imaseed

A moment connected to the soul will follow us for a lifetime.

A moment might just be a period that lasts for a second, but a moment connected to the soul will follow us for a lifetime.

Every moment is like that, every second is the same, each raising of a hand, each breath, or even hours sitting still without moving, will become a part that follows a person's life, forever.

It's been so long since I watched a youth-themed film, and strangely, any film I previously watched—that I considered good—had an unfulfilling ending, to prove that youth is forever the most beautiful period in a person's life, a time where "even if we had to bathe in the rain, we would want to go back one more time." Perhaps that's why, among the forest of youth films, only "Always Home" achieved such emotional heights for me, making me feel empty after watching, feel unfulfilled, not because of an incomplete ending, but because of an ending, a process, a film, a message so complete that I felt hollow, because the ending meant the film had truly ended. And I realized that hollow feeling is what comes after watching a truly good film, one that has truly filled me, comforted me and brought me so many emotions. The film ended, and I felt lost. Perhaps "Always Home" also marks a period in my university days, and has become a part of me?

I must admit, this is a film suitable to watch while I'm in university. I see the past, I see the possible turning points in the future. Society resembles school, and also carries many unknowns, with young people standing vaguely at crossroads, vaguely striving, vaguely running. I have many questions for my future self, and so many words of advice, comfort, and encouragement for my past self, yet, ultimately, the present life is still the most wonderful. The process of growing up isn't actually the moment the clock strikes from 11:59 PM on the day I'm 17 to midnight on the day I'm 18, but the process of time gradually flowing, the soul collecting each second and minute, each choice, each action, each person around us, becoming the soul of our present self. Youth in the drama is beautifully dreamlike, making me feel empathy, admiration, and longing. But thinking again, whether youth is calm or passionate, whether young age is reckless or simply quiet days, in the end, those are still the days of youth we are living, have lived, and will live in. Youth may not be impulsive, people may not be extraordinary, dreams may only appear in dusty frames, the people we've met may just be visitors with no set date to meet again, the cycle of the universe will not stop, and youth has never stopped being brilliant, in the unique way of ordinary, mundane people who have no second version.

The characters in "Always Home" are also ordinary people like anyone else, like me, except their lives only exist in a short period packaged within the duration of a film. They existed in their lives, loved and were loved, lived the most complete life under our observation. Meanwhile, our lives continue out there, perhaps without such beautiful friendships, open career paths, a warm family, a dream love; perhaps to us, they are the lucky ones, the extraordinary ones, but who knows, to those around us, we might be such the lucky person too. The luckiest person in the end is the one who knows they are lucky; each person has their own life, a blank page is the beginning of all the colors we will paint later. Making mistakes is okay, being foolish is no problem—youth is a stage of life where if we make wrong choices, we fix them together because we're still young, we still have time. Therefore, I want to say to my future self, keep living in your youth, even if you think you've matured, don't be afraid, never feel that life has lost its meaning, you still have, and always have, enough time to fix mistakes. Mistakes are also a part of the soul, don't mistreat them, don't regret, don't resent.

Writing this long, in the end, they're just words, old stories about that childish "youth" motif. The cycle, the impermanence of the world, ultimately are all flowery words about things people often mention when reminiscing about the past and knowing nothing about the future. But that's how people operate, everyone is the same, we're all ordinary with flaws, and it's these ordinary things that make us, that make this life. Perhaps it's been a long time since I gave a film this maximum score, because I always feel everything lacks something. But if I don't make an exception for "Always Home," then perhaps I couldn't explain how my mood and emotions operate. My emotions have filled in each flaw, and I feel emotions should still play the main role in each process of my experiencing cinema (art).

So there it is, the characters have accompanied me, entered my thoughts, aroused my anticipation, indescribable emotions, joy, satisfaction, sadness, contentment, excitement, hope, nostalgia, and impression. The setting, music, plot, lighting, colors, ending, meaning... all contributed to creating a story neither short nor long, not telling an entire human life, but stayed with me for a short time, then became a part of my soul.

A youth film, nothing more, and that's a compliment.

In conclusion, I want to affirm that I truly liked the story of each character in the film, the story of their everlasting youth, of young people and those no longer young in age, of those who love and those who are loved, of those still there and those who left their souls there. Perhaps my process of watching the film was truly a special journey that I will never forget.

And, the final final word, the acting was super excellent! I believed in Zhai Xiaowen's acting from the start, but Zhou Keyu surprised me, really. I'm not describing, evaluating, or deeply critiquing each story and character in this review because I'm truly seeing all their stories as one story with a common name—love. (Though I must say I really liked the Song Tong - Du Man couple—the kissing scene truly left me speechless and I had to pause for five minutes to calm down.) Everyone's chemistry was good, from family to friends to romance, especially scenes depicting very slight stirrings, very light touches, for which I must separately praise the director for the scene arrangement, and can't forget the sound and the actors' gazes. For a film with such complex romantic storylines to be so smooth and understandable, such scenes depicting emotion are truly valuable. And really, thank you to my past self from last week who decided to watch this film despite its "roundabout" nature, because these films aren't frustrating about relationships at all.

In general, this is a beautiful film, in every way.

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Love is the story of a moment.

"Bishonen" is an old film, like many other old films, slow-paced, told largely through the narrator's voice, with a gloomy, suffocating atmosphere, not rich in details but very poetic, very romantic.

Honestly, if this were a modern film, it probably wouldn't be classified as "classic" and wouldn't be mentioned much, but considering the era when the film was released, I understand why nearly 30 years later, people still talk about it so much. The film is slow, but not lacking in "drama"; after all, it's still an old-fashioned love story, still the typical way of portraying homosexual people, especially those in the service industry. Love in the film is truly the love of moments.

We can't blame the film for not developing characters or emotional progression deeply enough, because it seems they fell in love from the first moment they saw each other, just like how other love stories come and go—all in an instant when their eyes meet. Besides the love story, the story of those who are cruel, moments of reckless passion that quickly fade, this also seems to be a story about loneliness, the dark knots inside people. Psychological issues, family and social expectations, prejudices... exist just in one look from the father. And Sam's death. One person's death perhaps can't change much, like ripples disappearing, submerged in water, except that love is something that doesn't die with the person. Actually, the film talks about love, but doesn't talk (enough) about the love between the two main characters; in the end, it's just Sam, Jet, A Ching, each having loved and been loved.

The ending for homosexual love films in this era is still shrouded in tragedy. People are pessimistic, putting a full stop to almost every love story, everything is always chaotic, messy, and ends with one or two deaths, either physical or spiritual. What that pessimistic view wants to reflect, or what common truth it tries to prove, I don't know and don't want to discuss too much; well, knowing that Sam is liberated, and Jet knows he was once loved is enough.

Overall, this is not a pinnacle classic film, nor truly artistic, not characteristic of traditional Hong Kong cinema culture... but it's still a film with sufficient emotional range, creating an atmosphere poetic enough, beautiful enough, cinematic enough for me on a late evening, enough for me to ponder the story of men rejected by society. What I like is the feeling, not necessarily the film itself.

And honestly, this film's popularity and frequent mentions are partly due to the extremely handsome cast of movie stars who give off a very artistic vibe :)

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Standing on the precise centerline of the standard measure.

This is a standard film by every standard, and I mean that as a compliment. It feels like watching characters step out of a novel, with a complete script, well-embodied characters, pitch-perfect emotions, and visually evocative scenes. Everything exists within a standard framework that met my expectations exactly. And as it happens, that was everything I needed from a period film like this.

If you are looking for a romance in the vein of "Romeo and Juliet," with family feuds, tragic partings, and high drama, "Memoir of Rati" is not that film. If you are seeking something emotionally heavier, or a deep dive into history, that is also not the prominent color in this palette. But if you are like me—searching for a breath of fresh air, a palate cleanser, a romantic and poetic love song that is gentle and lilting—stable, following a classic path, delivering visual splendor and telling its story through imagery, then "Memoir of Rati" is precisely the memoir for us.

The love between Thee and Rati blossoms from their very first encounters—if not from the very first moment Thee sees Rati from afar on the pier, his gaze already captured by the young Frenchman. Their love unfolds as gently as sunlight on a river, troubled by little more than small misunderstandings resolved in a moment, or a few situations that allow them to understand each other more deeply.

Perhaps I should be grateful, for the film arrived at the perfect time, after I had sat through a series of rather heavy-hitting dramas and was in need of just such a gentle touch. It strikes the exact chord of my taste for Thai period pieces. I adore the dreamy, poetic feeling of that era; for some reason, the hesitation, the shyness, and the touch of formality from that time easily make my heart flutter. The love between Thee and Rati is one of such romantic stirrings. It is certainly not thrilling, dramatic, or passionately fiery; "romantic" is the only keyword I can think of to describe their love, and it is also the primary atmosphere that envelops the entire film. Every trial or obstacle they face is crafted from the most classic of clichés, and it is this very old-fashioned quality that so deeply satisfied my expectations for a film set in a bygone era.

Speaking of the film's polished craftsmanship, the light, the colors, the flowers and the rivers, the fireworks during the festival, the architecture and the costumes—in short, the entire visual landscape—testify to the filmmakers' dedicated investment. Everything reaches a necessary maturity, and there is no room for debate: the acting is skillful enough for me to perceive the delicate inner stirrings of the characters. This subtlety, fitting for people of that time, bearing their responsibilities with romantic hearts, is a key element in creating such a sincere love story.

Within its nostalgic and vintage palette, the film weaves progressive ideas from a century ago, asserting its humanistic values in a way that feels appropriate for the time it was made, yet not anachronistic to the time it depicts (women have always been strong, regardless of the era's constraints). Although the characters' mindsets felt more "modern" than I anticipated—particularly in their easy acceptance of a same-sex romance—perhaps that issue was never the film's focus. As I mentioned, the romantic element is what takes precedence. And of course, aesthetics and aesthetic pleasure have never been unimportant in cinema. In this case, I see nothing wrong with prioritizing the beauty of nature, of people, and of a historical era above all else. The film may not push the viewer's emotions to their absolute limit, it may not make you weep in sorrow or tremble in fear, but the sublime beauty, with its poetic and romantic qualities, was more than enough for me to feel that aesthetic bliss.

