Mr. Plankton: A Silk-Smooth Genre Cocktail of Existential Drifters

Mr. 플랑크톤
Netflix, 2024, 10 episodes
Genres: dramedy
Written by Jo Yong
Directed by Hong Jong-chan
More information: HanCinema, MyDramaList

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

Just as I was reflecting on how deeply this series enchanted me, I stumbled upon a few viewer reviews expressing disappointment. While one can never expect a unanimous reception for any work of art, these comments momentarily dampened my enthusiasm—only to compel me to think more deeply about what exactly captivated me so much.

True to my habit, I didn't check the creators' credits beforehand, relying solely on what I saw and the impressions their impact left on me. As the story progressed, I became increasingly fascinated by its complexity. We encountered peculiar characters whose confused emotional worlds led to muddled decisions, evoking equally mixed feelings in the audience. They were far from perfect, and they made no effort to appear so. Their story unfolded in a genre mixture more eclectic than ever before, yet these elements merged into a silk-smooth, dense, and homogeneous cocktail.

(Author’s screenshot from Mr. Plankton.)

Classified by many as a "romantic comedy"—one wonders if they saw the end of the drama at all. I would rather call it a romantic dramedy, where bitter tragedy is dissolved by a series of humorous and comic situations. From the intimate fields of romantic struggle, we occasionally wander into the territory of gangster films for some action, all while rodeoing on the winding highway of coming-of-age. What is truly extraordinary is how the frames of a contemporary and a historical drama alternate before our eyes—a brilliant invention we owe to the chaebol family. We glimpse into their lives exactly when a tradition-honoring event is taking place; the entire clan is dressed in hanbok from head to toe, and their meetings strictly follow the seating and behavioral codes of historical period dramas (sageuk).

(Author's screenshot from Mr. Plankton.)

Three peculiar figures stand at the heart of this story, but before we delve into them, what about this strange title: Mr. Plankton? One must wait quite some time before the drama provides an explanation—one that, despite the humor suggested by the sound of the word, is far more frail and poetic. Plankton is the protagonist's self-definition and his ideal. Let’s keep the latter as the secret of the series and look only at the frailty: plankton is the lowest element of the food chain, a helpless prey vulnerable to everything above it. For various reasons, all three protagonists feel this way, especially the young man at the center of the story, Hae-jo (Woo Do-hwan), whose idyllic childhood vanished in an instant. His conception was the result of a hospital error, and when this came to light years later, he lost not only his parents but his entire identity. He ended up on the streets, where a lady in her late teens operating a gambling den, Bong-sook (Lee El), took him in—leaving it to the future to decide whether she had found an adopted child or a lover. Hae-jo discarded his name and sustained himself through shady dealings alongside his street-smart but loyal assistant, Gi-ho (Kim Min-seok). Later, through flashbacks, we learn that Hae-jo was in a romantic relationship with Jae-mi (Lee Yoo-mi). Having grown up in an orphanage, Jae-mi – much like Hae-jo – felt wretched and unlucky; despite their deep love, they didn’t want to force their ill fate upon each other. Consequently, Hae-jo pushed the girl away, whom we later see as the fiancée of the heir to a wealthy family. The groom is an older, somewhat simple-minded but very warm-hearted man, Eo Heung (Oh Jung-se), who, in a belated act of rebellion for his love, defies the will of his mother, Ho-ja (Kim Hae-sook), who rules his life with tyrannical strictness.

Woo Do-hwan (Author’s screenshot from Mr. Plankton.)

Lee Yoo-mi (Author’s screenshot from Mr. Plankton.)

Oh Jung-se (Author’s screenshot from Mr. Plankton.)

