“Innocence”—A daughter-lawyer tears into a small town’s secrets to save the mother who no longer remembers her
Introduction
The first time I watched Innocence, I felt that squeeze in my chest you get when past and present collide in a single breath. Have you ever walked back into your hometown and realized the streets still remember what you tried to forget? That’s Ahn Jung‑in—an elite Seoul attorney who returns not for nostalgia but to defend her mother, who can’t even recognize her. The film doesn’t open with a chase; it opens with rice wine and grief, then drops a pesticide-shaped stone in the bowl and lets the rings spread. And as those rings widen—from one family to an entire village—you begin to wonder: who gets to define innocence when memory itself is compromised? By the time credits roll, you don’t just want justice for a case; you want solace for a daughter who fought the whole town to hear her mother’s true voice.
Overview
Title: Innocence (결백)
Year: 2020
Genre: Legal drama, Crime thriller
Main Cast: Shin Hye‑sun, Bae Jong‑ok, Huh Joon‑ho, Hong Kyung, Tae Hang‑ho
Runtime: 111 minutes
Streaming Platform: Apple TV (rental/purchase), Amazon Prime Video (rental/purchase), Fandango at Home (rental/purchase)
Director: Park Sang‑hyun
Overall Story
It begins with a death and a drink. In a rural Korean village, mourners gather for Ahn Tae‑su’s funeral, where makgeolli—milky rice wine—passes from hand to hand, comfort in a cup. Moments later people collapse, one dies, and the survivors point to a single suspect: the grieving widow, Chae Hwa‑ja. The shock doubles when TV news reveals that pesticide was detected in the makgeolli and that Hwa‑ja, whose memory is slipping, supposedly poured the drinks. In Seoul, her estranged daughter Jung‑in—a fast‑rising litigator—sees the broadcast and freezes, the kind of standstill that only childhood trauma can cause. She had left this town to escape a violent father; now she returns to defend the mother who may not even know her name. The crime is simple on paper, but the people and their histories are not.
Jung‑in’s first meetings are with walls: the tight smiles of village officials, the clipped answers of men who’ve known her family since she was little, the fog in Hwa‑ja’s eyes. Dementia steals faces before it steals facts; here it steals both. Her younger brother Jung‑su—neurodivergent, literal, heartbreakingly sincere—clings to routine, spelling out words when emotion overwhelms him. Have you ever tried to build a defense when your star witness cannot remember, and your most vulnerable witness trusts everyone? Jung‑in starts with what any good criminal defense attorney would: chain of custody, opportunity, motive, and the human currents underneath them. The medical reports say pesticide; the customs of a rural funeral say many hands touch one pot; the politics of the town say don’t rock the boat.
As she canvasses the village, the story widens into a map of obligation and debt. Mayor Choo—urbane in public, coiled in private—presides over a network of men whose interests align around land and money. Talk of rezoning and a future casino slips into conversation like a rumor you’re meant to overhear, and a sketch of a construction map appears where condolences once were. In a place where your boss can also be your neighbor and your lender, silence can be purchased cheaper than truth. Jung‑in, who clawed her way up through school, recognizes the pattern: small favors today, captured loyalties tomorrow. She starts pulling paperwork—permits, parcels, timelines—leaning on a kind of forensic accounting instinct to trace who profits when land changes color on a bureaucrat’s map. The rice wine may be the headline, she thinks, but land is the subtext.
Inside the courthouse, the film shifts into a steady, patient rhythm. The prosecutor presses a witness about who poured the wine, turning the phrase like a screw; Jung‑in objects, redirects, and builds a ladder of reasonable doubt, rung by careful rung. The judge watches, the villagers whisper, and Hwa‑ja sits, sometimes lucid, sometimes adrift, clutching her cardigan as if there were a shore in its threads. Have you ever pleaded with someone you love to remember one specific day, only to realize you’re the one who can’t forget the others? That’s the ache that rides under every question Jung‑in asks. She works both sides of the fight—court by day, kitchen by night—restaging the funeral in her head until the motions become a kind of prayer.
Then a fissure: a late‑night break‑in, a ledger misplaced, a local policeman wavering between duty and deference. Each new detail suggests the poisoning wasn’t a lone act of malice but a byproduct of something bigger—profit schemes that treat people as acceptable collateral. The whispers about removing greenbelt status from fields for development land her on a paper trail that leads back to the mayor’s circle. It’s the sort of thing you might see in a toxic tort case: chemicals in the soil, shortcuts in safety, then a community left to sort the bodies from the lies. Jung‑in’s job isn’t to indict the whole town, but as the mosaic fills in, the courtroom starts to feel like the only place where someone might finally name what happened. And still, she must do it without crushing her mother on the stand.
