The need to be welcomed precedes any need to be loved.
(Emmanuel Levinas)
In an urban context marked by thinned-out relationships and fragmented responsibilities, thirteen-year-old Su-yeon finds herself without adult references after the death of the only family member she lived with. Institutions, temporarily allowing her to remain in her grandmother’s apartment, efficiently inform her of the looming possibility of being transferred to a child welfare facility. Her condition is not exceptional, but falls within the category of those administered lives on the margins: young subjectivities considered incapable of self-determination, and therefore to be placed within protective—often impersonal—mechanisms.
In an attempt to avoid this outcome, Su-yeon directs her attention to a family that has recently adopted a seven-year-old girl, Seon-yul. The couple, visibly enthusiastic about their choice, actively constructs a positive narrative of their household, including through public online sharing. For Su-yeon, this family represents a possibility—not necessarily of affection, but of re-entry into a symbolic structure that is both recognized and legitimized.
From the outside, what Su-yeon sees appears as a promise. Not of love, but of inclusion. She begins a slow and strategic approach toward the newly adopted girl, hoping that contact with her may serve as an entry point to a life more narratable, more justified in the eyes of the adult world. Yet this contact soon takes on an unsettling tone. Far from childhood’s stereotypical innocence, Seon-yul harbors rituals and inclinations that verge on the abyss: jars full of insects hidden in alleyways, attentions that appear to be care but reveal themselves as repeated forms of control or cruelty. “You have to listen and behave well, only then will you be loved,” she whispers. A phrase that is already ideology: the conditioning of affection in exchange for conformity.
The film adopts a narrative approach that avoids strict realism in favor of cultivating a latent tension. The actions of the adult characters, in particular, often strain credibility when judged by behavioral logic: the willingness to welcome an unknown teenager into one’s home, or the absence of plausible reactions to certain anomalies, are not devices meant to reinforce narrative coherence. Rather, they serve to displace meaning, creating gaps that invite interpretation.
Certain scenes—such as the one in which the two girls are separated by a crowd on a bus—clearly highlight the vulnerability of childhood in a public space that refuses to take responsibility for those not yet able to fully exercise agency. However, the film struggles to transform these moments into a cohesive discourse. The plot unfolds episodically, hinting more than arguing, suggesting connections that rarely find full articulation.
The bond between Su-yeon and Seon-yul emerges as a temporary attempt at cohabitation between solitudes, not necessarily a path toward solidarity. Both navigate disintegrated emotional landscapes, where educational and familial structures appear more as spaces to be deciphered than realms of protection. Childhood, here, is not idealized but presented as a phase of life subject to structural tensions: invisibility, exclusion, manipulation.
Waterdrop, the feature debut of Choi Jongyong, takes a dissonant approach to the classic codes of social cinema. The filmmaker does not provide direct interpretive keys, nor does he offer conciliatory solutions. His focus seems to lie in portraying emotional asymmetries and dynamics of inclusion/exclusion, rather than in delivering a direct critique of the system.
Though uneven, the film contains moments of sharp observation. It does not seek to generate empathy but to position the viewer in a critical space—one in which discomfort arises not from dramatic events, but from the normalization of carelessness. In this sense, more than a tale of abandoned childhood, Waterdrop offers a reflection on subjective survival strategies within a context governed by impersonal logics.
No one is ever too small to be overlooked.
(Pascal Bruckner)
22° Asian Film Festival
