“Killing Romance”—A neon‑bright musical caper where a fallen star plots freedom with her fanboy next door
Introduction
The first time I watched Killing Romance, I felt like someone shook a snow globe full of glitter, bad decisions, and pure heart—and then dared me to look away. Have you ever rooted for a heroine not just to survive a relationship, but to reclaim her own voice, even if it means staging the most unhinged rescue mission? I laughed at the audacity, then winced at the bruises vanity can leave, and somewhere in between I remembered how hard it is to say, “I miss myself.” This movie doesn’t ask you to suspend disbelief; it grabs your hand and sprints into a world where ostriches have vendettas and sauna battles count as strategy. If you’ve ever felt trapped by other people’s expectations, the film’s off‑kilter joy will feel like oxygen.
Overview
Title: Killing Romance (킬링 로맨스)
Year: 2023
Genre: Musical comedy, romantic satire, dark comedy
Main Cast: Lee Hanee (Honey Lee), Lee Sun‑kyun, Gong Myoung
Runtime: 106 minutes
Streaming Platform: Not currently streaming on Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, Viki, or Kocowa in the United States (checked November 24, 2025).
Director: Lee Won‑suk
Overall Story
Hwang Yeo‑rae used to be the kind of face that sold sodas, sunglasses, and dreams—the grinning center of billboards people posed under on their way to the subway. Then a critically panned movie made her a punchline, and the online chorus turned her catchphrase against her. Have you ever wanted to disappear after a public mistake? Yeo‑rae does exactly that, fleeing to a sun‑splashed South Pacific island called Qualla, where a self‑made real‑estate tycoon named Jonathan Na sweeps her into a whirlwind courtship. His world gleams like platinum, the kind of life built on private jets, curated charities, and the illusion that credit card rewards can buy happiness. The wedding snaps look perfect; the marriage becomes a gilded cage.
Back in Seoul, Jonathan’s empire is everywhere—ad campaigns, smug slogans, even themed ventures that treat nature like an accessory. He’s controlling in a way that hides behind compliments and “good advice,” always calibrating Yeo‑rae’s weight, wardrobe, and words. If you’ve ever been loved for your image instead of your insides, you’ll recognize how tight that mask can feel. Yeo‑rae stops working, stops laughing, and starts speaking more softly around a man whose favorite mirrors are other people’s eyes. That’s when the neighbor kid notices—the one who has never stopped being her fan. His name is Kim Beom‑woo, a three‑time test‑taker stuck between cram schools and expectations, and he recognizes a different kind of exam happening next door: what will it take for his idol to be herself again?
Their conspiratorial friendship begins the way many saving graces do—small. A passed note. A whispered plan. A paper plane with a plea instead of homework equations. Beom‑woo, who should be memorizing lists for a test, starts drafting increasingly absurd strategies to help Yeo‑rae break free. The movie treats these brainstorms like musical numbers of mischief: charts, costumes, rehearsal montages that make failure look fabulous and courage feel possible. Have you ever needed someone to believe in your comeback before you could? That’s Beom‑woo’s role—fan, accomplice, mirror.
The first assassination scheme is darkly comic: an allergy ambush built around Jonathan’s culinary vanity. When it fizzles, the duo pivots to a plan that could only happen in Korea—a jjimjilbang “sweat‑off,” challenging Jonathan to sauna himself into oblivion with absurd macho pride. The set piece is hot, hysterical, and terrifying, packed with neon towels and pounding heartbeats. At the crucial second, Beom‑woo can’t cross the final line. He saves Jonathan, exposing the paradox at the heart of their caper: some people are too kind to kill, even when the world would cheer. Jonathan, not knowing his rescuer is the enemy, extends a perverse sort of friendship.
Yeo‑rae’s despair deepens, but so does her resolve. Jonathan’s latest obsession is a Qualla‑themed park—progress photographs, investment decks, bright renderings that pretend mortgage rates obey willpower. The satire here is razor‑edged: a billionaire who sells safety with travel insurance jingles and aspirational ads, while strip‑mining the soul of the place he claims to love. As construction tears up habitats—yes, even for ostriches—Yeo‑rae sees the truth she married: he markets paradise while turning it into product. She decides on a final goodbye to Beom‑woo, planning to vanish to the island with Jonathan if she can’t reclaim herself. The boy who believed in her can’t accept that ending.
