A Year-End Medley—Fourteen tangled hearts ring in midnight at a Seoul luxury hotel
Introduction
I pressed play expecting holiday sweetness; I stayed because the film kept finding the version of hope I didn’t know I needed. Have you ever watched a lobby fill with strangers and felt your own story soften at the edges? That is the spell of A Year-End Medley: each small decision ricochets through a single hotel until everyone is braver by midnight. I found myself rooting for the shy manager who’s loved a friend for fifteen years, the exhausted singer facing a career-defining concert, and the doorman who recognizes his first love after decades apart. Maybe it’s the glow of Seoul at year’s end, maybe it’s the way the soundtrack breathes—either way, the movie invites you to remember the last time you chose courage. By the time the countdown begins, you’re ready to make your own wish.
Overview
Title: A Year-End Medley (해피 뉴 이어)
Year: 2021
Genre: Romance, Drama, Comedy
Main Cast: Han Ji-min, Lee Dong-wook, Kang Ha-neul, Im Yoon-ah, Seo Kang-joon, Kim Young-kwang, Lee Kwang-soo, Won Jin-ah, Lee Jin-wook, Lee Hye-young, Jung Jin-young, Ko Sung-hee
Runtime: 138 minutes
Streaming Platform: Disney+
Director: Kwak Jae-yong
Overall Story
The film opens at the opulent Hotel Emross on the week before New Year’s Eve, where routines feel sacred: a doorman greets taxis with a bow, a wake-up call rings with a voice too kind for 6 a.m., and the manager glides through the lobby as if her heartbeat sets the tempo. That manager is So-jin, an effortlessly competent woman who keeps a private countdown of her own—fifteen years of loving her best friend, radio producer Seung-hyo, and never saying it aloud. When Seung-hyo arrives with his fiancée, jazz pianist Young-joo, to book their wedding at the hotel, So-jin’s smile falters by a degree only we notice. Have you ever had to plan the perfect day for someone you secretly love? She swallows, nods, and takes the assignment. Outside, Seoul is wrapped in lights; inside, So-jin’s world reorders itself.
Across the lobby, CEO Yong-jin moves like a metronome, insisting on even numbers—two vases, four centerpieces—because order feels like safety. The staff chuckles at his quirks until we see how tenderly he watches the new room attendant, I-yeong, a former musical theater hopeful who set aside her dream. Yong-jin masks care as protocol, raising an eyebrow at supply counts while quietly maneuvering extra rehearsal time for her in an empty ballroom. In Korean workplaces where hierarchy can be a wall, their glances are small acts of rebellion—polite, careful, human. The film doesn’t shout about it; it lets gestures breathe.
Meanwhile, a young guest named Jae-yong checks into a high floor with a suitcase too light and eyes that don’t quite meet anyone else’s. The wake-up call operator, Su-yeon, notices because kindness is her job and also her instinct. Their first conversation is notarized by the hotel’s phone system—simple, scripted—but something in her voice reaches him. In a culture where saving face often trumps saying “I’m not okay,” their connection grows in small, nonthreatening increments: notes slipped under a door, a tray left just-so, a single question asked at the right time. The hotel feels like a cushion between him and the night air.
In the banquet wing, a plastic surgeon named Jin-ho keeps reserving the lounge for Saturday blind dates that never go anywhere. He’s wealthy, handsome, and comically unlucky, yet he’s convinced a fateful love will one day walk through those revolving doors. So-jin—ever the fixer—starts leaving handwritten “do’s and don’ts” with his dessert course, the way a kind older sister might sharpen a kid brother’s social game. The advice becomes a running gag and then, almost imperceptibly, a friendship. Isn’t that how it happens sometimes—compassion first, chemistry later?
