Oldboy (2003)

Movie Review

Score: 5 / 5

It feels fitting to start at the beginning, with the film that opened the door for me to Korean cinema.

I thought Oldboy would be the perfect place to begin this Korean movie review blog, not only because it was the first Korean film I had ever seen, but because, now years later, it is undoubtedly the Korean film I’ve watched and studied the most.

I still have that memory burned into my brain: late teenage years, university life, a group of friends gathered together to watch “something new,” as we so often did. At that point, I knew absolutely nothing about Korea. No context, no cultural understanding, no expectations. And so it’s true that Oldboy, and its director, Park Chan-wook, were my very first exposure to Korean cinema, and by extension, Korean culture itself.

I was completely unprepared for what I was about to watch. The depravity, the operatic violence, the grimy atmosphere, the meticulous cinematography, and of course the devastating reveal at the end all landed with a force I wasn’t ready for. But more than shock, what stayed with me was the feeling, that sense that cinema could look like this, unsettle me, and still leave me pondering all aspects of the film long after the credits had rolled. Oldboy didn’t just entertain me; it ignited something. It lit up my imagination and fundamentally reshaped how I thought about what film could be.

Before eventually moving to South Korea, I revisited Oldboy several more times, along with a handful of Park Chan-wook’s other films. Yet it wasn’t until I arrived in Korea and began diving deeper into the local film scene that something truly delightful clicked into place: Oldboy wasn’t just an international cult classic, it was a household name. And of course, why wouldn’t it be? This was the film that marked Korea’s arrival on the global cinema stage.

Still, there was something endlessly fascinating about the fact that such a dark, twisted, and morally depraved story occupied such a central place in Korean cultural memory. It felt bold. Unapologetic. Almost defiant. That contrast, between national pride and narrative nihilism, only deepened my appreciation for the film and hinted at the creative fearlessness that would come to define modern Korean cinema.

Narratively, Oldboy sits at the very heart of Park Chan-wook’s Vengeance Trilogy, and it embodies the trilogy’s central thesis with brutal clarity: vengeance offers no salvation. It corrodes everyone it touches. There are no winners here, only survivors, and even that feels generous. Revenge in Oldboy isn’t cathartic; it’s cyclical, suffocating, and ultimately hollow.

The film is also packed with scenes that have since become legendary: the live octopus, the teeth-pulling, the now-iconic single-take hallway hammer fight, and countless other moments that feel permanently etched into cinematic history. The craftsmanship on display is undeniable. The influence of that hallway fight alone has rippled outward across global cinema, reaching all the way into modern Hollywood blockbusters under the Marvel and Disney umbrella. It’s rare to pinpoint a single scene and say, this changed things, but this one genuinely did.

What also set Oldboy apart at the time was its score. While many Western films of the early 2000s leaned heavily into chugging nu-metal guitars and aggressive sonic bombast, Oldboy opted for something more operatic, restrained, yet still iconic. Combined with its grimy neo-noir color palette and meticulous production design, the film feels remarkably timeless rather than dated.

Even Oh Dae-su’s appearance, his wild, unhinged hair, noir-inflected suit, and those absurd sunglasses, speaks volumes about Park Chan-wook’s singular visual vision. Every detail feels intentional. Every aesthetic choice reinforces the sense that this is not merely a revenge story, but a carefully constructed descent into obsession, punishment, and moral collapse.

While the story itself isn’t entirely original, being loosely based on a Japanese manga, Oldboy perfectly balances its comic-book roots with a grounded, cinematic weight. More fantastical elements, such as hypnosis as a central plot device, could have easily derailed the film into whimsical absurdity. Instead, Park Chan-wook blends these heightened ideas seamlessly into a stylish noir framework that keeps everything feeling emotionally real, if not entirely realistic. It’s this balancing act, between pulp and prestige, that makes Oldboy so compelling.

Much of that success also comes down to the towering performance by Choi Min-sik, who brings Oh Dae-su to life with a ferocity that is equal parts tragic and terrifying. His performance is completely unhinged, yet deeply human. Watching him unravel is as painful as it is hypnotic, and it’s impossible to imagine the film working at the same level without his commitment.

This is not necessarily an easy film to watch, but it is an essential one. Oldboy has shaped the Korean cinematic landscape in ways that are still being felt today. As I continue writing about Korean cinema on this page, I know there will be countless films that carry traces of its DNA, whether directly or indirectly.

There isn’t much left to say about Oldboy that hasn’t already been said over the past twenty-plus years. But I wanted to begin my Korean cinema writing journey where my own viewing journey began. And perhaps more selfishly, I wanted yet another excuse to return to this film, to experience it again, to sit with its discomfort, and to gush unapologetically about a work of cinema that helped shape how I see film itself.

And so, it feels only right that Oldboy stands as the very first review on The Seoul (Cinema) Scene.