‘Pulgasari’: The History of North Korea’s Own Kaiju
You might think that you’re a real fan of monster movies. Maybe you have a 10-inch figurine of Godzilla, or maybe you’ve bought all the Gamera movies on Arrow Video. Maybe you automatically think of King Kong whenever you see the Empire State Building looming in the Manhattan skyline. But, tell me this: have you ever kidnapped an internationally-acclaimed director to get your very own kaiju movie? No? Then Kim Jong-Il puts you to shame.
If you have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, then let me introduce you to the absolute lunacy that is Pulgasari, which is often regarded as the “North Korean Godzilla.” Produced in 1985, Pulgasari is one of the most infamous and elusive kaiju movies in the annals of film history, and the only one on record to be commissioned by the North Korean government. And by “commissioned,” I mean that Kim Jong-Il had a South Korean director abducted in order to get it produced.
Now, there’s a hell of a lot of misinformation surrounding the Kim Dynasty, mostly supplied by the Kims themselves. Between the propaganda proclaiming that Kim Il-Song’s birth interrupted a rainstorm, or the hysterical reports from American news outlets that Kim Jong Un ordered all North Korean men to get his haircut, so much of what you hear about the North Korean government is an unsubstantiated bit of hyperbole. Except for this. This is a historical fact. And it’s more insane than anything the North Korean propagandists or late-night talk show hosts could’ve imagined.
The Abducted Director
The abducted director was globally acclaimed filmmaker Shin Sang-ok who, along with his ex-wife Choi Eun-hee, made up South Korean cinema’s most prominent power couple. Decades before South Korea became one of the greatest cultural exporters of audacious genre flicks like Oldboy and Parasite, the country had been experiencing a creative boom in its film industry. And Shin was one of the most prolific directors, directing multiple films a year like Prince Yeonsan and The Houseguest and My Mother, across a span of genres throughout the ‘60s and ‘70s. After marrying Choi, one of his most frequent starlets, he became one of the most notable names in Korean cinema.
One person who definitely took note of him was none other than Kim Jong-Il, who at that point was head of North Korea’s state-controlled film division. Kim had become obsessed with film at a young age, being one of the few North Koreans to have access to global cinema, becoming a fan of everything from James Bond to Friday the 13th. That fact does make me wish that I could’ve gotten into a debate with him about whether Jason Lives was better than The Final Chapter.
Kim Jong-Il And His Obsession With Cinema
But while other dictators like Stalin or Hitler had a fondness for Hollywood productions, Kim had an intense obsession with film that led to him writing a book on the subject: “On the Art of Cinema.” Thus making him the most lethal Film Bro in history.
So he volunteered to head the North Korean film industry, appointed by his father and then-ruler Kim Il Sung. At that time, North Korean cinema had been dominated by stilted and hammy propaganda films. Unlike The Soviet Union or other Communist blocs, North Korea never produced its own Tarkovsky or any filmmaker of high regard. No, Kim Jong-Il would have to import talent if he was ever going to make the North Korean film industry competitive on the world stage. Talent like, let’s say, Shin Sang-ok.
But North Korea had already established itself as a rogue state that was entirely hostile to foreigners. Especially their neighbors, South Korea. And the South Koreans didn’t want anything to do with them because, well, the two countries were technically still at war. The Korean War had only been halted with a ceasefire, one which lasts to this day. Obviously, Kim couldn’t just “hire” Shin. So, he didn’t.
The Year Was 1978
That brings us to 1978. By that point, Shin’s career had started to fade after a number of his films flopped. It didn’t help that many of his films were running afoul of the intensive censorship policies of the South Korean government, which itself had succumbed to a military dictatorship. Not only that, but Shin and Choi divorced after a number of celebrity scandals. After South Korea’s dictator officially closed down Shin’s studio, Shin’s personal and professional life was at a low point. Unfortunately, it was about to get worse.
Because following his ex-wife’s mysterious disappearance, Shin himself was abducted by the North Korean government. He spent over two years in prison and was subjected to Communist “re-education” before finally being brought to Pyongyang where he was reunited with Choi before both of them finally met the man responsible for their abduction: Kim Jong-Il.
He explained to them that they were brought to North Korea in order to bolster their stagnating film industry. Oh, and they were both to be remarried. Kim didn’t just want their talent. He wanted their status, their clout. This tyrannical geek finally had one of the most famous power couples of the Korean peninsula right there, in his possession.
