“Decision to Leave” (2022) is Park Chan-Wook’s latest film. It is about a young detective, Detective Hae-jun (Park Hae-il) who investigates the death of a man found at the foot of a mountain and the chief suspect, the man’s widow, Seo-rae (Tang Wei). The detective falls for her and realizes that his feelings may have clouded his professional judgment. He tries to get back on the right track and recover himself, but she will not let him forget her. [After you watch the movie, reread the prior two sentences. They explain everything.]

I love Park’s films so I knew that I would see “Decision to Leave” in theaters during its opening week. Unlike most of his films, it is sedate, not twisted, and maybe his most humorous film to date. It is possibly his most approachable film for those viewers who clutch pearls at the prospect of violence and sex being depicted on screen. The violence is either off screen, implied, brief, or hilarious. There is a chase scene between cops and a suspect on another case that utilizes the famous long set of stairs to contrast a pair of detectives’ fitness for duty. Best use of a single glove since the 1980s. The only sex scene is between a married couple.

“Decision to Leave” reminded me of “Thirst” (2009). “Thirst” is about a devout priest who becomes a vampire after doing a good deed then gets swept away in the turbulent world of murder and love; however he still wants to adhere to his old moral standards despite it being incompatible with his existence. In this film, the detective breaks his moral code in spirit, and the widow seems to have her own moral code though most people do not focus on that aspect of the movie. To be fair, most people see Park’s latest as a love story, which it is, but love stories rarely interest me, which may explain why despite enjoying the stunning film, I found myself nodding off in parts. Despite my sleepiness, I would rewatch the film to retroactively appreciate the film now that I know what to expect.

While “Decision to Leave” is a neo-noir with a detective and a femme fatale, Seo-rae did not feel like a traditional femme-fatale and seemed to have more in common with the heroines in Park’s vengeance films. Early in the film, she seems to tone down her looks, but gradually turns on the charm to seduce. She knows that she is being observed and plays into it like an actor. When there is a big reveal about her family, and the film introduces her lineage, I am convinced that I am missing the significance of her origins, her motivation to live in South Korea and the symbolism of her refusing to associate with mountains because she is not benevolent, but preferring the ocean as a wise person does. Later the detective claims to be a person of the sea. If Seo-rae is a killer, her motivations may be veiled vigilantism. She has a type-she focuses on men whom the public trusts to carry out their duty and fail to do so for personal gain. While Park frames her as a victim, she also seems to make a conscious choice to put herself in certain scenarios perhaps because she is capable of decisive response to problems that institutions and men will not solve. I could understand why Hae-jun would find her fascinating.

“Decision to Leave” also shares elements from “The Handmaiden” (2016), but unlike the latter film, the subtitles are not in different colors to reflect that a different language is being spoken—Park has forever spoiled me, and I will never not want that from a film. Seo-rae is a Chinese immigrant to South Korea, but as an ignorant American, I cannot tell that Seo-rae is not speaking Korean well until she starts using her cell phone to translate her words from Chinese to Korean. Pedro Almodovar, another brilliant Hitchcockian auteur, also uses phones to show that communication devices only highlight the chasm of communication between two people. Unlike the relationship of Japan to South Korea, I know very little about China’s relationship to South Korea so I felt as if I missed additional subtext.

If Seo-rae distinguishes Hae-jun from the other men in her life it is because she sees him as virtuous despite his failings, it is because of his compulsion to excellence, devotion and care. He is ambitious without wanting to advance in status. Indeed he annoys his superiors by refusing to close cases until he is satisfied that they are solved. Like her, he is a caretaker. He and his partner are physically tender and intimate with each other. He shows love through food. One TikTok creator says that a successful, heterosexual man does not want a woman to do anything for him except be with him. While he is attracted to Seo-rae, he shows it by caring for her. Unlike Seo-rae, even though it is his job, I found him somewhat creepy in the way that he envisioned inserting himself in her life, but his surrender to her will and vulnerability offsets his voyeurism. He is trusting a suspected killer, but murder becomes a metaphor for trusting someone with your heart and their potential to break it. Unreciprocated or star-crossed love also has its equivalent in death acts.

I am probably the only person who thought about Hae-jun’s wife, his other half, another young ambitious person, and she is the Marilyn Munster in the cast. She is the normal person in her reactions and suggested solutions. He is supposed to be a good guy, but he is having an emotional affair. To be fair, though it is obvious to anyone else, he is not self-aware that there are problems with his marriage even though he has chosen his career over his marriage long before Seo-rae appears. I loved the line when his wife pegs murder as the other woman. Smoke as a signifier of love comes out in the wife’s suspicions of her husband.  

This reciprocated love/emotional affair becomes self-destructive, and the second half of “Decision to Leave” is unpredictable and puzzling until the end in anticipating how Seo-rae will act. Park managed to avoid boiling bunny territory and convince even a cynical soul such as myself that Seo-rae loves Hae-jun as she keeps committing acts that make her seem culpable to protect him. It is important to remember that Hae-jun cannot forget unsolved cases. Seo-rae takes Hae-jun’s instructions literally. The end felt like a Gift of the Magi version of “The Vanishing” (1988). While I may get it on a poetic level, my practical side winces at the cinematic denouement. 

If you enjoy South Korean films and Park’s movies, then you must see this film in the theater. Park has never made a bad film, never rests on his laurels and always finds new ways to depict his vision. Unlike once great directors whose vision becomes stale, repetitive, and predictable, Park is always raising the bar for himself and setting the new standard for those behind him. His work is always fresh, and I love that he keeps pushing himself and evolving. If I had one complaint, I was sad that Song Kang-ho was nowhere to be found.