In this blog post, I’ll explore the themes of human growth, desire, anger, and liberation embodied in the four seasons through Director Kim Ki-duk’s film ‘Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring’. I’ll also share my reflections on the cycle of life and reincarnation as conveyed through the film’s depictions of water, doors, Buddhist symbols, and the camera’s perspective.

Why I Like Director Kim Ki-duk’s Films

Everyone has their own favorite movies. Some people prefer specific genres, others choose films starring certain actors, and still others favor the works of a particular director. These differences likely stem from each individual’s values and experiences.
I like Director Kim Ki-duk’s films. I like the characters that appear in his films, and I like the atmosphere they create. I sometimes worry that if I say I like Kim Ki-duk’s films, people might think I’m strange or that I’m just trying to come across as pretentious. But there are times when a slightly darker, more somber story is more effective at lifting my spirits than a fun, lighthearted romantic comedy.
Kim Ki-duk’s films feature characters who feel a sense of lack and who have been wounded by something. Their stories of life and love are bizarre yet captivating. The first Kim Ki-duk film I saw was ‘The Isle’. After being deeply impressed by that movie, I came to love his films. For someone like me, who had only ever watched lighthearted, run-of-the-mill love stories, their love—which could even be described as dark and abnormal—was nothing short of a shock. Yet that shock wasn’t an unpleasant one.
When I watch his films, I feel an emotional cleansing—catharsis. As I watch the stories of characters who are so different from me yet somehow seem similar—characters bearing deep wounds—I feel a strange sense of kinship and find myself drawn in. Since then, I’ve watched ‘Unknown Recipient’, ‘Bad Guy’, ‘Coastline’, ‘Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring’, and ‘Empty House’. Among them, the film I’d like to revisit this time is ‘Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring’.
When I first saw this film, I was a little surprised because it was different from the other films I’d seen by Director Kim Ki-duk. His previous works often contained disturbing or gruesome scenes that would sometimes make me frown, but this film had almost none of that, and the style of expression was a bit different as well. It was also unusual to have a Buddhist monk as the central character. However, Director Kim Ki-duk’s distinctive style and thematic focus seemed to remain unchanged.
I remember being surprised when I saw my mom, who was watching it with me, shedding tears the first time I saw this film. Seeing her like that made me feel that my understanding of the film was lacking, so I resolved to watch it again someday. Since it incorporates Buddhist philosophy and deals with the human condition, I still feel there are parts I don’t fully grasp even now. Still, this time, I decided to give it another try out of sheer determination.

