Abstract
Korean culture has been shaped by the traumatic colonial past (1910–1945), which in part facilitated the rise of the historical-cultural han concept in the 1920s onward, often interpreted as rancor, grief, or resentment due to a real or alleged undeserved experience of the Korean people but also beautiful artistic expressions. Scholars have applied han to, for example, Korean music genres like pansori and even Korean American popular culture. The current article critically examines expressions of implicit han in relation to four contemporary South Korean films. The analysis suggests that han is expressed in a plethora of ways, depending on for instance the main characters’ constitution and the specific cultural-ideological framework presented in each text, and must always be understood in relation to such macro variables rather than as an isolated expression of a particular concept.
Keywords
Han is a difficult-to-translate yet crucial psychocultural concept in Korean history and culture, sometimes reflected in popular culture such as film and music. In the most basic sense, it is understood as rancor or grief, which is a consequence of a persistent injustice due to asymmetric power relations or an inability to take proper means to solve the suffering. This article sets out to examine and critically discuss some expressions of han as they appear in four contemporary South Korean films.
Background
According to Kim (2017), han has its roots in an essentialist and biologist notion which—although having longer Sino origins—gained “renewed” traction during the Japanese colonial period in the 1920s, especially within the works of the Japanese writer Muneyoshi Yanagi. Kim explains its development, “As a national phenomenon or specifically Korean characteristic, han did not exist in ancient Korea but was an idea anachronistically imposed on Koreans during the Japanese colonial period” (Kim, p. 258).
As Kim (2017) stresses, han does often constitute an essentialist and at least partially biologist idea, implying that only people of Korean origin may understand its profound meaning and distinctive psychological expressions (Kim, p. 254): Han (한 恨) is an essentialist Korean sociocultural concept that is popularly understood as a uniquely Korean collective feeling of unresolved resentment, pain, grief, and anger. Han is often described as running in the blood of all Koreans, and the quality of Korean sorrow as being different from anything Westerners have experienced or can understand. Despite the deeply negative and destructive quality of han, it is not a one-dimensional “bad” affect. It historically has been characterized as also creating complex beauty. In fact, han not only refers to a consciousness of ongoing trauma and a lack of resolution, but also the means to its own resolution. Han has an important place in culture because it has become associated with what makes Korean cultural productions—such as visual art, folk music, traditional ceramics, literature, and film, among others—uniquely and beautifully Korean.
Han does also have a spiritual (associated with animism and shamanism) and medical meaning: Kim Chiba focuses on the deep negativity of han, even describing it as “a people eating monster.” For Kim han is a “ghostly creature” that “appears as a concrete substance with enormous ugly and evil energy” (…) Han’s destructive and haunting potential is, not only accepted in wider popular culture and urban legends, but also by Korean medical professions. (…) In Korea, one can even die of han, from the associated clinically diagnoseable disease hwabyong. Hwabyong is cited in Kaplan and Saddock’s Comprehensive Textbook of Psychiatry (2009) as an example of the “intergenerational transmission of emotion” (Kim, 2017, p. 255–256). Critical han aims to repeatedly emphasize how the term itself is embedded in a specific history that we should not forget. The word han carries within it a history of unmitigated collective traumas in Korea, which have created a very specific social and national imaginary in Korea and Korean diasporas. (p. 274)
As several historians have noted, modernization in post-Second World War Korea (i.e., South Korea) was intimately connected to evangelization, urbanization, and westernization. One may also add nationalism and women’s movements to this triad. In other words, when Korea became Christianized throughout the twentieth century, it granted women an opportunity to be involved in social life to a greater extent than during the Chosun era (1392–1910). Furthermore, it provided an attempt of collective resistance to the Japanese colonial rule (1910–1945), and after the permanent partition in 1953, South Korean Christianity (both Catholicism and Protestantism) grew in parallel with millions of Koreans relocating to the Seoul metropolitan area where they regularly attended church services on Sundays (Baker, 2003, 2005; Clark, 2006; Jung, 2003). Later, the country has leaned more toward atheism and increased westernization, often manifested by the emergence of hallyu (Korean wave), the regional and global rise of South Korean popular cultural products, like films, TV dramas, music (K-pop), food, beauty items, and electronics (Chua, 2008, 2012; Lie, 2014).