Family history won’t stay politely offstage. Old photos, a wedding ledger with names inked in neat Hangeul, a rumor about the quarry where Jung‑in’s father once worked—these fragments point to the ways power can buy silence for decades. When Jung‑in confronts elders about the quarry boss’s son and the chain of “favors” that followed, their faces harden. It’s not just that a crime may have been committed; it’s that the village has a long habit of calling exploitation “opportunity.” The closer she gets, the more the past bleeds into the present—acts of protection, acts of desperation, and the awful bargains people make to keep their children fed. Have you ever realized the story you were told about your parents was only chapter one? Innocence appreciates how adulthood complicates our verdicts on those who raised us.
The trial’s middle stretch is a chess match of credibility. Jung‑in dissects timelines, introduces surveillance stills, and questions why key evidence appeared so conveniently. The opposing counsel hammers at her mother’s access to pesticide and her supposed control over the drinks, trying to turn forgetfulness into guilt. Jung‑in counters with logic and empathy—if Hwa‑ja can’t remember her own daughter, how did she mastermind a targeted mass poisoning? That argument isn’t sentiment; it’s a razor aimed at mens rea. She’s not asking for sympathy; she’s insisting on the standard of proof the law demands. The film’s quiet thesis lands here: in a courtroom, truth is a discipline, not a mood.
When a witness cracks—one of those men who thought the town would always protect its own—the room tilts. It’s not a theatrical confession; it’s a slip, a line said too loudly, the kind of thing you hear when fear pries pride’s fingers loose. From there, Jung‑in threads together testimony about rezoning and kickbacks, and the silhouette of motive sharpens around who had the most to gain if public attention fixed on a convenient suspect. The case stops being a “who” and becomes a “why do the same people keep winning?” That’s the moment you realize the film isn’t only about a mother’s alleged crime; it’s about a system that metabolizes grief into leverage. And once you see that, you can’t unsee it.
The verdict scene refuses triumphalism. The court acknowledges gaps the prosecution cannot close and the pressure applied to vulnerable witnesses; Hwa‑ja is acquitted on the strength of reasonable doubt and the defense’s meticulous dismantling of the narrative that painted her as a poisoner. There is relief, yes, but it’s braided with the knowledge that acquittal doesn’t restore memory and that corruption rarely disappears after one loss in court. Outside, the village air feels both lighter and strangely unchanged, the way towns do the day after a storm—branches down, skies clear, work to do. Jung‑in holds her mother’s hand, not sure which version of her will wake tomorrow, and chooses to stay anyway. Have you ever realized the hardest part of winning is figuring out how to live with what the truth cost you? Innocence sits with that question, tender and unafraid.
As a global viewer, you’ll also feel the film’s sociocultural grain: the etiquette of funerals, the respect owed to village elders, the unease of challenging a mayor who eats at the same restaurants your family does. You’ll recognize universal dynamics too—how development promises can sound like hope until the paperwork says otherwise, how people in power call dissent “rudeness,” how a daughter’s voice can sound like a siren when it’s just love trying to speak clearly. The screenplay gives us a legal puzzle without forgetting the human math beneath it. And Shin Hye‑sun and Bae Jong‑ok build a mother‑daughter relationship where every glance carries a case file’s worth of history. If you’ve ever wondered what “burden of proof” feels like when your own heart is on the stand, this movie shows you.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Funeral That Turns: Lined shoes at the threshold, bowls of makgeolli, a widow moving by instinct—then sudden retching, bodies dropping, and the soundscape thinning to a single, awful hush. It’s a set piece that communicates everything: tradition, trust, and violation. The camera lingers on hands and cups, so that later, in court, questions about “who poured” land like accusations at us too. You feel how a communal ritual can be weaponized by a single contaminant. The scene is the film’s moral litmus test—what do we assume when panic needs a culprit?
First Visit to the Holding Cell: Jung‑in stands in front of her mother, reciting facts the way you might recite a prayer, and gets back only fog and fragments. Hwa‑ja’s eyes skid off her daughter’s face—one of the most quietly devastating depictions of dementia I’ve seen. Have you ever begged for recognition and received a stranger’s politeness instead? The law requires evidence; love requires memory; neither is available on demand. The scene locks in Jung‑in’s motive: this isn’t just a case, it’s a vow.
Cross‑Examination: “Who Poured the Wine?”: The prosecutor’s refrain—“So you are the only one who poured rice wine.”—turns procedural language into a cudgel. Each repetition tries to convert uncertainty into certainty by sheer force. Jung‑in’s objections are surgical, designed to slow the questioning down until nuance can breathe. Watching her work is like watching a surgeon in an emergency room: firm voice, steady hands, and a pulse you only notice when it’s over. It’s also where you feel how easily a witness with limited understanding can be cornered.
