This review may contain spoilers
Sail to me Sail to me, let me enfold you
The accidental and magical encounter between two totally opposite worlds: on the one hand, Kim Joo Won (Hyun Bin, immense), the arrogant young heir to a wealthy business empire, accustomed to viewing reality through the lens of privilege, control and efficiency, deeply scarred by a trauma suffered during his youth. On the other, Gil Ra Im (Ha Ji Won, wonderful and iconic), a stuntwoman, an invisible worker in the entertainment industry, accustomed to putting her body at the service of cinematic illusion without receiving the recognition she deserves.
Around them is a colorful microcosm that sums up Korean showbiz, made up of eccentric idols such as singer Oska (Yoon Sang Hyun, extraordinary and hilarious), stars in crisis – including personal crises – looking for a creative comeback, his ex, Yoon Seul (Kim Sa Rang, beautiful and perfect), a young heiress, music businesswoman and aspiring filmmaker, and the whole underworld of show business made up of artists seeking their fortune and an academy of stuntmen who risk their precarious lives every day in the name of cinema.
Between past traumas, crossing stories, despotic mothers, role reversals (and body swaps!), a magical contemporary fairy tale set in dreamlike scenarios, accompanied by a fabulous soundtrack, where fate and destiny inevitably intertwine, marking the lives of all the protagonists forever.
An extraordinary “social” melodrama capable of using fantasy as a magnifying glass for “reality”, Secret Garden stylishly transcends the limits of romantic fantasy, decoding the genre and cinematic language through a complex narrative structure, literary references (Andersen and Carroll, above all) and witty dialogue, deep and poetic, and unconventional choices that constantly revitalize a multi-layered story, suggesting that nothing is truly random and drawing the viewer into a whirlwind that ties the characters' destinies together, far beyond what appears on the surface.
Beyond the (beautiful) love story, Secret Garden immediately raises questions about themes such as the power of money, the concrete violence of social differences, and a moral dimension that is never pacifying or consoling, but rather raw, direct and unpleasant. But the drama also speaks to us of dedication to work, friendship and sacrifice, physical labour, and everyday life marked by the precariousness of an independence built more out of necessity than choice. It is not only a narrative device, but also a moral and social one, capable of undermining identities, roles and hierarchies, forcing the characters to look at the world – and themselves – from a radically different perspective.
A collision, an unlikely, jarring encounter/clash between two worlds that are inevitably destined not to understand each other: that of Kim Joo Won, made up of power, high status and a normative language where everything has a price, every relationship a balance of power (think of the dates planned for arranged marriages); the incredible urban complex where Joo Won and Oska live, with its modern, clean lines, might be reminiscent of Philip Johnson's Glass House or Mies van der Rohe's Farnsworth House because of their minimalist elegance, but, just like the houses of these architects, they are places that reflect a kind of detachment from the outside world. Places where Gil Ra Im “literally” gets lost.
And then there is Gil Ra Im's world, which does not deal with abstract principles but is concrete, linked to the body, work, effort, reactive and not programmatic; being a stuntwoman means replacing others, taking risks without receiving recognition, remaining invisible behind the spectacular performances of others (like the entire part involving the star Park Chae Rin). Joo Won can afford to theorise, Ra Im can’t.
One of the best aspects of the drama is the behind-the-scenes into the world of show business. It is not just a celebration of the seventh art; it is a tribute to the “craft”, to the artistic and practical work carried out by the “invisible” people. 'Hidden' work, often without romance, capable of showing its harsh side; of Gil Ra Im who falls, gets hurt and resists, unlike the “protected” body of Kim Joo Won.