Beom‑woo follows Yeo‑rae to Qualla on a rescue mission powered more by heart than logistics. His courage is scrappy, his timing awful, and the island feels rigged in Jonathan’s favor—security, cameras, and nature itself rearranged for spectacle. There’s a harrowing cliff moment that plays like a fairy‑tale inversion: a princess leaping for freedom without a prince to catch her. Even then, the trap tightens. When escape fails, the story folds back to Seoul for the grand opening of Jonathan’s vanity project, a media circus designed to scrub his image and polish Yeo‑rae’s smile into submission. In the crowd: a handful of die‑hard fans clutching old lightsticks and newer hopes.
On that stage, the movie’s musical heart swells. A few voices start singing—off‑key but on‑time, offering Yeo‑rae a bridge back to herself. The anthem the fans wrote years ago becomes a lifeline now, reminding her she is more than the worst headline or the prettiest puppet. Have you ever needed a roomful of strangers to tell you who you were before the world went loud? The choreography of chaos that follows is deliriously specific to this film: stage‑crashers, security scuffles, a villain lunging for control. And then the impossible punch line—an ostrich arrives with the blunt force of karma. Jonathan is literally carried off by the consequences of his own hubris.
After the storm, Killing Romance lets out a long, restorative breath. Yeo‑rae steps toward acting again, not as a headline, but as a human being who has paid a price and found her range. Beom‑woo doesn’t become a different person overnight; the movie respects the reality that exam culture and family pressure don’t vanish because you did one brave thing. Yet the bond between them—idol and fan turned co‑conspirators—has changed both trajectories. In a culture that often treats fame like a contract and fans like a wallet, their friendship insists on something tenderer: recognition. If you’ve ever been saved by someone seeing you clearly, the ending lands with a smile and a swallow.
There’s even a cheeky post‑credits sting: Jonathan, sunburned and pathetic, bobbing in open water, calling for help that doesn’t come. It’s a cartoon comeuppance that fits a cartoon tyrant, a reminder that ego has a shelf life. The movie never asks us to cheer for death, only for distance—from the person who shrinks you and the stories that keep you small. As a global viewer, I loved how the film folds Korean specifics (jjimjilbangs, fan club culture, CSAT pressure) into universal beats about owning your narrative. It’s wild, yes, but it’s also wise. And when its glitter settles, what remains is the courage to say: I choose me.
Finally, a quick note on access: the film premiered in North America as the opening night selection of the New York Asian Film Festival 2023, and its festival life helped spark the cult love it enjoys today—even as U.S. streaming remains elusive. If you’re used to one‑click viewing, you might sigh, but sometimes the movies that change you ask for a little effort to find them. That search is worth it here because the destination is a reminder that joy can be defiantly handmade. And if a billionaire’s branding ever made you feel less than, this movie’s gleeful takedown is better than any ad campaign. I walked away humming, grinning, and a little braver.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Qualla Proposal: Jonathan’s courtship of Yeo‑rae unfolds like a pop musical on a private island—sun flare, synchronized staff, and a serenade that feels too perfect to be real. The spectacle sells safety, the kind you’re told you can guarantee with luxury, travel insurance, and enough curated sunsets. It’s intoxicating because it answers the exact shame Yeo‑rae carries after her flop. But excess always asks a price: she mistakes control for care. This moment plants the seed for every later escape attempt.
The Jjimjilbang Sweat‑Off: Only this movie could turn a bathhouse into a battleground. Wrapped in pastel towels, Jonathan transforms macho stubbornness into a lethal flaw as he accepts a ridiculous challenge to “out‑sweat” his enemies. The scene is outrageous and anxious at once, cross‑cutting between pounding pulses and comedic asides. When Beom‑woo yanks him back from the brink, we learn who the kid really is: brave, but not cruel. Yeo‑rae’s freedom stays complicated—and real.
