The Four Fantasists
Although the script is 100% Korean, its genesis traces back to the “The B-Team” concept developed by Stan Lee’s studio in 2018. Directed by Yoo In-sik (Dr. Romantic, Vagabond, Extraordinary Attorney Woo), this K-drama takes us to 1999, at the dawn of the Y2K bug, in the small town of Haeseong—marked by a dark incident dating back over twenty years. The WONDERfools naturally evokes Marvel or DC-style heroes, but it leans more toward a mix of works like Cashero, Hi-Five, and even The Boys, in the sense that these characters are not born as heroes but are the result of laboratory experiments or accidental contamination. In terms of atmosphere, they also carry a touch of Guardians of the Galaxy. So between satire and superhero deconstruction, do these late-20th-century “wonder kids” (in truth, broken misfits) succeed in delivering both spectacle and escapism?At the end of 1999, Eun Chae-ni (Park Eun-bin), in fragile health, is expected not to survive into the new century due to a weak heart. She is a 27-year-old woman with a childish streak—likable but stagnant. Her only family is her grandmother, who runs a large restaurant. Her high school friend Kang Ro-bin (Im Sung-jae), somewhat intellectually limited, and her neighbor Son Gyeong-hun (Choi Dae-hoon), a lazy, compulsive liar of sorts, are her only companions. A new civil servant arrives at the town hall and surprises them with his rigidity: Lee Un-jeong (Cha Eun-woo) is a mysterious figure who takes a particular interest in Chae-ni. One night, after a tragedy, the trio accidentally acquire superpowers through an unfortunate chain of events. In reality, this awakens Chae-ni’s latent abilities while also granting her new ones. Elsewhere in the city, a diabolical figure returns: Professor Ha Won-do (Son Hyun-joo), released on parole after 20 years in prison. He is the source of the misfortunes awaiting the group and is directly tied to parts of their past.
From the very first minutes, the tone is set. The series opens with Radiohead’s iconic Creep, immediately immersing us in the melancholy and existential gloom of the late century. This temporal and musical contrast perfectly establishes an atmosphere that constantly oscillates between nostalgia and modernity. The retro aesthetic brings a carefully crafted vintage feel. It offers a fresh take on the superhero genre—far from standard blockbusters—focusing instead on humor and the clumsy, deeply human side of these “Wonderfools.” At its core, they stem from the “Wunderkinder Project” (yes, the German reference is deliberate), echoing the idea of scientific experiments reminiscent of World War II-era experimentation narratives. In keeping with the Y2K setting, the series leans heavily into nostalgia, portraying flawed heroes with limited lifespans whose already broken lives are further shaped by physical or psychological damage. The core idea is to show how ordinary, slightly dysfunctional people deal with overwhelming responsibility. They gradually discover strengths they never knew they had, especially courage and self-sacrifice.
In this kind of drama, the appeal is not in an unpredictable plot. The main strength of The WONDERfools comes down to one name: Park Eun-bin. Once again, she delivers an outstanding and compelling performance—an absolute showcase without ever overdoing it. She practically owns the screen. Credit is also due to Choi Dae-hoon and Im Sung-jae, both highly respected actors in Korean cinema and television. As for Cha Eun-woo, while I’m not particularly a fan, he delivers a surprisingly solid performance alongside his Clark Kent-like physique. The chemistry between the team members works well: they support each other, motivate one another, and grow together. Another smart choice is that their powers are unstable—they must learn to trigger and control them, often leading to comedic or chaotic action scenes. Their energy is contagious; it’s pure dopamine entertainment. You’re not here to think—you’re here to have fun. The direction is polished, the CGI solid, and the production design effective. The soundtrack also elevates key moments; the ending of episode 6, for instance, evokes a Guardians of the Galaxy-style sequence with a long tracking shot centered on Park Eun-bin.