Secret Garden uses dialogue not only to generate empathy, but also to create friction; Kim Joo Won often makes controversial statements openly and without filters, without hypocrisy; He does so with disarming lucidity; he is a privileged individual who explicitly states the unwritten rules of the system, using money as a criterion of value and love as a luxury, going so far as to define poverty, at least initially, as an individual fault or failure. The point is that he is often right from the system's point of view, and this is precisely what makes him disturbing, at least initially. Each of his “pills of quick philosophy” is actually an act of social positioning: he is not just talking to Gil Ra Im, but from a class position that he takes for granted as natural, inevitable, almost biological. It is one of the foundations of melodrama, as a space for class conflict. Secret Garden works on a classic principle: character is revealed through language, a truly sharp tool of unmasking that inevitably leads the viewer to take a stand.
It is in this context that Secret Garden introduces the element of fantasy, not as an escape from reality, but as a tool for questioning. The famous trick of the “exchange” is the key point. The fantastical ploy does not destroy the moral realism of the series. On the contrary, it allows ethical continuity to be re-established. Only by inhabiting the other's body does the male protagonist understand fatigue, pain and humiliation. The fantastical becomes a tool of human truth. Melodrama replaces “social conflict” with an “embodied” experience, in which understanding the other passes through the body that “works” ... The fantastical does not “deny” realism, it “translates” it onto the moral plane. In this unstable balance, “Secret Garden” reveals the profound workings of contemporary melodrama: not erasing reality, but “taming” it. Not a critique of the world, but the illusion that changing one's point of view – or body – is enough to make it right. This is the focus. The heart of the drama.
In this twist, even the “fairytale” element of Andersen's “The Little Mermaid” becomes a meta-narrative key; a metaphor for sacrifice, pain, unrequited love, but also for transformation and personal growth. The fairy tale is not just a love story, but a reflection on sacrifice and the idea of belonging to two worlds that never completely meet. The Little Mermaid gives everything for love, but does not get what she wants.
Although the drama does not simply follow the same trajectory as the fable, the dramatic “accident” marks a crucial moment of transformation; the concept of sacrifice is brought into play at more complex levels. The metaphor of invisible sacrifice, which runs through Ra Im's life as a stuntwoman, but also Kim Joo Won as a desperate lover, becomes even more tangible, forcing the characters to confront a situation that ends up being beyond their (im)possibility of control.
It is not just a plot twist, but a further, powerful narrative engine that drives the protagonists of the story towards a deeper understanding of themselves and others. At this point, the lines between fairy-tale imagination and the reality of their existence become blurred, and the series reaches a new emotional and symbolic dimension. A story that also expresses a genealogical and moral dimension; it is not just a story of love and class relations, but also of inheritance, of what is passed on – or denied – from one generation to the next. Mother and father are not secondary figures: they are active, almost allegorical principles.
Joo Won's mother is one of the most radical characters in the drama precisely because she does not change. And this, in a melodrama, is very rare. Park Joon Geum's extraordinary performance, intentionally over the top – almost Disney-esque – is a deliberate choice: she is an iconic villain, not psychological, she does not need to be explained, she embodies a principle. She is the ruling class that does not apologise. In her opposition to Gil Ra Im, she does not lie, she does not hide, she does not pretend to be polite, she openly says what often remains implicit: love is not enough when it challenges wealth, name and the continuity of privilege. Hers is a motherhood that is not emotional but dynastic. To morally “disinherit” Joo Won means punishing him not for who he loves, but for breaking the chain of social obedience. Power may lose a sentimental battle, but it never symbolically abdicates.
If Joo Won's mother is the power that preserves, Gil Ra Im's father is the sacrifice that transforms. He is not just any father; he is a saviour, a public servant, a worker ready to sacrifice himself to protect others: What he does for Kim Joo Won ends up being Gil Ra Im's “condemnation”. He creates a moral debt that runs throughout the series. The trauma of the lift, of enclosed spaces, is not simply a phobia, it is the “physical” sign of one life saved at the cost of another. A spirit-guide, an “invisible” director who “arranges” the exchange of bodies/souls; It is not an abstract deity, a random magic; it is a father's desire to redress an original injustice (and we know at what price); but destiny, as mentioned above, is often already mapped out and cannot always be rewritten... it is not always fair, but it is consistent. Here too, there are two extraordinarily antithetical figures: Joo Won's mother inherits, preserves, excludes, representing the world as it is. Gil Ra Im's father gives, sacrifices himself, tries to restore balance, even morally; he represents the world as it should be.
