Exhuma: Postcolonial Horror

You can view my video analysis of the movie at my Youtube channel.

The persistence of anti-Japanese sentiment in Korea stems from a powerful collective memory. Postcolonial cultures, unlike their European counterparts, often hold onto historical trauma more strongly. While France and Germany reconciled during the Cold War, no such reconciliation exists between Korea and Japan. The wounds of the colonial era remain open, retold through Korean books, films, and television—stories of resistance against Japanese domination. Exhuma is not the first film to reflect this popular sentiment in Korean society.

Exhuma, South Korea’s highest-grossing film of 2024 is a horror film that blends Korean folklore, Korean shamanism, and anti-Japanese sentiment to explore the dark legacy of colonialism. The film follows a group of shamans and paranormal experts who are hired to relocate an ominous grave, only to unleash malevolent spirits tied to Korea's painful past under Japanese occupation.

South Korea’s national identity has been indelibly shaped by historical victimhood: the trauma of Japanese colonization (1910–1945), the division of the peninsula during the Korean War, and decades of autocratic rule. Much like the postcolonial “subaltern” Mounk describes, Koreans have constructed their sense of self in opposition to imperial domination and foreign interference. The memory of Japanese colonial rule—with its forced labor, "comfort women," and cultural suppression—remains central to this narrative.

Exhuma explores these themes with surgical precision, using horror as both a narrative device and a cultural metaphor. The film follows a wealthy Korean-American family plagued by misfortune, who hires a young shaman, Lee, to uncover the source of their curse. Lee believes they are haunted by the spirit of an ancestor, and the solution lies in relocating the ancestor’s grave. She consults Kim Sang-deok, an aging geomancer, and their investigation leads them to a remote gravesite near the North Korean border.

Kim is immediately unsettled by the site, noting the ominous presence of foxes—creatures of malevolent symbolism in East Asian folklore. He senses that the family’s misfortune is more than mere spiritual unrest. Despite his reservations, Kim agrees to relocate the grave in exchange for double the fee, combining his geomantic expertise with Lee’s shamanistic rituals to mitigate the curse. But their precautions fail, and the spirit of the family patriarch is unleashed, killing most of his descendants before the team manages to cremate the coffin, seemingly ending the ordeal.

Yet the true horror lies beneath the surface—literally. The film reveals that the patriarch was a collaborator during Japan’s occupation of Korea, amassing wealth through betrayal and exploitation of his fellow Koreans. His tainted legacy curses his descendants, but the story doesn’t stop there. Beneath his coffin lies an even darker secret: a second burial, planted by a Japanese sorcerer named Gisune. The name—eerily reminiscent of “kitsune,” the fox spirits of Japanese mythology—unlocks the final clue. During the colonial period, Gisune orchestrated the burial of an iron stake at the site, symbolically “severing the waist of the tiger”—a geomantic reference to the Korean peninsula—at the 38th parallel, the exact spot where Korea remains divided today.

This second spirit turns out to be the oni (demon) of a 16th-century Japanese general who had participated in the invasion of the Korean peninsula. Gisune used black magic to transform the general’s body into a guardian demon, protecting the iron stake from Korean patriots seeking to reclaim their land’s spiritual vitality. In the film’s climactic moments, Kim sacrifices his own blood to vanquish the demon, but the film’s final notes suggest that the deeper wounds—both spiritual and historical—remain unhealed.

Exhuma taps into a rich vein of Korean cultural anxieties, particularly its relationship with Japan. The film’s anti-Japanese sentiment is there from the start—Lee’s first line in the movie is to make it clear to a flight attendant that she is Korean, not Japanese. The plot device of iron stakes is rooted in a real South Korean conspiracy theory from the 1990s, which claimed that Japanese geomancers buried iron stakes to disrupt the nation’s feng shui, contributing to Korea’s division and misfortune. While most of these stakes were later identified as mundane surveying markers, the persistence of this theory—and its incorporation into Exhuma—reflects a broader cultural narrative: the idea that Korea’s historical wounds are not just metaphorical but physically embedded in the land.