Perhaps that is all that is needed for the "standard" of a good film—everything is measured, just complete enough, perfectly timed, and expertly balanced. Although there are a few regrettable shortcomings that may not fully satisfy every viewer, when the film ends, the feeling that rises above all else—the final impression it left on me—is one of happiness and wistfulness. It is a feeling of being both filled up and having something taken away, that necessary, beautiful emptiness one feels after watching a truly good film.

To speak on what it lacks: the ending follows a well-trodden path of separation and reunion. I can understand why some might have hoped for a tragic conclusion and disagree with the "happily ever after" endings often seen in GMM films. While I won't comment on the five-year separation, I think the happy ending is justifiable. From start to finish, the film's dominant theme has always been one of optimism, a look toward the future. It’s only natural that the ending would open a door to that future, to hope, to a new world. Furthermore, my personal taste doesn't usually lean towards love stories that become sweet too quickly; I prefer hardship and drama, so some parts were less compelling for me. Yet, on the other hand, even though the film is brimming with romance—with the two leads falling in love early on and barely a moment of conflict lasting more than half an episode—it still held my attention. It satisfied me aesthetically, and it still managed to excite me and make my heart flutter. In that, the film has done its job wonderfully.

And so, it is the chemistry and the aesthetic impression that I value most in this film. They delivered the necessary romance, in just the right measure for everything. And that is all that is needed for a good film.

***

(P.S. Besides Great-Inn, whose acting needs no further praise, Aou-Boom also made me understand a part of their popularity. Whatever the reason, I am certain that between them, there is that tension, and also a very lovely spark. They inhabit their roles so well that I never felt disconnected. Their secondary couple storyline doesn't feel forced, it doesn't crowd the main couple, and it serves as an interesting, colorful contrast to the central romance—playful, cat-and-mouse, humorous, and goofy. In short, utterly charming. I have much more faith in Aou-Boom's future series now.)

A final compliment for Inn - suay mak!

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All's Well That Ends Well.

A horrific, insane, dark, twisted, and utterly shocking story that leads to a "normal" ending. Except, every single one of those adjectives is meant in the most positive way possible.

I am truly grateful for whatever it was that led me to watch this film—a Japanese BL from last year that I had no prior intention of seeing. Had I not, I would have missed out on a part of myself, on something that has taken root and will not stop growing inside me. It sounds dramatic, but the viewing experience was as direct and sharp as a knife plunging deep into the viewer's gut. How can a story be so terrifying when, even though the painful events are mostly told from the past, the anguish seeps through and strikes a raw, emotional nerve? I truly don't know how to review this film without talking at length about my own feelings. And just like the constant surprises in the plot, my emotions rose and fell unexpectedly. Before I knew it, I was so completely absorbed in their story that I felt my head would split open if anything terrible were to happen to Chihiro and Hao Ran. My mood swung with the characters, with every scene that unfolded, with every piece of the past laid bare. I laughed with them, cried with them, felt their pain and indignation, yet at the same time, I felt empty and breathless, as if I had never felt anything before.

It's a love story that seems like a "poison," but is, in fact, the most profound and redemptive antidote I have ever witnessed. When someone's life is so dark that they can no longer distinguish between living and dying, they seek release. Chihiro's life was terrible; the betrayals and awful things that happened to him, through no fault of his own, had turned his existence into worthless trash. I know I shouldn't be the one to judge whose life is worse, but this time, I believe that at least Chihiro was still *living* trash, capable of fear and feeling, of desire and love. Hao Ran, on the other hand, had effectively died at the age of five when his mother left him, and he stepped into a life that felt completely hollowed out. The decades that Chihiro and Hao Ran lived were decades of a tragic, horrific, and dark story being written, until they found their "ending"—which was each other. They were the final page to all the disgusting things they had to endure. Watching the film, my own psyche became unstable; my words were sealed off, trapped and suffocated with my tears and breath, making it difficult to write even now. All I can say is that their love is just so incredibly beautiful—a beauty that doesn't need a tragic ending to be profound. It's a love that overcomes all obstacles, born from curiosity and culminating in becoming the antidote to the toxins of each other's pasts, becoming a shared dream, becoming the "final chapter" for one another.

The "happily ever after" for each character isn't a literal conclusion, but an end to their dark pasts and the start of a new chapter. Their happy ending is Hao Ran letting go of the man who was drowning in the mire that stole his breath, choosing to return to his lover, and facing his camera with a smile that comes from deep within his eyes. That ending is Chihiro finding his dream and dreaming it with the man he loves. And for the audience, their happy ending is simply the characters' own joy. All the bumps, the sharp turns, the fog, and the darkness that enveloped me, them, all of us—suffocating our minds and stealing our breath—was finally blown away by that love. A love that is, in the end, as simple as any other, bringing happiness, hope, and a new breath of life.

I honestly didn't have high expectations, so I never imagined I'd be pulled so deeply into the film's current. Watching it, I couldn't tell if they were the crazy ones, or if I was. That knife plunged straight into my heart, then slowly twisted, carving into every corner, leaving tears streaming down my face. My hands unconsciously clasped together, praying they would get the happy ending the title promised, because if not, I feared I would go mad myself. I didn't dare read about the ending beforehand; I didn't dare give myself hope only to be disappointed. I tried to calmly accept whatever the film threw at me—and luckily, right up to the final moments, while I was still clutching my chest in anxiety, the ending truly was "well" for them and for me, though I wish it had been a little longer. But that's okay. A short ending just means a new beginning can start sooner, right? A beginning that tells another story, one that continues after the credits roll, where the characters truly live on beyond the script, in the hearts of the audience. I truly, sincerely wish every character well, and I thank them for telling me such a powerfully moving story, for living inside of me.

Japanese films truly are something else. The texture, the feeling is so unique, so resonant. It feels like your mind is being warped; everything is insane, bizarre, and abnormal, yet it feels intensely intimate and has a powerful, visceral impact on your psyche. And in the end, let me call that feeling "healing and redemption."

It was a truly fascinating viewing experience. The chemistry between the characters resonated with me so deeply. I love how the actors' eyes tell the story—so clear, so transparent, so bright it's painful. It's been so long since I've felt this suffocated, yet so utterly satisfied.

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A story of "ghostly love"... or rather, a "formidable fate." :)

The serious version: A tale of two "chosen ones" who choose each other in every lifetime.

Khemjira Must Survive. And indeed, Khemjira survived. Not only that, he saved the souls of the dead. This series explores a very fresh angle compared to others in the genre, and this clever strategic move successfully created a buzz for this long-awaited project, elevating the new Thai entertainment duo to "rising star" status. That alone is enough to indicate that Khemjira has successfully nailed the standard aspects of an entertainment series: it has depth and is meticulously invested in both visuals and content.

First and foremost, the series makes a strong initial impression with its unique premise—a spiritual theme deeply intertwined with folklore and belief. I am not easily scared, so naturally, Khemjira didn't strike me as a terrifying horror series that kept me up at night. It is clearly a ghost story in every sense, but beyond the exorcisms, spirit summoning, and wandering souls, the romance remains the standout element. In fact, Khemjira balances the investigation and curse-breaking plotline parallel to the romance quite well. The two halves complement each other, walking hand in hand, just as Wat and Khem resolve past-life grievances while nurturing their love, forging a bond for this lifetime.

Beyond the spooky vibes, the theme introduces the audience to the fascinating and diverse customs of a specific Thai community. Cultural diversity is expressed through imagery, music, colorful details, and primarily through the chosen subject matter. There is also a diversity in human expression—a person can exist in any version, gender, or identity, but at their core, they remain simply human. And when two people fall in love, they just love; gender becomes irrelevant.

Watching the series, I always felt the filmmakers followed the original novel’s progression sequentially and completely, resulting in a smooth, fluid narrative with a clear, layered structure. This is the first clear success in terms of the film's construction. Thanks to the sequential handling of issues, the character introductions, the setting, and the links between sub-plots connect seamlessly without causing boredom (weaving through the past, the present, the previous life, the life before that, and even the future). The series truly built a relatively massive timeline spanning generations, constructing a systematic and substantial universe that successfully conveys the story's underlying meaning: succession. It is the succession between generations, the guardians of the village, the cursed, the old and the young, the living and the dead. It is the connection between those linked from a past life to this one, creating a bridge between past, present, and future through "spiritual" ties. Indeed, the quote at the end was incredibly powerful and encapsulated the film's atmosphere: "Bound by fate, kept by love, strengthened by never giving up." To me, the paramount factor—the alpha and the omega of every event—is always fate. Whether it is the main couple, the side couple, or any character, everyone is connected by a destined arrangement. It is an element that couldn't be more idealistic. And fittingly, that is the dominant atmosphere of the entire film: the color of destiny and idealism.

Witnessing the story unfold in a world permeated with mysticism—full of magic, spirits, and rituals that elevate religious senses—is an interesting and fresh way to perceive the world. Lovers, whether in this world or the next, will eventually be together; those who need to meet will meet. Faith, belief, and most importantly, love, create power. Love becomes the dominant force that neutralizes every curse: because Khemjira is full of love, and because the world around him is filled with love, Khemjira must survive.

Beyond the spiritual meaning and content, a huge plus point is the production value—cinematography, visuals, and sound were all handled with great care. The setting gives the film a vintage, nostalgic feel, like a period piece within a modern space. This is especially true for the smooth, romantic relationship of the main couple. Their dynamic feels fresh because both characters are written seriously with clear backstories, giving them ample space to develop according to the script without feeling shallow or jarring. Their love doesn't feel out of place; you can clearly see the trajectory of their affection and why they love each other so deeply—even if that reason leans heavily on "fatalism."

However, among all these elements, my favorite part of Khemjira is the soundtrack. The music is perfectly timed, ensuring the film rarely feels empty, creating atmosphere and storytelling through sound effectively. The chemistry between the characters lands well. While it’s evident that the actors still have room to grow, one cannot deny that the couples have a natural chemistry that doesn't rely too heavily on technical acting. Because of this, watching the film often feels like watching a "puppy love" romance—innocent, endearing, and cute. It might not perfectly fit the serious character settings, but it’s still very sweet (accidentally capturing the true essence of a first love for both of them).

