Because I Hate Korea—A restless twenty‑something trades Seoul’s grind for New Zealand’s uneasy freedom
Introduction
The first time I heard the title Because I Hate Korea, I felt that jolt—like someone dared to say the quiet part out loud. Have you ever stood on a subway platform after a long day and thought, “If I don’t change something, I’ll disappear”? This film lives right there, in that fragile space between burnout and a brave, messy restart. I watched Gye‑na, a late‑twenties office worker, tumble out of Korea’s pressure cooker and into New Zealand’s wide sky, and it made me think about the times I’ve scoured a cost of living calculator and daydreamed about a different life. The movie doesn’t hand out answers; it lingers with the tired, the hopeful, the curious—anyone who’s ever wanted to begin again and feared they might still carry themselves wherever they go.
Overview
Title: Because I Hate Korea (한국이 싫어서)
Year: 2023.
Genre: Drama.
Main Cast: Go Ah‑sung, Joo Jong‑hyuk, Kim Woo‑gyeom, Morgan Oey, Kim Ji‑young.
Runtime: 106 minutes.
Streaming Platform: Not currently available on Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, Viki, or Kocowa in the U.S. (availability subject to change).
Director: Jang Kun‑jae.
Overall Story
Gye‑na’s life in Seoul looks “fine” from the outside—steady job, long‑term boyfriend, and a family that’s counting on her—but fine can feel like a slow freeze. Every morning she braves a two‑hour commute from Incheon into the city, watching the winter that chills the Han River creep into her bones. At work, the metrics never stop; at home, the bills and obligations quietly multiply. She looks at her boyfriend Ji‑myung’s comfortable background and feels the awkward math of class tightening around her heart. Even little pleasures—warm meals, a room that isn’t cramped, a night without dread—feel like luxuries. The film’s opening cadence captures a real Korea many young adults recognize: relentless schedules, competition, and a nagging fear that tomorrow won’t be kinder.
When Ji‑myung starts talking about marriage and apartments, the conversation isn’t light or romantic; it’s a spreadsheet. The price of a modest place, the social rules, the family expectations—each number rises like a wall. Gye‑na can’t tell if she’s being practical or if she’s just giving up on herself, and that confusion breeds a quiet fury. Her parents, carrying their own working‑class fatigue, suggest pooling savings, and love sounds a lot like debt. Have you ever felt trapped by a future that’s supposed to be “good for you”? The film lets that claustrophobia seep in, one small compromise at a time.
Then a crack of possibility: a study‑abroad contact points toward New Zealand, where the rules might feel looser and the sky bigger. At a modest counseling office, director Kim Tae‑eun walks Gye‑na through paperwork, test scores, and what it takes to start over without a safety net. The idea sounds both exhilarating and terrifying, the way anyone’s plan looks when you don’t yet know the cost. Gye‑na keeps hearing that she should wait, prepare more, be grateful. But her own quiet voice—tired, clear—says she’ll regret staying. She chooses motion.
At the airport, backpack swallowing her small frame, she makes the sentence that becomes her lifeline: I’ve decided to start anew. The film doesn’t stage this as triumph; it’s uncertain, a step taken on shaky legs. She leaves her job, her family, her boyfriend, and boards anyway, heart racing with a mix of guilt and relief. The camera lingers on the liminal space—gate areas, moving walkways, the pause before liftoff—because that’s where lives turn. And you can feel the question: will any of this make her happy, or just distract her from the ache?
Auckland greets her with wind, part‑time jobs, and the realization that English won’t save you from loneliness. Days are stitched from café shifts, classes, and bus rides where the light looks different but the thoughts feel familiar. She counts small victories—finding an affordable room, buying a second‑hand coat, figuring out the buses—and fends off the sudden costs of visas, a broken phone, and a dental bill that makes her miss national insurance. She learns fast about wiring money home and budgeting for unexpected fees; travel insurance is no longer a travel blog afterthought but a line item you pray you won’t need. When she calculates what’s left each month, even “international money transfer” becomes personal, not a bank banner ad. Anyone who has changed countries knows that the paperwork can feel like another job.
