Between candid Polaroids and frank conversations laced with cultural contradictions, there is a palpable emphasis on the value of honesty in Hong Sang-soo’s Claire’s Camera (2017). The film’s unique and minimalist style skillfully conveys this pervasive theme of truth — most notably through its long takes, minimal editing, and straightforward, strikingly vulnerable dialogue.
Claire’s Camera stars Kim Min-hee as Jeon Man-hee, who, when we first meet her, has just been fired from her job as assistant to Nam Yang-hye (Chang Mi-hee), a higher-up at a Korean film distribution company, for her alleged dishonesty in the middle of the Cannes Film Festival. Jeon, confused and disgruntled, decides to stay in the small beach town anyways, befriending quirky high school teacher and hobbyist photographer Claire (Isabelle Huppert) along the way, who helps her begin to piece together the truth behind her abrupt dismissal.
A significant majority of the scenes are filmed in one take with very little camera movement, creating a sense of reality and the synchronous passing of time. In addition to the minimal editing, these stylistic choices in framing and motion function to give the audience a sense of authenticity within the interactions captured on camera. Conversations are filmed without breaks or fanciful angles or zooms. When stylistic camera choices do happen, however, they are used to punctuate moments of transparent truth.
Just before she meets Claire for the first time, we observe Jeon perched on a rock on the beach. This shot is extremely unique in the context of the film, as it moves forward in a gradual zoom, from a medium-long shot to a medium-close-up, bringing us near to the elusive expression painting Jeon’s face. This movement stirs the viewer, signaling an important shift as we physically move closer in space toward Jeon. Guiding the audience’s perception, it is a distinctive shot with a specific function. Once oriented, the camera illuminates Jeon’s sort of quiet, contemplative truth. It is laid bare for us to observe, held in her gaze, in the timid way she plays with her fingers. The next shot follows Jeon’s feet in a soft rightward pan as they carefully step over the sharp rocks below, hinting at her maneuvering through the rugged terrain of her present predicament. Waves lap at the rocks. All is quiet.
Working in tandem with this minimal camera work, the film is very sparsely edited, and what little editing occurs succeeds at logically tying the scenes together, even flashbacks. The pacing established by this invisible stitching seamlessly ties each successive scene to its predecessor, creating a rhythm of hypnotizing verisimilitude. As the story unfolds, albeit in non-chronological order, the characters move through the sleepy, pastel town with stark informality. We are guided through these settings with a sense of familiarity and tranquility, warmly invited to piece the story together ourselves, to find the moments of truth shared between these vignettes.
The first scene of the film features Jeon disappointedly ranting to a friend about her recent termination, and we begin to understand just how jarring this sudden change is for her, especially due to the murky circumstances surrounding it. Under the bright daylight, Jeon drinks orange juice outside of a small café as she explains that she has been accused by her now-former boss of dishonesty. Very suddenly, the shot cuts to a bright green palm tree. Just as quickly, we cut back to Jeon sitting at another café table, this time across from Nam, who, in the ensuing scene, will fire Jeon. Through editing, these two scenes are juxtaposed against each other, with the shot of the palm tree acting as a sort of transition, a signal of a timeline change. We are given the context for Jeon’s firing, then immediately invited to view the interaction for ourselves, to try to piece together the bits of truth behind this action.
For the majority of the film, the characters communicate in English, a language much different from their native vernaculars. As they carefully consider the foreign words and their meanings, enunciated awkwardly but charmingly from hesitant mouths, their facial expressions and body language effectively communicate their emotions, which lie just under the surface. At times, it does feel like we’re watching something of a tennis match between different cultures, volleying pleasantries back and forth to confused albeit open ears. While these sports analogies imply careful calculation and competition, the interactions between Jeon and Claire are anything but cold. Through their language barrier, they communicate warm sentiments, even some phrases that English-speaking Americans may find odd in any other context.
When they first meet, Claire takes a photo of Jeon without her knowledge as she sits on the rocks on the beach, capturing her candid image in a moment of spontaneous lucidity. They both smile as they greet each other, and Claire explains that she’s been watching Jeon for a long time. “It made me feel good,” Claire says, shrugging lightly as if it’s the only phrase appropriate to even begin to explain her feelings of contentment in their shared, second language. Jeon softly laughs and says, “I’m happy to hear that.” They continue on to praise each other for their beauty, taking their time between careful sentences as they perceive each other’s facial expressions and body language, which are warm, reciprocal, and open. Later in the scene, Claire expresses her desire to try real Korean food, and Jeon happily agrees to cook for her. Then, Jeon sings a song she wrote, which Claire praises her for.Claire’s Camera is an absolute treat to behold. Like a small pastry perhaps picked up in Cannes itself, it’s sweet, clad in bright colors, and deserves to be savored to the last bite. Wrapped up in a tight 69 minutes, it doesn’t linger, but instead offers its minimalist framing elements, seamless editing, and offbeat dialogue to create a fully envisioned story about the value of honesty and genuine human connection.
