Lost in Starlight

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.

There were actually several swoon-worthy moments throughout the film that I could talk about—but I’ll keep them to myself so I don’t spoil anything for anyone.

The story was set in 2066, which is about four decades from now. That made me pause and wonder: will I still be alive by then? If so, I’d be around 67 years old. Not too old, right?

What really stood out to me was how far technology had come in their world. There was an airborne public vehicle with a transparent body, and a wristwatch that looked way more advanced than anything we have now. I don’t even remember seeing anyone with a phone in their hand. It made me curious—what will happen to gadgets like our phones after a few more decades? Will they vanish completely, replaced by something we can’t even imagine yet?

One thing that fascinated me was their camera. It could summon the person you were calling, almost like they were there with you—invisible, but able to move around freely and see everything around you in 360 degrees. It felt both magical and slightly eerie.

These were just a few of the thoughts and observations I had while watching.

And then... came the OSTs! Don’t even get me started on those.

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.

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The Room Next Door

Imagine seeing an old friend for the first time in years—only to find out she’s dying. Now, what would you do if she asked you to stay in the room next to her until she decided to take her own life?

That haunting premise lies at the heart of The Room Next Door, a film that faintly sits in my memory from the buzz surrounding last year’s Oscars. As I was looking for yet another conversational film, I stumbled upon a list on Letterboxd where this film was included. The moment I felt I had settled in, with the familiar whirring of my two e-fans in the room and seeing the gentle red light of my desk lamp reflected against the out-of-place CLN paper bag in the corner, I decided to finally watch the movie.

From the get-go, the only things I knew about the movie were its intriguing title and its blessedly short runtime (just under two hours) which made me happy, thinking I could finish it in one sitting. (I ended up finishing it in two, but still.) The story opens with Ingrid at a book signing, and little did she know that in just a few minutes, her life would begin to unfold. Through a mutual friend, she finds out that an old acquaintance, Martha, has been diagnosed with cervical cancer and has only weeks—or maybe months—left to live. The next scene shows Ingrid greeting Martha rather casually, despite years of not seeing each other. 

Ingrid and Martha

I was under the impression that they were indeed friends—though not close enough to be catching up almost every single day. And yet, that’s exactly what happened early on in the movie. What I enjoyed most while watching was their conversations about life and death. Ingrid, who fears death (as reflected in her latest published book), contrasts with Martha, a former war reporter who was built to witness tragedy—and now, ironically, faces the end of her own life. There was a faint chemistry between the two women, and throughout the film, I found myself oddly anticipating that they might kiss, or that there would be at least a vague moment hinting at something queer. But to my disappointment, nothing happened. As one Letterboxd comment perfectly put it: “could’ve been gayer.” 

I guess the friendship between the two women wasn’t very convincing, as the film failed to show it and just told it to me. If they hadn’t mentioned working together at the same magazine company, I wouldn’t have even known they were supposed to be friends. Maybe I was just expecting something more intimate when they reunited, but they were so casual about it. Like, their friendship didn’t seem that deep, and it didn’t really matter whether Ingrid showed up to visit Martha or not. At that time, I was thinking their connection was only for a one-time visit from Ingrid and she wouldn’t show up again. But then again, who am I kidding? Of course she had to come back to the hospital, because that’s where the story needed to go. I just didn’t really get how deep their relationship was supposed to be, since the film didn’t convince me they were actual friends.

There were at least three or four flashbacks in the film, and all of them were from Martha's past—from being a teenager, to raising a child as a single mom, to working as a war reporter. Honestly, I didn’t see the point of putting those flashbacks in. They didn’t feel like they added anything important to what was happening in the present. I feel like they could’ve used those moments to show her and Ingrid’s friendship when they were younger, so at least I’d have a bit of an idea of what they were like back then and what led them to where they were now. Why did they lose touch? Did life just happen and they just grow apart? Nothing was said about that, and it left some holes and lapses in the story that affected how I felt about their relationship.

On a positive note, I felt more connected to them when they were just talking. They shared a lot of thoughts about life and especially death, and it felt like I was there, kind of eavesdropping on their conversation. There were some good and memorable lines from both of them that I even took screenshots of. The only problem was how they delivered those lines. Why did they feel so emotionless? They were talking about tragedies and death, but they sounded like they were just practicing their script with the camera on. It came off kind of flat and boring to me. I could hear a little change in their voices, but I couldn’t really see even the smallest twitch on their faces.