The secondary couple actually has a clearer setup, and their characters stick closely to that setup from start to finish. Speaking strictly about the romance, I preferred the side couple’s dynamic slightly more, simply because I found it a bit more interesting. The main couple's relationship felt a little "safe" and occasionally relied on clichés. It seemed that, contrary to the deep connection mentioned earlier, Wat and Khem's relationship relied more on their past-life feelings than on a deep, present-day bond. I wish the film had given Khemjira a bit more time to develop their feelings in the now before introducing the tragic romance of the past. That said, the intimate interactions were well-executed. When the opportunities for kisses and conversations arose, the filmmakers—using lighting, sound, camera angles, and direction—did not miss the chance to create polished, emotional, and sweet scenes that fitted each stage of the relationship.

In general, Khemjira is a complete and well-rounded series, a standalone work with genuine depth that doesn't just chase after fan service. It is quite sophisticated, attempting to weave a story that respects the viewer's IQ and EQ. However, there are still elements that could have been developed further, as I sometimes felt something was missing. The story was somewhat predictable; because love was the dominant factor, the sub-plots weren't overly gripping. I expected more suspense and better construction in the "curse" storyline. The romance was gentle and sweet, but there were simply too many coincidences. :) The film is perhaps better suited for those more idealistically minded than I am. The final twist was impressive, even though I saw it coming, and held significant meaning. There were lingering questions—like why the villainess from the past life didn't appear, or why Nampeung only followed Khemjira—but by the end, the film made its message clear: some things happen simply because they must. So, let’s just call it destiny. :)

Finally, regarding the performances: as this is their debut project, it is understandable that the cast has room for refinement. Keng’s role was slightly more complex and demanding than Namping’s, which naturally presented a greater challenge. However, I personally felt that Namping successfully portrayed Khemjira’s various emotional ranges quite clearly. And honestly? The actor who delivered the best performance was Nampeung (the spirit). :D

The main reason the film scores an "average-good" for me is that it meets the standards—it’s stable, it’s good—but it didn't truly break through or create enough intense emotion to keep my eyes glued to the screen.

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Cash is the hero

A sci-fi superhero flick with a straightforward plot but a grand, timeless message. It is 100% pure entertainment and 0% logic; this is not the kind of film you watch for the sake of overthinking.

The symbolism of money is interwoven with the concept of heroism from start to finish—the title "Cashero" couldn’t be more fitting. It hits directly on the film's core themes: the conviction that heroes still walk among us, that justice always prevails, and that anyone can be a hero if they have the "heart" for it (where being nosy is just another word for caring). It also posits that money—the very force that dominates society—takes on the character and value of the person holding it.

As a classic superhero story where the good guys always win, it leaves the viewer feeling light and satisfied, free from any psychological heavy-lifting or moral agonizing. The action sequences and CGI are delightfully over-the-top and exaggerated—pure visual candy, provided you’re willing to suspend the laws of physics. The way conflicts are resolved through various plot twists is a lot of fun; there were several moments where my jaw dropped simply because I couldn't believe the production team actually went there.

At its core, "Cashero" is a philosophical fable engineered to reach a happy ending and deliver a well-worn message. However, this isn't necessarily a flaw; it feels as though the screenwriter had a very clear vision from the start and used the film as a skeleton to support that ideology. The mind behind this plot feels like someone idealistic and imaginative—someone with a unique, perhaps slightly quirky, but deeply kind-hearted perspective.

Honestly, society needs people like that—those who believe wholeheartedly in heroism, human kindness, and a just world; people who want to improve society while still grappling with the harsh realities of poverty. The tension between money and morality is the focal point of every conflict, but ultimately, the film reminds us that money is hollow without love. Choosing an ordinary, struggling, and even slightly flawed protagonist was a deliberate move to prove that heroes are everywhere. They aren't extraordinary beings; they are you, me, and everyone around us, fueled by one simple condition: love.

I didn't dwell on the specific plot points since they are really just vehicles for the film’s philosophy. Overall, watch "Cashero" as if you’re reading a fairy tale—think of it as a Marvel movie where everyone actually gets a happy ending, the villains aren't insurmountable, and much like the mother in "Insidious," everything is resolved through the sheer power of love.

It’s a fun, entertaining watch that hits a wide range of emotional notes, even giving me goosebumps at times. While it may lack profound depth or complex psychological characterization, it remains lighthearted, engaging, and thoroughly enjoyable.

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Khun Thee really ought to buy a dedicated time slot to turn his life into a... sitcom.

You know those long-running sitcoms with over a hundred episodes, where each 15-to-30-minute installment focuses on mundane daily situations with a fixed cast of characters? Me and Thee successfully recreates that exact feeling in a 10-episode series, with each episode running for an hour. To be honest, the viewing experience isn't much different from a sitcom, because one hour of runtime feels no different than 15 minutes. The show lacks significant conflict, the plot points feel thin, and both the individual episodes and the series as a whole feel incredibly lightweight. And, much like a quick sitcom, aside from the laughs and the surface-level messages, it doesn't really leave behind any lasting aesthetic or artistic impression.

The structure is clearly designed to be loose, requiring very little connection between events and demanding even less focus or critical thinking from the viewer. Ultimately, the episode where the most actually happens is Episode 1. It introduces the characters, the setting, and establishes the mood and vibe for the remaining nine episodes. It was also the freshest episode. In the beginning (specifically the first two episodes), I was genuinely drawn in by the weirdness, the silliness, and the lack of sobriety in MAT. The comedic bits, the way everything was exaggerated, and the focus on the "cringe" factor typical of Lakorns were unique elements that few BL series have utilized. Novelty easily creates an impression and attracts viewers, but for a series to remain engaging over the long haul, it needs more than just a quirky start; the novelty needs to be sustained. MAT maintained the exact same level of silliness all the way to Episode 10. By that point, while the humor remained, that was all the show had to offer—nothing more.

MAT isn't a bad show, but it’s not for every audience, or at least, not really for me. It’s light, relaxing, and focused on comedy, but sometimes, that weightlessness—combined with repetitive humor—made me feel like I was wasting my time. It’s so light it just floats away, leaving nothing behind. I wouldn't watch MAT for entertainment, as I didn't find it particularly entertaining or relaxing, but if the goal is to kill time, then yes—MAT is the perfect choice for when you’re sitting around with absolutely nothing to do. Unfortunately, I don't exactly have time to kill.

Since the film offers little in terms of substance, I struggle to find much to analyze, though I will commend the cinematography; the color grading and general aesthetic were quite decent. Regarding the cast, Pond and Phuwin have made a noticeable leap compared to their last project I watched (Never Let Me Go). Pond seems more comfortable (though at times I wonder if he embodies Khun Thee because of improvement or simply because the role doesn't require intense acting), and Phuwin dared to step out of his comfort zone with a role (little) different from his previous ones.

However, acknowledging improvement isn't the same as praising the performance as a whole. Solely within the context of this show, the secondary couples often outshone the leads in terms of natural delivery. I don't want to be the contrarian, but for some reason, the interactions between the main pair felt slightly unnatural to me, and the chemistry didn't quite hit the standard I expect from long-time partners. There were moments where the acting felt "too much," and others where it was "not enough." In general, it seemed they struggled to fully grasp their characters. In pivotal episodes meant to mark turning points in character development, certain gaps in emotional delivery became apparent. I found myself asking multiple times: What is this character actually feeling? Why did the plot escalate to this point based on his reaction? Who is Peach, really? Does he have any depth beyond what is shown on the surface, or is he truly that plain? Crucial emotional scenes, particularly the crying scenes, felt like they stopped halfway and didn't quite land the necessary emotional impact. Ultimately, MAT isn't a psychological drama, but I still expected a bit more depth from the romance genre.

In the end, MAT left me disappointed.

I often joked that Episode 2 was the peak of the series, but I wish it had remained a joke. It’s strange that I found the love between the two characters most intense and romantic when they were still strangers—before the feelings were confirmed, when everything was just mutual attraction and lines like "this guy is interesting." It was better than the phase of "I’ll buy you an entire island because you dared to talk back to me, and because you’re the only sane normal person I know—even though we met a few days ago." The romantic progression sped by like a race car on a bumpy road. The two main characters felt like athletes sprinting toward the finish line of marriage, even if that wedding felt like it ran out of budget (no extras, sparse decoration, lack of ceremonial investment, and the groom not even wearing a suit). Even though their intimate moments sometimes felt inexperienced or awkward, and their connection relied largely on flowery jokes or scripted-sounding dialogue, I am sure the marriage of Thee and Peach will last forever—because there are never any real problems between them. Just like the entire series.

That is MAT in a nutshell—light, repetitive, and somewhat meaningless, with philosophical messages delivered directly through dialogue in a "Tell, Don't Show" fashion. And these aren't entirely negative descriptors. Look, I’m just describing the show the same way I’d describe those sitcoms that air right before prime time.

(Regarding the supporting characters, especially the side couples: MAT failed them. RM and TA were told in two almost contradictory ways. RM had a "plot with no plot," built mostly through interaction scenes and saved by the actors' chemistry. Conversely, TA had a messy storyline. Despite being built up from the beginning to the end, the sloppy scriptwriting exposed its flaws and dismantled the characters' image. The way TA's plot was handled solidified my theory: if Thee and Peach’s plot had been dug deeper with more conflicts, MAT likely wouldn't have succeeded with its current nonsensical storytelling style, because the script doesn't actually know how to create and resolve conflict effectively. For example, the way antagonist characters like Vivid or Tee pop up for one scene and then disappear blandly, or how the intern photographer character was stripped of his role compared to the source material.)

One huge minus point: the product placement is excessive. Every segment (15-20 minutes) features a commercial—blatant, irrelevant, sometimes with entire scenes constructed just to advertise a product. I tried not to dwell too much on the logic or realism of the setting, but for a billionaire, Khun Thee must be pretty broke to be doing this many commercials!

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The moon has never disappeared; it is simply that the Earth has never ceased to turn.

No one can know what lies on the far side of the moon; we only know that when humans look up at the sky, the moon they see is in its most radiant state. And it will not cease to shine, whether on this side or the other.