Paper Planes and Practice Runs: Before any “real” plan, Beom‑woo’s drafts feel like home videos of two people remembering how to hope. They test prop weapons, stage pratfalls, and rehearse lines they can’t quite say straight. The paper plane that sails across their shared courtyard carries more than ink; it carries permission to dream beyond survival. Have you ever called yourself back to life with a small ritual? That’s what these rehearsals become for Yeo‑rae.
Allergy Night at Dinner: The second scheme tries to weaponize Jonathan’s vanity—his performative palate, his need to be the most interesting eater in any room. What starts as slapstick turns tense as timing misfires and guilt floods in. Beom‑woo’s eyes say what his hands won’t do. Yeo‑rae realizes that revenge, by itself, can’t restore a voice. The plan fails, but the clarity it offers succeeds.
Theme‑Park Opening, Fan‑Club Chorus: At the grand launch of Jonathan’s Qualla project, branding and brute force collide with a handful of fans singing Yeo‑rae’s old anthem. The sound is imperfect and powerful—patchy harmony that cuts through corporate PA reverb. As the crowd swells, you can feel a culture’s heartbeat: fans as archivists of who you were before the world got loud. The moment is a love letter to community in an industry that treats community like a metric. It’s also the bridge to the wildest punch line.
The Ostrich’s Revenge: You’ll never forget the image: a furious ostrich, displaced by the very project Jonathan weaponized for clout, swooping into a media scrum like nature’s class‑action suit. It’s comic justice that feels earned, not cheap. The movie’s environmental gag becomes a moral one—extractive love, extractive business, same ending. Everyone freezes, then gasps, then laughs, which is exactly how healing often arrives. It’s absurd, and it’s perfect.
Post‑Credits Talk to No One: Jonathan bobbing in the open sea, phoning a bodyguard who cannot hear him, is the final deflation of a man who mistook attention for affection. The ocean is quiet in a way his brand never was. If the earlier scenes are candy, this is the palate cleanser—a cool, salty truth. Power can be loud, but consequence is patient. The world goes on without your slogan.
Memorable Lines
"It's Goooood!" – Jonathan Na, purring his personal brand like a spell On the surface it’s a harmless catchphrase; underneath it’s a cue for everyone to applaud on command. Each time he says it, Yeo‑rae shrinks a little, as if the room’s oxygen belongs to him. The line becomes a leash, packaging control as charisma. When the crowd finally stops echoing it back, you feel the leash snap.
"Yeo‑rae! Yeo‑rae!" – Her fan club, turning a chant into a lifeline What begins as nostalgic noise becomes a communal vote for her freedom. The chant’s repetition is the opposite of Jonathan’s slogan; it’s not a brand, it’s belonging. You can hear the years in it—posters pinned, savings spent, voices cracked. In that chorus, a woman recognizes herself again.
"I'm your biggest fan." – Kim Beom‑woo, confessing the devotion that becomes courage It sounds like a cliché until you watch him risk grades, face, and future to stand beside her. The line reframes “fan” from consumer to caretaker, from customer to co‑author. In a city where success is often measured by test scores, his care is its own kind of top score. He doesn’t save her; he reminds her she can save herself.
"I want to act again." – Yeo‑rae, whispering a promise to herself She doesn’t say it loud or with perfect timing; she just lets the sentence exist. That’s the bravest part—naming a desire others mocked until she believed them. The declaration reshapes every plot beat that follows. When a story gives you back your verb, you’re already halfway free.
"Thank you." – Jonathan to Beom‑woo, after the jjimjilbang rescue The politeness is chilling because it’s so sincere; tyrants don’t recognize their own breaking points. This moment threads dread into the comedy—kindness creating new complications. Beom‑woo’s mercy forces the plot to grow a conscience. The movie honors that choice without letting it become an excuse.
Why It's Special
Killing Romance opens like a pop-up storybook and then gleefully rips a page. Before we dive in, a quick note on where to watch: as of November 24, 2025, it isn’t on a major subscription streamer in the United States; it does stream on Netflix in select regions, and it has appeared on Movistar Plus+ in Spain. U.S. viewers should keep an eye on digital storefronts (Amazon, Apple TV) and specialty screenings and festivals that continue to program it for cult crowds. If you’ve ever chased down an offbeat gem because friends wouldn’t stop talking about it, you’ll recognize the energy here.
