In this blog post, I’ll compare and examine the structure of desire shared by “The War on Crime” and “Good Friends,” and how their differing cinematic realisms create distinct thrills and levels of immersion.

The Challenges and Thrills of Crime Films

Depicting crime in film is surprisingly tricky. While romantic dramas focus on the emotions of love, comedies on laughter, and horror films on fear, crime films evoke complex reactions in audiences. Some films provide a sense of satisfaction upon ending, yet simultaneously leave viewers with an uneasy feeling—such as unease or anger.
The requirements are also more demanding compared to other genres. In romantic dramas and comedies, audiences can easily empathize even when a touch of fantasy or coincidence is added; however, if such elements are overused in crime films, the world feels flimsy, and viewers immediately sense a disconnect. Crime films are fiction, yet that fiction must feel like reality; if even a single aspect of the setting or narrative is revealed to be “false,” the audience is pulled out of immersion.
Nevertheless, the thrill provided by a well-made crime film is special. Audiences become completely immersed in the film’s world, losing themselves as if in a dream, and the experience is akin to a kind of cinematic addiction.

Reasons for Choosing “The War on Crime” and First Impressions

Among countless crime films, I chose ‘The War on Crime: The Golden Age of the Bad Guys’ not simply because of its title or the gangster theme. Rather, I was drawn to the film’s sense of realism and balanced approach, which were enough to dispel my preconceptions and aversion toward the Korean gangster genre. Amid a trend of either caricaturing gangsters or turning them into pure fantasy, this film convincingly portrays that era and its characters without making the viewer feel uncomfortable.
The film does not make gangsters themselves the protagonists. The protagonist, Ik-hyun, is a former customs officer—a so-called “power broker” who becomes entangled in the criminal underworld through family ties and connections to bureaucrats and those in power. His story unfolds naturally without the need for extensive exposition. The narrative begins in earnest after a brief introduction of his background as a customs officer early on, when a chance discovery of drugs leads him to meet Hyung-bae—a distant relative and notorious enforcer in Busan.
Ik-hyun’s motivations cannot be explained solely by the practical need to support his family. While the director described this work as a story of “the era of the father bidding farewell to the era of the older brother,” this emotional interpretation alone clearly falls short. Ik-hyun attempts to assert his blood ties—even at the cost of being humiliated by Hyung-bae—in order to secure the position of “godfather.” Beyond simple economic calculation, the desire to display power, the need for recognition, and a thirst for revenge emerge as the core driving forces behind his actions.

Similarities and Differences: Desire, Realism, and Role Models of Power

The central issue this essay seeks to address is how the two films are similar and how they differ. Rather than merely listing commonalities and differences, I aim to examine the unique aspects each work presents within the crime film genre.
First, one of the reasons ‘The War on Crime’ garnered attention is its depiction of the Korean historical context and the cinematic realism that underpins it. The film convincingly depicts how Ik-hyun, starting as a customs officer, builds a network of power and cycles through periods of downfall and resurgence—all without the need for detailed exposition. Throughout this process, the audience naturally comes to understand why he ventures down increasingly dangerous paths and how his connections expand.
Meanwhile, in ‘Good Friends’, Henry’s desires are revealed more explicitly through his narration.
Henry experiences firsthand the power and pleasure derived from criminal activities and illegal profits at an early age, and he charges full speed ahead toward them. The gap between Ik-hyun and Henry is surprisingly narrow, aside from superficial differences such as whether they are based on real people. Both demonstrate that their desires are insatiable and infinite, and they share a common narrative structure in which they become obsessed with the criminal underworld—even if only to protect the families and safety they seek to preserve.
Although these two works are set in different eras and locations, they share the same perspective on fundamental human desires. Whether they are a crime boss in Busan or a street thug in New York, what they pursue is essentially the same—power, recognition, and survival and dominance within their respective worlds.
Another element that cannot be overlooked is the presence of a “role model” in crime dramas. The godfather, the leader of the organization, is not merely a source of power but also a standard that defines the characters’ desires and sets their direction. In ‘The War on Crime’, Hyung-bae is a symbol of power that Ik-hyun can never attain. Ik-hyun both reveres and envies Hyung-bae, viewing him as a target he could overthrow at any moment. The look in Ik-hyun’s eyes during the scene where Hyung-bae subdues his subordinate reveals complex emotions—a mix of fear and jealousy.
While Ik-hyun collaborates with Hyung-bae and holds him up as a role model, he simultaneously views him as a target to be eliminated. When this ambivalent attitude becomes apparent, Hyung-bae ultimately breaks off his alliance with Ik-hyun and excludes him. This process of exclusion and Ik-hyun’s reaction clearly demonstrate how an organization responds when the rules of power are violated.
Ultimately, both films depict the sweetness of crime alongside its endless void, as well as the subtle hierarchies within power dynamics. ‘The War on Crime’ addresses these issues with a sense of realism rooted in the Korean context, while ‘Good Friends’ reveals a similar structure in a different way through narration and the characters’ direct expressions of desire. Comparing these two films allows for a clearer understanding of how crime films acquire their genre identity through characters and historical context, and how the universality and particularity of human desire intertwine.

