Reviews

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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The disappointment is always lurking.

At first glance, 84 Square Meters looks like a social critique disguised as a thriller. The film sets itself up as a statement about urban life in South Korea: the dream of owning a shiny new apartment, the crushing economic sacrifices it takes to get there, the claustrophobia of small spaces, and the enforced intimacy with neighbors.

Woo-sung, the protagonist, embodies the average citizen who sacrifices everything to buy a home. His 84-square-meter apartment is supposed to be a victory, yet it immediately becomes a cage. It’s the perfect image of being house-poor: owning the walls but never truly being able to live inside them freely. Up to this point, the film seems to be an exploration of modernity’s greatest illusion: believing that physical space guarantees happiness, when in fact it becomes the most refined prison.

The film’s symbolic core is expressed through noise. Not just a narrative device, but a metaphor. Every step overhead is a reminder that the project of security has failed. Thin walls whisper: you don’t really own your space. The apartment block becomes a social laboratory where intimacy is porous, identity is defined against the neighbor, and the community itself is a façade of polite aggression: smiles, regulations, homeowner meetings, and underneath it all, resentment and competition.

In this reading, the characters serve as symbols:

Woo-sung is the man chained by ownership — convinced the apartment will grant him legitimacy, only to discover it makes him traceable, diminished, fragile.

The residents’ representative is the face of administered morality — the friendly mask of social control, order hiding oppression.

The ambiguous neighbor embodies institutionalized distrust — the “other” who lives just a wall away, always unreadable, always a potential scapegoat.

If the film had stayed on this path, it would have been a sharp social denunciation: the home as a status commodity rather than a place of care, the apartment complex as a machine that produces paranoia, noise as a systemic symptom, not just a nuisance. Tension would not have been about who did what but about why we live like this. The antagonist would not have been a single character, but the whole apparatus: mortgage, neighbors, expectations, invisible hierarchies. This is the film we expect: a political and psychological parable about the claustrophobia of normal life.

…and what it actually becomes (SPOILERS)

Here lies the disappointment: 84 Square Meters abandons this trajectory. The metaphor of noise, the crushing mortgage, the community as a device of control — all of it is pushed aside to make way for a revenge plot. I don’t mean a simple tonal shift, but a complete reframing: the problem is no longer structural, but personal. Instead of asking “what makes us sick?” the film settles for “who wants to hurt you?”

The dynamics collapse into a spiral of vengeance. Eun-hwa is no longer the duplicitous mask of the community, but just another piece in a revenge plan. Jin-ho is no longer an enigmatic neighbor, but a cog in the same machinery. And Woo-sung? He ceases to be the man crushed by the system; he becomes another player in the same violent game. He doesn’t remain innocent — he adapts to the logic of elimination. The outcome is not awareness or catharsis but simple survival.

The problem isn’t that the characters are morally gray. That could have been compelling. The problem is that by choosing the revenge route, the film flattens itself. It drains its own symbolic power. Noise stops being a political symptom and becomes a mere plot device. The apartment stops being the gilded cage of modern life and becomes just a battleground. The community stops being a social mechanism and turns into nothing more than the stage for a vendetta. Evil ceases to be diffuse, invisible, systemic — it is personalized, given a face to destroy. And once evil has a single face, the critical depth is gone.

There is, of course, a kind of coherence in this shift: no one is truly “good”. But it’s not the richness we hoped for. It’s a poor coherence, born of reduction, not complexity. The second half of the film no longer asks what society does to us; it only shows how individuals, blinded by rage and frustration, destroy one another.

- Why the disappointment runs deeper

My frustration doesn’t come from the lack of a shocking twist. It comes from a betrayal of the initial pact. The film first invites us to read it as a study of living: buy the home, and you buy your own personal hell. It teaches us to hear noise as a political voice. It shows us neighbors as icons of hostile coexistence. And then, suddenly, it turns that off and switches to the machinery of revenge. It doesn’t deepen the paranoia — it justifies it. It doesn’t complicate the community — it polarizes it. It doesn’t embrace moral ambiguity — it levels everyone into the same desperate fight where what matters is simply who survives.

This isn’t an “open” or “brave” ending. It’s a shortcut. A film that could have spoken about us — our walls, our debts, our fragile spaces — ends up speaking only about them — these characters, caught in their vendetta. And when a collective symptom is traded for an individual guilt, the film loses its sharpest edge: the sense that the true antagonist might have no face.

- In summary

84 Square Meters should have been — and for a while is — a denunciation of the trap of homeownership, the porosity of intimacy, and noise as a political signal. It could have stayed there, digging deeper and deeper. Instead, it retreats into revenge, where everyone — including the protagonist — ends up on the same moral level. Not because of richness, but because of reduction.

