“Again”—A grieving assistant director meets a legendary gisaeng and remembers how to dream
Introduction
I pressed play on Again on a night when the to‑do lists felt heavier than my chest, and within minutes I was watching a woman who looked as tired as I felt. Have you ever hit that point—ten years into a dream—where the dream itself starts to feel like another job? The film doesn’t lecture; it holds a mirror, and then offers a song, and then a hand. In the neon hush of Seoul and the old alleyways of Jeonju, it reminds you of the way grief and ambition can braid together until you can’t tell which ache is which. And then, through a character from history who refuses to be forgotten, it gently suggests that beginning again is not a slogan but a practice. That’s why I’m writing today: because this little movie gave me the courage to look up from my own mess and choose to move.
Overview
Title: Again (어게인)
Year: 2020
Genre: Musical drama
Main Cast: Kim Ye‑eun, Ye Soo‑jung, Kim So‑yi, Kim Hong‑pyo, Ahn Ye‑in, Lee You.
Runtime: 84 minutes.
Streaming Platform: Currently unavailable on Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, Viki, or Kocowa (availability may change).
Director: Cho Chang‑yeol.
Overall Story
Jo Yeon‑ju is thirty‑something and exhausted, the sort of exhaustion you can only accumulate by being indispensable but invisible. For ten years she has been an assistant director in Seoul, absorbing other people’s visions, fixing other people’s crises, and filing away her own script under “someday.” When her latest pitch is rejected with a polite smile, she hears it as a verdict on her worth and not just her work—have you ever felt that way? The phone rings again: a producer wants her to take a side gig back in her hometown, Jeonju, documenting the life of Heo San‑ok, a legendary last gisaeng who became a painter and patron. She doesn’t say yes out of passion; she says yes because saying no feels like quitting, and she’s not sure she can absorb one more loss. Then her mother Mal‑soon—practical, proud—mentions a new health concern, and the ground shifts under Yeon‑ju’s feet.
The train to Jeonju carries her past rice fields and the bright signs of highway rest stops, all those little markers of a life she once planned to leave behind for good. Back home, the old neighborhood tuts and smiles: people who still use her childhood name, people who ask sweetly if “the movie thing” is going well. Her mother doesn’t scold; she cooks too much food, which is its own kind of interrogation. Yeon‑ju starts digging through archives for the San‑ok project and finds photographs, oil pigments ground into old journals, and a face that looks as alive in its eighties as most faces do at twenty. In these artifacts, the film leans into the musical: a melody unfurls as if a string had been plucked in the past and is still ringing now. And for the first time in months, the assistant in Yeon‑ju goes quiet and the writer wakes up.
San‑ok’s life becomes a map that Yeon‑ju traces with her fingertips. A gisaeng was not only a courtesan; she was a trained artist, a keeper of poems and pansori, a woman who learned to survive in a room she did not own. Yeon‑ju imagines San‑ok’s late‑night studio, the clink of inkstones, the way she fed younger artists and told them their hunger was a talent, not a shame. The film stages these imaginings as soft‑focus numbers—half memory, half dream—where past and present dance at arm’s length. When Yeon‑ju hums along, it isn’t performative; it’s like her ribcage is rediscovering space to breathe. The research brief starts to feel like an invitation.
Meanwhile, mother–daughter rhythms return: Mal‑soon’s “Did you sleep?” mornings, Yeon‑ju’s guilty glances at unopened emails. There’s a tenderness here that will break you if you let it, especially if you’ve ever juggled a career crisis with a parent’s doctor visits. The film doesn’t cheapen illness for plot points; it sits with the fear, and then moves, like a hymn that holds on one note and then rises. Yeon‑ju scribbles new pages at the kitchen table between making porridge and taking calls from producers who only notice her when something goes wrong. The pages are raw and a little messy, but they belong to her. And San‑ok, in visions that feel as real as conversation, keeps nudging her forward: paint it, sing it, try again.
Jeonju itself becomes a character—the hanok roofs, the market clatter, the alleys where fermenting jars sit like sleeping guardians. In a lesser movie, hometown would equal “trap,” but Again lets it be a studio, a rehearsal room for courage. Yeon‑ju reconnects with a school friend who now teaches traditional dance; they swap favors and stories about the jobs they thought they’d have by now. There’s laughter there, and a quiet edge of envy, the human kind you would recognize in yourself. The friend’s students lend their bodies to Yeon‑ju’s research, and suddenly a rehearsal hall becomes a stage set in Yeon‑ju’s mind, a way to test scenes before money can say no. What would it be like if creative blocks broke not with epiphanies but with neighbors?
