A Werewolf Boy 2012

Sun-yi, Lee Young-lan, an elderly woman in her sixties living in the US, receives a phone call about the sale of her old family home back in South Korea. Returning to her homeland, she’s greeted by granddaughter Eun-joo, Park Bo-young, and together they drive back to the house in the countryside. The news sets the stage for a journey that blends memory, longing, and a quiet reckoning with the past.

In a long, winding flashback that stretches back 47 years to 1965, we meet Sun-yi as a seventeen-year-old girl who leaves Seoul with her widowed mother and sister Sun-ja, Kim Hyang-gi, for a remote valley. The family lives in genteel poverty, navigating the rough edge of a harsh landlord system led by Ji-tae, a son of a business partner of Sun-yi’s late father. Sun-yi’s health is fragile, and the small circle around her feels like a fragile refuge within a world that often ignores or belittles her. Sun-yi’s introverted, delicate nature keeps her mostly isolated from peers, and the valley idea of healing feels like a delicate shield against a life that has already demanded too much of her body.

One day, Sun-yi discovers a feral boy in their yard, a young man around nineteen whose blood type is unreadable and who cannot read or speak. He behaves with the ferocity and unpredictability of a wild creature. Sun-yi’s mother, a compassionate presence amid hardship, takes him in and names him Chul-soo, believing him to be one of the many war orphans—perhaps one of the more than 60,000 children left behind by the Korean War. The relationship between Sun-yi and the boy grows from wary tolerance to something closer to kinship, as Sun-yi, with a patient and careful approach, begins to mold him in the rough shapes of human life. She teaches him how to wait for meals, how to wear clothes, how to speak, and even how to write, guiding him as if he were a child learning to walk again.

Chul-soo proves to be a study in contrasts: the strength that can be protective and the capacity for violence when fear or possessiveness takes hold. He remains unfailingly loyal to Sun-yi, a rare anchor in a life that has shown him little mercy. His presence magnifies Ji-tae’s envy and resentment, as the landlord’s own insecurities churn into cruelty. The town’s fear and suspicion swirl around the pair, and as Sun-yi begins to see a future for Chul-soo, the boy also discovers a longing he has never known: love for the person who treats him with gentleness and trust. Their bond becomes a beacon in a hostile world, even as it invites threats and judgment from those who misunderstand or fear what they cannot easily control.

The relationship deepens, and Sun-yi’s heart opens in ways she has never allowed before. But the idyll is fragile. Ji-tae’s interference grows, and the increasingly volatile climate of the village pushes Chul-soo to unleash his more primal instincts in self-defense and in defense of what he has found with Sun-yi. The town turns against him, fear wiring the crowd into a chorus of condemnation. In the face of uproar and danger, Sun-yi chooses to protect the boy she has come to love, leaving him behind with a promise etched into memory: “Wait for me. I’ll come back for you.” The act becomes a vow that will stretch across decades and distance, shaping both their futures in ways neither could predict.

Back in the present, the two eras collide. Sun-yi enters the shed to find Chul-soo there, still as young as he was when she left him all those years ago. He hands her the note she wrote long ago, and the moment feels almost sacred—a proof that he has waited, watched, and held onto the belief that their bond could outlive time. He reads aloud a book she had once asked him to read, a gesture that ties the past to the present in a quiet, intimate ritual. As the day ends, Sun-yi wakes from a shared sleep to find that Chul-soo is no longer beside her, but the reality of the moment remains, a living echo of the vow she once made.

With the dawn, Sun-yi and her granddaughter depart, receiving a call from the county about the property. She chooses not to sell, a decision that speaks to the way memory and place keep us tethered to who we are. Chul-soo, watching from a distance, stands as a silent sentinel on the margins of the road, a reminder that love can endure beyond the reach of time, even when the world around it insists on forgetting.

The ending credits offer a final, poignant image: Chul-soo building a snowman, a small, hopeful act that crystallizes the film’s themes of preservation, patience, and the possibility of a future shaped by tenderness rather than fear. Across the long arc of the story, the tale moves with a restrained grace, balancing the ache of separation with a stubborn, almost quiet optimism that love, in its purest forms, can outlast even the most exhaustive of years.