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

A heartbreaking variation on finding one’s purpose in the grip of borrowed time and terminal illness

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

(Author’s screenshot from Mr. Plankton.)

Mr. Plankton (Mr. 플랑크톤)
Netflix | 2024 | 10 episodes
Genres: Dramedy
Written by Jo Yong (조용)
Directed by Hong Jong-chan (홍종찬)

.  .  .

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.

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.

(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.)

Lee Yoo-mi as 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.

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

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.

Reflection of You: A Complementary Play of Selfishness and Betrayal

The portrayal of personality and complex human relationships through the symbolism of fine art

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

I can state with absolute certainty that this title hides one of the most nerve-shredding dramas of recent years. Yet, on the surface, it shows nothing more than a deep psychological plunge into the dangerous whirlpools of romantic relationships.

"Reflection of You," says the official English title. The original Korean title means almost the same, though it offers a slightly different interpretation: "Someone Who Looks Like You."

Our reflection—especially if it reveals our inner self alongside our outer appearance—can be many things. It depends heavily on whether our mirror is cloudy, or if we are looking into a distorted glass. Furthermore, we do not even necessarily need to look into a physical mirror to see ourselves.

As the famous Hungarian poet Attila József once wrote: "It is in vain you bathe in your own self, you can only wash your face in another." This beautifully implies that we recognise our own true selves, our virtues, and our faults through the reflection of another human being. It is perhaps from each other that we can hope for redemption as well.

Two women stand at the very centre of this drama. The director provides us with a striking visual aid to explore whether they reflect one another, or if they discover themselves by being reflected in the other.

Author’s screenshot from ‘Reflection of You’ — Credit: JTBC/Netflix

Since the drama is set entirely within the world of fine art, the director boldly employs the symbolism of colours to match this environment. One of the women is rarely seen without her green coat. Meanwhile, the shade of red dominates the wardrobe of the other.

In the colour wheel, contrasting colours facing each other are called complementary colours. Red and green form exactly such a pair. This combination creates an exceptionally intense, dramatic, and provocative visual tension. It serves as a perfect representation of the relationship between the two protagonists.

Throughout the drama, we will encounter countless other instances where the characters' emotional states are expressed through specific colours, paintings, or sculptures. One need only think of the symbolic mentions of the changing shades of yellow, or its mixing with black at a crucial point in the story.

Free AI picture from template.net

Screenwriter Yoo Bo-ra adapted the script from a short story by author Jeong So-hyeon. Since both creators are women, the drama is perhaps intentionally highly female-centric. It showcases a wide array of female characters of various ages and personalities. Naturally, alongside them, the narrative is by no means lacking in fascinating male characters either.

The plot itself could be summarised very briefly. Two friends become bitter enemies when it is revealed that the older woman stole the younger one's boyfriend, who then launches a campaign of revenge against her.

One might think that this frequently told scenario could not possibly offer anything new. However, this is simply not the case here. Reflection of You is a genuine masterpiece within its genre. This holds true for its psychological depth, its method of storytelling, and the gradual unfolding of the conflict. It is also evident in the meticulously measured pacing with which the actions of the secondary characters impact the overarching story.

Ultimately, we become part of a consistently tense narrative filled with unpredictable twists. The pacing, the visual world, and every single backdrop represent exceptionally high-quality work. This is all thanks to the entire crew working under the direction of Lim Hyeon-wook.

We will delve deeper into the fine art elements shortly. However, we must first highlight the dramatic, expressionistic use of landscapes and majestic natural phenomena. The interior spaces are frequently treated with a similarly painting-like, deliberate lighting.

Author’s screenshots from ‘Reflection of You’ — Credit: JTBC/Netflix

Actress Go Hyun-jung brings to life the older female figure of the story, Jeong Hee-joo. Her character is a peculiar mixture of artificial humility and a prideful arrogance rooted in her achieved social status.

Despite her humble family background, she managed to marry into a chaebol family. Her husband is the designated heir to this empire. However, his mother considers him completely unfit for the position, precisely because of his marriage to Hee-joo.

Although the husband stands by Hee-joo, neither of them can stop the tyrannical mother-in-law from destroying their family life. She practically claims ownership over their children to raise them according to her own strict ideals.

