“Victory”—A sun‑bleached island, a scrappy cheer squad, and the summer that remakes their world
Introduction
Do you remember the first time someone cheered for you—loud, unapologetic, like your small try actually mattered? Watching Victory, I felt my own teenage summers rush back: the cheap hair gel, the boombox batteries that never lasted, the way a single song could make a hallway feel like a runway. Have you ever wanted one shot to prove you were more than the place you came from? That’s Pil-sun and Mi-na, two girls whose friendship is as messy and loyal as the scuffed sneakers they dance in. The film doesn’t hand out nostalgia like candy; it makes you sweat for it—through drills, detentions, and that quiver of fear before stepping onto a field. By the time the Millennium Girls lift their pom-poms, you’re not just watching a cheer; you’re remembering how it feels to be seen.
Overview
Title: Victory (빅토리)
Year: 2024.
Genre: Coming‑of‑age, Sports, Music/Drama.
Main Cast: Lee Hye‑ri, Park Se‑wan, Lee Jung‑ha, Jo Aram.
Runtime: 120 minutes.
Streaming Platform: Viki (rental in the U.S.; also listed on Apple TV’s Viki channel hub).
Director: Park Beom‑su.
Overall Story
In the last summer of the 20th century, Geoje Island doesn’t feel like the edge of the world to Pil‑sun—it feels like a trampoline. She bounces through corridors with a Walkman, choreographing routines in her head, daring her best friend Mi‑na to keep up. But 1999 is also a year of bruises: families in a shipbuilding town still wobbling after the Asian financial crisis, teachers who think joy is suspicious, and a school that treats dreams like contraband. Have you ever lived where everyone knows your business and mistakes echo longer than your name? That’s their daily backdrop, a mix of sea salt, factory horns, and rumor. Pil‑sun decides that if there’s no stage, she’ll build one—with Mi‑na at her side, because that’s what best friends do when the world says no.
Their blueprint arrives in the form of Se‑hyeon, a transfer student from Seoul who carries herself like a secret. She isn’t just cool; she’s precise, the kind of girl who counts beats while she breathes. When Pil‑sun spots Se‑hyeon practicing a routine that’s not quite dance and not quite gymnastics, the word lands: cheerleading. It’s a word their teachers barely know and their classmates think lives on American TV. But to Pil‑sun and Mi‑na, cheer looks like a door you can kick open with rhythm. Se‑hyeon is wary—capital‑C City girls don’t usually gamble on island chaos—but the promise of a team that’s hers is hard to resist. Three becomes the spark.
Permission is a different battle. The principal cares about order and image, not invention, and only yields with a condition: if the girls must dance, they must dance for the school—the perennially losing soccer team. That team is where Yoon Chi‑hyung stands in the goal, a gentle wall who hides a crush on Pil‑sun behind his gloves. The deal sounds like a trap—cheer for the losers, shoulder the blame—but Pil‑sun hears something else: a reason to be loud. Mi‑na hears the risk; Se‑hyeon circles the logistics; together they agree. Their first practice is a comedy of near‑collisions, rented whistles, and a boombox that eats tapes, but a team begins to take shape.
Recruitment is half charm, half stubbornness. The girls post flyers in the hallway and at the shipyard bus stop, catch eyes during lunch, and sell a vision nobody asked for yet. They name themselves the Millennium Girls because a new century deserves a new soundtrack. There’s So‑hee with her engineer‑level neatness, Yong‑soon with laughter that cuts through scolding, Sun‑jeong who can flip fear into flight mid‑air. They scrounge a practice room from a disused storage space, clean until the walls remember their color, and stitch uniforms late into the night. Have you ever found family in the people who stayed to stack chairs after everyone else went home? That’s how their squad feels, stitched together by sweat and inside jokes.
The first performance at a friendly match is a glorious disaster. Timing slips, a banner sags, and a cheer pyramid shakes like a card house in the ocean wind. The boys lose again, and whispers bloom: the cheerleaders are a cute distraction, nothing more. Pil‑sun laughs it off in public and dies a little in private, while Mi‑na wonders if their dream is turning into a schoolwide punchline. Se‑hyeon’s critique lands sharp—safety, structure, spotting—but it’s honest, and necessary. That night, they rewatch camcorder footage, noting the places where courage outran control. The next day, they start over, slower.
