We understand the power of gaze almost intuitively from a very young age. One must have heard an adult saying, “How dare you look straight in my eyes?” when growing up. This statement implies that there is a significant difference between the one who can look and who cannot. Bell Hooks explores the dynamic in her acclaimed book Black Looks:

“Imagine the terror felt by the child who has come to understand through repeated punishments that one’s gaze can be dangerous. The child who has learned so well to look the other way when necessary. Yet, when punished, the child is told by parents, “Look at me when I talk to you.” Only, the child is afraid to look. Afraid to look, but fascinated by the gaze. There is power in looking.”

 As Hooks explains, as we grow up, we are drawn to the act of gazing. We are constantly told to look or not to look, forced to conform to the power embedded in the dominative gaze. Looking, therefore, is not just a visual exchange but a mechanism of control that shapes our behavior. This dynamic becomes particularly potent during adolescence, a stage when we first experience the pain of growing up. In response, some begin to reclaim the agency of their gaze by looking back, an act of resistance against control and a subversion of power dynamics. As Hooks strongly declares in her book, “Not only will I stare. I want my look to change reality.” This is the empowering gaze — a gaze that fights against domination and strives to assert its vision of the world. 

 The concept of gaze is important in cinema because it communicates with the audience in a nonverbal way, guiding their attention and revealing power relations. In coming-of-age films, the gaze often plays a crucial role in navigating the journey of growing up. However, many of these films fail to resonate with real teenagers because they are shaped by an external gaze that imposes authority over their lives. In contrast, House of Hummingbird(Dir. Bora Kim) is a good example of what it means to embody the empowering gaze. We view Seoul in 1994, through the eyes of a 14-year-old Eun-hee. Eun-hee is given the power to direct the film’s gaze, which allows the oppressed teen to enjoy the taste of liberation. Her gaze is not only a source of excitement but also a vessel for the sentiments of insecurity and grief of her generation. By placing the tragic collapse of the Seong-su Bridge as a pivotal moment in the film, the film connects the personal journey of growing up with societal tragedies. Thus Eun-hee’s gaze allows us to see the two aspects of adolescence: the influence of the dominative power in daily life and the lingerings of historical trauma. By examining this specific gaze, we step closer to figuring out how we can remove the heavy burden that weighs on the shoulders of the future operators of the world.

 Firstly, Hummingbird mirrors the lives of teens pressured by the system — at school, at home, and even among peers, whom they constantly struggle to keep up. In many coming-of-age films, teenagers are often objects of observation, while the audience has the authority to exercise power over them as observers. However, this film turns over the conventional gaze by granting Eun-hee agency over how she is perceived. This empowering gaze is prominent in the way the camera views her physicality by focusing on her body as a source of vibrant movements.

 Eun-hee’s bodily movements, particularly in the film’s dance scenes, exemplify the empowering gaze. At a dance club, Eun-hee gathers her friends under the dazzling mirror ball and dances to the sound of banging music — swinging her limbs and spinning around in a way that feels more like romping than dancing. Later in the film, Eun-hee dances alone in the living room, madly jumping up and down, flinging her arms in the air. Her disorganized moves are somewhat experimental: the manic stomping, tossing, and turning is a form of risk-taking. It’s not just dancing, but rather an expression of rage and freedom: a declaration of breaking free from the oppressive aura surrounding her.

 The gaze further expands the sense of possession of space, resisting the prevalent hierarchical power through her movements. At school and home, the authoritative figures impose standards of female demureness and student-like manners on the schoolgirls, punishing them if they deviate from those lines. When Eun-hee and her friends sit in a classroom, they must constantly prove their values through conformity. But when they enter the dance club, they no longer feel the need to prove themselves to anyone. Similarly, the living room — a place where the family gathers at the end of the day — is often steeped in a silent atmosphere shaped by patriarchy. When Eun-hee dances alone, however, she briefly but fully dominates the space. When Eun-hee dances, she owns the moment: she can thrive and turn the room into a place for dance, not for punishment.