A crisis arrives the way crises do—too early, all at once. Mal‑soon needs tests and Yeon‑ju needs to be in two places, and the budget for the San‑ok project is sliced in half. She does what many of us do: pulls out folders that say “health insurance,” googles “mental health therapy,” and wonders who she is if there’s no project to hide behind. The film allows her to be angry without turning her into a caricature; she snaps at the one friend who’s really trying to help, then apologizes in a voice so small you might miss it. She almost deletes the new script. And then she hears a line—simple, stubborn—that won’t let her.
That line comes from San‑ok in a fantasy duet sequence that functions like a manifesto. The song doesn’t promise glory; it promises company. San‑ok, played with unshowy grace, stands beside Yeon‑ju in an empty theater as if they had both kept a seat for the other across time. The chorus circles the word “again” like a kite searching for wind, and you can feel Yeon‑ju decide to risk being seen. She prints the latest draft, carries it in a tote with a loose pen, and walks out into the night she once avoided. In her pocket is not an answer but a compass.
At a small showcase in town, Yeon‑ju tests the material with local performers who know how to make little stages feel big. One number intercuts San‑ok’s remembered brushstrokes with a modern dancer’s wrists—a conversation between disciplines, between lives. Yeon‑ju’s mother slips into the back row, arms folded, eyes shining in that way moms try to hide. When the music softens, Mal‑soon coughs, and Yeon‑ju’s head turns—not in panic, but in instinctive love. Have you ever realized you were doing something brave, and the first person you wanted to tell was the one who taught you how to be brave?
The producer from Seoul calls, as producers do, only after a whiff of buzz. He’s noncommittal but asks for “a more commercial ending,” which is exactly the sort of note that used to crush Yeon‑ju. This time she listens, writes it down, and chooses what to keep. The grown‑up part of artmaking—boundaries—becomes her second act. She says no to one compromise and yes to another, but each yes is to the film’s heart, not to someone else’s idea of her lane. The assistant inside her is not fired; she is promoted to protector.
In the final stretch, the movie circles back to the kitchen table where everything began. Mal‑soon’s health is still an open question—because that’s how life is—and Yeon‑ju’s script is not a guaranteed greenlight—because that’s how art is. But when she hums a bar from San‑ok’s song while washing rice, she smiles, and it looks earned. She sends the draft. She writes another page. The last shot doesn’t explode; it exhales. And you realize, with that soft ache in your chest, that beginning again is what we do when we choose love over fear, even if our hands still shake.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Station Platform: After the rejection, Yeon‑ju waits on a platform with a script she no longer believes in and a call from home she doesn’t want to return. The camera lingers on the fluorescent silence, and you can feel the weight of all the almosts in her spine. A faint melody starts—not triumphant, just persistent—like a thought returning after hibernation. When the train doors open, she doesn’t look heroic; she just steps forward. That tiny motion is the film’s thesis: courage is motion, not noise.
Archives in Dust and Gold: In a municipal room that smells like paper and time, Yeon‑ju finds photos of Heo San‑ok, the last gisaeng who later painted and mentored others. The sequence blooms into a musical reverie as brushstrokes turn into choreography, inviting us to imagine how a woman survives by turning her life into art. It’s the first time the movie lets past and present touch palms. The scene is both research and resurrection. It’s where the project stops being a gig and starts being a lifeline.
Kitchen Table Confessional: Mal‑soon’s kitchen is a kind of sanctuary where hard truths are softened by soup. Between steaming bowls, mother and daughter exchange the half‑sentences families rely on: “Are you eating?” “Are you sleeping?” “I’m fine.” The film lets the pauses speak, and then it lets them sing—literally—when Yeon‑ju hums the melody she can’t get out of her head and Mal‑soon answers with a steadying harmony. The duet lasts seconds, but you understand everything about their history. It’s not fireworks; it’s oxygen.
The Hall That Becomes a Stage: Borrowing a rehearsal space from an old friend, Yeon‑ju strings together a scratch performance to test her San‑ok material. The lighting is improvised, the cast is half students, and yet the number lands, because the bodies know the story even if the set doesn’t. A dancer’s wrists echo San‑ok’s brush, and a chorus swells around the word “again,” refusing to sound like a marketing hook. The applause is messy and kind, the kind that makes you cry after long droughts of indifference. This is what community can do when a budget cannot.
“Don’t Wither.”: In the pivotal duet “Kkot‑baragi” (Flower‑Gazing), San‑ok turns to Yeon‑ju and delivers a simple, crystalline imperative: “지지마.” Don’t wither. Don’t give up. The line, reportedly suggested on set by the actor playing San‑ok, lands like a blessing and becomes the film’s most durable souvenir—you can carry it out of the theater in your pocket.
The Phone Call That Doesn’t Define Her: When the Seoul producer finally calls after the showcase, you brace for the old pattern: explain, placate, accept. Instead, Yeon‑ju listens—really listens—and then chooses what serves the story she’s finally admitted is hers. The camera doesn’t celebrate with a fist pump; it lets us notice how quiet integrity can be. In that silence, you sense a career shifting from seeking permission to offering invitations. She is still scared, but now the fear sits in the passenger seat.
