Reviews

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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Star-Studded but kinda disappointing

I honestly wonder why this film did not receive many awards, especially since it is star-studded. Because of its cast, I had high expectations going into it. But in the end, the plot turned out to be a bit disappointing.

That said, the overall film still delivers a strong and important message, tackling one of the most serious crimes not just in the Philippines but worldwide—rape. The acting from the cast was commendable, but something felt lacking. Since the main setting was confined to just one location, the pacing came across as rushed.

It somehow gave me a similar vibe to A Very Good Girl. Uninvited had the potential to be much more impactful, but it didn’t fully maximize its strengths despite its strong cast and relevant theme.

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A sea of emotions and nostalgia

This is a sweet movie of friendships, hardship, and I guess a bunch of ships in a sea of emotions.

Life is not always easy, while the story starts out more or less fluffy and youth, puppy love ish... It does take a dive in the depths of the ocean.

Our leads do a phenomenal job conveying each and every emotion, they broke my heart several time and offered a back story that I guess had to be told. The contrast between the youthful, innocent cheer and the darkness is done really well. It is constantly there lurking behind without robbing the youthfulness of the story.

A great combination, well executed and with gorgeous cinematography and just enough hints of the past to make this old lady smile. .

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A great "turn your brain off" action movie.

I know we shouldn't like Mahiro and Chisato, but across the trilogy I somehow find myself rooting for them to win. Got me wondering if there's something wrong with me. The duo are funny, quirky, and oddly believable as fictional characters. And their love for one another- despite the fact that they don't always get along- is clear as day.
Mahiro and Chisato even have character arcs, which- in a movie like this- is a shocking and pleasant surprise.
I have nothing bad to say about any of the Baby Assassin movies. It is a very unique premise on the assassin genre. I can't give it a higher rating because... well...Mahiro and Chisato are assassins.

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