Shin Sang-ok’s Career In North Korea Begins
So after being forced to announce to the global press that he had voluntarily relocated to North Korea, Shin would go on to direct a total of seven films for the North Korean government between the years 1980 to 1985. And Kim’s scheme was starting to pay off. One of Shin’s films, Salt, would actually go on to be the first North Korean film to receive any sort of accolades from festivals and is still to this day considered the finest film to be North Korea ever produced. Of course, critics and festival judges had no idea that Salt was produced under threat of death.
But Kim Jong-Il wasn’t satisfied yet. He didn’t just want to win some measly prize from a film festival. Oh no, he had far greater ambitions. He wanted a blockbuster, a tentpole smash-hit that would prove North Korea’s potential as a cinematic powerhouse, one that could rival Hollywood in spectacle and entertainment.
North Korea’s Godzilla
At the same time, Toho Studios had relaunched their most famous franchise with The Return of Godzilla, which proved successful enough at the box office to jumpstart the beloved “Heisei Era” of Godzilla films. And that was exactly what Kim was looking for. He wanted North Korea to have its very own Godzilla, a franchise that could do as much for the North Korean movie as the King of the Monsters had done for Toho Studios. Hell, not only is Toho still making Godzilla movies, but Hollywood got in on the action with the MonsterVerse. If the North Koreans could tap into this, then they could have a tentpole property that could launch them into the stratosphere and prove that they weren’t just some backward totalitarian country. They could leave a creative footprint, a legacy for these snobby capitalist countries to admire and envy.
And thus, Shin’s next project was Pulgasari, which is actually a loose remake of a lost South Korean monster flick, Belgasari. Both of these are based on the eponymous Korean legend of a creature that feasts on iron. This version of the tale takes place in Medieval Korea and centers on a band of farmers that are rebelling against a cruel and merciless warlord.
The Pulagasari Phenomenon
So where does the kaiju come into it? A blacksmith is imprisoned after refusing to turn over the town’s iron supply to the army and starved until death. But the blacksmith is able to make a small figurine out of rice and prays to the Gods for a savior, a creature powerful enough to aid the rebels and overthrow this despotic ruler.
After the blacksmith dies, his daughter accidentally spills some blood onto the figurine, bringing it to life. To make matters even weirder, it grows in size by eating iron. Naming it “Pulgasari” after the aforementioned legend, the monster eventually becomes appropriate kaiju-size and battles the warlord’s armies.
Finally, Kim Jong-Il had his very own monster movie, one that would also serve as state propaganda. The whole premise of Pulgasari is a metaphor and not a subtle one. A band of heroic, proletariat farmers is being exploited by a greedy ruler who they can only overthrow by taking up arms and staging a violent revolution. It’s the narrative that North Korea was built on, the same narrative that the state will approve of. But does that doom Pulgararsi to being just as unwatchable as the rest of North Korea’s propaganda films?
The Legacy of Pulgasari
First, an editorial note. As of right now, Pulgasari is not commercially available for reasons that we’ll get into later. So I had to watch a bootleg copy of it (sorry, Supreme Leader). This wasn’t exactly a 4K transfer. It was a grainy export with a square aspect ratio, so I can’t “review” Pulgasari like it’s a regular movie. How could I, knowing how it was made? This movie doesn’t have the right to exist in any sane, rational world.
But it’s still gained a cult following, one that’s more fascinated with the production history than the movie itself. To the extent that people actually talk about the film, they typically dismiss it immediately as a shoddy if not captivatingly weird Godzilla rip-off. North Korea is such an isolated country that’s been so shaped by intensive propaganda and censorship that it’s almost a completely alien society. How could they produce something that’s even marginally watchable?
Ok, But Is It Any Good?
Well, you gotta give it to Shin. He was such a pro that he managed to produce something far more competent than it should be. Then again, being under constant threat of execution will probably inspire you to be on your A-Game.
No, Pulgasari defies its so-bad-it’s-good reputation, for better and worse, being both more respectable than you would expect but ultimately less watchable than you would hope for. While it’s hard to believe that this thing was produced after the 1960s because of its unsophisticated set design and dated FX, Pulgasari is nowhere near the most incompetent kaiju movie out there. Trust me. Go watch Reptilicus if that’s what you’re looking for.
