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.

Read More

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 :)

Read More

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!

Read More

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.

Read More

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...)

Read More

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.

Read More

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.

Read More

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.

Read More

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.

Read More

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!

Read More

Kagubata

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a horror movie that feels like a true horror movie. It strikes a perfect balance between the supernatural and the gory, with a vintage feel, a chilling atmosphere, and effective jumpscares. Unlike many modern films that boast about being "horror that doesn't rely on jumpscares," I actually prefer films like this. For me, the point of watching a horror movie is to feel scared, to be startled, to be on the edge of my seat, never knowing when the "scary things" will pop out. It's a way to challenge myself, which is why I'll always appreciate horror films that can effectively create a sense of fear.

The plot isn't overly cerebral, nor is it insultingly simple or predictable. It's a film that keeps you tense, wondering what will happen next, filled with bizarre actions and sudden developments. Although the core of the story is still a demon, the journey of unveiling the mystery, of searching for a way to exorcise it, only to discover that this demonic force has sunk its roots so deep into the human world that it's beyond saving—that's what needs to be constantly refreshed with new, unique, and diverse elements. And to think this film was made in 2005... it truly surpasses most of the horror I've seen recently.

I'm not a die-hard horror fan; I haven't seen that many, mainly because the pacing of the genre (especially in Western films) often doesn't click with me. The beginning is almost always a slow burn, the color palette is dark from start to finish, a ghost possesses some object, wreaks havoc, and kills people. Then, the main character finds an exorcist, uncovers some secret (usually about a restless spirit with lingering resentment or attachment), and in the end, the blame is pinned on human wrongdoing. This is a common formula in many horror films I've seen from various countries. And honestly, for me, what makes a horror film genuinely terrifying comes from things that have depth and layers—things that are unknown and ambiguous. People fear what they don't understand.

This time, the demon in Noroi is a real demon, an evil from the underworld. Although it was summoned by humans, it doesn't exist merely as a vessel to preach a moral lesson. Evil is just evil; it isn't reduced to the socially-conscious, philosophical mantra that "man is the real monster." This time, the supernatural force that humans have always feared is real: an ancient "demon worm" we know nothing about. We are completely in the dark about its origins, methods, form, and rituals. And above all, this unimaginable entity is presented as "existing" in a very real way through documentary-style footage featuring real people. This is the element that makes Noroi one of the most frightening films I've ever seen.

I've always loved this kind of old-school aesthetic. It feels like in our sleek, modern world, there's no place left for ghosts and demons. In a life that's become so mechanical, pragmatic, and reliant on science and technology, people just don't care about the supernatural anymore. Humans seem to think there's almost nothing left that they don't know or haven't figured out, so the value of a good ghost story has been reduced to a trivial joke. That's why I love the chilling sensation of watching something "outdated" in low-resolution footage that is nonetheless direct, bloody, gruesome, raw, and real. The fragmented editing, rather than making the film feel disjointed, creates the sense that the viewer is the one slowly piecing together the hidden story.

In its role as a horror film, Noroi delivers on all fronts. I believe it truly set a benchmark, a standard, and a foundation for the films that followed (from its premise and scare tactics to its ending and narrative style).

However, I have to admit that the beginning is a bit difficult to get through and it's easy to lose focus, so I can't give the film a perfect score. But if you can push through the initial part and truly immerse yourself in the movie, the ending will not disappoint you.

Read More

Everything in life has its own rhythm

Everything in life has its own rhythm: the beat of a song, the steps on the way home, the roar of an engine, a blink of an eye, the thump of a heart. All these "speeds" come together to create a unique flow, what we call the tempo of life.

A SOLID 9.

Gentle, warm, sweet, and deeply touching. This truly feels like it was written by a woman. That's all I could think of while watching "Thamepo" and even after it ended. The film is like a fresh, green meadow, a safe haven in a storm, able to mend a heart after broke it open. It doesn't try to hurt or torment you, but rather encourages you to look deep inside, facing those tough, nagging questions: "What am I living for?" and "What good do my actions bring to this world?"

