A Seoul multiplex on a Wednesday morning isn’t exactly where you'd expect political theater — the literal kind. But there they were, a group of seniors waving miniature Korean flags, watching what amounted to a 120-minute apology for the impeached president.

"I came here out of my love for the country, to support our president," said Kim, a retiree in his 70s who traveled from Siheung in Gyeonggi Province. "Our country, our beautiful homeland ... it could fall to the commies any day now."

Welcome to the screening of "Stay Strong, Korea," the politically charged documentary that has become a gathering point for supporters of South Korea's embattled President Yoon Suk Yeol following his December martial law declaration.

Even as Bong Joon-ho's $150 million sci-fi blockbuster "Mickey 17" dominated marquees after coming out just one day later on Feb. 28, this barebones documentary with questionable production value has captured a slice of the Korean box office through sheer political will.

The sizable crowd of around 50 — predominantly female and over 60 — packed the center section of the 124-seat theater. The "Mickey 17" screening at the same hour barely managed to attract 30 viewers. Many arrived in groups of five or more, clutching the small Korean flags that have become a fixture at conservative rallies.

The film begins with unexpected restraint — dry and factual, more textbook than polemic. For nearly 80 minutes, viewers are treated to a parade of grainy archival footage and pedagogical narration about post-liberation Korean history.

Interestingly, the primary villain here isn't Kim Il-sung but rather Park Heon-young, a communist intellectual who pioneered the Korean communist movement in the 1920s and later became foreign minister of North Korea.

This extended history lecture serves a clear purpose: to establish a lineage of communist infiltration stretching from 1945 to the present. The film meticulously paints Park as the orchestrator of pre-war leftist uprisings and post-war communist threats, more so than North Korea's founder Kim Il-sung himself.

Some claims are more outrageous than others. At one point, the film states that a quarter of South Korea's 1948 military leadership were secretly leftists who were removed on those grounds — a figure contradicted by academic research suggesting closer to 3 percent of military personnel were affected by the purges.

The emotional temperature rose markedly when the film shifted to footage from the Korean War. As raw images of carnage— massacred villagers, bombed-out settlements — played alongside the plaintive narration, several elderly people in the audience began to weep quietly.

For them, these weren't historical abstractions but wounds that were still raw — trauma embedded in living memory.

The veneer of historical inquiry peels away completely in the final half-hour of the film. The narrative leaps from the 1950s directly to Yoon's Dec. 12, 2024, televised address — his fourth since declaring martial law on Dec. 3.

The speech, seen by many as Yoon's last-ditch attempt to justify the hours-long period of martial law, gets the star treatment here — the film plays it nearly in its entirety.

"God, he nailed it!" whispered a woman beside me, nodding emphatically.

The audience, largely subdued during the history lesson, became visibly stirred when the film showcased opposition figures who supported Yoon's impeachment. Democratic Party leader Lee Jae-myung drew murmurs of disapproval. But it was Han Dong-hoon — the former People Power Party leader and Yoon's former ally who broke ranks to support impeachment— that attracted the most vitriol by far.

As Han appeared on screen demanding Yoon's removal from the People Power Party, murmurs turned into invectives. "Traitor!" cried someone in the crowd. Some viewers threw their hands up in exasperation; others pointed fingers at the screen. The film identified not just external enemies but internal ones as well — and the crowd responded accordingly.

But nothing could beat the film's finale, which takes a surreal turn that tosses out any pretense of documentary filmmaking.

In a creative blend of fiction and fact, it imagines Yoon's triumphant return to office after a hypothetical Constitutional Court victory. This alternate reality — constructed from footage of his 2022 inauguration ceremony and last year's Armed Forces Day parade — offered a cathartic moment of wish-fulfillment that the audience seemed to have craved.

The theater immediately transformed into something resembling a rally. People rose to their feet and applauded enthusiastically, flags waving. Many remained standing through the entire credits sequence, which rolled over zippy background music that could only be described as a hymn of praise to Yoon.

"They should show this movie on the big screen at Gwanghwamun," one person shouted as the lights came on.

Political documentaries have been making waves in Korea for some time. The left-leaning "Our President" drew 1.85 million viewers in 2017 with its portrait of progressive icon Roh Moo-hyun. Last year, "The Birth of Korea" became an unexpected breakout hit, selling 1.17 million tickets with its glorification of right-wing hero Syngman Rhee.

What sets "Stay Strong, Korea" apart is its defense of a current political figure, not those of the past. It's real-time political intervention that thrusts itself squarely into ongoing fights being waged in courtrooms and streets, a rallying cry disguised as documentary.

"I was so moved," said Cho, a woman in her 60s, as she left the theater with her 86-year-old mother. "Finally someone's telling the real story. It's so refreshing to see young people like you interested in the truth," she said.

The film has maintained a modest box office presence so far — 37 screens in Seoul, 173 nationwide, with around 70,000 tickets sold, according to the latest Korea Film Council data. Its market share hovered between 1 and 2 percent, peaking at 2.1 percent on March 10.

Supporters had reportedly contacted theaters with complaints about insufficient screenings. Many organized group viewings through social media and church networks.

But commercial success wasn't the point. For these supporters, the film seemed to function as a ritual affirmation for a political movement that increasingly sees itself under siege.

Park, another woman in her 60s, was with a group of friends from a local church. They said they regularly attend pro-Yoon protests in Gwanghwamun and Hannam-dong on weekends.

"We must stand guard day and night!" she said. "These communists have their claws in everything now. This beautiful country we built from the ashes — your generation needs to take it back before it's too late."

In a country where many feel history is unresolved and where the present is contested, even a Wednesday morning at the movies felt like political theater of the highest order.