Nature, Mimesis, Mini-Ideology
I was so impressed by Hong Sang-soo’s new film What Does That Nature Say to You at the 75th Berlinale in 2025. Hong’s films often operate on low budgets, but they carve out their own unique space through subtle concepts and scriptwriting. This new film showcases the same distinctive approach, with the script focusing on the protagonist’s struggle for autonomy as an individual within East Asian culture. Gradually, the protagonist’s bravery gives way to self-doubt. In narrative, the transformation that the protagonist undergoes on his hero’s journey exemplifies how culture, group identity, and ideology can impact the individual.
The film depicts a young man’s journey to meet his girlfriend’s family. The story unfolds through the protagonist’s relationship with his girlfriend’s father. In the first chapter, the protagonist drives his girlfriend to her father’s house and, by chance, is invited in. The initial meeting proceeds smoothly despite the father’s judgmental remarks about the protagonist’s old vehicle. Having established politeness, the protagonist explains to the father the reason that he doesn’t need a fancy car. During the rising action, the girlfriend’s father admires the protagonist’s beard, and this symbolic facial hair leads the girlfriend’s sister into a subtle, hidden adoration. Yet all this “happiness” collapses after a drunken argument at the climax. The entire dinner scene is drawn out exceptionally long. In symbolic language, the transition from day to night divides the dinner scene into two parts, foreshadowing an impending catastrophe. These two parts form the ascent before the climax and the descent afterward. A brief interlude during the dinner break separates the two segments, offering the spactator a brief break. After the drunken revelry of the dinner, the protagonist recites his own poem, the content of which is a repetition of the phrase “Flowers bloom at night, when the flowers bloom, everything brightens, It’s not scary!” However, this beautiful poem fails to satisfy his girlfriend’s mother, who is also a poet. The protagonist failed to anticipate the rarity of bravery in East Asian culture and, thus, did not foresee the dinner audience’s rejection. Just as bonsai stands as a beautiful symbol of East Asian culture, yet no one dares question whether the pruning involved mimics the castration ritual, dissent provokes collective opposition. The girlfriend’s mother’s displeasure was merely the beginning. It was followed by a more intense argument scene, where the protagonist, under the influence of alcohol, quarreled with the girlfriend’s sister. The sister was portrayed as a figure shielded by the family, fearful of mother and clinging to father. From her own vision, she persistently questioned the protagonist’s independence, thereby provoking the latter’s protest. After this emotionally charged scene, the narrative appears to settle into calm before gradually descending into the next act. The subsequent scene depicts the girlfriend’s parents having a discussion in their bedroom. The father, who previously idolized the protagonist’s beard, now turns critical—yet his criticism feels exaggerated, as if venting long-suppressed revenge. He then picks up a guitar and plays a song for his wife, attempting to prove his own charm. In a parallel scene, the protagonist glimpses a solitary, beautiful flower blooming in the night, symbolizing his own isolation within this culture. This scene represents his introspective gaze after navigating all the conflicts—filled with self-doubt and sorrow over the fleeting beauty. By the film’s end, the protagonist finally questions whether he should trade in his old vehicle for a better one—just like his girlfriend’s father, he undergoes a transformation.
Vehicles serve as both the first and final symbol in this film, evolving from the protagonist’s rejection of cars to his ultimate reliance on them. This special film employs an abundance of symbolic language. For instance, the father idolizes the protagonist’s beard, and when overcome by inferiority, he fails to catch even a single rooster in the chicken coop. The protagonist’s refusal to use utensils and his decision to eat with his hands seems to reveal a distanced courage, etc. The use of cars in the film seems to serve as a substitute for the symbolic phallus in a Freudian sense. Once the protagonist has found his courage, he no longer needs any external object — the vehicle — to embody his bravery. These elements add the Verfremdungseffekt to the film while simultaneously embodying the theme itself.
A clear critique of blurred castration anxiety in East Asian culture is revealed in the film. So few people have the courage to speak out, and even when they do, they ultimately assimilate into the environment and become the beardless father figure. In the dinner scene, the protagonist briefly mentions his relationship with his father, which is key information. His father never appears; Hong Sang-soo reveals through dialogue that the protagonist’s father is a public figure with whom the protagonist refuses to engage. This may also represent the source of the protagonist’s character for the director—an act of anti-castration. However, within this girlfriend’s family environment, everyone’s personality has been shaped by East Asian society. Unlike the protagonist, they represent the most common people within this culture. Despite being free from the constraints of a typical family triangle, the protagonist is nonetheless drawn back into a fate of repression by the group power in this setting. In addition to exploring the repressive tendencies and symbolic father figures common in East Asian culture, I’m also deeply curious about how this assimilation-identity process unfolds. How does the protagonist progress from his initial state of “no longer being afraid” to the self-doubt he experiences by the end? How does the protagonist still lose the “symbols of beard and phallus” gained through his rebellion against his father? An independent dissenting individual being identified by the collective voice could occur within any social structure—the ideology machine, the education system, or the reality-based daily theater and struggles that can flood human autonomy. In the film, the protagonist’s hero’s journey through Hong’s narrative is also a symbolic castration journey.
