Easter is your first film. Where did the idea come from? What were the first steps in making it?
The initial spark for EASTER came from a lingering question I had about the “restoration of omitted time”. I have always been drawn to the fragments of lives that have been pushed out of the mainstream historical timeline. The very first step was encountering Saekja. I realised that a conventional, linear documentary format could never fully encompass the weight of her existence. I needed to build a cinematic structure that could capture not just the facts of her life, but the emotional and physical vibrations of her omitted history. The film began as an attempt to create a new timeline where her existence could be undeniably proven.
The film revolves around the character of Saekja. How did you work with her? What were the working procedures for writing the dialogues? How did she participate?
Working with Saekja was far beyond a typical director-subject relationship; it evolved into a deeply intimate bond where we referred to each other as “mother” and “son.” Because of this profound connection, the boundary between documenting her reality and constructing a cinematic fiction naturally blurred. We didn’t rely on rigidly scripted dialogues. Instead, the words emerged from our shared time, deep conversations, and the act of unearthing her memories together. I wanted her voice—its grain, its hesitations, its physical materiality—to guide the narrative. She was not merely a subject to be observed, but an active collaborator reconstructing her own myth.
At the heart of the film, the young boy, the other main character, who drives the film, breaks the diegesis and exposes the filmmaking process, the questions a filmmaker faces regarding his work. Can you elaborate on this construction of an alter ego throughout the film ?
The young boy serves as a reflection of my own internal struggles and the heavy ethical burden of representing the “Other”. I strongly felt that pretending the camera was invisible—feigning absolute objectivity—would be a deceptive way to tell this story. By breaking the diegesis and exposing the apparatus of filmmaking, the film acknowledges its own vulnerability and limitations. The alter ego is a necessary device to confess that what the audience is watching is a constructed reality, while simultaneously showing the fierce, desperate attempt of a filmmaker trying to connect with a history that constantly slips through his fingers.
You create a space of solitude, timeless, at the heart of this abandoned house. Why this diegetic space? How did you approach the film’s structure ?
The abandoned house is a spatial manifestation of “omitted time”. It represents a timeline completely disconnected from the rapid, relentless pace of mainstream society. I wanted this space to feel like a purgatory or a mythic sanctuary where forgotten existences reside. Structurally, the film oscillates between this isolated, almost theatrical space and the raw, unpolished reality of the outside world. This contrast highlights the friction between the sanctuary they have built for themselves and the society that has marginalised them, allowing the two worlds to collide without ever fully resolving.
The film is infused with references to Buddha’s previous lives. Can you elaborate on these narratives ? How did they inform the film’s writing? At what stage of its creation did they come into play ?
These mythological references, including elements resembling the Yacha (night demons) legends, came into play very early in the conceptual stage. Myths and old legends are often the only vessels left for marginalised beings to survive in history—sometimes cast as monsters, sometimes as tragic figures. Integrating the concept of reincarnation and past lives was a way to frame Saekja’s life not as a singular tragedy, but as an epic, mythic journey of endurance. It was a method of “critical fabulation”, borrowing the structure of a myth to rescue her existence from societal prejudice and elevate it to a timeless narrative.
Can you discuss the writing and filming of one of the final sequences in the club, which takes the form of a manifesto ? What is the contemporary Korean context regarding transgender identity ? How does the film fit into this context ?
In contemporary Korea, transgender individuals still face severe social invisibility, discrimination, and a lack of legal protection. They are often pushed to the extreme margins of society or sensationalized by the media. The club sequence was conceived as a radical sanctuary. I didn’t want the sequence to be a plea for sympathy; rather, it had to be a fierce, joyful, and unapologetic manifesto. Filming it was about capturing the raw energy of bodies vibrating in a space where they are entirely free. The film fits into the current context not by explaining their struggles pedagogically, but by presenting their undeniable, powerful existence as an absolute fact.
Can you explain the choice of this title and its meaning ?
Traditionally, “Easter” signifies resurrection. For this film, it symbolises the resurrection of omitted time and buried histories. It is the moment when individuals who were deemed non-existent by the mainstream world rise to the surface and demand to be seen. The title is a declaration that the fragmented memories and voices we tried to bury are not dead; they are continuously returning, vibrating, and breathing right here in the present.
Interviewed by Claire Lasolle