Of course, these are universal questions of our time, for every individual; those big life questions are always there, and people never stop asking them, then coming up with different answers. Some believe that living means making an impact, and to show that impact, you have to be really successful, reach a high place, so your name is remembered in history, or at least leave something behind from the life you've lived.

I once read in a novel that each life on Earth is basically a temporary stay; eventually, the guest leaves, moving to another place, unburdened, leaving nothing behind. Is it true that life only has meaning if we leave our name in this world? Isn't it true that by the end of our lives, everyone's name will be carved onto a tombstone anyway? So, perhaps, everyone will have their name etched somewhere, precisely at the moment they return their temporary room and leave this world? Honestly, what the world expects of us is exactly what we expect of ourselves. People long to be recognized, respected, and loved; no one wants to live a pointless life, a life that's just existing. But how do you live a life that matters?

"Thamepo" tackles that question head-on, using a mix of comparisons, trial, and error to give answers that are direct but not shallow. I've noticed that GMM series always try to slip in some kind of social message, sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, and this time, GMM really hit the mark.

The storytelling is clever and subtle, keeping the plot from being predictable or boring, even though it's just about two lovers, an idol's complicated romance, or the dark side of showbiz – themes that have been seen hundreds of times. While dealing with these familiar topics, "Thamepo" this time brings in a different story, a different message, told in a fresh way. It explores the bond between idols and their true fans (also mark a gentle reminder), friendship, family love, love as a safe place to return to, and most importantly, the very tempo of life itself. Live at your own tempo, listen to your heart's beat, just live without worrying – that's the answer to everything.

The segment that truly gave me goosebumps was the one about the tailor's dream. He had lived over 60 years, doing the same job, so happy and positive that people assumed it was his dream. But then he chuckled, admitting it wasn't a dream at all; he had never had one, yet he was still living. I believe that many others, not just me, saw themselves in that statement. No dreams, no goals, no destination – do these alone predict that we cannot succeed because we have no way to reach our aspirations? Does it mean our lives are meaningless, and we ourselves are worthless?

Actually, for a long time, I haven't thought that way. And this time, I was amazed, because the truth is that many others share my feelings. Our mere existence in this life, the way we interact with the world, is enough to leave our mark. What defines me is not an IELTS certificate, a gold medal, or millions in my bank account, but the tears I've shed, the half-eaten cake in my fridge, the glass of water I've drunk, the paths I've walked. I exist in this world through the image I leave in others' eyes, my smile, my foolishness, and through the image I leave in my own eyes – my helplessness, doubts, and even my worries and anxieties.

Every second, every minute, every step we take, every breath we draw, adds to the flow of the life we live, and that of those around us too.

What are expectations, what is peer pressure? One is a set tempo forcing us to follow it, the other is the tempo of others – people who are also struggling, taking steps just like us. It's still the same truth: "fuck it" – just ignore it. Being selfish for yourself isn't truly selfish; instead, it's respecting your own tempo, as long as you also respect the tempo of others.

I've written too much about my thoughts and ideas in a review again, but a film that can spark such reflections in me proves it's still a good film, capable of making me connect deeply enough to feel its hidden message, instead of just watching for surface entertainment. "Thamepo" isn't outstanding in terms of keeping you glued to the screen, nor is there explosive chemistry, but everything unfolds gently, naturally, telling a story of pure and incredibly "green" love. Talking about love (a pretty main theme) in the film, this is a healing love, a comfort zone for both characters; one finds peace for emotional wounds, the other finds themselves through that love. Their love is very pure, like a first love. I have a piece of music to send to Thame and Po:

"The rain falls, gently watering the soul

And the rain is regenerating us (regenerating us)

The rain brings you gently into my life

And after the rain, the heart also blossoms

The sky is so blue, sunlight bathes the young leaves

Morning embraces the soul since you came (since you came)

And love begins when we look into each other's eyes

I see my heart reborn after many pains"

That's it. Watching the film, even though Thamepo's love story doesn't involve complex misunderstandings or overly intense drama, perhaps only situational issues, it still makes you want to love and be loved. I like the scenes where Po cries; his crying makes you feel heartbroken too, both fragile and strong, mature and cute (kudos to Est). I like listening to Thame's voice, gentle, clear, easy to listen to, very soothing (kudos to William). Although their relationship is naturally soft, so their conversations felt a bit cheesy to me, that's just their style of romance, and I find it quite charming. Another kudos for the pretty intimate kissing scene.

