Blood Mirrors: How I Saw the Devil, Cold Fish, and Revenge Redefine the Horror of Retribution


“Revenge reveals the darkest reflection we hide within.”

Horror cinema has long functioned as a reflective surface, exposing humanity’s deepest fears, desires, and moral uncertainties. The films I Saw the Devil (2010), Cold Fish (2010), and Revenge (2017) serve as “blood mirrors,” revealing not merely the visceral violence inflicted upon their characters but also the profound psychological and ethical transformations that vengeance ignites. Emerging from South Korean, Japanese, and French cinematic traditions, respectively, these works reconceptualize the trauma of retribution into nuanced explorations of identity, power, justice, and morality. This essay unpacks how such acts of revenge fracture and distort the avengers themselves—blurring the boundary between hunter and hunted—and challenge audiences to consider the complicated ethics of vengeance.

Becoming the Monster: I Saw the Devil and the Infinite Cycle of Vengeance

Kim Jee-woon’s I Saw the Devil opens with searing loss. Government agent Kim Soo-hyun’s fiancé is gruesomely murdered by the psychopathic serial killer Jang Kyung-chul. Rather than delivering immediate justice, Kim embarks upon a merciless cycle of capture and release aimed not at ending Kyung-chul’s life but extending his suffering to mirror the anguish Kim feels. This circular vengeance becomes a vehicle for exploring grief’s corrosive power, blurring the avenger’s and victim’s identities.

The film’s structure, with its repetitive cat-and-mouse dynamic, becomes a visual metaphor for obsession and moral degradation. With every brutal encounter, Kim sacrifices more of his humanity, evolving into the very monster he’s vowed to destroy. Lee Mo-gae’s cinematography blends stark clinical detachment with visceral brutality; meticulously framed shots contrast vividly with the film’s emotional chaos, compelling the audience into uncomfortable identification with Kim’s dark crusade. The snowy landscapes and cold colors evoke spiritual desolation, emphasizing the film’s existential chill.

Kim’s work transcends procedural thriller conventions by resisting catharsis—vengeance is portrayed not as liberation but endless torment. Critics laud the film for masterfully challenging traditional revenge narratives by suggesting that acts of retribution can perpetuate cycles of violence, consuming both victim and perpetrator. The tension not only lies in physical danger but in the moral disintegration of a man who becomes what he hates.

Hidden Rage Beneath Ordinary Lives: Social Collapse in Cold Fish

Sion Sono’s Cold Fish presents revenge as an eruption of buried rage within the façade of mundane suburban existence. The gentle tropical fish store owner, Nobuyuki Syamoto, leads a restrained, law-abiding life until meeting the domineering and psychopathic Murata. Their relationship becomes a dance of psychological and physical domination, exposing latent violence simmering under cultural conformity.

Unlike the clinical precision of I Saw the DevilCold Fish captures chaos and collapse. Syamoto’s eventual violent revolt is neither heroic nor cathartic but an enactment of existential despair born of oppressive social codes emphasizing politeness, hierarchy, and silence. The oppressive suburban setting becomes almost a character itself—sterile, suffocating, and emotionally barren. The circling fish motif highlights the recursive cycles of repression and violence that trap the characters.

Sono’s cinematic approach balances absurdist, at times black humor with grim horror. This tonal dissonance destabilizes viewer complacency, forcing reflections on how individual suffering is structured and concealed by social and cultural norms. Syamoto’s dissolution challenges viewers to reconsider traditional narratives of justice and victimhood, emphasizing the fragility of identity under systemic pressures.

From Exploitation to Empowerment: Revenge and the Reclamation of Agency

Coralie Fargeat’s Revenge radically revisits the “rape and revenge” genre notorious since 1970s grindhouse cinema. While drawing inspiration from films like I Spit on Your Grave and The Last House on the LeftRevenge rejects those works’ often exploitative male gaze, recasting the survivor’s story through a fully realized lens of autonomy and violent reclamation.

Jen’s transformation—from a sexualized object within a hyper-saturated, colorful visual palette to a mythic force of nature marked by the symbolic phoenix brand—signifies death and rebirth. Fargeat’s use of chiaroscuro lighting, surreal settings, and visceral violence elevates physical trauma to the level of mythic metamorphosis.

This film subverts traditional victim and villain binaries. Jen’s ascent dismantles deeply embedded patriarchal structures, underscoring a reclamation of body, gaze, and power. The climactic chase, drenched in blood and primal energy, becomes a ritualistic unshackling rather than mere revenge. Through this revival of grindhouse aesthetics, Fargeat forges a new grammar of feminist survival and cinematic empowerment.

Power, Gender, and Hierarchies in Contemporary Revenge Narratives

These films foreground power dynamics traditionally gendered but reinterpreted here in ways promoting gender-neutral critique. In Cold Fish, toxic masculinity manifests as violent domination versus passivity within strict social codes, both Syamoto’s submission and Murata’s cruelty reinforcing systemic violence.

I Saw the Devil portrays injured masculine pride and control as drivers of vengeance. Kim’s obsession symbolizes fragile protector ideals collapsing into moral ruin. Female characters often exist as symbolic voids, underscoring systemic gender violence and erasure.

