A:Excuse me. I’d like to exchange this suit.

B:What’s wrong with it?

A:I bought it for my friend, but it’s too small.

B:OK. I’ll exchange it.

A:실례합니다. 이 양복을 교환하고 싶습니다.

B:무슨 문제라도 있나요?

A:친구를 위해 샀는데, 너무 작아서요.

B:알겠습니다. 교환해 드리겠습니다.

백 화점 등에서 물건을 교환하고자 할 때 사용하는 표현입니다. Can I exchange this?라고 하면 ‘이 물건을 교환할 수 있나요?’라는 표현이 됩니다. Suit는 ‘정장’을 말하죠. “다른 사이즈로 바꿔도 됩니까?’라고 물으려면 May I change the size?라고 합니다. 미국에서는 우리나라와 달리 백화점이나 일반 옷 가게에서 산 물건이 맘에 들지 않거나, 사이즈가 맞지 않는 경우, 영수증만 있으면 쉽게 교환이나 환불이 가능합니다. 하지만 영수증이 없으면 아무리 좀 전에 산 물건이라도 교환이 안 된다는 것 알아두세요.

Source:Segye

The Joseon Dynasty palace is divided into parts, like the chambers of a heart. One part belongs to the women (Gungnyeo, meaning “palace woman,” is the Korean title of the film). Sworn into secrecy, submission, and celibacy, the women of the palace officially devote their lives to the well-being of the king and his young heir. Behind closed doors, of course, the dynamics are much more complicated.

Shadows in the Palace is the debut work of writer/director Kim Mee-jeung, who served on the production team of King and the Clown and Once Upon a Time in a Battlefield. Shooting on a comparatively low budget using pre-existing sets from King and the Clown and other productions (not that you can tell: the imagery is dazzling), the film can be considered a fusion of genres: part costume drama, part mystery, part J-Horror.

Shadows in the Palace Keeping track of all the names and plot twists is a challenge, but here is a plot summary: the king (who rarely appears onscreen) has no heir by his queen, however a royal concubine Heebin has given birth to a son. The queen mother is pushing to have the child officially adopted by the queen, but Heebin resists, correctly sensing that she could be easily disposed of after the adoption. Amidst this tense standoff, Heebin’s most trusted maid is found dead, a suicide. Or was it? Chun-ryung, a royal medic, discovers that she was actually strangled. What’s more, there are signs that the maid had given birth at some time in the past, which would have been absolutely forbidden under palace rules. Ignoring orders to wrap up the case quickly, Chun-ryung sets off in search of answers.

Aside from its almost completely female cast, Shadows was also crafted primarily by women, including the director, producer, and executive producer. (The film was shot apparently with none of the late-night drinking that characterizes the sets of many male-directed Korean films) However viewers expecting a kinder, gentler movie are due for an awakening — Shadows contains medieval cruelty to rival any of its genre contemporaries (pulled fingernails, needles in flesh, severed hands). The violence underlines the cruelty of a system where the women and their bodies are mere cogs in a wheel. The psychological toll can be seen on the women’s faces — even for those few who manage to claw their way to the top.

The wide cast of characters, most of whom are well-known but not stars in Korea, contain an equally wide spectrum of performances. Most prominent is Park Jin-hee (Love Talk) in the lead role of Chun-ryung. I’m a fan of Park’s straightforward, accessible style, though here I wonder if she may have been miscast. Chun-ryung’s internal drive — her need to know the truth, even if it puts her in danger — is the film’s key narrative engine, but here I found it not quite convincing. Still, many of the other performances are quite effective, especially Kim Seong-ryeong (pictured above) as a fearsome supervisor who has adopted completely the ruthless strictures of palace discipline.

Shadows moves at a fast clip, and as it progresses towards its conclusion,, the fantasy/horror elements that were merely hinted at earlier begin to creep out of the closet (and yes, there is long black hair). At the same time, though, the film’s broader themes regarding oppression and power begin to come into focus. I’m particularly fond of the last scene, with the palace women all dressed in white mourning robes, witnessing power being taken up by a new set of hands. We’ve been led to believe that the strict set of rules which govern the palace are an insurmountable force, but events may tell us otherwise.