This is a magnificent film in terms of the art of storytelling. Even if there are still imperfections within the movie, the narrative technique and storytelling alone deserve a perfect ten, easily placing "Shine" at the top of my personal rankings. Almost all philosophical messages and ideologies are conveyed through the first or second-person perspectives of the characters. The mere fact that the script strips away preachy, expository dialogue while still allowing the viewer to read the ideological subtext behind the details is a major plus worthy of praise. I love how the film tells its story through every detail—using a "show don't tell" approach that is indirect yet surprisingly frank, blunt, and even nakedly honest. The narration is gentle and sophisticated, like a caress, yet it crashes down like a wave to topple established values. It is a description very much like love. Before even touching on the content, "Shine" reached me through this art of suggestive yet direct narration. And truly, human spoken language is never enough to fully express any soul; that is why we need soliloquies in diaries, dialogues through letters, journalism, music, cinema, body language, and physical touch. Humans crave connection and communication as a primal instinct for survival. We always harbor a desire to converse with one another at a level deeper and further than the surface. And we are never satisfied, even when speaking, seeing, or touching with our own sensory organs. We find every way to communicate—with others, with the world around us, with the depths of the soul, with the universe, and with all things unknowable.

"Shine" opens by introducing an event that marks humanity's new step toward objects they have never known but always yearned to know. Armstrong’s first steps marked humanity's need to explore the world and the universe, the need to grasp and understand the unknown, even if it is mysterious, potentially dangerous, and full of uncertainty. But at the same time, it is a temptation, the light for a swarm of moths. Humans fear what they cannot see clearly, yet they cannot stop themselves from diving headfirst into it. Humans stepped on the moon, and then they asked what lay on the other side. Like a persistent thirst, they are never satisfied; facing the moon, the universe, others, and themselves, they want to understand it all, but they are never content and never stop asking for more. Because they will never fully understand. Unintentionally, that is how the world operates; just as the Earth orbits the sun and rotates on its own axis, human thirst will never be quenched. Does this mean humanity spends its entire existence seeking an answer that never appears, and that the search leads nowhere? Then what is the meaning of living if we cannot find our destination?

At the beginning, "Shine" poses the question about the far side of the moon, only to spend its entire remaining runtime answering it. By the end, we learn that the answer to this riddle is a philosophy that has existed for ages: Life has never told us what is on the other side of the moon. But the act of daring to step over and look is the most beautiful part of living. Just like every choice we make—no choice is guaranteed to lead us down the right path, because essentially no question has only one answer. The important thing is that we chose something rather than nothing at all. It is like a matchstick that has struck a flame; even if it burns out, at least it burned, rather than lying dormant in the box. The matchstick burns itself up and shines because of it.

And that is the beauty of living.

Although the film dedicates the majority of its plot and runtime to history, politics, uprisings, the dirty tricks of the ruling class behind the curtain, and how people overthrow them, the ultimate ideological issue posed at the end is not a lesson in military strategy or history. Ultimately, the core issue remains a human one—a voice for humanity, both in the abstract and the specific.

The world of "Shine" is a world of countless colors, countless paths, and countless individuals. I encountered romanticism interwoven with realism, primarily shown through the two central characters. While Trin, an economist, represents those who dare to look deep into reality to reform it, Thanwa is a man of romance, of flow, moving from escapism to facing reality and embracing it. But romance and realism are not strictly separated; they can exist simultaneously within anyone, in any aspect of life. Victor carries the ideals of a student with a liberal, liberating philosophy, wanting to save himself and society from the gears of a long-rotten system; he is a man of ambition and dreams, using his actions, and even his life, to realize those dreams. Yet, simultaneously, he holds a negative and rigid view of people. Krailert is a Lieutenant serving in the army, forced to use a pseudonym, using the piano and the pen to speak for his personal self, so that at the very end, when he dares to voice the faint thoughts in his head, however late, it is just in time—it is the moment he truly lives. And Naran, a journalist with the true mission of reflecting society, a loudspeaker for the people. Rather than a mere reporter, Naran seems more like a revolutionary, a stubborn soul who never submits, fighting with his pen—only for us to see his sole moment of helplessness in the face of his forbidden love. In short, the characters appear as representatives of every stratum of Thai society during a chaotic wartime period under oppression, yet they remain individuals with their own existential pains, worries, flaws, and sins. Each story told carries its own hue, like an oil painting reflecting every shade—incomplete, perhaps, but creating a picture as beautiful as a legend, however chaotic and mad.

Beside these universal human themes, love, fortunately, does not slip away or get pushed to the margins of a film laden with meaning. Without needing to dig too deep, love is actually expressed quite directly and frankly. Viewers can clearly see and feel the current of love between the characters; it is not hidden but appears clearly, affirmed by every language within the film. Like Sarasawadee's final words: although no question has only one answer, in the end, love is never the wrong answer. One cannot stop waves with one's hands, for how can tangible matter block a force many times more powerful than human strength? Ultimately, while reason and responsibility can separate two people, they cannot force them to stop loving each other.

A massive bright spot in the romantic storyline lies with the Lieutenant and the Journalist—two artists who used art to speak for their hearts. Of course, the main couple has their own color—an "opposites attract," enlightening, healing love that guides one to be more human, almost opposing mirrors illuminating each other. It is interesting, but I still felt it lacked something. Perhaps a bit of naturalness, a deeper sense of connection and empathy. Conversely, Krailert and Naran gave me everything I need and hope for in any romance. Words of love were never spoken aloud, yet no one could mistake what was between them for anything but love. The feeling of intense passion seemed to spill out of the frame, yet flowed silently underneath like an undercurrent. Love was transmitted through music, through letters to readers in the newspaper columns, through codes only the two of them understood, through quotes about love from library books, through the piano keys that allowed Krailert to find his voice, and similarly through Naran's typewriter... All combined to create a secret world for just the two of them. A space continuously screaming the word "romance" and shouting the name of "love," even though neither ever let the word pass their lips. I was obsessed with the sensation of electric sparks flying—the madness, the push and pull, the suppression, the lingering torment, the fleeting glances when two people crash into each other in the dark, the stimulating ambiguity between them. Even a single look searching for the other's silhouette in a crowd was enough to make me exclaim—this is an affection too intense to bear. And God, though I am not religious, their first kiss in the early episodes contained everything I needed and wanted to see in a scene of physical intimacy, so much so that I had to rewind it more than three times for its sheer perfection. The lighting, the context, the characters, the breath, the camera angle, the sound of silence—all created one of the most beautiful kisses on screen. It held hatred, hesitant conflict, yearning desire, and the helpless surrender of reason to love. Ah, they wanted to devour each other alive, to embed the other into their flesh and blood, to be together in the most complete way. Additionally, there was the fleeting forbidden love of Veera and his mistress, or Victor's unrequited love—a sentiment I respect deeply: blunt, clear, bordering on admiration and worship. Though unreciprocated, I believe that whether or not we call it romantic love, that feeling had a certain impact on everyone around it (making Victor look handsomer and creating some great chemistry scenes for the viewers, for instance).

And finally, I want to talk about the "revolutionary" ideals of the characters, or rather a whole class of people in the film—a pivotal element. It has been years since I watched a film with revolutionary elements that addressed politics so directly, specifically since "Not Me"—one of my highly-rated favorites. The rebellion, the image of burning torches, the cheers on the streets, the protest posters never cease to evoke in me a sense of poignancy, nostalgia, and emotion. Because they evoke a sense of bravery, showing the extraordinary within a small human being trying to rise up against a force infinitely stronger than himself. Undeniably, he does not stand up to fight for profit, except that his "profit" is to satisfy his own illusory ideal. "The people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do." In a dark society, there will always be those who light torches. A torch may not illuminate the whole forest, it may be extinguished, but as long as it creates a spark, leaves a lingering ember, one day the forest will burn in its place and light up the sky. Victor's death was one I did not foresee, despite my suspicions. But ultimately, that death was the turning point that made me view the film through different eyes. I didn't know if "Shine" would end as a film about naked reality as it is, or if it would carry the romantic, optimistic tone it always aimed for. In the end, it remains an oil painting.

"Shine" does not change history; the film only retells history, romanticizing it to reflect and contemplate. There were indeed bloody scenes, there was pain, there were infinite regrets, people who fell, things that could not be undone, loves buried deep in the hearts of lovers, but all were directed toward the future. Just as Thanwa rewrote the ending for his mother's story, just as the box no longer opened to emptiness but was filled with hope. The film's ending is not about two lovers ending up together, but about life going on. Even when people thought it was the end, the apocalypse, the living continued to live, year after year. The Earth keeps turning, and the moon remains there, whether it is this side or that; all experience both day and night, receiving both light and darkness, just like every other planet orbiting the sun, carrying mysteries that humanity will forever yearn to explore.

Indeed, "Shine" is a film worthy of its reputation—a quality production compared to the general standard of the genre, to the point where people often call it an LGBTQ+ film rather than a BL film with old tropes serving fan demands. It is true that the film is incredibly invested in visuals, cinematography, polished in creating a historical atmosphere, recreating the context of Thailand in that era, and effectively conveying messages with depth. The actors fulfilled their roles, embodying their characters and shedding their off-screen personas; the shift in positions within the couple also emphasized free will.

However, there are still some very clear minus points that prevent the film from receiving a perfect score from me. The first six episodes were not truly effective for me—especially regarding the main couple; I couldn't deeply feel their love. Sometimes I thought the film had two main CPs because the screentime for the secondary couple was very fitting, fluid, and natural, with superb chemistry that somewhat overshadowed the main pair. The arrangement of Apo as Krailert's nephew was a bit hard to accept at first, and I liked Victor too, resulting in a bit of "Second Lead Syndrome." Because the main couple didn't resonate with me effectively, I wasn't swept along by the plot initially. Even though the color grading and setting suited my taste, my emotions weren't too intense, almost entirely focused on the secondary couple. Later, as their connection deepened, it improved, but Mile's character truly felt somewhat detached from the main narrative track of the film.

Another regret is that while the spirit of resistance—progressive and future-oriented—was very clear, especially with the youth and students striving to debate and care for the country, the film's revolutionary atmosphere didn't truly reach a "peak." It wasn't until the final episodes before Victor's death that I caught a glimpse of this feeling. Compared to "Not Me," clearly, this film didn't delve as deeply into this issue, perhaps because people in this era were still confused and finding their way, their revolutionary consciousness not yet clearly defined. They seemed to oppose capitalism to ensure benefits for the people and uphold democracy, but hadn't determined specific steps for the future—everything stopped at resisting the government and villains. Therefore, instead of being specific and micro, the film expanded to a macro level of upholding humanity. Meanwhile, the pioneers were still struggling to find the path. Of course, the avant-garde and rebellious quality was still very clear, but it didn't create a distinct revolutionary atmosphere (not necessarily a communist revolution, but class revolution in general). The final regret is Dhevi's ending. After everything she and Moira did to prove the role of women in history, ultimately, this character still became a villain dependent on her family. I expected better development for the female characters.