Revenge, by contrast, deconstructs these codes. Jen transcends rigid gender norms and victimhood, suggesting power as a fluid, elemental force beyond biology. The film’s desert setting serves as a symbolic womb of transformation, projecting possibilities of autonomy and sovereignty through defiance of hierarchical structures.

National Contexts: Morality, Control, and Crisis

Each film emerges from distinct cultural anxieties and historical trajectories. I Saw the Devil reflects South Korean skepticism about institutional justice amid rapid modernization and lingering traditionalism. Private vengeance becomes a desperate, isolating reaction to systemic failure.

Cold Fish critiques a Japanese culture steeped in social conformity and emotional repression, revealing the violent potential beneath controlled civility. The film reflects post-war tensions and growing awareness of societal alienation.

France’s Revenge draws from the New Extremity movement, blending philosophical and visceral approaches to suffering, reflecting intellectual and artistic responses to modern oppression. Fargeat’s fusion of grindhouse with feminist critique signals contemporary cultural struggle for voices outside dominant systems.

Narrative and Visual Style: Diverse Paths to Transformation

The narrative architectures differ but complement one another. I Saw the Devil’s repetitive structure illustrates cyclical moral decay; Cold Fish depicts downward spiral into absurd chaos; Revenge follows mythic death-and-rebirth arc.

Their visual languages communicate complex ethical positions: Kim’s symmetrical, controlled shots reflect calculated cruelty; Sono’s frenetic, disorienting camera work conveys mental disintegration; Fargeat’s vivid, stylized imagery channels surreal transcendence.

Each film implicates the viewer uniquely. I Saw the Devil seduces with calculated violence; Cold Fish overwhelms with chaotic brutality; Revenge reorients the gaze empathetically to survivor experience. Together, they articulate a profound inquiry into horror spectatorship and ethical engagement.

Societal Reflections: Alienation and Moral Fragmentation

These films manifest collective crises of modernity—gendered hierarchies, failed justice, fractured communities—within intimate personal revenge stories. They diagnose alienation and fragmentation, transforming revenge into language for voicing trauma and injustice. This intersection exposes how power, violence, and identity intertwine in contemporary cultural narratives.

The Horror of Becoming

Ultimately, I Saw the DevilCold Fish, and Revenge frame horror as a meditation on transformation rather than pure evil. Vengeance reshapes the self, often toward destruction. Kim becomes the hunted devil; Syamoto lives his oppressor’s violence; Jen transcends human limits through fiery renewal.

Together, they depict revenge as curse, collapse, and painful rebirth—a global meditation on violence and selfhood. Their shared revelation: revenge unmasks the darkness dwelling quietly within us all, proving that horror’s deepest mirror reflects ourselves.

Horror Review: Kingdom


“In a world haunted by both the living and the dead, the true monsters are those who often wear the crown.”

Kingdom debuted on Netflix on January 25, 2019, riding the crest of the global Hallyu wave and building on the international success of Korean horror. The series followed a rich tradition of critically acclaimed films such as Train to BusanThe HostA Tale of Two Sisters, and notably The Wailing. These works helped elevate South Korean horror on the world stage, blending supernatural terror with intense social and psychological themes that primed Kingdom for widespread interest.

The series was adapted by playwright and writer Kim Eun-hee from her own webtoon The Kingdom of the Gods, which she created alongside artist Yang Kyung-il. This blend of popular Korean cultural imports—webtoons and horror cinema—provided a strong narrative base for the live-action adaptation. Kingdom distinguished itself by marrying the zombie genre with historical drama, setting its epidemic in the Joseon dynasty—a period marked by frequent mass deaths and epidemics. This historical backdrop provided a plausible narrative foundation for a catastrophic outbreak, grounding the series’ supernatural horror in the real dread of past pandemics and social collapse.

The Joseon era was repeatedly struck by deadly outbreaks and famines that devastated communities and challenged social structures. While Kingdom doesn’t focus on specific historical records, the knowledge of these recurring calamities creates a realistic and haunting context that informs the series’ tension—the desperation of starving peasants, societal breakdown, and the government’s inability to maintain order under extreme crisis. This setting allows the zombie outbreak to function not just as a horror element but as a powerful allegory for historical suffering and institutional decay.

Kingdom centers on Crown Prince Lee Chang, who is thrust into a deadly fight against both undead hordes and court conspiracies after the king’s mysterious illness and death are covered up by Queen Consort Cho and her father. Their selfish decision to conceal the truth and use a resurrection plant to keep the king “alive” initiates the plague, demonstrating how corruption and obsession with power directly contribute to the kingdom’s fall. The series effectively exposes the deadly consequences of political deceit and unequal society—while nobles hoard resources and betray their subjects, peasants are left starving and vulnerable. Rival political factions further sabotage any chance of a unified response, showing that human ambition is as perilous as the zombie outbreak itself.

