Reviews

Super cute slow paced movie

Sometimes there are just shows that catch you by surprise. This was one. I have been consuming a lot of shows from China and Japan these last few months. Utterly fed up of the half hearted efforts coming out of Korea. Too artsy, or too sad or too disappointing. Just want some nice happy fun romance, a show with some spirit.

So I really didn’t want to start this one but decided to give it a go. I was hooked within the first 15 min. Even for a movie, this show had enough slow pacing it felt authentic in the relationship building amongst the leads, and though nothing significant happens for a while there is enough to know they are starting to mean something to each other.

The romance is quiet and sweet, and not without a bump or two - but a joyous watch. Have been to Korea many times, but this summer I finally made it to Busan, and I am so glad I did. It didn’t feel as epic as Seoul does, but of the places I did go, there were a few that stood out as special to me. Seeing them in this show was icing on the cake.

Clearly there are several people who could care less about this movie. Its a shame. Its an absolute gem.

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I'm not a fan of horror... but...

I’m not a fan of horror, and I never really felt curious about this film. For years, because of its title and the atmosphere I imagined it had, I thought it was Japanese — and I’ve always considered J-horror among the very best. I only decided to watch it later, after discovering that it was actually Korean, and above all because one of my favorite actresses was in the cast. I wasn’t sure what to expect: maybe a haunted-house story with the usual ghosts. What I found was much more than that. A Tale of Two Sisters is not simply a horror film — it is a journey into the shattered psyche of a young woman who cannot face her grief.

The story begins with Su-mi returning home after a stay in a psychiatric hospital, accompanied by her younger sister Su-yeon. Their house is big, isolated, and unsettlingly quiet. Living there too are their father, emotionally distant and incapable of truly protecting them, and their stepmother, cold and hostile. From the very first scenes, something feels wrong: the house, surrounded by countryside, already seems inhabited by invisible presences. Doors creak open, strange noises echo at night, corridors feel tighter with each step. The unease builds gradually, in a way that suggests there is more to this story than ghosts.

For much of the film, it looks like a classic ghost story. Su-yeon suffers under the cruelty of the stepmother, Su-mi tries to protect her, and the house is filled with eerie visions and disturbing sounds. But as the tension builds, it becomes harder to ignore that what we’re seeing doesn’t fully make sense. Certain moments contradict each other, characters’ behaviors are inconsistent, and the line between reality and imagination begins to blur.

The revelation is devastating. Su-yeon has been dead for some time, killed in a domestic accident: crushed under a wardrobe while her father and stepmother stood by, failing to intervene. Su-mi has never been able to accept her sister’s death, and everything we have seen is the reflection of her fractured mind. The living sister at her side is only a projection, the cruel stepmother is a distorted embodiment of her grief and rage, and the ghosts are the way her psyche gives shape to memory and guilt.

This is where the film becomes something greater than horror: it is a psychological tragedy about grief and denial. Su-mi has not processed her sister’s death. She rewrites reality to keep her alive, she invents an enemy to fight, she creates visions in order to keep her pain at bay. But denial does not heal — it traps her in the same wound, forcing her to live inside a nightmare she created herself. The house is no longer just a setting; it is her mind. Every room is a memory, every noise a thought she doesn’t want to hear, every vision a fragment of truth she cannot bear to face.

The result is a film that frightens and saddens at the same time. When the truth finally surfaces, there is no relief: no ghost to exorcise, no evil to defeat. Only the image of a young woman destroyed by a grief she cannot confront. In the end, Su-mi is left alone with her ghosts, and so are we.

What lingers after the credits is not fear, but heaviness. There is no catharsis, no victory, no neat ending. Only the realization that if we don’t face loss, we remain trapped in it forever. And while A Tale of Two Sisters tells this story through the language of horror, the truth it carries is universal: the scariest ghosts are not the ones that haunt our houses, but the ones that live inside us when we can’t let go.

A Tale of Two Sisters left me unsettled, of course, but above all, it left me sad. It is not just a scary movie; it is a film about absence, guilt, and memories that refuse to fade. And that is why, even though I don’t usually love horror, I can say I appreciated it deeply. Because behind the blood and the apparitions lies a truth that belongs to all of us: the pain we don’t face stays with us — and sooner or later, it consumes us.

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Best Movie of 2025: The Shadow’s Edge

I will be rewatching this in theatre and then buying it to rewatch a million times over when it’s available!!

