When I strolled along the avenue from the northern gates of Pusan National University (PNU), I used to settle upon Café Haecceity. Café Haecceity was nestled on the second floor of a commercial building, adorned with its shingle sign. There, the sun lazily poured in, and I played with a cat named Hesse, yawning under the warm glow. There were bookshelves full of humanities books that guests could read. When I visit there, I read books or chatted with friends. It began as a square for the humanities communities but faced operational challenges that almost led to its closure. However, with the dedication and efforts of those who took the role of guardians to maintain it, Haecceity held its place for several years. And, it has gone.

While watching “The Old Oak (2023),” the memories of Haecceity came flooding back. As the latest and possibly last work for the auteur who dedicated a lifetime to capturing the lives of the working class through the lens of his camera, this opus portrays the stark realities faced by those who are marginalized and discarded on the fringes of society. Besides, it suggests many points to think about human relationships and communities reorganized by space.

The situation in the mining town of County Durham seems to overlap with the reality we face as citizens living in the Korean community. In Durham, the local economy became stagnant due to the collapse of regional industry, and houses and stores were abandoned and neglected as people and capital left the area. The collapsed neighborhood is barely maintained as if keeping its head above water by residents who withstand the current deprivation retaining the memories of the time when the village community was vibrant and friendly before the colliery closures.

The pivotal moment of the movie occurs when TJ, the owner of the pub “THE OLD OAK,” decided to renovate the neglected backroom of the pub into a communal space open to all. While the pub had been a public place for regular patrons and neighbors, its backroom was transformed into a place for communal meals and meetings. Then, Syrian refugees who hadn’t been welcomed integrate into the community as they share meals and communicate. With the restoration of the “square,” the community begins to regain its vitality, charting a new course towards a different way of life.

When a space to stay is created, people gather, opening up opportunities for encounters and conversations. Individuals burdened by loneliness, who once hunched their bodies in the solitude of their “caves,” rise and step out to share their thoughts and concerns with others. In this way, the space not only becomes a refuge for solace but transforms into a platform for political discourse, where communities discuss issues and seek alternatives. Unlike its neighboring places that only allow us to purchase something and depart immediately as a transient consumer, Café Haecceity, despite the less-than-stellar tasting coffee, served as a small “square” for communication.

Currently, our society overflows with “caves” of isolated individuals. We lack “squares” to gather and unite. A surplus space for interaction lets us know that we are not solitary beings but parts of a community and that our individual problems are intertwined with societal issues. Therefore, it can be a catalyst for change. Wasn’t the café in modern Europe a base for Enlightenment thinkers seeking for new social order? I wish a new version of Haecceity would appear again somewhere nearby.

By Cho Jae-Hwi, the movie critic

Translated by Lee Soo-Hyun