Geoje starts noticing. An aunt who sells rice cakes asks if the team can liven up her grand opening. A union group at the shipyard hopes the girls will bring brightness to a family sports day. A senior center wants a routine that patients can do from chairs, clapping and kicking to the music of their youth. “Why are there so many people here who need cheering?” Mi‑na asks, not cynically but like someone seeing the island anew. The team learns they aren’t just yelling “Go!” into a void; they’re lending rhythm to tired lungs. Their calendar fills—school games on Saturdays, community gigs on Sundays—and with every show, their counts tighten and their empathy grows.
Chi‑hyung’s team changes, too, not suddenly, not miraculously, but measurably. He begins calling out to his defenders like he believes they’ll hear him. The midfielders run onto the field with an extra half‑step, a swagger borrowed from the girls dancing at the touchline. Pil‑sun and Chi‑hyung exchange shy jokes that turn into shared rituals—a nod before kickoff, a finger‑gun after a clean save. Have you ever realized that your courage made someone else braver? Their dynamic is sweet without sugarcoating; it feels like two kids building a bridge with smiles. The island starts rooting for both squads, the scoreboard and the pom‑poms, as if either could carry the other across the line.
But success tugs at seams. Mi‑na bristles as Pil‑sun’s natural showmanship gets attention—local press, teacher praise that once felt impossible. Se‑hyeon’s technical obsession, which keeps everyone safe, also makes rehearsals tense. A near‑fall during a stunt shakes them all, and a rumor about Pil‑sun getting “special treatment” forces a tearful hallway showdown. The argument isn’t really about fame; it’s about fear—of being left behind, of becoming replaceable, of watching your best friend outgrow the world you built together. They splinter temporarily, and practices turn mechanical, louder in counts but quieter in heart. Now the question isn’t whether they can flip; it’s whether they can forgive.
The turning point arrives with a rain‑soaked away match against a team that treats Geoje like a punchline. The field is mud, the crowd thin, the stakes low, but something in the weather makes everything feel earned. Mi‑na spots a younger girl mimicking their steps from the bleachers, and remembers why they started: to dance without asking permission. Pil‑sun walks over to Chi‑hyung, tells him, simply, “We’ve got you.” Se‑hyeon adjusts formations to keep stunts safe on the slick grass, trading difficulty for unity. Their routine unfurls—not perfect, but together—and when the boys score late, the sound from the stands isn’t just celebration; it’s relief, like a community unclenching its jaw.
Back home, apologies feel less like speeches and more like actions. Mi‑na takes the front on a difficult count to show she trusts Se‑hyeon’s calls; Pil‑sun swaps center stage for a side position during one routine so a shy member can shine. They repaint the practice room door the day‑glow orange they joked about on Day One, promising to leave it brighter than they found it. The principal grudgingly admits the school’s reputation has lifted; parents drop off snacks; the boombox finally gets new batteries. Have you ever seen a place become kinder because kids insisted on joy? That’s the real victory unfolding, one count at a time.
As Y2K approaches and the island braces for whatever the new century brings—jokes about doomsday, the hum of shipyard overtime, the fearful arithmetic of grown‑up bills—the Millennium Girls plan one last big routine. It’s part pep rally, part block party, part goodbye to a year that hurt and healed them in equal measure. The field fills with neighbors they’ve cheered for: welders, aunties, the rice‑cake lady, the seniors who clap from their chairs. The soccer team, no longer a punchline, lines up with chin straps tight and eyes steady. The girls count off—five, six, seven, eight—and leap forward into a future they can’t predict but finally believe they deserve. The scoreboard matters, but the faces in the crowd matter more.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Bathroom Audition: The very first “stage” is a tiled school restroom where Pil‑sun and Mi‑na test a sequence between stall doors, praying a teacher doesn’t walk in. The echo makes their claps sound enormous, and for a second they imagine a stadium. When Se‑hyeon steps out of a stall and coolly corrects their counts, the trio’s future clicks into place. Have you ever had your life rerouted by a random hallway encounter? This tiny, funny scene plants the seed of a movement.
