“The Devil Has Moved In”—A neighbors-to-lovers comedy that turns midnight into a curse and a confession
Introduction
I knew this movie had me the moment the elevator doors slid shut at 2:01 a.m.—that hush of a Seoul apartment complex when everyone’s asleep except the two people destined to wake each other up. Have you ever fallen for someone’s best self while meeting their worst self first? The Devil Has Moved In makes that paradox sweet, messy, and weirdly comforting, folding slapstick chaos into the ache of showing up for someone every day. Director Lee Sang‑geun—who made Exit a summer phenomenon—reunites with Im YoonA, and adds Ahn Bo‑hyun as the big-hearted neighbor whose new “job” is to babysit a demon. It’s a premise that sounds bonkers until it becomes a tender blueprint for how to love someone through their nights. And with a Netflix debut set for November 26, 2025, it’s the kind of feel‑good watch you’ll queue up between holiday plans and late‑night cravings.
Overview
Title: The Devil Has Moved In (악마가 이사왔다).
Year: 2025.
Genre: Supernatural romantic comedy, fantasy.
Main Cast: Im YoonA, Ahn Bo‑hyun, Sung Dong‑il, Joo Hyun‑young.
Runtime: 115 minutes.
Streaming Platform: Netflix.
Director: Lee Sang‑geun.
Overall Story
Gil‑gu is between jobs, rent payments, and purpose—one of those drifting twenties guys who knows every convenience‑store snack by name but not his next step. Then Seon‑ji moves into the unit below, all sun‑lit kindness and flour on her sleeves from the neighborhood bakery she runs. Their first encounters are polite and shy—snatched glances on the stairwell, a paper bag of warm bread passed with two hands. But at night, Gil‑gu hears thuds, growls, and a metal scrape that’s too rhythmic to be plumbing. Have you ever sensed a neighbor’s life through the walls and wondered who they really are? This film leans into that curiosity until it becomes connection.
The mystery cracks open when Seon‑ji’s father, Jang‑soo, knocks on Gil‑gu’s door with a proposition: a paid “night watch” gig to keep an eye on his daughter between midnight and dawn. Jang‑soo has a slipped back and a worn‑out look of a man who’s carried a secret too long; he needs help, and he’s desperate enough to recruit the kid upstairs. Gil‑gu signs the handwritten contract at a barbecue joint, sauce on his fingers and panic in his eyes, and steps into a second life he never asked for. The rules are simple: keep Seon‑ji safe, keep the neighbors calm, and keep everything quiet. The pay is modest, but the purpose is priceless for someone who’s felt useless for months. And yes, it’s all because at night Seon‑ji wakes as a devil—fast, fierce, and not always friendly.
Daytime Seon‑ji is the kind of person who hands out extra cinnamon rolls to kids and apologizes to pigeons. Night‑time Seon‑ji is chaos in eyeliner: she stares down strangers, scales fences, and laughs like a match being struck. The movie finds comedy in the whiplash; Gil‑gu keeps a “night kit” ready—gloves, snacks, duct tape for doors—with the resigned efficiency of a rookie security guard. He’s terrified, but he’s also smitten, which means he learns her rhythms—when to give space, when to talk soft, when to dodge. Have you ever loved someone whose midnight brain bears no resemblance to their morning light? The contrast becomes the film’s heartbeat.
Jang‑soo finally admits what the family never says aloud: it’s a curse, inherited and stubborn as old wallpaper, and it’s stolen a thousand nights from them. He’s tried everything—folk fixes, clinic visits, and rituals he barely believes in—and the years show in the way he watches every clock. That’s where cousin Ara enters, an MZ‑generation powder keg who closes the bakery and opens a club tab in the same breath. Ara keeps spreadsheets of triggers and jokes about “HR for demons,” but her loyalty is steel. The trio forms a lopsided night shift: Dad, Cousin, and the Upstairs Guy who’s clearly in too deep. Their banter keeps the fear at bay, the way families everywhere use laughter to hold the line.
