Love Reset—A screwball, second-chance romance that turns amnesia into a love dare
Introduction
The first time I watched Love Reset, I felt that tingling ache you get when a relationship you thought was over suddenly flickers back to life. Have you ever looked at someone you loved and wondered, “If we met today, would we choose each other again?” This movie traps that question in a joyous bottle and shakes it until the cork flies. Directed by Nam Dae‑joong and starring Kang Ha‑neul and Jung So‑min, the 2023 film clocks a brisk 119 minutes—and it’s streaming on Viki in the U.S., which makes it the perfect weeknight watch when you need laughter with your feelings.
Love Reset doesn’t ask you to decode metaphors; it invites you to root for two messy, lovable people trying to remember why they said “I do.” Watch it because it reminds you that sometimes the bravest thing isn’t remembering the past—it’s choosing the present, together.
Overview
Title: Love Reset (30일)
Year: 2023
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Main Cast: Kang Ha‑neul, Jung So‑min, Kim Sun‑young, Jo Min‑su
Runtime: 119 minutes
Streaming Platform: Viki
Director: Nam Dae‑joong
Overall Story
They meet like a rom‑com should: sparks, banter, and the heady rush that turns ordinary sidewalks into runways for destiny. Noh Jeong‑yeol is a bright, competitive lawyer who has learned to armor his heart with logic, and Hong Na‑ra is a spirited film producer who believes love should feel like a scene she’d be proud to shoot. Their families, with their clashing values and class anxieties, think the pairing is a terrible idea—but the couple pushes ahead, promising to be the exception. Early on, we see their chemistry spill over into the kind of small, electric gestures that make new love feel invincible. Have you ever been so sure of someone that other people’s doubts sound like static? That’s where Jeong‑yeol and Na‑ra begin: two people convinced that courage and tenderness will be enough.
Two years later, the cuteness has curdled into constant sparring. Jeong‑yeol’s pride bristles at the wealth and confidence of Na‑ra’s family, and Na‑ra resents how Jeong‑yeol turns every fight into a closing argument. Their households circle like wary cats, in‑law expectations amplifying tiny misunderstandings into wars over holidays, favors, and status. At work, Na‑ra navigates a minefield of gossip and suspicion, while Jeong‑yeol finds himself grinding longer hours just to feel worthy. The home they built together becomes a place for tallying grievances instead of sharing meals. When you start keeping score in love, is the game already over? They think so; they head to court to file for divorce.
Korea’s system imposes a 30‑day deliberation window before a divorce is finalized—a legal “cooling‑off period” designed to slow down irreversible choices. The film borrows its title and propulsive timeline from that rule, compressing emotion into a month where choices matter more than memories. As they leave the courthouse with the clock officially ticking, they slip into an argument as familiar as breathing. A sudden traffic accident interrupts everything, wiping away not just their fight but the very history that produced it.
When both wake up with amnesia, it’s as if their marriage has been erased by a cosmic backspace. Doctors advise them to resume their routines to jog memory, which means sharing space while their families handle paperwork and worry in the background. Jeong‑yeol’s mother sees a chance to rescue her son from a mismatch; Na‑ra’s father sees a chance to enforce a breakup he never wanted to bless in the first place. Yet without the barnacles of past resentments, Jeong‑yeol and Na‑ra rediscover in each other the very charm that once felt irresistible. They laugh at the same odd things; they reach for water at the same time; their bodies lean in before they even realize it. Have you ever felt your heart remember what your mind forgot?
The families, panicked that the pair is re‑falling in love, decide to “help” by fast‑tracking the memory recovery that would make the divorce inevitable. Their schemes range from awkward photo dumps to orchestrated confrontations, each designed to provoke recall of the worst arguments. Jeong‑yeol and Na‑ra, now free of their bitterness, experience these staged interventions as intrusive and weirdly comical. The film mines huge laughs from mismatched agendas: parents staging “gotcha” moments, friends delivering overcaffeinated pep talks, and a doctor who seems both amused and invested in the experiment. Without the burden of being right, the couple starts being curious. And curiosity, the movie suggests, is just love with its guard down.