The Four Seasons of Life Reflected in the Four Seasons

The film ‘Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring’ is structured, just as the title suggests, into five stages: spring, summer, fall, winter, and a new beginning in spring. The tumultuous life story of an innocent young monk—as he passes through childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, and middle age to reach old age—unfolds alongside the beautiful four seasons at a hermitage on a mystical lake. Each stage begins as the gate at the entrance to the temple opens. The temple floats in the middle of a lake—a body of water that resembles a reservoir deep in the mountains—and its very appearance evokes a sense of mystery. The changing of the seasons goes beyond simply signifying the passage of time; it illustrates the process of transformation in a human life. The narrative structure—which progresses from a young novice monk to a boy monk, a young adult monk, a middle-aged monk, and an elderly monk, only to be followed by the appearance of a new young novice monk—evokes the cyclical nature of our lives and the Buddhist concept of reincarnation.
Spring is the season when all things come into being—and the time when a human life begins. The young novice monk laughs innocently as he watches a fish, a frog, and a snake he caught in the forest struggle in pain with stones tied to their bodies. The novice monk, living through the spring of his life, is not as pure as we might imagine. Or rather, it might be more accurate to say that cruelty coexists within his purity. This is because the child does not understand the significance of his actions. The elderly monk, who has been watching, ties a stone to the sleeping child’s back. When the child wakes up and struggles under the weight of the stone, the elderly monk tells him to find the creatures he tormented and untie the stones from them. He also imparts the lesson that if the wrong is not righted, it will become a lifelong karmic burden. Only after experiencing firsthand the weight of his actions does the child repent. The growth of a human being is likely similar. It involves realizing the impact one’s actions have on other beings and growing little by little through appropriate guidance.
Summer is the season of desire. The young novice has now grown into a seventeen-year-old boy. The young monk witnesses snakes mating in the mountains, a scene that feels like a foreshadowing of events to come. Then one day, a fragile girl suffering from a mental illness arrives at the temple to recuperate. The young monk falls in love with the girl, and the two are drawn to each other. Though their love is forbidden by monastic precepts, it is not ugly. The camera observes the two from a distance with detachment. These long shots, much like the gaze of the old monk, allow us to observe their actions without hastily passing judgment.
Ultimately, the young monk breaks the precepts, but the elderly monk does not rebuke him outright. To the young monk, who begs for forgiveness, he simply says, “It happened of its own accord.” He then sends the girl, now recovered from her illness, back to the secular world. When the young monk protests that she should not be sent away, the elderly monk leaves him with the words, “Desire breeds attachment, and attachment breeds the intent to kill.” This scene reveals the old monk’s insight, as if he could see right through to what was yet to come. However, the young monk cannot resist his desire and eventually leaves the mountain temple to follow the girl. His desire for love has turned into attachment. Summer—that is what youth is like in life. It is a time of passion and dynamism, when one’s own fervor is sometimes uncontrollable. The old monk, knowing this, does not try to stop the young monk as he leaves.
Autumn is a season of anger and suffering. The fiery passion of summer fades, leaving behind a body and mind worn down by the trials of life. More than a decade after leaving the temple, the boy returns as a young man who, enraged by his wife’s betrayal, has committed murder. Unable to overcome his rage and suffering, which blaze as red as autumn leaves, the young man attempts suicide before a Buddha statue. He is consumed by the agony born of his own murderous intent. The old monk severely beats the young man and, using a cat’s tail as a brush, writes the Heart Sutra on the floor. He then forces the young man to carve each character into the floor with a knife, one by one. After carving the Heart Sutra all night, the young man falls asleep, exhausted. He appears to have regained at least a little peace of mind. Later, when the young man is arrested by the police and leaves the mountain temple, the old monk performs his own cremation ceremony. It can be said that he fulfilled his mission by helping the young man find inner peace. The sight of the old monk engulfed in flames actually feels peaceful.
Winter is a season of emptiness and spiritual practice. Now a middle-aged man, he walks across the frozen lake and returns to the mountain temple, which has fallen into disrepair since the old monk’s passing. He gathers the old monk’s relics, carves a Buddha statue from the ice in the valley, and enshrines the relics on its forehead. Discovering an old book in a drawer at the temple, the man trains his body and mind by practicing the martial arts described within. One day, a woman with her face covered by a cloth arrives at the temple, holding a young child. She attempts to leave the child behind but falls through the cracked ice and drowns. The man places the Buddha statue at the spot where she drowned and begins his spiritual practice, climbing the mountain with the new statue while tying a heavy stone to his waist.
Kim Young-im’s “Jeongseon Arirang” plays during this scene. The rich melody blends with the image of the middle-aged monk practicing amidst his worldly afflictions, leaving a powerful impression. Interspersed between scenes of the man dragging the heavy stone up the mountain are flashbacks of a fish, a frog, and a snake suffering while tied to stones during his childhood. As the prank committed by the young novice monk in spring and the winter ascetic practice merge into one, the viewer comes to understand the true nature of “karma.” The melody of “Jeongseon Arirang” that flows throughout the film deepens the sense that the desires and anger of his past life were all in vain. The image of the man carrying the stone up the mountain is reminiscent of Sisyphus from mythology. Finally reaching the mountaintop, the man pays homage to a Buddha statue with his hands pressed together in prayer. From there, he looks down upon a lake and a temple nestled halfway up the mountain. This scene seems to suggest that he has attained a state of enlightenment.
And spring returns once more. Flowers bloom, and another young novice is growing up at the mountain temple. Now, the elderly monk paints a portrait of the young novice. Like the young novice who appeared in the film’s first spring, the child laughs brightly while playing a prank—placing stones in the mouths of fish, frogs, and snakes. However, the sound of the child’s “heh-heh” laughter sounds unsettling, unlike at the beginning. This is because that laughter evokes thoughts of the life and karma that will repeat themselves in the future. In the final scene, a Buddha statue enshrined at the mountaintop is shown, with the temple visible in the distance below it. The effect of this scene’s extreme long shot was distinctly felt. By observing the mountain temple and human life from a great distance, it felt as though I were experiencing the perspective of a contemplative observer—or even a supreme being.

