There are films that you watch, and then there are films that watch you back. Lee Chang-dong’s 2018 masterpiece, Burning, is profoundly the latter. It’s a slow-burn psychological thriller that seeps into your consciousness, a quiet inferno of class rage, youthful despair, and unsettling ambiguity. Based on Haruki Murakami’s short story “Barn Burning,” the film poses questions that it refuses to answer, leaving behind a vapor trail of mystery that beckons you to search for something tangible in its world. That search is what brings us here, to the very landscapes that served as the silent, potent characters in the story of Jongsu, Haemi, and the enigmatic Ben. This is not just a tour of filming locations; it’s a pilgrimage into the heart of the film’s atmosphere, a journey to the borderlands between reality and metaphor, to the stark fields of Paju and the fractured soul of Seoul. We’ll trace the steps of these lost characters, stand where they stood, and breathe the air thick with their unspoken tensions. We will chase the ghosts of vinyl greenhouses and search for wells that may or may not exist, seeking not answers, but a deeper understanding of the questions themselves.
If you’re drawn to cinematic pilgrimages that explore the intersection of place and profound human drama, you might also appreciate our guide to walking the Tokyo of ‘Shoplifters’.
The Edge of the World: Jongsu’s Paju
Our journey, like Jongsu’s life, begins and ends in Paju. This city, located less than an hour’s drive north of Seoul, feels worlds apart in spirit. Defined by its proximity to the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ)—the heavily fortified border dividing North and South Korea—this is more than a geographical detail; it’s the very essence of the region. The air here feels different—thinner, charged with a constant, low hum of tension. This is the environment that shaped Jongsu, a young man adrift, burdened by a fractured family and an uncertain future. To truly grasp Burning, you must first appreciate the profound emptiness and melancholic beauty of Paju.
The Journey Northward
Traveling from Seoul to Paju is the first step of the pilgrimage and sets the tone for the film’s world. You can catch a public bus from Hapjeong Station in Seoul, and as the glittering metropolis fades in your rearview, the landscape transforms. The dense forest of apartments gives way to open skies, rolling hills, and wide fields. Along the riversides, military checkpoints and barbed-wire fences stand as stark reminders of the frozen conflict looming just beyond. This is the route Jongsu takes in his beat-up truck, a repetitive, solitary commute between two worlds that never fully embrace him. For newcomers, this shift in scenery is striking and primes you for the isolation central to the film’s narrative. Consider renting a car to explore Paju. While public transportation is available, key locations are scattered across rural stretches, and having a car lets you chase the light, pull off on a whim to a quiet road, and truly feel the vastness of this space in a way a bus schedule never could. Driving these roads, with the film’s simmering, atmospheric score echoing in your mind, becomes an experience in itself.
In Search of Jongsu’s Farmhouse
The emotional core of the film’s Paju settings is Jongsu’s family farm. Locating the exact house is a task for dedicated pilgrims since it’s a private home in a rural area, but exploring the region near the Imjingang River will immerse you in the film’s world. The farmhouse serves as more than just a home; it’s a cage of memory and responsibility—a place of deep solitude. When you find yourself here, surrounded by farmland and distant hazy mountains, the feeling is immediate. Silence is broken only by the wind rustling through the crops and, if you listen carefully, the faint, tinny sounds of propaganda broadcasts drifting over the border from North Korea. This is a real phenomenon, and Lee Chang-dong masterfully uses this ambient noise to evoke a surreal sense and a constant reminder of the “other” world just miles away. Standing in these fields, staring at the horizon, you begin to grasp Jongsu’s inertia—a vast and empty world, beautiful yet suffocating at once. The best time to experience this is during “magic hour,” just after sunrise or before sunset. It’s when Ben visits, when Haemi performs her enigmatic dance toward the setting sun. The light here is extraordinary, casting the sky in shades of orange, pink, and deep purple. This fleeting, almost painfully beautiful moment captures the film’s essence: beauty entwined with a profound sense of loss and mystery. Photographers will find this a perfect opportunity; using a wide lens to capture the vastness of the landscape alongside the smallness of a lone figure mirrors the film’s stunning cinematography.
The Metaphorical Fields: Chasing the Burning Greenhouse
One of the film’s most iconic and debated symbols is the burning vinyl greenhouse. Ben’s offhand admission that he burns one every couple of months ignites Jongsu’s—and the audience’s—spiral into obsession and paranoia. Here’s the key for the pilgrim: the greenhouse doesn’t exist. It was never meant to be a tangible location to find. Instead, it stands as a metaphor—a symbol of the disposable, forgotten things that Ben destroys for amusement—things, or perhaps people, like Haemi. But the search itself is the point. Driving the rural roads of Paju, you’ll see countless vinyl greenhouses shimmering under the sun, dotting the landscape. Every one you pass becomes a question: Could this be the one? What goes on inside? The genius of the film lies in transforming an ordinary agricultural feature into a locus of intense suspicion. Your pilgrimage should involve a slow drive through these areas—not seeking a specific greenhouse, but observing them all. Notice how they rest on the land, how they catch the light, how isolated they feel. This act of searching for something known to be unattainable is the truest way to connect with Jongsu’s desperate, maddening pursuit. It’s an exercise in experiencing the film’s central mystery rather than solving it. The landscape becomes a canvas for your own projections and paranoia, an unsettling yet powerful encounter that brings you closer to the heart of Burning than any single location could.