A different stage is being built in the ballroom for Lee Kang, a singer-songwriter and radio DJ whose late-blooming success still feels fragile. His manager Sang-hoon, weathered by years of near-misses and cheap noodles, faces an ethical fork in the road when a big agency tries to poach Lee Kang. The movie frames the manager–artist bond like a marriage vows remix: loyalty, fatigue, resentment, gratitude. When Lee Kang rehearses under chandeliers, you can feel both men doing math in their heads: risk versus security, dream versus contract. The countdown clock isn’t just about midnight; it’s a deadline for choosing what kind of life they want.
Then, in one of the film’s most quietly devastating turns, Catherine—a poised businesswoman returning from abroad for her daughter Young-joo’s wedding—recognizes the doorman, Sang-gyu, as the boy she loved forty years ago. Their reunion is all restraint: a tilt of the head, a remembered street name, hands that don’t dare touch. We learn just enough about the past to understand why life separated them: class, scandal, survival. If you’ve ever tracked down a first love on social media and hovered over the “message” button, this thread will hollow you out and fill you back up again.
So-jin, churning under her neat manager’s bun, tries a few clumsy schemes to stall Seung-hyo’s proposal plans—nothing mean-spirited, just delays born of a heart on the verge of shattering. The movie treats her not as a saboteur but as a woman finally testing whether her long vigil meant anything. Each failed attempt teaches her what she’s been avoiding: love doesn’t owe us retroactive miracles. Watching her admit that truth feels like exhaling a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. We don’t always get the person; sometimes we get the lesson and a path forward.
As New Year’s Eve dawns, the hotel becomes a pressure cooker of overlapping hopes: stage lights warm up, florists fight the clock, teenage athletes circle the rink of first crushes with red cheeks and borrowed courage. Yong-jin lines up centerpieces by twos; I-yeong hums a show tune under her breath as she polishes glassware; Su-yeon plans one more phone call that might change a life. Even if you haven’t worked in hospitality, you’ll recognize the choreography: crisis, teamwork, tiny triumphs. It’s the kind of night when even cynics glance up if a wish balloon drifts through a doorway.
Night falls, and the convergences arrive. Lee Kang’s concert blooms into a room-wide singalong that doubles as a love letter to every late-career comeback; Sang-hoon’s face tells us what he chooses before his words do. Catherine and Sang-gyu stand shoulder to shoulder by the revolving doors, letting the past be both true and over. Jin-ho looks up from another failed date and finally notices the person who has been coaching him from the sidelines. And So-jin—steady, bruised, proud—decides to honor both her history and her future, even if that means letting an old dream walk down the aisle without her. The hotel is full, but loneliness has fewer places to hide.
Then the clock begins its universal language: ten, nine, eight. Jae-yong stands on the rooftop edge of his despair and chooses to step back, not forward, because someone kept calling his room and meaning it. In the lobby, teenage hands find each other, trembling. In a service corridor, I-yeong belts a single high note to an audience of two—herself and the boss who believes in even numbers and, it turns out, in her. The movie doesn’t promise that every couple lasts forever; it offers something braver, a compassionate realism: sometimes the win is learning how to begin again.
By morning, the hotel is messy the way happiness is messy: confetti stuck to velvet ropes, lipstick on coffee cups, shoe marks on a polished floor. So-jin ties her hair back and steps into a new day with different posture. Yong-jin smiles at a vase arrangement that isn’t perfectly even and lets it stay that way. The doorman lingers over a cup of tea, not because time has stopped, but because it hasn’t. And somewhere in the city, a radio DJ presses play on a track that sounds like a promise. A Year-End Medley closes like a curtain call: everyone bows, and we clap because every story earned its light.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Wake-Up Call That Becomes a Lifeline: Su-yeon’s first morning call to Jae-yong is supposed to be transactional—confirm the time, say “Good morning,” hang up—but the silence on the other end reshapes the script. She adds, “I’ll call again tomorrow,” like a promise, and he doesn’t argue. In a society where asking for help can feel like failing, their ritual normalizes care. The film treats their connection with gentleness, building trust in five-minute increments until it feels like sunlight creeping under blackout curtains. It’s one of the most humane depictions of noticing a stranger I’ve seen.
