In this blog post, we’ll explore how director Kang Jin-ah interprets the theme of death through her unique perspective in ‘You in My Dreams’, a film that depicts the emotions of those left behind as they come to terms with the death of a loved one, as well as the anguish of the one who must depart.
A Powerful Opening That Begins with Death
Lately, I’ve found myself pondering the question, “What is a filmmaker?” Unlike in the past, the lines separating independent and commercial films—as well as art films, auteur films, and entertainment films—seem both blurred and distinct, and the thought, “What kind of film should I make…?” keeps bringing me back to this question. I don’t go to the theater religiously once a week, nor do I watch movies at home every single day. Perhaps that’s why my standard for a good movie is how long its afterglow lingers. I’d like to talk about the film ‘You in My Dreams’, which stayed with me for over six months last year.
The film begins with Cha-kyung dropping flower petals into a large aquarium. Hyeok-geun teases her, asking what she’s putting in there again, but to me, they just look like a couple playfully bickering in a loving way. At the request of her friend Ki-ok, Cha-kyung stays with Hyeok-geun for a while before heading over to Ki-ok’s place. To get back to Hyuk-geun, who is waiting for her, she borrows a bicycle from Ki-ok and heads home. This is where the tragedy unfolds. Ki-ok’s bicycle brakes were broken, but she had forgotten this and lent it to Cha-kyung without a second thought. With the brakes failing, Cha-kyung crashes into a truck on a downhill slope and dies.
Kang Jin-ah portrays Ki-ok’s reaction to her friend’s unexpected death in a grotesque manner. Tears fall diagonally across her face. As Cha-kyung’s presence vanishes, Hyuk-geun—who had been crouching motionless in a space that now feels vast—immediately stands up and walks to the water tank where Cha-kyung used to scatter flower petals, pouring out the human feces he had carefully carried in his pocket. The director depicts the passage of time following Cha-kyung’s death through the gradual receding of the water in the tank where her feces have spread. Before the title appears, this opening sequence is incredibly overwhelming. Since this is the most crucial event for all the characters who will drive the film forward, the director portrays it intensely and without reservation. I believe the lingering impact of this opening sequence alone is enough to carry the film through the final hour and 40 minutes.
The Death of a Loved One
The theme of the death of a beloved partner has long been a staple of Korean romantic films. The terror of death, which suddenly befalls a couple who were once nothing but happy, gradually drives the two protagonists to the brink of a precipice; and when the departing character—who initially accepted death with stoicism—begins to show fear of death, the audience is moved to tears. Watching the figure left alone and desolate after the departure of a loved one, the audience felt a deep sense of sorrow, as if they were that person themselves. The film ‘You in My Dreams’ is a feature-length adaptation of director Kang Jin-ah’s previous work, the short film ‘A Hundred Years of Happiness: Side Story’. In adapting the short film into a feature, the overarching framework the director maintained throughout is, as expected, the death of a loved one and the state of mind of the departing character. While the short film “A Hundred Years of Happiness: Side Story” did not delve deeply into the pain of the departing character, “You in My Dreams” delicately portrays not only the emotional turmoil Cha Kyung endures as she prepares to leave but also the sorrow felt by the one who is leaving.
Although the film ‘You in My Dreams’ deals with the death of a loved one, much like conventional romantic dramas, what sets it apart from previous films is its focus on the emotions of the one who is leaving. Cha-kyung, who died at the beginning of the film, continues to appear unexpectedly in Hyuk-geun’s life. While this may be partly due to Hyuk-geun’s inability to accept Cha-kyung’s death, the fact that her presence continues to appear also reflects her own inability to accept that she must leave everything behind. Burdened by this anguish, Cha-kyung confides her feelings not to Hyuk-geun or Ji-ok, but to her therapist.
Kang Jin-ah’s tenacity in bringing to light the wounds and psychological states of those who have lost a beloved partner, a dear friend, or a cherished family member is remarkable. Rather than depicting the lives of people who have suffered unimaginable pain through the lens of a single protagonist, the director observed them from a distance and portrayed them with calm detachment. Although the film tackles the vast and weighty theme of death, we are able to receive it with a calm and composed mindset precisely because it does not skew the narrative toward a single perspective—forcing the audience to become immersed in that emotional viewpoint—but rather depicts the hearts of both the departing person and those left behind, keeping us as mere observers throughout.
The Mind That Accepts Death
Death is a succession of absences. This is because we must look at, feel, and acknowledge the void left by the departed. Hyuk-geun’s one-dimensional way of refusing to accept Cha-kyung’s absence is to reject death itself. He does not want to mark the anniversary of her death—because doing so would mean acknowledging the fact that she is gone. Because he refuses to acknowledge death, Hyuk-geun continues to experience auditory hallucinations of Cha-kyung’s voice and even visual hallucinations of her appearance. Since he hasn’t let her go in his heart, he cannot let go of Cha-kyung.
Hyuk-geun, who looked most at ease and happy when Cha-kyung used to clean his ears, cannot stop his habit of cleaning his own ears. The more he feels Cha-kyung’s absence, the more he becomes fixated on his ears. Even on his way back from the ENT clinic, he still hears Cha-kyung’s voice, but Hyuk-geun tries not to look at Cha-kyung when she calls out to him. To allow Cha-kyung to leave, Hyuk-geun tries to slowly let go of the last thread that had been holding him back with all his might.
