Nothing beats the feeling of starting a movie randomly on a day you least expected to watch, and yet to finish it with a bursting and uncontrollable happy buzz.

Although it wasn’t exactly random, I had been anticipating this movie after coincidentally finding it on the app while browsing for a new set of movies to add to my watchlist. From the trailer, I immediately downloaded an offline copy of it, only to find out upon watching that it hadn’t been released yet—it was only the trailer that I had saved to my library.

I didn’t know exactly how long I had waited for it to be available, but when I checked again last Sunday, the full movie was already out.

Then came Monday. The whole day seemed undecided on whether it would rain or shine, so both happened almost alternately throughout the day. I had just finished my daily practice on Duolingo for my Japanese language lessons, and I wasn’t particularly in the mood to take my usual after-work nap.

“Lost in Starlight!,” I suddenly exclaimed under my breath.

It was actually my first time watching an animated Korean film—if Solo Leveling doesn’t count. I had absolutely no expectations going into it. All I knew was that the voice actors were Kim Tae-Ri and Hong Kyung. That was enough to spark my curiosity. I remembered skimming the synopsis when I watched the trailer, but by the time I sat down to watch it, I had completely forgotten what it was about. Looking back, I think that worked in my favor. There’s a unique kind of joy in discovering something with a blank slate, without any idea of what you’re about to experience. It reminded me of the first time I watched Before Sunrise. I had stumbled upon it years ago while Googling “the greatest films of all time to watch before you die.” It was on one of those lists. I didn’t know anything about it, didn’t even bother reading the plot summary. I just trusted my instincts and pressed play.

Two hours later, I was still in front of the screen—completely moved. I had watched it in low quality on Facebook, but I didn’t care. I was heartbroken by how the story ended, not because it was tragic, but because it was so real. And yet, underneath all that, I felt euphoric. It was the first time I had ever truly loved a movie.

I felt like I had fallen in love—either right at that moment, or during the entire time I was watching it. I couldn’t even place the happiness I felt. It was something I had discovered on my own, without any recommendations or hype, and that made it even more special. I savored every scene, every piece of dialogue. I was stunned that a film—so simple, so stripped-down—could affect me so deeply. No dramatic twists, no flashy visuals. Just two people talking, a story that flowed naturally, moving steadily forward. And I loved every second of it.

And I felt this too after watching Lost in Starlight. I might sound hyperbolic—and I know I am—right now, riding the peak of that post-movie high. This film might not even be that good for others, but I'm speaking from the moment, and I want to capture that here in this blog. I want to document how great this film feels to me, despite the fact there are loads of animated romance films out there I could find and watch.

I’m telling you, it’s been ages since I last felt that “kilig” feeling—that tingling, sensational buzz you get from a romantic film. The last movie that really did that for me was Before Sunrise. After that? I honestly can’t remember if anything else ever hit the same way. And now here I am, gushing over the hopeless romantic vibe of this animated film.

Let me start with the animation. It reminds me of those cyberpunk-style images I see on Pinterest whenever I’m hunting for a new desktop wallpaper. It’s funky, 4K-ish, and has a touch of Spiderverse visuals—but with a Japanese anime twist. It’s not clumsy, where a character looks off when viewed from another angle. It’s polished, kinda dreamy, and clearly futuristic, which makes sense since it’s a romantic sci-fi film. The colors are bursting like a comic book, again giving me Spiderverse vibes. This film is legit high quality—and honestly, every shot looks like it’s made to be screenshot.

The story is definitely not new. When we talk about sci-fi, there are myriads of films—mostly Western—that come to mind. The first one I thought of was Interstellar. It was actually in the back of my mind while I was watching this. So the challenge, or at least what I had in mind early on, was: how could Lost in Starlight be different? What new thing could it offer that would make it stand out and have its own identity? Or would it just be another sci-fi-ish film trying to give yet another perspective on what life might be like in the future and the never-ending expedition into outer space?

To be honest, I actually liked how the film stayed grounded and didn’t get too ambitious in that part. Right from the start, it was clear they weren’t aiming for a full-on sci-fi plot with heavy jargon, random equations, or Einstein name-drops. It wasn’t like that at all. I’d say it’s more of a romantic film than a sci-fi one. The sci-fi elements are just in the background. So if you're expecting something like Interstellar but animated, this isn’t it. But if you’re in the mood to feel butterflies in your stomach, then this one’s for you.