Another Perspective Discovered in Someone Else’s Review

As I reflected on the film again, I read a review by Park Woo-jin posted on the online movie site “Movist.” I was very pleased because the article seemed to pinpoint precisely the things I had only vaguely sensed but couldn’t quite articulate myself. It felt like proof that I had, to some extent, understood the film.
What struck me most in that review was the interpretation of the film’s spaces and perspectives. At the small temple floating on a mountain lake, the yellow and pink buds of spring, the deep green of summer, the red autumn foliage, and the cold snowflakes of winter all pass through in turn. This place, where an elderly monk resides and a child grows up, presents a neat and beautiful landscape quite different from director Kim Ki-duk’s previous films. The film draws a parallel between these changes in nature and human life. At the start of each season, the season is indicated in calligraphy, and a door opens. The audience enters the mountain temple as if passing through that door, witnessing the journey of a man as he bears his karma, comes to understand his desires, masters his anger, and finds peace of mind. It feels like a space where our complex lives in the secular world momentarily settle down before turning back again.
Park Woo-jin’s review also notes that director Kim Ki-duk himself described this film as a “long-shot” movie. The direct, raw feel present in the close-ups of his previous works is significantly softened in this film. Instead of getting up close to the characters, the camera observes them from a distance. The images, conveyed through beautiful natural scenery, are serene and understated. No matter how turbulent a life may be, when set against the intense beauty of nature, its pain and conflict seem somewhat softened. The child’s subtly cruel prank, the boy’s uncontrollable desires, and the young man’s sudden outburst of anger all feel pitiable rather than frightening. This suggests that the perspective through which the characters’ actions are viewed has changed from previous works.
The way the camera views the Buddha statue is also intriguing. The movement—kneeling before the statue, bowing one’s head, and then cautiously looking up—and the gaze that focuses on the shadow of the hermitage reflected in the water rather than the hermitage itself convey a sense of deliberation. It gives the impression that the film’s focus is shifting from outwardly visible events toward the inner world of human beings. For those familiar with director Kim Ki-duk’s previous films, this change will likely strike them as particularly significant.
The man grows and ages as he passes through the seasons, yet he cannot easily shake off the karma he bears as a human being. Ultimately, he ties a stone to his own body and climbs the mountain. This can be interpreted both as a struggle to break free from karma and, at the same time, as an act of accepting his own karma. Each season forms its own story while remaining disconnected from the others, and the man appears with a different face in each season. The seasons are both connected and disconnected, and the man seems to represent the lives of many people while being a single individual. The specific story of one human being ultimately expands into a universal story of life that applies to all humanity. Even setting aside the film’s setting and Buddhist symbolism, a religious quality is palpable in this form itself.
When the final spring returns, the man grows old, bearing the full weight of the twists and turns of the years gone by. In contrast, the young novice monk who has just appeared plays cruel pranks on small creatures, unaware of anything—just as the man once was. The child’s innocent, bursting laughter feels eerie because the audience already knows what kind of life awaits behind that laughter. The old monk watching this scene will surely recall his own past as well. If he confronted his past through the woman who hid her face in winter, then in this new spring, he is confronting his own reflection in the child’s future. Though life repeats itself, intertwines, and flows naturally, ultimately, each person must bear the full weight of their own karma. Facing one’s past and future likely means both confessing and acknowledging that karma.
This ending—in which the characters seem to already remember what lies ahead—differs from director Kim Ki-duk’s previous films. While his earlier works left characters on unpredictable, divergent paths, the ending of this film feels relatively stable and conclusive. As one review noted, citing the director’s comment that he made this film with a sense of taking a breather, perhaps this time he has granted the characters a brief respite as well.
Yet a sense of poignancy lingers in the final frame. The hermitage floating on a mountain lake is surrounded by scenery that changes with the seasons, but it is ultimately a small space trapped between the mountains and the water. The final bird’s-eye view shot, looking down from over the shoulder of a Buddha statue at a hermitage in the distant horizon, makes the human life repeating there feel infinitely small. This seems to be the reason why a strange sense of loneliness lingers, even amidst such a serene and beautiful landscape.

