In recent years, contemporary Korean cinema is frequently discussed through the label of a "feminist wave", a description that may function as a convenient reference point but does not quite capture what is actually happening. What has become evident, however, is something broader and more lasting: the steady rise of female-centered context that does not rely on clichés, but on the realistic portrayal of the reality of women within family, work, education, and society at large.

This is not a matter of replacing one canon with another, but of expanding what Korean storytelling can focus on. Directors such as KIM Bo-ra, JUNG July, LEE Ok-seop, and JEONG Joo-ri have gradually shifted attention toward protagonists who were previously peripheral. Girls, mothers, young workers, and daughters are no longer secondary figures attached to male narratives, but the very core around which stories unfold. Their films are not unified stylistically, but they share a common trait: an intense focus on daily life and on pressures that seem ordinary until they become overwhelming.

A very indicative starting point is House of Hummingbird, KIM Bo-ra's debut feature. Set in 1994, the film follows fourteen-year-old Eun-hee, a girl who seems to be lost, both metaphorically and literally, as she navigates school, family, friendship, and the subtle violence of expectations placed upon her. The approach here is indicative. Eun-hee is never treated as a symbol of youth or of a generation, but as a person whose confusion, curiosity, and loneliness are presented with remarkable intimacy. The historical background, including the Seongsu Bridge collapse, exists more as atmosphere than as plot device, echoing the way a teenager experiences national events without fully grasping them.

As KIM Bo-ra herself has explained, the idea for the film was conceived while she was studying in New York, where distance from Korea allowed her to "see my past and present from a different angle" and understand "the fundamental emotions people share." This distance is evident in the way the film avoids dramatization and instead focuses on the emotional texture of Eun-hee's life. The choice of 1994 is also deeply personal, as the director was the same age as her protagonist at the time, and the Seongsu Bridge collapse marked what she describes as "a traumatic year for Korea," one that revealed how development had been prioritized over people. In that sense, the broken bridge becomes both a national and a personal symbol of disconnection.

KIM Bo-ra creates a rather thorough portrait of a teenage girl whose life seems to be dictated by the actions of those around her and by events she has no control over. Small gestures, fleeting moments of care, and quiet disappointments form hers and the movie's narrative. The film's power comes not from dramatic events, but from the buildup of small, everyday disruptions. Here, female-centered authorship is not a statement, but a choice about what the story focuses on.

If House of Hummingbird operates through observation and intimacy, Kim Ji-young, Born 1982, directed by KIM Do-young and adapted from Cho Nam-joo's novel, moves into more openly social territory. The story follows Ji-young from childhood to marriage and motherhood, presenting how a lifetime of normalized misogyny gradually shapes her mental and emotional state. What stands out is that the movie does not present overt cruelty as the issue, but rather the casual, everyday expectations imposed on women at home, at school, and at work.

KIM Do-young avoids turning the narrative into a simple accusation against individuals. Parents, colleagues, and in-laws are not depicted as villains, but as participants in a system sustained by habit and tradition. The discomfort is routed precisely in this normalization. The film makes clear that good intentions do not necessarily prevent harm when the framework itself is problematic. Ji-young's distress is presented not as a personal failure, but as the inevitable outcome of being constantly asked to sacrifice herself for others.

Kim Ji-young, Born 1982 (2019)

JUNG July's Next Sohee shifts the focus toward institutions but retains the same emphasis on lived experience. The story begins with Sohee, a lively high school student who is hired as a field trainee at the customer service center of an Internet company only to discover that the workplace operates through relentless pressure and exploitation. The decision to divide the narrative into two parts, first following Sohee and then investigator OH Yoo-jin, is crucial. The viewer first experiences the suffocating environment from the inside, and only afterwards sees how the system surrounding it functions.

This structure allows JUNG July to avoid simplistic moral judgments. Responsibility is shown to be dispersed across schools, companies, and authorities, all functioning within a system that protects itself. As JUNG herself has noted in interviews: "Instead of trying to identify who is at fault, who was responsible for what, I tried to show that this is what the system/society is like. I think it's difficult to pin the blame on one person. However, I do think those in power have more of a responsibility. There's an irony here. Those with more power look like they're more distant, but they actually have more of a responsibility / influence on the situation. That's what I wanted to say in the film." The film thus becomes less about one tragedy and more about how such tragedies become possible.

The performances reinforce this approach. KIM Si-eun portrays Sohee with energy that gradually gives way to exhaustion in subtle, restrained ways, while BAE Doona's investigator slowly moves from professional distance to personal involvement. Here, female-centered storytelling extends beyond domestic space into the realms of labor and bureaucracy, showing how these environments are equally gendered in how they distribute pressure and vulnerability.

Next Sohee (2022)

If Next Sohee examines institutions, Concerning My Daughter, directed by LEE Mi-rang and based on KIM Hye-jin's novel, returns to the domestic sphere and explores change on a deeply personal level. The story follows widowed mother OH Ju-hee, who invites her daughter Green to live with her, only to discover that Green's partner Rain is part of that arrangement. The drama unfolds not through confrontation, but through Ju-hee's restrained discomfort and her attempts to preserve a sense of normality.
 

Ju-hee is a complex character. Her denial and passive aggressiveness exist alongside real compassion, especially in the way she cares for Ms. Lee, an Alzheimer's patient at the nursing home. The film uses contrasts effectively. A heterosexual family renting part of the house reminds us of social expectations, while Ms. Lee's situation shows how people without family support are treated. At the same time, Green's activism reflects the values Ju-hee herself once taught her.
 

LEE Mi-rang's direction supports this tone. The muted colors and tight framing create an intimacy that can feel either warm or suffocating. Even the more intense moments are handled calmly. The real question is not whether Ju-hee will suddenly "accept" her daughter, but whether she can slowly learn to see her first as a person, and only then as her daughter.

Concerning My Daughter (2023)

Taken together, these films demonstrate what lies beyond the notion of a "feminist wave". They do not function as manifestos, but as carefully constructed narratives that shift attention toward women's experiences in a way that feels organic and essential, but most of all, realistic. A girl's loneliness, a mother's internal conflict, and a young worker's exhaustion are no longer marginal elements, but the heart of the story.

What ultimately emerges is not a movement with clear boundaries, but a gradual rebalancing within Korean cinema. These works ask the viewer to pay attention to how people, not only women, exist within families, institutions, and expectations that often do not fit them. In doing so, they point toward a cinematic landscape where female-centered authorship is no longer exceptional, but an integral part of the narrative conversation.

Written by Panos Kotzathanasis
Edited by kofic