I was seriously blushing while watching them—from start to end.

It didn’t even feel like they were animated. I saw them as real people. The gestures, the expressions, the little movements—it all felt real.

One scene that made me swoon was that night when they had to grab another Coke. They stopped somewhere, rested a bit, and just chitchatted. Nan-young asked Jay about his lifelong passion for music, and Jay said he was waiting for it to come back to him. Nan-young, listening intently, started moving her fingers like tiny footsteps—step by step, inching closer to his elbow resting on the railing. Then she said, “It’s coming back now to you.” Their tipsy faces, especially Jay’s—he was already blushing from her gestures—blushed even more. It was so subtle but it hit me hard.

Obviously, music plays a big role in this movie, especially since Jay is a musician. I think that one scene where Nan-young played a demo song she accidentally found on Clouds—without knowing it was Jay’s—really marked the moment he realized he was doomed for her. Of all the people in the world, the chances were so slim, and yet the girl he happened to bump into while out on a delivery turned out to be the same person who had downloaded his song just minutes before he deleted it. And it wasn’t just any song—it was Nan-young’s favorite. Small world, right?

I haven’t listened to the full playlist yet. It’s not available on Spotify or even YouTube. Strangely, though, it is on Instagram. I found “Bon Voyage” when I tried adding music to a picture I posted. 

I couldn’t stop talking about how this movie made me feel. Right after watching it, I opened my Letterboxd app, gave it a glimmering 5 stars, and added it to my liked movies without a second thought.

One thing I allow myself when rating a movie is to go with how it made me feel. I don’t try to be too strict or overly objective. I don’t want to judge a film only by its structure, deeper themes, or the technical standards that supposedly make a film “great.” If it moves me, that’s enough.

It honestly makes me feel giddy whenever I find a movie that hits just right. It lifts my mood, makes my day, and even inspires me to write things like this.

Lost in Starlight is a well-made film—and truly impressive for South Korea’s first animated feature. Animation isn’t something the Korean industry is widely known for (yet), but I can see the ambition and heart behind this project. It’s the kind of movie you’ll want to share with your friends—which I already did.

Last night, I watched Once in a Summer.

I had no expectations when I started watching it. I hadn't heard about this film before from anyone I know, which is why I might have been just right in a comfortable spot.  Since the preview of this film wasn't available on Netflix and I was too lazy to search for it on YouTube, I just jumped into it right away. In the first few minutes, I was still trying to find my way into it. Admittedly, I was reluctant to continue watching it, wondering if I should push through, as there was a possibility I wouldn't like it once I was halfway through. 

Once in a Summer started with a slow and somewhat enigmatic buildup. The characters who opened the film disappeared as the story progressed. They had their fair share of moments, especially with Byung-Hun, but I don’t think they had any meaningful exchanges. I was hoping for more of his perspective, possibly a closer look at himself in his later years. I can’t recall if there’s a scene in the film that shows significant details about him in his prime, which I wish had been included. Even small moments of retrospection while he shared his past with Su-Jin were absent. Perhaps I badly wanted to witness his process of recalling those memories—to see the joy and remorse of his past etched into his wrinkled face. Those little details, I felt, were overlooked.

Was it because he was a professor at the time, and there was a deliberate effort to create an air of mystery around him? Or was it a conscious decision to provide minimal details about his older self to place greater emphasis on his youth in the flashback?

The reason I say this is that I noticed how he was portrayed with such care—offering only a few glimpses of his identity, which built a sense of mystery for the audience. During Su-Jin's next visit, he asked her to sing for him. The request felt so random that I immediately thought there must be a deeper meaning behind it. Su-Jin sang hesitantly—she looked awkward, yet displayed a small measure of confidence despite her lack of singing skill. Then, a smile flickered across the professor's face, and it was a moment of discovery. He even jokingly told her not to sing again, which revealed another layer of his character. I had assumed he was a stern and solemn man—his voice had given me that impression. I also thought he might dismiss her again despite her persistence. But when she asked if he wanted them to locate someone he had been longing to meet, he paused, and in that moment, I felt something significant was about to unfold.