Jung‑su’s Spelling Lesson: Under stress, Jung‑su spells S‑A‑D to explain himself, then asks his sister if it’s her fault he’s “dumb.” The word choice is his, but the pain belongs to the whole family. This moment reframes the stakes: clearing Hwa‑ja isn’t just a legal goal; it’s a shield for the only two people who have never had any power in this town. You’ll want to reach through the screen and tell Jung‑su he’s not broken—he’s brave. It’s the film’s beating heart disguised as a question.
The Land Map and the Casino Rumor: A crinkled map, a construction overlay, and a newspaper line—“Mayor Chu turned dirt into gold by luring a casino”—turn the makgeolli case into an economic thriller. You begin to see how a rezoned field, a casino plan, and a few signatures can change a family’s fate more decisively than any one fight. Jung‑in follows the ink as much as the footprints, pointing toward a motive that doesn’t need melodrama to be monstrous. It’s where the legal drama brushes up against toxic torts and real estate fraud, and the film refuses to look away.
The Verdict and the After: No gavel‑pounding triumph, no swelling choir—just the cool declamation of “not guilty” and the warm, fragile clasp of a daughter’s hand around her mother’s. Outside, the village looks the same, but it isn’t, because we now know what its quiet has been hiding. Have you ever won something and felt the ache arrive before the relief? The film earns that complexity. It respects the fact that cleared charges can’t reverse an illness, but they can restore a name.
Memorable Lines
“Be sensitive to the crime, not to money.” – Jung‑in, rejecting backroom logic A line that sounds like lecture‑hall advice becomes a personal ethic: truth over sponsorships, justice over development gloss. It frames her entire strategy, from the way she parses testimony to the documents she drags into daylight. It also turns a courtroom drama into a civic lesson without ever feeling didactic. If you’ve watched small towns bend to big promises, this hits home.
“So you are the only one who poured rice wine.” – Prosecutor pressing a vulnerable witness The sentence is a legal vise that tightens each time it’s used, spotlighting how power can manufacture certainty. It’s chilling because it’s technically a question but emotionally a verdict. Jung‑in’s reply is to slow the room down, insisting on context as a form of compassion. The scene doubles as a warning about coercive interrogation.
“Jung‑in, what’s perjury?” – Jung‑su, trying to do the right thing in a language that hurts His innocence is not naivety; it’s courage dressed in primary colors. The question lands like a plea for step‑by‑step instructions in a world built for fast talkers. You see Jung‑in swallow her fear and explain, because safeguarding his truthfulness is part of safeguarding her mother. It’s one of those lines that makes you sit up straighter.
“Jung‑in, is it your fault that I’m dumb?” – Jung‑su, naming the family’s oldest wound The cruelty of the word “dumb” is the point; he’s repeating what the world has told him. Jung‑in’s face breaks, because the case file just grew a second cover—protecting her brother from shame. The moment recalibrates the film’s emotional center away from the podium and back to the kitchen table. It’s the kind of line you carry long after the credits.
“If I keep my mouth shut, no one will know!” – A witness cornered, admitting how silence works The burst of panic exposes the social economy at work: secrets stay sealed because the community rewards quiet. It’s not a mustache‑twirling confession; it’s scarier than that—a learned survival tactic. Jung‑in uses that crack to pry open a larger truth about who benefits when people stop asking questions. You can feel the room tilt toward her.
Why It's Special
Innocence begins with a simple, devastating premise: a daughter races home to defend the mother who once protected her, only to discover that the truth is buried beneath small-town loyalties and long-nursed wounds. If you’re in the United States, you can rent or buy the film on Amazon Video, Apple TV, and Fandango at Home; in South Korea, it’s available to stream on Netflix. Have you ever felt that tug—when family history collides with the present, and you have to decide who you are, right now?
Written and directed by Park Sang-hyun, Innocence was released in theaters on June 10, 2020, right as cinemas around the world were tiptoeing open again. Park frames the story like a memory you can’t shake: crisp courtroom beats punctured by raw, personal flashbacks that make you question whether justice can ever be clean when family is involved.
What makes the film feel so immediate is its lived-in texture. Rural lanes and council offices are shot with unshowy precision, letting silence do as much work as dialogue. You can almost smell the makgeolli poured at the funeral and feel the sticky summer heat that slows every step—a perfect stage for secrets to ferment.
The emotional tone is a steady ache. Innocence is a legal thriller, yes, but it’s also a daughter–mother drama about memory, dignity, and the cost of telling the truth. It asks questions that linger after the credits: What do we owe the people who raised us? What happens when the past we carry isn’t the past we remember?