An oft-repeated notion is that Korea remains Confucian and conservative even in modern times, which indeed is questionable given the prominence of Western, democratic, capitalist, and secular elements which have only but grew throughout the last five decades (Baker, 2008; Lie, 2014). Things are, however, not unambiguous in that respect and some Confucian residues remain, at least among the oldest family members and relatives in the Korean community (Chang, 2010; Jang & Kim, 2013). While Jang and Kim (2013) stress the Confucian residues within the present Korean society, especially among the earlier generations still alive, as a crucial sociocultural factor, Lie (2014) is skeptical about the very existence of such traits in contemporary South Korea. Koreans who underscore the significance of Confucianism and folk culture seem to suffer from a misguided “cultural amnesia,” he argues (Lie, 2014, p. 99), “The recent revalorization of Confucianism in South Korea is actually a symptom of the unbridgeable distance between the non-Confucian present and the Confucian past. When Confucianism was a more salient presence, Koreans waxed eloquent about its desuetude and dysfunctions.” However, the decline of Confucianism and upsurge of Western culture do not contradict the partial presence of han in popular culture, such as films, since it largely transcends both tendencies. To the extent that Confucianism is present today, it is associated with the hierarchical relationships between superiors and subordinates, manifested by the use of honorifics in language (e.g., Kim, 2011). The cultural power relationships may be associated with han in some contexts.
A preliminary reading of popular yet critically acclaimed films such as Oldboy (2003), Train to Busan (2016), The Wailing (2016), and Burning (2018) indicates a significant presence of han as a particular cultural expression rather than mere universal sorrow typical for films partly or predominantly including tragic events. However, a possible transcultural link to other individuals and nations cannot be outright excluded without scrutiny and each film needs to be further analyzed. Hence, a further exploration of how and to which extent han is present is required in an analysis of four South Korean films. It focuses on both the causes and/or effects (expressions) of han as such elements appear in the material.
Methodology
The study is based on a close reading of four relatively representative South Korean films, Oldboy (2003), Train to Busan (2016), The Wailing (2016), and Burning (2018), and a literature review. Specifically, I have used methodological suggestions examined by Krippendorff (2018) and Lee (2012), among whom the latter partly focuses on Korean TV drama analysis which is akin to Korean film analysis and therefore methodologically sound.
It draws upon the suggestions of Krippendorff (2018, Chapters 4 and 10), who underlines the significance of discovering patterns and relationships, refers to previous research on the same subject, and relates to the theoretical context identified by the researcher. I focus on the “contextually complex meanings” present in South Korean films that were selected and identified after a preliminary reading. Furthermore, since they are both critically acclaimed and seemingly multilayered, a close reading is relevant. The analytical approach is partly chosen because such meanings are often implicit or latent rather than manifest and countable. Furthermore, counting practices are more suitable for larger data sets, whereas four films constitute a limited sample. With that said, counting may have some relevance in this regard, but indeed “contextually complex meanings,” in this case largely related to han, are more relevant than frequencies.
The elementary analytical components are plot, genre (see Table 1), character constitution, mise-en-scène, and cultural-ideological tendencies, partly similar to Lee’s (2012) analysis of Korean drama. This is because the basic components of each film need to be presented for the reader and the sociohistorical explained. Also, other elements than those related to han might be highlighted. Each film is, after repetitious readings, preliminary writing of the research findings, and accounting for reviewers’ critical comments in the last major step of analytical process, coded (re-interpreted) in relation to its general constitution, formal characteristics, and the previous literature on han discussed in the Background section.
Selected South Korean films.
Furthermore, it has been useful to analyze some discursive elements as nodal points (Laclau & Mouffe, 2001), and if they are considered to be not such to which degree they still constitute significant elements within the content’s internal discourse, often a part of a broader social, cultural, economic, and historical context. Norman Fairclough (2003, p. 24) would refer to semiosis in this regard while scholars specialized in multimodal text analysis would refer to it as multimodality (e.g., Baldry & Thibault, 2006). The meaning of semiosis is similar to that of discourse, a term with various definitions. Jonathan Potter (1996, p. 15) uses discourse for “texts and speech in use,” “in use” meaning in actual situations where language or other symbol-systems are used. Thus, the epistemological position and analytical strategy used in the study are based on the insights of the above-mentioned scholars.
