“Beasts Clawing at Straws”—A pitch‑black Korean caper where one bag of cash turns ordinary people into predators
Introduction
I didn’t expect a simple sauna locker to feel like a moral crossroads, but the first time the camera lingers on that abandoned bag, my stomach tightened as if I’d found it. Have you ever felt the wild rush of “what if,” the way your thoughts sprint ahead to bills paid, fresh starts, and secrets neatly erased? Beasts Clawing at Straws takes that fleeting fantasy and drags it through back‑alley debts, whispered threats, and the kind of favors that always cost more than they promise. The people here aren’t monsters at first glance; they’re us—parents counting hospital bills, workers stuck in grindhouse jobs, lovers who made one bad bet and kept doubling down. And in a world where money moves faster than mercy, the film keeps asking: when survival and greed share a face, can you tell them apart? By the time the last key falls and the final choice is made, you’ll feel why this is the kind of story you don’t just watch—you confess to.
Overview
Title: Beasts Clawing at Straws (지푸라기라도 잡고 싶은 짐승들)
Year: 2020
Genre: Crime thriller, Black comedy, Neo‑noir
Main Cast: Jeon Do‑yeon, Jung Woo‑sung, Bae Seong‑woo, Youn Yuh‑jung, Jung Man‑sik, Jin Kyung, Shin Hyun‑been, Jung Ga‑ram
Runtime: 108 minutes
Streaming Platform: Netflix; Viki
Director: Kim Yong‑hoon
Overall Story
It starts with Joong‑man, a decent man reduced to mopping floors at a neighborhood sauna after layoffs shove him out of a steady office life. He goes home to a cramped apartment and an ailing mother, Soon‑ja, who needs more care than he can afford. His wife picks up extra shifts, their daughter counts scholarship deadlines, and the math still doesn’t work. One night, Joong‑man opens a locker and finds a designer bag stuffed with cash so thick it hums in his hands. He doesn’t call the police; he does what many of us might do—he hides it, promising himself he’s only buying time. Have you ever told yourself a small lie to keep hope alive?
Across town, Tae‑young, a mid‑level customs officer who once believed he was the smart one in the room, is drowning. He borrowed money to help a girlfriend who then ghosted him—now a gangster named Park Doo‑man wants repayment with interest measured in broken bones. Tae‑young’s slick uniform and badge are an armor that doesn’t fit anymore, so he makes a crooked deal: engineer a quick airport scam, skim a desperate traveler, clear the debt. He tells himself it’s a victimless crime against a “sucker,” but the word tastes bitter even in his own mouth. If you’ve ever googled debt consolidation at 2 a.m., you’ll recognize the panic in his eyes.
In another chapter of this city’s long night, Mi‑ran works as an escort after losing her nest egg in a bad market swing. Her husband, a mean drunk who treats her like collateral, turns their home into a trap. At a dim bar lit in bruised purples, Mi‑ran meets Jin‑tae, a soft‑spoken young client who listens more than he talks. He makes an offer that sounds like freedom: he’ll stage an “accident,” and when the life insurance pays out, they’ll split it. Relief brushes Mi‑ran’s face for the first time in months—then fear lands right behind it.
Orbiting all their stories is Yeon‑hee, the kind of bar madam who learned long ago that power favors those who move first. She runs her place with low‑voiced authority and tends to her girls like a general, not a saint. Yeon‑hee has debts you can’t list on a spreadsheet and a past that knocks on the door at inconvenient hours, often in the shape of men who mistake confidence for consent. When she glimpses the rumor of easy money—a bag that’s changed hands and blood types—her plans harden into an escape route. She is done paying for other people’s mistakes.
The bag becomes a magnet, and people become filings. Joong‑man tests hiding places and nerves, watching every doorbell like it owes him an apology. Tae‑young sets his airport con in motion, trusting a gangster’s lieutenant the way a drowning man trusts driftwood. Mi‑ran rehearses alibis while Jin‑tae studies the layout of her husband’s day down to the minute. And Yeon‑hee pulls invisible strings, nudging these strangers toward one intersection where fate won’t use a turn signal.
Jin‑tae’s “accident” goes off with the ghostly efficiency of someone who’s done terrible things gently. Mi‑ran feels the relief she paid for, and then the guilt that never truly leaves. Meanwhile, Tae‑young’s plan sprouts leaks: the “sucker” isn’t as naive as advertised, and Park’s men follow the scent of cash like trained dogs. Every attempt to clean up one mess opens a new stain somewhere else. Have you ever tried to outpace a lie and realized the lie can run faster?