The fates of these former lovers intertwine again in a hospital, where both receive terrifying diagnoses. Hae-jo learns that, likely as a genetic legacy, tumors have formed in his brain; he is in a terminal state, with three months to live. Meanwhile, Jae-mi—who could only tie her life to her fiancé by faking a pregnancy—faces the reality of premature menopause, making it impossible for her to have children. As a consequence, Hae-jo—as if fulfilling a final, time-sensitive homework assignment—wants to find his biological father, but to do so, he drags along Jae-mi, whom he abducts from her wedding. From here, the story continues through tangled threads. Due to a previous action, a gangster mob pursues Hae-jo, taking Gi-ho hostage. Meanwhile, the lovestruck groom sets out to find his bride while fleeing from his mother, who has set the family bodyguards on him. Yet, despite these adventurous, comedic situations, the result is not an action-comedy but a deep relational drama, part of a love triangle. This is possible because behind the bickering relationship of Hae-jo and Jae-mi lie unresolved, unspoken emotional ties. They attract and repel each other, while the girl is bound by a less elemental yet deep affection for Eo Heung, who fights persistently for her and promises a better fate. While chasing each other through improbable places, they inevitably grow closer. Thus, for Eo Heung, who practices traditional Eastern medicine, Hae-jo’s illness—which the boy hides from everyone—becomes apparent first. Though each is driven by individual interests, their numerous interactions eventually refine this "quintet" (including Gi-ho and Bong-sook), to whom even Eo Heung’s mother is strangely linked. But by then, they have traveled a long road, during which facing themselves was unavoidable for each of them. Naturally, they reached different results, but the clarification of initial chaotic feelings, the understanding of the other, the acceptance of themselves, and the intention to become better people apply to all of them.

Woo Do-hwan (Author's screenshot from Mr. Plankton.)

While all three protagonists of the drama struggle with the notion of being unfit for life, Hae-jo is understandably in the most desperate situation, as his time is unfairly cut short. Mr. Plankton actually represents a type of drama that is not too common even in the world of Korean series, which often line up various physical and mental agonies. However, it is frequent enough for the most talented young actors to regularly attempt it: portraying the tragedy of facing a fatal disease attacking a young life. This is a challenge in every respect, as the difficulty of authentically showing physical suffering might even pale in comparison to living through the psychological processes—which, as we see here, lead from disbelief through anger and despair to acceptance. This process is as if someone were gathering all the life experiences in an accelerated manner for which others have decades at their disposal. We have seen various precursors: in Midas, No Min-woo struggled with a fatal disease as a supporting actor; Kim Woo-bin appeared as the protagonist in the desperate situation of Uncontrollably Fond; and among them is the more fortunately concluded Devilish Joy, where Choi Jin-hyuk showed the pains of the main character's decline embedded in a sunnier story. Woo Do-hwan’s performance is entirely on par with his famous predecessors, while maintaining its unique characteristics. Hae-jo’s physical condition continuously deteriorates; the symptoms of every stage appear before us unvarnished, hiding neither his terror nor his suffering. Yet all this "remains in the background" next to the portrayal of mental agony, which Woo Do-hwan makes painful for us too—often using self-irony and sometimes cynicism—but his performance is devoid of any exaggeration. Still, it is infinitely moving when he asks his final questions accusing his fate, reaching the lowest point from which he must arrive at another interpretation of "plankton-existence," or more precisely, the interpretation applied to himself.

Kim Hae-sook (Author's screenshot from Mr. Plankton.)

Woo Do-hwan and Lee El (Author's screenshot from Mr. Plankton.)

Alex Landi and Oh Jung-se (Author's screenshot from Mr. Plankton.)

Jae-mi heroically holds her ground amidst the waves of Hae-jo’s emotional fluctuations; she can be both childishly lost and a furious soul, but the most beautiful part of her performance is how she begins to understand and accept the boy’s agitated world, which leads her somewhat to accepting herself. However, she must achieve this in the force field of two excellent actors whom no one would find easy to measure up to: alongside Woo Do-hwan, the groom struggling with adult-aged adolescent conflicts is played by Oh Jung-se, a supreme master of portraying wounded characters. Only later did I realize that this trio somewhat reminded me of the protagonists of It’s Okay to Not Be Okay, which is no coincidence, as both stories were written by the same Jo Yong. The complexity mentioned at the beginning is perhaps her merit; alongside the countless ways the main characters interact, she organically integrates the supporting characters into the plot, endowing them with strongly developed traits. It is the greatness of the actors that makes these characters even more alive through their non-verbal expressions, as seen from Lee El and Kim Hae-sook. Furthermore, humor is not far from the writer’s reach; the integration of the character played by the rarely-speaking Alex Landi into the cast is truly entertaining.