It is difficult to decide whether Hee-joo is actually a good mother. She worries constantly, yet she fails to notice any of the real troubles her children face. She is mostly preoccupied with maintaining her "dream position" as a Cinderella-turned-princess. For this, she tolerates being treated like a servant by her mother-in-law, though she still finds herself a little bored in her spare time.

While thinking about pursuing some form of self-actualisation on her husband’s advice, a brilliantly young, vibrant woman steps into her life. This is Goo Hae-won (played by Shin Hyun-been), who brings entirely new colours into Hee-joo's world.

Go Hyun-jung as Jeong Hee-joo & Shin Hyun-been as Goo Hae-won
in ‘Reflection of You’ — Credit: JTBC/Netflix

The young girl is a highly promising art student. Following her lead, Hee-joo also begins to learn drawing and proves to be surprisingly talented. Hae-won dreams of becoming a successful painter and living happily with her love, Seo Woo-jae (played by Kim Jae-young). Before long, Woo-jae also becomes involved in teaching art to Hee-joo. It is at this moment that the idyllic relationship between the two women shattered.

Author’s screenshots from ‘Reflection of You’ — Credit: JTBC/Netflix

Woo-jae is a true, unconventional artist. He is immensely talented, and though he knows no compromise when it comes to creation, he still struggles under the shadow of his even more accomplished father. He is perfectly content as Hae-won’s partner, and the naive girl urges him to tie the knot, even if only on paper.

However, the man's attention is drawn away from her by a much larger "prize." He becomes fascinated by the significantly older, seemingly unattainable Hee-joo, whose delicate features he discovers while sketching her.

Interestingly, there is a real-life 17-year age gap between the two actors. While this difference was noticeable on screen, it completely dissolved in the incredible chemistry between them. The young man is as beautiful as a statue and knows no boundaries. Therefore, this model wife—who is open to adventure despite her wealth—cannot truly resist his courtship, or perhaps she simply does not want to.

Soon, an unexpected twist occurs. Hee-joo travels abroad to help her child who is studying there. Meanwhile, Woo-jae vanishes without a trace from Hae-won's life, leaving the young girl to search for him desperately.

We pick up the thread of the story again many years later, after a massive time jump. Hae-won suddenly reappears in the life of Hee-joo, who is now living back home. Hee-joo can barely recognise her.

The young woman becomes an absolute nightmare for her. She systematically stalks the members of Hee-joo's family. For reasons that are not yet entirely clear to us, she carries out what can only be described as a punitive campaign against her former friend.

Before long, Woo-jae reappears on the scene as well. He is completely vulnerable to the girl. Due to an accident, he cannot remember a single thing about his past with her.

During this intense cat-and-mouse game, both women manipulate the young man, who is lost in a sea of uncertainty. Just like Woo-jae, we as viewers must piece together what happened during that lost time through fragmented flashbacks.

Shin Hyun-been as Goo Hae-won, Go Hyun-jung as Jeong Hee-joo
& Kim Jae-young as Seo Woo-jae in ‘Reflection of You’ — Credit: JTBC/Netflix

In the present, all three are connected by a new location: the gallery where they are forced to cooperate with one another. Woo-jae seeks to restart his professional career, whereas Hae-won has entirely abandoned her artistic ambitions. Hee-joo has become a highly successful painter and author. Curiously, the sole subject of her paintings is her own daughter.

Countless secondary characters enter the narrative, each holding up a mirror to the two female protagonists through their own fates. However, every one of them remains a fully fleshed-out character in their own right, making it almost impossible to list them all.

Each character represents some sort of troubled situation. The drama explores themes of school and domestic abuse, unfit parents and spouses, adolescent and adult friendships, voluntary guardianship, guilt, and the tyranny of blame. It also delves into corruption, vulnerability, and the endurance of authoritarian abuse, among many other issues.

Questions of faith also emerge as we visit a church. Yet, it is a strange little pub that appears as a sort of earthly Purgatory, where the owner is uniquely capable of easing the burdens of the souls who wander in. Alongside all of this, we closely follow the adolescent loneliness of Li-sa (Kim Su-an). Her sharp awareness of her situation and her defiant struggle to find answers form a compelling coming-of-age story wrapped inside the larger drama.