In class and in odd jobs, she meets Jae‑in—a fellow Korean abroad whose energy runs warm where hers runs wary. With him comes a micro‑community of migrants and locals: a patient mentor at school, a barista who shares shifts and tips, and Ricky, an easygoing friend whose stories stretch across islands and seas. They climb hills with views that make the city a jewel, then ride back down to bank emails and overdue readings. The friendship with Jae‑in isn’t a easy romance; it’s a mirror that shows both what’s possible and what Gye‑na is scared to want. He seems to thrive away from Korea’s rules, but she learns that “freedom” looks different for everyone. It’s tender watching her practice wanting things in her own voice.
The film’s structure moves back and forth, refusing to let New Zealand become a fantasy. We visit Gye‑na’s family kitchen, where love tastes like advice and worry, and we see Ji‑myung chase his ambitions across tidy offices and louder parties. These alternating rhythms make her newfound landscape honest—no place is a cure. A haunting current arrives when news of a poorer classmate’s tragic end crosses Gye‑na’s path, the kind of headline that stops your breath and makes you inventory your own choices. Survivor’s guilt is quiet and stubborn; it asks why you got away at all. The movie doesn’t sensationalize it—it lets the grief sit beside the dishes, the emails, the next shift.
There’s a motif you won’t forget: a children’s book about a penguin who hates the cold and journeys south. The parable is simple—you can endure hard things and still choose warmth—and it lands differently depending on the day Gye‑na is having. Some evenings she reads the pages in a borrowed room and believes them; other nights, the words feel like a dare she can’t meet. The film uses this gentle fable to ask whether happiness is a destination or a daily practice. Have you ever held onto a small story like a talisman because the big story of your life felt too heavy? That’s how this book works its way under your skin.
Practical life keeps throwing tasks at her: renewing visas, clarifying credits, negotiating an awkward landlord conversation. She learns to advocate for herself, to ask for a day off without apologizing, to say no when a friend pushes too hard. Meanwhile, messages from home carry news—some proud, some barbed—and Ji‑myung’s certainty begins to look less like security and more like a life that fits him, not her. On nights when the wind smacks the windows, she calculates what a return would mean and whether “student loan refinancing” could buy her enough breathing room to try a different path. Money doesn’t feel like a side plot; it’s the air that characters must breathe to dream at all. The film understands that.
By the final stretch, Gye‑na hasn’t been “fixed,” and that honesty is the movie’s point. She is braver, a touch softer, and more fluent in herself. Korea isn’t the villain, New Zealand isn’t the epiphany, and the heart learns slowly how to want things it was once told were selfish. The last images leave you with motion rather than closure—calls returned, friendships tended, a job application saved to drafts, a walk continued even when the clouds threaten rain. It’s not a tidy arc; it’s a credible one. Watching her choose the next step, you might feel your own breath even out.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Subway That Stole Time: The film opens with Gye‑na’s two‑hour commute, the clatter of early trains and the hush of a city not yet awake. We see the frost on windows and hear her supervisor’s clipped reminders already ringing in her head. The way the camera tracks a sea of winter coats makes her feel both anonymous and watched. It’s not melodramatic; it’s mundane—and that’s why it hurts. Anyone who’s paid in exhaustion will recognize the price.
The Dinner Table Ledger: Ji‑myung’s family talk about apartments like weather—casually, with the power of people who’ve never been rained on. Gye‑na’s own parents, loving and practical, suggest moving money around, and the air turns heavy. The table scene hums with class tension, where affection and obligation are indistinguishable. You can almost hear the calculator keys under the chopsticks. It’s the night she realizes “stable” might be the wrong dream for her.
