Next Door—A blackout hangover traps a broke exam-taker in a neighbor’s apartment with a body and a ticking clock
Introduction
I’ve never felt my heartbeat in my throat the way I did watching Next Door, because it weaponizes the smallest domestic sounds—footsteps in a hall, a kettle’s hiss, the metallic click of a lock—into alarms for survival. Have you ever tried to be your best self on the very day the universe dares you to fail? That’s Chan-woo: broke, exhausted, and so desperate to pass the police entrance exam that one dumb night out could cost him the rest of his life. The movie coils dread and laughter together, reminding us how fragile privacy is inside thin-walled apartments where everyone’s business is everyone’s business. As morning stretches into a perilous afternoon, the film asks whether conscience or fear is louder when you’re truly cornered. By the final minutes, I wasn’t just gripped—I felt implicated, which is exactly why you should watch this bracing, breathless gem.
Overview
Title: Next Door (옆집사람)
Year: 2022
Genre: Black Comedy, Mystery-Thriller
Main Cast: Oh Dong-min, Choi Hee-jin, Lee Jung-hyun, Kim Sun-hwa, Kim Dae-han
Runtime: 92–93 minutes
Streaming Platform: Currently not streaming on Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, Viki, or Kocowa in the U.S.
Director: Yeom Ji-ho
Overall Story
Chan-woo is a crammer on his fifth try at the police entrance exam, the kind of kid who tapes flashcards above a single-burner stove and times showers to save coins. His walk-up building is the real main character at first: paper-thin walls, a suspiciously observant landlady, and neighbors who never learned the concept of “quiet hours.” After days of insomnia, he lets friends talk him into “just one drink,” lured by the promise they’ll spot him the registration fee he can’t scrape together. He blacks out. Sunlight drills into his skull the next morning—only it’s not his ceiling overhead. He’s in the next-door studio, and a body lies facedown on the floor in a halo of blood. Panic arrives in waves: What did I do? Who will believe me? And how do I get out before anyone sees?
He tests the door; the hallway murmurs with gossip and keys. Every sound becomes a choice tree. If he steps out, the landlady will clock him; if he waits, someone with a passcode might walk in. In a frantic burst, Chan-woo applies the rules he’s been drilling for police work: secure the scene, reconstruct the timeline, identify exit paths. But the only exits are a chain-locked door and a window with a shared ledge watched from three other units. His phone blares a reminder—application due by 18:00—and that simple ding turns into a metronome for the rest of the day. The irony is delicious and cruel: to become a cop, he must first outwit one.
As he scans the room, he finds signs of a fight and the messiness of a relationship that went toxic out of sight: a toppled plant, a cracked phone case, a smear on a bathroom tile. He remembers the neighbor’s boyfriend—territorial, tunnel-vision jealous—whose arguments sometimes rose above the TV’s volume. The movie never leers at violence; it lets you read it in the aftermath, the way you infer a storm from flung branches. Chan-woo’s fear doesn’t eclipse his sympathy; he keeps pausing to wonder who this person was the night before, and whether he could have stopped any of it if he hadn’t caved for that drink. He starts mapping the last 12 hours, tearing a blank page into sticky makeshift labels the way an investigator would.
A prickle runs down his spine: someone’s outside the door. He slides into the closet—a set piece that’s equal parts comic and suffocating—as footsteps cross the threshold and pause by the window. The intruder leaves, but now Chan-woo knows eyes are on the building, and gossip is as dangerous as evidence. He knocks a hanger; it clacks; tension spikes. The film keeps dancing on the edge between farce and fear, and the closet becomes a cocoon where Chan-woo recalibrates, whispering answers to exam practice questions as if they’re prayers. To stop shaking, he names three observable facts about the room, then three questions that could save him.
With minutes bleeding away, he rigs a rope from bedsheets to reach the balcony, a clumsy rappel that scrapes knuckles and dignity alike. It’s almost slapstick—until someone in the next stack of units opens their sliding door, and a phone camera rises into view. In a city layered with CCTV and watchful neighbors, the building itself functions like a panopticon; any escape route is essentially public. The movie turns surveillance into a chorus: elevator cams, peepholes, sidelong glances over parcels. As viewers, we become part of that gaze, complicit in the pressure that pins Chan-woo down.
He ducks back inside as the landlady arrives with a practiced calm that unsettles him more than any shouting would. She hates scandal almost as much as missed rent, and her first instinct is to make problems disappear rather than call them by their names. Chan-woo senses it: she wants this to be “handled,” and that means he’s both a liability and a tool. Their quiet standoff is a miniature of larger forces—the way institutions and caretakers can prefer tidy cover-ups to messy truths. It nudges Chan-woo toward a different kind of bravery: not just surviving, but naming what happened in the room. Have you ever felt the weight of doing the right thing, even when every practical instinct screams to walk away?