Water, Doors, and the Meaning of Life Revealed Through Buddhist Symbols

This film features many Buddhist elements alongside director Kim Ki-duk’s signature symbolism. As a result, it wasn’t easy to understand the meaning behind specific scenes and objects. Among them, “water” and “doors” particularly caught my attention.
Water frequently appears in Director Kim Ki-duk’s films. I believe water symbolizes the wild or the natural state. In ‘Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring’, a temple floats in the middle of calm waters—a setting similar to that of his earlier film, ‘The Isle’. In ‘The Isle’, small private fishing spots float on the water but are fixed in specific locations; they cannot move freely despite being afloat.
If I interpreted those spaces in ‘The Isle’ as symbolizing the confinement of women, I believe they represent human life more broadly in this film. The temple is the setting where human life unfolds, and the water surrounding it constantly intervenes in the characters’ desires, suffering, and spiritual practices.
We can also reflect on the role of water in scenes such as the waterfall glimpsed when the young monk and the girl have sex; the young monk, overcome with rage, throwing stones into the water in anguish; and the middle-aged monk carving a Buddha statue out of ice and enshrining the elderly monk’s relics within it. Water sometimes flows wildly, sometimes lies still, and in winter, it turns into solid ice. These changes evoke the various emotions and states that appear in human life. In particular, given that the water surrounding the same space takes on different forms depending on the season, it feels like a crucial symbol that runs through the entire film.
“Doors” also play a unique role. Although the lake is open on all sides, the mountain temple has a single door symbolizing the entrance, and people come and go through it. Each season’s story also begins with a scene of the gate opening. There are two gates inside the temple as well. Sleeping quarters are arranged on either side of the main hall, with a gate between them. While this appears to be intended to separate the main hall from the living quarters, there are no walls on either side of the gate, so it serves little purpose in physically dividing the spaces. Although one could easily move to the other side without passing through the gate, the characters mostly use it to come and go.
However, the situation changes in the scene where the young monk tries to approach the girl but is blocked by the old monk at the door. It is then that the young monk moves through a path other than the door for the first time. In this scene, I interpreted the door as symbolizing the “right path.” Stepping away from the door can be read as straying from the prescribed path—that is, the right path. This interpretation is also supported by the fact that the young monk’s love for the girl turns into desire and obsession, ultimately leading him to leave the mountain temple.
However, the meaning of the door likely goes beyond simply distinguishing between the right path and the wrong path. Perhaps the door was originally a device meant to illustrate a truth of the mind: that when viewed with the eye of the mind, what exists may not actually be there, and what does not exist may instead appear to be there. In reality, there is no wall, so it poses no obstacle, yet people insist on passing through that spot simply because there is a “door.” Even though no physical boundary exists, a clear boundary is created within the mind. Viewed this way, even a simple object like a door seems to hold a profound Buddhist meaning.
The animals that appear in the film are also worth noting. The puppy in spring, the chicken in summer, and the cat in fall likely each carry their own significance. In particular, the snake that appears in winter feels like the reincarnation of the deceased old monk. While it’s difficult to fully understand exactly what each of these animals signifies, I can’t help but feel that even the animals appearing in each season are connected to the characters’ lives.
I also found myself thinking about the woman who appeared with her face covered in winter. I wondered if she might be the reincarnation of the girl the young monk had once loved. Of course, since the film does not explicitly explain the relationship between the two characters, this is purely my interpretation. However, if we consider that the two were once in love and that their child represents the beginning of new life, wouldn’t the Buddhist concept of reincarnation become even clearer? The scene where the woman with her face covered disappears, leaving behind a young child, felt like more than just an event where one life departs and another remains—it felt like a moment where the past and present are interconnected.
In this way, the film evokes a special feeling by portraying human life through the changing seasons and the specific space of a “temple.” Against the backdrop of tranquil and mysterious nature, the addition of religious undertones provides an opportunity to seriously reflect on human life and death, desire and suffering—topics we don’t usually contemplate deeply.