The downside is that while the heroes are well-developed and the series entertaining, it somewhat misses the depth of its central conflict. Even though the danger is present, it never feels truly threatening. The antagonists are often too soft, lacking real menace despite having interesting abilities on paper. They are not cruel enough, and somewhat improbably, some even display empathy. The use of a cult as a cover for their actions feels like an overly familiar narrative shortcut. Moreover, Son Hyun-joo, a major figure in the industry, is underused and drifts through the story like a ghost. It’s a shame, as there was real potential to intensify the threat and raise the stakes in certain action sequences. That said, I understand Yoo In-sik’s intention to keep the focus on the “Fantastic Four” of misfits and their emotional journey. The entire moral arc revolves around what they choose to do with their flawed abilities—their decision to turn defect into altruistic sacrifice.
One final note: I’ll leave the discovery of the protagonists’ superpowers to the viewer, some of which, despite being seemingly “useless,” turn out to be crucial at key moments. It’s also worth noting the director’s clever handling of historical context, avoiding lazy flashbacks. While not particularly groundbreaking, the series delivers an enjoyable, feel-good yet occasionally darker story—a blend of burlesque comedy, human drama, and thriller elements. With solid production values, it is clearly a Netflix export-oriented project. The overall package is strong, even if sometimes chaotic, though viewers should be careful of occasional emotional overindulgence. The redemption arc of a certain character also feels somewhat too easy by the end. Ultimately, what remains is a high-energy series with a clean tone and highly likable, relatable heroes. Yes, it lacks consistency and rigor at times, but it never feels frustrating because the entertainment is clear and effective. As with many shows of this kind, the ending remains open. I initially planned to give it a 7, but Park Eun-bin alone earns it an extra point—she absolutely dominates the game.
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The Manuscript of Faust
The Boy in the Last Row is a psychological thriller that plunges us into an ambiguous relationship between a teacher and his student. But the real question from the very beginning is not so much who the teacher is, but rather who truly is the teacher, and who is the student. Very quickly, the series goes beyond this initial framework to become a thriller focused not on the events themselves, but on how they are told and interpreted. You are handed an invitation, and it is up to the viewer to determine the share of truth and lies being delivered. Directed by Kim Kyu-Tae, who is far from a novice and offers a strong résumé with dramas such as The Trunk, Our Blues, Live, and Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo, works that have all left their mark, we already know we are in for effective direction and full immersion from the very first minutes. Without spoiling anything, and unless you are completely unfamiliar with the genre, a high-level duel awaits between these two men.Heo Mun-Oh (Choi Min-Sik) is a professor of Korean literature at university. A failed writer (he has only published one novel), over time he has become a very harsh, stubborn, and irritable man with those around him, especially his wife, Jo Hyeon-Suk (Jin Kyung), a talented psychologist/therapist. They look more like roommates than a real couple. In his youth, when he was still a student, his rival was Kim Su-Hun (Heo Jun-Ho), who has since become a wealthy and famous writer. The worst for Mun-Oh is that this man married his crush, Ahn Eun-Joo (Kim Yunjin). During one of his classes, he becomes drawn to an unusual student sitting in the last row, the young Lee Kang (Choi Hyun-Wook). Very quickly, Mun-Oh detects talent in him and pushes him further. His interest in Kang’s essays keeps growing, but when Kang admits that he does not invent anything and simply recounts what he experiences in real life, Mun-Oh’s shock turns into obsessive curiosity as he becomes emotionally involved.
