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A spoiler-free description of the movie.

In a small Korean province in 1986, two detectives struggle with a gruesome murder case. The story is loosely based on the Hwaseong serial murders, which are widely considered to be South Korea's first serial killer case.

→ Atmosphere. Memories of Murder is a rich gallery of iconic cinematography and sound and color, all in reference to the way these serial murders impacted the detectives working the case, and the province at large.

→ Zodiac. When Zodiac came out in 2007, it beckoned comparison to Memories of Murder, which was released four years prior. Which, okay, maybe. They’re both movies about real-life crimes.

→ Laughing at police malpractice. Memories of Murder deftly balances its central investigation with societal commentary on police brutality, interrogation malpractice, and suppression of the people.

→ Dropkicks. There’s actually an impressive and also surprising volume of dropkicks in this film, a stark contrast to its relatively composed progression. Enough, at least, that I thought it bore mentioning.

The very best crime films haunt you in a way that’s hard to describe. Within these films is a delicate alchemy of visceral truth, potent atmosphere, unforgettable character work. It’s this alchemy that makes Bong Joon Ho's Memories of Murder a required viewing for crime drama fans. It’s a work often considered one of the best crime films ever made, and, of course, a work that your author highly recommends.

More than maybe any other film of its kind, Memories of Murder is made whole by its relentless focus and study of its lead detectives, namely how the string of mysterious murders in South Korea influences their varying perspectives and approaches to investigating crime. Song Kang-ho, who you might recognize from Bong Joon Ho's most decorated film, Parasite, delivers a deeply layered performance as the very imperfect lead detective on the case.

Also present in the film is some truly iconic cinematography work (several shots will live rent-free in my brain for years to come) and, most welcome, Bong Joon Ho’s characteristic lighthearted-but-deadly-serious focus on the societal issues of 1986 South Korea, some of which are still globally relevant today, including police brutality and interrogation malpractice. It’s a wonder he can fit so much into one film, and that the film never once feels unfocused, but then again, this is what makes Bong Joon Ho films such a marvel to experience.

A fact or two about the production that makes you say “oh, neat.”

THE PROJECTIONIST.

There’s a Projectionist who travels the country taking odd jobs operating decades-old projectors for historic movie theaters and she wears hooded sweatshirts and half-inch gauged earrings everywhere she goes.

At the end of each film screening, she answers questions about her work. She tells everyone how she loads and unloads reels and cleans spindles and, during screenings, looks for the white dot in the top right corner of the screen, which appears and disappears in a blink to indicate the next reel needs to be loaded. Miss the white dot, and the film comes to a grinding halt, because most films are comprised of three, four, five, or more reels in total.

Without fail, someone always asks how many times she had to watch Oppenheimer or whatever the most recent acclaimed three hour film is. She watched Oppenheimer 238 times while working the 70mm theatrical run. She fell asleep once and let the second reel, which was miles long, run for minutes after the white dot appeared. The audience was confused when the silver screen went dark. Her boss scrambled into the projection booth and shook her awake, so much so that his black-rimmed glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, at which time she quickly loaded the following reel and continued the show.

One evening, during a special Halloween theatrical run of Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror, she waited and waited but the white dot never appeared to tell her to swap from the first reel. She was surprised, because she’d anticipated it around the twenty-minute mark. The audience was none the wiser. The crunch of popcorn and crinkling of bags continued through the twenty-sixth minute, when the reel began wheezing and whirring and on the screen appeared the classic black and gray and white ten second countdown. Usually, (10) this was the final warning (9) to a projectionist to wake up and change (8) the film reel, but The Projectionist (7) in this booth (6) found herself compelled (5) to be still (4) and watch (3), and so (2) she did (1).

From the film reel came a snap and a pop and a whiz that sounded almost like the popcorn The Projectionist recalled her father used to make at home in their cheap white microwave. She looked through the projector booth’s window and noticed that the audience was no longer in the theater, and they’d practically vanished. She reached for her phone before remembering she’d left it in the car, because she often forgets to do her job if she has her phone with her. The smell of burnt popcorn and stale candy was all that remained. As she descended the stairs, The Projectionist peered over the chipped black-painted railing to see what had happened.

Jackets remained draped over seats and it was clear that the audience was here, if only moments ago, and there were even several freshly dispensed sodas still fizzing and crackling at the top of their cups. The Projectionist, insisting to herself that this wasn’t worth a panic, briskly walked towards the exit door of the theater to grab her manager with the black-rimmed glasses. She made what she thought was a safe presumption, that the door would swing open with ease. It did not. It was locked. She shook the door by the handle and the deadbolt rattled but didn’t budge. She screamed for help and no one came.

After thirty minutes of doing this, she walked to Row F, Seat 8, which was her favorite seat in the theater. She decided that at least she ought to wait it out somewhere she enjoyed spending time. The moment her bottom touched the pilled seat cushion beneath her, she heard a loud and discomforting screeching sound, and the projector began running again. She looked behind her and saw an extraordinarily thin man behind the projector. She couldn’t make out who it was, and it was barely worth trying because she’d left her glasses in the booth.

The smell of burnt popcorn was replaced with a most pungent aroma of rotten eggs, the air so thick she felt she could feel it holding her down in her seat. On the silver screen before her was a moving image of herself, sitting in the projector booth, just like she was twenty minutes ago. The Other Her on screen stared directly forward and practically met the gaze of The Projectionist sitting in Row F, Seat 8.

The Other Her blinked a few times, still looking straight ahead. The Projectionist did the same, though the movements felt stiff and involuntary the way you slap at a mosquito when you see it drawing blood from your arm. The Other Her scratched her head. The Projectionist did the same. The Other Her went through a series of motions and completely in sync was The Projectionist in Row F, Seat 8. Tears began rolling from The Projectionist’s light blue eyes and down her cheeks, just below her gauged earrings. It was clear this was a situation to be afraid of, but The Projectionist also felt a sense of relief, a weight lifted, because life became instantaneously less complicated when The Other Her took control.

The Other Her began rubbing her eyes, first slowly and then with increasing vigor and such force that The Projectionist began wincing then screaming in pain, and through the wet path forged by tears flowed a few small streams of blood, pouring from her eyes. The Other Her stopped for a moment and smiled at The Projectionist with sincere approval, and The Projectionist enjoyed one last sight of the silver screen before, through her blood-stained pupils, she saw The Other Her pick up a small knife.

The Projectionist smiled and closed her eyes and waited for the film to be over, at the least a little relieved to know she didn’t have to watch for the white dot in the top right corner any more.

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