The story of friendship, love, dreams, and life is told very completely, with an ending that closes one chapter and opens a bright future for youth and love, continuously moving forward with one's own tempo – and that of their lover – I'll wait for you, you'll wait for me, everyone living the most meaningful life, in this temporary stay.

But of course, there were still some moments that threw off the film's tempo for me. Some details felt forced and unnecessary (like Jun and Po parts), some parts were a bit too slow; I prefer the problem-solving parts to be a bit more fast-paced. The metaphors and imagery were really good (the steps, Jun and Thame playing at the amusement park, their gazes...) but it felt like they were worried the audience wouldn't get it, so some explanations made the film feel a bit less deep. The film is a bit too idealized, everything's a bit "unrealistic," and there are some plot holes (like Thame being famous but walking around holding hands like a normal person), but hey, that's also a way to get the message across, so it's fine.

The film still gave me a full experience – the emotions I look for when watching a movie: joy, excitement, sweetness, depth, touching moments, warmth (truly super heartwarming, especially the parts about the boyband, it just melts your heart). The film surprised me quite a bit when it needed to, and throughout the whole thing, because I had watched the first few episodes and found the tempo too slow, not engaging enough, a bit boring, but watching it again, I realized how lucky I was to give the film another chance.

Read More

When no one hears your sound, you begin to doubt whether you made one at all.

When no one hears your sound, you begin to doubt whether you made one at all. 52Hz isn’t the frequency of loneliness—it’s a fervent call to the vast, silent blue, not expecting an answer, only yearning to speak to the sea.

Extraordinary Attorney Woo isn’t just the story of South Korea’s first autistic lawyer. It’s a story—or countless stories—about a whale with a singular, unreachable frequency. 52 Blue, the loneliest whale on Earth, whose call at such a unique pitch no creature can hear or answer. Woo Young-woo, a soul adrift in her own world, misunderstood by others who can’t grasp what she feels. But when no one understands you, do you lose yourself, too? Without others to see your essence, your individuality, your unique self, do you fade?

Yet, is there truly only one such whale on Earth? Or is 52 Blue merely a shadow cast by the ocean’s depths?

Woo Young-woo is special, singular, but never alone. Because everything human is like that—special, singular. That shared uniqueness binds us, even if no one fully understands another, even if we barely understand ourselves. When we dare to sing our song, we’re wrapped in a rare energy, no matter the frequency, melody, or tune. That song makes us exist, makes us swim, keeps us there, at the ocean’s floor. Young-woo, with her autism spectrum disorder, is unlike any of us. Even among others with autism, no two are alike—they don’t easily “connect” with shared struggles. They face discrimination, scorn, pity, and misconceptions. Yet she’s also like all of us— with her own voice, her own tone, daring to sing, to join the vibrant anthem of sea and sky, to dive into timeless love. She’s like us because we’re all different, because everyone is. This isn’t the first series to amplify a specific “minority” community’s voice. Like others in its genre, Extraordinary Attorney Woo carries the distinct flavor of its creators, its story, its characters—everything. That’s its greatest charm, its most lovable trait.

Extraordinary Attorney Woo isn’t merely a legal drama about a lawyer and her cases. It’s a story about humanity. What sets it apart is its deep dive into civil cases—stories that seem simple, relatable, yet burn with urgency and deserve more attention. Humans are flawed; the good aren’t always virtuous, the bad not always wicked. The heart of the 16 episodes revolves around this truth—humans and their choices, their consciousness, their actions. Justice and law are measured by conduct and moral compassion, but isn’t the law, created by humans, meant to protect them, too? Lawyers stand for people, regardless of their goodness or flaws. The law protects humanity, not just legal principles.