In general, "Shine" is a film meticulously invested in every aspect: setting, characters, script, message... Everything shows that the filmmakers truly put their heart into the movie. The soundtrack, editing, lighting, and imagery are crucial prerequisites that create the sophistication and detail of the film, allowing viewers to feel its depth. Most notable is the art of narration and storytelling, threading the story from beginning to end (the corresponding beginning-and-end structure creates a great lingering effect). Despite some regrets, the film truly "shone" and fulfilled its mission well. A final word of praise for BOC: keep up this form and continue making films with depth, on unique, distinctive topics with your own style—intense, liberal, dark, but always striving for the light.

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Ten dance? Tense dance.

A lavish banquet for the eyes, ears, touch, and senses—a fusion of light, melody, lines, color, and raw passion. 10Dance carries the searing heat of a Latin rhythm and the refined elegance of a Waltz’s fleeting touch, all layered over the underlying aches of possession, distance, and the icy chill of the Reaper.

It is no secret that the entire film revolves around a single central theme: the dance. The characters are dancers; the soundtrack is a medley of waltzes and Latin beats. Yet, dance here transcends its objective definition. We do not watch this as a documentary on technique, nor do we merely see two performers moving to a beat on stage. We see two people in love. A viewer might not grasp the mechanics of a routine, but they can feel the music and the movement, getting swept away in every sequence. It is simple, really: dance is the vessel for love. Like the interlacing of fingers, the sway of a hip, the drive of a step, or the locking of eyes, the dance pulls them into a world of passion and affection. Music becomes the catalyst that turns humans into a fuse, where skin-to-skin contact transcends to become the most primal of longings—a burning heat ready to consume these entranced dancers, even when they are performing a gentle waltz meant for the most refined gentlemen.

To be honest, I have always adored the metaphor of love as a dance. A performance requires two people, and within that space, they truly inhabit a world meant only for themselves. There might be couples crowding the stage, or just two souls dancing in a back alley; they might be under a blinding spotlight or shrouded in total darkness. Some dance with a partner; others embrace an imaginary silhouette to take their long, sweeping strides. To complete the dance, all one needs is emotion and the courage to follow the heartbeat. A dancer has the right to invite a partner, and the moment they extend a hand to take another’s—stepping together into the light—that is the moment most akin to love. It is an invitation: Step into my dance, and we shall move in rhythm until the music ends. Because, quite simply: love is an intertwining.

Sugiki and Suzuki are far from a conventional pair. One is the embodiment of Standard perfection; the other is the raw, sun-drenched fire of Latin dance. One moves by the book through rigorous discipline; the other dances like a sudden eruption of heat from a desert wasteland. It is as if while the Queen of England is being served Coronation Chicken, Castro is igniting a revolution in Cuba. The distance between an International Standard runner-up and a Japanese Latin champion is not just the distance between two sides of the globe—it is a spiritual chasm. And yet, ultimately, no heart can beat only as it wishes, no body can defy the music, and no soul can resist love. Just as the opulence of a royal coronation differs fundamentally from a revolution blooming in a colonized land, who is to say the frantic thrum in the chests of those two men is any different? At this point, these two strangers surrender their bodies to the heart's command, to the notes, and to the dance.

10Dance is beautiful because it cherishes the most exquisite aspects of being human: both carnal desire and deep emotion, the sensory vibrations existing in every muscle fiber, every sound heard, every touch felt, every gaze, and every breath. Love here doesn't just spring from sentiment and head straight for the soul; it is grounded in these very "human" facets. These two strangers are drawn to each other before they even realize it, and from start to finish, every opportunity for contact is placed on a high-tension wire, vibrating as if it might snap at any moment. That tension feels like an electric current charging the air between them; they are unconsciously pulled together, yet neither speaks of it. Indeed, neither Sugiki nor Suzuki says "I love you" even once. We only know their love through their eyes (often dark and searching in the dim light), their locked kisses, their gestures, and most explosively, through their dancing. The film offers no definitive conclusion to the feverish love hidden beneath the distance of these parallel universes—perhaps because the original manga is ongoing—but as a standalone piece, this open ending feels like the perfect answer. It is an invitation for an honorary dance, sweeping Sugiki and Suzuki into an embrace across every rhythm—noisy, melodic, vibrant, and intoxicated. Finally, they have truly merged. When the dance concludes with a fleeting kiss, their final words are a promise to meet again in a competition where both are at their best—loving the way they love, dancing as their bodies tell the story. They have found their own answer.

If forced to choose between the Latin and Standard styles, I find 10Dance leans slightly more toward the color of a Standard dance. The passion and noise of the Latin influence feel like blood pumping beneath a detached exterior—the silent suffering and yearning one often finds in a soft melody. Instead of letting the heart speak, the love in the film is expressed through high-wire nervous tension (sexual tension). The primal instincts of the Latin dance are guided by steps that are sophisticated, slow, and noble, carrying the manipulative and terrifying aura of a Reaper rather than a gentleman. The production is incredibly polished, making the film as poetic and artistic as intended: the fierce, wild fire of the Americas; the noble, romantic elegance of the West; and the reserved, thoughtful sentimentality of the East. Whoever conceived the idea of two dancers falling in love through the dance itself is, quite frankly, a genius.

While the film successfully stimulated my sensory nerves and left me in awe of its "purely cinematic" camera work—and while I was mesmerized by the acting (I sighed more than once at their expressions, especially Ryoma’s magnetic presence)—I still felt a slight void in the overall experience. Aesthetically, it is flawless; every frame could be a still photograph, rich in classical style. But emotionally, the fragility and lack of commitment in the relationship occasionally left me feeling restless. The dialogue requires too much "reading between the lines," creating a sense of ambiguity and drifting reminiscent of Hong Kong romance films—distinctive, but at times suffocating, because the viewer can never quite grasp the emotional current. Everything hangs in a state of tension that affects not just the characters, but the audience as well—a feeling of being adrift, unanchored, and fumbling in the dark. The lack of words equals a lack of communication; it seems the film cares less for that and more for how bodies speak. Yet, I still loved the narration and the characters' brief inner monologues. The actors’ eyes know how to tell a story, guiding the viewer so we aren't left lost for too long. The presence of refined language—saying only what is necessary and filtering the rest through a gaze—is an art form in itself.

In short, despite the occasional suffocating psychological tension, 10Dance is a complete, deeply aesthetic, and artistic work. It is slow yet seething, as if stepping right off the pages of a Japanese manga—lingering, nostalgic, and profoundly deep in both beauty and soul.

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A star's end is a supernova, yet its death gives birth to the light of countless others.

I started watching Reset casually, with a relaxed mindset, only to finish it with a contented smile. It’s true what they say about journeys—you can only truly appreciate the path once you look back on it from beginning to end. The same holds true for a film, and indeed, for a human life.

Speaking of the film, Reset truly needs to be evaluated by its beginning, its middle, and its end. What lingers after the credits roll is a feeling of being slightly adrift, a warmth, and a sense of nostalgia, as if I’ve witnessed years, even lifetimes, pass by, all centered around a single, fated love. If I had to make a comparison, the feeling is akin to finishing a long novel series. The plot points may not be perfect, the twists sometimes clumsy, with issues in pacing and a few confusing details, but ultimately, the completeness of the story’s journey takes you somewhere. It leaves you with a poignant, bittersweet feeling. Reset is just that—imperfect, sometimes awkward and uneven, yet when the characters' journey concludes, what remains is a current of emotion, the sense that Tada and Armin's love story continues on in their world, in this life and the next. And honestly, I’m happy for them.

Speaking of life, a person's life is perhaps the most difficult journey to evaluate. The way we are born is different from the way we die, and the way we live our years doesn't directly lead to the circumstances of our departure. A person who lives a righteous life can still die an unjust death. So, how do we measure a successful life? Did we live happily? If we could go back to a single moment, would we make a different choice? No one knows, for each person lives only once. In that final moment of reflection, as everything flashes before our eyes, we will answer all these questions for ourselves. We will judge how we lived, loved, hated, what we endured, and how we died, from both a subjective and objective viewpoint, as if watching someone else's story. Life has a beginning and an end, and we often imagine our years on earth as a kind of journey—a "path of life," perhaps? Returning to Reset, it revisits the theme of returning to the past, of redoing one's life to change regrets. This time, both Armin and Tada are granted the power to reset their lives. This means that when they reached the end of their path and evaluated all they had been through, they were given a chance to return to the beginning, to write a different life, to walk a different journey. That parallel universe of time and space is destiny's gift to their love and their regrets. But I believe it is also a different life, one that doesn't overwrite the past. Armin and Tada don't relive the same life twice; they are simply living two different lives. Their reality is created by the choices they make in the present moment, and the past no longer dictates their path. From the moment they met their destiny in each other, all other fates began to shift. In the end, there was no other destiny for them but each other.

Honestly, I spent the early episodes trying to guess Reset's primary genre. Would it be a "rebirth and revenge" story, with a protagonist using their foreknowledge to triumph over betrayers and cherish those they once overlooked? Or would it be a crime investigation thriller, a hunt for a culprit? I generally assumed it would follow a "single protagonist" narrative, with love as a mere side element. But by the final episodes, looking back at the journey, I realized the ultimate theme the film was always steering towards was love. Love that creates meaning, love that saves, love that reverses fate and bends space-time. A love that heals, regenerates, and resurrects. Tada's love saved Armin more than once, and most importantly, it brought Armin back to life, both physically and spiritually. It was a love that stood quietly in the darkness but shone with the light of a guardian angel. Armin's love began with compassion, then blossomed into a response, a returned gaze, a deliberate kiss. It was a love that came from the light and remained in the light. Ultimately, the driving force of the entire film, the core element that stands at the center of every plot point and character, overshadowing everything else, has always been "love." I believe "love" was also the catalyst for the conflicts and challenges, the cause of death and rebirth, the force that controlled and propelled the darkness in the villains and the light in the heroes. Behind forgiveness lies love; behind hatred, in the end, there is still only love.