It may not be possible to ever completely understand what life was like for people who lived in centuries past, given the lack of records and the vast cultural gap between our era and theirs. Films set in the past usually end up telling us more about contemporary society than about the era on the screen. But is there anything wrong with that? Cinema is an act of imagination, and setting a film in a little-understood historical setting allows room for the imagination to extend itself. More than anything, it’s the conceptual energy and narrative momentum of Shadows in the Palace that makes it an exciting discovery among this year’s Korean films.

Source:Koreanfilm

A:Excuse me sir. Can I get a ticket to Las Vegas?

B:Yes, ma’am. How may I help you?

A:I’d like to get a round trip ticket to Las Vegas. What time is there a train to Las Vegas?

B:Every hour on the hour. But we sold out for today.

A:실례합니다. 여기서 라스베이거스행 표를 살 수 있나요?

B:네, 무엇을 도와드릴까요?

A:라스베이거스행 왕복표를 구하고 싶은데요. 몇 시에 열차가 있나요?

B:매시 정각에 있습니다. 하지만, 오늘은 매진입니다.

오 늘은 “∼행 왕복표를 구하고 싶은데요”라는 표현을 공부하도록 하겠습니다. 여기서 ‘round way ticket’은 왕복표를 말하며, 편도표는 ‘One-way ticket’이라고 합니다. 한편 ‘sold out’라고 하면 ‘(표가) 다 팔렸다. 매진이다’라는 표현입니다. ‘Every hour on the hour(매시 정각)’의 표현도 기억하십시오.

Source:Segye

Do-man is a low-ranking traffic cop with an unusual personality. Soft-spoken and seemingly a bit shy, he is nonetheless unbending when it comes to rules and the law. His quiet stubbornness makes him the butt of other officers’ jokes. Occasionally it also gets him into trouble, as when he pulls over his new boss, the newly instated police chief Lee Seung-woo, and issues him a ticket.

The police chief, played here by the dependable character actor Son Byeong-ho, is surprised and a bit annoyed at the unexpected fine. But he has other things to worry about at the moment. The town of Sampo is in a panic over a string of bank robberies, and as a means of reassuring them, he decides to carry out a highly realistic drill to demonstrate the police force’s professionalism and resolve. Officers will be stationed throughout the city, and without warning, someone pretending to be a bank robber will stage a holdup, taking hostages if necessary. The chief announces the plan, and then later in secret, he tells Do-man that he is to act as the bank robber.

Going by the Book The chief may have been chuckling to himself at the irony of having a man so committed to obeying the law play the part of a criminal. But for Do-man, this is no laughing matter. Devoting himself to the task at hand with his usual fastidious attention to detail, he prepares to commit the perfect crime.

Filmmaker/playwright Jang Jin has carved out a niche all his own in the film industry these past several years, and although he participates on Going By the Book as a screenwriter and producer — not a director — his contribution is unmistakable. His comedy is both character-based and situational at the same time, or in this case, it is the clash between Do-man’s endearingly subdued character and the outrageous situation that he finds himself in that gives the film its biggest laughs.

Director Ra Hee-chan, like Welcome to Dongmakgol director Park Kwang-hyun before him, worked as an assistant director under Jang before making his debut with one of his mentor’s scripts. Ra displays less of a personal style than Park, and Korean critics have questioned his sense of comic pacing (sadly, the film’s biggest weakness), but he still managed to turn the film into a solid commercial hit of 2.2 million admissions. Indeed, the film considerably outperformed Jang’s own feature My Son, released earlier in the year (which is admittedly one of his lesser works).

Any review of this film would be incomplete without mentioning the performance of longtime Jang collaborator Jung Jae-young in the role of Do-man. Although he was best known earlier in his career for playing slightly unhinged, violent characters as in No Blood No Tears or Silmido, he has since proven himself in films like the wonderful Someone Special (2004) to have a much wider emotional range. Do-man is a man who does not express his emotions very clearly (if at all). Jung is able, with mumbled sentences and a deer-in-the-headlights stare, to make him appealing and memorable, and in that sense he is a major contributor to this film’s success.

Source:Koreanfilm

A:See Dongsu, then go to the club…

B:Can you speak up a little, please?

A:Oh, no, it’s nothing. I was just talking to myself.

A:동수를 만나서 클럽에 가서….

B:좀 크게 말씀해 주시겠어요?

A:아, 아니에요, 아무것도 아니에요. 그냥 혼잣말 한 거예요.