Memorable Lines
“지지마.” – Heo San‑ok, a last word that sounds like a first step It translates literally to “Don’t wither,” and it feels like a small candle relit in a drafty room. She isn’t promising Yeon‑ju success; she is promising that refusal to give up is a kind of art. Coming from a woman who survived eras of constraint and still fed other artists, the line resists cynicism. It’s the movie’s seed you’ll find sprouting days later.
“I thought I wanted applause. I just wanted a room where my voice didn’t echo back empty.” – Jo Yeon‑ju, admitting what burnout stole This confession reframes her decade of assisting: not as failure, but as training without a teacher. The line signals a pivot from external validation to internal alignment. In that pivot, her relationship with her mother softens, because she stops hearing every question as criticism.
“A brush, a body—both are instruments. Feed them or they go quiet.” – Heo San‑ok, speaking as mentor and artist It’s a thesis for the film’s hybrid of dance and painting and song. You can feel Yeon‑ju hearing this as permission to rest and to nourish herself without apology. Their relationship evolves here: no longer idol and researcher, but women who recognize each other’s hunger.
“Some days courage is sending the draft.” – Mal‑soon, half‑teasing, fully loving Mothers in this film do not speechify; they nudge. This line lands like a smile that covers tears, acknowledging both the fear of exposure and the necessity of trying. It deepens their bond, because Yeon‑ju can finally accept help without feeling small.
“Again doesn’t mean back—it means forward, with what you’ve learned.” – Jo Yeon‑ju, claiming her title This is the film’s gentle redefinition of starting over. It’s not erasing mistakes; it’s composting them. The implication is that healing (for a career, for a family) is incremental, practical, and brave.
Why It's Special
“Once Again” is one of those wistful, time‑slip stories that feels like a hand on your shoulder. A middle‑aged stuntman, broken by regret, is hurled back to 1997 for a shot at rewriting his life, his first love, and his future self. If you’ve ever stared at an old yearbook and wondered what one bolder choice might have changed, this movie speaks your language. For viewers in South Korea and some regions, it’s currently available on Netflix; availability varies by country, and U.S. audiences may need to watch for digital release windows or regional platforms as rollouts expand. Have you ever felt this way—ready to step back into one electric summer and try again?
Director Shin Seung‑hoon guides the film with a warm, steady hand, blending youthful buoyancy with the ache of hindsight. His own long road to a debut feature—nearly two decades in the industry—filters into the movie’s heartbeat; you sense the filmmaker in every choice to frame failure not as an ending but as a detour toward grace. That personal tether to 1997 gives the story texture, turning a high‑concept premise into a diary of second chances.
The acting glows from the inside out. “Once Again” hinges on a man split in two: the world‑weary adult and the brash teen he used to be. The camera lingers on hesitation and half‑formed words, letting the performances carry the time travel. Have you ever watched your younger self in your mind and wanted to whisper, “Turn left here”?
It’s also a film about hometown gravity—about the friends who know your worst day and still show up at dawn with coffee or a stupid joke. The banter lands breezy and true, but the movie never lets the humor eclipse its bruised heart. When the laughter fades, the silence says as much as any line of dialogue.
Tonally, “Once Again” is a generous blend—part coming‑of‑age comedy, part romantic memory, part fantasy fable. The five talismans that trigger the time‑slip feel like a folk‑story device, yet the narrative uses them to ask modern questions about ambition, shame, and the cost of performing toughness. The magic doesn’t distract; it clarifies.
Visually, the film toggles between the subdued colors of present‑day compromise and the sun‑dappled restlessness of the late ’90s. Even without shouting out specific needle‑drops, you feel the era’s pulse in school corridors, theater club rehearsals, and after‑class sprints that end in sweaty laughter and unspoken confessions.
What lingers is its compassion. “Once Again” doesn’t punish you for wishing for a do‑over; it invites you to forgive the person who didn’t yet know how to be brave. And if you’ve ever asked, “Would I really do better if I could go back?”, the film answers with a hopeful maybe—and the courage to try in the present.
Popularity & Reception
“Once Again” opened in South Korea as a modest, word‑of‑mouth release, drawing a niche but affectionate audience. Its theatrical run was brief, reflecting a competitive spring box office, yet its small scale suited its intimate story. According to box‑office tracking, it earned under $100,000 during its limited engagement—hardly headline numbers, but consistent with an indie‑leaning fantasy drama without a blockbuster marketing push.
Press attention centered on the film’s hook—time travel as emotional renovation—and on its relatable question: if you had five chances to fix one thing, where would you start? Coverage at the Seoul press conference framed the narrative as a “life reform project,” which captured both the movie’s playfulness and its grown‑up stakes.