The main interest of the drama does not lie in the multiplication of secondary plotlines, but in the focus on a small number of characters. This choice immediately strengthens immersion and gives the impression of being trapped in a closed system where every interaction matters. This makes sense given the limited number of episodes. Without giving too many specific indications, there is one essential, even crucial element to pay attention to as time goes on. It is not just about spotting false appearances, but above all about paying attention to what is said, and who says it. The thriller is built precisely on this confusion, constantly misleading and sustaining doubt at all times. Its strength lies in the power of its narrative and the way it is delivered. What sets the series apart is its use of storytelling itself as a dramatic tool. The story feels filtered, constructed, sometimes fragmented, creating a constant tension between what is shown and what is understood. The viewer is never certain of having access to an objective truth, only to a possible version of events. Hum...Have I said too much? :)
The plot revolves around the Mun-Oh / Kang duo (duel), which initially appears straightforward. But the relationship between the two men gradually becomes ambiguous, making us doubt everything. Trust turns into dependency and evolves into a form of role confusion. One of them seems to control the narrative, while the other gradually loses critical distance. The series thus explores a dynamic in which obsession with a story can alter the perception of reality itself. The Boy in the Last Row is a cerebral thriller where everything relies on perception and interpretation. Rather than multiplying spectacular twists, the series builds its strength on constantly questioning what we think we understand. Reality, imagination, and illusion constantly overlap, forcing us to reconsider each piece of information as it appears. To put it simply, do not believe everything you see or hear. Confusion becomes the key word of the story, and each new piece of information forces us to reconsider the previous ones, reinforcing the addictive aspect of the whole. We are constantly building theories, to the point where it becomes almost playful. And the fast pacing sometimes prevents us from thinking too clearly.
But the series also relies on a very controlled execution. Indeed, it could not work without its essential core, which rests on the two main protagonists. And here I’ll just say it: bravo, gentlemen! On one hand, there is one of the giants of Korean cinema, not for the quantity of works he has participated in, but for their quality: Choi Min-Sik. This actor does not need to speak; his charisma allows him to fully embody the character like no one else. Opposite him, the rising star of K-dramas, Choi Hyun-Wook, who already has an impressive résumé despite his young age, delivers a convincing and powerful performance. The chemistry between these two generations of actors is sublime and elevates the entire story. To complete the cast, the presence of two other “monuments,” Heo Jun-Ho and Jin Kyung, makes this an exceptional quartet of talent. Kim Kyu-Tae knows how to highlight his actors in a convincing and immersive way through carefully crafted direction. The atmosphere is unsettling, heavy, mysterious, and increasingly suffocating. All of this is enhanced by visuals that serve the drama and emphasize the contrast between reality and perception.
If for me it is almost a flawless narrative, I cannot deny being slightly disappointed by the ending, or at least by certain aspects of it. Not because, like in Very Bad Trip, everything is revealed as the “behind the scenes”, but because of the motive and the triggering element of this masterfully orchestrated trap. Like the spinning top in Inception, the ending does not simply aim to provide answers. It invites the viewer to reinterpret the entire story from a different angle and leaves enough subtle doubt to extend the experience beyond the credits. Yes, many times I found myself wondering whether I had fully understood it, or even whether multiple interpretations were possible during the final sequences. The soundtrack appropriately accompanies all these moments of tension and constant doubt, in a dark tone and perfectly integrated into the narrative. For some, a degree of skepticism may dominate, but the strength of the writing cannot be ignored. Before closing the manuscript, one essential point must be retained: it is the viewer themselves who is invited to write the final chapter and decide who is the winner and who is the loser.
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Analysis of the Theory of Emptiness, or a Failed Parody
This review was conducted without any trickery, though it contains minor spoilers that have no real consequences. Well, the time has come to perform an autopsy on the beast, which—after a slow 12-episode agony—finally collapsed, torn between mediocrity and embarrassment. Sometimes one can be mistaken, but for a major public broadcaster in a prime-time slot, the conclusion is unmistakable: this is not merely a failure, it is a full-blown industrial accident. The 2026 audience has spoken. Viewers refuse to be treated like fools, and this disaster proves that the era of glossy, algorithm-driven rom-coms is coming to an end. Lightness is fine; stupidity and mindless nonsense are not—never again, thank you. As a viewer, I’m tired of being taken for an idiot. I’m willing to be indulgent, to swallow a few absurdities for the sake of a “cute” romantic comedy, but my patience has limits. I made it to episode 6 and then bailed. Yes, even my intrinsic masochism told me to stop the carnage. That, in essence, explains my 2/10 rating. I got off the bus, and as Denis Brogniart would say: the verdict is final.Matthew Lee / Lee Hae-seok (Ahn Hyo-Seop) is a young farmer (well… sort of) with a rough-around-the-edges personality but a heart of gold (like Elvis). He passionately cultivates white-flowered nuri mushrooms. One day, Dam Ye-Jin (Chae Won-Bin) disrupts his peaceful routine. A star host on a home-shopping channel, she has made it her mission to get Matthew to sign with Eric Seo (Kim Beom), co-CEO of the international cosmetics brand L’Étoile. (Naturally, despite having spent half his life in France, he doesn’t speak a word of French.) She comes to renew their contract. Despite his repeated refusals, she persists. Their relationship begins to evolve. Long story short: love triangle, romance, childhood psychological baggage, and all the usual tropes—except without nuance or depth, because apparently we had better things to do, right? It’s the “seen it 100 times before” syndrome… and even on a good day, it still doesn’t work.