As days pass, we watch them practice ordinary kindness: slow breakfasts, shared commutes, gentle ribbing after small victories. Jeong‑yeol’s lawyerly sharpness softens; he notices the way Na‑ra edits late into the night and leaves encouraging notes for junior staff. Na‑ra, who once saw Jeong‑yeol as stubborn, now admires how he fights for clients who can’t speak for themselves. There’s a beautiful mundanity to their middle stretch—proof that stability can be as romantic as grand gestures. The movie respects routines: they are how we say “I love you” when the fireworks fade. Have you ever realized that the quiet way someone hands you a coat is a love letter?
Because this is a screwball romance, the truth refuses to stay asleep. Stray details trigger little memory sparks: a broken mug, an inside joke that lands too easily, a song that makes them go still. The audience senses a turn, and the script tightens the screws just enough to make that turn hurt. When the first harsh memory surfaces—something petty, but sticky—their faces show the shock of realizing they’ve hurt each other before. The re‑emerging past pushes against the tender present, and suddenly their 30‑day deadline feels like a guillotine. Will they cling to the fresh start, or surrender to the gravity of who they were?
The families’ interventions crescendo into a farcical “truth bomb” dinner where receipts, texts, and misunderstandings get dumped like confetti. It’s funny until it isn’t—until Jeong‑yeol sees how his pride looked from Na‑ra’s side, and Na‑ra sees how her sarcasm landed as contempt. The movie never excuses bad behavior, but it frames it as what happens when fear shouts louder than love. In a sly nod to modern life, a relative even suggests calling a divorce attorney the minute the memories are fully back, as if legal certainty could substitute for emotional clarity. That line stings because it’s plausible; when we feel unsafe, we reach for experts faster than we reach for each other.
On day 29, they finally talk without the courtroom in their voices. Jeong‑yeol admits that class shame made him argumentative; Na‑ra admits that exhaustion made her cutting. They grieve the marriage they nearly lost, and they laugh at how much energy they spent “winning” instead of listening. The conversation feels like marriage counseling without the office—two people practicing accountability as if it were a new love language. You can almost hear therapists everywhere whispering, “Slower, softer, kinder.” The film suggests that whether you choose online therapy, an in‑person session, or a heartfelt kitchen‑table truce, the bravest apology is specific.
The finale leans into rom‑com destiny—public stakes, private truths—and a decision that matters because it is chosen, not inherited. If they sign the papers on day 30, everything resets to separate paths; if they don’t, they must accept that love is work, not magic. The last sequence gives both characters a chance to act from courage rather than fear, with families learning that love cannot be stage‑managed. It’s a crowd‑pleaser because it earns its joy; by the time credits roll, you’ll believe that what we practice becomes who we are. And the movie leaves you with a practical nudge: if a car crash can force a reset, maybe we can choose one without the crash—and yes, maybe check those car insurance quotes while you’re at it.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Courtroom Cold Open: We meet Jeong‑yeol and Na‑ra as their marriage is legally put on pause, a judge’s stamp starting the 30‑day clock. The scene hums with the awkwardness of endings that still have leftovers in the fridge. Families glare, friends hover, and the couple can’t stop correcting each other’s sentences. It’s hilarious, but it also establishes the film’s thesis: love is both a feeling and a system. By the time they walk out into the sunlight, the audience already understands what’s at stake—freedom without each other, or humility with each other.
The Crash That Erases Everything: A routine sidewalk argument detonates into slapstick chaos and then terror as traffic intrudes. The suddenness mirrors how real fights escalate: one second you’re nitpicking tone, the next you’re wondering what truly matters. Waking to blank spaces where a marriage should be, both leads play confusion with warmth rather than bitterness. It’s the clean slate every tired couple secretly fantasizes about, delivered by fate rather than choice. The ethical dilemma—are they the same people without the memories?—arrives wordlessly, in a sterile hospital room.
The Family “Intervention” Dinner: Imagine a roast where the goal is to make two people remember why they wanted to split. Parents arrive with printed screenshots, siblings with sarcastic toasts, and a well‑meaning cousin with a slideshow of “learning moments.” The humor is bountiful, but the pain is real; it’s embarrassing to see the worst version of yourself curated by people who claim to love you. The scene captures a uniquely Korean family cadence—hierarchy, duty, and fierce affection all at once—while still feeling universally recognizable. We laugh because we’ve all been there: loved, judged, and over‑managed.
