한국국제교류재단

It’s been more than twenty years since I’ve read Donald Westlake’s novel The Ax. The moment I finished it, I wanted to turn it into a film, for many reasons. At first, I was struck by the tragedy at the heart of the book. But I also felt I could approach it differently, perhaps even make it funnier than the novel itself. I had a hunch that if I added humor to that inherent tragedy, it would create a truly captivating story. I also wanted my film to work on two levels: to trace the inner psychology of an individual and to explore the social issues surrounding him.

The third poster for No Other Choice. In Korea, the film was first unveiled at the Busan International Film Festival on September 17, 2025, before opening in domestic theaters a week later. As of late November 2025, it has recorded approximately three million cumulative admissions nationwide.
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The plot had the potential to look like a detective story. In my youth, I loved reading detective stories, but I never wanted to make films in that genre. Those kinds of tales always begin with a certain mystery, but once it’s lifted, everything else seems to be resolved and you never really want to reread them. But this story is a little different. It begins with a man who is about to commit an obvious crime, so there’s no mystery to begin with. For me, it’s more about the psychology of an ordinary person who finds himself inside a social system that seems to push him toward crime. And it’s not like what we usually know from detective fiction. This narrative carries more compelling and gripping elements, and more hopelessness. At its core, it’s a tragedy, but with a touch of absurd humor, it feels to me like a comedy at the same time.

My film is sometimes mentioned as a remake of Costa-Gavras’s Le Couperet. But in fact, I first became interested in the novel itself and only later came across Costa-Gavras’s film. His version has a very different tone and mood, so I don’t consider my project a remake of his work but another adaptation of Westlake’s novel. Since the French director still held the rights to the novel, there were some complications along the way, but eventually his wife, Michele, who produced her husband’s film, also joined our production.

There was a reason I held onto this story for so many years. Whenever people asked me, “What kind of film are you working on?” I would briefly tell them the story. For more than two decades and from people all over the world, the reaction was always the same: “This is the kind of story that’s really needed right now.” Yet it was turned down over and over, by American studios as well, but I always believed the project would eventually be realized. It required a very specific budget to turn it into a good film. The studios, however, had a very different idea, with a much lower budget in mind. The twenty-year wait was necessary to close that gap and finally find a balance that allowed me to make the film the way it needed to be made. This subject is not only appropriate for modern Korea, it’s a story needed in any modern capitalist society, both in past decades and for decades to come.

No Other Choice, directed and co-written by Park Chan-wook, is based on Donald E. Westlake’s novel The Ax. In the dark comedy, the protagonist is laid off after decades at a paper manufacturing company and takes extreme measures to regain his footing in the industry.
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It was not just one theme but a whole web of issues that fascinated me. There’s work performance, hyper-productivity, competition, even AI. These themes are very Korean but at the same time global, because Korea is a country where many of these global issues converge. Korean society also tends to accelerate the related problems. So, I believe that whatever issues Korea is currently going through are not very different from those faced by other countries. For example, AI, job insecurity, the decline of the middle class, or questions about masculinity. This film raises certain social questions, critiques aspects of capitalism, and has a broader purpose. Still, I believe the feeling it leaves behind is one of deep sadness. There are moments of dark comedy, yes, but in the end, it’s about emptiness and tragedy. That’s the inherent nature of this drama. So, just as we intended, I hope the audience comes away with a sense of closure. I can’t reveal too much without risking spoilers, but the protagonist commits some terrible acts, all in the name of family. The film asks whether those acts are really for their good. I want each viewer to reflect on what kind of future awaits this family. Everyone will see it differently. And that’s exactly the kind of conversation I hope the film sparks.