Henry and Jimmy: Mafia Fantasy and the Fear of Betrayal

Henry is captivated by the masculinity of Jimmy Conway, a legendary figure in New York whom he encountered during his childhood days as an errand boy. In the film, Jimmy is portrayed as the archetypal mafia figure; ironically, however, due to issues of lineage, neither Henry nor Jimmy can become “true” mafiosi. From his “legendary” story of first going to prison at age 11 to his charisma that captivates everyone, Jimmy possesses all the qualities that draw Henry deeply into his world.
However, what ultimately drives Henry to betray Jimmy is not a renunciation of power. Unlike Ik-hyun, Henry turns his back on Jimmy because of the violence—specifically, Jimmy’s indiscriminate murder of his criminal accomplices—the terror it instills, and his own fear of death. While he certainly considered his family’s safety, he chooses the humiliation of spending the rest of his life in the witness protection program over the “cool” life of a gangster. Consequently, he comes to accept the life of an ordinary person—the very life he once despised.

Ik-hyun, Hyung-bae, and Power: The Clash Between Family Drama and Genre

On the surface, ‘The War on Crime’ prominently features the thrills of a crime film, but beneath that lies the drama of a father trying to protect his family. While the immediate entertainment value for the audience leans more heavily toward the crime genre, the film’s ending concludes with a dramatic resolution centered on the character of Ik-hyun. In particular, the sight of Ik-hyun’s aged face in the ending shocks the audience while also striking a tone quite different from that of the film’s early and middle sections.
Because of this, whenever the film emphasizes the father or paternal love, viewers may feel that the thrill of the genre film diminishes. This goes beyond a simple stylistic issue and connects to the specificities of the era and the dilemmas derived from patriarchy.

Ik-hyun’s family life is not clearly depicted throughout the film and tends to be represented primarily through the image of his son.
Furthermore, as is common in Korean crime films, Ik-hyun’s romantic subplots or his taboo behaviors as the head of the household are scarcely depicted. These omissions serve to diminish the genre’s entertainment value. In contrast, several recent Korean crime films have shown a shift toward female-centered narratives. Starting with director Choi Dong-hoon’s films, there has been an increase in cases where femme fatale-type female characters have moved closer to the center of crime narratives, and female characters who pull the strings—such as Madam Jung in ‘The Gambler’—have also emerged.
Although ‘The War on Crime’ features a female character—the female boss—her role is limited to a simple act of informing on others and fails to create any special chemistry. Despite being a character-driven film, it leaves something to be desired in terms of diversity.
Crucially, the process by which Ik-hyun and Hyung-bae drift apart and ultimately break ties is handled ambiguously, making their motivations less convincing. In a scene where Pan-ho and Hyung-bae are at war, Ik-hyun indirectly rejects Pan-ho’s proposal for a partnership; however, the fact that Pan-ho proceeds to beat up Hyung-bae immediately afterward leaves room for the audience to interpret this as Pan-ho acting on his own. Nevertheless, the causal relationship—where Ik-hyun faces harsher punishment, which ultimately drives him to ally with opposing forces and leads to his being handed over to the prosecution—is not explained with sufficient detail, resulting in a narrative that feels loose.

Genre Conventions, Corrupt Power, and Betrayal

Nevertheless, “War on Crime” adopts genre conventions in a sophisticated manner. These conventions shine primarily in the characterizations; in particular, the character of Choi Hyung-bae embodies the ideal image of a crime syndicate leader. He is a man who wields power, maintains a healthy level of suspicion toward others, and is averse to breaking the organization’s rules. These archetypal details, combined with the actor’s performance, create a character who never feels boring.
Furthermore, elements such as the dress code—suits, shiny shoes, and tattoos—clashes between rival organizations, and the conflict between the organization and societal (prosecutorial) authorities are all typical conventions of the crime genre that are seamlessly integrated into the film. These devices sustain the genre’s thrill.
Alongside the era depicted in the film, corrupt power also plays a crucial role, much like a character in its own right. The villainous prosecutor is portrayed not simply as someone who is neither incorruptible nor easily bribed, but as a figure driven by a lust for power. His motivation stems not from typical factors like school ties, regional connections, or bribes, but from a desire for power—as exemplified by the question, “Could you become the Prosecutor General?” Thus, the moment he gains attention for a major case and is co-opted by Ik-hyun’s network serves as a crucial narrative device that reveals his lust for power.
Another key theme running through the film is “betrayal.” Given the nature of the genre, betrayal is essential, and in both works, it is primarily presented as a choice made to ensure personal safety. The two protagonists decide to break away from their respective worlds, yet they gain practically nothing from that choice. The moment they become informants, they can no longer maintain their former lives; Ik-hyun flees to the United States, while Henry must live an ordinary life under witness protection.
However, Ik-hyun achieves the pinnacle of power he himself could not reach through his son. Ultimately, he finds his greatest fulfillment as a man not as a gang leader or president, but as a prosecutor, and raises his son to become a prosecutor as well. A brief line of dialogue in the epilogue—the scene where Ik-hyun tells his son, “I’ve been through a lot”—summarizes his life and allows him to look back on the hardships he endured as “a time when things were going well.”
Above all, ‘The War on Crime’ excels in its ability to engage the audience. It is a work that combines the thrill of a well-made commercial film—where direction and acting come together seamlessly—with the vicarious satisfaction offered by the genre. At a time when there was a great thirst for authentic crime films, this movie demonstrated just how well the social dynamics and culture of Korean gangsters serve as material for a great gangster movie.
This film will serve as a benchmark for future films in the same genre. While it shares many similarities with ‘Goodfellas’, it clearly follows a different path, exemplifying the distinctiveness of Korean cinema. While ‘Good Friends’ focuses on individual stories and inner lives, ‘The War on Crime’ places greater emphasis on depicting how a person transforms and adapts in response to the currents of the times and society. Rather than declaring one approach superior to the other, I hope that future crime films will embrace the label “typical Korean film” in a positive light.