But that’s also part of the problem. Because of the nature of the film’s production, Pulgasari was essentially doomed to mediocrity. Having a despot ruling over your shoot and twisting your arm to make propaganda isn’t the most conducive set of circumstances as far as creativity goes. And apparently, Kim had the budget for kidnapping and extortion, but enough of a budget for more than, like, two soundstages. But that’s not enough to elevate Pulgasari to the sort of baffling quality that will ensure the legacy of a true so-bad-it’s-good movie.
And it’s just not maximized for entertainment value. Pulgasari himself doesn’t grow to true Kaiju size until damn near the hour mark. Before that, the flick plays out more like a straight-to-shitteo remake of The Seven Samurai, with destitute farmers banding together to fight off a clan of sadists. And even when Pulgasari grows the maximum size, he’s not given miniatures to destroy except for, like, one pagoda. Those are rookie numbers, man.
Making The Monster Suit
That being said, the Pulgasari suit itself is actually quite impressive. Especially compared to the quality of the rest of the effects, and it could actually pass as something on par with Godzilla. And that’s probably because the Pulgasari suit was designed and operated by many Toho special-effects personnel that had actually worked on the recent Gojira movies, including suit actor Kenpachiro Satsuma who played Godzilla himself in many of the Heisei films. He had also played Gigan in the Showa films, meaning that Pulgasari was definitely not the wackiest kaiju he ever portrayed (no shade to Gigan).
So why the hell would they take a gig in North Korea? Did Kim kidnap them too?
No, thankfully. Instead, the North Koreans tricked the Toho people by claiming that it would be shooting in China. And once the ruse was up, it was too late to back out. So if we’re keeping score, most of the creative forces involved were there against their will.
But kudos to the Toho team because the few moments of unironic entertainment can really be credited to their work. Pulgasari looks like something between an alligator and a demon, with his protruding horns. And Sing manages to elicit sympathy for the big guy even if he’s unfortunately not as expressive as some other kaiju. Still, there’s one moment of undisputable badassery that’s a testament to how awesome this movie “could” have been. After the blacksmith’s daughter is captured by the warlord’s army, Pulgasari gets forced into a cage whereupon he’s lit on fire.
The evil general laughs with his men, thinking they’ve defeated the mighty Pulgasari. But then Pulgasari just smashes through the cage, emerging from the demons. It’s a perfectly executed moment, truly selling us on the idea that this isn’t just a guy in a rubber suit: this is a force of nature, a spirit of vengeance and retribution. If there’s one thing to remember from Pulgasari, it would have to be this scene.
Golems And Cheap Sets
While Kim was obviously inspired by the success of Godzilla’s revival, Pulgasari actually owes more to a more obscure Japanese monster flick, Daimajin. Just like Pulgasari, Daimajin centers around villagers that are at the mercy of a ruthless general and his savage army. The titular monster is a spirit called upon the helpless villagers who beg for the vengeful spirit to punish their wicked oppressors. It actually harkens back to the legend of The Golem, which was a Hebrew legend of a creature that would protect the weak and helpless. Since there was a silent film adaptation of The Golem back in 1920, would that make it the first kaiju flick?
But with all the shots you could take at Pulgasari production, from the cheap sets to the fact that the producer was literally a dictator, the story takes a sharp left turn in the third act that makes the movie transcend its propaganda reputation and arguably becomes a veiled critique of the Kim Dynasty. After overthrowing the bourgeois oppressor (by overthrowing, I mean Pulgasari stomps the shit out of him), the villagers cheer and all seems right. You could expect the end credits to start rolling.
Monstrous Propaganda Or A Massive Middle Finger to North Korea?
But Pulgasari’s appetite hasn’t been satisfied. He can’t stop eating iron, the hunger is too much. The villagers, frightened of their ally-turned-overlord, start turning over all of their farming tools for Pulgasari to eat. If you’ll remember, the evil despot had ordered them to turn over their iron in the first act, which was the very catalyst to this class conflict. And now the very thing that saved the villagers is wreaking the same form of havoc upon their lives, plundering their resources and livelihoods. Pulgasari, once a defender of the working class that was literally bred from the sweat and blood of a blacksmith’s daughter, has become an even more immediate threat to the same people who were sworn to protect.
But it’s not that his nature has changed, or that he’s in a crummy mood. There’s no Blacksuit Spiderman moment, or Red Kryptonite. Pulgasari himself remains sympathetic, he doesn’t want to consume and destroy. He just has to. Because it’s his nature. As one of the villagers themselves laments to their former ally, “That you, our savior, would become our enemy.” They might as well superimpose Kim Il-Sung’s portrait.