Gate 29, New Life Boarding: Backpack, passport, and the line that steadies her: “I’ve decided to start anew.” The airport lighting makes everything look clean, but the decision isn’t. She hesitates, then steps forward, a small act that the movie frames as sacred. It’s a scene built for anyone who ever bought a one‑way ticket and hoped the ground would appear. The promise isn’t happiness; it’s agency.
First Jobs, First Storms: In Auckland, she juggles classes and shifts—register beeps, dishwater steam, the clack of keyboards in a shared lab. A sudden expense and a bureaucratic snag remind her that “starting over” comes with invoices. A co‑worker covers a shift when she falters, and Jae‑in teaches her where to find cheap coffee with a view. The montage is tender, not cute; resilience looks like showing up tired and leaving a little less afraid. You feel how money and time dictate the shape of a dream.
The Penguin Book: A children’s story appears—a penguin who hates the cold and swims hard toward warmth—and Gye‑na clings to its simple courage. The scene isn’t message‑y; it’s quiet, the kind of moment where a line meant for kids lands with a thud in an adult chest. She folds the page like a promise. The movie trusts you to connect this to your own talismans: a song, a postcard, a scribble on a receipt. Sometimes a small story keeps you going when the big one wobbles.
News That Changes the Air: Word of a classmate’s tragic end arrives without warning, and the frame holds Gye‑na long enough for the shock to settle. Her grief is complicated—part empathy, part guilt, part fear that she can’t outrun what hurts. The film doesn’t exploit the pain; it lets it braid into her choices afterward. In the quiet that follows, she calls home and says less than she means. You understand why her next step matters so much.
Memorable Lines
“Because I hate Korea.” – Gye‑na, when asked why she’s leaving A blunt answer that’s really a doorway to a deeper question. In context, it’s not an attack but a pressure valve, a way to name the suffocation she feels within rigid expectations. The line also reframes the title: it’s a provocation that pulls you toward the why, not the what. The film then complicates that why by showing how place and self are entangled.
“I’ve decided to start anew.” – Gye‑na, at the airport before boarding It’s not triumphant so much as steadying—self‑talk said aloud. The sentence captures what many of us hope to buy with a plane ticket: not reinvention, but permission. In the film’s pacing, it’s a hinge between fear and action. You feel how small, resolute words can carry a very heavy bag.
“I don’t know. But my daddy wants to go back home. How about you?” – Ha‑jun, a young immigrant Gye‑na meets in New Zealand This child’s answer slices through adult certainty; homesickness can skip generations and still land. The question back to Gye‑na forces her to admit that home is more than a map and less than a guarantee. The exchange distills the film’s central tension: do we choose return, stay, or somewhere in between? It’s both tender and disarming.
“Even small comforts—like not being hungry or cold—matter.” – Gye‑na’s guiding belief The movie frames her pursuit of basic warmth and ease as worthy, not trivial. It’s a quiet rebuttal to a culture that celebrates endurance for endurance’s sake. When she names these needs, she gets closer to a life measured by dignity rather than status. The line is a compass she checks throughout the story.
“As a society, are we making an environment for our young people to pursue their dreams?” – Director Jang Kun‑jae, reflecting on his intent Though spoken off‑screen, the question hums beneath every scene. It invites us to watch Gye‑na not as an outlier, but as a mirror for millions shouldering similar weights. The film’s empathy grows from this inquiry, balancing ambiguity with care. It’s a line that follows you out of the theater and into your own city.
Why It's Special
Because I Hate Korea is the kind of coming-of-age road movie that doesn’t need a car. It begins with a plane ticket, a too-heavy backpack, and a feeling you might recognize: the sudden need to breathe somewhere else. The story tracks Gye-na, a late‑twenties office worker who leaves her job, boyfriend, and family to start over in New Zealand. If you’re watching from the United States, a quick heads‑up: as of November 2025, it isn’t streaming on major U.S. platforms; it is streaming in South Korea on Netflix and on local services like Wavve/TVING/Watcha, and it’s rentable in Japan on U‑NEXT and Amazon. Availability shifts, so add it to your watchlist to be notified when it lands stateside.