 By reclaiming the gaze, Eun-hee dismantles the dominant power that once pervaded these spaces. Just like this, we need to provide opportunities for teenagers to realize that they can do the same. Their bodies create movement, and their actions fill up a space . There are not many spaces where teens can express their honest feelings and desires. But they do need physical spaces where they can be free from the external gaze and be led by their autonomous gaze; they need somewhere to breathe. Therefore, society should be ready to give up the position of guiding, supervising, and judging the teenage demographic. Only when we allow them to move their bodies in whatever way— from dancing and singing to running, screaming, jumping, and smoking (all of which Eun-hee does in the film) — can we awaken the sense of joy of growing up. 

 While the empowering gaze liberates Eun-hee individually, it also serves as a lens to examine societal grief and loss. The film delves deeper into the historical scale the gaze reflects. Teens grow up within the dominant system, but a much broader concept weighs on them — history. A professor of historical theory Frank Ankersmit once argued that history is “a companion permanently closer to us than even our parents, our wives, and husbands, or our most intimate friends,” stating  that “all of our life is a continuous fight with history.” To better understand the struggles of teens, we must peer into their intimate relationship with history, especially its emotionally devastating aspects.

 We grow up amidst recurring tragedies, and one of the most enduring struggles we need to “fight” against is the permanent mark that they leave on us. At the heart of Hummingbird exists the historically traumatic accident of Seong-su Bridge. The collective experience of the tragedy is represented by Eun-hee’s individual memories. Eun-hee’s gaze captures “the emotional baggage of the time” by encapsulating what is left after the tragedy. Eun-hee loses her only sanctuary, teacher Young-ji, because of the accident. Young-ji was the first person to tell Eun-hee to stand up against her abusive older brother, helping her realize that she was, in fact, important. The film doesn’t include dramatic scenes of the bridge collapsing nor Young-ji’s death. Instead, we notice her absence. In one scene, Young-ji’s mother1 wonders: “How can that bridge collapse? It was such a huge bridge…” Next,  we see Eun-hee staring at the pictures of Young-ji on the wall, while the tidy, brightly lit room that once belonged to Young-ji seems so vacant without her. The camera also pans to the half-broken bridge in the middle of the Han River, and then to Eun-hee’s face as she gazes at the sight. In short, the film shows us the people left behind and the ruin itself, asking us an important question that resonates with us even today.  How can we — survivors or descendants of the tragedy — overcome this personal and collective devastation when the traces of death still linger in the air?

Here, the empowering nature of reclaiming the gaze is highlighted: we must  become the main agents of “looking.” We are not just spectators, but historical witnesses. Though we may not be able to prevent major tragedies as individuals, it’s our task to decide what and how to remember the history. As witnesses, we can take part in the gradual progress from mourning to healing. Thus, “emotional baggage” does not need to hinder our growth. Instead, it brings us to recognize the importance of remembering. Some historical catastrophes may be painful to even think about in the present, but the only way to reconciliation is in the action of seeing and remembering, not forgetting. 

 House of Hummingbird portrays not just a private story of a young girl but also the profound entanglement of individual and collective trauma. Although set in the past, the film deals with timeless themes, reinforcing the connection between history and contemporary realities. Each generation carries the sorrow and shock of its time, passing them on to the next. Growing children are burdened by the collective sorrow of society, thus the journey of growing up is a kind of traumatic experience that accumulates across generations.

  Where can we find solace in this fractured world? While writing this article, I came across the Nobel Prize lecture in literature by Han Kang, who wrote beautiful works that revisit the pain of our history. She mentioned two following questions: “Can the past help the present? Can the dead save the living?” These questions resonate with us through and through. The past is in the past and the present seems to be merely an echo of the past — how can they take us out from the pit of helplessness? Perhaps the answer to all of these questions lies in the act of looking. Our gaze connects the dead with the living and brings hope to our approaching future. The quiet, watchful gaze bears the scars of the past not as a burden but as proof of resistance and resilience. So, don’t be afraid to look back. The act itself may seem silent and restrained, but it can be one of the most compelling and courageous acts that one can do to bring change to the world. This is the strength that every Eun-hee on the Earth deserves to acknowledge: unceasingly beating their wings, and stepping forward as witnesses to their history.