Oldboy Review (2003): A Revenge That Devours Its Own
- Tavia Millward
- Jan 29
- 7 min read
Updated: Mar 25
Revenge is a powerful force, a visceral longing for justice, retribution, and closure. But what happens when that desire consumes the one who seeks it?
Oldboy (2003), Park Chan-wook's unflinching masterpiece, delivers a brutal meditation on the nature of vengeance, weaving in the Nietzschean philosophy of the "circle of revenge" — a vicious cycle that devours both the victim and the avenger. This film isn’t merely about one man’s quest for payback. It's about the existential ruin that accompanies the pursuit of vengeance and the existential question: Can we ever truly break free from the chains of revenge?
From the moment Oh Dae-su (Choi Min-sik) is imprisoned in a small, windowless room for 15 years without explanation, Oldboy hooks you into its dark narrative. Like a snake coiling around its prey, the movie pulls you deeper into the psychological torment of its protagonist, forcing you to grapple with the suffocating weight of isolation and helplessness. Dae-su’s eventual release unleashes a hurricane of rage as he embarks on a mission to uncover the truth and exact his revenge. But what unfolds isn’t just a typical action-packed pursuit of justice; it’s an exploration of a soul ravaged by the very force he seeks to master.
At the heart of Oldboy lies a tension between action and consequence, between the pursuit of justice and its devastating fallout. Nietzsche’s concept of ressentiment—a deep-seated resentment borne from powerlessness—finds a raw, unrelenting expression in Dae-su's obsession with revenge. In Nietzschean terms, Dae-su embodies the victim who internalizes his anger, converting it into a singular, all-consuming force that drives him forward. He isn’t simply avenging a wrong. He is trying to assert his agency in a world that has stripped him of it. But this is where the Nietzschean cycle begins: the act of revenge becomes the fuel that sustains the victim's very identity. Dae-su’s drive to destroy becomes the thing that destroys him.
The film unfolds not as a linear pursuit but as a psychological unravelling, a spiral, almost as if Dae-su is trapped in a never-ending cycle of anger and pain. Nietzsche's theory of the "circle of revenge" is vividly illustrated as Dae-su uncovers the terrifying truth behind his imprisonment. With each new revelation, his need for revenge intensifies, and yet, it becomes ever more elusive. The closer he gets to his goal, the more hollow his quest becomes.
It’s a dangerous thing, this desire for vengeance. As Dae-su digs deeper into the murky origins of his torment, he discovers that the man behind it all, Lee Woo-jin (Yu Ji-tae), is himself trapped in the same cycle — a mirror image of Dae-su’s anguish. Woo-jin is the embodiment of the existential predicament Nietzsche warned about: the pursuit of vengeance has led him to become so consumed by hatred that it ultimately defines his every move. Revenge isn’t something that frees him; it’s what keeps him in perpetual torment. It’s a vicious feedback loop, where neither party can escape.
What makes Oldboy so harrowing is the fact that revenge is never truly satisfying. Dae-su’s attempts to exact his vengeance are punctuated by violence and terror, but with each act, he begins to realize that the justice he has sought — the closure he believes he deserves — slips further and further out of reach. Nietzsche’s philosophy contends that revenge ultimately destroys the individual who seeks it, and in Oldboy, this truth rings painfully clear. Each turn in Dae-su’s journey is a revelation not of victory but of existential collapse.
When Dae-su finally confronts Woo-jin in the movie’s heartbreaking and infamous final scene, it is not a moment of triumph or closure. It’s the final, tragic admission that revenge, in its purest form, is a futile pursuit. Woo-jin’s motives are rooted in a deep sense of loss and despair, and Dae-su, in his relentless quest for justice, mirrors that same darkness. By the time Dae-su uncovers the devastating truth — that his daughter has unknowingly become a part of Woo-jin's cruel plan — revenge becomes irrelevant. It no longer matters. What he sought was never a simple desire for justice but an attempt to fill the gaping void left by years of torment. The paradox is brutal: vengeance does not heal the wound; it deepens it.
Throughout Oldboy, the film’s dark aesthetic, its violent choreography, and its haunting score mirror the chaos of Dae-su’s inner turmoil. The physical violence in the movie is not gratuitous but symbolic of the emotional carnage unfolding within. The infamous corridor fight scene, where Dae-su fights off a group of assailants with a hammer, is a stark portrayal of this existential battle. In this long, single shot, we see Dae-su’s resolve as he moves from one fight to the next, yet there is no joy in his victories, no satisfaction in his progress. It is a war of attrition, a war that, like the Nietzschean cycle of revenge, is endlessly self-perpetuating.