Choi Won-young as Hee-joo's husband and Kim Su-an as their daughter, Li-sa 
in ‘Reflection of You’ — Credit: JTBC/Netflix

In their own ways, a monster emerges from both women. Hae-won becomes entirely consumed by her own pain, giving it free rein and feeling entitled to anything because of it. Meanwhile, Hee-joo arrogantly believes she can step over anyone, confident that her social status protects her from ever facing the consequences of her actions.

Torment and madness blend within both of them. It is impossible to praise the performances of the two lead actresses enough. Within the intense field of force between them, the drama’s two main male figures attempt to stand their ground, while also having their own unsettled business with each other.

Although Hee-joo’s husband (played by Choi Won-young) appears to be a sympathetic, caring partner and father, he is actually playing a theatrical role just like his wife. The fascination of his character lies in the fact that we spend the entire time waiting for him to finally play his winning card.

At first, he is merely weak in the face of his mother. Later, whether out of genuine love or sheer cowardice against disrupting the status quo, he clings to appearances so tightly that by the very end, he is no longer even dealt a hand in the game.

Still, Woo-jae's situation is the most difficult. Kim Jae-young showcases every single nuance of the character's various emotional stages with incredible sensitivity. We see him in three fundamentally distinct states throughout the story.

In the flashbacks, we find a different young man from the slightly arrogant, self-willed person who is fully aware of his own charms. We see a man who can sacrifice everything for his personal happiness—a kind and deeply feeling lover who is willing to claim a child as his own, even when he cannot be certain of his paternity.

In the second phase, all of this dissolves into nothing. It is genuinely painful to watch his hesitation as he drowns in helplessness due to his extreme vulnerability. Yet, even when his conscious mind fails him, his feelings still act as a reliable compass.

In the third phase, when he finally awakens to what was done to him, he loses his sanity. Even though he sees the utter irreality of it, he stubbornly demands back everything he was stripped of. Despite this multi-layered psychological portrait, Woo-jae’s figure remains somewhat more loosely sketched compared to the female leads. At times, one feels that his transformations and experiences are somewhat artificially subordinated to the women's narrative.

However, we can observe a remarkable stroke of directorial genius: it is Woo-jae’s artwork that speaks for the hidden elements of his personality. Upon his return, even before they meet in person, Hee-joo encounters his sculptures first, without knowing the identity of the artist.

Author’s screenshots from ‘Reflection of You’ — Credit: JTBC/Netflix

 

"The Meaning of Silence, from Drawings to Sculpture," reads the title on the brochure of the upcoming exhibition. Through these sculptures, we are introduced to a deeply lonely, sorrowful, and introspective Woo-jae with blurred facial features. We receive the distinct impression of a man thinking deeply about the weight of life.

The sculptures displayed in the drama possess such an elemental power that I became highly curious about their actual creator. After some investigation, I came across an article listing the names of the artists who contributed the drawings, paintings, sculptures, ceramics, and even the clothing worn by the characters: Bae Hyung-kyung, Park Dae-sung, Go Young-hoon, Oh Soo-hwan, Kim Deok-yong, Ethan Cook, Lee Kyung, Shin Soo-jin, and Go Hyun-jung.

The production team paid extraordinary attention to fitting these various creations seamlessly into their environments, whether they were residential or office interiors, artists' studios, or gallery exhibitions. The costumes were chosen with the same meticulous deliberation, as was the animated graphic of the title card, which beautifully transformed the words of the title into a visual poem.

Author’s screenshots from ‘Reflection of You’ — Credit: JTBC/Netflix

Among the artworks, we can see both authentic pieces and ones created to evoke the specific style of a particular artist. Woo-jae’s sculptures are unequivocally the creations of Bae Hyung-kyung, including both original pieces and replicas. Furthermore, this stylistic homage was so detailed that towards the end of the series, we see Woo-jae experimenting with the exact same reddish-toned sculptures that can be seen at Bae’s real-life exhibitions (who is notably also a female artist).

Kim Jae-young as Seo Woo-jae in ‘Reflection of You’ — Credit: JTBC/Netflix

Video of Bae Hyung-kyung’s exhibition “Color Weight” [2]

This act of looking into a mirror and the urge for self-reflection apply not only to the characters but to the viewers as well. As the story hurtles towards a finale that brings redemption to some and tragedy to others, there is not a single element of this drama that does not feel heart-wrenching to experience. In the labyrinth of human relationships, we too sometimes lose our way, or witness those around us becoming similarly misguided.