Flashbacks leak in as his hangover fog thins: the bar’s neon smear, the boyfriend’s arrival, a flare of temper. The timeline tugs toward a conclusion that terrifies him—not because it incriminates him, but because it points to what the victim endured. He pieces together the sequence with exam-style logic, testing hypotheses against details nobody else would notice: the angle of a toppled fan, condensation on a glass, the pattern of smeared blood near the threshold. You can feel him turning into the cop he hopes to be, but only because necessity makes him one.
When the boyfriend reenters the picture, the movie dials up its slasher pulse without abandoning its social conscience. Knives flash, yes, but the sharpest cuts are still emotional—the disregard, the possessiveness, the casual cruelty that hides behind closed doors. Chan-woo’s “investigation” morphs into a containment effort: keep the chaos from spilling into the hall and the rumor mill; keep himself alive; and, somehow, make the call that puts truth on the record. The landlady hovers, a realist who thinks truth is a luxury no building can afford.
As the deadline looms, the film pushes Chan-woo onto the building’s skin again—window ledges, stairwells, a vertiginous gap that demands a leap. There’s a breath-holding rappelling sequence where his improvised knots are less trustworthy than his resolve, and the ground below is not safety but scrutiny. Time becomes a character, tick-tocking on his cracked phone as he balances two futures: submit the application and risk arrest, or run and be haunted by what he didn’t say. The movie is funny in moments—he mutters practice answers mid-chaos—but it never lets the stakes feel small.
In the end, Next Door lands not on a gotcha twist, but on a moral choice. Chan-woo has seen enough to understand that silence is a kind of violence, too. He faces down the watchful eyes that make his block feel like one giant witness and finds a way to speak, even if his voice shakes. And when he finally hits “submit,” it isn’t just an application—it’s a statement about the kind of officer he means to become. In a place where the cheapest sound is blame and the most expensive is truth, choosing the latter feels like victory. That’s the rare thriller high: your pulse racing not because a mask dropped, but because a spine stiffened. (Director, cast, runtime, and US-premiere details are confirmed by the New York Asian Film Festival program and Netflix Korea listing; festival and synopsis details align with Florence Korea Film Fest and Rotten Tomatoes.
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Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Wake-Up: The movie’s first gut punch is quiet: Chan-woo’s eyelids flutter, a bird chirps outside, and then the camera drifts to a body in a cooling puddle. The blocking tells the story more than dialogue—his confusion, the room’s disarray, the dawning horror. It’s the rare “dead body” reveal that isn’t about shock value but about the vertigo of responsibility. You feel the room tilt with him. This is where the film earns its grip: not with gruesome spectacle but with the intimate panic of being in the wrong place at the worst possible time. (Basic premise and setup echoed by festival materials.
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The Closet Breath-Hold: Crouched between coats and the boiler’s rattle, Chan-woo must ride out an uninvited visit. A bumped hanger becomes a cymbal crash in your chest. The scene balances farce (dust tickles his nose) with fear (a shadow pauses inches from the door). It’s a love letter to old-school suspense: geography, sound, patience. I found myself breathing only when he did. The set piece is a defining example of the film’s “Blue Velvet to slasher” tonal tightrope that the NYAFF notes.
Sheets to the Rescue: Lacking any “real” gear, he knots bedsheets like a scout who skipped class. The camera lingers on frayed fabric and trembling knuckles to make every inch feel risky. A neighbor slides open a door mid-descent, phone raised, and suddenly private survival becomes public content. The shot composition turns the building into a stadium where everyone is a referee. This is the movie’s thesis on surveillance distilled into action: escape routes today pass through other people’s cameras. (Set-piece flavor referenced by festival program.
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The Landlady’s Offer: She doesn’t scream; she negotiates. “Let’s not bring trouble on all of us” is the subtext, and it chills more than threats. Her pragmatism—less scandal, fewer cops, faster cleanup—feels born of long stewardship, but it’s also complicity. The scene reframes the conflict from “whodunit” to “who benefits if we keep quiet.” Watching Chan-woo push back, even timidly, marks his first step from survival toward conscience. (Themes of cover-up and domestic silence discussed in NYAFF’s post-screening write-up.
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The Memory Thread: Piecing together flashes of last night, Chan-woo reconstructs sequence via tiny physical cues—a half-drained glass, scuffed linoleum, a crooked fan. It’s detective work done with the tools of the poor and tired, not the glamorous lab gear of TV procedurals. The pleasure here is procedural and human at once; each “aha” restores a bit of agency. You feel him choose the man he hopes to be. This isn’t just plot; it’s character formation in motion. (Character and tone captured across festival descriptions.