The Lobby Reunion Four Decades Late: Catherine and Sang-gyu recognize each other beside the revolving doors, and the camera gives them space—no swelling strings, just the rush of air as guests pass. Their conversation is made of half-stories and almost-touches, which somehow hit harder than a tearful embrace. You feel the weight of Korean social codes from a generation ago—family honor, class divides—sitting between them like an extra chair. When Catherine smiles and calls him by his old name, time briefly behaves. It’s the kind of scene that makes you text your own what-if.
The Almost-Proposal—and the Braver No: So-jin tries small, silly detours to stall Seung-hyo’s romantic plans, and each one ricochets through wedding logistics like a pebble across water. The comedy never mocks her; it honors the panic of realizing you might lose a story you’ve been keeping alive for fifteen years. When she finally speaks her truth—not a plea, but a confession—you can see dignity replace desperation. The movie chooses compassion for everyone involved, reminding us that saying “no” to the past can also be saying “yes” to yourself. That’s a kind of love story too.
The Ballroom Soundcheck: Lee Kang’s rehearsal unfolds under chandeliers as his manager hovers at the back, face torn between pride and fear. The lights catch on dust and determination; the lyrics land differently when you know how many empty rooms they’ve played. When the poaching offer finally gets acknowledged, the two men look at each other and measure the years. The decision that follows isn’t flashy, but it’s faithful, and the audience in the film becomes a mirror for us: we cheer for loyalty like it’s a hook in a chorus. Have you ever chosen the harder right over the easier yes?
The CEO Who Loves Even Numbers Learns to Improvise: Yong-jin’s obsession with pairs is first a punchline, then a map to his fear of randomness. In a backstage corridor, he catches I-yeong practicing a musical number and freezes—not because the rules are broken, but because something new is possible. Later, when he leaves a centerpiece asymmetrical and walks away on purpose, it lands like a character beat in a symphony. The movie understands that growth is often one imperfect vase at a time. I smiled for minutes after the cut.
Midnight on the Rooftop: Not everyone is at the party when the countdown begins; some stories crest in solitude. Jae-yong stands in the cold as fireworks crack open the sky, phone in hand, holding onto a voice that kept showing up. The sound design here is exquisite—distant cheering, high wind, a tiny ringtone like a lifeline. He doesn’t announce his choice; he simply makes it. And when he walks back toward the stairwell light, it feels like a confession to the day.
Memorable Lines
“I’ll call you again tomorrow. Let’s wake up together.” – Su-yeon, making care sound ordinary It’s a translated, approximate line, but the spirit is exact: she reframes help as routine, not rescue. In a hospitality job where kindness can become scripted, she chooses sincerity. The scene reframes “service” as solidarity and quietly saves a life. It also underscores how a gentle ritual can outlast a crisis.
“Some stories don’t become couples. They become courage.” – So-jin, after finally speaking her truth This paraphrased reflection captures her emotional pivot from longing to self-respect. Watching her accept the shape of her story—without bitterness—feels like watching a friend decide to start the new year clean. It’s tender, adult, and deeply Korean in its preference for grace over spectacle. Her journey reminds us that unrequited love can still end in growth.
“Even numbers made me feel safe. Tonight, I can live with odd.” – Yong-jin, choosing uncertainty The line distills his arc from control to trust. It also plays like a wink to his staff, who’ve learned to read his perfectionism as protection. When he lets a centerpiece sit slightly off, it lands like a wedding vow to spontaneity. Sometimes character development is a single misplaced flower.
“I waited for you by the door, and the years came in instead.” – Sang-gyu, to Catherine This translated sentiment channels the way their reunion honors both first love and the life that happened anyway. The film avoids melodrama; it gives them dignity and a horizon. You can feel the weight of family duty, reputation, and time in every clipped syllable. Their goodbye is one of the film’s quietest triumphs.