A:Uh… Er, could I borrow some money?

B:Sorry, but can you speak up a little, please?

A:Uh, never mind. It’s nothing, really.

A:어…. 저기요, 돈 좀 빌릴 수 있을까요?

B:죄송한데, 좀 크게 말씀해 주시겠어요?

A:아, 신경 쓰지 마세요. 아무 일 아니에요, 정말이에요.

상 대방의 목소리가 너무 작거나 주변이 시끄러울 때 ‘좀 더 크게 말씀해 주실래요?’라는 뜻으로 Can you speak up a little, please? 혹은 Can you speak a little louder?라고 말한다. 대화할 때 다시 말해 달라고 하거나 더 크게 말해 달라고 요구하는 것은 전혀 부끄러운 일이 아니다. 필요하다면 주저하지 말고 요청하도록 하자.

Source:Segye

I don’t require a film to be completely inspiring and profound. I prefer it to be, but when a film provides a lackluster or non-existent impact, I encourage myself to see what significance might remain for the film in the course of a review rather than focus exclusively on the critical slam. That prefaced, Resurrection of the Butterfly requires that I look for something flickering on the screen outside of entertainment and/or enlightenment value.

Competing in competition at the 11th PiFan, Resurrection of the Butterfly (the Korean title translates as “Shadow”) was a project coupling a student director (Kim Min-sook) with a more experienced director (Lee Jung-gook). This is something to salvage from the film. I would encourage more such projects regardless of the less than succulent fruits born of this particular seedling.

Resurrection of the Butterfly The film connects the three primary actors through roles across two stories of similar love triangles, one taking place well in the past and the other taking place in the present. Director Kim’s story works off the historical character of Non-gae, a kisaeng known for remaining loyal to the Joseon dynasty by killing the Japanese commander who conquers her village rather than transferring her services as a prostitute/performer to the Japanese. (There is a shrine to her near Chokseongnu called “Uiam” or “the rock of righteousness.”) Liberties are taken with this historical character’s story that might upset the purists in the audience, but no claim is made by director Kim to be revisioning the history, in that she doesn’t seek to claim her vision as truth. This is merely speculative history, a ‘what if’ scenario to play out the possibilities if Non-gae had failed to kill the Japanese commander. In this version, Non-gae still remains within the spirit of her legend by becoming a spirit, one that haunts the Japanese commander.

The second story, overseen by director Lee, finds a man whose head injury limits his recall into the events that preceded his appearance deep into the mountains, where a mountain ranger has found him. Only a diary leads to clues about who this man is and what he’s done. We discover from the diary that he was brought to the mountains with his girlfriend, a botany enthusiast, in search of a rare plant. On this journey they stumbled along the path of a young guide. As the story unfolds, we begin to question this man’s position in this story relayed in the diary.

Ironically, it is the student’s first half that shows greater promise than the veteran’s second half. Veteran director Lee happens to have directed what is perhaps my least favorite of all South Korean films, The Letter. What I found unpalatable about The Letter was the excruciatingly drawn out, and falsely felt, melodramatic emotions. I understand that Korean culture allows for a greater expression of sadness, loss, and grief. (And I understand my opinion about The Letter is at odds with the audience that made it the most popular South Korean film in 1997.) What in the West we might determine overzealous might be more acceptable emoting in South Korea. But several South Korean directors and actresses/actors are still able to take this ‘excess’ of express and allow even the most cynical of viewers to find such expressions believable. Director Lee demonstrates in his half of this project that he still can’t handle the truth of these extended emotions in the incredibly poor way the wounded hiker’s terror is presented in the second half of this film under his control.

My impression of Resurrection of the Butterfly may have been affected by the poor audio and visuals of the screening I attended at PiFan that was noted by, if I recall correctly, producer Byun Jang-wan. But I don’t think even better sound and clearer and more vibrant colors could have saved this film. I commend the idea of coupling a neophyte with a veteran and don’t find myself turning away from hope for better things from student director Kim Min-sook just yet. (I hear she directed a very compelling short called “Apple” of which others speak highly.) But director Lee Jung-gook’s half further demonstrates that his cinematic letters are ones I’d best leave unopened, if not have returned to sender. (Hey, I didn’t say I don’t submit critical slams, I only said I don’t like to center on them exclusively.)

