[K-Movie Night] Il Mare: A Classic Romantic Korean Film

Welcome to K-Movie Night — a once-a-month feature where we microwave some popcorn, put on a face mask, and get cozy with a Korean movie from yesteryear. With so many films finally streaming (with subs!), now is the time to get caught up on all those movies we missed featuring our favorite drama actors.

Each month, we’ll pick a flick, write a review, and meet you back here to discuss whether or not it’s worth a watch. Super simple. All you have to do is kick up your feet and join us in the comments!

 
MOVIE REVIEW

It’s February, and while it’s true that not everything has to be all hearts, roses, and undying love, there’s also no reason for it not to be! Who can a resist a love story for the ages, especially when it’s a Korean cult classic that even spawned a (less well-loved) American remake?

Il Mare (a.k.a. A Love Story) wasn’t so popular in theaters back in 2000 when it had to compete with a similarly themed release called Ditto (also about a time-bending love). But over the years Il Mare racked up a following and cinephiles now count it among the must-watch classics.

And if you need even more reasons to get on board, how about these: a handsome-faced Lee Jung-jae, a 19-year-old Jeon Ji-hyun in only her second film appearance, and screenwriter Kim Eun-jung — who went on to pen some truly excellent dramas like Flower Boy Next Door and My Unfamiliar Family. Yep, it’s hard to contain my excitement for this month’s pick.

Il Mare is a film with few essential players. Apart from the two leads, the other main characters are an epic seaside house and a magical mailbox that can twist time. In the opening shot, we see the house — alone on the waterfront with mist and fog rolling in — and then center on the ornate mailbox, giving it more importance than the two blurry figures in the background.

One of those figures is KIM EUN-JOO (Jeon Ji-hyun), who’s about to relocate from this glass-and-steel masterpiece on stilts to a nothing-special apartment in Seoul. Before she goes, she leaves a card in the mailbox, asking the next tenant to forward her mail. Just then, the camera scuttles in for a closeup on the mailbox (much like an old-school horror movie) and the next thing we know, HAN SUNG-HYUN (Lee Jung-jae) is occupying the house and receiving Eun-joo’s card.

But, something is amiss. Eun-joo dated her card December 1999 and when Sung-hyun replies, it’s December 1997. Each one thinks the other is playing some kind of a joke, and they continue to write back and forth through the mailbox in order to make sense of it.

We learn that Sung-hyun is actually the first tenant to occupy the house — which he names “Il Mare,” meaning “the sea” in Italian — and when Eun-joo moves out, no one else moves in after her. So, where are these letters coming from? Are they really writing to each other from two years apart in time? Did that scuttling camera motion indicate some sort of disturbance in the space-time continuum?

As it turns out, yes. Everything that Eun-joo tells Sung-hyun about the house hasn’t even happened yet because she actually lived in Il Mare after he did. But when the information she provides about the past starts to come to fruition — and her forwarding address is a building that’s not even constructed yet in Sung-hyun’s time — they begin to believe that “time got twisted on itself,” like the stairs in an M.C. Escher drawing. (Notably, the house also looks like an Escher drawing when it’s high tide and the stairs reflect in the water.)

Once they understand what’s happening, they move on from trying to solve the time riddle to talking about their lives. Eun-joo is dealing with heartbreak after learning her long-distance love has someone new. And Sung-hyun is living with resentment toward his estranged father. There’s a supreme loneliness about both leads and it’s manifested visually throughout the film. Often, they appear alone as they go about their daily routines. But also, Il Mare itself stands on the water in isolation, nothing nearby but a seemingly endless sea.

Their letters to each other provide solace, consolation, and connection, and in the subtlest of ways, they begin to fall in love. In a sequence that’s familiar to any romance moviegoer, our leads send gifts, plan dates, and think about their next steps together. Except here, the gifts are transported through the magic mailbox and the “dates” are carried out by doing the same activities separately. In a symbolic moment, Sung-hyun leaves a time capsule for Eun-joo that contains a bottle of wine — because it gets “more complex with time.”

At last, they plan to meet up in Eun-joo’s time. Their meeting is a week away for her, but a week and two years away for him. She goes to the designated spot at the specified time and Sung-hyun doesn’t show. From their current vantage points, neither of them knows why. The happiness they’ve brought each other in spite of their distance turns to a familiar emptiness once they’ve tried and failed to meet in person.

At separate points in the story, both Eun-joo and Sung-hyun make the comment that the people they love are too far away. They mean it in terms of geography, emotional distance, and finally even time. But the theme of isolation has a warm message, which comes through an architecture book: “Only when we are intimate with loneliness can we discover our true selves.” Il Mare may appear lonely, but what’s built with love will always feel warm.

Following their failed attempt to meet, the film could take various turns, but the twist that comes at the end affirms the core spirit of the movie. There’s a counterpoint perspective when Eun-joo learns that the reason her ex-boyfriend found someone new while living abroad is because the letters she sent him weren’t enough and he looked for consolation elsewhere. This is the opposite of Sung-hyun — who was consoled only by Eun-joo’s letters — but Eun-joo doesn’t realize it. Instead, she second guesses her past choices and the story plays with what it means to truly love and regret.

What I loved about this movie was its simplicity. It’s got a clean design, easily relatable emotions (love, loss, and loneliness), and a story that manages to stay uncomplicated even with the time-bending aspect. We learn quickly what the rules are and the rest lets us meander into falling in love. Both actors are lovely to watch and even with few scenes together they develop a believable connection.

But the most compelling part is the visual storytelling. The shots linger and take their time, but the camerawork also drives a quick pace. The film is low on action and — for a story that’s mostly talk — also not dialogue heavy. Yet there’s a repetition of images (the house, the mailbox, the leads reading letters) that works like a metronome in keeping the movie’s rhythm. The aesthetic — though empty, faded, and cold — isn’t bereft of feeling, and the leads emanate warmth at the story’s center.

It’s also full of double meanings and tiny basic truths. There’s a beautiful line, about mid-way through, where Eun-joo says, “I think we suffer not because our love ends, but because our love continues after the love is over.” True. But luckily when we find a story like this one to love, we get to skip the suffering altogether and just keep floating on feels.

Join us in March for the next K-Movie Night and let’s make a party of it! We’ll be watching Hellcats (2008) and posting the review during the last week of the month.

Want to participate in the comments when it posts? You’ve got 3 weeks to watch! Rather wait for the review before you decide to stream it? We’ve got you covered.