The Deep Afterglow Left by the Camera Viewed from Afar

Another striking aspect of this film is the camera’s perspective. While director Kim Ki-duk’s previous films featured close-ups that directly highlighted the characters’ emotions and actions, ‘Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring’ stands out for its use of long takes and long shots, with relatively few close-ups. Scenes where the characters and landscapes are viewed from a distance through extreme long shots are particularly striking.
This filming style encourages the audience to observe the characters’ emotions from a moderate distance rather than being unconditionally swept up in them. Instead of showing the conflicts or suffering the characters experience up close and intensely, the film places all of these events within the context of beautiful, serene nature. At first, this style of expression felt a bit unfamiliar. However, as the film progressed, I felt that this distance actually led me to reflect more deeply on the characters and human life itself.
Watching a person’s journey from childhood to adolescence, through young adulthood and middle age, and finally into old age naturally leads us to reflect on our own lives. In childhood, none of us fully understand how our actions affect others; in youth, we are swayed by desire and love; and at times, we suffer because of anger and obsession. Isn’t it only as time passes that we gradually come to realize the meaning of the life we’ve lived? Although the monk’s life in the film unfolds in a unique setting, the emotions and conflicts he experiences are by no means unfamiliar.
The scene that left the deepest impression on me was the film’s finale. It shows a brief glimpse of the Contemplative Buddha statue, with mountains and a lake nestled at their base visible beyond it, and a small temple floating on the lake in the distance. This scene flows seamlessly from the previously shown image of the meditating Buddha, creating the impression that the statue has been watching over the entirety of that life. At the same time, by allowing us to view human life from a great distance, it prompts us to reflect once more on the countless emotions and events that unfolded throughout the film.
Scenes that I initially perceived as merely beautiful and mysterious took on an entirely different meaning after I finished watching the film. The events that unfolded in the small hermitage were immense and desperate for one individual, but when viewed from a distance, they appear as just a small part of life set against the backdrop of nature’s four seasons. That does not, however, render that life meaningless. On the contrary, the desires, suffering, and process of enlightenment contained within that small space remind us of all our own lives.
In particular, the actions of the young monk who reappears in the final spring scene linger in the mind long after the film has ended. The new child, just like the previous young monk, is laughing while tormenting small creatures. What at first seemed like nothing more than a child’s mischievous prank now feels unsettling and eerie. This is because it feels as though we have already witnessed the child’s future once before. It is possible that this child, too, will one day experience desire, attachment, and suffering. And someday, looking back on his own life, he may gain a new insight. As one person’s life draws to a close, another’s begins, and the seasons return as if nothing had happened.
Buddhist concepts such as karma, desire, suffering, liberation, and reincarnation have never felt so vivid. Concepts that usually seem difficult and abstract have taken on concrete forms in real life through the young novice’s mischief, the teenage monk’s love, the young adult monk’s anger, and the middle-aged monk’s spiritual practice. In particular, the scene of climbing a mountain with a stone tied to one’s waist made me reflect on how long a childhood action can linger in a person’s life. The weight of that stone felt not merely as physical pain, but as the weight of the time one has lived and the karma accumulated along the way.
Unlike director Kim Ki-duk’s previous films, the tranquil atmosphere—centered on long takes and long shots—felt awkward at first. However, after watching the entire film, I found that this unfamiliar style of expression actually allowed me to experience a unique emotional resonance. The monk who appears in ‘Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring’ can also be seen as one of the “deficient human beings” that Director Kim Ki-duk has explored in his previous works. This is because he is a character who is not free from desire and attachment, who inflicts and receives wounds, and who suffers as a result of his own actions.
However, this time, rather than laying bare such flaws and human aggression, the film expresses them in a more refined manner. While it does not hide the cruelty and desire within the human heart, it frames them within the beauty of nature, the cycle of the seasons, and Buddhist symbolism. I believe this is precisely what makes this film distinct from his previous works and what gives it its charm.
I am reminded of the time when I first watched this film and couldn’t understand why my mother was crying. I still can’t say I fully understand all the symbols and Buddhist meanings in the film. But as I revisited the film, I felt I began to understand, at least a little, why some people might shed tears while watching this tranquil story. It’s probably because, as you follow the course of one person’s life, there comes a moment when you discover your own life within it.
In this film, Director Kim Ki-duk harmoniously portrays the grand theme of human life through the changing seasons and Buddhist symbolism. He does so without relying on the shocking imagery seen in his previous works; instead, he evokes deep emotions solely through serene nature and a distant, observant gaze. I’ve come to realize that the character of the monk—which initially felt unfamiliar—was ultimately an appropriate choice for illustrating human shortcomings, desires, and maturity.
We all live through our own springs, summers, autumns, and winters. And we will continue to live while bearing the weight of the time we’ve lived through and the karma we’ve accumulated along the way. This film does not explain that fact in a flashy way. It simply and quietly depicts a human life and the recurring seasons. Yet it is precisely that stillness that leaves an even deeper, lingering impression. In the way it portrays human life and Buddhist philosophy so beautifully and harmoniously, ‘Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring’ struck me as a truly remarkable film.