Happy Together

“Let’s start over.” I had already seen Happy Together before, but watching it again only confirmed something I’d felt since the first time: this film is completely perfect. And I mean that seriously—this is the best film I’ve ever seen in my life, by far. I don’t even feel like anything comes close to it. And honestly, at this point I really doubt there’s another film out there that could make me connect like this or surpass what this one makes me feel. It’s not just that I like it more than others, it’s that it exists on a completely different level, like it’s not even competing with anything else. Also, I’ve never felt this sure about a 5-star rating in my life. Never. I’ve never felt like a film deserved 5 stars as much as this one does. Not even close. And I genuinely don’t understand how some people give it a 4.5, or less… like, what is it missing? What more could it possibly need? To me, it lacks absolutely nothing. It’s complete. It’s closed. It’s exactly what it needs to be. It’s perfect. It’s not perfect in the typical sense. It’s not pretty, it’s not comfortable, it’s not easy to watch. It’s perfect in how honest it is, how raw, how real. It’s the kind of film that doesn’t try to please you, doesn’t try to be “right,” doesn’t try to give you something easy to digest… and yet it still completely destroys you and stays with you. It doesn’t ask to be loved, but you end up loving it anyway. This time it hit me even harder. Everything felt heavier, closer, more mine. Like I wasn’t watching it from the outside anymore, but from the inside. Like instead of watching it, I was remembering it. The relationship is already broken from the beginning—there’s no idealization, no “beautiful” phase of love that you usually see in other stories. There’s no build-up here, only decay. You’re only seeing what’s left after everything has already fallen apart, and no one knows how to leave. And that’s what hurts the most: it’s not that they don’t love each other, it’s that they don’t know how to do it without hurting each other. Ho Po-wing… I can’t see him as just a character. I genuinely feel like I am him. And not in a superficial way, but in something much deeper and more uncomfortable. That way of loving so intensely, so impulsively, so desperately. That constant need to come back, to ask for another chance, to say “let’s start over” as if that could erase everything. As if love alone were enough to fix what’s already broken. As if insisting were the same thing as changing. And deep down you know it’s not, you know nothing will be different, but you still try again and again, like you don’t know how to do anything else. And there’s also that selfish side you don’t want to admit, but it’s there. Loving someone while also hurting them. Needing them, but not knowing how to take care of them. Staying not because it’s right, but because you don’t know how to leave. And that makes everything feel even more real, because the film doesn’t try to make you look good or justify you. It just exposes you. And that’s what hits me the most: it’s not a healthy kind of love, but it’s not fake either. It’s not beautiful, but it’s not empty. It’s a love that exists, that has weight, that consumes you… but doesn’t know how to sustain itself. And that makes it more real than any “perfect” love story. The film doesn’t romanticize anything, and that’s exactly why it feels so special. There are no moments that “save” the relationship, no scenes that make you think everything will be okay. There’s no clear redemption. There’s silence, distance, resentment, dependency. There’s exhaustion. There are moments where there’s nothing left, and yet they’re still there. It’s a kind of love that doesn’t build you, but also won’t let you go. And that contradiction is what makes it impossible to let go of, even as a viewer. And the cinematography… I love it so much. I honestly think it’s one of the most important parts of the film. It doesn’t feel like a traditional narrative—it feels like fragmented memories. Like pieces of something that already happened but never really left. The shifts between color and black and white, the texture of the image, the way the camera moves so closely, sometimes unstable… everything reflects emotion more than action. You’re not watching what’s happening—you’re feeling it. There are scenes that seem simple, but carry so much weight just because of how they’re filmed. The lighting, the tight spaces, the sense of confinement, the way the outside world almost doesn’t exist… everything traps you inside that emotional space with them. And it suffocates you in the same way. The distance between them, even when they’re together, feels physical. The looks, the silences, the spaces… everything is filled with something that’s never fully said. It’s like something is always incomplete, something never fully connects. And the loneliness… that’s what stays the most. Because in the end, that’s what defines everything. It doesn’t matter how much they’re together—they’re always alone. They never fully reach each other. There’s always something missing, something that doesn’t fit, something that can’t be filled. And that weighs so much, because it’s real. Because it happens. There’s also something that completely destroys me: that feeling of repetition. Of being stuck in the same cycle over and over again. Of trying to start over, promising that this time it’ll be different, only to end up in the exact same place. Things change on the surface, but nothing really changes underneath. And that’s frustrating, but also deeply human. And the more I think about it, the more I realize there’s nothing in this film that feels unnecessary. Nothing feels forced. Everything has a purpose. Everything adds to that constant feeling of discomfort, sadness, emptiness. Even the “quiet” moments feel off, like something is always about to break again. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding dramatic, but I genuinely feel like I’ve never seen a film that resembles me—or the way I feel—this much. I’ve never connected to something like this. I’ve never felt this understood by a film. I gave it 5 stars, but even that doesn’t feel like enough. Because it’s not really something you can rate. It’s not something you can measure with numbers. It feels way too personal for that. Because it’s not just my favorite—it’s the best film I’ve ever seen in my life. And honestly, I don’t think anything will ever make me feel or connect like this again. And that’s exactly what I love about it… and also what hurts the most. Because I know that even if I watch it a thousand times, it will never stop feeling like this.