Confessions of a K-Drama tragic
Words & images © Paul Ransom
We are the storytelling animal. Our stories let us know ourselves. They are mirrors. Portals. A way to rehearse empathy. They are also a form of shared memory, an ark of knowledge that acts as a transmitter of beliefs and value systems. No wonder we are addicted.
As someone who has devoted much of their time to the fabrication of stories, I maintain an insatiable curiosity. Not simply for the escape and entertainment but for the structural and subtextual elements. Like most artists, I am fascinated by the work and processes of other creatives.
- What drives them?
- What are they trying to show me (and how)?
- What does their work reveal about the cultural, historical & personal contexts in which it was made?
For me, art is endless, stretching in every direction, hinting at things beyond the horizon. But it also beats in my chest. Fizzes in my thoughts. It is at once abstract and primal, infinite and proximate, self and other.
However, back in the late 70s/early 80s suburban bubble of my formative years, the universe of stories was confined to a very narrow mainstream. There was no indie, no arthouse – not for working class migrants marooned in the tightly gatekept silo of free-to-air broadcast and chain store offering. Although I knew about exotica like The Sex Pistols, AM radio and nearby retail neither played nor stocked such brash alternatives.
Then, sometime in my mid-teens, as I ventured out of my postcode, I discovered the world-altering joys of ‘import’ record stores and specialty bookshops, of nightclubs that didn’t sound like the Top 40 and cinemas that saw beyond Hollywood. Apart from chiming with a burgeoning adolescent conceit of gravitas and exceptionalism, they tore off the shutters. Here, at last, a wellspring of inspiration. A whole planet, an entire cosmos of storytelling. (Many of you will have had similar epiphanies.)
Fast forward forty years, and I am still stumbling across previously hidden gems – in part because I am now in the habit of actively sampling things outside the scope of my so-called taste. Like the night I opted to click the thumbnail for a Netflix drama called Misty.
A few minutes later, I was on the verge of quitting. Corny, plumped-up, way too soapy. Except…the editing. Fine details spliced into a standard quick tempo sequence, with a couple of jump cuts to break up the rhythm. It was not just impressive or inventive, or merely artistic, but provocative. Meaningful.
My experience working in film & TV had taught me that (almost) everything happens in ‘post’ – and there in the world of big budget, high gloss K-Drama it showed. With a string of creative cuts, Misty pierced its own skin. It was like a coded message; dealer signalling buyer. This was no straight melodrama. I was hooked.
Now, as I sit in a hotel room on Jeju-do, (where many a K-Drama has been shot), it is obvious how far my newfound fandom has taken me. Indeed, this is my second visit to the island because, curiously, this little corner of Korea now feels like a piece of home.
- Click the link for a deeper dive into my 2024 Jeju Island (mis)adventure.
Three years ago I would scarcely have believed such an outcome possible. K-Drama, like its pop namesake, sat well outside the perimeter of my preferences – despite the fact that I was a fan of Korean films like Burning, Parasite and Lady Vengeance.
Although I have since bailed out of more Korean shows than I have stuck with, the storyteller in me remains intrigued. This, despite countless examples of ham acting and clumsy comic relief, and the pathological overuse of blunt exposition, (to which you can add a liberal dose of chance encounters, age gaps, class divides and other clunky plot drivers). Yet, when it works, K-Drama is remarkable; an alchemical concoction of low and high brow, where vanilla sentimentality is frequently salted with gourmet sophistication, and cliché cringe tempered by cerebral substance.
There is a notable ambition in K-Drama, one that rarely gets green-lit in the Anglo-Western industry. The best of them not only dare to be slow and intricate, or to shuffle the chronology in unexpected ways, but they weld nuanced social and philosophical critique to soapy plot formulas with deft aplomb. In a way that recalls Oscar Wilde, the seemingly trivial is a vehicle for the exploration of the complex. Though the surface may be prettified, the explicit value set classist and sexist, (with too many characters fixated by wealth, status and notions of honour), the substrata often serves to dissect and subvert these orthodoxies. In this, it both promulgates and deconstructs Korean societal norms.
- For reference, think of the way that American filmmakers used to work around the restrictive moral policing of the Hays Code (1934-68). Indeed, as artists have done for millennia, the makers of K-Drama are finding ways to pitch to the status quo whilst powerfully challenging it.
From an artist perspective, what hits me is the way that the creatives behind these shows are capturing and distilling a national moment, a generational shift that is redefining the story that Koreans tell themselves about being Korean. More than that, about how to be authentically human in the context of a hyper-competitive ‘face culture’ that appears to burden its people with an exhausting weight of expectation.
Or at least, that’s how it seems from the outside. All of the above might be nonsense. An enthusiastic over-read. But that’s okay; because what matters is not my critic waffle but the expanded possibilities that Korean storytelling offers me.
Like any artist I was nurtured by those whose work I admired. In my case that meant mostly Anglo, with a light dusting of Greek and Roman classicism. Even as my horizons broadened they remained Eurocentric. Point being, my creative template was skewed towards the norms of a certain tradition. Although not intrinsically harmful – nor indeed a trigger for guilt or regret – it was, and is, an unconscious bias.