A long flashback of events appeared abruptly.

I was slightly taken aback by the sudden shift to the past. I immediately thought about the way it was delivered— it wasn't that smooth, and, in a way, it felt like the first part of the flashback was forced. There was just no "solid" premise for it, in my opinion. Anyway, the flashback started with him sitting with other students, raising their fist in the air. They were shouting, and he looked so reluctant. By the look of it, the film started strong in that scene—it almost excited me.

Almost.

However, I was left there in that spot. 

Hanging. 

I was expecting there to be at least enough protest scenes to significantly set this film apart from others of its kind in a similar genre. Or perhaps, I was hoping to be enlightened on why they started that scene with "that" and what it was meant to convey. I also thought the story’s plot would revolve around that theme, and while it technically did, it was only emphasized as lightly as possible. As soon as the flashback transitioned to their arrival in the village, the focus drastically shifted to his encounters with the lovely Jung-In, which dominated most of the film.

Apparently, they drove out there to help the villagers in their rural tasks. I was not sure though if that was an act of initiative for the sense of service or they were asked to go there in the course of their protest. Whatever it was, as soon as they got there, I saw their genuine assistance to the people and how eventually they grew fond to the warmth of the countryside ablaze with the colors of summer. There's a simple touch of once life in every spectacular views of rural sceneries which effectively accentuated by the use of different shades of orange—a color of nostalgia. 

Throughout the film, the story revolved around Byung-hun's mischievous attempts to catch Jung-In.  He was impish and easy to the eyes especially for the older women in the village. However, he was drawn more to Jung-In when he saw her being scolded by the head of the village and was being whispered about by some people there. So, when he saw her walking along the fields without her usual bright face, he pestered her. Then the sky rained over the place, making both of them run and they stopped over that deserted house to wait for the raindrops to calm. I guess, that moment was the first serious one they had. I remember that I did not understand Jung-In's tale to Byung-Hun about the fish and the stone. But I remember when Byung-Hun gave her a stone with a fish-like carve that night when they missed the last bus and they had no choice but to walk for miles. 

Basically, it would be a simple simple film if it weren't for the light touch of the heightened student protest at their time. I just wish it was elaborately laid down more to add depth to the film and to the relationship between Byung-Hun and Jung-In. But it was actually evident that they wanted to set the focus more on the heartwarming romance of the two, with other concepts being in the peripheral of it all. 

I would like to take note of how their moments in the countryside took up the majority of the film while the one they had as soon as they set their foot in the bustling city of Seoul was so brief. As if it was mimicking the slow and gentle life in the rural by the use of the duration, and the more or less thirty minutes was rendered to their scenes in the city which mimics the fast-paced life people have there. 

The title was also trying to imply a sense of longing. The production could have just called it That Summer or something like that but there's the word "once" which we used when we mean that 'at a time in the past but not now or not anymore". It was like saying that that particular summer just passed by, and unfortunately it was only one summer experience which did not happen again or would not happen anymore because it was already gone— the people, the moment, the chance... 

More than anything else, Once in a Summer is a good film to watch at your leisure. It was not heavy but it could move you to reflect on things especially how its cinematography evoked a sense of nostalgia. It will also give you an idea of how's the life in South Korea was in the year of 1920 especially the tension between the country's regime and the prevailing political demonstration led by the students. 

This film will take you back to simple and old good times that was once so gentle but is almost now improbable to reach. 

I finished watching One Spring Night three days ago.

Earlier today, while having my breakfast with a cup of coffee, I remembered it again.

I started watching this series maybe around late November last year. However, midway through it, I decided to stop. I can’t exactly say how long I took a break, but it wasn’t until last Christmas Eve that I resumed watching the next three episodes… only to stop again. Weirdly enough, I never felt like it had been ages whenever I picked it up again from where I had left off. However, that doesn’t mean I jumped back into it right away. Sometimes, I had to rewatch the whole thing from the beginning just to take it in and recall what was happening in the current episode.

