Mystery and Longing in Decision to Leave
“Killing is like smoking.”
In Park Chan-wook’s Decision to Leave, the statement is a caution to detective Hae-joon. The first time is the hardest, but it gets easier from there. It’s also a knowing remark from Park to the audience: Both of those acts may be destructive, but we’ll be damned if we don’t find them enthralling to watch on screen.
Few films have been as visually enthralling as Park’s latest. Everything from camera angles to scene transitions, from pomegranates to wall paper, exudes longing. Decision to Leave is a murder mystery on its surface, but it’s also an ill-fated romance, and that desirous mood grows until it overwhelms Hae-joon—and maybe us.
Detective Hae-joon’s (Park Hae-il) life is stretched a bit thin. He doesn’t sleep well, and his current case doesn’t seem to be making any progress. Since his work is based in another city, he only manages to briefly see his wife each week. But when a man falls to his death after climbing a mounting, a new investigation brings a much needed spark. Despite the violent and confusing nature of the man’s death, Hae-joon’s spirits are undeniably lifted.
The dead man worked in Korea’s immigration departments, and Hae-joon’s queries cast shadows on the man’s wife, Seo-rae (Tang Wei). Seo-rae is herself a Chinese immigrant, and the two of them were married shortly after her immigration to South Korea. Her response to her husband’s tragic death is, well, a bit muted. As one character describes her, she’s “quite a shocking wife.” But awkward answers aren’t a motive, and skepticism doesn’t equate to evidence.
As Hae-joon delves further, he runs up against another, thornier issue. As he investigates Seo-rae, Hae-joon feels increasingly drawn to her. Desire is often harder to resolve than a mystery, and he’s ill-suited for untangling the emotional knots he begins to feel toward Seo-rae. Can her explanations be trusted? Can his feelings be? Even as the case continues, a hazy, dangerous romance begins to pervade every interaction.
“Shall I tell you in words or in photos?” Park Chan-wook clearly revels in evoking Hitchcock—particularly the hazy, twisted lust of Vertigo—and he earns the comparisons. Everything is luscious: the framing, the deep colors, the zooms(!), the interrogations, the small gestures. Everything is brought near by the camera, everything is made intimate by the performances. Tang Wei is enchanting as a woman who may be victim or murderer, captive or seducer, sincere or false—or all things, all at once. Park Hae-il wears the fog of Hae-joon’s on his expressions, never more devastating than when he utters, “I’m completely shattered.” In a movie with multiple deaths, it’s the most vulnerable confession.
Beyond the narrative and visual homages to Hitchcock, there’s also echoes of Wong Kar-Wai in the evocative patterns and colors and in the sweeping musical themes. The sensuality of Decision to Leave is nearly suffocatingly thick even as the characters twist themselves in restraint.
Park’s script is just as sharp as his visual craft. Decision to Leave is all about communication and deception, truth and allure. Half of the story is told in the cuts, wafting through longings. Breath mints and pockets become the symbols of unconscious romance. Every conversation hides a revelation as Seo-rae and Hae-joon’s orbits collapse on each other. An exhortation to throw a phone into the ocean veils an admission of love.
As the plot twists more tightly inward, the characters’ own lives become more intricate and murky. Decision to Leave contorts into tighter and tighter knots, but Park smartly guides every bend and break. The conclusion pulls the narrative threads together in a way that is surprising yet resonant. Between its savvy mystery and its desirous power, Decision to Leave may just leave the audience feeling as shattered as Hae-joon.