Sold Out on You (the French title is frankly awful) suffers from lazy, mechanical writing that confuses humor with hysteria. Between flat, unfunny characters, misunderstandings staged like advertising sketches, and editing that feels like a poorly assembled scaffolding just to exaggerate effects, the series generates a constant sense of discomfort. The childish reactions of thirty-year-old adults and the “cute” scenes devoid of any real emotion instantly break the viewer’s engagement. The unsettling part is that the drama believes itself to be adorable, while it actually sinks into pathetic overacting. There is no emotional connection possible because everything is pre-calculated to the millimeter. It reminded me of Mozinor’s parody generator: take the same ingredients, reshuffle them, change the setting and job titles, but keep the same mechanical structure. The characters are no longer coherent individuals, but bundles of recycled tropes: the clumsy yet “modern working girl” heroine, the taciturn but perfect male lead, the chic but empty rival, and eccentric villagers used as joke machines. Everything becomes predictable ten minutes in advance. It could almost be turned into TikTok Shorts.
As mentioned, it all feels like déjà vu: a clone of Brewing Love, with hints of Hometown Cha-Cha-Cha and Business Proposal. There is absolutely no originality or new creative direction. It shamelessly recycles past dramas in bulk, scene by scene. The same tired formula is everywhere: a fake “artisan, rural, bucolic” aesthetic used purely as decorative background, and the same artificial clash of opposites (the hyperactive city girl versus the overly sensitive country man). There is a complete absence of social realism, as physically demanding jobs are stripped of substance to become aesthetic wallpaper. Sold Out on You clumsily attempts to replicate a formula that was already showing cracks, confirming the creative drought of its writers. In truth, it feels like a collapse of social coherence disguised as luxury advertising. The drama descends into involuntary absurdity by disconnecting its characters from any sense of reality. A 25-year-old home-shopping host driving a Porsche convertible, living in a Gangnam showroom-style apartment, and owning a wardrobe worthy of Céline Dion instantly destroys credibility. Many recent rom-coms seem afraid of reality: everything must be Instagrammable, and sincerity—romantic or otherwise—is killed before it can even emerge.
If the writing no longer even smells remotely fresh, the waste is equally evident in the casting and technical execution. The directing is a disaster, the editing even worse, with constant continuity errors and scenes that make no sense in real life (yes, it’s a rom-com, fine—but still). The most frustrating part is how the actors are handled. Ahn Hyo-Seop is drowned in hollow dialogue lines worthy of a teenage sitcom, while poor Kim Beom is reduced to a ghost-like presence or a glorified food courier, disappearing from entire sequences without explanation, a collateral victim of a broken script. And worst of all is Chae Won-Bin: unconvincing, poor performance, completely unfit for the role. To top it off, the technical side is a mess. The pacing is artificially chopped up in a desperate attempt to revive a drama already brain-dead from the start, while advertising constraints are visibly dictating choices. The production team seems to have given up, resulting in sheer chaos. It’s a parade of clichés and worn-out tropes; everything is black and white, and the series proudly embraces it. Supporting characters are stuck in the same repetitive roles to the point of exhaustion (family ties, friendship clichés, etc.). In short… it’s boring.