It is worth noting the ingenuity with which the creators play with the Mr. Plankton (Mr. 플랑크톤) title card; beyond adjusting it to the mood of each episode, they display it in the most unexpected places.

(Author's screenshot from Mr. Plankton.)

(Author's screenshot from Mr. Plankton.)

Director Hong Jong-chan is an old hand who has held his ground in several genres—to mention only those I’ve seen: Her Private Life, Juvenile Justice, Life. Here too, he guides the story with a steady hand; there are no dead spots, his frames are tasteful, and he has a sense for expressing intimacy just as much as for grandiose perspectives capable of showing primal passions or questioning the ultimate questions of fate. Thanks to the two great creators and the excellent actors, the drama does not echo the notes of tragedy in us, but those of reconciliation.

Disclaimer: All images used in this article from Mr. Plankton are owned by Netflix and are used here under Fair Use for the purpose of criticism and scholarly review.

Idol I: Broken Idol and Fans Who Destroy or Save

아이돌아이
ENA, Genie TV, Netflix, 2025, 12 episodes
Genres: romantic comedy, thriller
Directed by Lee Gwang-yeong 이광영
Written by Kim Da-rin 김다린
More information: HanCinema, MyDramaList

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

* Warning: This post contains spoilers! *

In contrast to its moderate domestic reception, the series titled Idol I has gained outstanding popularity among international audiences. This is due to its subject matter, and even more so to the unusually realistic portrayal of that theme, which made everyone who has been even slightly touched by the Hallyu wave sit up and take notice.

Idol vs. real person (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

However, let us first stop at the strange English title, whose spelling and interpretation are quite confusing and present a serious challenge to those translating into other languages based on the English version. Idol I simply means "Idol/Star Me"—it contains no comma, nor perhaps a "+" sign that would aid in a more accurate understanding. Consequently, it is written in all sorts of ways; I have seen it as Idoli, Idol 1, or simply Idol, and in Hungarian, it is translated as Ideál (Ideal).

(Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

Kim Jae-young (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

Tracing the original Korean title, however, we find a quite brilliant piece of wordplay that is, unfortunately, impossible to reproduce in another language: 아이돌아이 (ai-dol-ai). I suspect that the English title was meant to be a phonetic transcription of this, as the sound of Idol I (sometimes written as I Dol I) corresponds to it exactly. The original title is a contraction of two words: 아이돌 (aidol) and 돌아이 (dolai). The first means idol/star, while the second refers to a "crazy" or "obsessed" person. The latter is slang and is also used in expressions regarding fans who have lost control—those who are "mad" or "crazy" about their adored star. Thus, the Korean title says "idol + a person who is not all there/a maniac," and it does not reveal to whom the latter refers—it can be understood to mean the star just as much as the fan. Koreans can perfectly grasp this subtle blurring; furthermore, the first Korean syllable of idol, 아이 (pronounced: ai), means "child," thus evoking the notion of youth or childishness as well. Additionally, the star in the series is named Do Laik (도라익), so the name, when pronounced, is almost the same as 돌아이 (dolai). While the name should technically be transcribed as Do Raik, I use the Laik spelling because it appears that way on the drama’s poster. The essence, therefore, is that we are dealing with a star and a somewhat unhinged, out-of-control person; the latter could be the star himself, or someone who is crazy for him.

Choi Soo-young as lawyer (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

Choi Soo-young as fan (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

(Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

First, we get to know the female protagonist. Maeng Sena (Choi Soo-young) is a ruthless criminal defense lawyer whose sour, humorless discipline makes even her colleagues feel uneasy. For some reason, this attractive woman in her thirties always takes on the toughest cases; we later learn the reason for this. She became a lawyer because of her father, who was convicted of murder despite denying his guilt until the very end. He eventually committed suicide in prison, and Sena constantly postpones the application for a retrial because she is afraid to face the situation. What no one knows, however, is that Sena leads a double life: as soon as she steps out of her workplace, she reverts into an almost-teenager who is crazy about a group called Gold Boys, or more precisely, its musician-singer, Do Laik (Kim Jae-young). She is a prominent member of the band's fandom and follows the exact formula that those familiar with K-pop recognize regarding how fanbases operate. I did not write "almost-teenager" by accident, as common sense would dictate that a mature woman with a responsible job could not be this immature: her apartment is papered with her favorite posters, everything is covered in merchandise (bought for serious money), she must live in sync with every event in the online space, and most of her free time is taken up by casting likes and votes to increase or confirm her favorite's popularity, writing supportive comments, and engaging in "insider" chats on private platforms.