That is all I wish to say about the film's message. The ending can be considered perfect—complete and beautiful. It pulled down the red curtain to reveal the brilliant words "Happy Ending." It is no exaggeration to say this is one of the most satisfyingly happy endings I have ever seen. It masterfully comes full circle while also extending the story forward, allowing the viewer's emotions to linger in a state of fulfilled joy. The final act—or more broadly, the last two episodes—excellently fulfilled their mission of encapsulating the entire film, creating a powerful and lasting impression. It gave me answers (along with justifications I found acceptable) to questions I had from the beginning, questions I was ready to leave unanswered. This successfully elevated my final impression of the film. Indeed, what better explanation is there than the power of love, of the desire to be loved, and to live—to truly live one life to its absolute fullest?

I never thought this film would evoke so much emotion in me, nor did I think I would write so much about it. But alongside the feelings stirred by the final moments, I still have mixed feelings about the early episodes. Of course, most things were ultimately explained by the power of "love," but for some reason, I didn't deeply feel the connection between the main couple in the beginning. The fated love story felt a bit too rushed, lacking a certain smoothness in the emotional transition (mostly on Armin's part, as he truly had no romantic feelings for Tada in his previous life). Another small issue is that some events in the second life, which were caused by the new Armin's choices, also occurred identically in the first life. Some character actions also felt a bit stilted, as if they were just following a script rather than acting naturally. The fact that Armin spoke too much about his rebirth or behaved in a way that was too "over-the-top" for his true age was also a minor distraction (though to be fair, Armin wasn't the most mature character in his first life either). Furthermore, there were some plot holes in the time-setting (the 1999 setting wasn't really explored in depth). I was honestly hoping for a more developed revenge trope, wishing the conspiracies were more thrilling. The film often felt a bit too "safe" and stable; in some episodes, moments of danger failed to build peak emotional tension. I also found myself preferring the scenes where Tada and Armin were already in an established relationship over their ambiguous early stages, which is a rare preference for me.

Overall, Reset is still a good film. It has a classic feel, and its plot—a wealthy, powerful CEO who can move mountains falls for only one person, a reborn actor on his way to the top—is quite appealing, easy to watch, and satisfying. There is clear investment in the visuals and set design. While I wouldn't say Reset managed to "reconfigure" my worldview, it is ultimately an interesting, deep, and captivating film that took me by surprise.

***

(A personal musing: Watching this film brought to mind my thoughts on the "rebirth and revenge" trope. I always wonder: are the "bad guys" truly deserving of retribution for actions they haven't yet committed in the protagonist's second life? Does evil exist in one's nature—meaning that no matter the universe, those people will repeat their malicious acts? Like Sam in the film: if Armin had never loved Charlie, would Sam have betrayed Armin for Charlie anyway? And, with a perhaps naively humane thought, I always wonder why characters with a second chance don't try to change events in a way other than revenge. Because if revenge is necessary, shouldn't the target be the person who harmed them in the *previous* life, not the "past version" of their betrayer, the "child who will grow up to be a monster"? In every sense, they are two different people who have or have not yet experienced different things. On this point, I think Reset touches upon this slightly, as Armin's initial intention isn't pure revenge, but rather to live a less miserable life and fulfill his destiny of meeting Tada. The revenge I hoped for was simply to see him return the blow to those who wronged him in this new life—like Lily, Ren, or Thiwthit...)

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Four Minutes to Live a Lifetime

There is a saying: "Death is a strange thing. People live their whole lives as if it doesn't exist, yet it's one of the most important reasons to be alive." We don't contemplate death for the sake of dying, but to live more profoundly. The closer one gets to death, the more one truly lives—in a way one has never lived before, the way life is truly meant to be lived.

4 Minutes conveys a message that is both simple and timeless: live a meaningful life, don't wait until death comes knocking to truly feel alive. Cherish everything in the present. Life (often hidden in the shadow of death) will always greet you with opportunities, but no one can change the past. The only thing you can change is yourself.

I honestly wonder if having read reviews and knowing the premise of 4 Minutes beforehand was a blessing or a curse. Because I knew the direction of the story, I could better understand the filmmakers' intentions, and the narrative flow felt clearer. While it sacrificed an element of surprise, the smaller details within the film were still enough to leave me reeling. Knowing that the first five episodes represented the four minutes where Great’s brain relived his life after his heart had stopped allowed me to piece together his story more clearly and better comprehend this character who is far from being purely righteous. It also made me all the more astonished by the multifaceted nature of Tyme, a character I had initially pegged as a hero.

As some reviews have noted, no character in this film is simple or innocent. Hit-and-runs, disposing of bodies, secret recordings, murder, adultery, manipulation, exploitation, schemes and conspiracies, breaking the law and denying guilt—and yet, strangely, this is what allowed me to watch the film as if I were observing a human experiment. All the sins are magnified to a level of complexity. The human mind is not a flat screen, and these are not archetypes or one-dimensional plot devices acting "righteously" because they are protagonists, or acting villainously because they are antagonists. These are people who carry sin, as people always have. They cannot wash away what they have done; every action has irreversible consequences. What they can do is purify who they are—first in their minds, which then leads to action.

The characters in 4 Minutes are profoundly, ordinarily human. Great is a coward, fleeing the consequences of his actions after an accident (regardless of whether the victim intended suicide) and not daring to report his "friend" after witnessing him commit murder. He is numb to the pain of others because he has become numb to himself. Then there is Tyme, so blinded by vengeance that his entire purpose in life is reduced to it. His path leads to a single destination, causing him to ignore everything around him—emotions, reason, and the small wonders of this life. And we have the weak, compromising, and pragmatic Korn; the broken and frenzied Tonkla; and Win—the supposed barrel of justice, who still surrenders to the one he loves (even if it was love at first sight). All of them, these spiritually flawed individuals covered in scars and past traumas, carry their regrets as they cross paths, weaving together a suffocating, insane, and unpredictably dramatic tapestry.

It's said that "red flags" and "toxicity" in fiction can bring a certain vicarious pleasure, allowing us to experience feelings we'd never want for ourselves—to hurt with the characters, go mad with them, and love as fiercely and intensely as they do. This "toxicity" is no accident; it is a deliberate narrative device used to explore deep psychological territories and create high-stakes drama. It’s strange how humans are fascinated by our own dark side, often without even realizing it. Through this toxicity, we witness psychological trauma and internal conflict, which then allows us to observe the process of redemption and transformation in each character, leading to a conclusion that achieves emotional catharsis. Naturally, what viewers want most is a fulfilling ending, to see the change in these fallen characters.

I must say, the script of 4 Minutes stays true to its course. This doesn't make the film predictable; on the contrary, it makes it more complete. The timeline is non-linear and constantly shifting—it begins with the characters' "rebirth," follows their redemption from their own perspectives, then guides us to the objective reality of a "God's eye view," and finally concludes in a "next life," a timeline where they have been wholly reborn as different people.

Redemption, rebirth, life and death, second chances, love that saves and love that gives meaning—it is all the story of a single moment that lasts for four minutes. The entire narrative is told within this elasticity of time: Great's four minutes stretch across five episodes, the return to reality from an objective viewpoint takes one episode, Tyme's story gets one, and the final episode is for the conclusion. In my opinion, even if the film has its flaws, leaving some questions and plot holes, its narrative structure and pacing, contracting and expanding within just 8 episodes, is an incredibly impressive and commendable feat. The unique arrangement of the timeline, combined with a fresh storytelling approach for an already novel plot and theme, truly wowed me in a sea of formulaic dramas. The editing, cinematography, sound, and lighting are all polished and well-crafted. The script is well-invested, with symbolic imagery like time and the number 4 recurring with artistic intent. The narrative is compelling, and the climactic scenes are deeply emotional. Furthermore, the explicit scenes, which cater to the genre's audience, are bold and impactful, yet never gratuitous. These scenes carry their own meaning, though their "eye-popping" direction might lead some to think this is purely a "flesh-fest." For instance, the love scene between Great and Tyme during the 4-minute revival reflects their true feelings: for Great, it's the confirmation of his love in a parallel universe where he is a good person, a hero on Tyme's side, earning his recognition—this is what Great yearns for in his final moments, a chance to atone, to start over, expressing his regrets. For Tyme, it's a life not defined by the smell of blood and dust from the past, not consumed by hatred, but filled with sunshine, peace, and a gentle, melodious love. This stands in stark contrast to their lovemaking in reality, which begins with conspiracy, is stained by hatred and torment, where love never truly offers them solace.

That's my assessment of the main couple. The side couple's story is a bit harder to grasp and left me with some questions. For example, if the first part is purely Great's 4-minute dream, even if from various dream-like perspectives (first, second, third person), how could he describe in detail things he couldn't have known? Or was an omniscient narrator's voice interwoven with Great's POV from the start, penetrating all characters, inside and out, showing us reality? And how does Dome's return lead back to the present? Or are we, the viewers, also being led by an unreliable narrator—the director himself? This ambiguity and a few scattered, almost surreal puzzle pieces can make the film feel a bit chaotic. But ultimately, grounding the story in a scientific premise and exploring such a new theme is a fascinating direction, showcasing an effort to create something more than just another run-of-the-mill rom-com.

Lastly, I truly want to affirm how fortunate I feel to have watched this film on a whim, amidst a forest of criticism and some surrounding controversies. My own moral compass isn't the yardstick I use to measure a film. I want to see it from a deeper, darker, even amoral perspective—because good and evil are intertwined. To borrow from literature, as Georges Bataille suggested, when humans violate the established rules and prohibitions of organized society, they are, to some extent, marked by evil. Literature that writes about things beyond the pale of reason is considered to be writing about evil.
"Goodness is tedious, for it is bland
Goodness is trivial, for it is safe
Goodness is wicked, for it murders passion
Are you afraid of goodness?
And you?
What about you?
Have you ever been as repulsed by goodness as you are by evil?"
(translated from Mưa Nhã Nam - Nguyễn Huy Thiệp)

P/S: The actors are truly talented. To appreciate this film, you have to look past couple shipping and fan service. I'm not comparing or judging any pairings; I'm watching it as a standalone work. What attracted me and earned my highest praise was the novelty and uniqueness of the narrative above all else; the romance was secondary.

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This film possesses a distinct Pinterest aesthetic

It's both healthily mature and adorably charming, bringing fresh perspectives to a familiar premise. It truly exceeded my expectations.