The Principal’s Condition: In a cramped office smelling of chalk and tea, the principal agrees to recognize the club—but only if they cheer for the school’s losing soccer team. The power dynamic is clear: he thinks he’s burying them in embarrassment. Pil‑sun, however, hears challenge instead of punishment. Mi‑na’s glance says “this is crazy,” Se‑hyeon’s says “we’ll make it safe,” and somehow both are right. It’s the kind of bargain teenagers turn into destiny.
Uniforms by Hand: With no budget, the girls turn the practice room into a sewing circle, cannibalizing old gym wear and ribbon spools from a craft store. Fingers prick, tempers flare, and then everyone starts sharing stories about why they’re here—crushes, college hopes, parents working double shifts at the yard. When they finish, the uniforms aren’t perfect, but the mirror shows a team that looks like itself. The image lands more powerfully than any factory‑made jersey could. Sometimes a crooked seam is a badge of belonging.
Shipyard Family Day: The cheerleaders bring choreography to a place built on torque and steel, and the contrast is gorgeous. Dads in coveralls try high‑kicks; moms lead claps with surgical precision; a toddler copies the eight‑count and steals the show. Against cranes and stacked hulls, the Millennium Girls look tiny and invincible at once. The scene folds Geoje’s working‑class pride into the movie’s heartbeat. Spirit, it turns out, is a kind of labor, too.
Rain Game Ritual: Before the muddy away match, Pil‑sun leads a huddle where the girls touch wrists and breathe together, matching pulses like metronomes. Se‑hyeon calls a last‑second trick change to keep everyone upright on the wet turf. When the pyramid holds, the crowd gasps—not at height, but at trust. Across the field, Chi‑hyung hears the chant and stands taller in goal. You can feel how practice becomes faith in one another.
The Block‑Party Finale: Under makeshift lights, the final routine braids the island’s stories into one long cheer—shipyard steps, senior‑center claps, a soccer chant reborn as a dance break. Mi‑na takes the center for a count, then pivots out to give a younger member the spotlight; Pil‑sun beams like she’s watching her own wish come true. The principal, hiding a smile, claps off‑beat; parents cry; a little boy yells, “Again!” The routine ends with a bow that feels like a promise. The credits can roll, but you’re not ready to leave.
Memorable Lines
“We don’t cheer because they win; they win because we cheer.” – Pil‑sun, resetting what victory means (translated approx.) One sentence flips the scoreboard logic on its head and reframes the girls’ purpose. It also signals her leadership: she’s not begging for permission anymore; she’s defining terms. In her voice you hear a kid who finally trusts the weight of her own words. The line deepens her connection with Chi‑hyung, who has been waiting for someone to believe out loud.
“Count it together—your breath is the first beat.” – Se‑hyeon, before a risky stunt (translated approx.) This isn’t just choreography; it’s a survival rule wrapped in poetry. Se‑hyeon’s cool precision softens into care, and the team finally understands that safety is a love language. The moment defuses tension with Mi‑na and lays the groundwork for unity in the rain game. It’s also the film’s thesis about community: move as one, or don’t move at all.
“I’m the wall, but you’re the shout that keeps the wall from cracking.” – Chi‑hyung to Pil‑sun after a hard match (translated approx.) His metaphor is clumsy and perfect, the way teenage sincerity often is. It lets him confess admiration without turning it into a grand romance scene. Pil‑sun’s laugh—and the gentle shoulder bump that follows—make their chemistry feel earned. The line shows how the boys evolve too, learning that strength and softness can share the same sentence.
“If we only dance when it’s easy, we’ll never dance at all.” – Mi‑na during a late‑night practice (translated approx.) This is the friend who stayed, the partner who refused to let fear disguise itself as pragmatism. Mi‑na’s grit is the glue that keeps the Millennium Girls from becoming a one‑hit pep act. Emotionally, it’s her apology and re‑commitment after the hallway blowup. The team’s smiles say they heard it.