The film’s serious treatment of Korean shamanism further deepens its cultural resonance. Shamanism, or musok, has been a cornerstone of Korean spiritual practice for thousands of years, closely tied to the nation’s sense of identity. Yet it has been repeatedly suppressed throughout Korean history. The Joseon Dynasty viewed shamanistic rituals as superstitious and incompatible with Confucianism. Female shamans (mudang) were marginalized, labeled as deviant and backward. Japanese colonial rule intensified this persecution, as the occupiers sought to erase indigenous Korean traditions and replace them with state-sponsored Shintoism. Musok was targeted as a symbol of Korean identity, its shrines destroyed, and its rituals banned.

Even after liberation, shamanism faced new challenges. The modernization programs of the 1960s and 70s, spearheaded by dictator Park Chung-hee, denounced shamanism as an obstacle to progress, dismissing it as the superstition of an uneducated past. Government anti-superstition campaigns destroyed village shrines and sacred trees, severing Koreans’ connection to their land. Urbanization further eroded traditional practices, pushing shamanism to the margins of modern society.

Yet, as Exhuma illustrates, these traditions have proven resilient. In the post-Cold War era, Koreans began reclaiming their heritage, and shamanism experienced a quiet resurgence. Though still stigmatized, musok became a source of spiritual solace in a rapidly changing society. Today, shamans perform rituals for everything from healing to business success. Koreans feel shame engaging with shamanic rituals (kut), yet turn to them in desperation to address misfortunes—unresolved grief, familial issues, or spiritual crises—that can’t be discussed publicly. This paradox is acknowledged in Korean society: stigmatized, shameful, yet vital as a solution to addressing misfortune beyond the ken of modern institutions.

These tensions are not limited to the spiritual realm. The film’s anti-Japanese themes resonate with contemporary Korean politics, where historical grievances remain potent. South Korea’s political landscape is rife with debates over reconciliation with Japan, and Exhuma reflects the persistence of anti-Japanese sentiment in the national consciousness. President Yoon Suk-yeol’s 2023 summit with Japan’s Prime Minister Kishida and U.S. President Joe Biden at Camp David was framed as a step toward reconciliation but criticized by many Koreans as a betrayal. Opposition leader Lee Jae-myung, poised as a strong contender for South Korea's next presidency, has voiced anti-Japanese rhetoric in past years, reflecting the enduring strength of these sentiments within the country.

This suggests that Exhuma’s widespread popularity is not merely a cultural milestone but also a mirror of deeper geopolitical tensions and anxieties. By linking supernatural curses to the moral corruption of collaboration with Japanese imperialism, the film mirrors Korea’s ongoing struggle to reconcile its past with its present. The story of the iron stakes serves as a powerful metaphor for the enduring scars of colonialism, while the film’s embrace of shamanistic rituals reflects a broader cultural desire to reclaim Korean identity.

Japan and Japanese villains continue to be symbolic scapegoats in K-dramas and Korean films. This allows audiences to reaffirm their national identity and channel lingering resentments in a safe, fictionalized space. These narratives provide a cathartic outlet for collective anger, allowing contemporary Korean society to come to terms with the historical wounds left by the occupation.

Further south, Taiwan’s cinema is moving past rigid nationalist narratives that take aim at Japan. Beyond Youthful Days (2024) about a romance between a Taiwanese man and a Japanese girl shows Taiwan’s film industry has embraced a more nuanced perspective on Japan. Its collaborative production and emotionally resonant storytelling demonstrate the continuing shift in Taiwanese cinema toward exploring personal and cultural connections rather than exploiting political tensions.

Perhaps a similar change will occur in the future in South Korea. Younger generations of Koreans, who have grown up with J-pop, anime, and the successful export of the Korean wave to Japan tend to see the country as an influential neighbor rather than a historical enemy. Historical complexities are acknowledged, but the emphasis is on contemporary relationships and cultural exchange. But some demons are not easily exorcised.