Yeon‑hee meets Park Doo‑man under the pretense of truce and money talk, then proves she has no intention of playing second. The scene turns intimate the way interrogations can be, equal parts flattery and threat, until she makes a move that puts Park on the wrong side of a weapon. The silence afterward is almost tender before she remembers to breathe. She needs to erase what happened, and fire still erases things best. She lights a blaze meant to be surgical; cities rarely cooperate with clean endings.
The fire takes more than it’s asked to. In a cruel sweep, it catches Joong‑man’s modest home, erasing keepsakes and purchase receipts alike, and with them the last illusion that he’s just borrowing fate’s kindness. Watching his family shiver on the curb, he feels the bag’s weight even when he’s not holding it. Despair turns into the kind of anger that makes people choose badly and quickly. And yet, in a film that keeps barging into pitch black, Joong‑man still reaches for a switch.
Park’s lieutenant comes hunting for Yeon‑hee, a moral accountant balancing violence owed. Their showdown is spare, the conversation clipped to the bone—the kind of scene where every glance is a coin toss. Yeon‑hee fights like a woman who refuses to be someone’s cautionary tale, but the ledger of old sins can be brutal. When she falls, something small but potent slips from her grasp: a locker key. It’s amazing how often life and death pivot on a piece of metal you can lose between couch cushions.
At the airport, cleaners move like timekeepers, resetting the stage between departures and arrivals. Joong‑man’s wife, bone‑tired and clear‑eyed, finds the key as if routine were its own kind of luck. She follows the numbers to a locker and opens a future. The bag waits, patient and heavy. For once, a hand reaches for money not to ruin, but to repair.
The film closes with consequences parceled out not by fairness but by cause and effect. Tae‑young faces a future scraped clean of swagger; Mi‑ran stares into a mirror that does not judge, only remembers. Joong‑man stands beside the woman who actually saved them, learning the quiet math of gratitude. And the city exhales, already hiding its next story in plain sight. In a country where the hustle can feel like a birthright and household calculations rule dinner tables, this ending lands like both a warning and a benediction.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Sauna Locker Discovery: Late night at a bathhouse, Joong‑man opens a locker and stares into a luxury bag packed with cash—no note, no name, just possibility. The camera lingers not on the money but on his trembling breath, making us complicit in the temptation. He hides it rather than report it, a tiny choice that bends his entire life. The scene distills how desperation can masquerade as opportunity. It’s the quietest robbery you’ll ever witness, and it’s self‑theft—the moment he steals from his own peace.
“Sucker” at the Airport: Tae‑young’s con relies on fluorescent lighting, a practiced smile, and a man flagged as easy prey. The choreography is crisp—badges flash, bags swap, glances ricochet off mirrored windows. But friction appears where pride meets panic, and suddenly the script changes in real time. Watching a public space morph into a crime scene without anyone noticing is chilling. It’s the kind of sequence that makes you think about identity theft protection and how fragile our sense of safety is when money moves in shadows.
Mi‑ran’s Deal in the Bar’s Back Booth: Jin‑tae, all calm eyes and gentle voice, lays out an unthinkable offer like a business plan. Mi‑ran’s silence carries all the bruises we don’t see; she signs without a pen, with a nod that breaks your heart. The bar drowns them in neon that looks like bad weather. When the “accident” later unfolds off‑screen, the film trusts our imagination to do cruel work. That restraint makes the aftermath feel heavier—and more real.
Yeon‑hee’s Private Negotiation: In a closed room that smells faintly of perfume and danger, Yeon‑hee and Park talk money, pride, and ownership. Their dialogue is a chess match where every move is a feint, and respect is just another currency. When Yeon‑hee strikes, it’s swift and almost sorrowful, the way survivors sometimes apologize to the world for choosing themselves. Her cleanup is meticulous but not perfect, and that sliver of imperfection sets the next tragedy in motion. Power here is a candle—bright, brief, and always near something flammable.
The Night of the Fire: Flames bloom in ugly oranges against a quiet neighborhood, and Joong‑man watches years of compromise turn to smoke. The fire wasn’t meant for him, which somehow makes the loss more obscene. Neighbors gather, whispering that particular mix of pity and voyeurism that follows catastrophe. The sequence captures how disasters spread beyond their intended targets, a reminder that “victimless” crimes are a fairy tale. It’s also where Joong‑man stops pretending the bag is a pause button and realizes it’s a detonator.
The Falling Key: Yeon‑hee’s death is stark; the key tumbling from her hand is operatic. That small clink on tile carries the weight of every scheme in the film. Later, when Joong‑man’s wife picks it up during a routine shift, the contrast between ordinary work and extraordinary luck stuns. The locker opens like a throat finally willing to speak. It’s the film’s thesis in miniature: the line between ruin and relief is thinner than a sliver of metal.
