No Other Choice (2025)

In Park Chan-Wook’s No Other Choice, faces and close-ups feature prominently, with minor tics and shaky teary eyes conveying stratums of contradictions. Nothing less should be expected from the legendary Korean filmmaker, but while the film ran in my mind, the opposite continued to bounce around in my mind long after my viewing — the lack of faces.

In No Other Choice, Man-su, a veteran of 25 years at Solar Paper, is fired from his position as a manager as his company is bought out by Americans. As he struggles to find a new, similar job months after retrenchment, Man-su hatches a plot to murder another manager at an up-and-coming paper company Moon Paper, along with two competitors who may fill the role. Man-su plans the murder of his foremost competitor, Beom-mo, but ultimately fumbles the execution. In a comedy of errors, Beom-mo’s adultering wife finishes Man-su’s job and buries him. Man-su then lures his second target Si-jo to a secluded location. He hesitates but shoots him as he flees. He approaches his last target Seon-chul with the pretense of drinking together and gets him to pass out. Man-su stages Seon-chul’s murder, forcing him to vomit and suffocate while Man-su sweeps the scene of his presence. Ultimately, he is hired at Moon Paper while his involvement in the murders go undetected by the police, but not his family.

Faces are like bonsai. There are pre-existing, actual features (organs and branches) one must adhere to and respect in the process of meaning-making, but these structures are less striated than one thinks. The face and the bonsai are canvases — where one can project onto the slate their internal state, where the actual is distorted by virtual projections.

With the lack of faces then, one is devoid of a canvas to absorb or project meaning — best conveyed through the facelessness of power. During Man-su’s first job interview, a blinding flare obstructs the translator for a Chinese executive. We never get a clear glimpse of the translator, even as Man-su shifts and squirms to angle himself away from the sun. The Americans who fire Man-su stay on screen no longer than a glimpse — not long enough to identify their features. The people in power are never quite visible to us — only an elusive concept that affects change by their actions, but disconnected from the people they affect.

When confronted with the face of another, Man-su’s has to face up to years of unprocessed internal strife. In the visage of a victim he sees his own insecurities screaming back at him — literally. In his confrontation with Beom-mo the men enter a heartfelt shouting match, where the rage in both men’s lives erupt. Man-su tears up as his competitor bemoans his life, a harsh reminder how neither man can move on from their job: the way they face the world. It is only when Beom-mo’s wife attacks Man-su the spell is broken, and the trio scramble for Man-su’s pistol. Ultimately, it is the wife — in her own fit of rage — who kills Beom-mo with the gun, staring him down as her years of missed opportunities project themselves on Beom-mo’s visage.

When Man-su executes his plan for Si-jo, he gets his victim to look at his broken-down car. Though with Si-jo has his back turned, Man-su hesitates long enough for the man to turn around. I believe, however, that Man-su wanted to look the man in his face before killing him. He is ultimately unable to do so, covering Si-jo’s face and pointing the gun at his heart, not his head. Si-jo dashes, and Man-su kills him in a sloppy shot fired off in panic more than purpose. Man-su, at this point, is still feels a desire for connection and projection. Unable to bear what he sees, he understands then that he must discard the face, or risk his mission. Even when burying Si-jo’s body, Man-su covers the man’s face. Though unable to dismember the corpse, this grants him the detachment to hog-tie the man and bury him under an apple tree.

What does it say, then, when he carries out his final murder with almost flawlessly? Man-su, at this point, has moved past the need for faces — for meaning-making, for attachment, for reflection. Face-to-face with his final victim, Seon-chul, for most of their confrontation, Man-su scripts out his killing, coming prepared for the execution, and improvising when necessary. Though inebriated, he acts not with recklessness, but numbness and detachment, restraints removed. The indignation and rage that once drove him to stand up for himself has been extracted like a bad tooth. He deliberately places Seon-chul’s body in a chair, and cuts away the cling film covering his face, and removes his own presence from the scene.

Ultimately, Man-su gets the job, going through his interview flawlessly; he looks the interviewers in the eyes. He starts work at an automated factory, strikingly alone. Yet he cheers, celebrating his rebirth as he takes his spot in a new world. Without his need for faces, Man-su becomes a man who lies to himself to reclaim his perfect life. He no longer sees the pain on his family’s faces, and he no longer has to find solidarity with a fellow worker. He settles into his place: a lone man in a factory, just another machine in the line of automation.