The Hospital Corridor Waltz: In a quiet nighttime walk, Jeong‑yeol and Na‑ra slip into step like they’ve rehearsed it for years. There’s no grand music cue, just fluorescent lights and squeaky floors, yet the intimacy is cinematic. They trade shy looks, share a snack, and respect each other’s silences. It’s a scene about micro‑romance, about the ways bodies remember kindness even when brains cannot. If you’ve ever felt chemistry sneak up on you, this is the moment that will make you smile into your sleeve.
The Rooftop Confessional: On a breezy evening above the city, they speak honestly about fear—his of not being “enough,” hers of being “too much.” The skyline turns into a mirror of their past: bright, noisy, impossible to control. Instead of promises, they offer specifics—what they can own, what they can change, and what still scares them. The movie frames vulnerability as a practical skill set, not a montage. It’s the kind of conversation that does the work most couples outsource to marriage counseling.
Day 30—Pen, Paper, and a Choice: The deadline arrives, blisteringly simple: sign or don’t. Both families wait like a jury, and the silence rings louder than any speech. The beauty of the scene is restraint; the film trusts looks, pauses, and a single, ordinary gesture to reveal what they’ve decided. When the moment lands, it feels earned rather than engineered. You’ll want to call someone you love just to say, “Let’s start again.”
Memorable Lines
"30 days blew away memories and romance and left only laughter." – Trailer tagline splashed across the screen A playful promise that the film will favor joy over gloom. It situates us inside a countdown where forgetting could be liberating, not tragic. The phrase also nods to Korea’s divorce deliberation window, giving the comedy a ticking heart. You feel the movie asking: if pain can be erased, will love choose to return anyway?
"I don’t remember our fights—only that I want to be kind to you right now." – Jeong‑yeol, newly amnesiac and disarmed It’s a line that recasts masculinity not as dominance but gentleness. Without the burden of past grievances, he leads with curiosity instead of defense. The shift softens Na‑ra’s posture and opens a door to playful rediscovery. You see how quickly a relationship can thaw when someone chooses kindness over being right.
"What if the problem wasn’t love, but pride?" – Na‑ra, admitting what hurts This moment reframes the entire marriage: love never left; ego took the wheel. Her honesty undercuts the script’s farce with emotional stakes that feel earned. It also repositions their fight as a solvable pattern, the kind that real couples tackle in therapy or through a hard, humble talk. The line turns conflict from fate into choice.
"Families don’t get to vote on happiness." – A fed‑up friend over late‑night fried chicken Delivered with bite and affection, it distills the movie’s culture‑clash subtext. In a society where parents often weigh heavily on adult children’s choices, it’s both a rebellion and a love letter. The sentiment protects the couple’s agency without villainizing tradition. It suggests boundaries as an act of care, not defiance.
"If we fall for each other again, let it be because we listened better this time." – The couple’s quiet pact on the rooftop It’s not flowers or grand gestures—just a contract of attention. The line captures the film’s belief that listening is the most romantic skill we have. It also echoes real‑world advice: when resentment cools, hearing each other precisely is how intimacy returns. It’s the promise that makes a second chance feel new, not nostalgic.
Why It's Special
Love Reset opens on a couple sprinting away from love with all the righteous certainty in the world—until a sudden accident clears their memories and, with them, their grudges. That hook isn’t just clever; it’s a reset button for the rom‑com itself, letting the film rediscover first love inside a marriage that was crumbling. If you’re watching from the United States, you can stream Love Reset on Rakuten Viki, and in select regions it’s also available on Disney+. Have you ever wished you could meet your partner again for the first time? This movie leans into that fantasy with fizzy charm and surprisingly tender aftershocks.
What makes the film sing is its breezy, lived‑in rhythm. The banter pops, the physical comedy lands with Chaplin‑light timing, and every family scene brims with the sort of meddling, affectionate chaos that K‑cinema does so well. Director Nam Dae‑joong keeps the camera nimble and the tone elastic, pivoting from slapstick to sincerity without losing the thread of a couple slowly, involuntarily softening toward each other. Have you ever felt this way—laughing through a fight because you suddenly remember why you fell for this person?