Source:Koreanfilm

A:Yesterday I had grilled eel. It was so tasty.

B:Eel? How do you spell that?

A:E-E-L. I’s a kind of fish.

A:어제 장어구이를 먹었어요. 정말 맛있더라고요.

B:장어요? 그거 철자가 어떻게 돼요?

A:E-E-L요. 생선의 일종이에요.

A:Would you tell him that Mr. Dunlevy called?

B:Sure. How do you spell that, please?

A:그분에게 던레비씨가 전화했었다고 전해주시겠어요?

B:그러죠. 그런데 철자가 어떻게 되나요?

영 어로 대화하다 보면 어떤 단어는 몇 번을 들어도 잘 들리지 않는다. 이럴 때는 “How do you spell that, please?”를 이용해 그 단어의 철자를 물어서 확인해 보는 것이 좋다. 몇몇 단어의 경우, 우리가 알고 있는 발음과 실제 북미나 영국에서 통용되는 발음이 크게 다르기 때문이다. milk, margarine, film 등 한국인의 귀를 속이기 쉬운 단어들은 평소에 그 발음을 확인해 두는 것도 좋은 방법이다.

Source:Segye

Looks like in the case of my experience with the films of Hur Jin-ho, the fourth time’s a charm. Rather than rehash what has kept me from fully embracing Hur Jin-ho’s films, I’ll just refer you to my review of his third film, the Yonsama vehicle April Snow, where I summarize my ethical battles with his narratives. I am happy to say Happiness has appeared to have tossed that tarnishing trope aside and I can now relinquish the ethical axe that too many narratives force me to grind. Whether or not this excision was conscious on Hur’s part, I thank him anyway, because now I can join hands with the joy and despair that is a walk in Hur’s characters’ shoes rather than part ways along irreconcilable political paths.

Happiness Young-su (Hwang Jeong-min) works in a nightclub. Exactly what he does is never clear, but he is obviously dissatisfied with his work and relationships. We witness him lie to a woman who appears to be his girlfriend with a story about going abroad. He gives the same story to his mother. (Bringing up another major change in a Hur film, this is his first main male character with a present mother. In this case, the son’s the absent one.) Yet Young-su doesn’t head abroad, but to a health community of some kind nestled somewhere in a South Korean village where those with terminal illnesses go in hopes to diet, stretch and laugh their illnesses away. Taking his nightclub work home with him, Young-su’s drinking has resulted in his acquiring cirrhosis of the liver. (One of the nice subtle beats of humor is struck by Hur having one of Young-su’s fellow stricken campers refer to Young-su not by his given name, but by his given illness, “Good Morning, Cirrhosis!”)

It is at this recuperation center that Young-su meets and loves and . . . (well, you’ll see) the lung-disease-stricken Eun-hee (Lim Soo-jung) in the go-away, come-here, rinse and repeat way that we have come to expect of Hur’s characters. Although not at the expert levels of Christmas in August and One Fine Spring Day, the romance is still patiently developed and you will find yourself resonating with the film’s title and dissonating just as strongly as Hur’s ironic, yet not, title reveals itself. Hur’s films are refreshing in how he executes the relationships between his two characters. As film critic Kim Ji-mi puts it in Korean Film Observatory magazine (No. 23), Hur “shows the outstanding talent of being able to grasp the sensitive moments of the beginning and ending of a love between a man and a woman” (p. 22). Think of what you hate about the overly melodramatic and reflect on what it would be like to see a director get ever so closed to the too cute but to turn away just at its palatable peak and that’s Hur. Think of the histrionics you don’t like about Korean TV serials and imagine a director who holds the sorrow tenderly enough to make the cries cleansing rather than cringing and you have the baby bear porridge of Hur’s emotional competency.

Particularly lovely here are Young-su’s tears and the comforting words (at least in translation) of Eun-hee. She lets him know that she didn’t show her hurt before because nobody cared about her. She promises to show her hurt now and she expects him to care. In this wonderful mix of dialogue and soft action, Eun-hee says this not as she breaks down but just as Young-su does. She gives him what he’s asking for by asking for what he wants to give her. (Eun-hee’s is a strong voice in Hur’s oeuvre, speaking confidently and maintaining self-respect despite the brief lapses of self-pity.) And his tears do the same for her. Both Young-su and Eun-hee are guarded individuals who eventually let their mutual armor down in order to receive each other completely. This means they will get hurt, but we can only hurt when we lose something that matters to us. I’d rather hurt than never care about something so much that pain never comes into the picture. It is in this way that Hur’s ironic titles always circle back again to erase the irony we placed upon them. Happiness is what a Hur film can be when realized in all its ethical splendor.