“Let’s fail together once more—on stage.” – Sang-hoon, to Lee Kang It’s a manager’s love language: gallows humor, loyalty, a shove toward the spotlight. After years of near-misses, choosing to risk failure again is the most romantic thing either man can do for the music. The line reframes success as the right partner beside you when you try again. The crowd’s cheer feels like absolution.
Why It's Special
There’s a certain magic to stories set on the cusp of a new year—the way strangers’ paths cross, how long‑kept secrets find the courage to surface. A Year-End Medley leans into that feeling with tenderness, weaving multiple romances and second chances inside the glowing lobby of the fictional Hotel Emross. If you’re planning a cozy year‑end watch, you’ll find it on TVING in South Korea, on Disney+ in select regions, and on Netflix in Japan, with U.S. availability rotating by season and platform. Check your preferred app or digital storefront to confirm in your area.
Right from its opening beats, the film tells you it’s about ordinary people at extraordinary emotional crossroads. A hotel manager who’s excellent at everything except confessing her feelings. A doorman who thinks his first love is long gone until she walks through the revolving door. Have you ever felt this way—so composed in public, yet unexpectedly undone by a chance meeting?
The direction keeps the camera warm and generous, inviting you to linger in quiet corners where small gestures matter: a late‑night phone call, an elevator ride that lasts just long enough to change two lives. Instead of chasing frenetic holiday hijinks, it trusts gentle timing and empathy. You can almost smell the pine from the lobby tree, hear the elevator chime, and feel the hush before midnight.
What makes A Year-End Medley special is how it balances a mosaic of stories without losing sight of the individual heartbeat in each one. The characters aren’t the kind of caricatures you meet in disposable rom‑coms; they carry years of history, mistakes, and private rituals that the film lets us discover slowly.
It’s also a film about courage—the small, unglamorous kind. One character decides to stop postponing joy. Another forgives herself for a dream that changed shape. Have you ever promised that “next year” will be different, only to find that change starts with one honest conversation tonight?
The writing favors sincerity over snark. There are jokes, yes, but they land softly, often as a way to protect someone’s dignity rather than score points. The hotel setting isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a crossroads where lives in motion intersect, echoing the film’s belief that love tends to show up when you’re busy checking in someone else.
Underneath it all is a classic year‑end ache: the need to reconcile who we were with who we want to be. The film doesn’t insist on fairy‑tale endings for everyone. Instead, it offers something braver—clarity, closure, and the promise that first steps count as happy endings too. Director Kwak Jae‑yong has said he conceived the film as “seven different kinds of love,” and the gentle breadth of those feelings is exactly what lingers.
Popularity & Reception
When A Year-End Medley opened on December 29, 2021, it immediately found a home with holiday audiences in Korea, landing among the top titles of its week and becoming the leading domestic film in its opening window. That combination of theatrical glow and at‑home comfort fit the moment perfectly, with a simultaneous bow on TVING that let families gather around living‑room screens.
Coverage in English‑language media described it as a soothing crowd‑pleaser, highlighting how its hybrid release strategy let word‑of‑mouth build quickly. Forbes noted the film’s swift rise on local charts and framed it as a warm counterprogramming choice amid action‑heavy lineups that winter.
Critics in Korea often pointed to its “pleasant warmth,” praising the ensemble’s lived‑in performances and the film’s gentle confidence with romantic tropes. It’s the kind of movie that doesn’t apologize for believing in timing and fate, yet still grounds those ideas in recognizable, everyday choices.
The movie’s fandom has become seasonally active, resurfacing each December as viewers revisit it for comfort alongside their favorite year‑end rituals. That cyclical affection is helped by its regional availability—streaming on Disney+ in some markets and on Netflix in Japan—ensuring new audiences discover it every holiday season, even as U.S. streaming rotates.