It’s a film that starts as an essay and ends as a surrender: not to reality, but to convention. And maybe that’s why it lingers: because we can still see what it might have been. And because the disappointment isn’t a minor flaw — it’s a formal choice that becomes a question of meaning.

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I want to fight Viki for putting this in the comedy section

Viki, for some nonsensical reason, put this movie in the comedy section. In addition, the cutesy little picture for it made this look like it'd be a funny little romp about a single father who encounters an adorable ghost. Instead, the ending made me cry and I don't think comedy was ever a predominant aspect of this movie.

This is a somewhat sweet, uncomplicated film about a single father with a terminally ill daughter getting wrapped up in a case a young police officer is trying to solve. The cop ends up in a coma and the single father is the only person that can see him.

To be honest, of the similar premises I've seen, this one involves a lot less interaction between the 2 leads. They don't really come to like each other as much as come to see how they could help each other. The cop moreso because he can help and the father because he sees how others having his "I don't owe anyone anything" attitude eventually came to bite him in the ass. The lesson here seems to be help when you can because you never know how it might come back to you. Extremely simple, cut and dry.

It's a recommend if you like Ma Dong Seok and don't want something too, too heavy. There's less violence than I've seen in other dramas/films with trafficking plots and the kid is adorable. However, just remember that Viki totally mischaracterized this.

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So Angsty.

Love how they handled Titi ex boyfriend, that guy is A hole, Bk and PP are such an amazing actors, can't stop laughing, because comedy is so good. The true strength of The Red Envelope lies in its ability to evoke a wide range of emotions. It's a film that genuinely makes you laugh and cry, often within the same scene. The moments of shared happiness and playful banter are just as powerful as the scenes of quiet sorrow. This emotional roller coaster is a testament to the script's sincerity and, most importantly, the actors’ skill in portraying a full spectrum of human experience. Through their performances, the film becomes a heartfelt and unforgettable cinematic experience.

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Marry My Dead Body is a Taiwanese film that brilliantly blends an intriguing mystery with moments of comedy, action, and a touching romantic storyline.

The story follows Ming-han, a tough, homophobic police officer who doesn’t believe in superstitions. His life takes an unexpected turn when, by accident, he marries the ghost of Mao Mao, a young gay man who died under mysterious circumstances. Bound together by the Taiwanese tradition of “ghost marriage,” Ming-han must help Mao Mao solve the mystery of his death in order to free him from limbo.

The comedy stems from the dynamic between a stubborn cop and a ghost with a vibrant and slightly dramatic personality. The action sequences are well executed and exciting, while the mystery keeps the audience hooked until the very end. However, what truly stands out is the relationship between Ming-han and Mao Mao, which evolves in a moving way, exploring themes of acceptance, prejudice, and the true meaning of love.

Although I didn’t think I would enjoy it at first, I can honestly say that Marry My Dead Body is a film that will make you laugh, cry, and keep you on the edge of your seat. It’s an original and refreshing story that proves love and connection can transcend even death. If you’re looking for a movie that will surprise you and touch your heart, this is definitely one to watch.

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"Love Untangled": A Sweet Journey of Frizz and Discovery

"Love Untangled" (released in Brazil as "Love Untangled") is Netflix's latest take on the South Korean teen romantic comedy genre. Set in the nostalgic 1990s, the film introduces us to young Park Se-ri (played adorably by Shin Eun-soo), a high school student who has a love-hate relationship with her curly hair. For her, this "frizz" is the main obstacle to winning over the most popular boy in school.

The plot is quite straightforward, and for that reason, it works. As Se-ri devises a plan to straighten her hair and confess her feelings, she grows closer to Han Yun-seok (Gong Myung), a new transfer student who, with his calm and attentive demeanor, begins to mess with—or, rather, untangle—the protagonist's feelings. The chemistry between the two is one of the film's strongest points. Their relationship is built on small moments, exchanged glances, and simple conversations that feel incredibly genuine.

The film stands out for being a light-hearted coming-of-age story without major drama. It avoids overblown plot twists and focuses on something much more universal and relatable: teenage insecurity and the journey of self-acceptance. Se-ri's struggle with her own hair is a metaphor for the quest to be loved and accepted exactly as she is, without having to fit into a mold.

Namkoong Sun's direction and the script capture the essence of first love with great delicacy. The 1990s setting, with film cameras and cassette tapes, contributes to a nostalgic and cozy tone. While the film's pace can be a bit slow at times, the sweetness of the story and the charisma of the cast hold the attention.

"Tangled Up" may not be an unforgettable masterpiece, but it is an honest and captivating film that warms the heart. If you're looking for a feel-good romantic comedy that will make you smile and maybe even shed a tear, this is a great choice. The film celebrates the beauty of being imperfect and the importance of finding someone who loves all sides of you.

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