The Urban Labyrinth: Seoul’s Divided Soul
If Paju embodies a vast, external emptiness, Seoul symbolizes a dense, internal loneliness. The film skillfully employs the city’s geography to emphasize the vast divide of class and experience that separates the characters. A journey through Burning‘s Seoul is a passage through two sharply contrasting worlds that coexist, often just miles apart, yet remain fundamentally alien to each other. It tells the story of a city through its heights and depths, its sunlit penthouses and its north-facing rooms.
Haemi’s World: A Room with a View in Haebangchon
Haemi lives in Haebangchon (HBC), a neighborhood located on the steep slopes of Namsan mountain. Originally a refuge for those displaced after the Korean War, it has transformed into a vibrant, eclectic area known for its winding, steep alleyways, diverse community, and breathtaking city views. To truly grasp the spirit of Haemi’s home, you must explore this neighborhood on foot, prepared for a climb. The uphill journey physically mirrors the daily struggles of its residents. Haemi’s apartment in the film is tiny—like a shoebox—where the only direct light she receives is a brief, reflected gleam from the Namsan Tower, the city’s iconic landmark looming above. This detail poignantly symbolizes her life—a desperate search for a small sliver of light in a world that keeps her in the shadows. Wander through the alleys of Haebangchon and look up. The tower is visible from nearly everywhere, a silent, shimmering observer. Find a small café, sit by the window, and watch the city unfold below. You’ll sense the neighborhood’s energy—a mix of hopeful ambition and weary resignation. This is the world of Little Hunger, the world Haemi strives to transcend through her pantomime and her search for life’s meaning. The building used for filming is just one among many similar structures. The key is to absorb the overall atmosphere of the neighborhood. Notice the small convenience stores where Jongsu waits, the cats lounging on railings (including Boil, the film’s Schrödinger’s cat), and the sensation of being both at the city’s heart and completely isolated within its maze-like streets. This is where you understand Haemi’s longing for something greater, for the expansive sunsets of the Kalahari—a world far removed from her tiny, north-facing room.
Ben’s Kingdom: Opulence and Emptiness in Hannam-dong
Cross the Han River, and you enter an entirely different world. Ben, the film’s handsome, wealthy, and unsettlingly calm antagonist, resides in the polished, exclusive realm of Seoul’s elite. Although the movie doesn’t name a specific building, his apartment’s style points to the luxury residential areas of Hannam-dong or Gangnam. This is the Seoul of gleaming glass towers, imported sports cars, upscale boutiques, and meticulously curated restaurants. A walk through this district contrasts sharply with Haebangchon. The streets are broad, immaculate, and orderly. The architecture is modern and imposing. The atmosphere exudes cool, detached sophistication. Ben’s apartment reflects his personality: spacious, impeccably decorated, yet cold and impersonal. It lacks any personal history or warmth. It’s a showroom, not a home. To enter Ben’s world, you don’t need to find his exact apartment. You could visit one of the many chic cafés or upscale restaurants in Apgujeong or Cheongdam-dong. Order a coffee or a glass of wine and observe. Note the meticulous presentation, the quiet, reserved patrons, and the effortless air of wealth. This is where Ben and his friends gather, speaking in metaphors and detached irony about their hobbies. It’s a world utterly inaccessible to Jongsu, and there you feel the same alienation. You are an observer, peering into a life that is both seductive and hollow. The power of the film lies in this contrast. It’s the drive in Ben’s Porsche from his sterile Hannam-dong apartment to Haemi’s cluttered Haebangchon room that truly delineates the social geography of Burning. The city itself becomes a character, its rivers and bridges marking the unbridgeable lines of class and opportunity.
The In-Between Spaces: Cafes and Cityscapes
Much of the characters’ interaction unfolds in the neutral, transient spaces of Seoul’s cafés and restaurants—the places where their worlds intersect. The café where Jongsu and Ben share tense, subtext-heavy conversations, or the pasta restaurant where Ben’s friends subtly mock Jongsu’s dreams, are archetypes of modern Seoul. Similar venues abound in trendy districts like Hongdae, Yeonnam-dong, or Seongsu-dong. Part of the pilgrimage is discovering your own “Burning café.” Find a spot with large windows overlooking the street. Sit and watch people pass. The film brilliantly captures the sensation of being surrounded by people yet feeling utterly alone. These spaces, with their minimalist décor and ambient sounds, offer the perfect stage for the film’s subtle psychological battles. They are arenas where characters perform versions of themselves, masking true intentions behind polite smiles and ambiguous words. Visiting these spots deepens your understanding of the performative nature of city life—a theme woven deeply throughout the film. You are not merely visiting locations; you are immersing yourself in the very atmosphere of urban alienation that Lee Chang-dong masterfully creates.