And again, the film kept telling instead of showing things to the viewers. Because of that, I couldn’t help but feel kind of disconnected at times while watching.

In the end, I couldn’t help but keep questioning their friendship, especially Ingrid’s. Sure, she took care of Martha when she agreed to stay with her next door. But it made me wonder—was she really doing it out of friendship, or was she more interested in what she could gain from it? Like, maybe using Martha’s situation as inspiration for her next book. It felt a bit unclear, and that made their relationship feel kind of complicated to me.

Red, Green, and Yellow: The Colors of Life and Death

All throughout the film, I kept noticing the colors red and green showing up a lot—in the background, on walls, and in different objects. What stood out the most was how these colors were tied to the two women themselves, especially in the clothes they wore. It felt like those colors were kind of representing something deeper and definitely has some interpretative significance.

In a narrative or cinematic setting, green is often used to symbolize life and renewal, while red is more about death and loss. In this movie, the main themes are death, mortality, and acceptance.

They even mentioned Virginia Woolf, who is known for her suicidal writings, and James Joyce’s 1914 short story The Dead, which was referenced a few times—especially its closing lines:    

“The snow is falling, falling faintly through the universe, and faintly falling on all the living and the dead.” 

In the first part, the color green was more used to Martha and color red to Ingrid (see the first two pictures below). This was during the time when Martha was still being taken care of in the hospital—doing some tests and therapy, basically experimenting on herself, as she put it.

Later on, there’s a scene where Ingrid wears both red and green. This happens when they’ve moved into the rented place but go back to Martha’s flat because she forgot her "medicine." This moment felt like the point when they had stepped into each other’s colors.

In the later parts of the film, the color roles seem to reverse. Martha often wears red while Ingrid wears green. To me, Martha wearing red now represents her acceptance of death. Ingrid in green shows that she still has hope—maybe even hope that Martha will choose to keep living.

There’s also the red door to Martha’s room. She left it open but told Ingrid that if she ever found it closed, that would mean Martha had finally died. To me, that red door doesn’t just represent a boundary between them—it feels like it represents the boundary between life and death.

We can see how the colors green and red look more vibrant when they appear together. The contrast between them is very visible, almost uncomfortable or unsettling to the eyes. They’re actually on opposite sides of the color wheel. Just like life and death, I think the use of these colors together mimics the emotional tension between the characters—two opposing forces—and creates a kind of visual friction.

I also looked up what color you get when you combine red and green. What I found is that it’s either a bright yellowish or white light (when combining lights) or a muddy brown or grayish color (for paint). Either way, the color yellow appears a little near the end of the movie, but fully shows up at the very end. 

In the final scene, all the significant colors are present in this one shot: Martha wearing death on her lips, sitting on her former life, and wrapping herself in acceptance—the in-between color that feels like peace. 

Perfect!

Before the Red Door Closes

Now that I'm almost done with my analysis, I realize I actually enjoyed the process of reviewing the film more than watching the film itself. The color associations were perfect and gave me space to brainstorm and pay closer attention to what I saw in each shot.

The film could have been better if the scenes were stitched together with smoother transitions. I felt like the execution wasn’t quite effective, and the story came off as a bit disjointed. Honestly, I had a hard time connecting with the film—especially sympathizing with Martha, even though that may not have been the intention. As for Ingrid, the actress’s performance didn’t feel convincing enough for me to cry with her when her friend died.

The late revelation about Martha’s daughter didn’t help either. Although I did notice a few cinematic parallels that were clearly inserted to prepare for the story’s conclusion, they didn’t feel strong enough to make the ending hit emotionally.

To close this off, I would like to quote one of the many on-point reviews I found on Letterboxd: "I'm going to text a few friends and explain to them the premise of this movie and then ask them, would you ever do that for me? Just to see who the real homies are."

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Nanay's Third Death Anniversary

Today is my Nanay’s third death anniversary.

It’s been three years, and it still feels strange—strange that she’s no longer here. It feels like only yesterday... but I guess it's a distant kind of yesterday, when she was still in the other room, lying on her wooden bed, its headboard wallpapered with cute teddy prints. She was breathing—heavier than a couple of years before. Her face had thinned with age, eyes unfocused, as if she was seeing more ghosts than people. Even just a sip of water took big, labored gulps through a plastic straw.

I still remember that afternoon. I thought it was just another COVID-filled day. It was the same date as today. Who would have thought that three years later, I’d still be fighting tears over her loss?

