A young photographer attempts to find peace in taking candids yet is met with anger until he meets a Goblin, who gives him a little bit of joy in his depressed state.

SHOT ON 16mm Kodak Ektachrome BOLEX CAMERA

Writer/Director - Haneol Lee

Director of Photography - Shi Zhang and Trent Griffith

Sound Mixer - Drew Ellis

Goblin - Lauren Frison

Photographer - Haneol Lee

Composer - Seungwon Lee

Sound Design - Kevin Yu

Special Thank You

Jonathan Rattner

“Currently in the Festival Cycle. Please email for the password!”

Director’s Statement Please Read:

My half-brother passed away from suicide on March 1st, 2024. In the wake of his absence, despite not being too close to him, I found myself unable to create. The pain of doubt and self-loathing consumed me, making even the act of expression feel impossible. He was a photographer—his world was framed through a lens, moments captured and preserved. And in those first raw weeks after his passing, I found myself reaching for my camera, as if by taking photos, I could hold onto him just a little longer.

I wandered my college campus, aimlessly clicking the shutter, trying to freeze life for a second. I told myself I was capturing candid moments, but in truth, I was searching for something—perhaps for someone to see me, to hold me, to tell me I would be okay. That despite time’s cruelty, I would learn to walk forward again.

This film was born from that ache. In April, I was given two rolls of film and tasked with creating my final thesis project. Unlike digital, film is finite. Each frame is deliberate; once captured, it cannot be erased. That limitation mirrored something I was struggling to accept—that life, too, is finite. That we cannot rewind or endlessly shoot until we get it right. I wanted to embrace that fragility, to lean into the truth that every moment—like every frame—is fleeting.

In my grief, I found myself dreaming of something beyond reality, something magical that could rescue me. That’s when I discovered the Korean myth of the Goblin (Dokkaebi). In folklore, they are mischievous spirits who help humans, but always in physical ways—leaving a bag of rice at a doorstep, granting small fortunes. But what if a Goblin could heal the mind? What if it could sit with me in my sorrow, take a picture with me, remind me that I am still here?

This film had no script. It was a reenactment, an experiment, an attempt to make sense of my own grieving process. It was a poetic response to loss, to the nature of impermanence. I shot it with two of my closest friends, and for the first time since my brother’s passing, I remember smiling behind the camera. I remember feeling warmth, a small spark of love, even in my tragedy. In those moments, I felt art healing me in real time.

More than anything, Goblin is a love letter—to my brother, to the medium of film, to the fragile beauty of life itself. It is my way of holding on, but also of letting go. And though I miss him with every breath, this film is also a quiet thank you—to the present moment, to the people still beside me, and to the art that reminds me I am still alive.