In conclusion, Sold Out on You is the very definition of the “theory of emptiness”: visually, we are saturated with an aesthetic that feels entirely out of place, fake luxury, and clinical filters—everything reeks of artificiality. This historically low 2.9% audience share is a much-needed wake-up call from a viewership that has matured and now demands texture, sincerity, and respect. Subjecting myself to six more episodes of this marketing parade would amount to pure televisual masochism. The series never actually tells a story; it merely recycles a catalogue. It is often childish and saccharine. For newcomers to K-dramas, it might still pass (I might have stuck with it last year, perhaps). But for those who are tired of being treated like fools, it’s better to move on—you’ll save your time. I’m not asking for a perfect romance in a perfect world, only for credible characters capable of conveying emotion, even within an imperfect script. Beneath the filters, the Porsche, and the romantic slow-motion shots, there was ultimately… nothing. The “stop” button has been pressed. Definitively.
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Between Deceptive Appearances and Narrative Entanglement
Reverse is a drama that lives up to its name. It is an adaptation of the audio movie (a format primarily intended for blind or visually impaired audiences) titled Reverse: Memory and Truth, created by Lim Gun-joong. Wavve therefore gave him free rein to adapt his own project for the screen. This psychological thriller also received support from the KOCCA (Korea Creative Content Agency) in 2024, marking the first time a production has transitioned from an audio format to a visual one. But can it deliver the same impact? That was the central challenge. Building on its original narrative foundation, Lim Gun-joong does not do too badly, even if episodes 4 and 5 are open to debate due to certain issues we will examine. A decoder might be required. I must admit that at times I had to rewatch scenes because they were too confusing or simply unreadable. The core idea of Reverse is original: past and future seem to influence each other in real time.Let’s lay out the story. After fleeing a villa that eventually explodes, Ham Myo-jin (Seo Ji-hye) loses control of her car and is violently hit by a truck, sending her to hospital. She survives miraculously but appears to suffer partial amnesia. She no longer remembers those around her, including her fiancé Ryu Jun-ho (Ko Soo), a brilliant internationally renowned architect. He takes care of her during her recovery. Meanwhile, the police investigate the villa explosion that killed two people, including Choi Hee-su (Kim Jae-kyung), a close friend of Myo-jin, and her father, a powerful businessman. Other figures soon emerge: a blackmailer linked to Jun-ho, a Chinese gang, and a mysterious individual named Ki-cheol (Yoon Je-moon). The case proves far more complex than it first appears, with one deception hiding another. It is truly Machiavellian.
Reverse demands a very specific cognitive effort from the viewer, requiring constant intellectual attention. Even though color grading is used to distinguish timelines, it would have been more effective at times to display on-screen timestamps (which is occasionally done). The intention is obvious: to disorient the viewer. The downside, in my view, is that this becomes counterproductive, particularly in episodes 4 and 5 where I found myself lost more than once. This is partly due to editing and direction that are not always up to the task. Moreover, the overload of contradictory information and lack of clear markers make it difficult to distinguish between memory, hallucination, and reality. It becomes frustrating to analyze the information rather than simply immerse oneself in the story. The pacing is solid, but interruptions in flow are felt due to a somewhat haphazard structure in the middle of the series. The addition of seemingly unnecessary characters—present only to confuse matters—also feels like a questionable choice. At times, there is a lack of grounding, especially around Ki-cheol, despite him being a key pivot in Myo-jin’s quest for truth and revenge.
If we set aside the confusing direction, Reverse remains a strong drama, held together by an excellent cast, refined visual direction, polished aesthetics, and a solid plot full of twists, culminating in an ending whose outcome is difficult to predict. The story constantly misleads the viewer by presenting seemingly good characters who turn out to be bad, and vice versa. It is difficult to know who is lying or telling the truth until the explanations begin to surface around episode 7. We understand that the central stake revolves around Myo-jin’s revenge, but without spoiling anything: is she herself truly innocent? Reverse is a cerebral work of deconstruction that may put off many viewers, which is understandable. In its attempt to create total mystery, it sometimes struggles to connect the dots between characters. The involvement of the Chinese gang, for instance, remains unclear and ultimately feels like a red herring (I even had to ask an AI, which says something). To make sense of it, one must never forget that the story revolves around a sordid and deeply disturbing family tragedy.