Things spiral after a rooftop mishap sends Seon‑ji scrambling across ledges and into the pre‑dawn city. Gil‑gu chases, not with macho bravado but with a kind of clumsy devotion that makes bystanders root for him. Ara arrives blast‑texting location pins; Jang‑soo follows, half‑limping, half‑praying. The sequence is breathless but never cruel, more Screwball Exorcism than grim possession. Seoul itself becomes a character—the terraces, the river path, the neon that refuses to sleep. When they finally corral Seon‑ji back home, the relief feels like sunrise after finals week.
In a quieter stretch, Gil‑gu tries honesty. He tells Day Seon‑ji about Night Seon‑ji without making her feel like a problem to be solved. She listens the way bakers do, with patient hands and quick eyes, and she admits what hurts—the shame of not remembering, the fear of being unlovable, the exhaustion of leaving Post‑it apologies for a self she can’t control. The movie doesn’t chase a quick cure; instead, it asks what care looks like when fixes are slow. The answer is mundane and beautiful: better locks, softer schedules, a shared group chat that never sleeps. It’s the kind of “relationship infrastructure” you build one Tuesday at a time.
Of course, love stories need mess, and the mess arrives with a public incident that goes mildly viral in the neighborhood. Gil‑gu absorbs the blame to protect Seon‑ji’s daytime life; Jang‑soo contemplates pulling the plug on the night watch to save everyone from scandal. But Ara, queen of gallows humor, reminds them that families don’t outsource the hard parts. So they regroup, tighten protocols, and give Seon‑ji what she’s never really had: a team that treats her as whole, not broken into day vs. night. That shift—acceptance before solution—is the film’s sweetest turn.
The near‑final crisis hits by the water: Seon‑ji, in full nocturnal fury, bolts toward the Han River and vanishes over the rail without a second thought. Gil‑gu dives after her, the world going silent except for his own ragged breathing. It’s not a hero shot; it’s a human one, frantic and unglamorous, the kind of love that ruins your shoes and your phone. They surface shivering, coughing, angry, and alive—and for the first time, Night‑Seon‑ji hesitates, as if the part of her that never remembers suddenly recognizes the voice calling her back. The scene lands like a promise: you are more than your worst hour.
Morning brings Amends Day. Jang‑soo apologizes for the years he turned protection into isolation; Ara makes coffee like a medic; Gil‑gu falls asleep sitting up, hand still hooked to Seon‑ji’s. The city starts its workday—delivery scooters, bus chimes, the smell of steamed buns—and Seon‑ji opens the bakery late, a hand‑written sign taped to the door. In a genre that loves grand exorcisms, this film chooses smaller rituals: kneading dough together, walking the block, texting “home?” at 2:10 a.m. The romance doesn’t end with a miracle cure; it ends with better mornings because someone stayed through the night.
An epilogue of sorts lets them define next steps. Gil‑gu finds real work helping run the bakery’s early shift; Ara designs a safety‑first night routine that doubles as comic relief; Jang‑soo starts physical therapy and, finally, sleeps. When Seon‑ji jokes that “moving in” has never felt so literal, Gil‑gu laughs and says the magic words: “I’m not going anywhere.” Have you ever wanted a love story that respects your chaos but still believes in your gentleness? That’s this movie—bumps, bruises, and all.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Elevator at 2:01 A.M.: A flicker, a jolt, and the doors seal Gil‑gu and Night‑Seon‑ji into a metal box that doubles as a confession booth. Her gaze is feral; his kindness refuses to flinch, and the camera finds humor in his “I’m totally fine” nod while he clutches the rail. It’s the first time we sense that fear and fondness can share the same breath. When the elevator restarts, he’s already decided to show up again tomorrow. It’s a rom‑com meet‑cute framed like a haunting, and it works.
