We start with two Korean youths walking around the leftover detritus of
an abandoned building; to be demolished tomorrow. They search through the debris
not looking for things to salvage, but things to destroy...on stage. The two
men in question are Jang and Kwon, a two-piece Korean punk band of
pseudo-political lyrics, self-depreciative humour and a penchant for smashing
old junk on stage - not having the means to smash their own instruments.
Jung Yoon-suk's documentary is a portrait of a band as a reflection of
the state of South Korean youth ideologically: confused, perhaps a little
naive, but fearful of what potentially can come from the relationship with
their neighbours in the North. As ever, documentaries about individuals are
always stronger when the subjects are lesser-known: the audience having few
preconceptions; the band able to serve as an example for wider society.
With this the case, the documentary is a progression not so much of the
band themselves, but the challenges of the political ideology presented by
them. The opening is very much about the band, however: Two young, perennial
students have a live stage show of drum and bass, grindcore (is that a thing?!)
in a punk-stylee (I don't take the NME). With Jang on bass and vocals and Kwon
on drums and sometimes vocals, the pair create short songs based on interesting
ideas from the minds of students looking at some of the contradictions of the
polemic politics of the two Koreas. They do this with a humorous stage-show or
self-depreciative banter with the audiences, full-blooded performances of their
short pieces, followed by the smashing of inanimate objects. They are more than
a band; more a work of performance art.
Shunning the spotlight, they are simply two kids who state they make "shitty"
music. Randomly coming up with an idea; constructing a twelve seconds ditty,
recorded on their phone; and agreed that "that'll do" - their album
"Seoul Inferno" consists of forty-two (count them) short tracks. One
thing that is ironically clear, however, is that despite the political rhetoric
of their lyrics, their own political stance is left firmly ambiguous.
Beyond humour and clever wordplay (which is highly reliant on the
translation of - I hope - of a diligent and earnest translator), what are the
Bamseom Pirates getting at? The film moves into a phase of interviews where the
pair are pressed on their political standpoints. This provokes thoughtful expressions,
but perhaps shows that the duo are not fully sure what their lyrics mean beyond
some clever jokes and wry smiles. Though neither ever dispute their position:
they are young men from middle class backgrounds, graduating from decent
universities, but are at a loss as to what is happening in the country
politically: drummer Kwon even stating early in the film that he knows little
about North Korea.
And this is the truth: a generation that no longer has any ties to the
North other than the constant fear that they will attack. Both have served
their military service, as is standard for young South Koreans that aren't
Tottenham Hotspur midfielders, so are aware of the sense of conflict, though are
ignorant as to why it exists. This lack of knowledge results in humorous
responses: part politically engaged, part apathetic, though at odds with each
other as to which is the stronger standpoint. Both academic and musical
commentators are brought in to critique both their music, but also Kwon's
poetry. While acknowledging there is definite energy and interesting ideas,
there is always a questioning of what they are truly trying to say.
But seriousness soon prevails: their producer and photographer, Park, is
arrested and tried for ("ironically") retweeting pro-North Korean
tweets. His original standpoint is that of the band's: of mocking the whole rhetoric
of the politics, but in doing so is considered a threat to South Korean
National Security Law; an unfortunate example.
Asked to give a testimony in defence of Park, Kwon is put in a position
where he has to justify the band's lyrics beyond simple journalism; even
threatened that this could lead to him too being tried for crimes against
National Security Law himself. Something which he is able to do eloquently when
pressed. But Park's closing defence, however, is in vain, resulting in a short
prison sentence.
But while the pair are confused about what their lyrics may really
mean, they are borne out in reality. Lines state how "Grandma, the roof is
leaking; Don't worry, Twitter will save us" and "The Bible is truth
because it is in the Bible. The Democratic Republic of Korea is democratic
because it is in the title," (I really hope that translator is good!) highlight
the inconsistencies in South Korean politics themselves. Both Kwon and Park believe
they live in a democracy, yet are tried for making simple jokes: supposedly
what is feared in the regime in the North. As a result, they are between a rock
and a hard place.
But does that stop them?! The situation simply fuels more
politically-focused banter with audiences on street corner performances as to
how there are "Communists at this protest in front of parked police cars."
(Along those lines at least.)
Eventually, the band do break, but the reasons are not explained. Ambiguity is the theme running throughout the film, but not without reason. The tongue-in-cheek introduction states how the band's performances are miss-timed and off-kilter (giving delicious doubt as to whether this is intentionally artistic or due to lack of talent). But this is the ultimate statement in itself: in a world where politics is increasingly encouraged to be "yes" or "no" with black and white polarity, two young men angrily expressing themselves, but not fully sure as to why, speak more volumes than any politician...and not just because their amps are up to eleven...it is one louder...
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