From its first candy-colored frames, the movie signals that it will dance between genres: musical numbers, screwball plotting, and a fairytale’s “once upon a time” told with vaudevillian swagger. Director Lee Won-suk leans into a playful, theatrical style—flat, stage-like backdrops one minute, exuberant choreography the next—inviting us to laugh at the artifice while still caring deeply about the people inside it. Have you ever felt this way, caught between giggles and a lump in your throat during the same scene?
At its core is a story about a woman reclaiming her voice after a dazzling marriage turns out to be a gilded cage. The movie understands the intoxicating pull of romance-as-spectacle—and the cost of being choreographed by someone else’s idea of happiness. When its heroine decides to plot an escape with the help of a devoted superfan, the film becomes a hilarious ode to fandom as lifeline. It’s sweet, a little dangerous, and weirdly tender.
Killing Romance is also a sensory feast. The production design bathes every set in pop hues, and the costuming turns character beats into wearable punchlines. That flair isn’t just for show: the film won Best Costume Design at the 59th Grand Bell Awards, a nod that validates how its visual wit strengthens the story’s emotional beats.
The soundtrack works like a time capsule and a wink. One earworm is a cheeky transformation of Rain’s 2008 hit “Rainism” into “Yeoraeism”—re-recorded by Rain himself for the film—so the song fits the heroine’s arc with perfect, tongue-in-cheek bravado. It’s the kind of musical gag that sticks in your head and also deepens the character’s mythology, a pop anthem turned personal battle cry.
Tonally, the movie balances dark laughs with a surprisingly empathetic look at control and gaslighting. Jonathan Na—the preening, mustachioed tycoon-husband—struts through scenes like the showman of his own circus, and the more he demands that everyone be “happy,” the more the film exposes how oppressive that demand can be. It’s audacious, but the audacity has purpose.
And when the caper kicks in, the genre blend clicks: musical crescendos heighten the heist-y absurdity, slapstick undercuts dread, and moments of sincerity peek through confetti. Killing Romance makes a persuasive case that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is turn life back into your own show—and then bring the house down.
Popularity & Reception
Killing Romance had a modest domestic run in April 2023, but something unusual happened next: word-of-mouth from meme-ready moments and its audacious tone helped it rebound from early skepticism and develop genuine cult momentum in Korea. Viewers who initially said “What did I just watch?” found themselves humming its tunes days later—and returning for repeat viewings. Even the film’s own team joked about how the “cracked egg” rating on CGV’s audience score eventually turned golden again.
That grassroots buzz crossed borders when the movie opened the New York Asian Film Festival on July 14, 2023, instantly positioning it as a conversation-starter for North American audiences who love bold, unclassifiable cinema. The festival embraced its “camera-drunk comic fantasia” spirit, and Q&As with the cast and director amplified the sense of a discovery worth championing.
Critics outside Korea responded enthusiastically to its go-for-broke style. On Rotten Tomatoes, the film sits with an all-positive critics score from its early international reviews, reflecting how its heightened theatricality, big-hearted lead turn, and genre anarchy created an irresistible package for festival reviewers and niche outlets alike.
Accolades followed. NYAFF honored star Lee Hanee with its Best from the East Award, praising her “absolutely dazzling” comedic performance—an acknowledgment that this isn’t merely a quirky curio but a showcase for first-rate screen work. That recognition helped cement the film as a standout of the 2023 festival season.
Back home, craft recognition arrived at one of Korea’s most prestigious ceremonies: the Grand Bell Awards. Best Costume Design went to Yoon Jung-hee for her work on Killing Romance, a validation of how the film’s look—those wild silhouettes and punchy textures—does heavy narrative lifting. Combined with Lee Hanee’s 2024 Baeksang Best Actress nomination, the movie’s reception forms a neat triangle of fandom love, critical praise, and industry respect.
