Buried Hearts (2025)

A promising thriller that forgets what it was trying to say

*Buried Hearts* markets itself as a slick revenge thriller drenched in corporate corruption, memory loss, and familial secrets. And to be fair, it starts that way. But as the story unfolds, the show loses not only its narrative grip, but also its own identity.

The early episodes are compelling. A secret slush fund, a shadowy professor pulling political strings, and a lead character with amnesia - there’s no shortage of tension. But the writing quickly shows cracks. Instead of escalating the drama, the plot circles back on itself repeatedly, bogged down by overused tropes (amnesia again?) and characters who stop evolving after episode three.

There’s a frustrating lack of depth in how the show handles its core themes. Power, memory, guilt - these are fertile grounds for psychological drama, but *Buried Hearts* rarely digs deeper than surface-level reveals. Characters tell us how they feel; the show doesn’t show us. The narrative doesn’t trust its audience to interpret nuance, so it spoon-feeds motivation through long, expositional dialogue.

The drama leans heavily on twists, but few of them land. A late-game near-incest plotline feels like a desperate attempt to inject shock value, only to be reversed quickly. The big reveals often feel more like filler than payoff - contrived rather than earned.

By the final third, the show is barely holding together. Pacing becomes a major issue. Scenes drag. Characters lose their edge. The revenge plot, which should intensify, flattens under political subplots and boardroom infighting that lack emotional stakes. What could have been a tight 12-episode series overstays its welcome across 16.

Park Hyung-sik does his best with what he’s given, but the script boxes him into a narrow emotional range. Dong-ju’s amnesia is used more as a reset button than a way to explore internal conflict. Hong Hwa-yeon, while understated and watchable, is underutilized, especially in the second half where her arc plateaus into passivity.

Even Huh Joon-ho, playing the morally gray puppet master Yeom Jang-seon, is reduced to a repetitive mouthpiece for exposition rather than a compelling antagonist.

The direction is clean but lacks distinct style. There’s none of the visual storytelling or atmospheric flair that defines standout K-thrillers. Music is overbearing, often cueing emotion instead of letting the scene breathe. And while the sets are appropriately cold and corporate, the lack of variety becomes visually monotonous.


Final Thoughts:

*Buried Hearts* has all the ingredients of a high-stakes melodrama, but it lacks cohesion, restraint, and most importantly, soul. The show wastes its premise, dulls its tension with repetition, and leaves its audience more frustrated than satisfied. What could have been a biting commentary on greed and identity ends up as just another forgettable entry in the ever-growing list of K-dramas that promise more than they deliver.

Leia Mais

Park Hyung Sik Deserved Better — And So Did We

🛑 Spoilers ahead. This review is entirely based on my personal opinion. If you feel differently — that’s totally valid. But if you’ve watched this show and felt even half of what I did, you’ll get why this review exists. Also, yes, there’s a chance I spiritually slept through this drama, but the way these plot points were handled... I doubt I missed anything better.

Buried Hearts (2025) is a drama that had all the right ingredients — secret births, betrayal, generational trauma, murder, chaebol dysfunction, memory loss, and cliff accidents. Sounds like a classic makjang, right? But instead of delivering a gripping mess, it gave us a confused, emotionally inconsistent ride that tried to be everything and ended up being... not much.

Let’s start with Huh Ildo. This man quite literally drove Dongju off a cliff, murdered his ex-lover and best friend, and spent 99% of the show embodying pure villainy. And yet, the moment he finds out Dongju is his son, we’re suddenly expected to feel sympathy for him? Worse — they hand him a redemption arc, letting him die while saving the very son he tried to kill. Why? Either let him sit in the rot of his own guilt — haunted by the lives he destroyed — or commit to the villainy and let the audience hate him all the way through. Don’t throw us this diluted “I saw the light” redemption at the last minute. Not after everything he did. Not even close.

Seonu’s arc was all over the place — from laid-back illegitimate son to a shady schemer with barely any real progression. His mother’s shift from tragic figure to manipulative enabler made no sense either. And Eunnam’s mother? She literally had her lover killed and walked away without a hint of remorse or consequence. Just... moved on. Where was the emotional payoff?

Speaking of Eunnam — she was never held accountable. The writing gave her a tidy redemption arc without making her earn it. Her motivations might make sense on paper, but her actions didn’t. She chose revenge over honesty, over love, over basic communication. And somehow the show still wants us to root for her? Sorry, I’m not buying it. Add to that her acting, which felt flat during key emotional moments (possibly more a script issue than performance), and it was hard to stay connected to her.

This is not the kind of “soulmates through pain” story we need in 2025. Trauma isn’t romantic. Betrayal doesn’t equal fate. Life doesn’t work like that, and dramas need to stop acting like it does.

Dongju’s arc, ironically, made the most sense. This man has been through it — birth mom dead, adoptive mom dead, adoptive sister dead, love of his life betrays him, birth dad turns out to be his worst nightmare, and everyone he trusted either lies to him or dies. His decision to leave at the end is one of the few moments that actually felt earned. And I would’ve loved that moment… if they hadn’t ruined it with that one unnecessary kiss scene. Seriously — why are you kissing someone who literally slept with you the night before and married another man the next afternoon without ever revealing her true identity to you? Eunnam chose revenge over him every time. So why the fairytale closure?

And then there’s Taeyun — the ultimate tragedy of the finale. Born into a family of murderers, blamed for sins he never committed, constantly trying to be kind to both Dongju and Seonu — and he’s the one who dies. Seonu kills him while Dongju’s already gone. Really? He’s the one you kill? Not the actual villains? Not the people who actively betrayed others? It’s like the show is saying only people with buried hearts — those broken enough to betray and survive — get to live. The kind ones don’t make it.

Park Hyung Sik, however, carried the emotional weight of this show on his back. His final breakdown scene? Genuinely heart-wrenching. For a second, I forgot how messy the writing was. Prosecutor Yeom’s actor also deserves praise — somehow managing to command every scene, even when the plot had no clue what to do with him.

Ultimately, Buried Hearts tried to say a lot — about love, family, grief, guilt, and redemption — but it ended up undermining every theme it tried to build. It made forgiveness feel cheap, grief feel shallow, and love feel transactional. There were many more characters I haven’t even mentioned here — which, frankly, is telling of just how little impact they had on the story. They were there, but that’s about it.

I’m glad it’s over. I really am. The cast deserved better. Especially Park Hyung Sik. If you’re watching for him, maybe you’ll stay for the performance. But if you’re here for the plot? Prepare to be disappointed.

5.5/10 — and that’s purely for the acting. At this point, the only thing buried is my patience — under a mountain of messy arcs, wasted potential, and unnecessary forgiveness.

Leia Mais