Oska and Yoon Seul, two extraordinarily intertwined characters; he, a Hallyu star, a “mature” idol, not only in terms of age, but also in terms of structure: rich, famous, but deeply insecure; he must fight to remain relevant, but at the same time, he experiences the entertainment industry as a cage. He is on his seventh album, i.e. at a stage where talent is no longer a promise but a “responsibility”. He does not have to prove he can sing: He has to prove he still has something to say. His creative block does not stem from a lack of inspiration, but from an excess of awareness. He knows how the market works, he knows what is expected of him, and that is precisely why every song risk sounding like a replica, or worse, plagiarism. The characterization of Han Tae Son, played by the young and charismatic Lee Jong Suk, is emblematically perfect. He is a rising talent, still “pure”, uncorrupted by the entertainment industry, capable of “reading” Oska's life and career, literally opening his eyes and mind.
Yoon Seul is “beautiful and rich”, but she never exploits these qualities for narrative gain. She does not ask for protection or a trivial social status, nor does she use love as a strategy. Her aspiration to find the right path in the entertainment world is not a whim: it is a choice of positioning within the cultural industry. She wants to stay behind the appearance, the image, not inside it; it is a rejection of the role assigned to her by her social position; she was Oska's “muse”, but she overturns the clichés of Korean dramas; a truly modern, independent figure, who nevertheless does not disdain clever tricks to win back her true love.
The perfect balance between the various narrative aspects, combined with the superb cast, is truly the key to the success of the series. The mixture of genuine emotion and pure entertainment, the inclusion of surreal situations linked to the “exchange”, enrich the drama with comedy and emotional tension, creating a unique multidimensional atmosphere. The two lead actors not only carry the love story forward, but with the swap, their bodies become the ideal playground for exploring emotions and relationships that go beyond appearances. The comical interactions become a vehicle for showing their vulnerabilities, but also a way to complicate the dynamics of their relationship with each other and with the other players.
The interplay between the characters, both in the beautiful interlude in Jeju (where literally anything happens) and during the stay at the golf course residence, allows for a series of unexpected situations to develop, exploring intimacy, jealousy and mutual understanding in new ways. But it also leads to more painful discoveries and moments of rupture in interpersonal relationships, such as in the rapport between Ra Im and her boss Jong Soo (Lee Phillip, excellent). The exchange becomes a tool for contemporary introspection, but also for cruelly selfish “emotional manipulation”.
A melodrama that does not sugarcoat reality, but makes it bearable only after showing it for what it is... The conclusion of ‘Secret Garden’, on the surface of the narrative, may appear reassuring: it is an ending that follows the rules of melodrama, offering the viewer a form of emotional pacification. But to stop there would be to misunderstand the deeper meaning of the story.
The real ending of ‘Secret Garden’ is not projected forward, but rather looks back. It is contained in a silent and devastating flashback, which retroactively reconstructs the fate of the central characters: the young Kim Joo Won, wounded and still in shock, goes to the funeral chamber of the firefighter who saved his life; there, in a gesture of absolute innocence, he lies down next to the young Gil Ra Im, devastated by the pain of losing her father.
In that image, stripped of rhetoric and devoid of words, ‘Secret Garden’ declares its fundamental premise: The love between Joo Won and Ra Im does not arise from a contingent choice, but from a shared original wound. Before becoming lovers, they were two young people united by death; before desire, there was sacrifice; before feelings, there was a moral debt inscribed in their bodies and lives. In the drama, destiny is not a romantic design, but a line drawn by pain, which the characters can only cross, not erase.
