Yang Mal Bok walks into the first scene like a storm with no warning. Lipstick on. Sunglasses unbothered. Every step screams history. She doesn’t ask for space. She owns it. And in Manok, she is not playing the comic relief, or the tragic parent, or the wise lesbian who appears to guide someone else’s journey. This time, the story is hers. Finally.

There is a funeral. There is betrayal. There is heartbreak wrapped in glitter. But this is not a film about grief. Not really. Manok is about what comes after survival. It is about the mess, the rage, the power of not being liked, and the deep, quiet need to still be held.

Manok is not designed to be palatable. She yells. She stirs trouble. She leaves Seoul when her bar is replaced by a younger crowd and her partner hides the truth. She returns to Ibanri, her rural hometown, where nothing has softened. Her ex-husband is now the mayor. Her brothers still act like she is an embarrassment. Her queerness is treated like a problem. She unpacks anyway.

What starts as escape becomes a campaign. She runs for mayor. Not to fix her image, but to hold her ground. And because she meets Jae Yeon.

Jae Yeon is her ex-husband’s trans child. Young, bullied, quietly defiant. They live in a house where no one speaks their name. But Manok sees them. Not as a lesson. Not as a mission. Just as someone who needs protection. Like she once did.

Their bond builds slowly. A glance. A shared silence. A night in a barn. Director Lee Yu Jin cast trans actors in trans roles, and she spoke about this choice at BFI Flare. “It is still rare in Korea,” she said. “But I insisted. And they brought so much honesty to the scene.”

Manok throws humour like it throws punches. A toilet pass handed out like a gift. A police station turned into a rap battle. A mayoral campaign built on pure chaos. The film plays with tone but never loses control.

Lee explained that most Korean queer films tend to be serious. “I just wanted my friends to have fun watching something that also speaks to us.” That tension between joy and injustice makes the film what it is.

Some scenes were improvised on set. Many were rewritten each night. The police scene, for example, was shot in one day. “We rehearsed it like a theatre show,” Lee said. “It became one of the most fun and freeing scenes.”

Lee Yu Jin in her own words
From the Q and A at BFI Flare

Why did you choose comedy?
“I wanted something my queer friends could laugh at. Most queer films in Korea are serious or dark. This time, I wanted joy.”

Who inspired Manok?
“There is an older lesbian bar owner in Seoul. She is blunt and unpredictable. At first I did not want to become like her. But over time, I realised how much I respect her.”

What helped the most during production?
“My queer friends. They came from far away just to help. This film was built with their kindness.”

Your favourite scene?
“The barn scene where Manok and Jae Yeon meet. That is where everything shifts. Quiet but full of feeling.”

As the film moves into its final stretch, Manok stops performing. She settles. Not in defeat, but with purpose. Her old bar might be gone, but she brings her partner home. She walks the same streets that once pushed her away and decides to stay.

She never asks the town to change. She shows them what it looks like when someone does not disappear. And slowly, the town begins to see her.

There is something beautiful about a character who does not soften just because time has passed. Manok lets her stay sharp. Stay complicated. Stay loud. The film finds its power not in resolution, but in presence. In returning. In claiming space that was never offered and making it hers.

It is rare to see a film like this. Alive. Specific. Emotionally clear. Never afraid to laugh. And it stays with you, long after it ends.

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