What defines a film that offers a truly comfortable viewing experience, where you can simply let yourself drift along, enjoying its (slightly quirky) cuteness without overthinking, questioning, or scrutinizing every detail? "Wandee Goodday" delivered exactly that for me. While the story is gentle, and the main characters' love story isn't filled with dramatic conflicts or intense emotions, the viewing process never felt like a chore. It didn't force me to analyze its strengths or weaknesses; instead, it simply invited me to relax and enjoy it as much as possible. I'm not sure why, but the love in the film unfolds so naturally. Even though that initial spark seemed to "sparkle" the moment they first saw each other, the emotional progression never felt forced or illogical (unlike some other films...). Ultimately, all love stories begin with that first glance. This isn't an affirmation that "love at first sight is real," but I genuinely believe that for two people to fall in love, the very first look, the first interaction, and those initial feelings are incredibly important. Was the sunlight beautiful that day? Were dust motes dancing in the air? What were they doing? How did they greet each other? All these are beginnings, the first flap of a butterfly's wings that determines a seismic shift thousands of miles away, and the choices that guide their future. Like all GMMTV series, "Wandee Goodday" also aims to convey a message, but this time, the message – "Your Choice" – is inherently intimate and gentle, even in its title. Every choice leads to a different path, and you are the one who decides how your day will unfold. Just like that day, when Wandee chose to wear his best outfit to confess to Dr. Ter, and Ter chose to reject him, and then, after five seconds, Wandee decided to move forward, to hold onto Yark, and the two embarked on the path to their lifelong happiness – becoming sex friends, fake lovers, friends, partners, and finally, the greatest loves of each other's lives.

Although Yark and Dee's first encounter didn't leave a good impression, I'm certain that the tension between them left a deep mark. Subsequently, each interaction, every decision regarding their relationship – moving closer, crossing boundaries, doubting their feelings, then being moved, feeling sparks, admitting, being ambiguous, falling in love – all led to a beautiful, comfortable love story. It felt as if the way Yark and Dee's love gradually escalated was a very "go with the flow" process, which must be a significant reason why I found the show so pleasant to watch.

Of course, there were still some slightly odd parts in the film, a few minor plot holes, some motivations for actions that felt a bit forced, and certain segments that didn't quite captivate me enough to watch continuously. And the ending also had a somewhat "superfluous" farewell message for me. However, none of this affected my final impression of the film: it remained that gentle, warm breeze, softly caressing, clear, sweet, and utterly relaxing. And, naturally, to create such natural love, the chemistry between the characters was complete and perfectly executed. I loved the scene where Yark kissed the necklace. The kisses, while not overly "fiery," were, once again, very comfortable, never forced or overly cinematic. And oh my god, Greatinn's smile is incredibly adorable! While watching, I must have exclaimed more than five times about how beautiful Inn is; he has that blend of cuteness and fragile charm (a bit cringe to describe, but it's true). Indeed, "old ginger is spicier."

In summary, before watching, I only had a slight expectation, and I never anticipated enjoying the viewing process so much. Everything was resolved completely and comfortably (I have to use that word again). The characters acted expressively and fulfilled their roles perfectly, and the smaller subplots in the film were also neatly and warmly concluded. It felt like those casual life photos on Pinterest. The professions in the film were also novel and interesting (no longer stuck in the high school/university student/office worker mold).

I'm quite surprised that the film received so much criticism for being boring. Perhaps it's because I watched it continuously, following the flow of the narrative, which made me find it quite good? The confession scene was also quite interesting and fun, as I couldn't guess when Dee would finally nod yes to Yark. It felt like Dee fell first but waited for the right time, and then they both fell harder.

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When women are once again cast as villains.

This is a story of villainesses, reflecting a reality where society is ever-ready to paint women as the antagonists.

The film’s plot isn’t overly complex, but its psychological weight is undeniable, brimming with intensity and sharp satire. It centers on a woman deemed ugly by society’s gaze, ostracized even by other women who see her as an "outsider," a villain who defies their preconceived norms. A death unveils the grotesque schemes of an individual—or perhaps the rotten foundations of society itself—stemming from a woman condemned in the court of public opinion, judged by strangers who’ve never seen her face. Women are expected to embody virtue, grace, eloquence, and propriety, and any woman who falls outside these societal standards is branded a villainess—a demon. Her femininity is rejected, and society increasingly views the expression of womanhood as something repulsive, promiscuous, or sinful. Tragically, even those who don’t stand in the courtroom, who don’t wield the knife that takes a life, are complicit. They are perpetrators through their ignorance, naivety, and susceptibility to the manipulations of those truly pulling the strings behind the scenes. They are both culprits and victims—victims of manipulation, control, and even love.

The film’s protagonist, driven by subjective emotions, ingrained biases about women and societal norms, and her own experience of love, destroys her family and, ultimately, herself. In doing so, she transforms into a true villainess. To say that women are often scapegoated as villains doesn’t mean men are always the perpetrators. Beyond gender, this is about society, prejudice, and public opinion—and the film seems to echo this. Without the one-sided biases that fuel these narratives, could the puppet masters behind the scenes have succeeded in their schemes? Betrayal doesn’t only wound those who are unloved; it also scars the betrayers themselves, who forsake a piece of their conscience (if they have any left at all).

Ultimately, the film is far from difficult to watch. Everything has its own story, though the pacing feels slightly off, and the characters lack depth. The film doesn’t quite break new ground, and it doesn’t demand intense focus—sometimes to its detriment. Still, the ending delivers a satisfying punch, leaving a lasting impression.

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It’s just a story of lovers.

Out of nowhere, I find myself musing on the beauty of tears. When I cry during a film, am I mourning the fictional characters’ fates, captivated by the story’s brilliance, or touched by something deeper? If I had abandoned this series, as I nearly did at episode four two years ago, would I feel this same ache now? Would my tears have flowed as freely?

Tears, no matter how you view them, carry an undeniable grace. In Just Between Lovers, the characters weep often, yet somehow sparingly. I wonder what I hoped for before watching, what I felt as the story unfolded, only to sit in quiet awe at the end, whispering to myself, “It’s just a story of lovers.”

For a perfect 10/10 film, I either write briefly or pour out pages. With this one, I want to write endlessly yet struggle to find words, as everything I feel lives in the quiet of my heart. Still, it would be a shame not to capture this moment—I fear forgetting the tears I shed today. So, I’ll write.

This is, at its core, a story about what it means to live.

“How do you stay sane in a world gone mad, if not by embracing madness?”

Kang-doo said this once, and he lived it—wildly, desperately, unapologetically unhinged. When society spirals into chaos, how can anyone live “normally”? What even is normal? No one has the answer. People are just trying to survive, dragging their weary souls through the unyielding passage of time. Kang-doo sees this with piercing clarity, yet he’s no cynic, nor does he flee or surrender to fear. He was terrified every day, and even later, doubt and insecurity lingered. But like the moment he clutched a stone and rushed to save a stranger—who later became a cherished sister—he lived madly. If the world is unhinged, it’s people who make it so. To be mad is to dare to act, to face the world’s raw truth, because true heroism lies in seeing life’s harsh reality and still loving it fiercely. Not just Kang-doo, but every character in the film—and countless souls in real life—who dares to live authentically, defy norms, defend their beliefs, and press on for those they love, lives with that same madness. They cherish this beautifully imperfect life.

This is also a story of pain that lingers, refusing to stay buried.

In a world gone astray, life hurls misfortune without warning. Just Between Lovers weaves a tapestry of broken lives: a young man who lost his father in a mall collapse, his dreams of soccer shattered, haunted by trauma, losing those closest to him and teetering on the brink of losing himself; a girl who, on her first outing to meet a crush, watched her sister die before her eyes, her memories erased by grief, her once-warm family torn apart; a woman who loved the wrong man, endured unimaginable abuse, only to trust wrongly again; a comic artist confined to a wheelchair after an accident; an assistant scarred by childhood cruelty; a mother haunted by not seeing her daughter one last time; a father grieving his child; lovers parted; families still waiting for loved ones to return. These sorrows cut deep, seeming distant yet achingly familiar. They’re the inescapable shadows of human existence, in film and in life.

“You once said life is a cycle of regrets and failures. I laughed. You said, ‘To make those regrets and failures shine, don’t hesitate.’”

“ Humans are woven with pain and tragedy,” and that’s why they endure. Though Kang-doo, Moon-so, and others share a common loss, not all grief stems from one moment, nor would their joy have been certain without that tragedy. Some things are unchangeable—like the truth that lovers will find each other, even in the darkest times.

Facing fate, Just Between Lovers blends optimism and melancholy in how people confront a fractured world, yet these perspectives harmonize.

Moon-so once sighed, “If emotions could wear out after ten years and be replaced, how wonderful that would be, Mom.” But emotions aren’t like a broken appliance, easily swapped. They may fade, but they can’t be replaced. Instead, they can grow into something more beautiful. The pain of those wronged by others’ mistakes doesn’t end with the disaster, in death tolls, compensation, or cold memorials. It lives in the survivors, in their longing, their grief, their hauntings—in the families of the lost, in those who shared the same risks, and in those fighting to prevent such tragedies again.

“To heal a wound, you must face pain greater than the injury itself—only then can it mend.” That pain lingers forever, a reminder of old scars. Healing comes from facing it, even if it breaks you, even if you feel it tear open, exposing blood and bone. By revealing pain and the courage to confront it, Just Between Lovers is a profoundly healing story.

Kang-doo buries his pain beneath a reckless, carefree mask, nursing his wounds like a lone wolf. Only when he meets his love does he reveal the vulnerable pup within. The tragedies of youth shadow us lifelong unless we grow through them. Maturity is such a journey: even if it shatters you, you must break free from the self you once were.

For Moon-so, it’s unclear whether it for luck or misfortune, but her mind chose to forget. She often blamed herself for moving on while others suffered. Yet, like the tale she shares of a squirrel hiding nuts for winter, only to forget them, those nuts sprout into a forest. When the pain is too great, bury it, for “forgetting is a kind of healing, too.” In the end, Moon-so chooses to remember, after a lush forest has grown within her heart.

Then there’s Grandma—a remarkable figure whose name we learn only after she’s gone. She lives by embracing both pain and love. People whisper about her past: a soldier, an America-hater, an aide who couldn’t save her husband, returning to a poor alley as a pharmacist, reaching for the last spark of hope for the sick. Whatever her story, she was the first to urge others forward, pointing to the brightest path. She left to rejoin her husband in her most radiant form, gifting those she loved a final, dazzling smile.