This is why fantasy, body swapping, trials and separations never seem arbitrary: they are stages in a journey already inscribed in the past. The final happiness does not erase the trauma, but integrates it; it does not resolve it, but makes it bearable. Secret Garden does not promise that love will save everything, but suggests that it can at least give meaning to what has been lost.
10/10
Around them is a colorful microcosm that sums up Korean showbiz, made up of eccentric idols such as singer Oska (Yoon Sang Hyun, extraordinary and hilarious), stars in crisis – including personal crises – looking for a creative comeback, his ex, Yoon Seul (Kim Sa Rang, beautiful and perfect), a young heiress, music businesswoman and aspiring filmmaker, and the whole underworld of show business made up of artists seeking their fortune and an academy of stuntmen who risk their precarious lives every day in the name of cinema.
Between past traumas, crossing stories, despotic mothers, role reversals (and body swaps!), a magical contemporary fairy tale set in dreamlike scenarios, accompanied by a fabulous soundtrack, where fate and destiny inevitably intertwine, marking the lives of all the protagonists forever.
An extraordinary “social” melodrama capable of using fantasy as a magnifying glass for “reality”, Secret Garden stylishly transcends the limits of romantic fantasy, decoding the genre and cinematic language through a complex narrative structure, literary references (Andersen and Carroll, above all) and witty dialogue, deep and poetic, and unconventional choices that constantly revitalize a multi-layered story, suggesting that nothing is truly random and drawing the viewer into a whirlwind that ties the characters' destinies together, far beyond what appears on the surface.
Beyond the (beautiful) love story, Secret Garden immediately raises questions about themes such as the power of money, the concrete violence of social differences, and a moral dimension that is never pacifying or consoling, but rather raw, direct and unpleasant. But the drama also speaks to us of dedication to work, friendship and sacrifice, physical labour, and everyday life marked by the precariousness of an independence built more out of necessity than choice. It is not only a narrative device, but also a moral and social one, capable of undermining identities, roles and hierarchies, forcing the characters to look at the world – and themselves – from a radically different perspective.
A collision, an unlikely, jarring encounter/clash between two worlds that are inevitably destined not to understand each other: that of Kim Joo Won, made up of power, high status and a normative language where everything has a price, every relationship a balance of power (think of the dates planned for arranged marriages); the incredible urban complex where Joo Won and Oska live, with its modern, clean lines, might be reminiscent of Philip Johnson's Glass House or Mies van der Rohe's Farnsworth House because of their minimalist elegance, but, just like the houses of these architects, they are places that reflect a kind of detachment from the outside world. Places where Gil Ra Im “literally” gets lost.
And then there is Gil Ra Im's world, which does not deal with abstract principles but is concrete, linked to the body, work, effort, reactive and not programmatic; being a stuntwoman means replacing others, taking risks without receiving recognition, remaining invisible behind the spectacular performances of others (like the entire part involving the star Park Chae Rin). Joo Won can afford to theorise, Ra Im can’t.
One of the best aspects of the drama is the behind-the-scenes into the world of show business. It is not just a celebration of the seventh art; it is a tribute to the “craft”, to the artistic and practical work carried out by the “invisible” people. 'Hidden' work, often without romance, capable of showing its harsh side; of Gil Ra Im who falls, gets hurt and resists, unlike the “protected” body of Kim Joo Won.
Secret Garden uses dialogue not only to generate empathy, but also to create friction; Kim Joo Won often makes controversial statements openly and without filters, without hypocrisy; He does so with disarming lucidity; he is a privileged individual who explicitly states the unwritten rules of the system, using money as a criterion of value and love as a luxury, going so far as to define poverty, at least initially, as an individual fault or failure. The point is that he is often right from the system's point of view, and this is precisely what makes him disturbing, at least initially. Each of his “pills of quick philosophy” is actually an act of social positioning: he is not just talking to Gil Ra Im, but from a class position that he takes for granted as natural, inevitable, almost biological. It is one of the foundations of melodrama, as a space for class conflict. Secret Garden works on a classic principle: character is revealed through language, a truly sharp tool of unmasking that inevitably leads the viewer to take a stand.
