Intangible Asset Number 82: Notes on the Film
THE TITLE
Intangible Asset Number 82 refers to the honorary title given to Shaman Kim Seok-Chul by the Korean Government. It means he was officially designated as the pre-eminent practitioner, or ‘grand-master’, and keeper/protector of this art form. It¹s a system similar to world heritage sites, but the value in this case is placed on non-material, intangible things. When one holder of the title passes, it is handed down to the next in line.
I liked it as a title for the film not only because it refers to the shaman and because it has an element of intrigue, but mostly because I like the concept of valuing the intangible. One of the main themes of the film is the integral value of the non-material aspects of our lives, including music, art and philosophy.
I also thought that, as a title, it had a nice quirkiness about it - a paradox between the enigmatic idea of an intangible asset and the idea that it can be given a specific number. I found a lot of those paradoxes in the [unfortunately limited] time I spent in Korea.
PRODUCTION NOTES
Initially, I planned to shoot in a completely observational style, but the politeness and respect required when meeting and speaking with the masters and artists necessitated a slightly different approach. When we would arrive, we would have to kneel and explain our intentions, and usually share some food and drink before I would be allowed to pull out the camera.
For three of the shooting weeks, I took along sound engineer Matthew Ferris. We lugged a huge multi-track desk with ProTools, laptop, microphones, stands and long heavy cables in expectation of huge noisy set-ups of drums and gongs and cymbals. It quickly became obvious that the task was to work more expediently, as situations never allowed for a cumbersome pro tools desk setup, rather requiring a smaller more intimate recording environment more suited to the spontaneity of the artists’ performances.
For all subsequent shoots bar one, the crew was reduced to me doing camera and sound on the fly. For the first two weeks I averaged 40 hours a week with camera in hand and built up one big bicep on my right arm. In the left hand I had a mobile phone was making calls, production managing, booking taxis, hotels, equipment, translators and so on. In the end though, working alone or with only one other definitely gave me the access we otherwise wouldn¹t have had.
Even when we went to meet the singer on the mountain, Mash tramped through the mud and jungle in the rain along narrow treacherous paths with the huge box of equipment on his shoulder as Dong-Won hacked through the foliage ahead with a machete. I had two cameras with a stand to set up a static shot leaving me the freedom to move around, but as soon as we arrived at the rock where he lived, Il-Dong (the singer) ran into the waterfall and started praying, started singing, screamingŠ I pulled out a camera as Simon held an umbrella over me and filmed as we all crammed ontothe small rocky outcrop that had been the singer’s home for seven years. Mash couldn¹t pull out any equipment due to lack of space. Simon had tears streaming down his face from the intensity and heartfelt spontaneity of the singing. It was such a magical moment for all of us, it couldn¹t have happened any other way.
At all times I wanted to maintain the respect Simon and Dong-Won (and I) had for the masters and artists, and whilst sometimes that meant I wasn’t filming when I wanted to, it definitely led to better access and openness from the people we met. Ultimately, this simple organic approach was perfectly suited to the production, and was somehow a reflection of the way in which the journey itself unfolded, in keeping with the Korean principle of allowing things to be fluid.
At the end of a very intense journey, there were some images that weren’t part of the observed story that I still wanted to capture; time-lapse landscape shots, and other elements in nature that would serve as visual metaphors for the philosophies and concepts we were being invited to understand.
I went back on a short trip with cinematographer Adam Arkapaw with both of us filming to take the load off. I did some mountain driving with Adam hanging out of the window with our interpreter Song-Hee holding onto his legs and that was about as big and high tech as the production ever got.
THE EDIT
I wanted the film to reflect visually and aurally elements of the Korean aesthetic; ideas of energy, harmonized contrast, yin/yang balance, the influence of nature, perpetual movement and flow, and connection to one’s environment and community. Accordingly, the pacing in this film needed to be rhythmic and lyrical, full of contrast, complimenting the Korean concept that the rhythm of life is like breath - strong and gentle, not rigid.
With observational hand-held material and other more considered symbolism, the interweaving thought-track, the spoken wisdoms and the music, there were the elements to create a seamless ebb and flow; between real life, inner thoughts, and dream-like sequences that could take the viewer inside the experience. Likewise, the percussive nature of the music and the heightened and frenetic states into which the Korean artists propel themselves at times lent themselves to rhythmic editing that builds and rises to abstract and visceral crescendos before ebbing and fragmenting back into the narrative.
Editor Daniel Kerr had been with the project since it¹s inception and had a wonderful understanding of and intuitive feel for the material.