The collective voice, the obedience to order, epitomises another form of the father’s voice. However the girlfriend’s father’s figure in the film seems fragile. The only strength he displayed came from that exaggerated, critical guitar scene, once again relying on an external object — the guitar — for his charm. One can imagine that this image of the girlfriend’s father might also represent the protagonist’s suppressed future. The same destiny of erasing bravery could befall everyone. Rather than saying that the protagonist’s courage of protest and the autonomy are absorbed by the collective voice, it is more accurate to assume they are assimilated by the voice of order and the punishment imposed on those who do not conform. The collective voice replaces the ineffective father figure within the protagonist’s original family.
“The punishment” unfolds during the dinner scene’s argument. A conflict arises between the protagonist’s self-value and his goal—his desire to win his girlfriend’s family’s acceptance. Achieving this goal requires conformity to an order diametrically opposed to the autonomy he seeks, and this conflict causes the fear of his wish being destroyed. The same “punishment” model can occur in any culture or educational system. In the face of his desire to make a good impression, the protagonist’s own opinions become inopportune, leading to the shattering of this desire. The foreseeing of disaster subconsciously transforms into self-preservation driven by doubt about his own values, sacrificing his bravery to gain his own interests, exchanged for more desires—and this exchange usually happens secretly. Much like the sacrificial ceremony’s “dealing” as Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer mentioned in Dialectic of Enlightenment, I am reminded of the humorous festive ritual that my family practiced during my childhood. According to East Asian mythology, the god of the kitchen visits on specific dates to inspect people’s living conditions and bestow good fortune and wealth. This day therefore became a festival, and it was better for people to clean their kitchens on this day to satisfy the god’s inspection. The cunning and exchange inherent in this somewhat absurd myth are fully revealed: people need only clean during the deity’s inspection and do nothing the rest of the time. They exchange minimal effort for greater divine blessings while pretending reverence, deceiving both the deity and themselves. This may also reflect the relationship between the individual and the collective—integration into the collective invariably demands the sacrifice of individuality, and this sacrifice is a kind of reverence for the collective. Integration into the collective has always been a benefit—at the very least, gaining approval and happiness reduces one’s loneliness. If autonomy is unwelcome at this moment, abandonment becomes an easier choice.
In education, people invest considerably and expect returns. The image of the educator seemingly determines how efficiently these benefits are realized. In educational institutions, fears about the future, anxieties over investment returns, faith in the teacher’s role, and integration into the collective context— as well as visitors’ concerns in art museums about inevitably expecting something in return and mimicking the elegance of the venue — do these not risk losing the dissenting voice an individual can raise through their autonomy and the curiosity that could be cultivated through dedicated autodidacticism within the context of teaching and institutions? In teaching contexts, the content conveyed by instructors occasionally contrasts with their manner of speaking and behavior. The authority and benevolent elegance expressed in their speaking style, coupled with the unquestionable solemnity of educational spaces’ decor, is enough to make one silent. In my experience studying with various instructors, those who elegantized their conduct were commonplace. They discussed Christoph Schlingensief and Otto Mühl with a perfectly civilized elegant attitude, rarely permitting rudeness. Every learner must therefore be well-mannered, yet vulgarity and kitsch are among the most beautiful aspects of art. When unquestionable authority and elegance are repeated, the actual content of the teaching becomes irrelevant. In politics, Trump’s language serves as a fitting example. While a lie repeated numerous times becomes the truth, Trump repeatedly stated in conversations and press conferences that the money the European Union provided to Ukraine was a loan and that it was far less than what the USA provided. The repeated appearance of Trump’s language drew rebuttals from European leaders, rebuttals that must be timely but seem somewhat powerless. They can sense the impact that lies have on the public.
Trump repeated those figures in an Aug. 19 interview on “Fox & Friends” the day after he met with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy and European leaders in the White House. “We’ve spent through the previous administration $350 billion. Europe has spent a lot also, $100 billion, but it should be reversed if we should have been in for anything,” he said. As for Europe, it had allocated 167.4 billion euros (equal to about $195 billion today) in aid to Ukraine as of June 30, according to the Kiel Institute for the World Economy, a German research group that publishes the Ukraine Support Tracker. For a direct comparison, the Kiel Institute said that is more than the 114.6 billion euros (or about $133 billion) in aid allocated by the U.S. in that period.
Truth and lies produce a reversal of roles in precisely such a way. When such statements recur, even with timely corrections, audiences retain the impression that “something that never existed” is elevated to “something false.” Although the correction reveals it as a lie, the initial statement persists as a negative impression, still blurring the truth. Why does repeated language linger in viewers’ minds? Mimesis is an inherent human learning behavior. The fear of contradiction and punishment can become elements that change people. In Hong’s film, the example is overt confrontation: through intense conflict, the fear of losing one’s desires shapes identity. However, there is another side—observation and admiration also influence a person, with mimesis being the mechanism at work. In YouTube videos, a child watching kung fu films unconsciously leads them to practice martial skills. Human imitation of others or group norms isn’t inherently antagonistic to the collective. As part of the learning abilities of humans and animals, imitation often occurs subconsciously and is more effective when the object of admiration and idolization gains wider recognition. The protagonist’s eventual desire to buy a car aligns with his girlfriend’s father’s aspiration for a fine vehicle. This may represent a more subtle unfolding of mimicry, a mechanism that often operates instantaneously.