The acting, the storyline from start to finish—a true masterpiece. This has to be the Best Movie of 2025 for me, and I don’t usually rate things very highly! This also has to be my new favourite movie. I don’t usually have a favourite but this one has left me wanting more, in a positive way, to the point of getting every family member, friends and colleagues to watch also! I cannot wait to see more from ‘The Shadow’s Edge’ cast and production.

I definitely recommend watching—I will be!

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Once in a while, there comes a movie that defies all expectations. I'm still in shock at how much I like it.

I didn't think the animation looked pretty at first, especially Rumi's scorpion hairstyle. But I completely changed my mind the moment I saw the OG demon hunters with their graceful flourishes. There's beauty in the movements, the dance choreography, and the facial expressions. The characters have so much personality to them, even minor ones like the kooky doctor and the lesser demons.

The screenplay strikes the right balance in keeping the plot simple and focusing on Rumi and Jinu's personal journey. The dialogue is a little clumsy at times, but the writers still manage to show more than tell. They show that you can rise above your flaws and failings instead of letting them define you. The ending is a little rushed, though, not allowing time to mourn the loss of an important character.

The people who put together the OST are insane perfectionists. Sure, they used autotune, but it makes perfect sense in the context of the modern setting. The songs don't just sound amazing, they're cleverly written and an integral part of the storytelling. “Free” is one of the most romantic songs I ever heard, full of yearning and vulnerability. It reminds us of why we fall in love.

Korean culture is nicely featured here. It's not in-your-face, but lovingly woven into the little details, used as a world-building tool and a way to ground the fantasy. They leave out the dark side of idol culture, although it's hinted at in the sinister number “Your Idol.” The fans here are portrayed as a purely positive force, which is ironic for a movie about acknowledging your flaws. But I respect the writers’ decision not to go there.

People are clamoring for a sequel. Even the director wants to do it, saying that there are so many questions left unanswered. That's a bad sign. You should never make a movie just for the purpose of “answering questions.” Some things are best left to the viewer's imagination (and fanfiction). I worry that in their hurry to meet demands, the filmmakers will churn out trash instead of another gold.

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"Trillion Game" is a rollercoaster of fun, and the movie just keeps building right where the drama left off. Haru returns after two years and him and Gaku continue their climb to be the richest in the world by building Japan's first casino. Of course though, it is not easy by any means, and if you know Haru and Gaku, there will always be something up their sleeve rooted in the purity of friendship and trust. Always a fun ride, hilarious with touches of wholesome, the movie does feel like a compressed story arc from the drama - for better, and for worse. It's fun as all get out and has the grand scope of a film (the glitz, the glam, and the action!), but at times, it does feel like some of the beloved characters from the drama don't get as much screentime (especially Rinrin and Kirika, who have great foil moments for Gaku and Haru respectively, but I always want more). Meguro and Sano truly are so much fun to watch as Haru and Gaku, and they are the heart of the film, so really it's hard for this one to go wrong. If you loved the drama, you will enjoy the film easily, but don't really expect more - the ride continues and doesn't miss a beat!

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Cute as…

My review is going to be short and sweet. I have said this often - not enough nice movies or dramas are made these days. Love Untangled is just that - a nice old style movie, which we need more of.

Even though it is a sweet movie, there are a couple of underlying themes that do bubble through but don’t overwhelm the flavour of the movie - and that is a good thing.

It was nice watching such supportive friendships, loving families and a setting in Busan. The coffee shop upstairs we have seen in recent dramas.

Ignore the nay sayers here. Embrace this movie for what it is - a gentle reminder of what’s nice in the world.

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Nice upgrade but still lacking

Compared to the first part, this is an improvement.

It's like the first part was just the introduction, and this part is the actual story.
First of all the uncut / cut ver are basically same, even the few scenes cut has nothing in it but it's china so...

The story is much better, I would have preferred it to be one whole movie instead of two parts, but nevertheless , this was not bad.

Acting is 2015 style obviously, nothing spectacular about it, just acceptable.
Story shows more in this part with good development and nice pace.

I wouldn't recommend it unless you plan to watch the parts/movie in one setting and have about 3 hours to waste ... Just keep your expectations low.