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The Deadline Ding: The soft chime of a 6 p.m. application deadline turns into the film’s drumbeat. In a lesser thriller, the countdown would be a bomb timer; here it’s his future. Every decision is weighed against that digital clock: risk calling for help and miss the cut-off, or run and lose yourself for good. The moment his finger finally hovers over “submit,” the movie lets us feel the cost of telling the truth in a building allergic to it. That small tap lands like a gavel.
Memorable Lines
“Just one drink.” – Chan-woo, bargaining with himself on the night that ruins his morning (approximate translation) The line feels like the cheapest lie we tell our better selves, and the movie punishes it with ruthless efficiency. It also sets up the theme of small compromises snowballing into moral avalanches. His friends’ promise to cover his fee makes it sting even more: poverty tightens the trap. The hangover isn’t just alcohol; it’s regret. (Night-out setup echoed by Fantasia release coverage.
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“If no one saw, did it even happen?” – A neighbor’s muttered logic when whispers replace reports (approximate translation) In a building obsessed with appearances, that sentiment becomes policy. The film skewers this by literalizing the gaze—phones, peepholes, cameras everywhere—yet showing how visibility still fails victims. It’s a perfect encapsulation of the movie’s surveillance paradox. When truth finally breaks through, it’s because someone decides to see, not because cameras exist. (Surveillance and bystander themes align with festival notes.
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“I study to find the truth; today I have to choose it.” – Chan-woo, steadying himself as the clock races (approximate translation) He’s been drilling for an exam that measures knowledge, but the day demands courage instead. That contrast—answers versus action—turns a test-taker into a person. It’s why the finale hits with such moral clarity. You can feel him crossing the line from fearful witness to accountable adult.
“No police. We keep this in the family.” – The landlady, voicing a soft, systemic cover-up instinct (approximate translation) Her tone is almost tender, which makes it devastating. The movie refuses to demonize her; it shows how survival economies breed silence. Yet it also shows how silence helps monsters thrive next door. Hearing Chan-woo push against her logic is one of the film’s quiet victories. (Cover-up theme and character dynamic discussed in NYAFF post.
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“It’s always the ones closest who hurt you the most.” – A bruised truth the film lets us infer, then face (approximate translation) The story points its finger not at strangers in alleys but at intimates behind doors. That’s the horror and the heartbreak: danger isn’t exotic; it’s domestic, boring, and ignored. The film’s slasher flourishes are fun, but this line is its thesis. By the end, it provokes not a scream but a vow to pay attention. (Director Yeom Ji-ho’s comments on domestic violence themes back this reading.
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Why It's Special
The first thing that hooks you about Next Door is how instantly relatable its premise feels: a hungover everyman wakes up in the wrong apartment and finds a body, then has one frantic day to figure out what happened. It’s the kind of urban nightmare you might have joked about with friends—and then the movie pushes you, moment by moment, to imagine yourself in his shoes. Have you ever felt this way, when one bad decision snowballed into a day you couldn’t control? For global viewers wondering where to watch, Next Door is currently available on Netflix in select regions, and it has popped up via festivals and curated platforms like MUBI; availability can vary by country, so check your Netflix app or a guide service before pressing play.
What makes the film special is its nimble blend of black comedy and nerve-pricking suspense. It thrives on the awkward pauses and social rules of apartment living—noise through the walls, nosy neighbors, the way a hallway can turn into a stage where everyone watches and judges. That everyday fabric becomes a pressure cooker, with laughs slipping in exactly when your pulse starts to climb.
Visually, Next Door finds inventive thrills inside tight spaces. A closet door becomes a cliff’s edge; a corridor turns into a gauntlet; a balcony rope suddenly feels like a skyscraper drop. These set pieces don’t rely on spectacle so much as clever staging and the kind of physical comedy-suspense you can feel in your gut.
Emotionally, the movie keys into the worry many of us carry about not measuring up—especially when everyone around seems to be listening through the walls. The hero’s desperation to keep his life goals intact, even as things spiral, gives the film an undercurrent of empathy. Have you ever needed a win so badly that you tried to outrun your own panic? Next Door captures that breathless feeling.
The tone is a tightrope: one misstep and the humor would feel glib, or the tension would collapse. Instead, the writing keeps flipping the stakes with little surprises—a doorbell, a neighbor’s schedule, a stray detail you forgot from last night—so that each beat feels earned. You laugh, then flinch, then laugh again, and the alternation sharpens both effects.
Direction matters in a one-location thriller, and here the camera knows exactly when to stay with the character’s face and when to show the geography that’s trapping him. By the time the movie sprints into its second half, you know the building like a maze—and that makes the escapes, near-misses, and reversals land harder.
