Kim Ki-duk’s masterpiece is a bit of an anomaly. Released in 2003, Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring basically redefined what international audiences expected from South Korean cinema. Before the hyper-violent "revenge trilogy" wave or the polished social critiques of Parasite, we had this. It’s a quiet, meditative film set entirely on a floating monastery in a remote lake.
The story is simple. You follow a Buddhist monk through the stages of his life, from childhood to old age, as the seasons change around him. But honestly, "simple" is a trap. The film is dense. It’s heavy with symbolism that can feel like a punch to the gut if you're paying attention. It’s one of those rare movies that feels like a religious experience regardless of whether you’re actually religious.
The Floating Temple and the Jusanji Pond
Most of the film’s magic comes from the location. The monastery isn't just a set; it’s a character. It was filmed at Jusanji Pond, a man-made reservoir in Cheongsong that’s been around since the 1700s. The ancient willow trees growing out of the water give the whole thing an otherworldly vibe. Interestingly, the production team actually built the floating set specifically for the movie. They had to get special permission from the Ministry of Environment because it’s a protected area.
You’ve probably seen shots of it. The gates that stand alone in the middle of the water with no walls attached. It’s a brilliant visual metaphor. It suggests that boundaries are often internal. Even though there are no walls, the characters still walk through the doors. They respect the structure of their reality even when it's technically optional. This is the kind of detail that makes the film stick in your brain for years.
Why the Seasonal Structure Works So Well
The film is divided into five segments. Each one represents a different phase of the protagonist's life.
In Spring, we see the boy monk. He’s playful but unintentionally cruel. He ties stones to a fish, a frog, and a snake. It’s a lesson in karma that his master lets him learn the hard way. The master doesn't just yell; he ties a stone to the boy's back while he sleeps. It’s a "teach a man to fish" moment, but with way more psychological weight.
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Summer hits, and the boy is now a teenager. Hormones happen. A young woman arrives at the temple to recover from an illness, and suddenly, the peaceful monastic life isn't enough. This is where the film explores the tension between spiritual discipline and human desire. It’s not judgmental. It’s just... what happens.
By the time we get to Fall, the monk is a grown man returning as a fugitive. He’s committed a crime of passion. The Master’s reaction here is legendary. Instead of turning him in immediately, he makes the man carve the Heart Sutra into the wooden deck of the temple using a cat’s tail and some ink. It’s a grueling, meditative punishment. It’s about centering a fractured soul before the law catches up to him.
Winter and the final Spring bring the cycle full circle. Kim Ki-duk actually plays the adult monk in the Winter segment himself. It adds a weird, meta-layer of penance to the film, especially considering the director’s own controversial reputation in later years. The physical toll of the character’s penance—climbing a mountain with a massive stone tied to him—was real.
Addressing the "Slow Cinema" Misconception
A lot of people hear "contemplative Buddhist film" and think they’re in for a boring two hours of staring at grass. They’re wrong. Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring is surprisingly visceral. There’s blood. There’s sex. There’s intense emotional violence.
It’s not slow because nothing happens; it’s slow because it wants you to feel the weight of what’s happening. The pacing mimics the rhythm of the seasons. You can’t rush the ice melting, and you can’t rush the consequences of a bad decision. That’s the core of the film’s philosophy.
The Controversy of the Director
You can't really talk about this film in 2026 without acknowledging the complicated legacy of Kim Ki-duk. He passed away in 2020, but his final years were overshadowed by serious allegations of physical and sexual abuse on his film sets.
For some, this taints the movie. How can a man who made such a spiritually profound film be accused of such things? It’s a valid question. It forces us to look at the art separately from the artist, or perhaps to see the film as a personal confession of a deeply flawed man. The film deals heavily with sin and the grueling path to redemption. Knowing the director’s history makes the "Winter" segment, where he punishes his own body on screen, feel almost uncomfortably honest.
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Why It Still Matters Today
In a world of TikTok-speed editing and constant dopamine hits, this film is an antidote. It forces a different kind of brain state. Most "environmental" films feel like lectures. This feels like a dream.
It also serves as a perfect entry point into Korean cinema for people who aren't into action movies. It’s beautiful to look at—cinematographer Baek Dong-hyeon used natural lighting in a way that makes every frame look like a traditional ink-wash painting.
What You Should Do Next
If you haven't seen it, or if it’s been a decade, it’s time for a rewatch. But don't just put it on in the background while you scroll on your phone. You’ll miss the tiny movements in the water and the expressions on the Master’s face that tell the whole story.
- Watch it on a big screen. The landscapes are half the experience.
- Pay attention to the animals. Each segment features a different animal (dog, rooster, cat) that mirrors the monk's internal state.
- Research Jusanji Pond. If you’re ever in South Korea, the location is a real place you can visit, though the floating temple was removed after filming to preserve the environment.
- Compare it to Kim Ki-duk's other work. If you want to see his darker, more "extreme" side, check out The Isle or Pietà, but be warned: they are much harder to stomach than this one.
The real takeaway from the film isn't some grand religious conversion. It’s the realization that life is a series of repeats. We make the same mistakes, we feel the same pains, and we hope that each time the "Spring" comes back around, we’re just a little bit wiser than the last time.