my reviews here.
The author graduated from the Film Department of the Seoul Institute of the Arts and film is a common theme in her works, this story, the title story of a longer collection, written to commerate the 100th anniversary of Korean cinema.
The story was written to commemerate the 100th anniversary of Korean cinema in 2019 and opens with the cinephile narrator lamenting that despite all of the celebrations, including Bong Joon-Ho's Palme d'Or with Parasite (which the reader knows is to the followed next year with Oscar glory) it both was and wasn't relavent to my own life ... tickets for Korean arthouse films hovered at around 1% of total sales and the sector remained challenged.
The story deftly cuts between the history of Korean cinema, the current arthouse scene and the narrator's own personal place within it.
The 단성사 theatre, built in 1907 and picture around 1920.
She still remembers her first cinema experience:
Despite the hordes of people packing the theatre that day, I can't remember a single face. Instead, what I remember are the walls, the ceilings, hallways, chairs... the speakers fixed to the walls, the drone of the projector. The light radiating. The motes of dust drifting through the light and dissipating throughout the darkened air. The dust, dancing. As I took in all these sights, I ate my popcorn and squid.
As well as her first in an arthouse cinema:
When I arrived at the building that housed the Daejeon Art Cinema, I hesitated. Its exterior looked utterly different to any of the movie theatres I had visited so far, to the extent that I kept questioning whether this was indeed an actual theatre and was I allowed to enter. Though it seemed more like a shabby café, the countless film posters pasted on the walls reassured me I had come to the right place. There was no smiling employee wearing a uniform to greet me, no pungent smell of popcorn saturating the air. And while there wasn't anything remotely resembling a box office from where I could purchase tickets, there was a person sitting behind a counter who was keeping their distance. Simultaneously interested and uninterested in me, treating me both like a guest and a stranger. This was peculiarly calming. I felt an odd sense of freedom.
After buying my ticket, the worker handed me a lap blanket, mentioning that I'd probably get chilly while watching the film; I'd already started shivering. I took my seat and the chair creaked underneath me. Even before the film started, I was already having fun. I was all alone in the theatre, and continued to be alone until just before the film started, when one other person entered. Then, together with this unknown person, I watched a film by an unknown director, starring an actor of whom I was previously unaware.
And although I'm not a film fan particularly, it's that latter experience, as well as the quote that opens my review, that resonated in terms of literary fiction and the role of small presses in promoting novels that can not be easily summarised in a sentence or via another medium. Indeed there's a quote I misremember as being from Milan Kundera (as I can not find it in the original source) that expresses the same sentiment on the art of the novel.
This story ends with the narrator watching a film created by an older lady who has been studying cinema:
There is light, and there is darkness. Darkness, then light. Light, darkness, light—colliding against each other on the walls. Whatever film is, whatever it signifies, it's probably best to quit, I think. To no longer dream of independence. There's no future... there's no future... there's no future. For how long would this voice repeat its chant inside my head? Could I endure it? Turning my head back I catch a glimpse of the old lady. Light. Darkness. Light, then darkness. It is late in the year and the night will pass. The night was passing.
어둠이 있고 빛이 있다. 빛, 빛, 어둠, 빛과 그림자가 벽에 부딪힌다. 영화. 아무래도 영화 같은 건, 그만두는 게 좋을 것이다. 독립 같은 건 꿈도 꾸지 않는 게 좋을 것이다. 미래가 없고 [……] 미래가 없고 [……] 미래가 없다. 나는 언제까지, 이 생각을 언제까지 지속시킬 수 있을까. 지속시킬 수 있을까. 고개를 돌려보니, 할머니가 보인다. 빛. 어둠. 빛. 어둠. 연말이었고, 그렇게 밤이 지나고 있었다. 계속. 밤은 지나고 있었다.
The last of the Iyagi series for me, and my favourite.
August 23, 2024
Näin humanistina ja kirjastolaisena tämä novelli puhutteli. Novellin kertoja suree indieleffakulttuurin ja -tuotannon alasajoa Hollywoodin kassamagneettien varjossa. Hän pohtii elokuvakoulutuksen moraalia, kun koulusta valmistuneita odottaa työttömyys tai suurtuotantojen ratakseksi joutuminen. Kenellä on enää rahaa käsikirjoittaa ja ohjata muita kuin supersankarielokuvia? Taideleffateatterit sulkeutuvat yksi toisensa perään, sillä katsojia ei enää ole. Surusta, muistoista ja kohtaamisista punottu tarina puhuu indie-elokuvien ja pienten leffateatterien puolesta. Mietin tietysti itse samaa kirjallisuuden ja kirjastojen näkökulmasta. Muuttuvatko kirjastojen kokoelmat vähitellen vain varatuimpien teosten nideläjiksi? Entä esimerkiksi runous, joka harvemmin on kirjaston lainatuinta tavaraa, mutta jolla on iso merkitys tähtitarhana, josta syntyy lisää sanoja, mielikuvia ja hetken välähdyksiä? Kuka pystyy nykyään elättämään itsensä kirjailijana? Tunkeeko markkinatalous myös kirjallisuuden ytimeen? Onko kirjan tärkein arvo sen myyntiarvo?
July 15, 2024
A quiet, yet powerful story that is bound to resonate with anyone working in cultural industries.
Towards 0% focuses strictly on the subject of native independent cinema in the era of the Hollywood blockbuster, but the sentiment could extend to any of the arts. This short book approaches conversations about art in the face of capitalism, and whether the world even allows to create art for art's sake. It presents the communities that for around this (the idea of audience's made up only of one's peers as they take turns watching one another's films because ~if they don't, then who will?~ rings true to life). What also rings true is the characters' struggle to choose one (art) or the other (money), or indeed, the struggle to stick to their choice once made. As the characters' must make their peace with the personal choice, the world outside them is much harsher when it comes to helping the artform stay afloat, and cultural value means little in the shadow of empty seats.
This made quite the impression on me and I can easily see myself rereading
Towards 0% focuses strictly on the subject of native independent cinema in the era of the Hollywood blockbuster, but the sentiment could extend to any of the arts. This short book approaches conversations about art in the face of capitalism, and whether the world even allows to create art for art's sake. It presents the communities that for around this (the idea of audience's made up only of one's peers as they take turns watching one another's films because ~if they don't, then who will?~ rings true to life). What also rings true is the characters' struggle to choose one (art) or the other (money), or indeed, the struggle to stick to their choice once made. As the characters' must make their peace with the personal choice, the world outside them is much harsher when it comes to helping the artform stay afloat, and cultural value means little in the shadow of empty seats.
This made quite the impression on me and I can easily see myself rereading
December 1, 2025
An ode to the movies, Independent cinema, to the longings and memories.
February 6, 2024
While Korean audiovisual production reaches every corner of the world this short story is immersed in the uncertainties of the indie cinema facing realism capitalism. I loved the raw, almost poetic prose, ethnographic not refined way of writing. Each small chapter contains a flash of the fascinating and delusional reality of how it is to make a living with indie movies, how it is to love movies to death and how it is to hate the capitalist cinema machine.
March 23, 2026
Devastating.
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews