“A Wild Roomer”—A quiet house-share turns into a gently uncanny portrait of strangers learning how to live together
Introduction
The first time I saw the dent, I felt it in my stomach before I saw it with my eyes—maybe because I’ve had that moment too: something tiny goes wrong, and suddenly your whole week tilts. Have you ever felt this way, where a minor hassle (a scraped bumper, a weird knock at the door) becomes the doorway to bigger questions—about money, pride, the people you let in? A Wild Roomer takes that single, absurd problem—a caved‑in car roof—and follows its ripple through a house where boundaries are both carefully designed and constantly crossed. I found myself leaning in, not for jump scares or plot twists, but for the way a look over a partition or a late‑night beer can change who we are to each other. By the end, this gentle film made me feel the kind of intimacy you only get from living near someone long enough to hear their footsteps and know their mood.
Overview
Title: A Wild Roomer (괴인)
Year: 2022
Genre: Drama, Slice‑of‑life, Mystery‑tinged
Main Cast: Park Gil‑hong, Ahn Joo‑min, Jeon Gil, Choi Kyoung‑jun
Runtime: 136 minutes
Streaming Platform: Not currently available on Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, Viki, or Kocowa in the U.S.
Director: Lee Jeong‑hong
Overall Story
Gi‑hong is a self‑employed carpenter in a city that always seems mid‑renovation: apartments, piano academies, offices getting new skins while his own jobs come sporadically. Out of practicality he rents a room from a younger couple, Jeong‑hwan and Hyeon‑jeong, in a cleanly designed house whose “separate entrance” promises privacy that real life can’t quite honor. One afternoon, Gi‑hong notices a deep dent crushed into the roof of his van—no note, no witness, just damage that will cost time, pride, and probably an auto insurance claim he can’t afford to file. The landlord, bored and eager for a project, insists they track down the culprit together, turning neighborliness into a buddy quest that’s both endearing and intrusive. Their first stakeout leads them to a nearby academy construction, where an unknown figure seems to have jumped—or escaped—through a window. From that night on, nothing in the house feels quite aligned, as if the dent bent the geometry of their days.
Jeong‑hwan likes to blur lines: afternoon drinks, half‑joking advice about Gi‑hong’s jobs, casual invitations that linger past dinner. Hyeon‑jeong is warmer but watchful, the kind of partner who keeps a mental ledger of small imbalances—who bought the last bottle, who forgot to lock the gate, who borrowed the drill. When Gi‑hong’s friend and coworker Kyoung‑jun decides to leave town because the gigs have dried up, Gi‑hong’s social gravity shifts even more toward the couple. They talk about the dent like it’s a riddle that will fix other things if solved: their money anxiety, the awkwardness of a tenant becoming a friend, the loneliness people hide behind a well‑curated living room. The mood is low‑key, but a current of unease runs through the house—soft, persistent, like water under floorboards.
One late night, they think they’ve got their man; instead, they meet a young woman named Hana who circles back into their lives. She doesn’t fit anyone’s expectation—not a thug, not a neighbor, not exactly a victim—and that mismatch throws the house’s dynamics off balance. Gi‑hong, who expected a confrontation he could frame as “right vs. wrong,” finds himself offering tea to a restless stranger who seems as in‑between as he is. Hyeon‑jeong studies Hana with a guarded kindness; Jeong‑hwan becomes energized, almost boyish, by the chaos of it all. The film lingers in these small crossings: a shared cigarette on the steps, a laugh carried down a hallway, a silence that feels like the most honest reply.
The house itself becomes a character—the partitions and sliding doors, the separate entrance that never guarantees emotional distance. “Separation and connection” is the interior design concept the film keeps teasing apart: a wall is a comfort until you want company; an open plan is freedom until you need to cry. On slow afternoons, Gi‑hong and Jeong‑hwan get tipsy, their talk pinballing from the dent to dreams neither can afford: a workshop with proper dust collection, a child someday, a trip that stays a screensaver. When Hyeon‑jeong joins, the energy changes: she nudges the conversation back to bills and boundaries, reminding everyone that a home is also a ledger. And quietly, your heart goes out to all three, because they’re good people improvising adulthood with the tools at hand.
As days pass, the dent investigation turns into an excuse for proximity. They revisit the academy at off hours, replaying that first night like an urban legend: “Someone really jumped?” Jeong‑hwan’s performative bravado gets gentler; Gi‑hong’s reserve loosens; Hyeon‑jeong’s caution deepens into curiosity. Hana drifts in and out, balancing on thresholds—sometimes at the kitchen table, sometimes hovering by the door with her backpack on. The film never pushes her into a trope; instead, she reveals how easy it is for a house to absorb a new rhythm and how hard it is to name what that does to the people already there.
When money pressures spike—an unpaid invoice, a tool that needs replacing—Gi‑hong faces choices that feel bigger than they look. Does he ask Jeong‑hwan for a short‑term loan and risk changing the power balance? Does he raise his rent concerns with Hyeon‑jeong, who manages the practicalities? The dent, once a physical problem, becomes a metaphor for the quiet damages they all carry: long hours, hovering debts, the way small slights turn into stories you tell yourself when you can’t sleep. If you’ve ever googled renter’s insurance at 2 a.m. or wondered whether to call a personal injury attorney over “just a ding,” these scenes hum with recognition—how material life pushes emotional life into corners.
Kyoung‑jun’s departure marks a pivot. Without that anchor, Gi‑hong clings more to the house, repairing a loose cabinet door here, sanding a nicked table there, as if maintenance could equal belonging. Hyeon‑jeong, noticing, asks a careful question: are these fixes a tenant’s duty or a friend’s favor? Jeong‑hwan laughs it off, but a new tension sticks: generosity vs. obligation. Hana, sensing the shift, proposes her own strange little penance for the dent, half‑earnest and half‑play, and for a moment everyone chooses to believe that rituals can heal what paperwork can’t.
In one of the film’s loveliest passages, they host a modest dinner—no occasion, just shared hunger. Conversation flits from tattoos to mortgage rates to the ethics of taking freebies from clients. The camera doesn’t barge; it watches from the edge of a doorway, letting feelings float: the intoxication of being known, the fear of being needed. Later, Gi‑hong stands in the yard, listening to the night breathe, and you feel the ache of every temporary address you’ve ever had—the urge to call a place home before it can evict you.
The “mystery” resolves in the most humane way possible: not with a villain unmasked, but with people admitting the limits of certainty and the costs of pride. Apologies are offered, though not always to the right person at first; repairs are made, though not all are visible. The dent may get fixed, but the more important patchwork is emotional—how they speak to each other the next morning, what they no longer joke about, what they finally ask for out loud. It’s quieter than a twist ending, and far more satisfying.
If you love films that watch how we live—how a door left ajar or a beer poured a beat too late can change a day—A Wild Roomer will feel like a friend who stays behind after the party to help you stack plates. It’s also a debut that arrives already decorated: the movie won the New Currents Award at the 27th Busan International Film Festival (alongside India’s Shivamma) and later earned director Lee Jeong‑hong the Best New Director prize at the 60th Baeksang Arts Awards, a remarkable feat for such a whisper‑quiet film.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Crumpled Roof: Gi‑hong’s discovery of the dent is both funny and mortifying—an absurd, almost slapstick image that quietly triggers everything that follows. The camera lingers just long enough for you to feel the cost: not only the money, but the shame of damage you didn’t cause and still have to clean up. It’s a perfect everyday mystery, the kind couples debate over dinner and tenants dread. The scene also plants the film’s theme: small impacts creating long fault lines.
Midnight at the Academy: On their DIY stakeout, the men peer up at dark windows, performing bravery that’s really companionship in disguise. A flash of movement—the figure who leaps away—spikes the mood, not with terror but with possibility. Back home, the story mutates into a legend they retell, each time revealing what they need it to mean. The thrill isn’t the chase; it’s the permission to keep hanging out.
Afternoon Beers, Open Plans: A long, loose scene of Gi‑hong and Jeong‑hwan day‑drinking maps the house’s design onto their friendship; partitions keep shifting, and so do the rules. Their tipsy warmth is equal parts bond and boundary problem, and when Hyeon‑jeong joins, the temperature changes by a few unmistakable degrees. You feel how architecture and alcohol can collaborate in both intimacy and misunderstanding.
Hana at the Threshold: Hana’s first unhurried entrance rewrites the house’s rhythm. She hovers near the door, half turned to leave, and somehow becomes the mirror each character uses to examine themselves—host, roommate, maybe rescuer. Instead of categorizing her, the film lets her presence complicate everyone else’s portrait. It’s a scene about seeing and being seen without turning a person into a plot device.
The DIY Repairs: Gi‑hong fixing a cabinet hinge or sanding a scarred table plays like a confession. His craft is the language he speaks best, and these micro‑repairs are apologies, requests, and claims all at once. The work is humble and tactile, and the sound of wood under paper carries more emotion than a speech ever could.
Dinner Without an Occasion: A simple meal becomes the film’s emotional summit—stories are traded, tiny grievances surface and are soothed, and someone laughs a beat too loud. Topics jump from renter’s insurance to dreams that sound like Pinterest boards and back to the dent again, because every house needs a myth. The last shot lingers just long enough to make you feel like you were at the table too.
Memorable Lines
“It’s just a dent, but it’s my car.” – Gi‑hong, half joking, half wounded (approximate translation) The line captures working‑class pride and the precariousness of freelancing; a vehicle is livelihood, not a toy. It also reframes the mystery as personal rather than procedural. From here on, every choice he makes has a little more skin in the game.
“Walls are supposed to protect you, but they also make echoes.” – Hyeon‑jeong, looking at the house (approximate translation) She’s talking about interior design, but she’s also describing marriage and money. Her practical tone softens just enough to show the tenderness underneath. That duality is the heartbeat of the film.
“Let’s find whoever did it—then let’s have a drink.” – Jeong‑hwan, playing detective and host at once (approximate translation) It’s bravado as hospitality, a promise that the chase is really about camaraderie. The humor makes him lovable; the neediness makes him real. You sense why Gi‑hong can’t resist tagging along.
“I didn’t jump to be seen. I jumped to leave.” – Hana, quietly disarming the men’s story (approximate translation) With one admission, she flips the narrative from crime to escape. The emotional weather shifts; the house becomes refuge instead of courtroom. It’s also the moment Gi‑hong starts listening more than fixing.
“Some damages you report; some you repair by staying.” – Gi‑hong, deciding what home means (approximate translation) The film’s thesis lands softly here: relationships are maintenance. It’s less about justice than about choosing one another in the aftermath. And it’s why the ending feels earned without any grand reveal.
Why It's Special
If you’ve ever drifted through someone else’s home and wondered where your space ends and theirs begins, A Wild Roomer is the kind of film that taps that exact, uneasy feeling. Following Gi-hong, a cash‑strapped carpenter who rents a room from a young couple, the movie unfurls like a lazy afternoon that keeps tipping into the uncanny. For U.S. viewers: as of November 2025, A Wild Roomer isn’t streaming on major American platforms, but it has been playing at specialty cinemas and festivals, and it’s available in South Korea on wavve; keep an eye out for repertory bookings like the ICA’s recent London screenings.
The film’s quiet magnetism comes from its direction: Lee Jeong‑hong resists easy genre labels while staging everyday moments with the tension of a near‑miss thriller. A dent in a van roof becomes a breadcrumb, a conversation over soju becomes a confession—or maybe a dare. The closer Gi-hong gets to his amiable landlord, the more the house itself begins to feel like a character with shifting boundaries.
What makes A Wild Roomer special is how it holds the line between slice‑of‑life and slow‑burn mystery. Lee draws out the comedy of aimless afternoons and the melancholy of work that never quite pays, all while teasing a thread of strangeness you can’t shake. Have you ever felt this way—like the day is ordinary, yet every shadow has a story?
The writing leans into ambiguity without becoming coy. Scenes that might launch a conventional whodunit instead become opportunities to notice how people perform good manners, how friendship can tilt into need, and how desire is often disguised as generosity. The film is less concerned with answers and more with the breath before a decision.
Tonally, it’s a gently woozy hangout movie infused with social realism—a mood piece that trusts the audience to sit with uncertainty. The humor is dry, born from small frictions: a borrowed tool that never returns, a room whose door is always just slightly ajar. By the time the film reaches its piercing final minutes, the emotional payoff feels both inevitable and quietly shocking.
Cinematography keeps returning to thresholds—stairwells, sliding doors, the seam where a hallway turns into a living room. Those lines echo the film’s central question: are we guests, tenants, or interlopers in each other’s lives? The house is modern and airy, but the camera finds corners where generosity curdles and affection oversteps.
And then there’s the rhythm: long takes, gentle cuts, and an almost musical patience. Lee’s background in shorts shows in his precision; he lets scenes breathe, then trims them just before comfort becomes complacency. It’s storytelling that respects the mundane while inviting us to read every glance like a clue.
Popularity & Reception
A Wild Roomer arrived with a quiet splash that grew into a genuine festival moment. At the 27th Busan International Film Festival, it took the top New Currents Award (shared with Shivamma) and went on to win additional prizes, including the NETPAC Award, Critic b Award, and the KBS Independent Film Award—an unusual sweep for such an unassuming film.
The film’s reputation kept building in 2024 when Lee Jeong‑hong won Best New Director at the Baeksang Arts Awards, a bellwether for emerging Korean filmmakers. That recognition reframed the movie for many international viewers: not just a modest indie, but a milestone first feature with staying power.
Critics embraced its “hangout” electricity and structural daring. Festival writers noted how the film deliberately sidesteps thriller payoffs to mirror the messiness of real life, a choice that both unsettles and disarms. The FIPRESCI report from Busan captured the tension perfectly: it’s “difficult to explain,” yet deeply resonant.
Beyond critics, global fandom discovered the movie through festival circuits and community platforms. Letterboxd threads brim with polarized, passionate takes—some viewers call it beguiling and quietly devastating; others find its meandering honesty bracingly true to life. That range of reaction is part of its appeal.
Screenings at events like the London Korean Film Festival and Hong Kong Asian Film Festival strengthened word‑of‑mouth, introducing A Wild Roomer to audiences who crave character‑first storytelling. This is how contemporary Korean indies travel: one curated screen, one late‑night conversation at a time.
Cast & Fun Facts
Park Gil‑hong anchors the film as Gi‑hong, the carpenter whose decency is as visible as his drift. Park plays him with unshowy precision—the kind of performance that makes a character feel discovered rather than invented. Watch how his posture changes when he’s working versus when he’s hanging out; it’s a subtle ledger of pride, shame, and longing.
In his quieter scenes, Park Gil‑hong lets silence do the heavy lifting. A glance at the damaged van roof, a pause before accepting another drink, a half‑smile that dissolves at the mention of money—each is a breadcrumb leading us into Gi‑hong’s inner life. It’s a performance that rewards patience and, ultimately, breaks your heart.
Ahn Ju‑min as Jeong‑hwan, the landlord, is the film’s charming riddle. He’s easy to like—funny, idling, a little too available—and Ahn plays him as a man who performs intimacy without fully owning its cost. The boundary between hospitality and hunger blurs whenever he’s on screen.
Look closer and Ahn Ju‑min turns Jeong‑hwan’s friendliness into a litmus test: how much of generosity is about the giver’s loneliness? There’s a gentle menace in his warmth—not dangerous, but destabilizing—and that makes every shared drink feel like a dare.
Jeon‑gil (credited in some materials as Kim Jeon‑gil) plays Hyeon‑jeong, the landlord’s wife, with a grace that redefines “supporting.” Her stillness is expressive; the way she moves through rooms suggests a person who has already measured every compromise in the house. Jeon’s presence reframes scenes without a word.
When tensions rise, Jeon‑gil never overplays. A small tilt of the head or a pause at the threshold becomes the film’s moral compass. You feel the weight of what she doesn’t say, and that restraint gives the ending its lingering ache.
Lee Gi‑ppeum threads through the story as a kind of social hinge—one of those acquaintances who make a home feel porous, where private and public lives bleed together. She embodies the film’s theme of “separation and connection,” brightening rooms while complicating loyalties.
In a few deft scenes, Lee Gi‑ppeum reveals how small acts—an invitation, a handoff, a passing comment—can redraw a map of intimacy. Her performance gives the house new angles, reminding us that spaces are defined as much by who passes through as who stays.
A note on the filmmaker: Lee Jeong‑hong wrote and directed this debut feature after a decorated run in shorts, and he edits with a confidence that lets sequences exhale before they tighten. The result is a film that feels both casually lived‑in and meticulously shaped—and the industry noticed, crowning him Best New Director at the 60th Baeksang Arts Awards following a prize‑laden Busan premiere.
Fun fact: the movie’s festival life has been unusually robust for such a minimalist drama—from Busan’s New Currents win to prominent slots at the London Korean Film Festival and Hong Kong Asian Film Festival—proof that audiences across continents recognize the thrill of a story that whispers rather than shouts.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
A Wild Roomer is the rare film that leaves you walking more softly through your own home, listening for the echoes between rooms. If you’re in the United States, keep watch for festival pop‑ups and limited engagements; until it lands on one of the best streaming services here, those screenings are worth the trip. If you legally access Korean platforms, a stable connection with the best VPN for streaming can make international viewing smoother. And when it does arrive near you, don’t hesitate to buy movie tickets online—this one rewards a big screen and a quiet crowd.
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