There is one common thread that binds most animated films in the modern era: the urge to oversimplify. In trying to cater to younger audiences, many animated films end up diluting their emotional weight, softening their edges, and offering safe, palatable narratives. As a result, the potential of animation as a medium for mature, layered storytelling is often squandered. But every once in a while, a film comes along that challenges this very norm. Han Ji-won’s Netflix-backed Korean animated feature “Lost in Starlight” is one such work. It resists the trend of pandering and instead embraces animation as a vessel to punctuate human emotions with grace, nuance, and quiet strength.
At first glance, “Lost in Starlight” presents itself as a sci-fi romance, set in a distant 2050 where humans are engaged in interplanetary expeditions and dealing with the fallout of a decaying Earth. But within the first twenty minutes, it becomes clear that the science fiction elements, though visually striking, are mere dressing. The core of the film is a tender, slow-burning love story between Nan-young, a young woman determined to join the next Mars expedition despite personal tragedies, and Jay, a reserved musician nursing a fear of chasing his dreams.
While most animated romances lean on idealized versions of love, where attraction is instantaneous, conflicts are exaggerated, and resolutions are too neat, “Lost in Starlight” does the opposite. The love between Nan-young and Jay is understated yet deeply felt. They are two adults who fall in love like adults do—with caution, hesitation, empathy, and vulnerability. Even when they kiss, it is not framed as some grand cinematic gesture but as a natural extension of their emotional connection. This maturity in their interaction becomes the film’s most defining quality.
What stands out almost immediately is how grounded the characters are. Jay is not your typical male protagonist. He isn’t brash, confident, or heroic in a conventional sense. He is sensitive, uncertain, and occasionally insecure—traits that are often hidden or downplayed in male characters, especially in animated works. His arc is one of quiet growth. Through Nan-young’s unwavering support, he slowly begins to believe in his music and in himself.
But the film never makes Nan-young his emotional crutch. On the contrary, she is on her own path—a woman driven by purpose and haunted by her mother’s tragic fate on Mars. Jay supports her as earnestly as she supports him. There is no clash of ambitions here, no dramatic fallout born of misunderstandings. Instead, their love becomes a safe space. The female gaze in the film is unmistakable. It doesn’t just reflect in how Jay is portrayed, but in how mutual respect and emotional openness form the basis of their relationship.
Han Ji-won’s direction is commendable for its restraint. The world of “Lost in Starlight” is richly imagined—from the eco-collapse of Earth to the towering space stations—but the film never lingers too long on these visuals. The focus always remains on its two protagonists and their emotional landscapes. Ji-won doesn’t rush their journey. The pacing is deliberately unhurried, almost meditative. It allows the audience to sit with these characters, to breathe with them, to feel the weight of their choices, their longings, and their silences.
This slow pace, however, is a double-edged sword. While it allows for intimacy and depth, it occasionally undercuts the film’s emotional climax. There are scenes meant to evoke catharsis—a goodbye at a train station, a moment of reconciliation, a solitary performance—but they don’t always land with the emotional heft they aim for. This isn’t because the writing falters but because the film maintains such a low-key emotional register throughout that it struggles to build to a crescendo. The emotional scenarios are rich, but the emotional pull can feel muted.
Yet, even with this minor shortcoming, “Lost in Starlight” remains a deeply affecting experience. Its beauty lies in its emotional honesty. There’s no manipulation, no cheap sentimental tricks. Instead, the film offers a mature, melancholic love story that respects the intelligence of its audience. The animation itself is stunning in its stillness. Unlike the bombastic flair of Western animation or the hyper-stylized aesthetics of anime, “Lost in Starlight” opts for minimalism. There’s a quiet elegance in how characters are framed—in dimly lit apartments, beneath rust-colored skies, or inside sterile space modules. The color palette echoes the emotional tone—soft blues, warm browns, and washed-out greys dominate the screen, reinforcing the film’s contemplative nature.
And then there’s the music—subtle yet poignant. Jay’s band, The Moles, doesn’t produce chart-topping anthems but instead creates the kind of soulful, acoustic music that lingers in the background and in your mind long after the credits roll. These songs aren’t just part of the soundtrack—they are extensions of Jay’s emotional journey, metaphors for his inner world. Ultimately, “Lost in Starlight” is a quiet rebellion against what mainstream animation has become. It doesn’t shout to be heard. It doesn’t try to please everyone. It knows what it is—a soft-spoken, emotionally intelligent tale of love, loss, and healing. In doing so, it not only carves a unique identity for itself but also marks a significant moment in South Korean animation. It tells us that animated stories can be mature. That they can speak softly and still resonate deeply. That they can be about people, not just plot.
Han Ji-won’s film deserves to be seen and discussed, not as a footnote in the growing list of Netflix originals, but as a testament to what animation can be when it refuses to be boxed into a single demographic. “Lost in Starlight” is not a film for children, and thank the stars for that. It is a film for dreamers, for lovers, for those nursing quiet griefs and louder hopes. And in a world where everything seems to be hurtling forward at breakneck speed, perhaps this slow, starlit journey is exactly what we need.