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Decent historical film

This movie has not really gotten its due. It covers the naval conflict between the Qing dynasty and imperial Japan under Meiji. The characters are not too fleshed out and there are so many names and actors and things happening without much clarity on the intentions. This makes the movie much more confusing than it needs to be. Unfortunately, this style is present in most Chinese historical movies. They do a good job with dates and times but do poorly with character motivations. The patriotism is on its sleeve in this one but the movie does try to portray the historical parts accurately.
The Japanese are not depicted as evil but rather as a weaker but determined power that succeeds mainly because of corruption within the Chinese dynasty. War economics are discussed much more here than in other war movies which is commendable given that these wars were decided more by economics and will, than anything else. The special effects are great and it quite clearly uses traditional effects rather than CGI which makes for much more compelling visuals. The naval warfare depicted is very good. Also, many scenes of training at the naval academy are great and there is even camaraderie between officers of the opposing fleets, something I rarely ever see given the rank antagonism usually depicted. A special shoutout to a certain German shepherd does the best acting by a dog in any film I've seen.

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One of my favorite movie!

There is love, and there is memory: and when memory fades, love becomes eternity.
“I wish I could remember my love forever.” This line — quoted on the poster and in the film’s few slogans — captures all the shades and the quiet sorrow of A Moment to Remember, a film that transforms the theme of Alzheimer’s into a parable about time, loss, and fidelity that endures even when the one you love forgets you.

The story follows Su-jin (Son Ye-jin), a 27-year-old fashion designer, and Chul-soo (Jung Woo-sung), a construction worker studying architecture, whose chance encounter in a convenience store blossoms into waiting, love, marriage, and a shared dream: a life together, a perfect home, a family. But soon, a cruel reality surfaces: Su-jin is diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. This is not a melodramatic twist, but a temporal trap: she stands before the doors of her own life, yet forgets the key to enter.

The film portrays Alzheimer’s with painful realism: at first, it’s the small lapses — forgetting Chul-soo’s shaving cream, getting lost on the way home — and then the small tragedies (leaving the stove on, nearly setting the kitchen on fire). With the diagnosis, she oscillates between denial, terror, and silence, until the inevitable moment when she withdraws into a care facility. Chul-soo searches for her, finds her, and brings her back to their first meeting place — the convenience store — hoping that such a simple gesture might still unlock a piece of memory. In the quiet journey of holding hands, his final confession is devastating: “I love you,” spoken with the awareness that within moments, she may no longer recognize him.

What makes the film “historic” in the Korean cinematic landscape is its courage to speak of Alzheimer’s as an erosion of identity, not just of a relationship. There are no heroic acts, only quiet attention: sticky notes scattered around the house, the struggle with everyday tasks, the painful look that Chul-soo hides behind sunglasses to cover his tears — all telling a truth that wounds even without words.

And even though some critics dismiss it as “too sentimental” or “soap opera-like,” it remains a film that strikes at the core of humanity: memory as the fabric of everyday life, love as the guardian of fading experience, and oblivion as an enemy to be faced not with weapons but with presence, glances, and small acts of daily care.

In the context of 2004, A Moment to Remember also stood out for its extraordinary box-office success: the fifth most-watched film of the year in Korea, and an unexpected hit in Japan as well.

❗ The film’s power does not lie in inventing something new, but in rendering love as an exercise in remembering, intimacy as a perpetual promise that survives memory itself. Because perhaps, in the end, one does not need to remember, if one is loved forever.

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Don't know what I feel...

Some films try to tell a story of forbidden love. A Frozen Flower goes further: it turns love, power, and desire into an arena that is at once political, sensual, and cruel. Set during the Goryeo dynasty, but conceived through the provocative lens of contemporary Korean cinema, it is a work that unsettles and divides because it doesn’t merely hint — it shows everything, with a visual and emotional force that remains rare even today.

The plot, on the surface, seems straightforward: the King, in love with his commander Hong-rim, cannot produce an heir with the Queen. To secure his dynasty, he orders Hong-rim to sleep with her. What begins as a political duty soon ignites into passion, and from there spirals into betrayal, violence, and revenge that culminate in tragedy. Yet to reduce A Frozen Flower to a love triangle would be unjust: it is instead a drama in which sex is politics, love is a threat, and power becomes a prison.

The film’s strength is not only in the scandal it provoked upon release — explicit sex scenes, in a historical and cultural setting where queer representation was still marginal — but in its courage to render desire itself a battlefield. In Korea in 2008, a film like this could not go unnoticed: too daring for those expecting a simple historical epic, too visceral for those hoping for a romance. A Frozen Flower forces viewers to confront an uncomfortable truth: love, when entangled with power, is never pure, and passion, when it defies the law, is destined to explode.