Hyuk-geun’s attitude, as he gradually begins to accept Cha-kyung’s death, is evident on her birthday. When Cha-kyung’s older sister, Ju-kyung, says, “Let’s light the candles and wait a little longer,” Hyuk-geun and Ki-ok wait. Soon, a gust of wind blows out the candles, and when Cha-kyung’s older sister says their wait was worth it, Hyuk-geun tries to remain calm, saying it was just the wind. From that day on, although his physical ailments might stem from his emotional turmoil and his reluctance to act, Hyuk-geun gradually comes to terms with Cha-kyung’s death.
Unlike Hyuk-geun, Ki-ok—who accepted Cha-kyung’s death from the very beginning—does not see visions of Cha-kyung. However, on days when Gi-ok feels a sense of guilt she cannot share with others, Cha-kyung appears in her dreams. Gi-ok’s repeated utterance of “It wasn’t me…” seems to be an attempt to shift her unbearable sense of responsibility onto others. Compared to Hyuk-geun, who is clearly living a precarious life, Gi-ok appears to be merely treading water, going nowhere. When Ki-ok, on the verge of making an extreme choice, tells Cha-kyung, “I want to get better…,” it seems she is struggling to acknowledge and alleviate her guilt. Yet we accept this because we know that she, too, is grappling with Cha-kyung’s absence.
Cha-kyung’s older sister, Ju-kyung, is always sharp-tongued toward Ki-ok and Hyuk-geun. In the early to mid-part of the film, it’s hard to understand why Ju-kyung would come to Ki-ok’s house even after Cha-kyung’s death to clean and bring her kimchi. But when Ju-kyung says to Ki-ok, “It happened while I was living with you and riding your bike, yet you’re perfectly fine. My sister disappeared overnight—is it really so wrong for me to hate you? It’s not like you’re going to die just because I hate you,” the heart-wrenching sorrow we feel reaches its peak. And we come to understand Ju-kyung’s hidden motives—motives we hadn’t realized until then—as she visits Gi-ok, tormenting her without a care for her own suffering, all to ensure Gi-ok cannot forget Cha-kyung. The portrayal of the three wounded characters that drove the early part of the film is replaced, once the film passes its midpoint, with the image of three people who must endure the aftermath of Cha-kyung’s death.
The Agony of Having to Leave
As mentioned earlier, this is where ‘You in My Dreams’ differs from previous romantic dramas that have dealt with the death of a loved one. The pain of the one who leaves. ‘You in My Dreams’ depicts the pain of Cha-kyung as she leaves Hyuk-geun behind. The insomnia that Hyuk-geun suffers in reality is not actually his own, but rather that of Cha-kyung, who exists only in his imagination. “Even if I die, I mustn’t fall asleep. Because that would be the end.” Cha-kyung’s words convey her reluctance to leave Hyuk-geun behind. As she asks her therapist why she must stay—even though she hasn’t done anything wrong—while harboring the fear that she’ll vanish from Hyuk-geun’s memory the moment she falls asleep, we realize for the first time the true feelings of Cha-kyung, who must leave her beloved Hyuk-geun behind.
Cha-kyung says there are many people she wants to see and many things she wants to do, but it has now become natural for her not to be there—that something is wrong. Through Cha-kyung’s conversation with the therapist, the director shows us the sense of injustice and anguish felt by the one who is leaving—a perspective rarely explored in romantic films. The sight of Cha-kyung, smiling as if to hide her emotions while saying she doesn’t understand why she has to do this, is all the more heartbreaking. I would rank the scene where Cha Kyung finally conveys her last words to Hyuk-geun and leaves, along with Hyuk-geun shouting after her, “Don’t go… Don’t leave me behind…,” as the saddest farewell scene I’ve ever seen in a Korean film.
The Struggle to Go On
The film does not follow a chronological order but shifts back and forth between reality, the past, and fantasy. Because it shows Cha-kyung’s happy past, Hyuk-geun—who is enduring the present alone—appears all the more pitiable and heartbreaking. The director said he wrote this screenplay because he wondered how one could overcome the pain of losing a loved one alone, and came to the conclusion that such pain can only be healed through human connection. Perhaps that’s why he placed the character Ki-ok—who didn’t exist in the short film ‘A Hundred Years of Happiness: Side Story’—by Hyuk-geun’s side. A “friend” who recognizes his efforts to do his best just to survive. Although he ultimately has to let Cha-kyung go, the film ends with the two of them appearing poised to live their lives to the fullest, each in their own way.
My definition of a “filmmaker” is a director who can persistently explore a particular subject or theme over a long period of time, gradually developing their own unique style. Kang Jin-ah, who has relentlessly explored the theme of death through four short films—“The Suicide of the Four Twins,” “The Village Festival in Gucheonri,” “The Forty-Ninth Day,” and “A Hundred Years of Marriage: Side Story”—spent three years adapting “A Hundred Years of Marriage: Side Story” into a feature-length film. Watching Kang Jin-ah—who, more fiercely than anyone else, relentlessly refines her own unique style while exploring the theme of death—I want to call her an “artist,” and I eagerly await her next work.
