The Rare and Remarkable Song Hye-kyo

The Rare and Remarkable Song Hye-kyo

Using the old scholar Gu Hongming’s phrase, the usual pattern in film and television is something like “one teapot matched with many teacups”: an evergreen male star keeps acting alongside one generation of actresses after another, spanning from the twentieth century into the twenty-first, yet somehow always appearing to be in his early twenties. Song Hye-kyo seems to be the exception. If anything, the pattern is reversed with her—she keeps accompanying wave after wave of younger male idols as they age out around her.

Looking at stills of Song Hye-kyo in Descendants of the Sun, I’m reminded of an interview I happened to see some years ago about Bae Yong-joon’s current life, and can’t help sighing at how time cuts like a blade. Young heartthrobs too are pushed forward by newer waves; each wave ends up dying on the beach. If men were only a little more prone to going into fangirl mode, then from Soonpoong Clinic to Hotelier to Autumn in My Heart and Full House, someone like Song Hye-kyo—evergreen and seemingly untouched by age—would surely have inspired countless fans here to call themselves “Mr. Song.” How could today’s mere handful of “Mrs. Song” fans compare?

One also has to marvel at the strength of the Japanese and Korean entertainment industries—especially with the decline of Hong Kong and Japan as the core of Asian entertainment. South Korea, through something like industrialized mass production, has managed to turn out batch after batch of stars who combine looks with solid professional ability. That is no small feat. Just look at our domestic talent shows: in Korea, someone might spend a period training as an idol trainee, come back, and immediately win a championship. Or a second- or third-tier, even barely relevant former star, can still perform every task in a polished, professional way, making many of our so-called big names look utterly lacking by comparison. And then look at our own entertainment celebrities: a great many stand on stage with nothing left but nostalgia, and beyond that it’s just one disastrous train wreck of a performance after another. I listened to the song Gift for ten years, and now I’ll never be able to listen to it again. Seen this way, for Song Hye-kyo to remain firmly at the very top for so many years speaks to just how sharp and formidable she must be.

I haven’t watched that many Korean dramas. Although I do find their plots somewhat drawn out, they still have their merits. The logic is simple enough: what they celebrate is nothing more complicated than human kindness and sincerity, and the realization of ideals through effort. Thanks to an almost industrial mode of production, Korean dramas generally reach a good or excellent standard in emotion, plotting, characterization, and acting. Their understanding of women’s emotional sensibilities is especially precise. What may feel overly long to male viewers often suits the more delicate tastes of female viewers perfectly; there is real care behind it. Generally speaking, Korean dramas tend toward romance. While that often comes at the expense of realism, they at least offer female audiences positive and uplifting idols. By contrast, many domestic film and television productions in recent years, made to cater to female viewers, have adopted perspectives and positions that feel like drinking poison to quench thirst—deeply troubling, even chilling.

Unfortunately, Song Hye-kyo—who could well be called a grandmaster of an era in Korean entertainment—was genuinely let down by The Grandmaster. The film neither conveyed the significance of her character’s presence nor gave her any scene that allowed her to display even the slightest bit of her own strengths as an actress. But then again, when Wong Kar-wai plays his hand, bewilderment always seems to be part of the deal.