Source:Koreanfilm

A: It was a great vacation. I even went bungee jumping!

B: I’m sorry, you did what?

A: Bungee jumping. It was so exciting.

A: 정말 근사한 휴가였어. 번지점프까지 하러 갔었다니까!

B: 미안해, 뭘 했다고?

A: 번지점프. 정말 짜릿했어.

A: Guess what. I picked up a 10,000 won bill on the street today.

B: You picked up what?

A: A 10,000 won bill. Coffee is on me today.

A: 있잖아. 오늘 길에서 만원짜리 지폐를 주웠어.

B: 뭘 주웠다고?

A: 만원짜리 지폐. 오늘 내가 커피 살게.

상 대방의 말 중 일부분을 알아듣지 못했다면, 그가 한 말을 그대로 반복하되 듣지 못한 부분만 what 또는 who로 채워 되물을 수 있다. 예를 들어 상대방이 I ran into Chris라고 말했는데 Chris를 듣지 못했다면, 만난 것은 사람이 분명하므로 You ran into who?라고 되물으면 된다. 이런 질문은 격의 없는 편한 대화에서 많이 쓰인다는 것도 함께 알아두자.

Source:Segye

The combination of director Lee Joon-ik and screenwriter Choi Seok-hwan has been golden, not only with their record-breaking smash hit King and the Clown but also with mid-sized hits like like Once Upon a Time in a Battlefield (2003) and Radio Star (2006). Their films are sometimes clever, but never flashy or trend-chasing. More than anything else, it is storytelling skill that drives their works. They create believable, real-life characters and make us care about them.

The Happy Life The Happy Life is their latest release, a smaller-budget project made before taking on the Vietnam War-era Sunny (scheduled for release in summer 2008). The film’s story first picks up at a funeral, where three middle aged friends sit down together and start to reminisce about the past. Twenty years earlier, the deceased had been the lead singer in a university rock band called “Active Volcano”, and the other three men had played lead guitar, bass and drums. Currently, the three are plodding through life without much enthusiasm or sense of meaning. Then Ki-young, the guitarist, bursts out with a crazy idea: “Let’s re-form the band!”

As a basis for a film, this setup seems neither particularly unique or commercially appealing, but Lee and Choi are able to turn this into an unusually fun movie, thanks in part to vivid characterization. Ki-young (played by Jung Ji-young from King and the Clown) has accepted early retirement and has grown used to life as an unemployed father. His wife Seon-mi (the supremely talented Kim Ho-jeong, Nabi) works as a teacher and so the family is able to scrape by. But she and their daughter Ju-hee (Ko Ah-sung, the little girl from The Host) pay him hardly any attention as they go about their daily lives.

Seong-wook (the bassist, played by Kim Yun-seok who has been catapulted to fame by The Chaser) has recently been laid off. With a smart son, and a wife eager to give him the best schooling and private lessons possible (which in Korea will cost a small fortune), he has taken to working several menial jobs at a delivery service and designated driver program. Meanwhile Hyuk-soo (the drummer, played by character actor Kim Sang-ho) runs a car dealership in Seoul in order to support his wife and two kids who live in Canada — a not uncommon situation in contemporary Korea.

In truth, it’s insane for any of these three to be actively entertaining the idea of starting a band. Urgent real-life problems beckon, and their families are unlikely to be very understanding. But crazy ideas sometimes gather momentum and lead us in unexpected directions.

The Happy Life manages to be both entertaining and uplifting without papering over any of the economic issues that ground the film in reality. Although the broad plot of the film remains fairly predictable, the meat of the story lies in the many smaller dramas and twists that take place along the way. Hyuk-soo the drummer in particular becomes a fascinating character as the story progresses, and sure enough he won a best supporting actor award at Korea’s Blue Dragon awards ceremony for his engaging performance. But all of the extended cast is great, giving an even greater boost to this modest story that surpasses expectations.

Source:Koreanfilm