This blog post examines why the film “Blood Rain” leaves audiences with a sense of unease even after all the clues to the incident have been unraveled. It analyzes how the characters’ inner turmoil, the island’s isolation, and the era’s fractures create an emotional resonance.
Introduction
The sea has long been regarded as a place possessing mysterious power for humans. For some, the sea becomes a space of hope, life, memories, or pain. However, in the film “Blood Rain,” set in the late Joseon Dynasty, a man with a deep obsession (a kind of compulsion) toward this very sea appears.
“Blood Rain” garnered significant attention even during production for its fusion of historical drama and serial killer thriller, as well as actor Cha Seung-won’s transformative performance. It also achieved relatively high box office results during its first-half release. While excessive omissions in the narrative progression may limit its persuasiveness, it is undeniably a ‘solidly crafted’ film. So now, let’s examine ‘how’ this film was so solidly crafted.
Serial killings on a remote island
“Blood Rain” presents the following surface-level structure. The film centers on the remote island ‘Donghwa Island,’ with its narrative unfolding along two axes: ‘present’ and ‘past’. On Donghwa Island, the owner of the paper mill holds significance beyond that of a mere industrial facility. Considering the island’s isolation from the outside world and the paper mill’s central role in the island’s economy, the mill owner becomes the embodiment of the logic of domination. Whatever that logic may be, the island, which appeared outwardly problem-free, is thrown into turmoil as arson incidents and serial murders occur in quick succession. If this is the story of the ‘present,’ then the brutal death of the Kang family seven years prior, considered the catalyst for all the murders, forms another axis.
Within the play’s flow, these two narratives interlock like clockwork, turning with precision as emotional tension reaches its peak. Ultimately, Toposa Won-gyu, who came from the mainland to solve the case, achieves his goal and leaves the island. This structure can also be understood through the narrative progression method explained by Todorov.
Ironically, the cause of the island’s imbalance was In-kwon, who held the real power on the island. While Won-gyu solved the case, the peculiar ‘uneasiness’ felt as the ending credits roll is not easily shaken off. This lingering feeling stems not only from the many scenes sacrificed for narrative pace, forcing the audience to fill in gaps, but also from something else. Recalling the final scene makes this even clearer. Won-gyu, having resolved the incident, should return with the same dignified bearing he had upon arriving on the island, but he does not. The sea is calm, as if nothing had happened, and Choi Chi-sa continues to vomit from severe seasickness. Yet the confident Won-gyu who gazed at the island is gone. In the long shot of him on the boat, he appears endlessly vulnerable and small. What exactly did Won-gyu experience on that island?
The Story Behind It
While the island setting is significant, the historical backdrop of the late Joseon Dynasty also carries deep meaning. This period saw the influx of new Western technologies, sparking intense conflict between the old guard and the new generation. It is also significant that the film’s title originates from Lee In-jik’s novel “Blood Rain.” It was an era introducing not only modern artifacts like firearms and eyeglasses, but also ideological shifts such as the abolition of the class system. This is supported by the Kang family being punished for the crime of being ‘Catholic heretics’ and Duhho advocating for the abolition of the class system.
Donghwa Island is an unrealistic space isolated from the outside world, yet simultaneously a space where the conflict between the new and the old becomes intensely sharp. Seven years prior, the conservative Confucianist Grand Lord Kim Chi-seong (In-hyeon’s father) and Won-gyu’s father clashed with the progressive-minded Kang Gak-ju. This conflict, structured as a binary opposition, ultimately concluded with the victory of the old forces. Yet returning to the present, the conflict has once again been reduced to the framework of In-gwon versus Won-gyu.
In-gwon is the son of Kim Chi-seong, the paper mill owner and the de facto ruler. He adheres to Confucian ideology and seeks to maintain his power base through violence. In contrast, Won-gyu is a ‘mainlander’ and a righteous figure who refuses to bow to power, insisting that residents must be treated with respect. He does not trust shamanistic beliefs and demonstrates a scientific and logical approach during the investigation. His sharpness in quickly deducing the culprit before his fatigue has even subsided adds depth to his character. Audiences follow Won-gyu’s perspective and come to accept him as a heroic figure.
Yet Won-gyu remains unshaken even as he fails to prevent the foretold murder and the killings continue, ultimately inspiring such trust that he boldly confronts Grand Secretary Kim Chi-seong directly. During this time, information from an investigator returning from the mainland reveals that the corrupt local magistrate who executed the innocent Kang Gak-ju family seven years ago was his own father. At this moment, the dichotomy between Won-gyu and In-guk becomes ambiguous, and Won-gyu loses his pride in the father he once respected.
Meanwhile, In-guk appears superficially as a guardian of the old order. Though possessing exceptional ability, he cannot realize his ambitions and yearns for a free love with So-yeon. He loves Soyeon, the daughter of a criminal, transcending their social divide and aids her. Yet, due to the Sinheoro, he cannot cross the sea and is ultimately forced to witness Soyeon’s death. In his own way, In-gwon executes her revenge, driven by his love for Soyeon and his sense of justice for the Kang family. His figure, clad in white paper robes and a white mask, darting through the bamboo forest, evokes not ugliness but a certain ritualistic purity.
Even in the final confrontation, the relationship between In-guk and Won-gyu appears reversed. Won-gyu, entering the paper mill while under In-guk’s attack, is wounded despite not desiring violence. Won-gyu seeks to resolve the situation differently from his father, but In-guk shakes him by attacking his Achilles’ heel: his ‘father’. The phrase ‘a beast living with shame covered by a sword’ shocks Won-gyu, and ultimately, In-kwon fires his gun at him. In this scene, In-kwon is filmed from above, while Won-gyu is filmed from below; this difference in angle shakes the positioning of the two characters. It visually reverses the power structure to such an extent that it momentarily makes one forget In-kwon is the pursued criminal.