Findings
Oldboy
Oldboy became the first South Korean film which gained a larger international recognition, as demonstrated by the win of the Grand Prix award at the prestigious Cannes International Film Festival in 2004, high ratings at Internet Movie Data Base (IMBD; as of 2019, number 47 on its best movies of all times list), and a large fan following in the West (Jung, 2010, Chapter 4). The plot centers on the middle-aged man Oh Dae-su, who is imprisoned for 15 years without knowing the underlying reason for the peculiar, inhumane incarceration. However, since his prison cell, which resembles a regular room, is provided with a TV he comes to realize that he is falsely convicted of the murder of his wife (Jung, 2010, Chapter 4). When he is finally released, the aim is to avenge those who have committed this heinous act and disentangle the motives for its occurrence. Just after the release, he meets the young woman Mi-do, whom he quickly forms an intimate relationship with, both physically and emotionally. The protagonist Dae-su is read by some Western Oldboy fans as “cool but totally savage” (Jung, 2010, Chapter 4); likely, as a consequence of the mentally exhausting conditions and extensive lack of sexual intimacy, he goes on to do “crazy things” such as to eat a living octopus and quickly jumps on the young Mi-do (who accepts sexual intercourse). However, the events that unfold appear staged, as if someone controls his path in the newly found freedom in the South Korean capital. Despite the resistance, Dae-su gradually manages to understand the far-fetched connections between the adolescent past and current predicaments. The clues lead to a wealthy businessman, Lee Woo-jin, whose outspoken aim is to manage Dae-su to remember what he had done wrong in the past.
With regard to plot, mise-en-scène and cultural-ideological themes, it constitutes a dark tragedy which hinges upon death, suicide, vengeance, and forbidden love and eroticism, like some of the gloomiest novels of the Japanese author Yukio Mishima (e.g., Piven, 2004; Starrs, 1994), but has no historical, political, or religious leanings. As S. Jung (2010, Chapter 4) notices, it is also a prominent genre film which displays uncensored blood and violence and the ambiguous wolf/dog persona of Dae-su, who is read as either the “cool friend” or the “weird lonewolf” by some Western viewers (Jung, 2010, Chapter 4).
A partly forlorn, partly desperate feeling manifests itself throughout the majority of the story, often exaggerated by sorrowful string instruments and absurd violent outbursts. A large portion of the theme music expresses the beautiful sorrow aspect possibly associated with han. Furthermore, the immense rancor is underscored at the end when the distressed protagonist cuts off his tongue in a desperate attempt to save the young lover, who also happens to be his daughter.
The power relations are constituted so that Dae-su is subordinated to Woo-jin. Suffering is built up over the course of 15 years but is, at the end, unresolved since the only “solution” for Dae-su is to cut off his own tongue. Hence, Oldboy is far from a prototypical example of han, although some manifestations—such as the sorrowful music and rancor—are at least associated with the concept.
Train to Busan
Train to Busan offers a rather compressed narrative, with limited detail and multilayered meanings of the events. The largest narrative gap, left for viewers to speculate on, is why a zombie-like sickness has broken out in the nation. Genre-wise, it emulates many of the earlier Western contemporary postapocalyptic zombie films and TV series like 28 Days Later, Resident Evil, and Walking Dead. If there is anything particularly novel in that regard, it might be the focal point of the mise-en-scène, a train rapidly heading toward the city of Busan, in order to find one of the last safe havens during the spread of a pandemic virus throughout the entire country. A busy father, Seok-woo, must change his ego- and work-centered way of life in order to save his young daughter, Soo-an. The two individuals encounter a variety of other characters, including a pregnant mother and her tough and brave partner, and form a temporary social group that use altruism rather than egoism to hinder the zombie masses, rapidly growing in numbers, on board.
One may identify social criticism, directed toward the palli palli (i.e., always keep a fast pace to outperform other citizens) mentality present in the contemporary South Korean society, the government’s lack of proper response to national catastrophes (e.g., the Sewol ferry disaster in 2014), and people’s zombielike egoistic behavior. A key scene in this sense is when a somewhat larger assembly of other passengers forbid the protagonist’s social group to enter their car and seek refuge since they are hesitant to take risks and act altruistic beyond their particular social circle, however, momentarily constituted. The supposed strong sense of a broader Korean we (uri) is thus tacitly heckled.
