Park Chan-wook released Thirst in 2009, only one year after Alfredson’s classic Let the Right One In, and it is hard to think that any two vampire-romance stories could be any more different. Let the Right One In is an adolescent coming-of-age story that shows alienated people learning to connect. Thirst, on the other hand, is about a very physical, though toxic, relationship between adults. In Let the Right One In, Alfredson’s story that is intimate and contained. Clocking in at well over two hours, Chan-wook’s Thirst feels epic. And while the tone of Alfredson is morality apathetic, in Thirst morality is put front and center. But one thing that these films do have in common is that they both, in their own ways, re-define the vampire-romance for the modern horror era.

Thirst is about Sang-hyun, a priest who selflessly volunteers to participate in a dangerous experiment that, if successful, could lead to a vaccine to that helps cure a deadly, contagious, disease. After Sang-hyun returns alive, he becomes a martyr-like celebrity within the Korean Catholic community. But slowly, Sang-hu notices unwelcome vampire-like changes happening to his body. But real story does not begin until Sang-hyun reunites with his childhood friend Kang-woo. Being both a priest and celebrity, Kang-woo invites Sang-hyun over for dinner, but trouble begins after Sang-hyun is introduced to Tae-ju, Kang-woo’s wife.

Like many Korean directors, Chan-wook uses a lengthy run-time to carefully sift between genres. (It is this kind of genre-bending that helped Bong Joon-ho win Best Picture Oscar Parasite in 2019.) Sometimes, Thirst is erotic. At other times, it is a drama. But in the film’s last hour it transforms itself into a quirky dark comedy- as though it is meant to be the spiritual successor to Chan-wook’s previous film, I’m a Cyborg, but That’s OK. Korean films tend to be masterfully paced, and the frequent tonal changes are part of the reason way. When Thirst concludes, it does not feel like a 134-minute movie, but you do not doubt that Chan-wook wrung all he could out of his story.

Thirst uses vampirism a metaphor for immoral desires. When Sang-hyun gives into his newly found blood-lust, he might as well be a man caving to his id. Of course, this is all made more obvious by the fact that he is a priest. As the film progresses, Sang-hyun begins making feeble excuses to justify his wicked behaviour, and he gains enablers that become just as culpable as him. On an allegory level, it is effective.

But Thirst is also doubles as a film about relationships, or more specifically the bad ones that some people get trapped into. There is obvious sacrilege in the plot, but it highlights how wrong Sang-hyun and Tae-ju are for each other. And this might be my favorite thing about Thirst; it reminded me of all the people I knew who found themselves caught in similar relationships, each, without caring much for anyone else, devouring the best things about the other. In fact, the film’s true horror may be in giving form to this horribly reality that so many of us have faced.