Kim Jong-kwan is surely one of a kind as a filmmaker. His work reveals a keen sensitivity to the human condition. His cinema has always been a dialogue between isolation and empathy, often exploring how people drift in and out of each other’s lives, guided by memory and the delicate tremour of feeling. From Worst Woman and The Table to Shades of the Heart, Kim approaches storytelling like a poet. Frosted Window, his latest feature, continues this tradition with remarkable sensitivity.

Having had its World Premiere at the London Korean Film Festival, Frosted Window is a superb anthology of three interconnected stories, each built around the simple pace of everyday life. Anthology films often risk feeling disjointed, but under Kim’s direction, these fragments cohere into something intensely whole. Each vignette becomes a pane in the titular window – separate, misted with emotion, yet reflecting the same yearning for connection. Kim’s cinema thrives on what is left unsaid. Rather than building elaborate narrative arcs, he shapes emotional spaces that allow the viewer to slowly absorb what emerges on the screen. His worlds are not populated by heroes or villains but by ordinary people: lonely, conflicted, fragile, and needing comfort. Frosted Window is no exception. Its tone is calm yet compelling, moving at the slow pace of the autumn and winter seasons against the backdrop of Seochon.

The film’s first chapter, Out Walking, follows Han-kyung (Chang Ryul), a drifter in pursuit of something resembling affection. His charm is hesitant, his desire admirable but clumsy. He randomly meets a woman in a café, trying to impress her with his knowledge of English as well as chit-chatting about Timothée Chalamet having coffee at the same location; a fleeting attempt at relevance that collapses into awkwardness. When he finally seems on the verge of forming a meaningful bond, he loses it over an unexpected phone call. We then move to Breather, a story that depicts Bo-ra (Jeon So-young), who meets a male friend at a small bar and flirts with him over drinks, teasing that whisky leaves a “sexy scent” on the body. There’s chemistry, playfulness, and yet a boundary; she refuses to cross into something “messy”. After a brief kiss outside, Bo-ra returns to flirt with the bartender (Yeon Woo-jin). This triangle captures Kim’s fascination with emotional ambivalence: the longing for intimacy collides with the instinct for self-preservation.

It is, however, the final act, MARI, that delivers the film’s most emotional heartache. Mari (Ok Ja-yeon), an actress battling grief, moves through her days in a fog of melancholy. Through writing a diary, speaking to a random fan – who later gifts her flowers – and some film clips she starred in, her story feels like a confession. Kim layers these scenes with extraordinary delicacy; grief is not dramatised but felt under the skin. It’s a devastatingly honest portrayal of mourning, one that reflects the director’s own cinematic philosophy: to let emotion surface only when it’s ready.

The film’s editing and pacing are spot on. His use of music is equally wise – melodies appear sparingly, only when words or silence cannot suffice. In their absence, the natural soundscape takes over; these sounds form a rhythm of their own. Visually, Frosted Window is a poem painted in autumnal tones. The cinematography leans into browns, muted golds, and soft greys, showing the slow decay of seasons.

Kim’s storytelling is simply compelling. The film-within-a-film in MARI’s subtly reflects Kim’s own approach to filmmaking: telling stories about stories, with emotions shown through the act of creating them. Frosted Window is not just about the characters’ pain, but also about turning that pain into art..

Among the ensemble, Ok Ja-yeon, Chang Ryul, and Yeon Woo-jin truly shine. Then again, Kim knows exactly how to find the perfect actors for his perfectly written little stories. Watching Frosted Window after Shades of the Heart feels like tracing two chapters of the same poetic universe. While not a direct continuation, the films share a spiritual kinship. Both works also emphasise Kim’s collaboration with Yeon Woo-jin, whose natural performances make the director’s beautiful style feel real and relatable.

Kim shows again that films don’t need to be loud to have an impact. His movie moves gently, like a soft whisper, and makes you want to watch it over and over again.

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Written by Maggie Gogler

Image courtesy of the London Korean Film Festival

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