Dad’s Job Offer: Jang‑soo’s pitch is part comedy, part plea—he’s hurt his back and he needs a night sentinel, immediately. The scene plays in a bright BBQ joint, the contrast to his heavy secret making every line funnier and sadder at once. He slides over a handwritten contract and cash in an envelope, old‑school and a little sketchy. Gil‑gu signs because purpose finds him before confidence does. You feel the generational love inside the ask, and the generational fatigue too.
The Club Detour: Ara drags the crew to a pulsing club in search of Night‑Seon‑ji, who, in full demon chic, is staring down a dance‑floor bro like prey. Strobes slice the tension while Ara barks logistics over the beat, and Gil‑gu learns that “de‑escalation” sometimes means dancing badly until the lights come up. It’s a snappy set piece that flips exorcism into crowd control and finds humor in the most public kind of chaos. By the exit, everyone’s laughing—except the bouncer.
Han River Plunge: On the river path, Night‑Seon‑ji bolts into the dark and vanishes over the rail; Gil‑gu’s dive is instant, messy, and utterly sincere. The sound drops out, the city yawns awake, and the camera holds just long enough for panic to turn into resolve. When they break the surface, coughing and furious, something fragile and new floats up with them: trust. It’s the film’s most breath‑stealing image and the moment their relationship becomes a choice, not a coincidence.
Bakery at Dawn: Flour dust hangs in the air like snow while Day Seon‑ji kneads dough and Gil‑gu reads notes left by her night self. Instead of recoiling, he folds the notes into recipes—timing the proofing to when she’s usually most restless, setting timers that soothe like lullabies. The sequence turns domestic labor into love language. It’s gentle cinema that makes “care” feel practical, like checking your home insurance and stocking your pantry before a storm—ordinary safeguards that make extraordinary nights survivable.
Rooftop Sunrise: After a night of near‑disaster, they watch dawn wash the apartments pink. Gil‑gu admits he’s scared and happy, sometimes at the same time; Seon‑ji admits she’s tired of apologizing to a future she can’t remember. Their pact is simple: keep showing up, keep laughing, and ask for help before the walls start talking. It’s not fireworks; it’s shelter. And sometimes shelter is the bravest ending a love story can choose.
Memorable Lines
“If I’m different at night, promise me you’ll still say good morning.” —Seon‑ji, drawing a boundary and a bridge A single sentence that reframes the narrative from rescue to partnership. It asks for consistent kindness, not grand gestures. The line lands after a chaotic night, when she needs reassurance that love won’t clock out at dawn. It also signals the film’s ethos: continuity over cure.
“I’m not brave; I’m on shift.” —Gil‑gu, laughing through his fear This line turns heroics into humble work, the kind you clock into with snacks and spare batteries. It comes after a corridor chase when his hands won’t stop shaking. The self‑deprecation makes him instantly likable, and it underlines how purpose (not ego) steadies him. Have you ever felt courage sneak in through responsibility?
“A father’s job isn’t to hide the monster—it’s to make sure she makes it home.” —Jang‑soo, choosing love over secrecy He says it when he finally trusts Gil‑gu with the full truth and stops pretending this can be handled alone. The line reframes parenting under a curse as logistics and loyalty, not shame. It also explains why he risked asking a stranger upstairs for help.
“If we can’t fix it yet, let’s make it livable.” —Ara, queen of practical tenderness Delivered amid spreadsheets and club wristbands, it’s her thesis for crisis management. The sentence is funny because it’s blunt, and moving because it’s right. She’s the one who turns chaos into checklists, and checklists into hope.
“Moving in wasn’t about rent; it was about letting someone in.” —Gil‑gu, redefining home The thematic mic‑drop near the end reframes the title as an emotional choice. It connects the apartment setting to the intimacy of being known, day and night. In a world of subscriptions, streaming services, and credit card rewards, the real commitment here is time, presence, and patience—costly, but so worth it.
