Secret Sunshine (2010)
Directed by Lee Chang-Dong • South Korea
Introduction
The Korean film Secret Sunshine, directed by Lee Chang-dong, is a deeply moving cinematic work in the social drama genre. The story follows a young woman named Lee Shin-ae who, after the death of her husband, moves from Seoul to Miryang, a small town near Busan — her late husband's hometown — to fulfill his lifelong wish of returning home. As she begins a seemingly peaceful new life in this quiet town, a series of tragic events unfolds, transforming her beliefs, her identity, and her understanding of faith.
On the surface, Secret Sunshine appears to be a story about loss. Yet, beneath that surface lies a profound reflection on the human search for meaning in a world where faith both saves and destroys.
Themes and Meaning
Although the film's central theme revolves around religion, God, and faith, Lee Chang-dong delivers his message through a delicate combination of visual and narrative elements.
The first theme concerns Shin-ae's confrontation with her husband's death. At first glance, her move to Miryang seems like an act of devotion to a beloved spouse. However, when her brother visits from Seoul, we learn that her husband had been unfaithful and that Shin-ae's life in Seoul had been constrained by social pressures. Yet, when her brother confronts her—"How can you still miss a man who cheated on you?"—she angrily denies the accusation, insisting her husband was devoted and that she came to Miryang simply to start anew. This early exchange reveals Shin-ae's blind love and avoidance of painful truth, establishing her as a character who flees from reality rather than confronting it.
The second layer explores the traditional, hypocritical culture of small-town life. The townspeople appear kind and devout but are in fact driven by jealousy and judgment. Lee Chang-dong captures this duplicity through confined frames and muted gray tones—turning the visual space into a metaphorical prison for the religious mind, where light only filters through the cracks of walls. Amid this setting, one man stands apart, seemingly different from the rest—his style, his conversations with his mother, and his longing for urban life in Busan all mark him as an outsider.
The first turning point occurs when Shin-ae's son, Jun, is suddenly kidnapped. Yet, remarkably, the film avoids the frantic pace typical of thrillers. Shin-ae's restrained reaction and desperate attempts to rescue her son lull us into hope—until his lifeless body is found. The shock intensifies when we discover that the kidnapper and murderer is Jun's kindergarten teacher, driven not by revenge but by envy: she envied Shin-ae's financial stability and opportunity to invest in land, something the rest of the town lacked.
From this point, the film transitions into the five stages of grief, as theorized by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. The first stage, denial, coincides with the introduction of religion into the story. Unable to fully comprehend her pain, Shin-ae joins a local church at the suggestion of a neighbor. In one of the film's most powerful scenes, she breaks down crying during prayer, as the pastor's hand—framed symbolically as the "hand of God"—rests on her head, bringing her sudden calm.
From that moment until nearly the 90-minute mark, Shin-ae's instant, uncritical embrace of faith dominates the narrative. Given what we know about her earlier denial and blind love, this conversion feels less like spiritual awakening and more like another form of escape. In her attempts to rebuild meaning and maternal love, Shin-ae enters the second stage of grief: bargaining.
The film's second major turning point occurs when Shin-ae decides to visit her son's killer in prison to forgive him. Yet during their conversation, she experiences a profound awakening—realizing the danger of blind faith.
The philosopher Søren Kierkegaard, the father of Christian existentialism, defended faith but believed true faith must emerge from doubt and anxiety. His famous line—"Faith is a leap into darkness, but a personal one, not a blind one"—captures his conviction that imitation-based faith is not faith in God, but faith in the institution of religion, a form of self-deception.
This is precisely what happens to the film's three central characters: Shin-ae, Mr. Kim, and the murderer. Their faith lacks awareness; it is borrowed, not born.
Similarly, Friedrich Nietzsche's critique of religion as an "escape from life" finds resonance here: he opposed the notion of faith as a refuge from suffering and responsibility. Shin-ae uses religion to escape the reality of her child's death, just as the killer uses it to escape guilt and accountability.
At this point, the film enters a new phase—Shin-ae's anger. Her confrontation with the emptiness of her faith leads her to rebel against religion itself. She begins trying to seduce and "corrupt" believers, testing whether faith can truly endure temptation. When the man she tempts recoils in guilt—"God is watching"—and when even Mr. Kim, who loves her, refuses her advances, Shin-ae collapses into deeper despair. She realizes that anger cannot heal grief.
As Albert Camus writes in The Myth of Sisyphus: "There is only one truly serious philosophical problem: suicide." For Camus, only when one faces absurdity can one discover authentic meaning—and true faith arises only after confronting the void.
This is precisely Shin-ae's state in the fourth stage of grief: depression. Overwhelmed by meaninglessness, she attempts suicide and is institutionalized. Time passes—indicated by her longer hair—before she is released. She asks Mr. Kim to take her to a salon to cut her hair, a symbolic act of renewal. But when she discovers that the hairdresser is the daughter of her child's killer, she leaves abruptly, returns home, and cuts her own hair instead—a quiet yet powerful image of acceptance, the final stage of grief.
Conclusion
Secret Sunshine masterfully exposes the peril of imitative and blind faith. With profound philosophical and psychological insight, Lee Chang-dong argues that salvation lies not in the concealment of pain through religion or tradition, but in confronting it directly. He challenges Christianity's premise of unconditional forgiveness, suggesting that grace without awareness is hollow.
In the end, Shin-ae's faith neither saves nor comforts her—it forces her to face the abyss of meaninglessness. Only there, in that darkness, does the true secret of the film's title emerge: the hidden sun of redemption shines only through the shadow of acceptance, not blind submission.
Lee Chang-dong neither condemns nor glorifies faith; instead, he invites the viewer to build a bridge between belief and awareness—a bridge made of suffering, honesty, and human vulnerability.