The reason I depict violence is to express fear and suffering. To portray the fear of violence, and the suffering that follows it, I turn to violent scenes. Violence ruins not only the victim but also the perpetrator. That is why the violent scenes in my films feel so painful, why they carry with them a sense of guilt. When it comes to the depiction of violence in cinema more generally, there are two issues for me: whether the audience experiences catharsis through violent scenes, and whether they find the violence aesthetically pleasing. Both are things I try to avoid, as much as possible. And yet, I sometimes find myself moved by other director’s films when their violent scenes create catharsis, or when I admire the beauty of their staging. But if I were to use violence in that way in my own films, I would feel guilty.

I think Mansu’s actions are sad, but they are also incredibly foolish. He justifies everything by saying it’s to protect his family, but those very actions begin to destroy them. You ask what it was all for, and you realize it was sheer foolishness. To underline that, I felt comedy was necessary. The film starts in the peak of summer and ends as the forecast announces winter is just around the corner. Mansu, who loves plants, goes from summer to that turning point of winter. That was the setting I wanted. Even the companies he works for, first Solar, then Moon Paper, reflect that cycle. In the original novel there was no mention of AI, but as the script evolved, the world was also changing. AI entered the scene, and that shaped the revisions. Mansu is no longer required to perform certain tasks, but he keeps doing them out of habit. Or maybe he really believes that no matter how advanced machines become, human intuition is still essential. I wanted the audience to imagine that uncertain future with him.

I needed an actor who could carry a demanding, morally fraught role across almost the entire running time, and that’s why I thought of Lee Byung-hun. His performance in this film is strong enough to deserve a Best Actor award. As for Son Ye-jin, the role of the wife required someone who radiates optimism and grounded vitality, someone who could lift her husband up when he loses his job. I felt that Son Ye-jin had exactly those qualities.

A behind-the-scenes still featuring Son Ye-jin on set. In the film, Son plays Mi-ri, the wife of the protagonist, Mansu, played by veteran A-lister Lee Byung-hun.
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Cho Yong-pil has been my idol since high school, and I always wanted to use his music in a film. I just had to wait for the right opportunity. This time, it felt right. I wanted to turn the music up loud and play it all the way through, without cutting it short or lowering the volume for dialogue. That chance finally came. I wondered which song to choose because he has so many masterpieces. After trying different options, I realized that “Gochu jamjari” (Red Dragonfly) had the right tone. At times it felt ironic, and at other moments it blended beautifully with the scenes.

Once I made that choice, the editing became a process of extending and shortening scenes, adjusting them by just a few frames to make sure that a guitar riff, or even a single lyric, lined up perfectly with the actor’s movement. What you see in the film is the result of that back-and-forth. I’ve often used the classics I grew up with. For example, in Thirst, there are several songs by Nam In-su, and in Decision to Leave, you can hear “Angae” (Mist) by Jeong Hoon-hee. Whenever I get the chance, I try to bring into my films the Korean songs I loved as a child. What troubles me is that the younger generation hardly knows them anymore, while Anglo-American hits are still instantly recognized everywhere. I feel our own great singers and songwriters deserve that same place in cultural memory.

My intention was to send a message that in modern society, people don’t truly possess free will. In this film, the main character voices that idea repeatedly, scene after scene. But I see it less as a truth and more as an excuse born out of cowardice — a form of self-justification, an attempt to rationalize one’s own weaknesses, vulnerabilities, and flaws. That’s why I think humor is essential when we face the darker sides of our world. It allows us to step back, see clearly, and sometimes endure what would otherwise feel unbearable. We must be able to laugh, even at the worst things.

We all carry a deep fear of unemployment and losing our sense of security. Personally, I don’t believe cinema itself will disappear, though it may take on new forms. Perhaps the culture of going to theaters to watch films together could come to an end. But even if that happens, and I can no longer secure the budget to make the films I envision, I will keep creating — even if it’s with nothing more than my smartphone. I’ve already done that. The tool may change, but the impulse to tell stories won’t.

A behind-the-scenes still capturing a confrontation between Mansu and Beom-mo (played by Lee Sung-min), whom Mansu has targeted for elimination. The intensity of the moment is palpable in the performances of the two actors who fully embody their characters.
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