“Look—this whole island claps in the same rhythm.” – Pil‑sun at the block‑party finale (translated approx.) A simple observation expands into the film’s panoramic heart. For a town still carrying economic worry, the shared beat is a small miracle. It’s also the moment the principal stops resisting and becomes part of the crowd. You feel why stories like this matter—because they remind us that hope is teachable.
Why It's Special
Victory is the kind of coming‑of‑age film that sneaks up on you with a grin and leaves you unexpectedly misty‑eyed. Set on the wind‑swept island city of Geoje in 1999, it follows two best friends whose small “let’s just find a place to dance” plan snowballs into a cheer squad that rallies an entire community. If you’re watching from the United States, you can stream Victory on Viki (digital rental) and, in many regions, catch it free with ads on Tubi; check the apps for current availability. As of November 2025, that’s the easiest way to meet the Millennium Girls and their pom‑pom powered hope.
From the first drumline hit, you can feel the film’s pulse: optimistic, a little rebellious, and very 1999. The writing leans into the late‑’90s texture—baggy tees, mixtapes, schoolyard slang—without turning the characters into nostalgia props. The girls are messy and brave in the way real teenagers are, and their tiny victories feel like world‑changing wins.
Victory’s secret weapon is how it threads music and movement into character. Dance is never just a performance beat; it’s how these kids speak when words don’t land. When a routine clicks, friendships click. When a stunt collapses, so do plans and pride. You don’t have to know cheer counts to recognize the emotion. Have you ever felt this way—when one good song made a hard day survivable?
The film also plays a delightful genre blend: it’s part sports underdog story, part musical teen dramedy, and part small‑town ensemble piece. One minute you’re laughing at a chaotic tryout, the next you’re holding your breath during a high‑stakes halftime. That tonal range is by design, and it keeps the story buoyant instead of saccharine.
What really lands is the emotional grammar of girlhood: the push‑pull between ride‑or‑die loyalty and the prickly need to stand out; the fierce joy of finding “your people”; the ache of realizing adulthood is coming whether you’re ready or not. The script gives each member of the Millennium Girls a little spotlight, and together those glimmers create a chorus of courage.
Visually, Victory loves its characters. The camera lingers on calloused hands, scuffed sneakers, a nervous breath before a toss—small details that make the big set‑pieces feel earned. You sense the hours in the practice room, the blisters under the glitter. That authenticity extends to how the film stages school life and town rhythms; it’s affectionate without airbrushing.
And then there’s the soundtrack, a joyful time capsule that turns the gym into a communal stage. When the girls blast classic K‑pop hits from the era, the film’s nostalgia isn’t just sonic wallpaper; it’s the engine that powers their self‑belief and the town’s collective memory. You’ll feel the beat and, with it, the warmth of a decade when everything seemed possible.
Finally, Victory understands that “winning” rarely looks like a trophy photo. Sometimes it’s a team finally in sync, a parent softening in the stands, a shy kid shouting the count for the first time. The film builds to a catharsis that’s less about the scoreboard and more about a community learning to cheer for itself.
Popularity & Reception
Victory’s world premiere opened the 2024 New York Asian Film Festival on July 12, a coveted spotlight that signaled how infectious its energy would be for international audiences. The post‑screening Q&A filled with laughter, selfies, and a sense that this small‑town story spoke to big‑city hearts, too.
Korean theaters welcomed Victory on August 14, 2024, where its sunny personality counter‑programmed darker summer fare. Press materials emphasized the cast’s chemistry and the film’s vibrant appeal, and moviegoers responded to that optimism, especially families and teen friend groups looking for feel‑good momentum.
The film’s festival journey continued stateside in November at the San Diego Asian Film Festival, where audiences praised its “Bring It On, but gentler” spirit and the way it folds labor‑era tensions and Y2K jitters into a story about mutual care. These screenings helped Victory grow a grassroots fandom across North America.
