Anna Broinowski - Aim High in Creation! - A One-of-a-Kind Journey Inside North Korea's Propaganda Machine

Mr. Pak strokes the book, misty-eyed. It’s bizarre to see someone remembering Kim Jong Il with such love, after the drubbing he got in Seoul. Then again, Kim treasured his filmmakers, giving them watches, cars, and high-rise apartments so they could create. When they were between projects, he sent them to the USSR and East Germany to improve their skills. I suppose a benefactor like that would be missed. I address Mr. Pak in a suitably awestruck tone: “Is it true your General Kim Jong Il had an extensive knowledge of foreign films, including American ones?” He nods solemnly: “He was a genius, unrivalled by anyone. We watched many together: The Patriot , Sound of Music , Jaws, Schindler’s List, Star Wars, Gladiator, Avatar , a film called God something… what was that one again?”

Mr. Ri helps him out: The Godfather . Mr. Pak nods: “Yeah. That was quite good, wasn’t it?” The Man in Black is writing furiously now. It’s not a good idea to speak positively about capitalist movies: North Koreans living near the DMZ have been shot for hot-wiring their TVs to pick up South Korean soaps. I know Mr. Pak is going out on a limb for me, but I’m too curious to stop: “What other directors do you like? Kubrick? Fincher? Tarantino? Hitchcock? Ephron? Woody Allen?” Each name draws a blank, except for Hitchcock, who Mr. Pak concedes made the greatest horror films in the world. I guess it’s no surprise that he hasn’t heard of Stanley Kubrick, given the director’s obsession with imprisonment, torture, and rebellion. A Clockwork Orange might just show the North Koreans how to escape it, once and for all.

James Cameron, on the other hand, is top of Mr. Pak’s list. No surprise there, either: Titanic is the biggest socialist-propaganda pic Hollywood has ever produced—the cloth-capped Leonardo DiCaprio even looks like Lenin as he saves the Titanic’s working-class passengers from the aristocrats in first. And Avatar is the most anti-capitalist, with its corporate stooge, Parker Selfridge, cynically bombing the beautiful Pandora to mine it for unobtanium. I decide that James Cameron is safe ground: “Is it true you made your own version of Titanic , with exactly same plot?” Mr. Pak bristles: “ Souls Protest was made before Titanic ,” he says. “It’s about how Koreans were killed by the Japanese bastards at the end of colonial rule. It’s not technically as good as Titanic , of course—which was made only to make money. I made Souls Protest to bring the Japanese crimes to light.” He looks at me coolly: “Maybe James Cameron copied us?”

Lizzette and I share a look. Titanic came out in 1997, and according to Johannes Schönherr, Kim Jong Il’s alleged line-for-line-rip-off, Souls Protest , was made in 2001. Mr. Pak mutters crossly at the others in Korean—and I change the subject: “James Cameron cares about green issues. So do I, which is why I am making my film. Do people in your country also care about the environment?” Mr. Pak is too annoyed to answer, but Ms. Yun leans forward, her voice a reverent whisper: “Our Beneficent Leader Kim Jong Il cared deeply about it. Once a year, he planted trees with his bare hands in the hills. He also closed down many coal mines that were too near the farms. He even stopped Mount Myohyang being mined for gold, so that its beautiful nature could be preserved.”

The filmmakers smile, relieved to be back on hallowed turf. I make a show of looking admiringly at Kim Jong Il on the wall, struck by this new proof of his brilliance. I feel like a dirty hypocrite—until I remember my daughter and the gas mine I’ve come here to stop. I turn to Ms. Yun with new confidence: “Do you have coal seam gas in your country?” She frowns and looks at the others. They shake their heads. “Have you heard of climate change?” I press on, drawing out each syllable like a kindergarten teacher: “Glo—bal—war—ming?”

Mr. Pak butts out his fag, deadpan: “We don’t live on the fucking moon.”

Everyone bursts out laughing—even the Man in Black. Mr. Pak points at me, delighted: “Hasn’t she heard of our slogan From each according to their ability to each according to their needs, for the good of the nation? ” More laughter. Clearly, I haven’t. Mr. Pak pats my hand, as if I’m three years old: “She needs to learn about our ideology, before she comes here asking us questions!” The men slap their knees, in stitches. Ms. Yun gives me an apologetic look, but even she can’t stop laughing.

I grin sheepishly, like the capitalist idiot I am, and feel relieved. The ice has been broken. Mr. Pak looks at me warmly, and stands: “Let’s eat!”

Comrade Kim Jong Il worked with the film crew for seven hours without rest. That evening, he had a simple supper with them, thus encouraging them to push ahead with their work on location vigorously.

A banquet is spread on a low table: crisp potato pancakes, skewered meats sprinkled with sesame seeds, kimchi, and lots of beer. There are also several bottles of what looks like sochu, or Japanese vodka. The North Korean version, soju , as Lizzette and I are about to find out, is considerably more lethal, at 1.5 standard drinks a shot.

We join Nick and the filmmakers on long leather couches. The banquet is a disturbing image in a country where an alleged eight million people are starving. Even more eerily, we are consuming it inside a fake Swiss chalet. The mansion has soaring gables and white latticework: one of the many houses, churches, and halls that Kim Jong Il had built for his European film set. We drove through three other film sets to get here: a 1920s-era street full of Chaplin posters and Suntory ads, for films about the Japanese occupation; a South Korean street lined with bars, brothels, and beauty parlours, for films set in wartime Seoul; and an ancient North Korean village, with thatched huts and a Buddhist temple, for movies about feudal Korea. I am sure the stone fortress we passed on the way to Europe is the same one Kenpachiro Satsuma’s Godzilla smashed in Pulgasari . But I’m also sure if I mention this to our North Korean friends, I’ll get an early pass back to China.

“Geonbae!” says Pak, holding up a shot glass of soju . I clink my glass with his, and everyone laughs. “No, no,” Pak admonishes: “You are much younger than me. You need to clink underneath my glass—unless you are actually an old lady who has had lots of plastic surgery.” I try again, and Pak cheekily keeps lowering his glass, so that we end up under the table, trying to out-youth each other. Then we drain our drinks, and everyone claps, and I clink glasses with the whole table—taking extra care to let Ms. K clink her glass under mine. Nick gives me an encouraging wink, pulls out a harmonica, and lets rip.

I recognise the song. It’s the kindergarten tune that Chun the TV entertainer sang so enthusiastically in Seoul. Pak, Ri, and Pei sing along, already flushed pink with soju . Yurim and Ms. Yun hum rather more sedately, as the only people still drinking tea. Then Nick throws down the harmonica and launches into a new song in an excruciating falsetto. I’m shocked: it appears to be a blistering parody of the melodramatic opera songs in Flower Girl . Nick flings his arms wide and warbles like a drag queen version of Kotpun, and I look nervously at the Man in Black. Any second, he’s going to tell Nick to stop, shut down Koryo Tours, and boot us all back to Beijing. But the Man in Black is swaying along with the others, mouthing the words in melancholy ecstasy. Ri rips off his shirt, leaps up, and throws his arms around Nick, and everyone joins in for the chorus, singing as loudly as they can, tears streaming down their faces.