With One Spring Night,  had an inner conflict with my conscience. I wasn’t sure if I should push through because I didn’t have the energy to finish it. Watching it felt exhausting, almost as if I were constantly out of breath—the scenes were dragging, the pacing often prompted deep, tedious sighs, and I felt weirdly dispirited after every episode. This kept happening to the point where I almost dropped it… many times. But I didn’t. I resumed watching it sometime around the first week of February, and three days ago, I finally reached the last episode. When I finished it, I felt heavy-hearted. Even though it ended on a vaguely happy note, my mind lingered on the bittersweet moments.

Don't Cross the Line

I was...FRUSTRATED. 

I can still recall how I kept muttering curses under my breath because I didn’t want to endure that scene any longer. The tension between the two leads as they faced each other on the street—I just couldn’t handle it. I was literally on the edge of my seat, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the emotional intensity.

In that very scene, I could feel their vulnerability. Their eyes were speaking volumes. It was painful to watch their courage being bottled up at a moment when they should have dismissed the world and just run to meet halfway. That night, they stood on the same street but seemed to exist in entirely different spheres.

And that phone call? It was the only fragile line of intersection between those spheres.

Easier said than done. I know that thought crossed their minds as well. When Ji-Ho was about to take a leap of faith, Jeong-In's firm "Don't cross the line" stopped him mid-air. Jeong-In wanted that moment too—their moment—but crossing the line together with Ji-Ho might lead them nowhere, and she was scared of stepping into the unknown. Perhaps she wanted some assurance in their uncertainty. She probably didn’t want to lose herself along the way or drag him down, especially since their emotions had already been spiraling out of control.

After watching One Spring Night, it dawned on me that I’m still such a sucker for melodrama. Consuming melodrama is just another way of saying you have the patience to sit through its slow-burn build and seemingly unimportant segments. Because of this, I’ve developed an unusual tendency to be laid-back—perhaps this explains why I take longer than usual to finish a show. Maybe I subconsciously mimic its pacing? Or maybe I don’t.

At first, I felt guilty—big time. As I confessed, I had a lot of interruptions. I watched One Spring Night, then stopped, resumed, paused, and continued; this was my pattern. This isn’t exactly healthy for someone who usually binge-watches, but these instances don’t happen to me very often. So, I decided to embrace it: One Spring Night gave me the assurance to just keep my cool. This show allowed me to see the experience of watching it not as an opportunity to binge but as a chance to take it at a leisurely pace. I didn’t feel pressured to keep watching because I had to; instead, I saw it as something I could enjoy whenever I was ready to absorb it—and that felt more like me. 

One Spring Night Soundtrack Album

Speaking of me, I personally enjoyed the show's soundtrack album. At random moments, I’ll catch myself humming “We could still be happy” without even realizing it. I also love how the songs evoke a feeling of springtime when you listen to them. Each track was often played during moments of solitude, beautifully capturing the characters' silence and considered thoughts, while also highlighting their emotions. The soundtrack has a cozy vibe—perfect for a coffee shop setting. However, one thing puzzles me: why does it only feature English songs?

(If you’re interested, go check out the soundtrack! Pair it with a cup of coffee or hot tea, and you’ll find it makes an already intimate atmosphere even cozier with its springtime feels.)

Why Spring?

Of all the seasons, why does it have to be spring? As soon as I learned the title of the series, it rang a bell. The obvious interpretation aside, I became more interested in the production's choice of this specific title and the symbolic meanings it carries.

In literature, spring is featured more frequently than the other three temperate seasons. Its brevity makes it stand out, which explains why it is so poetically and symbolically pronounced. Spring evokes feelings of distant memories, regretful longing, and a pensive atmosphere. At the same time, it carries familiar symbolism: the beginning of a new life for someone emerging from the harsh cold of winter.

In One Spring Night, much of the filming was reportedly done on spring nights, and in the story itself, spring is what brings the leads together. Their first encounter—in the pharmacy—could even be seen as a spring morning, marking the start of their journey. 

From the very beginning, the story was grounded in meaningful conceptions.

In terms of symbolism, spring clearly represented a period of transition for almost all the characters, marking their journey toward renewal. The story began with each character carrying personal dilemmas that, as the plot progressed, challenged their beliefs and tested their hopes. However, these dilemmas were eventually confronted, strengthening their resolve and gently guiding them toward the tender beginning of a new chapter in their lives.