At NYAFF, lead performer recognition turned into headlines when Hyeri received the Screen International Rising Star Asia Award—an early sign that critics saw more than nostalgia here; they saw a performance‑driven crowd‑pleaser with staying power. That accolade became a calling card as the film found new viewers online.
Back home, the movie’s feel‑good buzz translated into high audience‑satisfaction metrics on local platforms and steady word‑of‑mouth, even as the box‑office narrative zig‑zagged like many mid‑budget originals do. What endured was the chorus of “I felt seen” comments and the steady spread of fan edits set to ’90s tracks—proof that Victory’s emotional rhythm travels well.
Cast & Fun Facts
Hyeri steps into Pil‑sun with a spark that’s half mischief, half grit. She plays a kid who dances like the world is watching yet privately fears it never will. Interviews around the world premiere described her prep as “intense,” and you feel that sweat equity in the routines and in the dialect work that grounds Pil‑sun in Geoje. When Pil‑sun trips, gets up, and dares to lead again, it’s Hyeri’s comic timing and open‑heartedness that keep you cheering.
Off the mat, Hyeri’s star persona—K‑pop alum, variety‑show wit, beloved Reply 1988 lead—could have swallowed a smaller movie. Instead, she channels that wattage into generosity, making space for every Millennium Girl to pop. The Rising Star Asia honor at NYAFF reads not as “newcomer hype” but as recognition of a performer who can carry an ensemble and still feel like your funniest friend.
Park Se‑wan gives Mi‑na a swagger that’s all 1999: baggy pants, glued‑down bangs, lollipop confidence. But she also lets us see the eldest‑daughter responsibility beneath the bravado, which turns a simple “best friend” role into the film’s emotional ballast. Her beats with Pil‑sun chart the kind of friendship where love sounds like bickering—and where an apology can change a season.
Park’s attention to era‑specific detail becomes performance in itself. She reportedly riffed on the period look and movement to make Mi‑na feel like a real kid from the block, not a music‑video extra parachuted in. When she hits the counts, you sense a teen expanding her world one eight‑count at a time—a lovely echo of the film’s theme that practice builds possibility.
Lee Jung‑ha plays Chi‑hyung, the earnest goalkeeper who has quietly adored Pil‑sun for years. It’s a role tailor‑made for his gentle screen presence, fresh off his global breakout in Moving, and he balances goofy awkwardness with a protector’s heart. His scenes remind you that underdog teams are powered by soft‑spoken loyalists, too.
What’s fun is how Lee uses physical comedy—ill‑timed dives, stubborn gloves, that determined yellow kit—to build a character who’s both joke‑ready and deeply sincere. The romance thread never hijacks the story; it simply adds one more reason to cheer when the squad finds its groove.
Jo Aram enters as Se‑hyeon, the transfer student from Seoul whose polished cheer chops ruffle feathers and lift standards. She’s the spark and the foil, the friend and occasional rival—the person who forces the club to decide whether it wants to look legit or feel safe. That tension gives the movie its most crackling practice scenes.
Jo’s rise across TV and film—Doctor Cha, The Auditors—adds an exciting “watch this space” energy. In Victory, she turns precision into personality; you can read Se‑hyeon’s whole backstory in a single, razor‑clean high V. When she finally laughs with the team instead of at it, you feel the film’s thesis land: excellence matters most when it’s shared.
Director‑writer Park Beom‑su steers it all with a light, generous hand. A veteran of character‑forward romances, he conceived Victory as a comfort movie you reach for on tough days, and he casts with intention—imagining Hyeri from the first draft and building a world that lets her lead while every teammate shines. His approach keeps the stakes human, the jokes elastic, and the emotions clean.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re craving something that lifts your weekend without talking down to you, Victory is a hug disguised as a halftime show. Queue it up on Viki or Tubi, turn the volume a notch higher than usual, and let those end‑of‑century beats carry you. Traveling soon? If your apps geo‑restrict on the road, many viewers rely on a trusted best VPN for streaming; and if you rent, a cash back credit card can quietly cover the popcorn. If the movie tempts you to plan a K‑culture trip to Korea’s coast, a simple travel insurance policy can buy peace of mind while you chase the real locations.
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