Pavane

Sad People in Love

From the jump, Pavane feels like it exists in a slightly warped reality where everyone is lonely, underemployed, and quietly disappointed in themselves, which already makes it more honest than most romantic films. The story centres on three people working in the same department store, which is basically a factory for emotional suppression. Gyeong-rok parks cars while chasing dance like it’s a personality trait, Mi-jeong works in the basement like society physically pushed her underground, and Yo-han floats around as the charming, slightly strange friend who seems socially successful but radiates the kind of loneliness that comes from being liked without being known.

The romance between Gyeong-rok and Mi-jeong does not arrive with fireworks or dramatic confessions because this film understands that people who feel undesirable don’t flirt like normal humans. Their connection grows through small glances, long pauses, and the shared exhaustion of knowing they do not fit society’s idea of a perfect couple, which somehow makes their relationship feel more intimate than any cinematic grand gesture ever could. It is not fantasy love, it is survival love, the kind that says, “You also feel out of place? Great, let’s be uncomfortable together.”

Mi-jeong sits at the emotional centre of the film, and instead of giving her a makeover or a glow-up montage, the story does something far more radical by letting her remain exactly as she is and demanding that the audience take her seriously anyway. She is repeatedly criticised for her appearance, as if her face itself is a social failure, and the film never pretends this cruelty does not wound her. But it also refuses to turn beauty into her redemption arc. Her worth comes from endurance, from continuing to exist in a world that keeps suggesting she should not. Go Ah-sung plays her with a quiet vulnerability that feels like someone constantly holding their breath, revealing trauma, fear, and the aching desire to be seen without ever turning Mi-jeong into a lesson or a slogan.

Gyeong-rok is gentle in a way that feels painfully realistic because he is clearly in love and yet emotionally illiterate, like a man who downloaded feelings without reading the instructions. He hesitates, misreads situations, and can be frustratingly dense, but that clumsiness makes him feel human rather than engineered. Their relationship never feels manufactured; it feels like something that grew by accident because neither of them expected to be chosen.

Yo-han is the most ambiguous figure, hovering between friend, observer, and emotional disruptor, adding a slightly surreal layer to the story as if he understands the characters better than they understand themselves. Sometimes this perspective deepens the film’s exploration of loneliness, showing how charisma can coexist with isolation, but at other times it pulls attention away from the central romance just as it begins to settle into rhythm, which raises the uncomfortable question of whether this imbalance is intentional or simply a flaw in the writing.

Visually, the film leans into muted colours and a faintly vintage atmosphere, turning the underground parking lot into an obvious but effective metaphor for lives lived outside society’s spotlight. The cinematography is restrained and elegant, and the use of classical music lifts certain scenes into something almost dreamlike. Yet the pacing in the second half weakens the overall impact, as transitions between emotional moments feel awkward and uneven, creating a pattern where the film draws you in deeply and then abruptly lets you go before the feeling can fully land.

Still, despite these structural issues, the film leaves behind genuine emotional weight because its sincerity about love, insecurity, friendship, and longing cuts through its imperfections. It is less about happiness than about the way even brief love can permanently reshape how people see themselves. These are characters who believe they do not deserve affection and slowly realise that being chosen once might be enough to sustain them for years.

Pavane is not a spectacle and does not trade in fantasy or transformation. It offers hushed pain, awkward tenderness, and the quietly devastating idea that someone might love you exactly where you are: in the basement, in the parking lot, in the version of yourself you assumed no one would ever pick. And somehow, that restrained hope feels more radical than any dramatic romance ever could.

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