Grandma once said,

“Do you know why so many die? Not from cancer, accidents, or suicide. Poverty kills. It leaves no room for treatment, no escape from disaster. That’s why I fear nothing.”

And also,

“The suffering of all beings fuels my strength. Pain, injustice, hatred—they’re your strength, too. Use that power in this cruel, frightening world. Find a way to keep living, no matter the cost.”

She was a true friend, gloriously mad—living madly, dying madly, and cherished in her own fierce way.

Each person faces their inner wounds differently in this cold, unyielding world. Some flee, some hide, some confront, some draw strength from pain to carry on. Ultimately, people endure, at any cost. They live for those left behind, for families who need them, for gnawing guilt, for burning vengeance. Because their hearts still beat. Yet, “It takes only ten muscles to smile, but all to frown. Instead of grimacing, I hope you find a smile today.” Smiling, embracing your true emotions, feels just a little lighter, doesn’t it?

And in the end, this is a story of love—of lovers. Nothing more, nothing less.

That love blooms in human bonds.

Family isn’t always blood. There’s a pure, selfless love, like Sang-man offering half his liver to the brother renting his home; gratitude from those touched by kindness; a childhood glance that lingers in the heart; confessions shared in a steaming bath; trust placed rightly; understanding that reaches the soul’s depths. A doctor once asked Jae-young, “What kind of man is your brother that so many offer to save him?” The heart isn’t easily given, but when it is, it endures, saving lives forever. Whether kin or stranger, the familial love in this film is a quiet miracle. Even amid misunderstandings, “We don’t lash out and then regret it.”

That love is a fairy tale—not the usual rescue or healing, but a shared breaking, gathering sharp fragments, and holding them close despite the cuts. I can’t fully capture their love—a madman and a saint, both gloriously mad. It’s breathtaking, yet steeped in sorrow. They love with raw, beating hearts, the kind we all carry. It’s sacrifice, trust, faith, devotion, the final balm. It’s fleeing a sudden miracle or whispering, “I miss you,” the courage to face your heart.

“Look at yourself. Is this the time to fall in love?”

“Who’s asking about your situation? I’m asking what your heart says.”

When Kang-doo finally listens to his heart, he says, “I can’t be the man everyone calls good, so I gave up long ago. But I realized that if I try with all I have, I can be good to one person. So I want to try.”

Even staring death in the face, when she asks what he did to deserve such unfairness, he smiles, “Unfair? Since meeting you, I feel like I saved the world.”

Be it the first popsicle, the first kiss, a love enduring through winter’s first snow; a hummed tune or a dusty construction site; a bus stop, a hesitant handclasp, a swing, soft whispers, tender kisses, unguarded glances—it’s all singular. It feels unlike any film of its era or beyond. Their love is fierce yet gentle, perhaps grounded in reality, perhaps a dreamlike escape. I don’t know. The way Kang-doo, so adept at hiding, can’t fool Moon-so; the way Moon-so’s tears and kindness shine in his eyes; the way they reach for each other, smile at each other, stand together—it’s a fairy tale, luminous and true.

For all this, I wept endlessly, from episode nine through the finale. The story doesn’t lean on shocking twists, yet every moment grips your heart. Unspoiled, I met the ending with raw openness, bracing for tragedy, only to find a miracle “in someone’s misfortune.” Yes, miracles rise from pain, and pain lingers in miracles—that’s life, where sorrow and wonder intertwine. Death hovered close, a breath from parting. “They say living is learning to say goodbye, but no one ever does.” Just as I began to accept that truth, Sang-nam’s words rang out: “When you have someone to protect, you don’t die easily. So don’t worry—we won’t die.” Kang-doo lives. He’s not ready to meet Grandma yet. He’s busy holding his lover’s hand, basking in a golden sunset, savoring life’s details with care. Because, in the end, he and Moon-so are simply lovers.

“We suffered so much before, so now we must live joyfully.” —Kang-doo

Just Between Lovers, where people and their love endure, through sun or storm, side by side. The film isn’t perfect. The workplace plot didn’t draw me in, feeling a bit dry and hard to follow. The secondary couples were vibrant, though the comic artist’s arc felt rushed, not fully explained—but love doesn’t always need reasons, does it? I skipped parts, nearly dropped it twice early on, frustrated and weary, even thinking the lead wasn’t handsome enough or imagining another actor. Now, that feels absurd. I’m grateful I pressed on, or I’d have missed a masterpiece. The cast is stellar—Lee Jun-ho is stunning! The main couple’s chemistry is electric; I adore both leads’ spirits. The supporting characters have depth, with no villainous rivals. The story feels real, yet tinged with fairy-tale magic. Across sixteen episodes, a somber veil of grief and tears lingers, but beneath it glows a warm, sweet, healing light. The themes sidestep workplace drama, focusing on people—their journey from brokenness to wholeness—deeply moving and true.

In the end, it’s a profoundly emotional, richly layered story, as powerful in 2017 as in 2025. It’s remarkable how a film can wound and heal in the same breath, in a single glance. It feels like an embrace.

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There are two ways to live in this world

There are two ways to live in this world - one is relying on free will, believing that everything that happens is due to human actions in the past. The second is believing in the theory of destiny: everything that happens is a gift of predestined fate. And whether it was destiny that led me to wander the internet waiting for a good film and then without hesitation watch "First Love," or free will that urged me to spend 8 hours on Yae and Namiki's love story, clearly, this was still a truly wonderful gift.

Slow and deliberate, "Hatsukoi" initially paints a somewhat melancholic and quiet scene, with frames of imagery mixed with nostalgia and sorrow. That is maturity - the yellowish film tone, scenes focusing on poetic times - late afternoon or late night, on empty highways, the night shifts of the two main characters, the curves and dim streetlights. But then surprisingly, stories interspersed with the breath of past youth, and "First Love" takes us back to the naive dreams of the 2000s, when the female lead Noguchi Yae had not yet become a divorced taxi driver with a child, when the male lead Namiki Haruimichi was still healthy and not yet a security guard at the Aurora building. Then they were nothing but young people full of dreams, they had nothing but the madness of being 15, 16 years old. Loving someone seemed like everything, confessions of love spoken like lifetime promises.

"People have a 1/6,000,000 chance to meet their soulmate, so our meeting is already a miracle."

I feel so fortunate that the film wasn't just a single movie. The way each episode explores a different story in their lives, bringing a piece and then carefully attaching them to the overall picture, takes viewers to each color patch of the grand puzzle. Therefore, not only divided between school days and adulthood, the film explores the aspects of missed opportunities, the floating skies in between. Not just tears and smiles, the story reflected before us also has quiet head tilts, wistful sighs, questions of why, "if-then" propositions full of incompleteness. A slight laugh, a bow of the head, cherry blossoms falling, Hokkaido snow melting, memories disappearing like a passing breeze.

Although the film doesn't tell a particularly gentle love story - how could it be normal when two people who love each other by destiny must miss each other because of fate, because Yae lost her memory of her first love in a car accident, because Namiki still remembered her for so many years, embracing a hopeless piece of love while watching his youth slip away, the weathering storms taking away his rebelliousness. Focusing on contrasting scenes, the silences, the way stories are suggested from tiny details that have surprising influence, along with scenes as gentle as the inherent appearance of the countryside, the bustling crowds with flashes of suffocating loneliness in Tokyo, the wonderful love of the main couple relies on fate to overcome fate itself.

Because:
"Every meeting and parting is perhaps guided by destiny. Anything that happens is an unchangeable piece in life."

Then, after missing twenty years, full of changes that had occurred, they meet again, so that the boy who once dreamed of joining the air force to be cool, to protect his loved ones, now retired, returned as a middle-aged man preparing for marriage again, could hear the voice of the former driver who once dreamed of becoming a flight attendant, among 2 million people living in Tokyo, the glamorous capital.
"Airplanes have a speed called V1, that speed divides fate. When flying below this speed, you can cancel the takeoff. But once you exceed this speed, no matter what, you must fly. Life perhaps has a few important moments like that. What do you want? Face the unpredictable wind? Or wait for favorable winds and fly with them."

While asking Tsuzura, perhaps he was asking himself. Whether he should wait for that wind to come, or step up, "cut his nails beautifully" to seize the opportunity that comes, and "don't forget to paint them cute" as little Uta said. Not only telling the past, present, future in parallel, the film tells many different stories revolving around many characters, relationships that overlap yet go alongside, like family relationships, choices that later make people wonder if they were the right ones, partings that at the time people didn't know were goodbyes, sadness people don't know why they feel. Just that, but "First Love" has told a long, complete, and truly clever story. Every action or word, emotion and choice of the characters is reasonable for them, and takes the story to different turns, but also like the image of the curve we encounter at the beginning of the film, throughout Yae's taxi rides, going along with our steps wandering with the characters, destiny leads us in circles, the starting point ultimately blends with the ending point. Perhaps that is the artistic intention of the filmmakers, to show us that even if we go in the wrong direction or get lost, even if "continuing on a path we know is wrong is hell," just keep going, and naturally, as if inevitable, as if predestined, going full circle, people who love each other will meet. Miracles, divine, God, destiny, First Love closes with love, perhaps finally. Yae becomes a flight attendant, Namiki is a pilot, Tsuzura and Uta become the best artists. She regains the memory of her youthful love, he finds her smile again, they find each other, go together, fly together with dreams thought to be gathering dust, thought to have gone forever with the journeys back and forth, the winding roads extending endlessly through the years, through Tokyo's smoke and dust. And the film also ends there. Ending at a new beginning.

Honestly, from the first introductory words, my expectations for the film soared high, I knew this would be a film very suitable for me, and fortunately, the film met my expectations. Well-rounded acting, polished dialogue, cinematography, filming art, scene construction, vibe creation and sound, lighting – it wasn't difficult to touch my sensitivity to beauty, sadness, eternity. It's wonderful to observe the light of stars, like seeing the past, I guess everyone has a story, a past to remember, whether bland or bitter, yet all are miraculous pieces of life that we cannot change and wouldn't want to change. Although the film focuses on the story of the two main characters, what happens around them are also memories worth cherishing, like her fleeting romance with the doctor, Ms. Tsunemi's regrettable relationship, their parents' stories, family matters, their siblings. All create a truly beautiful picture for me to admire, look at, feel, and change my own picture. And I really didn't want the film to end so quickly!

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