Experiences independent of the series show, however, that these fan habits native to South Korea are being adopted—and seemingly joyfully copied—by international fan clubs now networking the globe. Only a fraction of their membership consists of teenagers; the backbone is mostly made up of people in their thirties, and a surprisingly high number are over fifty, right up to the final limits of human age. Naturally, fan behavior shows an increasing restraint proportional to age, but the psychological motives are surprisingly similar across all age groups. The sight of a screaming audience (mostly female) worked up to the point of fainting is not unknown in the West either, but recordings coming from the home of K-pop and its surrounding regions seem to have preserved or revived the state we remember from many decades ago in connection with Elvis Presley and The Beatles. All this had to be described because, in this light, Sena’s character no longer seems entirely detached from reality. But who is this Do Laik whom she adores so much?

Kim Jae-young (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

Kim Jae-young (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

Kim Jae-young (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

(Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

In the opening frames, we see a star stepping right before the eyes of his fans, yet remaining utterly unreachable; his appearance is flawless, his procession nearly haloed in glory. But suddenly, the image shatters. The idol is slammed to the ground, pulled down by a crazed fan (sasaeng) who managed to break through the security line. Do Laik stands up and walks on with an angelic smile. Later, we see him in his dressing room in a state of hysteria, resisting a performance he deems beneath him, while completely frazzling the nerves of the staff members preparing him—who, for their part, make no secret of their opinion of him.

Sasaeng vs. idol (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

Sasaengs vs. idol (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

But is this young man truly such an arrogant prick? We learn that he was raised in a state of constant deprivation of love by his mother, a singer in bars who had completely gone to seed. He was plucked from that life as a small child by the head of his current agency—or more accurately, his mother sold him when his talent became apparent. Laik has lived in the entertainment industry ever since, as a child actor and musician. His band is successful, yet he longs to show another side of himself (let’s call this the compulsion for artistic self-expression), but the audience refuses to accept him as a solo singer, no matter how good his work is. They cling to conventions, fearing the dissolution of their beloved group. Laik feels responsible for his bandmates and must know how to handle the fans, all while sensing that the agency is manipulating both him and the other members for its own interests.

The long years spent in the grip of professional expectations have taken their toll; the pressure to conform weighs on him, while his life and personality become subordinated to these demands. He is infinitely lonely, and the air is literally running out of his personal living space because aggressive, unsolicited meddlers and blackmailers break in everywhere—partly in the form of the infamously reputed sasaengs (stalker fans), and partly as voyeuristic "journalists" breathing down the neck of the tabloid press. Do Laik’s nervous system is beginning to give way; he is plagued by panic attacks and must even hide the fact that he requires medication. Except for a single friend, there is no one left he can trust, and it is with this very friend that tragedy strikes: he is found dead in Laik’s apartment. Laik was home, but remembers nothing of what happened.

(Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

(Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

Though the description of this preparatory ground was long, all of it is necessary to understand why Idol I is an important drama, which effectively kicks into gear at this point. Do Laik is accused of committing the murder, and there is no lawyer who believes in his innocence. Sena watches the image of her idol crumble before her eyes, which finally prompts her to apply as his defense attorney. However, the meeting with the idol soon turns out to be a disillusionment; the terrified, frustrated star erupts with a confession that he hates his fans. Sena experiences this as a slap in the face and leaves her "prince," who has collapsed into the ruins of her dreams. When she later learns that Laik will be left without a defense in the upcoming trial, her legal conscience speaks up, and she takes his case after all.