Why It's Special
Pretty Crazy opens with a hush at 2 a.m., when the hallway lights of a Seoul apartment flicker and a girl-next-door becomes something she doesn’t remember by morning. That midnight premise powers a summer crowd‑pleaser that’s now easy to find: after its theatrical run, the film began streaming on Netflix on November 26, 2025, and it’s also available to rent or buy on Apple TV in the United States. If you’ve ever fallen for someone who’s different in the dark than in the daylight, this movie leans into that feeling with a grin.
What makes Pretty Crazy feel fresh is the way it blends rom‑com warmth with supernatural mischief. By day, Seon‑ji is sweet, focused, and trying to build a life; by night, she’s a whirlwind who can’t remember the chaos she leaves behind. Have you ever felt this way—calm on the surface, noisy inside? The film treats that split not as a gimmick but as a metaphor for the parts of ourselves we hide even from people we like.
The chemistry between the upstairs neighbor Gil‑goo and the daytime Seon‑ji hums with awkward sincerity. He’s all elbows and second guesses, and their almost‑dates play like mini capers. The joke setups are clever, the payoffs fizzy, and the tenderness sneaks up on you—often right after a pratfall or a midnight chase through stairwells lit like a candy‑colored maze.
Director Lee Sang‑geun keeps the tone buoyant without sanding off the edges. His touch is gentle—sight gags are framed with care, and tension melts into banter before it curdles into dread. If you remember how his 2019 hit Exit threaded thrills through everyday spaces, you’ll recognize the same affection for ordinary people thrown into extraordinary scrapes.
The writing turns a “curse” into a courtship obstacle course. Each night forces the characters to choose patience over panic: Gil‑goo must guard someone who might never know how much he cares, and Seon‑ji’s family has to trust an unemployed neighbor with their most vulnerable secret. That premise lets the film ask a quietly moving question: is love what we feel at noon, or what we prove at 2 a.m.?
Visually, the movie is a treat. Neon corridors and dusky rooftops become playgrounds for slapstick and near‑miss romance, then give way to morning calm with soft, airy palettes. The 1 hour 53 minute runtime never drags; sequences are cut to the rhythm of a summer crush—quick pulses, short breaths, and then a lingering look before the next sprint.
Most of all, Pretty Crazy understands the thrill of seeing someone’s “messy” side and choosing them anyway. It’s funny without being mean, spooky without being grim, and romantic without pretending that two people can fit perfectly without a few scrapes. If your heart has ever kept different hours than your calendar, this one’s for you.
Popularity & Reception
When Pretty Crazy opened in South Korea on August 13, 2025, it entered a fiercely competitive summer and debuted in the top three for its first major weekend, drawing over 170,000 admissions during Aug. 15–17. The month closed with more than 417,000 tickets sold domestically—modest against blockbusters, but enough to spark conversation about why audiences were smiling on their way out.
Local chatter turned surprisingly affectionate. While totals stayed below break‑even, word‑of‑mouth praised the movie’s light touch and the leads’ chemistry; Korean ticketing sites reflected that with strong audience scores and a late surge in reservations among Korean‑language viewers who wanted something playful and sweet. It’s the kind of film that earns fans one couple’s‑night‑out at a time.
In the English‑language sphere, Rotten Tomatoes listed the film with a 1h53 runtime and a growing watchlist as international viewers hunted for showtimes and digital options. The Tomatometer wasn’t the story yet; the watch‑and‑tell was—people discovered it, then recommended it for date night, roommates’ night, or a palate cleanser after darker thrillers.
Promotion leaned personable: a “self‑GV” opening‑night event in Seoul put the director in the moderator’s chair alongside the stars, a charming stunt that reinforced how the film sells itself—face to face, joke to joke. Those cheerful clips traveled well on social feeds and primed curiosity outside Korea.
The real global pop came with the confirmed Netflix launch on November 26, 2025, which instantly broadened access for U.S. and worldwide viewers. Pair that with Apple TV rental/purchase availability, and Pretty Crazy found a second life on couches and projectors, the kind that often turns summer sleepers into streaming darlings by holiday season.