Aside from that sort of implicit social-psychological criticism, one may identify han in the desperation of Korean people who are entrenched in deep sorrow and grief as their family members, lovers, and friends are being killed by their swiftly transformed co-nationals. Han in this context is not a consequence of an external force, such as Japan during the colonial period (1910–1945), but the result of an internal threat whose origins are unknown. It is not a deep, extensive rancor, or resentment at display, since the circumstances do not allow for such lengthy mourning. However transient, it is deeply manifested in the eyes of Soo-an when the father eventually leaves her in a desperate act of self-sacrifice—he has thus transformed the palli palli egoism which haunts the South Korean community. Similarly, an older women (ajumma) watches her friend, of similar age, being engulfed by the voracious zombie hordes that encroach upon the tiny spaces of temporary isolation on the train. The film includes many such tragic events, with the climax of the death of Seok-woo when he protects his daughter and the pregnant woman Seong-kyeong. As Kim (2017) shows, with further examples of han from other scholars, han may paradoxically contain its own inherent resolution. In accordance with such a viewpoint, when Seok-woo saves Soo-an, but dies while rescuing her, he overcomes the zombie sickness (perhaps an implicit manifestation of pathological han as it is described by some scholars, see Kim, 2017). The sickness is not similar to the diagnostic criteria of the Korean psychocultural disease hwabyong (Min, 2009) but the inherent problem/solution dynamic which Kim (2017) emphasizes is apparent. Moreover, the pathological aspects of han underlined by Kim (2017)—whether religious or medical—may be signified by the pandemic itself. While it might be understood as just another unnatural sickness that could occur in any country in the fictitious film or TV realms, one may notice that it has affected this specific country with its particular population and national context. While Korean filmmakers strive for global recognition, their works tend to build upon South Korea’s unique cultural hybridity, inclusive of han elements (Jung, 2010, Chapter 4).
While the suffering is possible to overcome in this fictitious context, since a troop of remaining soldiers in the Busan stronghold save Min-hoo and the pregnant woman Seong-kyeong just at the end, it is signified by tragic and great loss. The majority of people are unhesitatingly gone, but the hasty ending leaves no room for further anguish.
To the extent that there is something beautiful attached to the song falsely sung by Soo-an—however undeliberate it saves her and Seong-kyeong since it distinguishes them from the infected people who are shot without hesitation by soldiers—it constitutes another instance of resolution. Train to Busan, like Oldboy, may to some degree at least, signify multifaceted expressions of han. However, since the sickness only lasts for a brief period and therefore does not have a cause linked to a sustained suffering of injustice, and an ongoing relationship between the oppressor and oppressed, these elements seem to be merely loosely associated with han.
The Wailing
In relation to Korea’s kaleidoscopic religious landscape, The Wailing is rather representative since elements of Korean folk culture, shamanism in particular, are present, in parallel with Christianity. A rural village in the outskirts of the country is plagued by a sickness which turns some people bizarrely mad. This is suspected to be linked to a mysterious Japanese man, whom is believed to be an incarnation of an evil ghost or spirit. The story largely centers on the whereabouts of this man and on the question if he is truly malicious or not. A shaman, who appears benevolent, and a Christian priest aim to heal the village in a battle against the malevolent forces that haunt the town, not least the clumsy yet good-hearted police officer Jong-goo’s family. A strange girl in white clothing, who throws rocks at by passers, acts portentous. One does not know her spiritual status until the end.
The Wailing is an extensive horror film, reaching over 2½ hours, with a suspended climax and narrative turning point until the ending scenes. In particular, the spiritual functions of several supporting characters—the Japanese man, the girl in white clothing, and the shaman—are ambiguous until the resolution. There is not any key scene as such in this film, but one that is pertinent with regard to han is indeed the ritualistic-psychic battle that occurs between the seemingly benign village shaman and the apparently malign Japanese shaman. Since Jong-goo’s daughter, Hyo-jin, is increasingly affected by the evil disease, han can possibly be overcome by the strength of benign practices and forces (generated by the proper form of Korean shamanism). According to some interpretations, han is associated with a “ghostly creature” that “appears as a concrete substance with enormous ugly and evil energy” (Kim, 2017, p. 256). Both the demonic sickness, which affects some of the villagers directly, and the apparition of the Japanese man as a seemingly evil or possessed creature are associated with this understanding of han.