Underneath the hijinks is a surprisingly thoughtful idea: memory is not just a record of what happened but a lens that colors what we think it meant. When the lens is wiped clean, Love Reset argues, we might choose different meanings. The screenplay toys with this gently, allowing the audience to hold two truths at once—that these two were once awful to each other and that their chemistry, at its purest, is irresistible. It’s a rom‑com, yes, but it’s also a humane look at how couples narrate themselves into corners.
The genre blend is delicious. You get courtroom quips, workplace snark, and a light mystery of who these people used to be, all stitched together with sight gags that pay off later as emotional beats. The amnesia setup could have been a gimmick; here it becomes a sandbox where identity, pride, and loyalty get rebuilt with fresh eyes. Even the side characters feel like they have their own screwball movies running offscreen, ready to burst through the door at any moment.
Acting is the film’s not‑so‑secret superpower. The leads treat embarrassment as a full‑body sport, falling, flailing, and freewheeling with a trust that makes each pratfall feel like a love note. You witness that rare rom‑com alchemy where two performers don’t just spark—they give each other permission to be sillier and, therefore, more honest. The result is laughter that sneaks up on you and leaves a warm ache behind.
Tonally, Love Reset balances neon‑bright comedy with the ache of almost‑lost time. The score lilts, the colors glow, and yet there’s a bittersweet patience in how the movie lets hurt linger before the next joke arrives. Have you ever tried to apologize but didn’t yet have the words? The film gives its characters the gift of new language, building apologies out of goofy errands, awkward breakfasts, and the soft relief of shared jokes returning.
Finally, it’s just an easy movie to recommend. Whether you’re new to Korean cinema or a longtime fan, the film is accessible without being generic and specific without shutting anyone out. It’s that rare date‑night pick that pleases cynics and romantics alike—proof that starting over can be hilarious precisely because it’s so brave. And when the credits roll, you’ll be tempted to hit play again, just to relive the falling‑in‑love parts.
Popularity & Reception
Upon release on October 3, 2023, Love Reset shot to the top of the Korean box office and stayed there, the kind of word‑of‑mouth winner that out‑charmed bigger spectacles. Early coverage tracked the streak with delight as audiences packed theaters for seven straight days, and the momentum kept building over the month. It wasn’t a flash in the pan; it was a film people recommended to their friends and then returned to see together.
By early November, the film had passed 1.8 million admissions domestically, and it ultimately grossed over $18 million worldwide—placing it among South Korea’s top earners of 2023. For a character‑driven romantic comedy, that’s a quietly triumphant figure, proof that the appetite for laugh‑out‑loud, heart‑forward storytelling remains strong.
North American K‑movie fans embraced the film’s digital life as well. When Love Reset arrived on Rakuten Viki at the end of December 2023, it quickly climbed to No. 1 in the platform’s transactional movie sales across the United States and Canada in the first half of 2024—a clear sign that the title leapt beyond theatrical buzz into repeat‑watch territory at home.
The film’s charm traveled even further. A Chinese remake was swiftly confirmed, and additional remake talks sprouted across Southeast Asia and beyond—what better compliment than multiple countries wanting to retell your story in their own cultural key? That global curiosity underscores how universally recognizable its core dilemma is: love, pride, family, and the comedy of trying to keep all three afloat.
Critically, reactions highlight the movie’s nimble writing and the leads’ bouncy chemistry. Audience response has been notably warm on mainstream aggregators like Rotten Tomatoes, where the title carries a positive viewers’ score and recent critic notes praise its inventive, self‑aware play with rom‑com tropes. Even Fandango’s user page, typically a quiet corner, shows the kind of enthusiastic remarks that suggest people didn’t just watch—they had fun.
Cast & Fun Facts
Kang Ha‑neul turns No Jeong‑yeol—a hotshot lawyer with pride as polished as his shoes—into a lovable goof without sanding down the character’s edges. He excels at the micro‑beats: a split‑second grimace, a muttered aside, or the way bravado collapses when his heart trips him mid‑sentence. Watching him relearn how to be gentle is one of the film’s quiet pleasures, and his physical comedy timing makes the bigger gags land with bullseye precision.