From this point on, I will not share the further developments; instead, I will write about how the various genre elements intertwine in the drama and what they result in. From the preceding, it is clear that the drama starts with a hard-hitting opening in the first episodes, sparing no segment or player in the entertainment industry and stripping away their masks one by one. In the following episodes, the broken and vulnerable Laik and Sena are moved under the same roof, where two processes unfold simultaneously: the step-by-step uncovering of the actual events, and the stages of two people coming closer to knowing and understanding each other. Of course, this is not without friction; the necessary trust between them occasionally hits rock bottom. The most critical among these is the moment when Sena’s hidden status as a fan is revealed to Laik, who flees in disillusionment, feeling that even the last person to whom he tried to show his true self has deceived him.

While the investigation holds the thrills of a thriller, the preparation for the trials places us in a legal drama, and the convergence of the two protagonists could be a drama burdened with heavy psychological elements—yet, it turns into more of a light rom-com. This diversity, however, does not benefit the series as a whole; after a while, it is difficult to maintain the tension of the crime story during the romantic segments, where the drama increasingly sags after its promising start. This is mostly because the two threads require different viewer temperaments, which are not always present in every viewer simultaneously. Naturally, the thriller and the legal aspects are built on rational, logical foundations, while the emotional story—instead of a realistically portrayed romantic drama—reaches for the clichés of melodramas. Even if done with restraint, it is enough to turn reality into a fairy tale, albeit a beautiful one.

(Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

The most critical turn occurs in the concluding phase of the drama, when Sena—having already secured Laik's love—is placed back into her initial "fan" status. This cannot be justified from the perspective of either emotional development or logic, as by then we find the obsession, which initially seemed merely strange, to be irredeemably infantile. Although this solution is flawed, we realize why it was chosen only when we understand that the creators wrapped a serious message into the end of the drama: a kind of guideline regarding "acceptable" fandom and the normalization of extremes.

(Author’s screenshot from Idol I.)

For constant consumers of Hallyu products—fans of the music and dramas—as well as their discerning critics, the current landscape we repeatedly encounter is becoming increasingly thought-provoking. While the "dream factories" of Korean agencies spare no expense in inventing and building a star's image, the media practically sears these positive masks of integrity onto them. Based on moral conventions, they are then ruthlessly held accountable for conforming to that image, and any perceived or real deviation is punished by domestic society with a campaign resembling a witch-hunt—a pressure to which economic players and power organizations have, until now, reacted servilely. With the all-seeing toolkit of the internet, the fate of artists is now followed by global attention, including the series of tragic events occurring among them. With the worldwide expansion of Hallyu, this complex phenomenon is coming into increasingly serious conflict with (let us call it collectively) Western, much more permissive thinking. The most important question is not which perspective is right or wrong, but that the personal rights entitled to artists should be upheld in every case, and individual lives should not be the playthings of business interests or pathological social "entertainment." At the time the series was released, the first precedent-setting lawsuit was already underway, in which an actor did not surrender to this ruthless public amusement but, in a highly unusual move, entrusted the attacks ruining his private and professional life to the judgment of the law. It was also the first time that global fan clubs mobilized on his behalf, acting exactly as if each were a civil rights organization. In this light, Idol I perhaps seems more important than its actual content, as it acts like an exclamation point that cannot be ignored.

Therefore, it is not actually essential how cohesive or consistent the drama is as a series. It is very watchable, holding much excitement and emotion; at the same time, it could be much better. But there is no need to worry; the possibilities inherent in it will be more thoroughly explored in upcoming dramas, because the subject is certainly worth continuing, and self-reflection does no harm to either K-pop or K-dramas.

As for what is undeniably the most magical element of Idol I: the two lead actors. It is as if Kim Jae-young was divinely created to play this agonizing character who traverses heaven and hell. He shines when we see him as an idol; his trembling and terror are heart-wrenching, yet he can also be playful and affectionate, like a sweet little puppy. Choi Soo-young might seem too young for a ruthless criminal lawyer, too old for a childishly-souled fan, too kind for courtroom repartee, and too hard for romantic cooing—yet she stands her ground authentically in every situation. What is characteristic of both of them is their clear gaze, the innocence and sincerity radiating from their entire beings—and this is what makes them such a beautiful pair, whom it is simply a pleasure to watch.

Disclaimer: All images used in this article from Idol I are owned by ENA/Genie TV/Netflix and are used here under Fair Use for the purpose of criticism and scholarly review.