Along the way, we sustain wounds, inflict wounds, survive, or perish. The most painful realization is that casualties are left on the field—individuals who are not necessarily innocent, but who certainly did not deserve their tragic fates. This is precisely how I feel about the conclusion of this drama; my heart aches most of all for the one who was ultimately eliminated from the game.

The lead actors are so exceptional that their every facial expression and gaze fill the immense field of force, creating a tension so thick that we barely notice the passing of time. The child and young adult actors (Kim Su-an, Shin Hye-ji, Kim Dong-ha) are magnificent.

The same high praise goes to the chaebol matriarch (Kim Bo-yeon), the ultimate avenging psychiatrist wife (Jang Hye-jin), her wretched husband (Hong Seo-jun), and the various mothers, fathers, and grandfathers (Lee Ho-jae, Seo Jung-hyeon, Seo Jin-won). The vibrant friend (Park Sung-yeon), the repentant brother (Shin Dong-wook), the mother turned into a parasite by grief (Kang Ae-shim), the wonderful pub owner (Kim Sang-ho), and the gallery director (Kim Ho-jung) all deliver stellar performances.

Finally, mention must be made of the series' musical score. It underscores the visual frames with great sensitivity and delicacy, providing the necessary dramatic weight when required, a quality that rings equally true for the original soundtrack songs as well.

[1]
József Attila: No Shriek of Mine (Nem én kiáltok)
Translated by Frederick Turner & Zsuzsanna Ozsváth
Magyarul Bábelben website



[2]
Channel: [예감시] 예술감상의 시작
Video: [갤러리 Tour]배형경/ “ Color Weight , 彩色荷重”展_갤러리시몬.2019.11.07~2020.01.11 (YouTube)

The First Ride: A Second "First Journey" Hauling the Weight of Trauma

The theme of friendship and coming-of-age in the films of Nam Dae-joong (Part 2)

You can find the original article in Hungarian here →

In 2025, director Nam Dae-joong returned to the core theme of his debut feature film shot ten years prior: the enduring bond of friendship. However, while The Last Ride (2015) focused on the preparation for a single traumatic event, The First Ride serves as a poignant drama about surviving and processing that very trauma.

As we witnessed in his debut, the director has once again crafted a comedy despite the heavy subject matter. He delivers a vibrant, sparkling piece that plays brilliantly with all sorts of comical situations, making it even more complex and twisty than his previous work. Yet, the very first spoken line immediately warns us that we are ultimately about to witness a sad story...

The moment of disappointment in ‘The First Ride’ — Credit: Showbox

...though at first, there is absolutely no sign of sadness. This time, we encounter a group of four young men. It is as if a D'Artagnan has stepped in to join the original Three Musketeers. During their primary school days, the boys warmly welcome a perpetually lonely little boy, Yeon-min (played by Cha Eun-woo), into their tight-knit circle. They become completely inseparable, despite having vastly different personalities.

Tae-jung (played by Kang Ha-neul) is a top-tier student aiming to become a political president, and he also happens to be an excellent fighter. Geum-bok (played by Kang Young-seok) thoroughly hates studying and has no real clue what to do with his life, so he is constantly guided by his mother, a Buddhist nun.

Do-jin (played by Kim Young-kwang) is a rather peculiar, introverted boy who completely lost his zest for life after an injury forced him to abandon his basketball career. Meanwhile, Yeon-min considers himself entirely insignificant. He genuinely believes there is some ridiculous oddity about him that draws people's attention, never once suspecting that they are actually admiring his sheer beauty.

Eventually, Yeon-min discovers his true passion: he wants to become a world-class DJ. This hobby utterly captivates Do-jin as well, bringing the two boys even closer together. As viewers, we catch deep glimpses into the boys' family dynamics and their individual struggles to become who they truly want to be.

We rapidly approach high school graduation, at which point the quartet devises a plan. Before they are pulled apart by higher education, they decide to go on a joint trip to Thailand. They choose this specific destination because the DJ they passionately idolise is scheduled to perform there. The journey is of paramount importance because Yeon-min's family is about to relocate permanently to New Zealand, making an impending separation inevitable.

