Take Care of My Cat (2001) – A Neon-Lit Love Letter to Lost Youth
South Korean cinema has a habit of slipping into your subconscious like a half-remembered dream—ethereal, bittersweet, and laced with existential dread. Jeong Jae-eun’s Take Care of My Cat (2001) isn’t your typical coming-of-age flick, nor is it an overindulgent art-house trip. It’s something far more elusive: a raw, unvarnished snapshot of friendship dissolving under the weight of adulthood, wrapped in the neon glow of Incheon’s industrial sprawl.
Capitalism, Kittens, and the Post-Adolescent Blues
The film orbits around five young women, fresh out of high school, clinging to the wreckage of their teenage years as they drift toward the cold machinery of adulthood. There’s Ji-young (Ok Ji-young), the quiet outcast trapped in a crumbling home life; Hae-joo (Lee Yo-won), the careerist climbing the corporate ladder in Seoul; and Tae-hee (Bae Doona), the rebellious dreamer who refuses to be ground into dust by the system. The titular cat—a literal furball of misplaced affection—gets passed around like an unspoken promise, symbolizing the fragile thread keeping them connected.
This isn’t some saccharine tale of lifelong friendship, nor is it a melodramatic bloodbath of betrayal. Instead, Jeong Jae-eun crafts a subtle, almost voyeuristic look at how the world strips people of their innocence in slow, imperceptible increments. The city looms like a dystopian specter, its blinking lights and anonymous crowds swallowing our protagonists whole.
The Devil’s in the Details
Shot with an unassuming, almost documentary-like aesthetic, Take Care of My Cat feels intimate without being intrusive. The camera lingers on empty streets, cluttered apartments, and restless bodies staring into the void. The soundtrack hums with the melancholy hum of city life—subway rumbles, distant voices, the occasional burst of laughter that echoes into nothingness.
The performances are understated but lethal. Bae Doona, now an international powerhouse (The Host, Sense8), delivers a beautifully restrained portrayal of a woman refusing to let go of the past, while Lee Yo-won embodies the cold pragmatism of someone who’s already sold her soul to the grind.
A Time Capsule of Millennial Anxiety
Over two decades later, Take Care of My Cat feels eerily relevant—maybe even more so. The gig economy, corporate alienation, and the slow death of human connection aren’t relics of the early 2000s; they’re the defining traits of modern existence. The film doesn’t offer solutions, nor does it revel in hopelessness. Instead, it sits in that uncomfortable middle ground where nostalgia meets disillusionment.
For those expecting a neat resolution, look elsewhere. Take Care of My Cat is less of a narrative and more of a feeling—a slow burn of quiet desperation wrapped in the warmth of fleeting companionship. If you’ve ever found yourself staring at your phone, debating whether to reach out to an old friend, this film is for you.
Final Verdict: 4.5/5
A hauntingly beautiful exploration of youth, capitalism, and the inevitable drift of human connection. It won’t slap you in the face with melodrama, but it will linger in your mind long after the credits roll. Watch it alone, preferably at 2 AM, with the city buzzing outside your window.