The absurdity of revenge becomes painfully clear. For Dae-su, the more he fights, the more his humanity slips away. For Woo-jin, the same is true. Both men are reduced to shells of their former selves, pawns in a game where the stakes have long surpassed any idea of justice or retribution. This grim portrayal of revenge as an existential trap serves as a critique of the very idea of vengeance — a call to recognize its futility and the way it blinds us to the possibility of redemption.
By the film’s close, Oldboy asks the most brutal question: Can one break the cycle of revenge? For Dae-su, there is no satisfying answer. In a final act of despair and desperation, he chooses to embrace a tragic form of closure — the obliteration of memory. In this moment, he seeks to sever the link between past trauma and present suffering, an act that, in its way, is an attempt to transcend the existential prison of vengeance. But is it enough? Does forgetting heal? Or does it merely bury the wound deeper? In Oldboy, as in life, the answer is elusive.
The Nietzschean cycle of revenge, as explored in Oldboy, isn’t just about two men locked in a deadly dance of retribution. It is a broader, existential inquiry into the nature of human suffering, the self-destructive force of vengeance, and the impossibility of closure. Oldboy paints a stark portrait of revenge not as a cathartic release but as a tragic, self-consuming obsession. Like Nietzsche’s "ressentiment," the act of vengeance perpetuates harm, not only to others but to the one who seeks it. And in the end, it is not redemption or justice that awaits — only a brutal confrontation with the abyss.
This is the dark, uncompromising heart of Oldboy: revenge does not heal the wounds of the past. It only opens new ones, deeper and more terrible than before.
Behind the Scenes: Crafting a Cult Classic
Oldboy is not just a triumph of storytelling, but a masterclass in filmmaking, a film that operates on multiple layers of technique, narrative, and philosophy. Park Chan-wook’s direction is nothing short of visionary, expertly blending brutality with beauty in a way that challenges conventional filmmaking norms. From the moment the audience is thrust into the claustrophobic confines of Oh Dae-su’s prison, Park establishes a world that is both unsettling and mesmerizing. His use of symmetry and framing—where every shot feels meticulously crafted—imbues the film with an eerie, almost surreal quality. In Oldboy, Park’s vision of vengeance is not only explored through character arcs but through a deliberate visual language, where every frame serves a purpose. His attention to detail, along with his ability to intertwine philosophy and narrative seamlessly, is what elevates the film from a revenge thriller to a timeless piece of cinema.
At the heart of Oldboy’s haunting aesthetic is the cinematography by Chung-hoon Chung, whose work in the film helped define its distinct, grim atmosphere. Chung’s use of lighting, texture, and framing paints every scene with stark emotional undertones. One of the most iconic moments in the film—the unbroken corridor fight scene—is a testament to Chung’s technical prowess. This extended single shot creates an intense, raw sense of immediacy, allowing the audience to feel the crushing weight of Dae-su’s violent quest for revenge. The choreography of this scene, combined with Chung’s seamless camera work, allows the tension to build without ever cutting away, creating a visceral experience that mirrors the protagonist’s psychological unravelling. Chung’s approach in Oldboy solidified his reputation as one of the most innovative cinematographers of his time, able to blend form and function into an unforgettable visual spectacle.
The evolution of Chung-hoon Chung’s style between Oldboy and his more recent work in Heretic is striking. In Heretic, Chung embraces a more fluid, organic approach to the cinematography, using light and shadow in ways that evoke a sense of freedom, almost as if the camera were alive itself. While Oldboy showcases Chung’s technical mastery and precision—particularly in his controlled, almost surgical framing—Heretic demonstrates his ability to capture more ethereal, dynamic moments. This transition highlights Chung’s growth as a filmmaker and his willingness to experiment with visual storytelling. Heretic, which explores themes of spirituality and transformation, allows Chung to explore a more naturalistic style, moving away from the meticulously planned compositions of Oldboy and instead leaning into an almost improvisational approach to shooting. This progression reflects a deeper connection to the emotionality of the story and the fluidity of human experience, in contrast to the mechanical and obsessive qualities in Oldboy.
For a deeper dive into Chung-hoon Chung’s cinematic evolution, I invite you to explore my review of Heretic, where I break down his unique visual language in more detail. From his striking use of natural light to the subtle yet profound shifts in his framing techniques, Chung’s work in Heretic presents a new chapter in his career, one that pushes the boundaries of conventional cinematography and invites filmmakers and cinephiles alike to reconsider how we visually interpret the world around us. Oldboy remains a critical turning point in Chung’s career, and Heretic further illuminates his ability to adapt and evolve. For anyone looking to understand the nuances of modern cinema, both films are a must-watch.
Comments