This review may contain spoilers
Heartache and Comfort
Melo Movie was a drama I started watching during a stressful time in my life. I needed something slow, something I could put on hold without thinking about too much. It turned out to be just as slow as I had expected, and while I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it to everyone, I ended up enjoying this quiet little show quite a bit.
Ko Gyeom, our bubbly and cheerful male lead, has loved movies all his life. His parents died when he was young, and it has been him and his older brother, Ko Jun, against the rest of the world since. During the hours of his brother's absence, in which the latter takes on every possible job to make ends meet, Gyeom passes time with his square-shaped light. Movies are also his connection to his brother: when he returns home, all worn out from mostly manual labor, they watch movies together. It comes as no surprise when Gyeom, upon thinking about what kind of career he could pursue, decides to work as an actor—a profession he's got absolutely no talent for. He does manage to get a few roles as an extra. On set, he runs into the assistant director, Kim Mubee, and he is instantly smitten by her because of her unique name...
One of the main reasons I picked up this drama was its premise—Gyeom’s love for movies above all else. As someone who once watched films religiously, treating them like homework throughout my teenage years and a good part of my twenties, I saw his passion with a knowing heart. It’s a hobby that often develops from solitude; it's a source of solace, an escape into a world where anything feels possible. Like Gyeom, I eventually moved away from movies. But whereas I just traded them for dramas as a lighter form of entertainment, for him, the shift was even more profound. After losing his brother, who had never truly lived life to the fullest, Gyeom sells off all his videotapes without looking back. That moment hit hard—like a slap in the face—because, in many ways, I still prefer fiction over real life. I guess I still have some growing up to do.
Even though I thankfully haven’t faced the hardships of Ko Gyeom and Ko Jun—the latter devoting his entire life to raising his brother—I found myself relating to many aspects of their journey: the deep bond between siblings, the fear of losing the people you love most, the appreciation for small glimpses of happiness, and, finally, the bittersweet realization that sometimes you have to let go of the things that once brought you comfort.
I would also like to applaud the director’s choices in this drama. The way they crafted emotionally impactful scenes had me bawling my eyes out, even when nothing was being said. The montage of Ko Jun’s worn-through shoes over the years—always placed neatly in front of the door—contrasted with Ko Gyeom’s slightly better-looking shoes, which were always scattered around or on top of Ko Jun’s, moved me to tears. It subtly depicted Ko Jun’s calm and humble nature, the weight of his responsibilities, and how he never bought anything new for himself while doing his utmost to ensure that Gyeom grew up without lacking anything or having to worry. We do find out by the end of the drama that Gyeom’s childhood wasn’t as carefree as he always made it seem on the outside, but that scene—ugh—it had no business making me that emotional.
That being said, I’m glad I watched this. At times, it felt gut-wrenchingly realistic, yet also like a warm shower—comforting, but ultimately a reminder that, eventually, you have to step out, dry off, and keep going.
Ko Gyeom, our bubbly and cheerful male lead, has loved movies all his life. His parents died when he was young, and it has been him and his older brother, Ko Jun, against the rest of the world since. During the hours of his brother's absence, in which the latter takes on every possible job to make ends meet, Gyeom passes time with his square-shaped light. Movies are also his connection to his brother: when he returns home, all worn out from mostly manual labor, they watch movies together. It comes as no surprise when Gyeom, upon thinking about what kind of career he could pursue, decides to work as an actor—a profession he's got absolutely no talent for. He does manage to get a few roles as an extra. On set, he runs into the assistant director, Kim Mubee, and he is instantly smitten by her because of her unique name...
One of the main reasons I picked up this drama was its premise—Gyeom’s love for movies above all else. As someone who once watched films religiously, treating them like homework throughout my teenage years and a good part of my twenties, I saw his passion with a knowing heart. It’s a hobby that often develops from solitude; it's a source of solace, an escape into a world where anything feels possible. Like Gyeom, I eventually moved away from movies. But whereas I just traded them for dramas as a lighter form of entertainment, for him, the shift was even more profound. After losing his brother, who had never truly lived life to the fullest, Gyeom sells off all his videotapes without looking back. That moment hit hard—like a slap in the face—because, in many ways, I still prefer fiction over real life. I guess I still have some growing up to do.
Even though I thankfully haven’t faced the hardships of Ko Gyeom and Ko Jun—the latter devoting his entire life to raising his brother—I found myself relating to many aspects of their journey: the deep bond between siblings, the fear of losing the people you love most, the appreciation for small glimpses of happiness, and, finally, the bittersweet realization that sometimes you have to let go of the things that once brought you comfort.
I would also like to applaud the director’s choices in this drama. The way they crafted emotionally impactful scenes had me bawling my eyes out, even when nothing was being said. The montage of Ko Jun’s worn-through shoes over the years—always placed neatly in front of the door—contrasted with Ko Gyeom’s slightly better-looking shoes, which were always scattered around or on top of Ko Jun’s, moved me to tears. It subtly depicted Ko Jun’s calm and humble nature, the weight of his responsibilities, and how he never bought anything new for himself while doing his utmost to ensure that Gyeom grew up without lacking anything or having to worry. We do find out by the end of the drama that Gyeom’s childhood wasn’t as carefree as he always made it seem on the outside, but that scene—ugh—it had no business making me that emotional.
That being said, I’m glad I watched this. At times, it felt gut-wrenchingly realistic, yet also like a warm shower—comforting, but ultimately a reminder that, eventually, you have to step out, dry off, and keep going.
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