The Enduring Bitterness of Peppermint Candy (II): The Minefield of South-Korea’s Gender Wars
By Hannah Kang Wolter
Inauguration ceremony of 20th President Yoon Suk-Yeol (Image by Yang Dong Wook, via Flickr)
This article builds upon a previously published review of the film Peppermint Candy, which can be found here.
In contrast to many Korean productions that have drawn international acclaim for their depictions of extremes within society - Parasite and Squid Game being cases in point (or even that cinephile classic, Old Boy, with its a tale of extreme vengeance) - the poignancy Peppermint Candy lies in its uncompromising portrayal of the lot of the average South Korean man. Young-Ho, the protagonist, is not a member of the elite; nor is he particularly badly off. Yet he is nonetheless a victim of the casual abuse and cruelty that is the product of South Korea’s cut-throat, hierarchical society. And in many ways, it is the ubiquity of the film’s plot - its focus on the life of an ordinary man, and his loss of innocence - that gives it such power. Despite the twenty-odd years that have elapsed since its release, I believe that the insights afforded us in Peppermint Candy continue to be relevant, perhaps more so now than ever. While South Korean society has hardly stood still, many of the issues and dynamics present in the film can be seen to persist to this day: misogyny; conscription; and widespread indifference to the plight of the individual.
In a world beset with inflation and overshadowed by the threat of recession, South Korea is hardly alone in facing a growing number of economic difficulties. Yet its plight is heightened by its collapsing birth rate, currently the lowest in the world, and the recent, calamitous crash in property value across the country. Amongst all this comes an increasingly widening rift in society, defined around the issue of gender inequality. Like other East Asian, Confucian-value-based nations, South Korea is a patriarchal, hierarchical country, where women have traditionally been consigned to the domestic sphere. We are afforded a glimpse of the casual misogyny that pervades Korean society in Young-ho’s treatment of his wife in Peppermint Candy: if Young-ho represents the average Korean man, then it follows that his relationships, including that with his wife, are also those of that demographic. Thus his indifference, his cruelty, the way in which he takes out upon Hong-ja the injustices of his working life, are all reflective of the plight of the Korean woman within the family, and society at large. In one particular scene, he beats his naked wife upon discovering her in a hotel room with her lover, to which she offers no resistance; yet Young-ho’s seeming position as a figure of justice crumbles to one of revolting hypocrisy, as soon after we discover that he is having an affair with his secretary. While adultery is no longer illegal (as it was from 1953 until as recently as 2015, punishable by a two-year sentence), and women have gained considerable individual freedom, they remain a long way from equality. Social cohesion in South Korea has reached a crisis in the last few years with the arrival of the Me Too movement, which prompted thousands of women to speak out about their experiences of harassment and abuse - to severe backlash.
Still from Peppermint Candy depicting Young-ho and his wife, Hong-ja (Image via Cranes are Flying)
March of last year saw South Koreans head to the polls to elect a new head of state in a climate polarised by gender issues. The new president, Yoon Suk-Yeol, has infamously criticised feminist movements, pledged to abolish the ministry for gender equality, and even blamed South Korea’s low birthrate on feminism. While Yoon has not been able to make good on his promise scrap the aforementioned ministry, he has removed gender-based quotas in government, meaning that only three in his cabinet of nineteen are women. A crucial part of Yoon’s support base is composed of disenfranchised young men, so-called ‘idaenam’ (an abbreviation of 20대 남성, literally meaning ‘a man in his twenties’) who see themselves as the victims of reverse discrimination, believing that their female peers are unjustly favoured by such initiatives as gender quotas. Added to this polemic is the matter of military service, of which all South Korean male citizens are obliged to complete 20 months. Indeed, a poll conducted in 2019 by news magazine SisaIn and Hankook Research revealed that over 75% of men in their twenties were opposed to affirmative action for women, believing that such initiatives disrupt meritocracy.
Yet in truth, the imbalance tilts heavily in favour of men. Currently South Korea holds the largest gender pay-gap status amongst OECD countries; it is also ranked last by the Economist’s Glass Ceiling Index. The structure of the job market is configured against women, for not only are they paid on average a third less than their male counterparts, but inadequate benefits and unforgivingly high workplace demands render it extremely difficult to re-enter the workforce after giving birth, particularly as many husbands refuse to take on housework or childcare duties.
Women protesting against plans to abolish the ministry of gender equality in Gwanghwamun, Seoul (Image via BBC)
As members of a system that privileges men at the expense of women, it seems unreasonable for Korean men to complain about discrimination and lack of favour. Yet as we see in Peppermint Candy, Korean male-dominated workplace environments do not tolerate empathy or compassion. In a particularly memorable scene during Young-ho’s military conscription, he is brutally assaulted for spilling the peppermint candy sent to him by Sunim over the floor of the barracks. If these sweets are symbolic of sensitivity and innocence, then this scene suggests that such values have no place within the Korean military, or even in the wider hierarchy of Korean society. And though the film might depict fictional events from almost half a century ago, it is not ridiculous to imagine that, in many places and under different guises, these same dynamics still apply.
Young Korean men are angry. And they have a right to be. But they would do well to realise that the cause of their problems lies not with the women who strive to gain equality, but rather with the system in which they were raised. Because South Korean society has never truly granted young men the space or opportunity to be empathetic - because it has taught them that such qualities are the marks of weakness rather than strength - they blame their sufferings under this same system on the women who dare to speak out against it. In a climate riddled with conflict and accusation, plagued by rising tides of populism and polarisation, it is all too easy to forget the humanity of ‘the other side’. Yet the enduring bitterness of Peppermint Candy lies in its unflinching presentation of a truth that one can be both victim and perpetrator; that cynicism and hatred are not inherent qualities, but rather are the products of cycles of abuse that continue to this day. South Korea’s gender issues are polarised and deeply divisive, and it seems likely that Yoon will only set the two camps further against each other. But beyond this battlefield strewn with blame, Peppermint Candy might remind us that such problems are not to be found between genders, but rather within the very foundations of South Korean society.