Which is why, as many artists do, I now deliberately step out of my comfort zone. Not for reasons of virtue or self-mythologising vanity, but for the excitement. It’s like trying exotic dishes. Cooking with new spices.
Stories are told in every language, so why stick with just one?
As electronica, arthouse cinema and contemporary dance did decades ago, K-Drama is doing now: inspiring me, giving me licence. More than that, reminding me that my world is not the only world, my taste not the only flavour.
Shows like Misty have given me room to kick my own habits, and to sample more than the accrued norms of my artistic/aesthetic preference. In addition, they have brought me to Jeju-do and encouraged me to learn enough Hangukmal (Korean language) to form fledgling friendships with a few locals.
Here then, the bigger picture. The norms of contemporary Korean drama – which are, like Western formulas, a confection, a received wisdom – have not only reconfigured my own storytelling patterns but inspired me to cross the seas and put a name and a face to my fascination.
Of course, now that I am once again amongst real Koreans, the niceties (sophistries) of fiction are revealed to be just that. Though creative architecture and audience expectation may differ across cultures, and commercial imperatives distort the lens in various ways, there is a clear universal. In a powerful way all these different stories are the same. They are about what it means to be human.
There are billions of ways to be such, but there is a humanity we all share – and no amount of soap operatic layering can wash this away.
And artistic expressions, like people, are both different enough and sufficiently alike to be an enduring source of inspiration and connection.
Korean television may not have taught me anything new, but it has nudged my orbit, and I give thanks for such dislodgement. It probably won’t make me a better person, nor improve my click stats or book sales, but none of that will matter when I am sharing chimaek with the Jeju chingu. For they are my favourite characters in this real-time, fully immersive K-Drama that I am presently binging.
Postscript: 10 K-Dramas you might enjoy
For what it’s worth, here are some of my favourites. All are/were available on Netflix; although none of them are historical, Joseon period pieces. (I have tried a few but none have clicked. Apologies to the frock flick fans amongst you.)
1: My Mister (2018)
A story of love and recognition that is not a romance. Beautifully observed, with largely understated performances by the two leads, this series stayed with me for weeks after the end of episode 16. If I had to nominate a #1, My Mister would probably be it. Dramatic hyperbole and cringy comic relief aside, this series drills deep into layers often unacknowledged in mainstream cultural discourse – not just in Korea but here in the West. Its portrayal of loneliness, empty ambition, and the search for deeper meaning and genuine connection is both subtle and seismic. A real gem.
2: Trolley (2022)
This series leverages the classic ‘trolley dilemma’ to add depth to a straightforward tale of tragedy, criminality, and family secrets. There is an intellectual and philosophical dexterity to Trolley that belies the soapy plot devices used to drive its narrative.
3: My Liberation Notes (2022)
This is a compelling ensemble piece, focusing on the struggles of three siblings. Here again, formulaic melodrama is enriched by an intellectual and emotional subtlety, transforming it into a quiet, yet insightful meditation on gender, generational and other expectations.
4: Misty (2018)
The aforementioned gateway drug of my K-Drama addiction, Misty revolves around a turbulent period in the lives of a glamorous newsreader and her high profile lawyer husband. At heart, it examines the often unquestioned aspirations of a morally conservative, status-fixated society and asks us to ponder the true cost of so-called success.
5: The Whirlwind (2024)
Classic political intrigue drama, complete with all manner of backstabbing skullduggery. This series taps into a doubtless widespread perception that South Korean politics is deeply corrupt and, more so, distorted by hyper-partisan and narrowly personal agendas. As such, it is a labyrinthine and addictive tale of moral ambiguity and shifting allegiance. The 2024 martial law incident that later rocked the republic was perhaps The Whirlwind playing out in real life.
6: Something In The Rain (2018)
Swoonworthy romance par excellence. This one had me in tears. Literally on my knees begging the writers to let the lovebirds finally get together. True, it’s corny, but there is an emotional power and restraint to this series that renders it touching and memorable. Loved it.
7: Navillera (2021)
When a retired halabeoji (grandfather) decides to pursue his passion for ballet, much against everyone’s wishes, he soon has to confront his own mortality. In turn, his young tutor is driven to deal with the traumas caused by his own father. A beautiful story of cross-generational male friendship as mediated by a shared love of dance.
8: When The Weather Is Fine (2020)
A young woman quits her life in Seoul to return to her hometown in the hills. Once there, dark family secrets unfurl. Meanwhile, a tender romance bubbles between her and the owner of the local bookshop. This series is also a paean to literature and reading, and to the quiet, redemptive power of storytelling.
9: The Glory (2022)
This series belongs to the rich canon of Korean female-fronted revenge drama. In other words, poor scholarship girl wreaks ice cold vengeance on the rich-bitch tormentors of her high school years. However, The Glory is as much a critique of class as it is a good/bad story of long overdue comeuppance.
10: The Lies Within (2019)
A multi-layered crime thriller, spiced with a little gore and sprinkled with right angle plot twists, this series blends cop drama, political thriller, and intimate character study. Cleverly sequenced and built around a teasingly complex whodunnit through-line, The Lies Within is a gripping East Asian take on the ‘morally conflicted detective’ meme we know from countless Western productions.
As If You Were Listening 