“Do you choose to be a lawyer who defends justice or your client?”

In the series, Woo Young-woo and her team, after many steps, choose justice. Sometimes that justice is their client, sometimes it’s their faith, sometimes it’s themselves. But justice isn’t perfection. Facing justice doesn’t always mean facing evil. A villain isn’t inherently bad—just opposed to the hero, sometimes standing on a different angle, not clashing, not converging, simply apart.

Ultimately, the law regulates human behavior, not a yardstick for right or wrong.

Because human actions aren’t dictated by reason alone—they’re the embodiment of the heart. Every character, whether central or fleeting, right or wrong, paired or merely stirred by a fleeting spark, has loved and been loved. Love in Extraordinary Attorney Woo isn’t just romantic—it’s a kaleidoscope of emotions, some named, others too vast for simple words. At the start, Young-woo mimics expressions from pictures; by the end, she feels her emotions without needing to label them. Each episode brings a new case, a new story, but the thread weaving them together is emotion—a distinct current of feeling. Marital bonds, neighborly ties, parent-child love, ambition, desire, kinship, or even a fiery devotion to personal ideals. Everyone has their own ideals, their own way of thinking. “Every action and thought stems from love or fear,” because humans love themselves, love others, love life—loving with reason, with adjusted behavior, fearing mistakes. Each episode illuminates these truths.

Beyond its profound, moving, and wonderfully strange story, a great series needs more. It’s the stellar acting—actors nailing their roles and connecting with the audience, conveying characters’ emotions with striking clarity while leaving room for interpretation. The performances are truly remarkable, whether portraying champions of justice or those defying it. Every tear, every smile, every message shines through meticulous care. The visuals and color palette are sweet, serene, and utterly lovable, fostering empathy. The pacing is neither rushed nor sluggish, never frustrating. The male lead, our beloved “green flag,” is a standout, and the supporting characters are well-crafted. (Though, perhaps because Jun-ho is Young-woo’s light, his individual arc feels a bit sparse beyond their shared moments.) Team Leader Jung is phenomenal, the colleague and Geu-ra-mi are fantastic, and the friends, passersby, or those who linger all fulfill their roles beautifully. The whale CGI is impressively magical. Overall, the series is meaningful, humane, healing, gentle, polished, and deserving of its high ratings.

(My nitpicks: it didn’t fully grip me, maybe because it’s slice-of-life. The twists and actions are sometimes great but occasionally predictable, which frustrated me when characters didn’t see them coming. I also longed for the surprise I craved—it didn’t quite hit that peak. Imperfect characters are a strength, but some felt too perfect. I wished for a more cohesive flow; at times, it felt a bit disjointed. The main and supporting couples’ chemistry is solid, but their wholesome vibe left me slightly restless—sorry!)

Read More

Twinkle, twinkle, little star - How I wonder what you are

And if one day I could count 1,000 stars, I would certainly wish to watch this film again, with the original emotions of the first time. "A Tale of Thousand Stars" tells a beautiful story like a fairy tale with melodious tones from the mountains of Northern Thailand. At first impression, surely everyone would exclaim that the film's title is so beautiful, full of dreamy and mystical colors, and usually the title portrays the nature of the film as clearly as possible. And indeed, the film has created a story as beautiful as a painting, not the noble beauty of princesses and princes, nor solely a dreamy pink color, but a beauty full of poetry and feelings emanating from the flavor of mountains and forests, love, heart, and soul of each character.

The film isn't simply about a prince meeting his knight, about the "puppet" and the "green giant"; the fairy tale in the film tells about their village, about life, focusing on beauty from the farthest hills. Everything originates from the heart of a volunteer teacher who died in a traffic accident and was given to Tian's body. At first, such a trope gives the feeling of a tragic and tense body swap story - but the moment he decides to return to the mountainous area with "Hill of a Thousand Stars" to fulfill the wishes of the heart's original owner in his body, I knew that "A Tale of Thousand Stars" would be a truly bright fairy tale, bringing light, heading towards light, and radiating light like stars.