Memorable Lines
“I found it. I didn’t steal it.” – Joong‑man, convincing himself he’s still a good man It’s a plea and a verdict in one breath. He’s drawing a moral border where none exists, the way many of us do when survival feels like an emergency. The line reveals his terror of becoming someone he wouldn’t recognize. It also foreshadows how quickly good intentions get laundered into bad choices.
“Debts don’t sleep just because you close your eyes.” – Park Doo‑man, smiling like a banker who collects in bruises The threat is practical, not poetic, which makes it scarier. In a country famous for hustle, Park embodies the predatory side of credit—interest that compounds in fear. The sentence lands like a bill shoved under a door you thought was locked. It also frames Tae‑young’s downfall as a series of late payments on things he thought he could delay.
“If the world were fair, I’d be out of business.” – Yeon‑hee, counting cash and compromises She’s not bragging; she’s diagnosing the ecosystem. The bar, the gangsters, the side deals—everything thrives in a market where fairness is a rumor and leverage is real. The line refracts her choices through survival rather than malice. It’s a reminder that for some people, “financial planning” looks more like not getting hurt today than building a retirement fund.
“I can make it look like weather.” – Jin‑tae, assuring Mi‑ran that accidents can be arranged The image is chilling because it’s so gentle: weather is natural, inevitable, blameless. Jin‑tae’s promise seduces because it offers freedom without fingerprints. Mi‑ran hears not violence, but the possibility of rest. The line lingers as the film’s most unsettling sales pitch.
“Money is just paper—until it decides who gets to breathe easier.” – Joong‑man’s wife, holding the locker key like a lifeline It’s the quiet moral center of the movie arriving late and true. She speaks from the ground level where budgets are made and dignity is measured in small victories. Her pragmatism counters the film’s swirling bravado and schemes. And when she opens that locker, you’ll feel why this story is worth your night: because it dares to ask what price you’d pay for a second chance—and what you’d forgive to take it.
Why It's Special
A Louis Vuitton bag, a crowded sauna locker, and a dozen lives on the brink—that’s the ignition spark of Beasts Clawing at Straws, a sly, propulsive Korean crime caper that treats luck like a lit match. If you’re in the United States, you can stream it on Amazon Prime Video or Rakuten Viki, watch free with ads on The Roku Channel, Pluto TV, Xumo Play, and Kanopy/Hoopla/Plex, or rent/buy on Apple TV and Fandango at Home—so it’s one of those rare thrillers you can discover tonight without a hunt. Have you ever felt this way—one decision from a different life? That’s the current that keeps this movie humming.
Rather than dump exposition, the film glides forward in interlocking chapters, each one reframing what you think you know. The chapters are like trap doors: you’re sure of the floor beneath you until it opens and you’re falling into someone else’s story—with the same bag of money tumbling alongside. It’s twisty without being fussy, and the chaptered structure gives you that “one more episode” pull inside a single feature.
This is writer‑director Kim Yong-hoon’s debut feature, adapted from Keisuke Sone’s novel, and it’s the work of someone who loves the puzzle as much as the punchline. Premiering at the International Film Festival Rotterdam, it walked away with the Special Jury Award—an early sign that audiences far beyond Korea would latch onto its jet‑black humor and corkscrew plotting.
Emotionally, it’s a movie about ordinary people who convince themselves that desperation equals permission. The bag doesn’t just tempt; it exposes. Have you ever told yourself, “Just this once,” and felt the ground shift under your feet? The film sits in that uneasy space where need blurs into greed, then asks what you’re willing to sacrifice when the exit ramp finally appears.
Tonally, think neon‑lit noir spiked with droll, cutting laughs—the kind that sneak up on you right after a gasp. It borrows the momentum of classic capers but salts it with a very Korean sense of fatalism, where the past is never really past and a bad choice echoes through a dozen lives. Critics have likened its flavor to the Coens and Tarantino, but the aftertaste—bitter, funny, and oddly compassionate—is its own.
Visually, it’s a feast of saturated color—harbor greens, signage reds, and the bruised violets of late‑night interiors—making the violence pop and the irony sting. The camera keeps you close enough to smell the steam of the sauna and the salt of the pier, then pulls back at just the right moment to show how everyone’s collisions were inevitable.
At a brisk 108 minutes, it moves with the breathless pace of a con gone right until it goes wrong, letting propulsion do the heavy lifting. You’re never waiting for the next beat; you’re bracing for it, and the final interlocks snap together with the satisfaction of a safe door clicking open—only to reveal the cost of what’s inside.