Another sign of its staying power: because it resonated so broadly, the team crafted a six‑part extended version for television shortly after release. That expansion let viewers linger longer with favorite pairings and amplified the film’s “holiday anthology” charm.
Cast & Fun Facts
Han Ji‑min anchors the film with a performance that’s all micro‑expressions and quiet bravery. As the hotel manager who can orchestrate a gala but struggles to say “I like you,” she turns restraint into a love language. Watch how she straightens a name tag before an important conversation or breathes in before pressing a doorbell; the character’s whole history lives in those seconds.
In a film where grand gestures could have stolen the spotlight, Han opts for the glow of recognition. We believe her not because the script tells us to, but because she moves like a person who has spent years holding the lobby together for everyone else. Her scenes become an invitation—have you ever been the reliable one who still needs a miracle?
Lee Dong‑wook plays the hotel’s young CEO with a wonderfully specific rhythm—fastidious, charming, and low‑key bemused by his own rules. The role lets him deploy that droll timing he’s known for while opening up to a sweetness that never tips into sap. You sense a man who organizes the world to keep chaos at bay, then learns to make room for the mess of love.
What’s delightful is how he calibrates that transformation. A Year-End Medley gives him deadpan lines and quiet silences, and he uses both to sketch a person learning to trust improvisation. The result is a romance that feels earned: less fireworks, more the steady glow of a hallway lamp left on for someone you care about.
Kang Ha‑neul arrives like a question you’ve been avoiding: what do you do when a plan you’ve pursued for years stops being the right one? As a guest whose life has drifted off schedule, he gives the film its tender ache—funny one moment, gutted the next, always human. His voice cracks on a throwaway line and you suddenly see the weight he’s been carrying.
He’s also the movie’s quiet comedian, slipping in jokes that feel like self‑protection. The way he stares at a ceiling before deciding what to say, or rehearses courage into a phone call, turns familiar rom‑com beats into character work. It’s the kind of acting that makes you think about your own almost‑decisions.
Im Yoon‑ah is the film’s rush of fresh air—bright, grounded, and emotionally precise. As a hotel staffer whose warmth becomes a lifeline, she radiates the kind of optimism that comes from choosing kindness, not naiveté. Her character’s calls, reminders, and tiny favors thread the film’s stories together like twinkle lights.
What makes her turn memorable is the way she listens. In conversations where other actors might chase punchlines, she holds space, letting other people feel seen. That generosity plays beautifully against the ensemble’s shifting energies and helps the film earn its soft landing.
Kim Young‑kwang adds a different shade of longing, sketching a man who has learned to be everyone’s dependable friend and is quietly terrified that reliability is all he’ll ever be. His scenes carry that bittersweet mix of good timing and too‑late timing—which, frankly, is the most New Year’s feeling of all.
Opposite him, Ko Sung‑hee brings cool elegance and a musician’s sensitivity. Together they build a relationship dynamic that understands how love can be both a duet and a negotiation, especially when careers and old promises crowd the room. Their arc hums with the film’s theme: to choose love is to choose a rhythm, and then keep time together.
Behind the mosaic is director Kwak Jae‑yong, whose romantic instincts have guided beloved hits before. Here, he and writer Yoo Seung‑hee shape an ensemble piece that still feels intimate, even expanding it into a six‑episode extended version for television after the film connected with viewers. In interviews, Kwak described designing “seven different kinds of love,” and you can feel that curatorial care in every interwoven thread.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If your year needs a gentle reset, A Year-End Medley is that rare holiday movie that believes small choices can change a life. Before you press play, pour something warm, turn on the tree, and let the film do what it does best—remind you that hope often looks ordinary. As you decide where to watch, choose the plan that fits you best—sometimes the best streaming service for your home is the one that keeps everyone together on the couch—and if you’re traveling for the holidays, those credit card rewards and travel insurance perks you’ve been saving might turn a movie night into a memory. See you in the lobby when the clock strikes twelve.
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