In a place where electricity is scarce, where you have to go to the stream to bathe, where you have to go to the market in town to buy goods, a beautiful love story blossomed. Indeed, "the brightest star shines in the darkest sky" - difficult circumstances make the warm human connection of all the villagers shine brighter, illuminate the eyes of ethnic children, the sense of responsibility to protect the country of the forest rangers, the sacrifice of everyone to protect the peace of the village.

In the end, after many events, amidst the gloomy sounds of mountains and forests and many imminent dangers, viewers, like the young volunteer teacher SeeTian, see the sky clearer, see that difficult mountainous region more beautiful, see that the shortages here are nothing compared to the happiness he received. And then, along with 999 other stars, Phupha found his final star, the brightest one, coming from the city. Just like how Tian accomplished the most difficult task, more difficult than apologizing and recognizing mistakes: deciding to forgive himself, returning Torfun's fairy tale book to her to write his own story; both he and his Chief opened their hearts - "If you want someone's heart, sincerely give yours first."

Hidden in the love story born and grown from misunderstandings, reassurance, and the purest emotions, the love that sparkles like starlight bringing healing flavors to both, "A Tale of Thousand Stars" also speaks about other humanitarian ideas such as forgiveness, faith, self-acceptance, sacrifice, responsibility to the homeland, happiness lying in dedication to life. After watching the film, I suddenly found life more meaningful, warmer, and brighter. The film reinforces viewers' faith in life, like healing. "If you are confident that what you did today was right, then you don't need to worry about tomorrow's mistakes" - the film teaches us to slow down, enjoy every moment in life, find joy and ourselves from the smallest things, about how to find passion and pursue the right direction.

I like the film's storytelling, very everyday, familiar, rustic, and gentle, also mixed with some humor. The climactic situations of the film aren't exaggerated, resolving conflicts quickly mainly because the characters' personalities are very good. The character building is consistent and appropriate, the chemistry is super stable, and, oh my, Mix's acting superbly conveys emotions. At the end of each episode is a small quote, not too grandiose but good and familiar.

Finally, "A Tale of Thousand Stars" is a very complete fairy tale, about the film's atmosphere, characters, story, humanitarian meaning, ideology, and the ending that points towards a very sparkling future. However, sometimes the film wasn't very engaging for me (probably because each week only one episode was released, so at that time I got tired of watching, who knew I would drop it right before the climax episode, I have to say I also like the sadder episodes a bit more), the pace of the film isn't slow and is just right but maybe when I watched it I needed something "faster." The music is good, truly ethnic yet melodious, suitable for both sad and happy moments, and the dialogue, oh my, so cheesy but adorable.

Read More

A Journey Through Time, Without a Destination, Only a Direction - Towards You

I watched "Our 18x2 Youth: Journey Towards You" during the early afternoon hours of summer, in the sweltering heat, fighting against drowsy sleepiness, but miraculously, the 120-minute film still made me feel warm, right in the middle of a hot summer day. A Taiwanese film in collaboration with Japan, featuring names that guarantee youth cinema, should have set very high expectations for me, but strangely, before and while entering the theater, I still didn't expect too much excitement or surprise from this film. Perhaps thanks to that, I could let myself drift into Jimmy's journey without a destination to Japan, immerse in the love story of two people who loved each other but never expressed it in words, in an atmosphere full of poetry and beautiful, shimmering scenes set in misty Japan and Taiwan lit up with lights.