Joo Jin-mo, Song Ji-hyo, and above all Jo In-sung (as Hong-rim) carry the film with performances that balance fragility and ferocity. Hong-rim is the tragic core: devoted lover to the King, yet discovering in the Queen a desire he cannot deny. He is never just executioner or victim: he is both, dragged into a vortex where no loyalty exists without guilt. The Queen is not a mere political pawn, but a woman claiming the right to love and to desire, and in doing so becomes subversive in her own right. And the King, fragile in his obsession and brutal in his jealousy, is a figure of authority collapsing in on itself: unable to separate his reign from his heart.

The King’s castration of Hong-rim, the brutal punishment for betrayal, remains one of the most harrowing scenes in recent Korean cinema. It is not just physical violence but a symbol: the condemnation of love that dares to defy order. The tragic ending seals the idea that in a world ruled by laws of blood and succession, there is no space for love born outside its confines.

And yet, amidst such cruelty, the film preserves an almost hypnotic aesthetic power. The sumptuous costumes, the elaborate sets, the cinematography that caresses both bodies and blades: everything constructs a world both sensual and suffocating. Beauty itself becomes a mirror of feeling — beauty that, precisely because forbidden, is destined to freeze and shatter like a flower in ice.

Why does A Frozen Flower matter? Not only because of its story, but because of the cultural context in which it appeared. In 2008, BL narratives in Korea had not yet entered the mainstream; queer stories were still pushed to the margins, and almost never told with such explicitness. Director Yoo Ha chose instead to film without filters, bringing homosexual desire into the center of a historical epic. Not as subtext, but as declared text. In a cinematic culture often hesitant to go so far, this remains a radical gesture.

A Frozen Flower is not a perfect film. At times it leans too heavily into melodrama, at others it indulges in spectacle. But it is unforgettable: disturbing, sensual, tragic. A story that offers no redemption but shows how love — in any form — becomes explosive when it collides with the boundaries of power and morality.

I don’t know if this film left me with more anger or admiration. I only know it reminded me that feelings, when bound to structures that seek to control them, rarely end well. A Frozen Flower is exactly that: a work where beauty coexists with brutality, where love is always political, and where flowers, no matter how dazzling, inevitably break when frozen.

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Many films tell stories. Few, however, ask questions. (my opinion)

A Distant Place belongs to the latter category. And perhaps this is why so many viewers come away unsettled: they expect a linear drama, a love that either endures or breaks, a definite conclusion. But Park Kun-young chooses another path: he leaves gaps open, lets silence speak, and offers not answers but possibilities.

At first, it looks almost like a pastoral dream: Jin Woo, a sheep farmer, lives in the countryside with young Seol, whom he has raised like a daughter, and with Hyun Min, his partner and lover. Their daily life is made up of small gestures, glances, quiet routines. Everything seems stable, as though distance from the city might shield them from the pressures of the outside world. But this peace is fragile, and the return of Jin Woo’s sister to reclaim the child reopens wounds that had never fully healed.

And here the questions begin. What is a family? Is it the one you’re born into, or the one you choose? Is it truly possible to protect those you love, or will life always find a way to take them from you? There is no clear answer, because each character embodies a different part of this tension. The sister who wants her daughter back is not simply an antagonist, but also a mother reclaiming her role; Hyun Min is not just a wounded lover, but a man challenging his partner’s immobility.

The film works through symbols. The little girl and the grandmother, often shown together, represent the beginning and end of life coexisting in the same space. The sheep, especially the newborn lamb at the end, symbolize birth, fragility, and hope that persists despite pain. And the farmer’s words, reminding Jin Woo of the meaning of staying, weigh against his desire to leave. Every scene suggests that life is never a single direction, but a constant oscillation between opposites: leaving or staying, holding on or letting go, belonging or separation.

Many interpret the argument between Jin Woo and Hyun Min as a definitive breakup. I don’t see it that way. There is no farewell, only hurt expressed in harsh words, as often happens in relationships when anger takes over. It isn’t an ending, it’s a suspended fracture — unresolved, left hanging. In the end, we don’t know whether Jin Woo will follow his sister with Seol, seek out Hyun Min, or remain in the countryside. What we are left with is an open ending that resolves nothing but instead hands us a question: “Where do we truly want to be, to belong — and what does that mean?”

And this is why A Distant Place became a film I loved deeply. Not because it comforts, but because it dares to leave us in uncertainty. It doesn’t narrate abandonment; it reveals the difficulty of choosing, the fear of staying, the weight of love when it isn’t enough to guarantee stability. It is a film that doesn’t shout, doesn’t explain, never fully reveals itself: it remains distant, as its title suggests, and in that distance it forces us to look inward.

