Along with stories of evil inanimate objects and vengeful ghosts, 2000s South Korean horror looked at society through a sinister lens. Popular New Wave franchises like Whispering Corridors and Death Bell criticized the demanding education system while other K-horrors examined less tangible problems. Yun Jae-yeon’s Yoga (Yoga Hakwon) sounds like it would be about killer workouts and murderous meditations. On the contrary, the characters in this 2009 obscurity succumb to a more ubiquitous evil: the endless pursuit of beauty.
Kim Yoo-jin, better known to K-pop fans as Eugene, plays Hyo-jeong, Yoga’s overworked and unhappy protagonist. Her job was originally selling lingerie on a shopping show, but she is replaced by her younger co-host. And after a disconcerting talk about marriage with her shallow girlfriends, Hyo-jeong pushes her boyfriend Dong-hoo (Choi Daniel) away. The stress finally leads Hyo-jeong to a cryptic yoga retreat that her colleague Seon-hwa (Lee Young-jin) recommended. This voyage toward enlightenment, however, is not at all what Hyo-jeong had in mind when searching for inner peace.
Yoga’s Korean horror contemporaries and predecessors often had characters solving a malediction or an equally uncanny occurrence plaguing their lives. Jinxed items like shoes, instruments, and spirit boards sometimes triggered these investigations. Yet, Yoga is a different kind of personal journey. The stakes may not be as life threatening or urgent, but they sure feel that way to someone as unfulfilled and miserable as Hyo-jeong.
Yoga’s main character is not looking to stop a curse or a ghost’s grievance; Hyo-jeong simply wants to be happy. “I don’t want to live like this,” she screams at her unaware boyfriend before they separate. This of course comes after Hyo-jeong is demoted at work because the show’s producers essentially deem her visually unfit to be in front of the camera. A deep cut like that can only be relieved through intense introspection, Hyo-jeong figures.
Hyo-jeong and her fellow women isolate themselves for one week at the murky yoga center in hopes of bettering themselves. Their alluring yet eerie yogi Na-ni (Cha Soo-yeon) guides them while dangling the kundalini — a force of divine energy — over their heads. The “winner” of the retreat will then have a chance to meet the elusive Kan Mi-hee (Lee Hye-sang), the center’s founder and the presenter of the kundalini.
Na-ni puts strict rules in place for the participants; these edicts include no unauthorized eating, no leaving the center, and no outside communication. What seems like motivation for staying on task is actually the course’s way of stirring up rivalry. They are, after all, competing for something. In place of jobs and other real-world opportunities is now the kundalini. So the toxic environment Hyo-jeong ran away from has essentially followed her to the retreat. And like the women pitted against another in everyday society, Hyo-jeong and the others vie for a prize.
Yoga wastes no time revealing its commentary on physical ideals in South Korea. Seoul is regarded as the beauty capital of the world, and the pressure to look attractive according to cultural expectations can be overwhelming and, at times, harmful. In place of the more obvious route of cosmetic surgery is yoga; something treated nowadays like any other crash diet. Yoga’s original purpose of creating harmony between the mind and body is overlooked by Na-ni’s pupils as they all strive for physical perfection. After seeing how the course outwardly improved Seon-hwa, Hyo-jeong longs for those same results. She and the other characters want a cure-all for their problems. Something fast, something easy.
Hyo-jeong drives her boyfriend away because of her own uncertainties, but Dong-hoo does not disappear. On his own he continues to make a documentary about classic Korean films. His research eventually turns into an unofficial investigation when one of his subjects, a film director, turns up dead. How does this random death relate to Hyo-jeong’s looming predicament though? It must be said, Yoga does not like to give plain answers. The story is shrouded in mystery up until the very end. Through random flashbacks the director attempts to shed light on the yoga center, but even then these scanty moments of explanation will only bring up more questions.
In spite of its title, Yoga is not just concerned with fatal positions and stretches. The characters do train vigorously with dangerous results, but their real terror stems from the vivid and ghastly hallucinations brought on by starvation and undue physical exertion. The women’s struggle, though grueling, is depicted with grace and visual style. Asanas are eerily synchronized, and the soundtrack is ambient yet creepy. The secluded yoga center doubles as a dank labyrinth where light sources are limited, stray sounds are chilling, and peripheral ghosts randomly appear. Personal insecurities run rampant and ultimately manifest as grotesque set pieces. The director’s preference of putting characters in confined spaces is evident in both of her horror films; the other being the third Whispering Corridors entry, Wishing Stairs.
Yun’s film has more in common with Dario Argento’s Suspiria than it does other Korean horrors coming out at the time. Cloistered victims succumb to their harsh environments; be it a culture heavy with unfair standards for women, or a menacing institution offering the impossible to those in despair. In the end Yoga is a lot more vague than audiences might appreciate or even ask for. Accepting that, there is something to be said for a horror film that puts all its best energy in the story’s buildup. The final pose is unsteady, but the effort getting there is admirable.
Horrors Elsewhere is a recurring column that spotlights a variety of movies from all around the globe, particularly those not from the United States. Fears may not be universal, but one thing is for sure — a scream is understood, always and everywhere.
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