THE MUSIC
The music is naturally a very important feature of this film, sourced from recordings of solos by Simon Barker, pre-existing albums of two of Simon’s groups, Band of Five Names and Showa44, recordings made during the journey of the traditional masters, and the cutting-edge performances that resulted from the bond formed between Simon and two of the main characters in the story. I also took music recorded during concerts that happened in the course of the filming and used it in other scenes.
The music sometimes moves from synchronised sound of live performance into montage sequences, then following through into the mood of the narrative. Occasionally the tunes continue over natural images that illustrate or add depth to the meaning of the music. Ambient sound is layered in a musical fashion and integrated with the soundtrack at times to create the effect of a new piece of music and intensify the link between art and life.
Transitions between shamanic ritual music and Simon performing will perfectly illustrate the influence the Shaman¹s music and developments in the journey have had on his playing, and will be used as segues between scenes.
Describing the music, as opposed to describing the music¹s use, I find difficult because it is varied, and I believe music can not adequately be described with words. I have such respect for all of the musicians whose music I used in the film, and I love what they do, how they play, and how they approach music.
Simon is a unique, dynamic drummer with great technique and great sensitivity, yet somehow accessible because of the great grooves he creates. His solo material often sounds like a group of drummers and is almost melodic in approach. His duo, Showa44, with guitarist Carl Dewhurst, moves from extremist improvisation with some frighteningly powerful rhythms to subtle grooves, incorporating a sort of out-there rock n’ roll sensibility with loads of skill and finesse.
The group, Band of Five Names, consists of Simon, Matt McMahon on piano and keyboards, and Philip Slater on trumpet and computer. They play and respond to each other with an incredible cohesion of intent, despite the spontaneity involved, creating these long-form, spacious, textural pieces full of contrast and mood shifts that crescendo and ebb and flow into these modern soundscapes. It¹s very filmic by weird way of explanation, when I¹m driving I like to listen to their music as it makes me feel as if I’m floating through these weird and wonderful dream-like landscapes¬ if that makes sense!
A combination of all the musicians above plus the Korean guide and the singer they met on the mountain is Daorum; a fusion of Korean traditional rhythms and vocals with contemporary spontaneous creations that develop in an improvised manner from mere sketches of ideas to create intense atmospheric and high-energy suites. I used bits and pieces from some of their concerts within the film.
THE FILM
Intangible Asset Number 82 was filmed observationally in High Definition, later utilizing the intimacy of a thought diary, various concert footage, interviews, and super 8 elements to examine a deeper philosophical search for the tools of self-expression.
The film commences as Simon embarks on his seventeenth trip to Korea, interweaving present day narrative with ephemeral sounds and images of the shaman and the landscape. With a sense that this will be the trip of most consequence and magnitude, these glimpses draw the viewer in to the physical and metaphysical journey ahead.
Observational images of the present day narrative interweave with images of landscape, nature and symbolism that resonate with the philosophical and exotic aspects of the journey as the back-story is progressively revealed. The result is a layered story that builds with each scene.
The film is divided into chapters, each heralded by a Korean concept, contemplative imagery and a sound bite of wisdom taken from artists met on the journey. Each concept serves as a metaphor for different developments in Simon¹s personal journey.
The first chapter addresses the very foundation of Korean philosophy, which stems from Taoism. The seed of the concept is planted in our minds, then we learn more about it through Simon¹s conversations with artists, seeing it applied in artistic disciplines and daily life, and witnessing characters using it to cope with difficulties that arise along the journey.
This documentary captures a life that is little known to the outside world, featuring rare footage difficult to get even in Korea, and intimate access to engaging and unique characters. Simon speaks with grand masters, musicians, hereditary shamans, a female spiritual shaman, academics, and eventually, master shaman musician Kim Seok-chul. As opposed to being used in a talking heads’ manner, footage from discussions and interviews are incorporated as part of the observed journey, and sound excerpts from them accompany other images of Simon¹s continuing journey through the countryside.
Along the way, a number of these Grand Masters and fine artists perform in intimate settings especially for Simon. Footage of such performances have a place throughout the film, culminating in the rare footage of a private ritual of Kim Seok-chul’s family of shamans, as they contact their own dead. This is not only intensely rare and intimate footage, but the very last captured performance of ‘one of the world¹s great improvising musicians’.
Experiencing it in context, the underlying significance of Korean music becomes clearer to both Simon and the viewer. This sense of understanding develops as, simultaneous to the story line, the pacing and rhythm of the film reflect the Korean concepts of continual movement, ebb and flow, extreme contrast, and being in harmony with one’s environment and community.