A Pilgrim’s Practical Guide: Crafting Your Journey
Embarking on a pilgrimage for Burning involves some planning, along with a readiness to embrace the film’s themes of ambiguity and wandering. It’s a journey that engages both feeling and sight.
Itinerary Suggestions
For a full experience, allocate at least two complete days—one dedicated to Paju and another to Seoul. This way, you can fully absorb the unique atmosphere of each place without feeling rushed.
Day 1: The Paju Immersion
- Morning: Rent a car in Seoul and head north. The drive itself is part of the experience. Your target is the area around the Imjingang River. Use GPS to reach rural townships such as Tanhyeon-myeon or Munsan-eup to find the right landscape.
- Afternoon: Spend time driving along small farm roads. Seek out the vinyl greenhouses. Avoid aiming for a specific destination—let the landscape lead you. Stop at a quiet spot, park, get out, and wander. Absorb the silence and the vast openness.
- Late Afternoon/Sunset: This is a key moment. Find a west-facing spot with an unobstructed view of fields and sky. Use this time to connect with the magic hour scene from the film. Be patient and wait for the light—it’s a meditative moment closely linked to the movie’s most beautiful and haunting imagery.
- Practical Tip: Bring water and snacks, as amenities are limited in these remote areas. Wear comfortable walking shoes suitable for uneven ground. In summer, insect repellent is essential. In winter, dress warmly to endure the biting winds.
Day 2: The Seoul Divide
- Morning: Begin in Haebangchon. Take the subway to Noksapyeong Station (Line 6) and walk uphill, or take a taxi to the top and descend on foot. Explore the main street (Sinheung-ro) but make sure to venture into the narrower, steeper side alleys, where the neighborhood’s true character reveals itself. Stop for coffee at a local café with a view.
- Afternoon: Cross the river to enter Ben’s world. Take a taxi or subway to Hannam-dong or Apgujeong Rodeo Station (Bundang Line). Walk the streets here—the contrast is striking. Browse high-fashion stores or visit the Hyundai Card Music Library to experience the area’s curated and sophisticated culture.
- Evening: Choose a stylish restaurant or bar in Gangnam or Cheongdam for dinner. Pick a spot that feels sleek, modern, and somewhat impersonal, completing your immersion into Ben’s detached lifestyle. Reflect on the two contrasting worlds you have explored in a single day.
Capturing the Atmosphere: A Note on Photography
This pilgrimage is a photographer’s dream, but the aim isn’t to simply replicate scenes from the film. Instead, focus on capturing its mood. Consider the cinematography: the film frequently employs long takes, natural light, and a shallow depth of field that isolates characters within their surroundings. In Paju, emphasize wide, empty landscapes—frame a lone tree or an old truck to highlight solitude. Maximize the use of golden hour lighting. In Seoul, play with contrasts: capture the cramped alleys of Haebangchon alongside Gangnam’s clean, geometric architecture. Look for reflections in windows, figures glimpsed through doorways, and moments of quiet contemplation. The aesthetic blends realism with a dreamlike, almost ominous quality. Your photos should provoke questions rather than deliver answers.
The Unseen and the Unspoken: Final Reflections
A journey through the locations of Burning is ultimately a journey inward. You pursue elusive figures—Haemi, who disappears like smoke; the burning greenhouse, possibly a creation of the imagination; and an elusive truth, which the film masterfully withholds. Standing in the vast, windswept fields of Paju, you don’t merely see where Jongsu ran; you sense the heaviness of his anger and confusion. Walking the steep, narrow streets of Haebangchon, you don’t just see where Haemi lived; you feel the crushing pressure of her dreams clashing with the realities of her world.
This pilgrimage is distinctive because its most powerful locations are not confined to a single building or specific spot. They exist in the atmospheric spaces between: the tension hanging in the border air, the class divide defined by a river, the silence inside a luxury car, the unspoken words lingering in a tiny room. You leave not with a checklist of visited sites, but with the film’s mood etched in your memory. You might find yourself gazing at an ordinary greenhouse by the roadside and wondering. You may notice the distant gleam of a city tower and think of a lonely girl’s search for light. The film burns slowly, and so does the experience of moving through its world. It lingers long after you’ve returned home, a quiet, persistent flame of mystery in the back of your mind.
