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102 Tina Chanter<br />

<strong>of</strong> Song-Hee, whose passion for cooking and food extends to eating<br />

her neighbor. “Food,” says Kristeva, “becomes abject only if it is a<br />

border between two distinct entities or territories. A boundary between<br />

nature and culture, between <strong>the</strong> human and <strong>the</strong> non-human.” She<br />

continues, “The fact remains never<strong>the</strong>less that all food is liable to<br />

defile. . . . Food is <strong>the</strong> oral object (<strong>the</strong> abject) that sets up archaic relationships<br />

between <strong>the</strong> human being and <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r, its mo<strong>the</strong>r, who<br />

wields a power that is as vital as it is fierce.” 8<br />

The film shows how one woman is so intent on having o<strong>the</strong>rs eat<br />

<strong>the</strong> food she obsessively prepares that she is willing to kill, and how<br />

ano<strong>the</strong>r woman is so traumatized by <strong>the</strong> sexual abuse <strong>of</strong> her past that<br />

her body cannot tolerate <strong>the</strong> incorporation <strong>of</strong> anything. Song-Hee’s<br />

threat <strong>of</strong> “I’ll kill you—you have to eat” (I’ll kill you if you don’t eat)<br />

turns into Yoon-Hee’s desire to disintegrate, and becomes “I’ll kill you,<br />

and I’ll eat you.” Song-Hee’s attempt to eat a world including people<br />

and dogs to which she o<strong>the</strong>rwise is unable to relate coincides in this<br />

instance with <strong>the</strong> only way in which Yoon-Hee has learned to express<br />

her desire, which is to die.<br />

The realism <strong>of</strong> narrative subsides into a kind <strong>of</strong> stylized formalism.<br />

We are held at arms length from immersion in and identification with<br />

<strong>the</strong> characters because <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong>ir sheer idiosyncrasy. Song-Hee’s industrial<br />

kitchen and complete fascination with food is presented in a way that<br />

distances us, ra<strong>the</strong>r than drawing us in. As she watches <strong>the</strong> spinach being<br />

pulverized by her food processor with <strong>the</strong> same mute, fascinated absorption<br />

we usually reserve for Hollywood cinema, <strong>the</strong> displacements<br />

are multiple. The camera work lovingly caresses food as art as she puts<br />

everything she has into <strong>the</strong> food she makes and is no longer capable<br />

<strong>of</strong> sustaining any relationship unless it consists <strong>of</strong>, or is bound up with,<br />

appreciation <strong>of</strong> her food. How far is what entertains or mesmerizes us<br />

a product <strong>of</strong> our gendered normality or abnormality? How far are <strong>the</strong><br />

food issues that <strong>the</strong> two central characters display representative <strong>of</strong> more<br />

generalized feminized positions? How far is <strong>the</strong> production <strong>of</strong> femininity<br />

bound up with rejection or identification with <strong>the</strong> mo<strong>the</strong>r? To take<br />

in food in <strong>the</strong> place <strong>of</strong> love, or to refuse food as a way <strong>of</strong> protecting<br />

oneself from <strong>the</strong> trauma <strong>of</strong> violation, to become overweight or anorexic<br />

are both ways <strong>of</strong> recalibrating one’s relation to <strong>the</strong> maternal, <strong>the</strong> figure<br />

who is supposed to provide both protection and food.<br />

Murder, says Kristeva, “<strong>the</strong> violence that threatens <strong>the</strong> living being,<br />

and not just society,” is one <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> elements that previously reli-

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