Lost in Starlight: Why Netflix’s first Korean animated movie deserves a spot on your watch list

Lost in Starlight marks a quiet but meaningful milestone: the first Korean original animated feature on Netflix, set to premiere on May 30, 2025. It’s a delicate and beautifully crafted film about love, distance and the fragile connections that hold people together, even across planets.

With its release, Korean animation takes a graceful step onto the global stage, joining the ranks of acclaimed films and series that have carried Korean storytelling around the world.

Even before its premiere, Lost in Starlight has already earned the admiration of Parasite director Bong Joon-ho, who called it “a visual masterpiece that captures the heart-fluttering emotions of new love.”

Lost in Starlight: A story of love stretched across worlds

At the heart of Lost in Starlight is a simple, aching premise. Nan-young, a young astronaut preparing to leave Earth for Mars, crosses paths with Jay, a musician de`voted to repairing vintage audio equipment.

In a Seoul bathed in retro-futuristic light, surrounded by old records and new technologies, they form a quiet connection that deepens even as the physical distance between them grows.

The story draws its strength from the small and the intimate. A glance, a song, a memory tucked into a piece of music. It’s a story about separation, about the longing that comes when love begins just as parting becomes inevitable.

Director Han Ji-won shapes this emotional landscape with precision and care, crafting a narrative that feels both grounded and dreamlike. Rather than leaning on the familiar beats of science fiction, Lost in Starlight focuses on the emotional truths beneath: the vulnerability of two people trying to hold on to something fragile, and the hope that their connection can survive across the vastness of space.

A production shaped by quiet confidence

Lost in Starlight comes to life through the hands of Climax Studio and Red Dog Culture House, two Korean animation studios with a steady reputation for thoughtful, detailed work. Together, they create a version of Seoul that feels both futuristic and lived-in, where vinyl records and neon lights share space with the shadow of Mars hanging in the sky.

Under the direction of Han Ji-won, the film resists the temptation to overwhelm. The animation lets moments breathe, giving weight to a glance, a silence, a soft exchange between two people who don’t need to fill every space with words. The film emphasizes atmosphere over spectacle, encouraging viewers to slow down and notice what's happening.

Kim Tae-ri and Hong Kyung's measured and sincere vocal performances bring their characters to life in natural, unforced, and deeply human ways, adding to this sense of proximity.

Korean animation stepping into its own light

For years, Korean animation has lived in the background. Studios worked quietly on global projects, contributing talent and craft to productions from other countries, while their own stories rarely traveled beyond local festivals or niche audiences.

Lost in Starlight feels like something new, not just another piece made behind the curtain, but a work stepping confidently into its own light, carrying the textures, rhythms, and emotions that make it unmistakably Korean.

It’s a gentle reminder that animation from Korea is ready to be more than a production service. It’s ready to stand as its own voice, sharing stories that resonate across borders without losing the particular beauty of where they come from.

A cultural moment that opens new doors

The world has spent the past decade watching Korean creativity reshape the landscape, in music, in film, in television. With each success, from K-pop’s rise to the global acclaim of Parasite, new doors have opened for artists and storytellers to bring more varied, more personal works to international audiences.

Lost in Starlight belongs to this moment, but it doesn’t rush to prove itself. It doesn’t lean on loudness or spectacle. Instead, it draws strength from quiet, from intimacy, from a kind of emotional honesty that feels both local and universal. That quiet confidence is part of what makes it stand out, and part of what makes it matter.

A visual world that hums with feeling

The beauty of Lost in Starlight doesn’t come from its futuristic skyline or its science fiction setting alone. It comes from the mood it builds, the softness in its light, the warmth in its details, the way every frame seems to hold a breath. Vinyl records glowing under neon. City streets that feel half-remembered, half-imagined. Mars, waiting like a shadow just beyond the edge of sight.

The film's pastel blues, pale pinks, and subdued golds reflect the delicate balance between closeness and distance, hope and doubt. The graphics act like a gentle heartbeat, always present and drawing the audience deeper into the story's emotional undercurrent.

Visuals are distinctive for their sensitivity, not scale. They allow minor moments—a gaze, a pause, a whispered promise—to reveal the characters' feelings. This film urges viewers to slow down, sit inside its universe, and sense the calm connection that flows through it.

A romance shaped by quiet, familiar emotions

The emotional strength of Lost in Starlight doesn’t come from grand declarations or sweeping moments. Instead, it concentrates on the pain of waiting, the tiny rituals individuals adhere to when apart—a song replayed, a message left hanging, a modest promise.

This storytelling resonates because it shows how love can bend, how absence sharpens presence, and how we carry people even when they're far away. Lost in Starlight urges viewers to dwell with those sentiments, recollect their own longings, and find calm beauty in them.

Standing alongside other sci-fi love stories

While Lost in Starlight stands firmly in its own space, it joins a tradition of science fiction that explores love stretched across time, space, or memory. Works like Interstellar or Your Name have played with these themes, but what sets Lost in Starlight apart is its restraint. Mars is not a battlefield or a quest; it’s simply the place Nan-young must go, and the story stays focused on the emotional thread that binds her to Jay.

Instead of turning its sci-fi backdrop into spectacle, the film lets the future serve as quiet scenery, keeping the center of gravity on human connection. It’s a reminder that science fiction isn’t only about adventure or discovery, it can also be about the private, unspoken spaces between two people, and the hope that those spaces can be crossed.

A quiet milestone for Korean animation

Lost in Starlight is more than a first for Netflix. It’s a quiet statement about where Korean animation can go, and what kinds of stories it’s ready to tell on the global stage. The film gently and personally explores love, distance, and the tiny ways we try to cling on across impossible gaps without loud statements or dazzling hooks.

It reminds us that the best stories trust their audience to sit with silence, feel the weight of a pause, and listen for the subtle pulse of connection underneath. Lost in Starlight is a hidden gem that rewards viewers who pay attention with its exquisite blend of emotion, beauty, and restraint.

Ps.: Still not convinced? Kim Tae-ri and Hong Kyung composed and recorded the duet “Life Goes On,” with Hong Kyung also performing a solo, “Bon Voyage.”

The soundtrack, composed and performed by Kim Tae-ri and Hong Kyung, turns spinning vinyl and cosmic static into delicate emotional bridges. The duet Life Goes On was born from letters exchanged between Nan-young and Jay, while Bon Voyage whispers farewells too tender for words, a quiet reminder that some connections defy even the laws of physics.

Are you convinced now? Lost in Starlight will be available on May 30, 2025, on Netflix.