I started reconnecting with the drama around episode 6, and especially during the final two episodes, which truly deliver. Everything finally becomes fluid, gripping, and clear. The frustration of suppressed or misunderstood emotions finally dissipates. Why? Because the masks fall, and the true nature of the characters is revealed. Reverse is, above all, a story about manipulation: one must never take scenes or dialogue at face value. The title is no coincidence—total inversion is always at play. The psychological, dramatic, and tragic layers are the drama’s core strengths. Distinguishing heroes from villains becomes a real ordeal, as you quickly realize. The only truly “good” character is Lee Sang-ho (Lim Won-hee), who assists Myo-jin in her search for truth. Reverse aims to stimulate the viewer’s perception, but adapting a powerful audio narrative into a visual format is no easy feat. The result is unsettling.
The drama is a mental puzzle. It is a bold adaptation that constantly oscillates between confusion and brilliance. The viewer must show unwavering patience not to get lost. But the experience is ultimately rewarding, as it forces reflection. If complexity is not your thing, this is not the show for you. In terms of immersion, the sight of a Chinese gang speaking Korean is somewhat jarring, and one or two narrative points remain unresolved at the end. Nevertheless, Reverse is a gripping, dark thriller with disturbing truths that are difficult to accept. It ultimately reflects both the good and evil within us all. This is where the series finds its strength: it rejects manichaeism entirely, offering instead a twisted mental labyrinth. The performances by Seo Ji-hye and Ko Soo, who carry this fragile narrative structure with remarkable intensity, deserve special mention. And the finale is chilling and explosive, as one might (or might not) expect. This is therefore an imperfect but fascinating work on the malleability of memory and the darkness of the human soul.
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The Recipe for Happiness Under Military Regime
To begin, I’ll borrow inspiration from my old review of Mr. Queen. To create a truly tasty dish, here is the recipe:“Take a young, popular and likeable actor. Make him play a hero built around the universally comforting theme of cooking. Add an unexpectedly peaceful military setting, a generous dose of humor, passion, and human values. Sprinkle in absurd comedic situations and strong bromance. Finally, season it with RPG-like video game sequences where you gain EXP to level up, and a light touch of romance.” Based on the webcomic of the same name, kitchen utensils replace weapons, because the real danger is… on the plate. Here, there isn’t a trace of physical violence: no bullying, only a few squabbles, and above all challenges that are more digestible than dangerous. Why did this drama work so well in Korea? Probably because it brings together almost all the ingredients the local audience loves. But the real question is elsewhere: will this perfectly calibrated mix manage to appeal to our own taste as well?
Two months after losing his father, a highly respected chef, young conscript Kang Seong-Jae (Park Ji-Hoon) is assigned to the Ganglim forward base, near the North Korean border. This small garrison of 29 men is commanded by Captain Hwang Seok-Ho (Lee Sang-Yi), assisted by Lieutenant Cho Ye-Rin (Han Dong-Hee) and Staff Sergeant Park Jae-Young (Yoon Kyung-Ho). They are all very humane officers. Because of his parents’ profession, Seong-Jae is assigned to the mess hall to assist Sergeant Yoon Dong-Hyun (Lee Hong-Nae) in the kitchen. Not only is he loud-mouthed, but he is also utterly useless at cooking. The verdict is clear: every meal is a disaster, and the entire base is at breaking point. That’s when Seong-Jae is suddenly presented with a hologram that, like in a video game, assigns him missions to earn EXP, level up his skills, and ultimately reach the final goal: becoming the “ultimate chef.” Thus begins the epic journey of the Kitchen Soldier, whose mission is to rebuild cohesion through good food.