This, I believe, is why many viewers expect too much and walk away disappointed: they look for certainty, closure, a moral. I instead found in its openness, its symbols, and its silences a deeper truth: life rarely provides definitive answers, only possibilities we must learn to inhabit. And A Distant Place reminds us that between leaving and staying, between attachment and absence, between birth and ending, what matters is not the answer but the question we carry with us.

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This is NOT a revenge movie (my opinion).

This film makes me angry, but not for the reason most people mention. It’s not the violence itself that unsettles me, nor the fact that it’s yet another dark revenge movie: it’s the illusion it carries. A Christmas Carol seems to ask me to cheer for vengeance; yet, watching it, I see something else entirely: a young man who isn’t seeking justice but is punishing himself for not being there.

Park Jin-young carries the entire film on his shoulders with a double role that feels like an indictment aimed directly at the audience. On one side, he portrays the neurodivergent brother: a contracted body, uneven breathing, eyes searching for connection in a world that shuts him out. On the other, he becomes Il-woo: clenched jaw, evasive stride, hollow gaze. His brilliance lies in the smallest details — the way his posture shifts, the way his voice either drops or hardens — and in making us feel that the two brothers aren’t true opposites, but rather two poles of the same solitude.

Context matters. In Korea, anyone perceived as “different” pays a heavy price: disability, mental health struggles, being an orphan… all carry stigma. The film doesn’t turn this into an overt manifesto, but the trace is there: both brothers are already marked as losers before the story even tightens its grip. And here is what burns the most for me: I understand Il-woo’s exhaustion. Living alongside someone vulnerable can be draining; fatigue wins sometimes. But there’s a difference between fatigue and indifference. And Il-woo, as I see it, crosses that line: he stops looking, stops listening, stops being present.

SPOILER. The younger brother’s death is not “just” the result of beatings and bullying. If you watch without expecting catharsis, the film clearly shows sexual violence as the real cause. And it isn’t inflicted by the usual convenient villains, but by someone trusted — a figure Il-woo never even thinks to suspect. Here lies the decisive point: the “revenge” he pursues doesn’t arise from the truth of what happened; it comes from an attempt to numb his guilt. He cannot (or will not) see what really occurred, because he would first have to look inward and admit that he had already abandoned his brother while he was alive. If that boy had come home with bruises, I fear Il-woo would not have noticed. He had already lost him the moment he chose to turn away.

That is why I cannot read this as a “successful” revenge film. Everything that follows is pure substitution: Il-woo creates a visible enemy so he doesn’t have to face the invisible one; he turns pain into a mission because a mission provides meaning, whereas grief does not. The violence he inflicts on the world isn’t justice, it’s self-punishment disguised as action. It doesn’t “fix” anything; it simply puts distance between him and the only truth that matters: he failed to protect the one who depended on him.

The direction (cold, claustrophobic) underscores how much moral myopia pervades the story: corridors that close in, spaces that compress, a staging that pretends to breathe action but really suffocates. Even when the plot accelerates, I don’t feel release: I feel delay. Every act of retribution comes too late, aimed at the wrong target. It’s a chain of substitutions: striking what can be struck, because what must be named is untouchable — by shame, by fear, by impotence.

If I must explain why Park Jin-young’s performance feels so powerful to me, it’s also because Il-woo is never a “tragic hero.” He is a guilty figure in the most human and painful sense: he didn’t commit the violence himself, but he allowed it to happen in his absence. And when he finally acts, he does so too late and in the wrong direction. The double role becomes a merciless device: in every frame, it feels like witnessing an inner trial where both the defendant and the victim share the same face.

Those who want revenge here will find action. Those who seek the truth will find a void. And it’s that void that angers me: not because the film “offers no answers,” but because it shows the wrong answer becoming the narrative. The result is not redemption — not even effective vengeance — but a grief that can never complete itself. No balance is restored, no order returns: there remains only a boy who understands too late, too poorly, and has no idea where to put his hands.

To me, A Christmas Carol is this: not the muscular tale of someone “taking justice into his own hands,” but the confession of someone who cannot say I’m sorry to the right person at the right time. So he speaks with fists, with knives, with fury — because speaking with guilt requires a courage the film, deliberately, never grants. There is no redemption where pain was ignored before it was violated.

Seen this way, my anger makes sense. Not against the film as such — which is harsh, consistent in its chill, superbly acted — but against the comfortable idea that vengeance equals understanding. Here, nothing is understood: there is only punishment. And punishment, as we know, is never healing.

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