It was just another day of tapping and clicking at work. I remember the last long glance I had at her before that night. I had gone downstairs to get myself a glass of ice water. It was summer, and I felt drenched. Nanay was sleeping peacefully. Looking back now, I feel so sad. She had grown thinner than I remembered. She used to be so full of fire for a grandmother: long face, lips always tight, eyes flaring with emotion. She was an Amazona—truly. Born in 1931, a product of traumatic wars, she survived life’s cruelties and had no choice but to be angry at the world. Maybe that was the only way she knew how to live. She had a glorious past behind her, and now the only way to feel her breathe again is to remember the good old days while trying to silence the lingering guilt I still carry from the night I tried to revive her.

Nayyyy!

I let out a long, whimpering whisper of pain through her name. I thought that mumbling it into the dead air of April 28th might somehow fill her lungs again, as if her name alone could breathe life back into her while I kept pumping her chest.

I didn’t understand why they were just standing there beside me, looking down at her frail, unresponsive body—only weeping, only wiping their faces. Why weren’t they helping me call her back to life?

I wouldn’t stop. I kept pressing on her chest, even as the painful knowing crept in that... all the air inside her had already left.

Nayyyy...

One more pump.

Two more. This time, a little faster.

Three, I guess.

They were already holding my wrist to stop me. I looked at them—full of anger, frustration, and a thousand whys. Why weren’t you helping me?

Again.

I don’t remember how many pumps I did, or how numb my wrists had become. The last thing I remember was heaving, hopeless, detached from my own body. I had no energy left, not even to cry. Then... slowly... the cold began to spread through her body. The warmth of her long days had drained away. The fingers I was holding onto—lanky and lifeless—sent a shiver down my spine. In just a split second, she depleted. Her cheeks vanished from her face. Her mouth hung open, softly, as if her spirit had slipped out from there and joined the evening breeze. Her whole frame looked like those skeleton models I used to see in science class back in grade school.

That night, it was hard for me to cry and because of that, I felt like I was a bad granddaughter. We were too busy accommodating visitors to properly mourn her. It was 2022, and we were still under lockdown. And it wasn’t the kind of funeral Nanay deserved.

We offered forced smiles, instant coffee, biscuits, and small, polite words. We were only allowed three days for the wake. And for those three days, we were tired but moving—sad and busy—running papers, counting paper money. Three days felt too short to mourn her, yet weirdly long, like the funeral had gone on forever.

And during those three days, I didn’t cry. I didn’t even peek into her coffin. I didn’t want to let her go. The face I wanted to remember was the one from when she was still alive—the one always frowning, scowling, irritated by life, by the noise of the neighborhood, even by the sound of people breathing. But those faces were also full of endurance, forgiveness, and love. They were the faces that, even after three years, I still wish and pray to see... if only in a nightmare.

If ghosts were real, how I wish she would haunt me. She was a scary Asian granny but she was exactly what I need.

On the last night of her funeral, I cried finally. My body shook from such intense weeping I thought I could die. It was the first time I saw her face since she left. She was pretty (still pretty scary hehe). No amount of cosmetics could hide the loveliness dressed in anger. She looked at peace, as if simply taking one of her routine afternoon naps under the blazing summer sun.

It has been three years, and everything is still so clear to me. So clear that it feels like the Thea who tried to revive her that night never really left that moment...stuck there until today. I can still see her—lost, gawking at that deserted bed, questioning the world and blaming the heavens over and over. She’s still there, with no lights on, alone. Maybe afraid. Maybe already used to the dark. Sometimes she still struggles to take even the smallest step, to open the door and come out.

It has already been three years, and it’s still heavy. Still strange.

Sometimes it feels like she’s just away—maybe on vacation. Maybe she went back to Cebu, her hometown. Or maybe she walked to Baclaran Church to pray. Maybe she’s just strolling around the neighborhood, scolding street kids for being too loud.

Three years have passed, and I’m still here. Still carrying guilt for all the things I did wrong to her.

Nay, I still haven’t had a good cry.

I wonder... when will I be able to?

I miss you… so much that sometimes I wish I were just there with you already.

Why does life make us crumble?

Why does it have to be this hard?

Why does it feel like the only way to live is to survive?

Do I even deserve to be happy—or not, because I was a bad person? Why is it so easy to believe the worst about yourself?

It’s so hard sometimes, Nay.

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