The han in this film is linked to the overall dark atmosphere, the sinister tragedy, the sickness, and the associations with the Korean past. The Japanese man, malevolent or not, is like an apparition of the colonial period who turns the generic Korean—at least in a rural setting—into a choleric mob. If this individual were not a personification of the devil, they may have hunted him down in the woods and tried to kill him anyway. In that sense, han can possibly be overcome by killing the Japanese man, a symbol of the real historical evil, unlike the metaphysical evil forces in a shamanist context, and more so in the dualistic Christian macrocosm represented by the village priest. But if the Japanese man really is Satan, who manages to deceive his adversaries into believing that he is an innocent victim, then han is perpetually present in the lives of the Korean village. As a reflection of Korea’s particular religious map and collective historical memory, in which the colonial past is one such negative nodal point, the han element is manifested in a multilayered fashion in this film.
Burning
Burning begins with a simple narrative drive as Jong-su unexpectedly meets Hae-mi—who both grew up in the small city of Paju—in an area of Seoul. Hae-mi admits that she is cuter these days because of plastic surgery (for a critical examination of plastic surgery in South Korea, see Swami et al., 2012). They talk open-heartedly and have sex in Hae-mi’s apartment near Seoul Tower in the city center. When Hae-mi leaves for a trip to the Kalahari Desert in Africa, Jong-su promises to feed her cat, which is reluctant to manifest itself. Thus, Jong-su wonders if the cat really exists or is just an artistic imagination of Hae-mi. In another scene, Hae-mi “eats” an imaginary fruit in front of Jong-su as a form of pantomime.
Burning builds upon the Japanese author Haruki Murakami’s short story “Barn Burning” as well as William Faulkner’s short story with the same name, but barn is substituted for greenhouse in this much deeper and broader film version. Nevertheless, some elements of both short stories are present in the film, although Burning explores class/gender while Faulkner leans toward the class/race nexus and Murakami perhaps neither.
The rich and good-looing Ben, whom Hae-mi meets during her trip, reveals to Jong-su that he has a strong urge for burning greenhouses, which he apparently does frequently. The act itself triggers his “inner base,” he explains to Jong-su. In relation to this, there are many potential metaphors discussed by Jong-su and Ben and the audience is consequently encouraged to reflect upon their meanings. For instance, does greenhouse signify something else?
Like in many other fairly complex films, discerned themes and narrative components complement rather than oppose each other. If anything, they struggle for the position as nodal points in a particular narrative or are linked to a broader “external” discourse. As such, Burning could at least cultural-ideologically be read as a classist criticism of contemporary Korean capitalism. Most notably in that regard, both the male protagonist Jong-su and the female character Hae-mi are asymmetrically interpellated as vertically inferior subjects in relation to the wealthy Ben, who subtlety plays with his two new friends.
Moreover, one could also apply a psychoanalytical approach since it overlaps the semiosis in the film. Provided one does so, Seoul tower, which Jong-su gazes at from Hae-mi’s apartment while masturbating, rises as a sort of insurmountable phallus which represents the potent power of modern-capitalist South Korea. Furthermore, a personality psychological approach would suggest that Hae-mi is neurotic (she cries desperately) and histrionic (she literally acts in front of people), while Ben comes off as an extrovert psychopath (for a discussion about dark traits in popular culture, see, e.g., Jonason et al., 2012; and for a broader examination of the constellation of the Dark tetrad, see Paulhus, 2014). However, Hae-mi is rather complex. She is agreeable and demonstrates facets associated with the personality trait openness to experience, such as feelings, esthetics, and fantasy. For example, she travels to Africa and is genuinely interested in parochial cultural symbolism (“the little hunger” and “the great hunger”) and takes classes in pantomime. The introvert Jong-su is perhaps attracted by her peculiar personality, although he is not reluctant to harshly criticize the willingness to show her naked upper body in front of men (himself and Ben) during a marijuana trip, an attitude which is somewhat akin of patriarchal Confucianism (Shim, 2001). In that sense he is a remnant of Korea’s rural-traditional past and socioeconomic inequality placed along the line of the urban-rural continuum.
