“The Gingko Bed” Theatrical Poster
Director: Kang Je-Gyu
Cast: Han Suk-Kyu, Jin Hee-Kyung, Kim Sun-Kyung, Lee Beom-Soo, Shim Hye-Jin, Shin Hyeon-Jun, Kim Myeong-Kuk, Kim Hak-Cheol, Choi Hak-Rak, Yoo Yeon-Soo
Running Time: 88 min.
By Paul Bramhall
The Gingko Bed is often spoken about in the context of it being the first Korean production to make significant use of CGI. It wasn’t the first, that honor belongs to The Fox with Nine Tails from the previous year, however while that production has largely become a footnote in Korean film history, The Gingko Bed still tends to find its way into conversations on modern Korean cinema. In 1995 the Korean film industry was back on its feet after a shaky start to the decade, and while it was still 4 years away from securing its first international blockbuster with Shiri, filmmakers were already beginning to play with the ingredients that go into making a mainstream commercial movie.
One such director was Kang Je-kyu. It’d be Je-kyu who’d go on to helm Shiri, and other popular new wave movies such as the bombastic Korean war flicks Taegukgi and My Way. However in 1995 he’d only co-directed one feature, Gongpoteuggeup, made the previous year. The Gingko Bed would mark his solo directorial debut, and while his flair for commercial filmmaking was already apparent, his storytelling skills definitely still needed some development. Featuring a plot which plays out fairly straightforward onscreen, but somehow sounds rather more complex on paper, Je-kyu’s tale very much echoes the ghostly romances of the early 90’s HK new wave.
Han Seok-kyu (The Prison) here marks his sophomore turn in the starring role, after headlining the comedy Doctor Bong the same year (he’d also go on to headline Shiri). He plays an artist who begins having visions of a beautiful woman from the past. The woman, played by Jin Hee-kyung (Marrying the Mafia) turns out to be a princess from a millennia ago, who was in love with a court musician (also played by Seok-kyu). Their dalliance ends in tragedy when a jealous general played by Shin Hyun-jun (Shadowless Sword) decides he wants the princess for himself, and viciously murders her court musician muse. Overwhelmed with grief, Hee-kyung sacrifices herself, her spirit becoming entombed in a gingko bed, which Seok-kyu stumbles across 1000 years later in an alley in modern day Seoul. Lacking a bed of his own, naturally he decides to retrieve it from the trash and take it home. Classy.
Any hope of a ghostly romance being on the cards though is soon ruined by the fact Hyun-jun has also been reincarnated into modern day Seoul, and is more than willing to murder Seok-kyu again and try his luck a second time. So it’s a supernatural romantic love triangle, with added violence and spanning two era’s. That much I could handle. What throws a spanner in the works of The Gingko Bed’s narrative cohesion is that there’s a fourth main character, who comes in the form of Seok-kyu’s current girlfriend, played by Shim Hye-jin (White Badge). Her character is a strange one, and acts in strange ways when you consider how someone in her situation would probably react to the events which unfold. She plays a surgeon, and to say she suffers a lot thanks to the supernatural love triangle is an understatement.
The perfect example of this happens when Hee-kyung possesses the spirit of a patient Hye-jin is performing surgery on, allowing her to be a real person rather than just a vision, at the cost of leaving the patients actual body without any signs of life until she returns. While she admittedly does this to save Seok-kyu’s life (and the act leads to her being abandoned by the God of Love), for Hye-jin it means it appears her patient died mid-surgery. Being an eye donor, the patients eyes are quickly removed, and then he eventually returns to life during his funeral trapped in a coffin. With no eyes to top things off. Of course, Hye-jin is not only horrified, she also gets fired, then has to somehow also deal with her boyfriend being the incarnation of a princesses true love from 1000 years ago. In short, she has a lot on her plate.
Beyond the obvious emotions though, it’s difficult to connect with Hye-jin’s character. She eventually believes that her boyfriend is the reincarnated love of the princess, but decides to stay with him anyway. Perhaps that’s because Seok-kyu himself doesn’t really show any signs of affection towards the princess, instead (understandably) preoccupied with avoiding having his heart ripped out by Hyun-jun. There’s a shoehorned in sub-plot of Hye-jin wanting to prove to her former employees that the whole eye removal deal wasn’t her fault, which culminates in her amusingly offering herself up for possession in front of her ex-colleagues, and doesn’t end well.
In short, The Gingko Bed plays hard and fast with logic, and demands that as an audience we don’t ask too many questions. There’s a muddled backstory as to how the trio end up in modern day Seoul. Proceedings open with a CGI sequence of Seok-kyu and Hee-kyung reborn as gingko trees next to each other, which resembles a cut scene from one of those old games consoles with 8 bit graphics. We learn that Hyun-jun was reborn as an eagle, and for whatever reason that spells trouble for the pair of loved up trees. All of this is admittedly kind of charming in a very dated kind of way. Korea had proven with The Fox with Nine Tails that it could incorporate CGI into its productions, but here trying to render a whole sequence in CGI was a little over ambitious for the time.
Such scenes at least distract from asking the somewhat obvious questions. Why doesn’t Seok-kyu remember anything of his past life before meeting Hee-kyung? Why is Hee-kyung a ghost stuck in a bed (literally)? But most of all, why does Hyun-jun look like an old man that needs to absorb peoples hearts to bring him back to full strength if he’s also been reincarnated? All three characters seem to be following different sets of rules which can invoke a degree of head scratching, but thankfully Je-kyu directs with an assured hand that for the most part serves to keep the audiences attention exactly where he wants it to be.
Indeed despite the ambitious CGI, many other elements in The Gingko Bed are done with practical effects. When we’re first introduced to Hyun-jun he stops a rapist in an alley, then proceeds to plunge his hand into the guys chest, literally pulling out his heart. Thankfully in the mid-90’s CGI blood wasn’t yet a thing, so the scene is suitably bloody, and the beating heart is also a practical effect. Kudos for covering all the bases, as in its first 10 minutes we’ve had ambitious CGI, some brief but gratuitous nudity, and a burst of gruesome violence. If you stopped watching it at the 10 minute mark chances are you wouldn’t guess that it would develop into a fantasy romance.
While coherency isn’t The Gingko Bed’s strong point, what can’t be denied is that it is entertaining. Hyun-jun would recreate the long haired look he sports here for his iconic roles in Bichunmoo and Shadowless Sword a few years later, and there’s a great scene which recreates an iconic image from The Shining. You’ll know it when you see it. Je-kyu’s directorial debut also seems to have been an influence on the 2005 Jackie Chan and Stanley Tong collaboration, The Myth, as apart from the story itself, certain scenes have distinctive similarities between them (the past version of Seok-kyu’s demise inparticular).
Luckily The Gingko Bed’s finale doesn’t get quite as ridiculous as The Myth would 10 years later, although admittedly any confrontation which starts off with a character announcing ”I’ve come for my bed!” is worthy of a giggle. Interestingly Je-kyu would step into the role of producer for 2000’s The Legend of Gingko, a period piece prequel that detailed the origins of how certain characters ended up in bed so to speak. It’s horrendous, and best avoided. If you’re willing to forgive a number of plot holes and lapses in logic, The Gingko Bed offers up an entertaining slice of mid-90’s Korean cinema, wearing both its Hong Kong and Hollywood influences on its sleeve, and almost pulling them off.
Paul Bramhall’s Rating: 6/10