Genre-wise, it’s a deft blend: part investigative mystery, part courtroom joust, part family melodrama. The result is a slow tightening of the screws—every new fact turns the case, and every turn reveals an old wound. Park’s direction doesn’t yank you around; it lets dread seep in, one carefully placed reveal at a time.
The writing understands how small towns move: favors traded under breath, hierarchy disguised as hospitality. That social grammar matters in a courtroom, where truth must be translated into testimony. The script’s best trick is how it keeps empathy and suspicion in play, never letting you settle fully on anyone’s side until it has to.
And then there’s the catharsis. When the film finally shows you what really happened, it lands not as a twist-for-twist’s-sake but as an emotional ledger being balanced. The payoff is earned, and it hurts in the right way—like a truth you should have seen all along.
Popularity & Reception
In South Korea, Innocence arrived at a precarious moment, yet it topped the box office its opening weekend and crossed the 500,000 admissions mark soon after—an achievement given pandemic-era caution. It became one of those word-of-mouth titles people gently pressed on friends: “You should see this.”
Critics and local audiences singled out the performances and the film’s patient, unfussy craft. That admiration translated into a strong presence throughout the 2020–2021 awards cycle, with multiple nominations across major ceremonies.
One of the most heartening reception stories came when the film’s breakout supporting actor was named Best New Actor at the 57th Baeksang Arts Awards, a sign that the industry saw more than just a solid courtroom drama—it saw new talent being launched.
Veteran excellence was recognized, too. A key supporting performance earned Best Supporting Actress at the 26th Chunsa Film Art Awards, with additional Baeksang and Blue Dragon nominations underscoring how powerfully the ensemble landed with voters and viewers alike.
Online, global fandoms praised the film’s tense pacing and its lead’s commanding turn, sharing scenes and reactions that helped the movie travel far beyond its theatrical run. That organic chorus—people vouching for how it made them feel—was the kind of grassroots reception streaming-era films dream of.
Cast & Fun Facts
The emotional engine of Innocence is the daughter, a razor-sharp lawyer who has spent years turning pain into poise. When she returns to the village that made her, the mask slips just enough for us to see where her fire comes from. The role demands clarity in the courtroom and vulnerability in private, and it gets both in abundance.
Shin Hye-sun anchors that journey with a performance that’s all tensile strength and flickers of hurt. Innocence marked her first leading role in a feature film—an inflection point she embraced after her father read the script and told her to take it. That personal origin fits the character so well: a daughter stepping forward because no one else will.
Bae Jong-ok plays the accused mother with a dignity that refuses pity. Her character’s memory falters, but her presence never does, and the film treats her not as an object of tragedy but as a person whose life still contains private rooms we haven’t entered.
For Innocence, Bae Jong-ok pursued an acting transformation—aging herself up and leaning into the physical, halting rhythms of a woman whose past weighs on her body. That commitment resonated with awards bodies; she later took Best Supporting Actress at the Chunsa Film Art Awards and earned further nominations along the way.
The village’s power structure coalesces around the mayor, a man whose smile is a currency. Heo Joon-ho makes him magnetic and unsettling, the kind of figure who can toast you at dinner and tighten the screws the next morning.
Director Park has said the part felt tailor-made for Heo Joon-ho, and watching the performance you understand why: he captures both provincial charm and predatory instinct without ever tipping into caricature. It’s a study in how corruption can look like courtesy—until it doesn’t.
Few characters sneak up on you like the daughter’s younger brother, whose quiet love is the story’s soft heartbeat. Hong Kyung plays him with a gentle awkwardness that turns into courage when it matters, honoring a type of care we don’t often celebrate on screen.
The industry noticed. Hong Kyung was named Best New Actor at the 57th Baeksang Arts Awards, a win that felt like a promise of what’s ahead for him. It’s fitting that a film about a family’s bruised resilience would help launch a new career chapter for one of its youngest performers.
Park Sang-hyun’s own story here is a milestone: Innocence is his first commercial feature as a director, and he writes it with the confidence of someone who knows exactly when to speak and when to listen. Production wrapped in early 2019, a prelude to a release year that none of us could have predicted—yet the film’s questions about guilt, care, and community feel timeless.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re craving a film that holds your hand through grief, then asks you to open it for the truth, Innocence is that rare watch. When you’re choosing the best streaming service for your weekend, remember you can rent or buy it digitally and still feel the hush of a theater at home. If you plan to watch movies online while traveling, a trusted VPN for streaming helps you keep your queue close. Most of all, bring someone you love to this one—then talk afterward about the moments you recognized. Have you ever felt this way?
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