"Our 18x2 Youth" first and foremost is still a love story. It's not a different, unique story that has never appeared on screen, because essentially, any love story, whether in films or real life, is similar, all originating from the same wonderful feelings. Jia Ming's first love came unexpectedly amid such heartfelt stirrings; one could say he was struck by love at first sight on a clear day, when a basketball, which was also his childhood dream, slowly rolled to the feet of a Japanese girl. Then, the story is told through Jimmy's dreams, revisiting his memories, continuing like that, with summer seeming to stretch endlessly. Jimmy recalls the story of his first love, remembers Jia Ming, the young man full of passion but easily shy and embarrassed when standing before his first crush, remembers the trips on his motorbike around small Tainan, much smaller compared to places Jimmy visited later, but also more special, much more. At that time, Jia Ming was 18 years old, not knowing what he dreamed of, not knowing what the future would hold, what the destination of his life would be. Now, Jimmy is 36, pausing his career pursuit to embark on a new journey, to find himself, to find the woman he loves. The section with the shifting perspective and narrator, with the separate story from Ami's narrative, wasn't really surprising, but it was like the way something expected finally arrives, filling my soul and longing. It turns out both were oriented towards each other; it turns out there are loves in this world where no one confesses because they both understand, no need for words, no need for kisses, words of love, no need for affirmation or confirmation. They just loved each other, peacefully like that, sadly like that, soaked in tears. That was first love, those were the feelings, also the warmth, the light, the cherry blossom rain falling forever, the snowflakes covering their lives, until much later.

"Our 18x2 Youth" is also a story about trips, about journeys. The truth about itinerary in the film is a very poetic association, but extremely simple. Each trip is actually a stroll in a new land, to interact with new people, new cultures, to fall in love with a strange place, to look back at ourselves, to love ourselves, to love where we were born. Traveling is wandering, steps without a destination, feeling throughout the journey we take, preserving scenes only we can see, moments that exist only for an instant. Both Jimmy and Ami wished their journey would never stop; they wrote their wish on a lantern released into the sky. I believe their dream will come true and has already come true, because each life is a journey, we travel without knowing where we'll go, that journey is also like a visit, an expedition, observing humanity, feeling love, loving lands, people, life. More profound than a trip to Taiwan, Japan, or around the world, the film also conveys the human ideal of living, we keep moving forward, resting is to start a new journey, perhaps that's what the filmmaker wanted to convey?

And, finally, "Our 18x2 Youth" is a collaboration between Taiwan and Japan. Therefore, I could clearly feel the culture of both countries skillfully interwoven throughout the love story, about youth and growth, about messages in journeys. Taiwan, Tainan simple, vibrant, bright with lights from night markets, bearing the features of a rural area; Taipei hurried on electric trains, modern under neon lights, bustling, busy. Japan in a noodle shop at night, hidden in pure white snow, passing on trains crossing rivers, dreamy with cherry blossom rain, sparkling with lanterns released into the high sky. Not just cultural interchange in landmarks, geographical areas, the feeling and atmosphere have very slight changes, but harmonious throughout the film. The art of filming is distinct, soothing and gentle from beginning to end, the flexible tone shifting between cold and warm for scenes alternating between present-past, adulthood-youth, 18-18x2, frames creating a feeling of confinement in a box with settings stretching far away, the subtlety in mixing light, film rhythm fast and slow, colors... All contributed to creating a film as beautiful as a Japanese animation, covered with the nostalgic breath commonly seen in Japanese and Taiwanese films, a unique quality no one can copy.

Final words must praise the actors in the film. All were very natural; Greg Hsu perhaps has received enough praise to build several cities, truly a box office guarantee. I often joke that just having him participate in a role means the filmmaker has already succeeded halfway. The difference between Jimmy and Jia Ming sometimes made me think they were two different people (just exaggerating haha). The actress playing Ami was also very beautiful; she played her role perfectly, cute and full of first love vibes always. In general, the good chemistry comes from the accomplished acting of both actors :D

Despite all this praise, I don't think I really empathized much with the film, so it was hard for me to have as many emotions as I expected. I couldn't feel too much pleasure in traveling, although the film did make me want to travel a bit more, nor could I deeply absorb the profound love between the two (it had only been a month, sigh). I yawned quite a bit during the beginning, the storytelling wasn't very smooth, many shots made me wonder why they transitioned scenes like that, the tears near the end of the film were a bit forced... Anyway, the film deserves its current success, but perhaps it's not underrated at all.

Read More