Awards buzz followed the goodwill. Coverage of the 46th Blue Dragon Film Awards cited nominations for Im Yoon‑ah (Best Actress) and Ahn Bo‑hyun (Best New Actor), a nod to how their comic timing and emotional sincerity resonated with voters. Even without a trophy cabinet, the nominations helped reframe the movie as a craft‑driven charmer rather than a mere novelty.
Cast & Fun Facts
Im Yoon‑ah plays Seon‑ji with a dual glow—sunny in daylight, feral by dawn—and the trick isn’t the makeup; it’s how she modulates breath and eye contact so that two versions of the same woman feel equally real. She invites you to root for Seon‑ji not because the curse is cool, but because the girl under it keeps choosing kindness between 9 and 5. Industry watchers also smiled at her reunion with director Lee Sang‑geun, a pairing many have trusted since Exit made her one of Korea’s most endearing big‑screen faces.
Before Pretty Crazy, Yoon‑ah’s mainstream momentum from small‑screen success primed global curiosity; fans who met her through recent streaming hits were ready to see if she could juggle pratfalls and pathos in a feature. She does—finding the comedy in panic and the romance in recovery, often in the same beat—and that balance is a big reason the film lands as a comfort watch.
Ahn Bo‑hyun gives Gil‑goo the rare gift of handsome awkwardness; he’s big enough to look like he could carry three bags of rice in one hand, yet his pauses and sheepish smiles sell a gentle soul who’d rather carry someone’s worries. The physical comedy—a sprint that turns into a respectful retreat, a hero pose that collapses into a shrug—shows an actor enjoying the freedom to be silly.
What surprises most is how Ahn threads growth through the gags. By the third act, Gil‑goo isn’t just the guy on night watch; he’s a partner in problem‑solving, the kind of love interest who listens first and leaps second. That shift lands because Ahn plays the in‑between moments—the listening, the thinking—as carefully as the punchlines.
Sung Dong‑il anchors the movie as Seon‑ji’s dad, a man who’s negotiated with this curse long enough to turn worry into ritual. He’s the straight face that makes the absurd funnier, the protective parent who hires the upstairs neighbor not because it’s logical, but because love makes room for imperfect plans. Casting him is a quiet promise to the audience: you’ll laugh, but you’ll also feel safe.
Sung’s presence also deepens the film’s heart. In scenes where he explains the rules of the house—the locks, the late‑night snacks, the “just in case” plans—he’s not a plot device; he’s a father trying to give his daughter a shot at normal mornings. His timing lets a sigh become a smile, and in a story about choosing people as they are, he models acceptance first.
Joo Hyun‑young swoops in as cousin Ah‑ra, bringing a rascal’s sparkle that kicks the tempo up a notch. Her bits—whispered schemes, perfectly timed interruptions, a look that says “I told you so” without a word—add the kind of comedic oxygen that keeps the night sequences buoyant. She’s mischief with a moral compass, and the movie is brighter every time she swings into frame.
Joo also acts as the audience’s co‑conspirator. When things get too scary or too sappy, she punctures the mood with a quip that resets the room. It’s a fine line—wingwoman, not scene‑stealer—and she dances on it with confidence, reminding us that found family is often the secret sauce in a romantic comedy.
Lee Sang‑geun, returning to features after Exit, writes and directs with the same affection for everyday heroes and the same instinct for pacing that makes a chase funny rather than frantic. He calls Pretty Crazy a summer fling with staying power, and you can feel that in how he frames the final grace notes: imply the future, don’t over‑explain it, and trust the audience to imagine the happily‑ever‑after.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re craving a feel‑good watch that still has a pulse, Pretty Crazy is a perfect late‑night date with your couch. Queue it on Netflix or rent it on Apple TV, dim the lights, and let its gentle weirdness remind you why we take chances on each other. For the best experience, a solid fiber internet plan and a tuned home theater system make those neon midnights pop, and if you’re grabbing tickets or a digital copy, a card with strong credit card rewards never hurts. Have you ever felt this way—nervous at night, hopeful by morning? This movie will meet you there.
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