What sets the zombies in Kingdom apart from many earlier depictions is their unique behavior and characteristics, which elevate the horror and intensify the series’ kinetic action scenes. These zombies move swiftly and aggressively, unlike the sluggish, shambling undead common in Western lore. Their speed allows them to attack with terrifying suddenness, creating relentless tension and forcing characters into frantic, dynamic escapes and battles. Additionally, the zombies in Kingdom only awaken at night and seem to revert to dormancy during daylight hours, a nocturnal cycle which adds an eerie rhythm and strategically heightens suspense.

Moreover, the infection’s origin tied to a resurrection plant introduces a quasi-vampiric element, blending horror genres and expanding the mythos beyond traditional zombie tropes. This variation not only refreshes the genre but intensifies stakes for the characters, who must navigate a world where death is no longer certain and danger lurks in shadows. The fast-moving zombies enable spectacularly choreographed action sequences, elevating visceral thrills and maintaining an adrenaline-fueled momentum distinct from more lethargic zombie narratives.

The success of Train to Busan played a crucial role in reinvigorating the zombie genre, both in South Korea and internationally, and this revitalization was a significant advantage that the creators of Kingdom skillfully leveraged. Train to Busan injected new energy into zombie cinema with its frenetic, visceral depiction of zombies—fast, aggressive, and highly reactive—breaking away from the sluggish, shambling archetypes prevalent in older Western iterations. Its influence is evident in how Kingdom’s zombies behave; they move swiftly, attack relentlessly, and operate on a nocturnal cycle, which heightens the horror and intensifies the kinetic action sequences. These zombies are not mere mindless monsters but active participants in the chaos, embodying a new standard of terrifying, kinetic undead.

Furthermore, Train to Busan‘s impact extended beyond mere behavior. It was also a culturally resonant piece that connected deeply with Korean audiences by reflecting recent national trauma—most notably the Sewol Ferry disaster—and embedding social critique within a genre framework. This powerful contextualization allowed the film to function as more than entertainment; it became a symbol of societal failure and resilience. The film’s success created a template for how Korean cinema could adapt and localize the zombie mythos, blending horror with social commentary in a way that was both emotionally impactful and commercially successful globally.

Kingdom’s creators astutely drew on this momentum, adopting the highly kinetic, fast-moving zombie model popularized by Train to Busan, but adding their own spin through the behavior and cycle of their undead. These zombies only rise at night, stay dormant during the day, and exhibit contorted, unpredictable movements—something Yeon Sang-ho himself infused into his zombies through choreographed dance routines, emphasizing their frenetic and unnatural agility. Such innovations keep the horror fresh, heighten the visceral excitement of action scenes, and differentiate Kingdom from earlier zombie fare, making its undead both terrifying and uniquely emblematic of Korean horror’s modern renaissance.

This evolution of zombie behavior—fueled by Train to Busan’s successful reinvention—enabled Kingdom to stand out in an increasingly saturated genre. It seized upon the momentum of recent Korean horror cinema, using the distinct movement and cycle of its undead to heighten suspense and deliver a new level of kinetic energy. Through this approach, the series not only paid homage to the genre’s Western roots but also created a uniquely Korean expression of zombie horror that captured global attention, cementing Korea’s place at the forefront of contemporary zombie filmmaking.

Despite its many strengths, Kingdom is not without imperfections. The first season, which premiered on January 25, 2019, unfolds unevenly, at times slowed by a deliberate pacing that prioritizes intricate political set-up and exposition over constant action. This emphasis on explanatory dialogue—essential for unfamiliar viewers of Joseon society and its complex political dynamics—sometimes weighs down character development. Characters often act as instruments for delivering background information rather than revealing themselves naturally through interaction, which can lessen emotional engagement early on. Key information about the outbreak’s origins, political rivalries, and the resurrection plant’s properties is frequently conveyed through heavy-handed dialogue rather than action or subtlety, limiting moments of tension and organic story progression.

The second season, released on March 13, 2020, builds on the first by balancing its horror and dramatics more effectively. Stunning cinematography, immersive production design, and committed performances—from Ju Ji-hoon’s strong portrayal of Lee Chang to Bae Doona’s soulful Seo-bi—deepen the emotional core. More nuanced character work and escalating stakes make the political machinations and zombie horror increasingly compelling. The zombies themselves, with their terrifying speed and mysterious biology, deliver some of the most memorable and intense action scenes in contemporary zombie media.

Adding to the lore and depth of the series is Kingdom: Ashin of the North, a special feature-length episode released on July 23, 2021. This episode acts as a prequel and sidequel to the first two seasons, exploring the backstory of the mysterious character Ashin, played by Jun Ji-hyun. It reveals the origins of the resurrection plant and how it ties into the events that drive the main narrative forward. This special enriches the overarching storyline by providing critical context for the outbreak and weaving a deeper understanding of the motivations behind some of the series’ most enigmatic characters, strengthening the ties within the Kingdom saga as a whole.

Kingdom is a series that skillfully blends the intensity of period drama with the thrills of zombie horror. It offers complex political intrigue, rich historical atmosphere, and pulse-pounding suspense wrapped in strong performances and impressive production values. As such, it comes highly recommended for viewers who enjoy either genre—or both—providing a fresh and compelling experience that stands out within contemporary television drama and horror.