Have you ever felt this way—like your life looks “fine” on paper but feels airless in the quiet? The film leans into that ache without melodrama. Director Jang Kun‑jae keeps the camera humble and close, cross‑cutting between Seoul’s compressed routines and Auckland’s wind‑swept openness. That visual rhythm turns Gye‑na’s choice into a heartbeat: leave, return, try again. Critics and the director himself have linked the film’s questions to real social pressures on young Koreans, but its tenderness lands far beyond one country’s borders.
What makes it sing is the lead performance. Go Ah‑sung anchors every frame with a restless, unsentimental honesty—edgy when she needs to be, brittle when she can’t help it. Early festival coverage singled out how her presence gives dramatic ballast to a story that resists big “Oscar clip” moments. You watch Gye‑na think, stall, and pivot; you can almost hear the quiet math of someone re‑budgeting her courage.
Across from her, Joo Jong‑hyuk plays Jae‑in—a friend, a spark, and sometimes a mirror. The film uses him not as a savior but as a counter‑rhythm: proof that the same migration can open one person and unsettle another. Some reviewers called his energy “zany,” but that pulse—half‑reckless, half‑free—keeps the New Zealand chapters from turning into postcard therapy. Have you ever met someone abroad who seemed to be living the version of life you thought you were chasing? The movie understands that envy, too.
Because I Hate Korea is adapted from Chang Kang‑myoung’s bestselling novel, and you can feel the book’s page‑by‑page honesty in how the screenplay favors small decisions over speeches. The title is a provocation; the movie itself is gentler, fascinated by what makes a person stay or go, and by how hope can be both impulsive and methodical. That fidelity to the source—its lived‑in details of work, family budgets, and paperwork—lets the film ask big questions softly.
Tonally, it’s a genre blend: part slice‑of‑life, part migration diary, part late‑bloom bildungsroman. There are jokes you find only when you’re broke in a new country, and quiet devastations that arrive between shifts. The soundtrack underlines that everydayness rather than swelling into catharsis; even the music refuses to tell you what to feel, which makes the emotional payoffs sneakier and more truthful.
Finally, the direction’s greatest grace is its humility. Jang Kun‑jae never forces an epiphany; he lets distance itself do the writing. The result is a film that sits with you afterward like a long layover: you keep replaying the gate numbers, the people you almost talked to, the life you might have boarded. Have you ever wondered if the destination you wanted was really a different version of you?
Popularity & Reception
Because I Hate Korea opened the 28th Busan International Film Festival on October 4, 2023—a coveted slot that instantly put it on the radar of festivalgoers and industry watchers. That choice mattered: amid BIFF’s own tumult that year, the movie’s intimate scale and plainspoken empathy played like a quiet reset, and the packed opening‑night screening sparked conversations about work, mobility, and what we owe our families.
Critical response has been thoughtfully mixed in ways that suit the film’s ambiguity. ScreenDaily praised Go Ah‑sung’s “edgy, restless” turn and the film’s nascent feminist perspective, noting how it resists easy answers. That same lack of neatness irked others; the South China Morning Post found the structure scattershot and some culture‑clash moments stereotypical. Read together, those takes chart the movie’s risk: it trades narrative snap for the messiness of real decisions.
Commercially, it arrived in Korean theaters on August 28, 2024, playing across hundreds of screens before transitioning to streaming at home a few months later. Its box office was modest by tent‑pole standards, but its admissions and long tail on streaming reflect exactly the type of slow‑burn word‑of‑mouth you expect from an indie‑spirited character piece.
