Melodrama tends to conjure up images of soaps — the iconic mood lighting, a gorgeous cast and confrontations rendered laughable by contrivance, poor acting or, more frequently, both. The genre is frequently shrugged off as the cinematic equivalent of the "airport novel," both deliciously entertaining and indulgent in its simplicity.
With Im Sang−Soo's "The Housemaid," however, a level of artistry and visual craft work its way into the body of this familiar framework, lending a formal appeal to what might otherwise be an uncomplicated affair, forgettable by design. Still, his skill with composition and ability to fashion an atmosphere of dense, erotic foreboding are frustratingly undermined, at least in part, on account of being saddled with skin−deep characters and a muddled plot.
A remake of a 1960 film of the same name, it focuses on the titular housemaid, Eun−yi (Jeon Do−youn), who has just become the live−in nanny for an incredibly wealthy couple. In addition to caring for the precocious, quirky Nami (Ahn Seo−hyeon), she will also look after the soon−to−be−born twins expected by the gorgeous, and very pregnant, wife, Hae−ra (Seo Woo).
What follows, for anyone fortunate enough to have seen the trailer — which was superb — or those who intuit the all−too−inevitable outcome, is a sexually charged affair between Eun−yi and the estate's patriarch, Hoon (Lee Jung−jae).
As a director, Sang−Soo is tasked with presenting this material in a manner that's compelling, erotic and ultimately tragic but never overt, and he does so brilliantly. The nuance with which sexuality ripples through Eun−yi's daily tasks is tantalizingly suggestive, and hints of voyeurism color her early interactions with Hoon in a way that reaffirms the foregone conclusion of their affair without belaboring it.
When the sex does, in fact, begin, silence is expertly manipulated, offering up a familiar storytelling device in a manner that's wholly unexpected. Hoon's initial seduction of Eun−yi, which borders dangerously on coercion, is carried out nearly wordlessly, made both chilling and provocative all at once.
The film's depiction of sexuality is refreshingly unapologetic — neither romanticized nor puritanical. It cuts to the quick of lust, seamlessly linking it to fear, power and persuasion, then captures this steely vision with artful imagery and frank, believable dialogue. It never takes the tack of fading into the morning after, and with that comes an air of artistic legitimacy.
Accompanying that commitment to creative vision is a sharp aesthetic approach to set and cinematography, in which gorgeously lensed, sumptuous interiors are cased in shining marble and harsh glass. Black pervades the film, creeping into every nook of the strangely hollow mansion, as if its coldness mirrors the contents of its owners' hearts.
It's a quality that begins to seep, less successfully, into the writing, a capacity in which Sang−Soo proves less adept. While Eun−yi is, by this token, left pleasantly opaque and sealed off as a protagonist — we're never privileged with an insider's look at what makes her tick — the surrounding cast lacks depth. Whereas Eun−yi's outward appearance conveys the presence of a complex, submerged interior, the wealthy couple appears morally vacant.
And while that is perhaps some commentary on money leading to the vanishing of one's soul, the narrative would have been better served in three dimensions, not two.
There simply isn't enough doubt at work once Hoon's adultery is exposed and schemes are hatched. The screenwriter becomes more a puppeteer in this sense, taking too many precautions out of the fear that we'll ever be thrown off familiar ground. The audience is left to look on as strings are pulled, and little takes shape organically with the characters. Instead, we're faced with a tale so rife with plot and subplot that the people are quickly transformed into pawns.
This narrative meandering, which takes hold shortly after the beginning of the tryst, saps the film of its immediacy and forward drive, leaving it to languish in the hands of the scowling, vengeful wife. And perhaps it's not so much Hae−ra's character as it is Sang−Soo's tendency to overtly foreshadow her motives that cuts the film's legs out from underneath it. In either case, a sense of dramatic inertia is irretrievably lost.
At 107 minutes, it's a brisk film, but this weakness at its center fails to bridge the foreboding opening and blistering conclusion satisfactorily. We're left with fascinating pieces, but a broken portrait. If the undeniably eerie final scene is any indication, Sang−Soo has creativity in spade — let's hope he finds consistency to pair with it.