It is in this context that Secret Garden introduces the element of fantasy, not as an escape from reality, but as a tool for questioning. The famous trick of the “exchange” is the key point. The fantastical ploy does not destroy the moral realism of the series. On the contrary, it allows ethical continuity to be re-established. Only by inhabiting the other's body does the male protagonist understand fatigue, pain and humiliation. The fantastical becomes a tool of human truth. Melodrama replaces “social conflict” with an “embodied” experience, in which understanding the other passes through the body that “works” ... The fantastical does not “deny” realism, it “translates” it onto the moral plane. In this unstable balance, “Secret Garden” reveals the profound workings of contemporary melodrama: not erasing reality, but “taming” it. Not a critique of the world, but the illusion that changing one's point of view – or body – is enough to make it right. This is the focus. The heart of the drama.
In this twist, even the “fairytale” element of Andersen's “The Little Mermaid” becomes a meta-narrative key; a metaphor for sacrifice, pain, unrequited love, but also for transformation and personal growth. The fairy tale is not just a love story, but a reflection on sacrifice and the idea of belonging to two worlds that never completely meet. The Little Mermaid gives everything for love, but does not get what she wants.
Although the drama does not simply follow the same trajectory as the fable, the dramatic “accident” marks a crucial moment of transformation; the concept of sacrifice is brought into play at more complex levels. The metaphor of invisible sacrifice, which runs through Ra Im's life as a stuntwoman, but also Kim Joo Won as a desperate lover, becomes even more tangible, forcing the characters to confront a situation that ends up being beyond their (im)possibility of control.
It is not just a plot twist, but a further, powerful narrative engine that drives the protagonists of the story towards a deeper understanding of themselves and others. At this point, the lines between fairy-tale imagination and the reality of their existence become blurred, and the series reaches a new emotional and symbolic dimension. A story that also expresses a genealogical and moral dimension; it is not just a story of love and class relations, but also of inheritance, of what is passed on – or denied – from one generation to the next. Mother and father are not secondary figures: they are active, almost allegorical principles.
Joo Won's mother is one of the most radical characters in the drama precisely because she does not change. And this, in a melodrama, is very rare. Park Joon Geum's extraordinary performance, intentionally over the top – almost Disney-esque – is a deliberate choice: she is an iconic villain, not psychological, she does not need to be explained, she embodies a principle. She is the ruling class that does not apologise. In her opposition to Gil Ra Im, she does not lie, she does not hide, she does not pretend to be polite, she openly says what often remains implicit: love is not enough when it challenges wealth, name and the continuity of privilege. Hers is a motherhood that is not emotional but dynastic. To morally “disinherit” Joo Won means punishing him not for who he loves, but for breaking the chain of social obedience. Power may lose a sentimental battle, but it never symbolically abdicates.
If Joo Won's mother is the power that preserves, Gil Ra Im's father is the sacrifice that transforms. He is not just any father; he is a saviour, a public servant, a worker ready to sacrifice himself to protect others: What he does for Kim Joo Won ends up being Gil Ra Im's “condemnation”. He creates a moral debt that runs throughout the series. The trauma of the lift, of enclosed spaces, is not simply a phobia, it is the “physical” sign of one life saved at the cost of another. A spirit-guide, an “invisible” director who “arranges” the exchange of bodies/souls; It is not an abstract deity, a random magic; it is a father's desire to redress an original injustice (and we know at what price); but destiny, as mentioned above, is often already mapped out and cannot always be rewritten... it is not always fair, but it is consistent. Here too, there are two extraordinarily antithetical figures: Joo Won's mother inherits, preserves, excludes, representing the world as it is. Gil Ra Im's father gives, sacrifices himself, tries to restore balance, even morally; he represents the world as it should be.