And that, as many critics have noted since this movie’s worldwide release, can only be construed as a direct attack on Kim Il-Sung, who had anointed himself as the Utopian savior of the Korean people, only to rule over them as a dictator once given the power. And Kim Jong-Il, who had been the man responsible for Pulgasari, was no different. Don’t hold your breath for Kim Jong-Un to wise up in the coming years either.
While Sing never admitted to using Pulgasari as a critique of his captors, that’s the only textual value that the movie provides. Whether it was intentional or not, Sing took a propaganda piece and made the ultimate Fuck-You to the North Korean government. And for that, I bow to him.
A North Korean Blockbuster
But Kim Jong-Il didn’t even notice. Perhaps he was distracted by the ending where Pulgasari accidentally eats the blacksmith’s daughter and crumples to dust, only for little Pulgasari to emerge from the rubble and turn into a blue orb? That’s the closest Pulgasari gets to the kind of enigmatic what-the-fuckery that you would expect from a bizarre production like this.
Not only did Kim not notice that his kaiju movie artistically incriminated him and his father, but he loved this movie. It was the closest thing to a blockbuster that the North Koreans had produced, and the closest he would ever achieve his cinematic delusions. He had a monster movie on his hands. Not the most technically impressive one, but in the limited scope of North Korean cinema, he had basically just made Jaws.
So Pulgasari opened in North Korean theaters in 1985. But it left just as quickly. Because Shin and his former ex-wife now-wife finally managed to free their Communist captors while on a press tour in Vienna. Kim was so enraged by this betrayal that he not only pulled Pulgasari from theaters but essentially erased it from the history books. At the same time, Shin was proving to the world just what had happened with him and his wife, and the tale of Pulgasari became a legend unto its own. It wouldn’t be seen by the public for over a decade, allowing the film to gestate and evolve into mythic status. It was a lost film, a vaulted secret that North Korea was keeping under lock and key.
Pulgasari Unleashed Onto the World
But then Pulgasari finally received its global premier in 1998, opening to a limited release in South Korea. It didn’t exactly do aces at the box office, probably because it was produced by a dictator that had captured one of Korea’s most treasured filmmakers. But the production history behind Pulgasari was too wild for audiences to ignore, and it slowly attained a cult status through circulation as a bootleg copy. It’s even received screenings at film festivals, though the curiosity around the film remains to be ironic, to say the least.
As for Shin, not only did he and Choi remain re-married, but they moved to Los Angeles and had a brief stint in Hollywood. If you’ve ever seen the 3 Ninja sequels, then you have Shin to thank for those masterpieces. Though you wouldn’t know it because he directed and produced them under the pseudonym “Simon Sheen.” But most surprising of all is that he went on to write a loose remake of none other than Pulgasari with Galgameth. Not sure why he would want to revisit a movie that’s associated with the most traumatic event of his life, but he might have recognized that Pulgasari could’ve had a chance of being a real movie under the right circumstances. That’s not to say that Galgameth was any better, unfortunately.
Tyranny Over Art In Pulgasari
But getting back to the original. Even with the glimmers of quality and craft that shine through this mess, the production of Pulgasari is just too damn evil and reprehensible for a schlocky good time. It holds more scholarly value for historians and monster-movie enthusiasts alike. But it holds even more value as a cautionary tale to cinephiles and would-be filmmakers. Creativity can’t be forced. And it certainly can’t be extorted.
Like everything the Kims touched throughout their reign, Kim Jong-Il thought his tyrannical influence could just will a movie into existence, just the way the North Koreans could engineer any abstract concept into reality by the sheer blunt force of their uncompromising authority. They could declare themselves as the arbiter of classless freedom as their people starve in the streets under constant surveillance. They could declare themselves victims of surrounding imperialist forces even as they threaten their neighboring countries with invasions and even nuclear weapons.
And in this case, Kim Jong-Il thought he could turn his backward, anti-expression authoritarian state into a superpower of cinema by taking whatever, or in this case whoever he wanted. Filmmaking is an uphill battle, one that constantly tests your determination, your talents, and your leadership. Every director or producer would love to skip the hard part of building their skillsets through trial and error, to cut in line and hammer out a masterpiece or a smash hit. But as Pulgasari proves, you just can’t. They can’t bring your vision to life until you earn it. Most films are the product of somebody’s dream, somebody’s vision. But Pulgasari was the product of somebody’s delusion.
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