Through Someone’s Heart
The seemingly irreconcilable dichotomy persists, yet the identities of both characters gradually blur. While the clash between progressives and conservatives appears to continue, its clear targets grow hazy. Into this void emerge the residents of Donghwa-do. After Won-gyu defeats In-kwon and rescues Do-ho, villagers armed with sickles and hoes appear, demanding Do-ho’s extradition. Won-gyu can only watch helplessly as Doo-ho is brutally murdered before the residents. The blood rain falling at this moment could be a mocking expression from In-guk toward Won-gyu, but it could also represent a condemnation or a mix of love and resentment toward the Donghwa-do residents who remained silent or evaded responsibility in the face of Kang Gaek-ju’s unjust death.
Despite the influx of progressive ideas in the late 19th century, society maintained a structure that feared and suppressed the emergence of new forces. This is also why Kang Gak-ju was punished. Within Joseon’s feudal social structure, residents accustomed to the ideology of domination and subjugation had internalized a fear of the power held by the ruling class. Thus, a pattern repeated: compliance with the strong and cruelty towards the weak. The villagers were accomplices to Kang Gyeok-ju’s unjust death through Won-gyu and In-hak’s inaction, and their own consistent silence. They were also co-conspirators who carried out the final act of murder In-hak failed to complete. Ultimately, the blood bath was like Won-gyu’s hallucination of Donghwa Island transformed into hell.
Yet Won-gyu cannot easily condemn the villagers. He understood they too were compelled to act this way by their deep-seated fear of feudal domination and power. This was especially true for Won-gyu himself, who carried his own deep-seated fear of his father.
Returning to the conclusion, and then
Final scene. The five-day or seven-year ordeal of cruelty that unfolded on the island has scattered like a distant tale, the sea remains calm, and Choi Chisa continues to vomit. Won-gyu leaves the island as he arrived. The difference is that in his hand is the love letter bearing the story of So-yeon and In-guk, and on his arm remains the scar left by In-guk. The wound has not yet fully healed, and the love letter slips quietly from Won-gyu’s hand, which has turned away from Donghwa Island, falling into the sea. And the back view of Won-gyu, barely holding himself upright with an anxious expression, makes his existence seem infinitely small and pitiful.
Like the love letter Won-gyu let go, he may have let go of the pride that once sustained him. Just as wounds eventually heal but leave scars, everything Won-gyu experienced on the island is a lifelong scar that will never fade, hinting he will never overcome his deep-seated resentment toward his father. As a child, fear came first on the days his father arrived; now, he faces his father again as a shameful, awkward figure who drove his life into a labyrinth. Like the scar left on his arm.
In “Blood Rain,” the sea is the space that creates the isolated island, the space that brought about the love between So-yeon and In-kwon and its tragic end. In-kwon could not overcome his deep-seated resentment toward the sea, ultimately completing a revenge plot that led to his own ruin. Had even Won-gyu overcome his obsession to resolve the incident and change himself, the sorrow-filled face of Won-gyu on the movie poster might have seemed a little less heartbreaking. Of course, it wasn’t just Won-gyu or In-kwon who couldn’t overcome their obsessions; most of the characters, including the residents of Donghwa-do, were similarly trapped. That towering fence was a product of the era’s backdrop, the conflict between the old and new forces emerging in the late Joseon period.
Ultimately, in “Blood Rain,” Won-gyu brings about the surface-level resolution, but no one was a true hero. Won-gyu appears to unravel the case with brilliant deduction, yet in reality, he was closer to an ordinary commoner burdened by fatal flaws and confusion. His journey seemed to follow the stages of a hero’s quest—separation, initiation, adventure, and return—but at its end, what remained for him was not spoils, but only wounds. His image left behind on the swaying boat leaves the audience with a peculiar unease, an unfamiliar ‘queasiness’. This resembles the feeling that leaves the audience’s heart unsettled, much like the final scene of “Oldboy”. Both deal with ‘revenge’ yet leave behind a subtle aftertaste rather than catharsis.
Conclusion
Director Kim Dae-seung, whose debut film “Bungee Jumping of Their Own” earned critical acclaim, presents the 2005 historical thriller “Blood Rain.” It features meticulously recreated sets, meticulously crafted brutal scenes, the calmly unfolding first movement of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 amidst it all, and a color palette that is neither artificial nor tacky. Textually, it’s a shame that excessive omissions sometimes undermine its persuasiveness, but overall, I consider it a work with a well-constructed narrative structure.
Personally, I can handle ghost stories but struggle with blood, making slasher or hardcore films practically unwatchable. Even “Taegeukgi: The Brotherhood of War,” which I watched unaware at the time, felt closer to a slasher movie than a moving drama to me. Yet, while perhaps not the greatest film, “Blood Rain” offered me a different kind of emotional experience. Though I reflexively closed my eyes and didn’t fully witness the brutal scenes, the scenes drenched in blood in “Blood Rain” were profoundly still. The camera remained fixed or moved minimally, and even when not using metaphor to depict the violence, the scenes were composed to evoke not just shock but also anger toward the perpetrators in the audience. Instead of maximizing emotion through flashy movements or close-ups, the film impressively captured scenes in an objective and restrained manner.
Above all, the way the intricately woven narrative structure tightly converged at the end was the biggest reason I chose this film. My trust in the director, likely influenced by how deeply his first work had impressed me, also played a part.
Ultimately, this film is a story about someone’s inner turmoil, about people who couldn’t overcome their obsessions within the circumstances of their time. The setting of the late Joseon Dynasty shares many fundamental similarities with today. That’s precisely why this film carries such a poignant narrative.
