Academy Reincarnation (Funniest Pawnshop)

Kim Chaeyoon: “Academy Reincarnation: About How I Was an Idol But Reincarnated and Became a Student.” This YouTube content, with a title reminiscent of web novels, is based on the setting where TAEHYUN of TOMORROW X TOGETHER has reincarnated as a student in an “another world,” exploring diverse and unusual types of academies. Among the various forms of web entertainment that provide reviews on subjects such as the best restaurants, popular places, jobs, majors, and more, TAEHYUN and the YouTube channel “Funniest Pawnshop” (produced by SK Broadband) pioneer the field of “academy reviews.” TAEHYUN opens his eyes to find himself in an unfamiliar place, dressed in a school uniform, and is introduced to “the academy of the day.” He visits the academy, receives counseling, and takes level tests like any other student before attending classes. While he says he senses a “wall” among the gifted students due to their unique approach and thinking skills, he actively participates in class discussions; during breaks, he hangs out with fellow students, asking them about their dreams and the latest idol fancams they’ve watched. At the magic school, he takes lessons with his mentor, who has seven years of magic experience, and diligently works to learn magic tricks, eventually successfully performing them. TAEHYUN, with his quick adaptability and learning abilities at any academy he attends, is a perfect fit for “Academy Reincarnation,” a show that reviews a different academy each day. Also, although the way he takes in the concept of the program and makes nonchalant comments like, “I don’t know how old I am in this world” and “what year this is,” may seem absurd, viewers will find themselves laughing with joy. With so much to learn and so little time, why not start with the one-day experience course at “Academy Reincarnation,” where TAEHYUN reincarnates each time to explore and experience the lessons for you?

The Old Oak

Jeong Seohui (Cinema Journalist): There’s no time to beat around the bush. Director Ken Loach’s new film in four years, The Old Oak, which he refers to as “his last feature film” is full of straightforward talk. In 2016, Syrian refugees arrived at the abandoned mining town in northeastern England, and those who had been complete strangers until yesterday suddenly form a community. The miners who lost their jobs to the privatization policy in the coal industry and those who left their home country to escape the war find themselves blending in a spirit of decline, each of their lifestyles shattered. Only TJ (Dave Turner), the owner of the Old Oak, an old pub in town, greets the immigrant Yara (Ebla Mari) from the start, who dreams of becoming a photographer. TJ may seem like Director Ken Loach and Paul Laverty’s categorical imperative—a moral command where the action is demanded unconditionally because it is inherently good. But it’s only natural that he, once a crucial member of the miners’ union who still frames the memories of vigorous fights with many, has deeply accumulated the value of solidarity. Amidst his racist companion and the eyes of his regular customers, TJ transforms the Old Oak into a bastion where both natives and strangers can gather, as suggested by Yara. Those captured by her lens come together to hang out but end up sharing meals and warming their bellies together. The director collects Yara’s photos as a record of the witnesses on-sight rather than a product of artistic skills. That’s how The Old Oak declares the unity of the weak to survive the destructors marks the beginning of rebuilding. Ken Loach criticized the loosely built welfare system that knocks down even the tightly built dignity (I, Daniel Blake), as well as the contradictions of a society where an unreasonable “work” contract takes precedence over a stable life (Sorry We Missed You). The master, who claims to have waited long enough, chooses the difficult path of appealing instead of opting for the easy route of disappointment.

KIRARA, Siwa, PPS - “To. Sora”

Na Wonyoung (Music Critic): The song that filled the end of this year and the beginning of a new year with an overwhelming sense, as I made my way through the snow to and from the year-end party with my beloved people, is “To. Sora.” This track was made with layers of serendipitous encounters that transcend time and space. A picture left by Gong Soon-hyang, a nurse dispatched to Germany in the 1970s, and a letter sent to her friend Sora (Soon-hee), who was dispatched to another city, were delivered to Soon-Hyang’s daughter, Siwa, a folk singer-songwriter who recently turned 70; and then, to an indie pop artist and visual artist, Kim Sora (PPS), who followed their trace after being requested to do so half a century later. How such collected story and sound pieces were delivered all the way to an electronic musician Kirara who weaved them into 12 minutes can be found in Kim Yoon-ha’s introduction of the album, Kim Sol-ji’s preface at the exhibition, and meticulous, thoughtful sentences written in Kim Sora’s travelog published in Bricks Magazine. So now, at a moment when everyone has taken out the letter and read it later, I want to talk briefly about the music. From a voice recording of reciting letters and singing their feelings to street ambiances collected directly from Germany, and keyboard, percussion, and electronic notes made with a laptop—each sound exists uniquely, made from a different place and time. The way it captures them, without forcibly narrowing the time difference between Germany in the 1970s and Korea in the 2020s or compressing it, is through a superposition where the sound is adequately connected with a long breath. As if reflecting the visual restoration of Kim Sora by snipping small squares and weaving the pictures of the past and present, “To. Sora” knows what to take out or add, when, what kind of effect the gap in sounds would create, and fills the time and space. It falls right into the sentences of the letter, wiping out the bustling background noise; it presents abrupt clappings that leave a sudden overwhelming reverberation, instead of a cut-off voice, and the elevating sounds that suddenly swallow up tears and disappear. It’s aware of the inevitable loss that occurs when bringing back the past and carefully reflecting on nostalgia. The blank is filled through a process that does “not follow a single plot but explores ways of inhabiting many places at once and imagining different time zones” (Svetlana Boym). It explores the gaps in sounds and plots the emotional path intertwined with the letter. While it may differ for the writer, the reader, and the listener, there’s an “instant affection” flowing through the sincere minds of both the sender and the receiver of the letter, passing through the crack.