Courtesy of David Tizzard
In Korean culture, "In-yeon" describes the invisible thread that connects individuals through destiny and shared experience. It's not just about chance or fortune, however. In-yeon suggests something that transcends time, place and logic. It weaves together lives in ways that are subtle yet meaningful. It is brushing arms with a stranger in the street. It is sitting next to someone on the subway. It is when a bird lands on a branch. It is the coming together of two things. And when this happens 8,000 times across various lives, a complete In-yeon has been built and the two can finally be together.
Unsurprisingly, this idea has roots in Buddhist philosophy. Karmic ties from past lives influence current relationships. Over the years, I've had Korean women say to me, “In our previous lives you were a dog and I was a master,” or “Last time I was the man and you were the woman.” Similarly, you might hear people remark on their current good fortune by saying, “I must have saved the country in a previous life!” At first I brushed these statements off as the ramblings of alcohol or merely something said to fill uncomfortable silences. It was only later I realized that, for many people, they were true. Something felt at a cultural or spiritual level that was very far removed from my Western experience.
Three films—"Past Lives" (2023), "Lust, Caution" (2007), and "Decision to Leave" (2022) — explore this concept. Each presenting characters entangled by fate. The most interesting thing is that although we have characters brought together powerfully by In-yeon, it is still not enough for them to ultimately be together in this life. Maybe the adage is true: East Asians prefer love stories that are complex, with a mix of pain and even hate, reflecting the love they experience in their families. And thus we are treated to an ending that might feel disorienting or unsatisfactory to some but nevertheless speaks of something that has been and will be again.
'Past Lives'
Directed by Celine Song, "Past Lives" offers perhaps the most explicit engagement with In-yeon. Nora and Hae-sung are childhood friends separated by migration. Yet they reconnect decades later through social media and grapple with the question of "what might have been." The film portrays their In-yeon not as romance but as their enduring emotional ties formed across time: layers of shared memories and untapped potential. Their final meeting however underscores how In-yeon doesn't always culminate in fulfillment; sometimes, it reminds us of the inevitability of letting go.
The ending of Past Lives feels like a sigh suspended in time. Nora and Hae-sung eventually part ways after a heart-wrenching moment stood waiting for an Uber. Their relationship remains unresolved. This ambiguity contains sorrow, longing and beauty. While some narratives might push for reconciliation or closure, urging characters to "seize the moment" or find a definitive resolution, Past Lives reflects a different sensibility: accepting the unfulfilled potential and the In-yeon shared, even if it never reaches its "destination." The silence as Hae-sung walks away is as powerful as any grand declaration, leaving viewers to feel, not judge. Lost in Translation, made 20 years earlier by another female director, provides a great cultural comparison and offers similar vibes as Bob and Charlotte part, unlikely to see each other until their next life.
'Lust, Caution'
Ang Lee's "Lust, Caution" explores In-yeon in a darker, more morally fraught narrative. The story of Wong Chia Chi, a young woman turned spy, and Mr. Yee, the target of her seduction, reveals how these connections of karma can pull individuals into treacherous waters. Their relationship is dangerous, adulterous, and yet it carries an intensity that suggests something deeper than mere circumstance. As if they were once princes or slave owners, cattle or catfish, in past lives.
The movie ends with a devastating betrayal and execution, but it is not a simple tale of right and wrong. Wong Chia Chi's decision to warn Mr. Yee — a man she was tasked with assassinating — defies logic and moral clarity. Her act of compassion seals her fate, yet it is impossible to categorize it as purely heroic or foolish. Those who have seen the movie argue intensely about the feelings between the two characters, just as they do about the relationship between Hae-sung and Nora.
The ambiguity lies in the human complexity of Wong Chia Chi's actions. Was she driven by love, guilt, or something else between them? Western films might have framed her as a tragic heroine or punished Mr. Yee to restore moral balance. Instead, the film embraces the messiness of human emotions, leaving viewers questioning whether her In-yeon with Mr. Yee was worth the cost. The lack of resolution is quintessentially Taoist: an acknowledgment that life's truths often resist categorization.
'Decision to Leave'
Park Chan-wook's "Decision to Leave" offers a noir-infused interpretation of In-yeon as police detective Hae-joon becomes entangled with a Chinese murder suspect Seo-rae in a relationship fraught with ambiguity, attraction and betrayal. Like "Lust, Caution," this film uses In-yeon to explore how moral boundaries blur when two lives become inexplicably linked. But unlike Hae-sung and Nora, this connection is not one of destiny or karma; instead, it is shadowed by the inevitability of separation. The decision to leave the other will come, just as it did in the other movies. Seo-rae's final act — burying herself in the sea where Hae-joon cannot find her — reflects the tragic weight of their In-yeon. It is a connection that can neither thrive nor be broken, existing only as a haunting memory. The film concludes not with answers, but with silence and loss.
Seo-rae's actions are both self-sacrificial and unexplained. Does she love Hae-joon, or is she fleeing him out of guilt and shame? The film resists the urge to provide catharsis. Instead, it leaves viewers with the idea that love and morality are irreconcilable. Some stories are destined to remain unresolved.
Ambiguity as a reflection of life
What makes these endings feel "Asian" is their rejection of binary thinking. Some traditions often seek moral closure, pitting good against evil and rewarding justice. In contrast, these films embrace ambiguity, reflecting a worldview where life is not about definitive victories but about navigating shades of gray.
This aesthetic speaks to deeply rooted philosophies in Asian culture. How Confucianism emphasizes relational harmony over absolute truth, valuing what is left unspoken. How Taoism teaches acceptance of paradoxes and the flow of life. To be water. And as Buddhism reminds us of impermanence.
For audiences accustomed to definitive answers, such endings can feel jarring. I see it on some people's faces when they watch these movies for the first time. But for those open to the beauty of uncertainty, they offer a meditative experience. The unresolved is not a failure of storytelling but a mirror of life. A poem to reality: messy, complex, and achingly gorgeous. They invite us to sit with our feelings, to ponder, and to find meaning in the silences between the words.
In a society driven by content, by never-ending news, stories and the latest trends delivered to our faces 24-hours a day, to sit and watch a story between two characters that doesn't resolve and yet remains gripping is a pleasure. The antidote almost. It is in such art, such ambiguity, that we find ourselves and our meaning. We need only the patience to explore it. If you pay attention, nothing is trivial.
David A. Tizzard has a doctorate in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social-cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the "Korea Deconstructed" podcast, which can be found online. He can be reached at datizzard@swu.ac.kr.