Global curiosity also arrived via fandom bridges. With iKON’s Koo Jun‑hoe in a key role, K‑pop communities amplified early stills and posters, cheering on his leap to the big screen. Entertainment outlets introduced the project to international readers by highlighting that crossover appeal, which helped the movie punch above its promotional weight online.
On streaming, the film is currently listed on Netflix in South Korea and selected regions, though streaming charts show no consistent global Top‑10 footprint yet. For U.S. viewers, availability is fluid; aggregator listings and tracking services suggest no widely accessible U.S. streamer at the time of writing, prompting many to keep an eye on upcoming digital platforms or festival sidebars.
Critically, the tone most often praised is its sincerity—the way it trades spectacle for an honest look at remorse, first love, and male friendship. Reports from the press event emphasized how the director braided his own 1997 memories into the film’s fabric, and that authenticity is exactly what resonates with viewers who want their fantasy grounded in recognizable life.
Cast & Fun Facts
Jo Byeong‑kyu anchors “Once Again” as Woo‑seok, the teenager carrying the soul of a forty‑something stuntman who’s seen too much. He plays the role with a lively swagger that keeps colliding with a grown man’s caution, letting you watch regret and hope duke it out behind his eyes. The performance captures the strange dignity of trying to be kinder the second time you meet your first love.
He also spoke candidly about what he would change if he could rewind his own life, offering a poignant mirror to the film’s premise. Hearing an actor imagine a different career path at eighteen adds a meta‑charge to every scene where young Woo‑seok chooses who he wants to be. It’s performance as confession, and it makes the movie’s central gamble feel personal.
Koo Jun‑hoe (Ju‑ne of iKON) steps in as Bong‑gyun, the friend whose bravado, jokes, and sports obsessions are camouflage for fierce loyalty. It’s a charismatic on‑screen presence—one of those performances that suggests a long runway ahead, especially for viewers discovering him beyond the stage. You can feel the delight of an artist trying on a new medium and finding the camera likes him back.
His film debut became a small cultural moment on its own, a ripple that moved beyond traditional cinephile circles thanks to K‑pop fandoms. Articles spotlighted his transition from music to movies, and that attention funneled new eyes to the trailer. The movie understands the power of a wingman; so does the release.
Han Eun‑su plays Ji‑min, the first love who isn’t just a nostalgia token but a fully drawn character with her own ambitions and hesitations. Her scenes add oxygen to the story’s tenderness—moments where teenage awkwardness and adult accountability finally sit at the same table.
What stands out is how Han plays listening. Rather than chase big tearful crescendos, she leans into small, precise reactions: a breath held too long, a sentence edited mid‑air. Those details make the movie’s what‑ifs feel less hypothetical and more like a pact two people might actually keep.
Choi Hui‑seung is Ji‑seong, the uncomplicated friend whose loyalty becomes a compass. In a film about rewrites, he’s the margin note that never changes, and Choi’s performance makes that constancy feel like an earned virtue, not a cliché.
He pulls off the hardest trick in a time‑slip drama: being funny without puncturing the spell. Whether it’s a throwaway line or a wordless reaction at a crossroads, Choi turns support into story, giving Woo‑seok something solid to push against when the past refuses to behave.
Kim Da‑hyun portrays the older Woo‑seok—the man the teenager might still become if fear wins. His presence shades the film with adult stakes; every cut back to the present reminds us that this isn’t a memory game but a rescue mission.
What Kim brings is lived‑in weight. You sense the years in how he stands, how he flinches at small humiliations, how he still finds humor when he can. The dual‑performance dynamic—old self and young self—keeps the narrative honest about how hard change really is.
Park Cheol‑min plays the mysterious monk who offers five talismans and a dangerous kind of hope. He’s both catalyst and conscience, the story’s wry reminder that shortcuts carry interest you’ll have to pay back later.
Park’s long experience in scene‑stealing character roles shows: in a handful of minutes, he turns a plot device into a man with twinkling eyes and a private ledger of regrets. The magic works because you believe he’s seen what it costs.
Shin Seung‑hoon (director‑writer) threads his professional history into the film’s DNA. After years as an assistant director on mainstream projects, he debuts with a personal, small‑scale feature that treats time travel like an empathy machine. He’s less interested in paradox than in apology—and that choice is why the movie feels like a letter to anyone who still wants to try.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re curating a streaming subscription and craving a human‑sized story about courage, “Once Again” will feel like a wise friend. It’s a heartfelt pick for anyone who loves time‑travel tales that heal rather than dazzle, and it fits beautifully into a weekend “watch movies online” plan when it lands in your region. As availability broadens beyond Korea’s Netflix library, keep an eye on your favorite platform—the best streaming services are steadily adding under‑the‑radar Korean gems like this. Have you ever wanted one gentle chance to be braver? This movie hands you that feeling and tells you to carry it forward.
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