The boys pull out all the stops to win their parents' financial backing, which they eventually manage to secure. Yet, the highly anticipated trip amounts to absolutely nothing. In a thoroughly ridiculous turn of events, they miss the bus that was supposed to take them to the airport. They are forced to return home, and Yeon-min parts ways with them.

The four good friends in three different phases of the story in ‘The First Ride’ —
Credit: Showbox / Collage by the author

We learn all of this before the opening title card hits the screen, delivered entirely through Yeon-min’s voiceover narration. The narrative then jumps forward, and we meet the characters again ten years later.

Tae-jung now works as a secretary to a Member of Parliament. Geum-bok spends his time tattooing inside his mother's temple while preparing for his own Buddhist ordination. Do-jin, however, is found in a hospital, where he has been treated for psychotic symptoms for several years.

Despite the time jump, their friendship has never faded, and they continue to see each other regularly. They actively care for Do-jin, who catches wind of the news that their former favourite DJ is about to give his absolute final performance. Do-jin takes the initiative, urging the group to finally bring their ten-year-old dream to fruition.

Before long, the team stands ready for the journey. However, Do-jin insists on dragging along a life-sized mannequin that closely resembles Yeon-min. To add to the chaos, they are joined by Ok-sim (played by Han Sunhwa), who has been hopelessly in love with Tae-jung since childhood.

The film offers no immediate explanation as to what happened to whom or how. Instead, we are thrust headfirst into a series of messy adventures, driven primarily by our protagonists' sheer lack of experience and clumsy antics. These situations are the stuff of pure comedy, filled with perilous close calls and absurd escapes. We stumble from one chaotic action sequence to the next. Yet, underneath the madness, we can constantly perceive the profound care the young men have for one another—a protective attention that is directed especially towards the eccentric Do-jin.

Kim Young-kwang as Do-jin in ‘The First Ride’ —
Credit: Showbox / Collage by the author

The director quite simply misleads us. We are already well past the two-thirds mark of the film, having innocently enjoyed the entertainment up to this point, genuinely feeling that a sense of fulfillment has been reached. Suddenly, our heroes are thrust into a situation of genuine, life-threatening danger.

It is at this precise moment that something shifts. The warning given at the very beginning of the film manifests, revealing that we are, in fact, watching a deeply sorrowful story. We finally learn the exact cause behind Do-jin's severe mental collapse, and the moment of truth arrives where he must confront the past. The old tragedy unfurls before our eyes, while the present moment threatens a brand-new catastrophe.

However, their brotherly solidarity overrides every shred of fear. It successfully rescues everyone from danger—both the living and the one imagined to be alive. Confronting the trauma head-on carries a profound healing power. Consequently, nothing is left for our heroes but to return to their everyday lives, navigating the familiar labyrinths of workplaces and romantic entanglements.

By fully accepting reality, the four friends can finally be together once more. This includes Yeon-min, who now towers above them in the physical form of a living tree, while the narrator of this concluding chapter is a successfully recovered Do-jin.

At the beginning of a new life in ‘The First Ride’ — Credit: Showbox

After the final credits roll, we hear the parting words of Geum-bok, who has finally become a Buddhist monk: "Depart mindfully." It is a sign-off that simultaneously feels like a poignant message to the audience, suggesting that after witnessing this life-affirming tale, it is now our turn to look after our own lives with care.

Every single actor in the main cast navigates the director's complex narrative layout brilliantly, never losing their footing between the contrasting requirements of comedy and tragedy. However, Kim Young-kwang must be singled out, as he breathes life into Do-jin’s complex character with an incredibly natural grace. In recent years, the actor has churned out captivating and versatile performances in dramas such as Walking on Thin Ice, Trigger, Evilive, The Haunted Palace, Call It Love, and Somebody. He has never opted for straightforward roles, but now he has significantly enriched his repertoire with a completely new personality type.

Nam Dae-joong, who once again served as both the writer and director, set an exceptionally high benchmark for himself, which he clears with flying colours. For a while, it might seem as though he is steering the narrative into absolute chaos, but he resolves everything beautifully with a masterful twist. Most importantly, he succeeds once again in ensuring that amidst all the loud, boisterous comedy, we are made part of a deeply moving and heartfelt story.

Check out the first part here:

The Last Ride: A Race for the Pleasure of Fulfillment
Themes of friendship and coming-of-age in the films of Nam Dae-joong (Part 1)