Cast & Fun Facts
The movie belongs, first and last, to Lee Hanee as Hwang Yeo-rae. She plays the former superstar with a luminous mix of comic timing and pathos, toggling between swaggering stage presence and the quiet ache of a woman told to smile on cue. Watching her reclaim that voice—sometimes literally, in show-stopping numbers—feels like the film’s emotional thesis set to a beat that never stops pulsing.
Beyond this film, Lee Hanee has long been a force, and 2023 made her impossible to ignore internationally. NYAFF’s Best from the East Award praised her comic bravura here; then, in 2024, she earned a Baeksang Best Actress nomination for the same role. Those nods frame Killing Romance not just as a fun ride but as a career milestone that captures the full range of her star power.
Opposite her, Lee Sun-kyun goes gloriously big as Jonathan Na, a narcissist whose hunger for attention metastasizes into cruelty. He plays Jonathan like a one-man variety show—singing, strutting, even weaponizing a theme song—so that every entrance feels like an unwelcome parade. The villain is hilarious until he isn’t, and that turn is where Lee’s performance lands its most bruising laughs.
What makes Lee Sun-kyun’s work particularly fascinating is how different it is from his stoic gravitas in titles like Parasite. In interviews around release, he described the thrill of embracing a character this exaggerated and “unreasonable,” finding freedom in the absurdity. Seeing him delight in the physical comedy—right down to the infamous sauna sequence—adds another layer of mischievous joy to the film.
As the devoted neighbor and superfan, Gong Myung gives the movie its beating heart. His Beom-woo is all elbows and sincerity, the kind of earnest conspirator whose belief in his idol becomes her ladder out of a pit. The role lets him flip from gawky physical comedy to quiet, unwavering loyalty, and those small grace notes make the movie’s wildest swings land.
For audiences who know him from Extreme Job or Hansan: Rising Dragon, Gong Myung’s performance here feels like an evolution—still affable, but edged with a sweetness that sneaks up on you. NYAFF’s own notes celebrated how his versatility anchors the film’s tonal zigzags, and you can feel that every time the plot threatens to fly away like a loose balloon and he tethers it back to feeling.
Then there’s Bae Yoo-ram, whose presence as Lee Young-chan adds a wonderfully oddball tempo to scenes that might otherwise play as straightforward caper. He’s the kind of performer who can sell a sideways glance as a punchline, helping the movie stretch jokes past the point where most comedies would stop—only to find a bigger laugh waiting.
If you’ve seen Bae Yoo-ram steal moments in other projects, you’ll recognize the craft: he keeps the film’s cartoon logic humming, a supporting turn that behaves like comedic glue. In a movie built on audacity, his unshowy precision is one reason the third-act fireworks feel earned rather than arbitrary.
A special shoutout to Shim Dal-gi, who lends impish charm as Bo-ri (and, delightfully, the ostrich’s voice). It’s an example of how even the smallest roles are calibrated for maximum whimsy—voice, timing, and a sly wink that makes the movie’s menagerie feel part of a living, breathing pop universe.
Elsewhere, Oh Jung-se turns a sauna-owner cameo into a comedic exclamation point, reminding us why he’s one of Korea’s most reliably surprising character actors. The scene’s improvisatory feel—something the team has reminisced about—gives the film one of its most rewatchable set pieces.
Behind the curtain, director Lee Won-suk and screenwriter Park Jeong-ye craft a “be-careful-what-you-wish-for” fable with Broadway brass and K-pop sparkle. Lee’s playful, theatrical staging invites us to treat the film like a live show; Park’s script threads that playfulness through a story about autonomy and adoration. And yes, that cheeky “Yeoraeism” needle drop happened because Rain re-recorded his own “Rainism” for the film—a behind-the-scenes gift that doubles as character lore.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you crave a film that can make you laugh, wince, and cheer in the space of one chorus, Killing Romance is your next late-night watch. Keep an eye on availability if you’re in the U.S., and when you do press play, give yourself the gift of a cozy home theater system and dimmed lights so the colors and music can take over. It’s the rare cult crowd-pleaser that also rewards close attention—ideal for anyone comparing the best streaming service for movies or planning a rewatch when those 4K TV deals hit. Have you ever felt this way, finishing a movie and wanting to live in its soundtrack for a week?
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