Oska and Yoon Seul, two extraordinarily intertwined characters; he, a Hallyu star, a “mature” idol, not only in terms of age, but also in terms of structure: rich, famous, but deeply insecure; he must fight to remain relevant, but at the same time, he experiences the entertainment industry as a cage. He is on his seventh album, i.e. at a stage where talent is no longer a promise but a “responsibility”. He does not have to prove he can sing: He has to prove he still has something to say. His creative block does not stem from a lack of inspiration, but from an excess of awareness. He knows how the market works, he knows what is expected of him, and that is precisely why every song risk sounding like a replica, or worse, plagiarism. The characterization of Han Tae Son, played by the young and charismatic Lee Jong Suk, is emblematically perfect. He is a rising talent, still “pure”, uncorrupted by the entertainment industry, capable of “reading” Oska's life and career, literally opening his eyes and mind.
Yoon Seul is “beautiful and rich”, but she never exploits these qualities for narrative gain. She does not ask for protection or a trivial social status, nor does she use love as a strategy. Her aspiration to find the right path in the entertainment world is not a whim: it is a choice of positioning within the cultural industry. She wants to stay behind the appearance, the image, not inside it; it is a rejection of the role assigned to her by her social position; she was Oska's “muse”, but she overturns the clichés of Korean dramas; a truly modern, independent figure, who nevertheless does not disdain clever tricks to win back her true love.
The perfect balance between the various narrative aspects, combined with the superb cast, is truly the key to the success of the series. The mixture of genuine emotion and pure entertainment, the inclusion of surreal situations linked to the “exchange”, enrich the drama with comedy and emotional tension, creating a unique multidimensional atmosphere. The two lead actors not only carry the love story forward, but with the swap, their bodies become the ideal playground for exploring emotions and relationships that go beyond appearances. The comical interactions become a vehicle for showing their vulnerabilities, but also a way to complicate the dynamics of their relationship with each other and with the other players.
The interplay between the characters, both in the beautiful interlude in Jeju (where literally anything happens) and during the stay at the golf course residence, allows for a series of unexpected situations to develop, exploring intimacy, jealousy and mutual understanding in new ways. But it also leads to more painful discoveries and moments of rupture in interpersonal relationships, such as in the rapport between Ra Im and her boss Jong Soo (Lee Phillip, excellent). The exchange becomes a tool for contemporary introspection, but also for cruelly selfish “emotional manipulation”.
A melodrama that does not sugarcoat reality, but makes it bearable only after showing it for what it is... The conclusion of ‘Secret Garden’, on the surface of the narrative, may appear reassuring: it is an ending that follows the rules of melodrama, offering the viewer a form of emotional pacification. But to stop there would be to misunderstand the deeper meaning of the story.
The real ending of ‘Secret Garden’ is not projected forward, but rather looks back. It is contained in a silent and devastating flashback, which retroactively reconstructs the fate of the central characters: the young Kim Joo Won, wounded and still in shock, goes to the funeral chamber of the firefighter who saved his life; there, in a gesture of absolute innocence, he lies down next to the young Gil Ra Im, devastated by the pain of losing her father.
In that image, stripped of rhetoric and devoid of words, ‘Secret Garden’ declares its fundamental premise: The love between Joo Won and Ra Im does not arise from a contingent choice, but from a shared original wound. Before becoming lovers, they were two young people united by death; before desire, there was sacrifice; before feelings, there was a moral debt inscribed in their bodies and lives. In the drama, destiny is not a romantic design, but a line drawn by pain, which the characters can only cross, not erase.
This is why fantasy, body swapping, trials and separations never seem arbitrary: they are stages in a journey already inscribed in the past. The final happiness does not erase the trauma, but integrates it; it does not resolve it, but makes it bearable. Secret Garden does not promise that love will save everything, but suggests that it can at least give meaning to what has been lost.
10/10
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