South Korean director Park Joon-ho’s film *3670* has a title that sounds like a code. In the context of the Seoul gay scene, it marks a specific time and place and indicates the number of attendees expected at a gathering. The last digit — a zero — represents more than logistics; it symbolizes a painful absence, highlighting how queer life often spins around the hope for connection, yet many still feel alone.
At the heart of *3670* is Cheol-jun, played by Cho You-hyun. He is a young North Korean defector living in Seoul, juggling church scholarships and part-time jobs to survive. He’s also gay, but this part of his identity isn’t acknowledged in the defector community, which often assumes he is straight. When he attends a gay mixer, he finds himself navigating a different kind of world. Instead of liberation, he confronts a group that reflects its own struggles with beauty, desirability, and social status.
Park excels in illustrating Cheol-jun’s complicated existence. In South Korea, he faces judgment based on his background, while within the gay community, he feels objectified and marked as a “first gay defector.” This duality of belonging is poignant. Cheol-jun’s identity is conditional; he must hide his sexuality among fellow defectors, while gay South Koreans view him through a lens of fascination and pity.
His bond with Yeong-jun, another man from the mixer, expands the narrative’s depth. Yeong-jun grapples with his own insecurities about attractiveness. Rather than dismissing the unkind dynamics of gay culture as mere gossip, *3670* explores them as signs of deeper issues — insecurities rooted in societal standards. These men measure themselves against a landscape of limited beauty and romantic opportunities. The film critiques South Korea’s intense education system, hinting that the pressure starts long before they reach the mixer.
While the film is over two hours long and sometimes loses focus, its ambition is commendable. It tackles themes like defection, class, religion, and the struggles of queer loneliness. For example, Cheol-jun’s relationship with religion remains complex but is not fully explored. The tension between faith and queerness adds an interesting layer, yet it often stays in the background.
Ultimately, *3670* shows that growing up doesn’t just happen in youth or romance. It can also come from heartbreak, unreturned affection, and realizing that community can be both a source of comfort and a cause of pain. The film’s ending offers a glimmer of hope. Though Cheol-jun’s loneliness isn’t entirely resolved, he reaches a more mature acceptance of his situation. In this light, the concept of ‘zero’ transforms; it doesn’t have to be the final answer.
Recent surveys indicate that LGBTQ+ acceptance is increasing in South Korea, suggesting a gradual shift in societal perspectives, though challenges remain. Cheol-jun’s story resonates not just on screen, reflecting ongoing discussions about identity, belonging, and acceptance in real life.