It helps that this isn’t his first rodeo with smart, crowd‑pleasing comedy. Kang reunited here with co‑star Jung So‑min years after they first shared the screen in the coming‑of‑age hit Twenty, a history you can feel in their easy, teasing rapport. His performance in Love Reset also earned industry recognition with a Best Actor win from the Korean Film Producers Association, a nod that reflects how confidently he shoulders the film’s tonal swings.
Jung So‑min plays Hong Na‑ra, a driven film producer whose fierce competence keeps colliding with the unknowns of a reset heart. She’s radiant in exasperation and luminous in quiet; when Na‑ra’s defenses start to slip, Jung gives the transformation the delicacy of a confession. Her comedic instincts are sharp, but it’s the emotional calibration—never too sweet, never too bitter—that leaves a glow.
Her work here was celebrated with her first Best Actress honor at the Golden Cinematography Awards, a milestone that recognizes how much she anchors the film’s sparkle. Offscreen, she and Kang’s long‑standing friendship fueled a playful behind‑the‑scenes energy, with interviews full of good‑natured ribbing—the kind of camaraderie you can’t fake and that audiences intuitively feel.
Kim Sun‑young steals scenes as Jeong‑yeol’s irrepressible mother, Sook‑jeong, a force of nature who treats love like a team sport and refuses to sit on the bench. Kim threads a fine comedic needle: she’s big without being broad, fierce without losing tenderness. In a story about memory, she embodies the muscle memory of family—those pushy, protective instincts that kick in before you can think.
What’s especially delightful is how Kim’s presence grounds the chaos. She gives the film a warm spine, letting barbed one‑liners land because you trust the love underneath. Her exchanges with both leads feel like affectionate sparring matches, and when she softens, the whole room seems to exhale. It’s a reminder of how essential veteran supporting players are to the snap and sway of a rom‑com.
Jo Min‑soo brings sly elegance to Bo‑bae, Na‑ra’s mother, whose watchful eyes miss nothing and forgive almost everything. Jo modulates between hauteur and hilarity with a flicker of expression, and her comic timing, honed over decades of acclaimed work, tees up some of the movie’s biggest laughs. Every time she enters a scene, you feel the temperature change—cooler at first, then somehow cozier.
Her rapport with Kim Sun‑young is another treat: two mothers circling each other, testing boundaries, then finding unexpected allyship in service of their hapless kids. Jo never lets the character drift into caricature; she locates the vulnerable parent peeking out from behind the perfect hair and impeccable manners. That balance heightens the film’s central theme: we’re all improvising our way back to each other.
Nam Dae‑joong, who co‑wrote and directed the film, has a talent for polishing classic rom‑com gears until they hum. If you’ve seen his earlier period comedy Homme Fatale, you’ll recognize the buoyant timing and affection for eccentrics that flourish here in a contemporary setting. His direction keeps Love Reset fleet but not shallow, moving confidently from laugh to lump‑in‑throat and trusting his cast to color outside the lines when inspiration strikes.
As a final fun connection, Kang Ha‑neul and Jung So‑min weren’t just building chemistry from scratch. Their shared history in Twenty means their flirtatious shorthand arrives ready‑made, only deepened by years of growth. Interviews around Love Reset are peppered with stories of on‑set teasing, improvised bits, and affectionate jabs—all the proof you need that the laughter onscreen started behind the camera.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re craving a film that makes you laugh out loud and then think a little about how love survives our worst habits, Love Reset is a joyful pick. Stream it on Rakuten Viki tonight, and if it inspires a spontaneous trip to Seoul, remember to sort out travel insurance before you chase those K‑movie locations. Date‑night viewers will appreciate how the movie rewards attention—and how your best credit cards’ dining perks pair nicely with the post‑movie dessert you’ll inevitably crave. And yes, after that fender‑bender prologue, you may find yourself double‑checking car insurance quotes with a smile, grateful for the reminder that second chances are worth protecting.
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