by Hudson Moura
Produced, written, and directed by Yoon Dan-bi, The World Before is a quiet coming-of-age drama set in a small Korean island, where everyday routines, old relationships, and long stretches of inactivity shape the lives of its characters. The film had its world premiere at TIFF 2026 and follows two childhood friends, Jin (Sim Su-bin) and Dujae (Kim Eo-jin), who reconnect after the death of Dujae’s grandmother.
The film clearly belongs to the tradition of Slow Cinema, and at times recalls the work of Taiwanese filmmaker Tsai Ming-liang and the broader aesthetic associated with Taiwan’s Second New Wave: long durations, sparse action, quiet spaces, and a focus on everyday gestures rather than conventional plot development. But unlike the strongest examples of that tradition, The World Before never develops a sufficiently distinctive visual or emotional point of view.
Much of the story unfolds around the return of Dujae, Jin’s former schoolmate. Other young women in the village also show interest in him, while Jin appears to have a special claim on that connection because of their shared past. Yet the film never turns this setup into a compelling emotional dynamic. The relationship between Jin and Dujae remains strangely undefined: they do not seem especially in love, nor is there enough tension, dependence, or conflict to give their reunion much dramatic weight.
One recurring device is particularly noticeable: many of the conversations take place during meals or around food. This gives the film a familiar social texture and grounds the characters in daily life, but the dialogue itself is often too flat to create intimacy or tension. Instead of revealing deeper layers, these conversations tend to reinforce the emotional detachment that already dominates the film.
That detachment becomes almost the film’s defining quality. In one scene, Jin asks Dujae if he is angry with her, and he simply replies: “Why would I be mad at you?” The exchange is revealing because it captures the general numbness of the characters. They seem disconnected not only from each other, but from their own emotional lives. Unfortunately, the audience is kept at the same distance.
The main problem is not slowness itself. Boredom can be extremely productive in cinema when it is transformed into atmosphere, tension, observation, or a formal experience. Here, however, the film rarely finds the cinematic device that would make that boredom meaningful. The camera does not sufficiently engage with the landscape, nor does it attach itself closely enough to the characters to create emotional intimacy. The result is a film that feels flat rather than meditative.
This is particularly noticeable because the film runs for more than two hours. That duration might have worked if the imagery, performances, or relationships had gradually accumulated emotional force. Instead, one is often left wondering what exactly is meant to sustain the experience. The village, the grandmother’s death, the returning grandson, the meals, and the tentative relationships all remain present, but they never coalesce into something dramatically or visually compelling.
The performances also contribute to this problem. Sim Su-bin and Kim Eo-jin fit the film’s understated register, but neither is given enough material to create the kind of charisma or emotional tension that might carry such a minimal narrative. Their restraint becomes difficult to distinguish from indifference.
There is an interesting idea buried in the title. The World Before suggests a generation facing a future that offers little certainty or excitement, and the characters do indeed seem strangely numb toward the lives ahead of them. But the film never develops that feeling strongly enough into either social observation or cinematic form. Their emotional flatness becomes ours as well.
Ultimately, The World Before is a film that gestures toward the contemplative power of Slow Cinema without achieving the precision, mystery, or visual attention that makes that tradition so compelling. Its quietness is not the problem; the problem is that too little grows from it. What should feel like a carefully observed portrait of youth, memory, and rural isolation instead becomes an overextended and emotionally distant experience.
Rating: 2.5/5