Popularity & Reception
Beasts Clawing at Straws has been a slow‑burn word‑of‑mouth hit with critics: the Rotten Tomatoes score sits comfortably in the mid‑90s, a consensus that tells you how neatly it balances puzzle‑box plot and wicked humor. Audience reactions are more mixed—common for pitch‑black comedies—but the divide is part of the film’s charm; it’s gleefully merciless about its characters’ choices.
Reviewers across the map zeroed in on its playful lineage—yes, echoes of Coens and Tarantino—but also on how director Kim swerves those influences into something slyly local and fresh. The Houston Chronicle praised how the movie seasons Hitchcockian paranoia with a Korean social bite, while San Francisco Bay Area press called it “a wicked, twist‑filled winner.”
Across the Atlantic, The Guardian admired its “multi‑strand” circus and stylish color palette, noting how the film’s arch comedy keeps pace with its cruel turns. The visual style, especially the use of bruised neon and tight interiors, became a common talking point in UK coverage, which embraced the movie as a lean, crafty noir with a grin.
On the festival circuit, its Rotterdam premiere was more than a launch—it was a coronation. Earning the Special Jury Award at IFFR’s Tiger Competition signaled that this debut wasn’t just clever entertainment; it had formal swagger and international legs, the kind of endorsement that helps a film travel.
In the U.S., the movie accrued momentum through hybrid releases and streaming, making it a favorite recommendation among thriller fans who love discovering “something you probably missed in theaters.” As availability spread across multiple platforms, so did the fandom; aggregator pages and free‑with‑ads services gave it a second life, amplifying its cult status well beyond its initial release window.
Cast & Fun Facts
Jeon Do-yeon slinks into frame as Yeon‑hee, a brothel owner with a smile like a straight razor. She plays the role as a study in controlled combustion—lipstick, calculation, and the quick math of survival—turning every conversation into a negotiation and every gesture into a power move. It’s not just charisma; it’s precision, the kind of performance that makes you replay her scenes to catch what she didn’t say.
If you felt an extra layer of gravitas in her presence, you’re not imagining it: Jeon is the first Korean actor to win Best Actress at Cannes (for Secret Sunshine), a landmark that still hums through her screen aura here. Fun fact: early reports and interviews have noted that once Jeon signed on, she helped draw other heavyweight talent to the project—a ripple effect you can feel in the ensemble’s confidence.
Jung Woo-sung plays Tae‑young, a customs official with debts, a missing lover, and a moral line that moves depending on the pressure applied. Jung keeps the character taut—eyes always scanning for the next exit—so that even his silences feel like negotiations with fate. You can practically hear the meter running in his head, and that tension makes every choice land.
It’s also a kick to watch Jung—so magnetic in hard‑boiled fare like Asura: City of Madness—lean into a more coiled, compromised register. Against this film’s ruthless ecosystem, his bureaucrat‑turned‑schemer becomes a mirror for anyone who’s ever believed they could outsmart a bad situation if they just kept their cool.
Youn Yuh-jung drops in like a stealth scene‑stealer, playing a mother who can needle and nurture in the same breath. She has that rare gift of making humor feel like a blade: the line lands, you laugh, and only then do you realize she’s cut to the truth. It’s the levity the film earns, not the kind it begs for.
By the time this movie was reaching global audiences, Youn had made history as the first Korean actor to win an Academy Award (Best Supporting Actress for Minari). Knowing that milestone adds a delightful frisson to her scenes here—you can sense the mastery that would soon be recognized on Hollywood’s biggest stage.
Bae Sung-woo is Joong‑man, the weary sauna clerk whose bad luck meets tempting opportunity in a locked‑room moment. Bae grounds the movie; he’s our empathy anchor in a sea of schemers, carrying the fatigue of debt and duty in his shoulders until the bag of cash becomes both salvation and curse.
Watch how Bae modulates desperation into decision—tiny hesitations, forced smiles, a husband’s patience stretched thin. In a film bristling with flamboyant crooks, his ordinariness is the boldest choice; it reminds us that noir’s cruelest question isn’t “Will you get away with it?” but “Who will you become while you try?”
As for the filmmaker behind the curtain, writer‑director Kim Yong‑hoon adapts Keisuke Sone’s novel with a debut’s hunger and a veteran’s composure. His Rotterdam Special Jury Award felt like a welcome mat for a long career—a promise that this nimble blend of structure, surprise, and sting is only the beginning.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re in the mood for a thriller that tickles your brain and tests your nerves, let Beasts Clawing at Straws be tonight’s play. Whichever best streaming service you prefer, it’s easy to watch movies online and tumble into this neon‑soaked maze of choices and consequences. For maximum fun, cue it up on your home theater system and let those colors pop on your 4K TV while you try to outguess the next double‑cross. And if you’ve ever wondered whether luck is a lifeline or a trap, this one has an answer—delivered with a wicked grin.
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