What immediately stands out is how quickly the series pulls you in—even if you consider cooking an abstract art. Indeed, food culture is something that unites everyone, across all generations. The concept is also introduced very quickly: we are not simply following a soldier in a remote outpost, but a character evolving like in a video game. EXP, levels, skill unlocks, quests, “resets”… everything is there. This RPG system is treated as a mental reality experienced by the hero—a way for him to cope and reassure himself. The presence of his father figure is also essential in the evolution of his “character sheet.” The outpost is not really an army base; it feels more like a friendly village where everyone depends on one another. Cohesion comes first. The drama deliberately highlights the positive side of military conscription—we are not in D.P. here. The war is not on the battlefield; it takes place in the kitchen. Cohesion around food strengthens camaraderie, and the show fully delivers on its feel-good promise. And to reinforce this concept, food becomes the catalyst for absurd moments: once the palate sends taste information to the brain, an explosion of flavors triggers hallucinations. A rice ball, for example, can spark a full boyband fantasy sequence featuring the Migak Boys’ entire music video.
Why do all these ingredients work so well and feel so appetizing? It mainly comes down to perfect synergy. This is a simple but enjoyable story, with a strong cast, sharp dialogue, and immediately lovable characters you can relate to. Above all, it highlights universally appealing themes: teamwork, camaraderie, motivation, selflessness, naïve optimism, and over-the-top absurd humor. Of course, this is not realism—we are dealing with a live-action adaptation of a webtoon. But does enjoying tasty dishes and sincere characters make us fools? I sincerely hope not. Cooking is a universal language, just like laughter, and both are appreciated in their own way. To spice things up, a subplot involving corruption in the supply chain adds a slightly darker note, showing the zealous behavior of certain higher-ranking officers. But overall, everyone remains well-meaning, with a paternal figure watching over the younger soldiers. Seong-Jae even gets his own awkward romantic moment with Jung Min-A (Jeon So-Young), a girl who has been in love with him since high school—without any manual on how to handle teasing from his comrades.
Of course, everything isn’t perfect: there is a slight dip in energy in one or two episodes. Some moments may feel repetitive, but the spirit remains intact and the simple lifestyle is respected. The pacing is generally solid, even if it slows slightly before the culinary competition finale. Everything is fairly predictable, but that is intentional within this “feel-good utopia”: this is not a harsh world, but one where taste and skill resolve problems instead of fists. This drama is aimed at a family audience, but not only them—everyone can enjoy it, feel emotions, and recharge their dopamine levels. Director Jo Nam-Hyung also shows growth here, serving up a satisfying dish after the excellent The Tale of the Nine-Tailed 1938, which I also recommend. The adaptation of the webcomic—spanning nearly 200 chapters—is quite successful in tone and atmosphere. To be honest, without the “spicy” contributions of Yoon Kyung-Ho, Lee Sang-Yi, and Lee Hong-Nae (who is genuinely excellent), surrounding the very solid Park Ji-Hoon, the drama wouldn’t have had the same flavor. Without their punchlines, the recipe might have left a bitter aftertaste. Thanks to them, the emotional cooking ladle digs out the very best from the bottom of the pot.
Let’s move on to the bill—and rest assured, it won’t be too salty. If you accept the “set menu” formula and don’t try to over-analyze it, you’re in for a treat. Like a good ice cream, The Legend of Kitchen Soldier is a tasty, crunchy dessert—Cyril Lignac would approve. No need for Philippe Etchebest to restore order in the kitchen: Seong-Jae handles the mess hall like a true chef. The series whets your appetite from the very start, even throwing in a small twist in the penultimate episode to whip everything up right before the finale. It’s intense, joyful, and should be taken for what it is: excellent entertainment to enjoy with others. This accumulation of unlikely concepts works surprisingly well, mostly perfectly cooked with a touch of controlled madness. However, I did miss a bit more craziness, and the arc introduced around Captain Im Seung-Bin strangely fizzled out. But as someone not exactly skilled in cooking myself, I still enjoyed this gargantuan meal. (Private joke—this is for you Aude.)
The holographic interface still works, the ending is open… so, “Ready Player One”? And as they say: bon appétit, of course! (Joël Robuchon).
The references to the chefs are French of course :)
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