In my experience of studying art and cinema, demonstrations by instructors doing it are always more comprehensible than mere explanations. The best effect is achieved when the ‘he is teaching’ information is avoided—the instructor should ideally perform as if they were a play unfolding in front of the learner. Jacques Rancière’s text The Ignorant Schoolmaster clearly explains this. To me, he embodies both the fragile father figure and a role in the “theatre.” By avoiding the natural vigilance that an educator’s identity provokes, he becomes part of a theatrical performance, with learners as spectators. Much like Bertolt Brecht’s critique of traditional theatre, the audience watches without seeing, listens without hearing—a state of inattentiveness in which the teacher’s knowledge enters the student’s brain subconsciously. In the chapter on the culture industry, Adorno describes how portrayals of Paris (in the film) draw American girls back into the arms of American boys, as she never questions whether the Paris of film equals the Paris of reality—the act of returning to the boy’s embrace has already occurred. This too could be an action wrought by ideology, which to me signifies something people believe before they fully comprehend. I experienced a humorous example of this. Having lived in France for a long time, I observed that traffic lights often lasted excessively long, sometimes keeping both lanes stopped for a considerable amount of time. This, in turn, created opportunities for people to cross the street whenever they wished. I carefully learned and adopted this practice, as it allowed me to mask my rule-breaking impulse to cross on red lights—a habitus formed in the underdeveloped Far East—and transform it into the French impulse of freedom. However, one day I ceased this transformation of free will and stopped waiting at an intersection I knew well. Surprisingly, people behind me began gathering to wait as well—not a single one crossed. Then a third person arrived, followed by a fourth, and a waiting group formed. What I found amusing in this case was that people didn’t fully grasp why they were doing it, yet the action unfolded anyway. It was like creating a mini-ideology within a gap in attention. Following this perspective on attention, what would happen if we placed unimportant information where it would be noticed and important information where it would only be seen in the periphery? In Rancière’s writing, the teacher instructs without reverting to Flemish. I would propose another scenario: he understands the language very well yet deliberately plays the role of the ignorant. By controlling the trajectory of his own ignorance and mimicking the student’s role, he prompts students to identify with the teacher, constructing a theatrical performance. In this case, I could envision how the creation of mini ideologies might manifest within an educational context.
Random actions within teaching behaviour, similar to the revelations from fragmented dreams. Dreams appear as transformations of encounters and conflicts. I occasionally record my own dreams, where it’s surprising how minor details overlooked in my waking life sometimes emerge in the dreamscape. By recording dreams, I in turn re-identify minor details repressed by defence mechanisms. These details are often transformed in unexpected ways within dreams into different fictional scenarios, yet retain the same Gestalt structure. Suppressed events shift their causal connections, transforming into parallels that are reproduced. Encounters and conflicts in reality compose fictional dreams, and these dreams may in turn exert influence back onto reality. In Shakespeare’s play Hamlet, the scene where Hamlet encounters his father’s ghost resembles a dream. The ghost informs Hamlet that his uncle has murdered his father(the ghost), prompting Hamlet to take action. However Hamlet cannot simply obey the ghost’s or the dream’s words. Instead, he stages a play-within-the-play, “The Murder of Gonzago,” which re-enacts the suspected murder scene in order to test his uncle. Observing his reaction would confirm whether the information provided by the ghost was valid. Yet this caused the uncle’s panic. The panic stemmed from recognising himself within the fiction. Unlike the viewing patterns mentioned earlier, the uncle did not merely see a fictional play, but a mirror image of himself. This image intensified the process of identifying with the “reference point”, thus having a greater effect on him. Creating fiction within reality and blurring their boundaries may reshape reality’s influence, transforming random arrangements into intentional mini-ideologies while diminishing the educator/artist/director’s intent. Fiction unfolding in the real world may also be the driving force behind the fictional constructs in Hong’s filmic structures, where he seeks to make people discover the unusual within ordinary reality. Spectators observe themselves within the drama they witness, thereby altering their understanding of reality. In this manner, the work, the theatre, the teaching, and the cinema become interventions in reality. Randomly emerging ideologies—such as the transmission of cultural capital in traditional education or the emphasis on storytelling in traditional fictional cinema—transform into deliberate control and conceptual narratives. Rudolf Steiner wrote: “The child must leave with a craving to know, an insatiable curiosity about everything that goes on around him, and then convert this curiosity and craving for knowledge into further knowledge.” Perhaps where reality and fiction blur, audiences rediscover new realities amidst strangeness and confusion, reawakening the curiosity described by Steiner within a non-alienated reality.
Yuanxu Wang, 2025, Berlin