Finally, there’s the film’s festival-born energy: it plays like a crowd-pleaser designed for late-night screenings, full of gasp-laughs and “no way” moments that travel well across cultures. It’s lean, playful, and—when the hammer drops—surprisingly intense, the kind of Korean genre gem you recommend with a mischievous grin.
Popularity & Reception
Next Door built its reputation the old-fashioned way—on the festival circuit—before finding digital life. Its North American premiere at the Fantasia International Film Festival drew genre fans who responded to its brisk pacing and cheeky thrills, the perfect midnight-movie vibe that turns strangers into a buzzing audience.
Soon after, it made its U.S. premiere at the New York Asian Film Festival, where the director appeared in person. That kind of face-to-face energy tends to seed word-of-mouth; audience members walked out quoting favorite gags and set pieces, and that chatter helped the film cross language and region boundaries.
Festival programmers in Europe also took notice: Florence Korea Film Fest programmed Next Door in its K‑Independent section, spotlighting it as a sharp, compact example of Korea’s knack for genre play. Exposure like this gives a film staying power beyond its opening month and introduces it to new viewers who follow festival lineups as a trust signal.
On the critic side, coverage has been modest but telling. Writers highlighted the movie’s swift entertainment value and praised its lead performance for selling both slapstick panic and real stakes—a combo easier pitched than performed. Even with only a handful of formal reviews, the consensus reads like a nod to a confident calling card from a first‑time feature director.
As streaming windows opened in select territories, global fandoms began to treat it as a “hidden-gem” recommendation—one of those movies you throw on for a Friday night and then message friends about. In other words: not a box‑office behemoth, but the sort of agile thriller that keeps Korean cinema’s international buzz humming between the mega‑hits.
Cast & Fun Facts
Oh Dong‑min anchors the film as the hapless would‑be cop who wakes up next to a corpse. What he does best is physical honesty: the heavy head, the darting eyes, the way panic turns even simple objects into obstacles. He’s funny without winking at the camera, letting the comedy emerge from his character’s terrified logic rather than from punchlines.
In quieter beats, Oh lets weariness and pride peek through—he’s not just running from trouble; he’s clinging to a version of himself he’s desperate to prove. That duality keeps you rooting for him, even when the mess is partly his own making. When the film swings from goofy to tense in a heartbeat, his reactions are the hinge that makes it work.
Choi Hee‑jin brings an intriguing presence that complicates our hero’s day. There’s a lived‑in quality to her performance, a sense that this apartment and its rhythms existed long before the plot detonated. She calibrates her energy carefully—too much and the film would tip into farce, too little and the gears would stall—so that every exchange adds a new variable to the problem the protagonist must solve.
Watch how Choi uses stillness. In a movie full of frantic movement, her pauses can feel like alarms, forcing our lead (and us) to anticipate the next ripple. It’s a smart counterweight to the hero’s fumbling momentum and one reason the film’s tonal shifts feel so smooth.
Lee Jung‑hyun contributes a sturdy burst of tension, the kind of supporting turn that quietly builds the maze around the protagonist. He’s effective at embodying that “neighbor who might know more than he shows,” a staple of thrillers that can slide into cliché—except here, the performance keeps it human.
As the day wears on and the stakes rise, Lee’s scenes help sketch the apartment complex as a social ecosystem, not just a backdrop. He makes the building feel like a community with rules and habits—the exact thing our hero is struggling to navigate without drawing fire.
Kim Sun‑hwa is memorable in a compact role that any city dweller will recognize instantly. She doesn’t need big speeches; a glance through a door chain or a measured question in the hallway can ratchet the tension. In stories like this, the “ordinary” neighbor can be the scariest wildcard, and Kim plays that card perfectly.
Her presence also underscores the film’s theme: in closely stacked living, everyone becomes part of the story whether they want to or not. That uneasy intimacy—people hearing too much, knowing too little—is a feeling Next Door captures with granular accuracy.
Behind the camera, writer‑director Yeom Ji‑ho uses his debut feature to show a playful command of space and tone. After sharpening his skills on shorts that played domestic festivals, he steers this feature through international stops—Fantasia for the North American premiere, NYAFF for the U.S. premiere, and Florence Korea Film Fest among them—building a passport of strong word‑of‑mouth that suits the film’s audience‑pleasing design.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’ve ever had a day spiral out of control and wished for a do‑over, Next Door will feel like a cathartic, wickedly fun exhale. Whether you fire it up on one of the best streaming services during a late‑night craving for a tight thriller, or you queue it for a travel weekend with a VPN for streaming that keeps you connected abroad, this compact gem rewards a lights‑down watch on a good 4K TV with the volume just high enough to hear those telling sounds through the walls. Have you ever felt this way—caught between a laugh and a gasp? That’s exactly where this movie wants you, and it delivers.
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