On the awards circuit, the film found meaningful recognition. Go Ah‑sung earned a Best Actress nomination and Joo Jong‑hyuk was nominated for Best New Actor at the 45th Blue Dragon Film Awards in 2024, a strong sign of how the performances resonated with Korean critics and guilds. Composer Kwun Hyun‑jung later appeared on Buil Film Awards shortlists, underscoring how the score’s restraint became part of the film’s identity.
Global fandom has engaged with the film’s themes even when access has lagged outside Asia. U.S. and Southeast Asian viewers who caught it at festivals or on imported platforms have shared threads about burnout, diaspora, and the delicate pride of starting from zero. That echo chamber of lived experience—people swapping job‑hunt stories and visa tips under a movie review—might be the truest measure of its reach.
Cast & Fun Facts
Go Ah‑sung plays Gye‑na with the kind of unshowy precision that makes you forget you’re watching a performance. Watch how she shoulders a backpack as if it weighs more on bad days, or how her smile changes at the study‑abroad office depending on whether she’s selling confidence or asking for help. That physical storytelling is why critics singled her out in Busan; she gives the film its spine without ever raising her voice.
Before this, Go was already beloved internationally for The Host and Snowpiercer and had matured into one of Korea’s most quietly daring leads with A Resistance and Samjin Company English Class. You feel that range here: she can radiate stubborn pride one minute and collapse into a laugh the next, like someone who has learned not to apologize for wanting a slightly bigger life.
Joo Jong‑hyuk gives Jae‑in a buoyant looseness that’s equal parts charm and challenge—he’s the friend who says, “Just try,” and means it. In scenes with Gye‑na, he brightens and complicates the air at once, asserting that freedom can be as intimidating as expectation. That tension keeps their bond from drifting into cliché; it feels lived‑in, occasionally off‑beat, and deeply human.
A lovely real‑world echo: Joo studied in New Zealand at Auckland University of Technology, so the film’s expat rhythms fit him like a well‑worn jacket. Many viewers first met him as the polarizing Kwon Min‑woo in Extraordinary Attorney Woo, which makes his open, generous work here an especially satisfying pivot. If you only knew him as the office antagonist, this is a rewarding re‑introduction.
Kim Woo‑gyeom plays Ji‑myeong, the boyfriend Gye‑na leaves behind—a character so often flattened in migration stories. Here he isn’t a villain or a safety net; he’s a full person with timelines, parents, and pride. Kim’s performance gives weight to the idea that sometimes love is real and still not enough to keep two lives aligned.
What lingers about Kim’s work is the aftertaste: you remember the pauses, the small politenesses that start to sound like good‑byes. He embodies a truth many couples face in their late twenties—the moment when “Are we happy?” becomes “Are we the same kind of brave?” and neither answer is wrong.
Kim Ji‑young appears as Kim Tae‑eun, the study‑abroad center director, and she’s pitch‑perfect at that uniquely international mix of helpful and bureaucratic. The way she adjusts her tone between pep talk and policy reminder gives those office scenes an almost documentary crispness.
Across two key encounters, Kim turns paperwork into drama. She’s the film’s reminder that migration isn’t just flights and feelings—it’s forms, fees, and the fragile theater of proving yourself to strangers who hold your future behind a monitor.
For the creative helm, writer‑director Jang Kun‑jae brings the same patient gaze that marked A Midsummer’s Fantasia. Selecting this film as BIFF’s opener was a statement: small, humane stories still lead the cultural conversation. Jang adapts the novel with a diarist’s ear, trusting glances and geography as much as dialogue to chart a young woman’s self‑recalibration.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’ve ever daydreamed about deleting your life and starting fresh, Because I Hate Korea will feel like a hand on your shoulder—and a gentle nudge toward the gate. When it becomes available near you, give it a night and let its quiet courage seep in. And if the film plants a real‑world itch to travel or study abroad, do your homework: look into travel insurance, plan your international money transfer options, and consider a quick consultation with an immigration attorney long before you book. Most of all, let the movie remind you that chasing your own definition of happiness is brave, even when it’s messy.
Comments
Post a Comment