These three theoretical-methodological perspectives are equally relevant to have as starting points in a content/discourse analysis of Burning. For the sake of the focal point of the present examination, one might find a link between at least the classism and personality perspectives in relation to han. If Jong-su partly experiences han due to Ben’s seemingly undeserved wealth, and more so, the fatal crimes that Jong-su suspects that Ben has committed (i.e., killed young women and burned their bodies, inclusive of Hae-mi in relation to her sudden disappearance), then the former’s rancor or resentment is possible to transcend if the main character kills the adversary. To the extent that Ben represents something foreign or external, like Japan during the colonial period, one may take into account that he is highly Americanized, urbane, and urban while Jong-su appears like a rural residue of Korea’s pre-modern past. (That oversimplified binary would work if Jong-su was not also an aspiring young author who is an avid reader of William Faulkner and F. Scott Fitzgerald, which indicates a cosmopolitan leaning.) He and his disagreeable and angry hostile father are not just significantly lower in socioeconomic status compared to Ben and other upper class Koreans but a reflection of the colonial period, prior to the transition into industrialist capitalism and rapid urbanization.
Indeed, the gone girl Hae-mi cannot overcome han why Jong-su must do it for her, perhaps for all of South Korea, which appears brimming with rich psychopaths like Ben who possess wealth that no one truly knows how they have earned (hence, the reference to Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby). However, since she is looked upon as beautiful according to current standards (for a discussion about contemporary South Korean beauty ideals, see Epstein & Joo, 2012; Boman, 2019), the “beautiful sorrow” of Hae-mi’s cries are manifested as a current expression of han. Thus, the manifestations of the han element in Burning are associated with Jong-su’s resentment and rancor toward Ben and the beautiful sorrow of Hae-mi.
Discussion
Han is a psychocultural concept which may be appropriate to use when analyzing cultural, popular cultural, psychological, and ideological content and tendencies in contemporary South Korea, if not beyond. As the content/discourse analysis of the four films suggests, it may be expressed in several ways, rather than constituting a monolithic element. However, all examples are latent rather than explicit, which indicates that han with regard to these instances is etic-imposed rather than understood in relation to manifest intertextuality (the writer of a film, e.g., has included the word in a dialogue) or emic (the individuals included in pop cultural or journalist content, such as a documentary about the colonial past or Kwangju massacre, use it). In the case of implicit han tendencies within the frames of the particular content, and its corresponding historical, ideological, or cultural context, themes and mise-en-scène have to be taken into account. It would perhaps be far-fetched to emphasize han in any generic Korean comedy, action film, or melodrama. Thus, the application of the concept requires both a deeper understanding of the analyzed content and han as a cultural-psychological and historical idea. Particular concepts must also be analyzed in relation to a broader socio-cultural and even macro-economic context and not just as isolated variables, typical of cross-cultural psychology (for a critical discussion, see Ratner, 2017).
Another aspect to consider is if han, or critical han as Kim (2017) suggests, could transcend the borders of Korean and diasporic Korean people, and function as a transgenerational and transcultural signifier. If Jang and Kim’s (2013) analysis is correct, Confucian residues would eventually evaporate as the older generation of Koreans cease to exist. Similarly, given both the far-reaching westernized modernization and the gradual exclusion of older generations who experienced the traumatic colonial period, han as a real historical phenomenon would be impossible. On the other hand, han understood as an element that transcends generational boundaries and thus internalized in the Korean ethnos, implies the possible emergence of a latent potential.
Moreover, Moon (2014, p. 431) stresses: So it is not the uniqueness of han, particular to the Korean context, that makes it so difficult to articulate; rather it is the uniqueness of the suffering itself that gives it its untranslatable quality—no matter what language, ethnicity, culture, time, or space. Thus, it is forms of literature and art that are able to “translate” or articulate suffering in a way that gives it meaning. The arts become a method to articulate and express ineffable suffering.
Indeed, the careful approach would be to not apply it outside the experiences of Korean individuals, or at least Korean-related content, but comparisons are always possible to elaborate, although not necessarily valid or relevant. For instance, to which extent are the Western concepts of melancholia and ressentiment (e.g., Nietzsche, 1886/1997) congruent with han? There is evidence that suggests that Japanese intellectuals were influenced by Nietzsche (Starrs, 1994) and therefore han may have been influenced by Nietzsche's ressentiment. These are intriguing issues which require further critical discussions and future research.
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
The author thanks the editor in chief and anonymous reviewers for their critical and insightful comments which have indirectly improved the quality and trustworthiness of this article.
Declaration of conflicting interest
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
