K-Drama 
This review may contain spoilers
If They Move, Kill Em
One of the most wonderful aspects of the Dramaverse is often that nostalgic urge to revisit a much-loved series after a while, to rekindle that sense of enjoyment, that distinctive feeling that made us love it so much, as well as the desire to start from the beginning to pick up on details we missed the first time round. ‘Snowdrop’, unfortunately, does not fall into this category.
A great story, a beautiful one, and in some ways absolutely stunning; a cast that is, for the most part, excellent; and visual composition and atmosphere that are often of the highest calibre. And yet I am almost mathematically certain of one thing: I won’t be watching it again.
Not because it’s a bad drama – far from it. The problem is that “Snowdrop” took a huge emotional and physical toll on me. Sixteen episodes, often running to nearly an hour and a half – and in some cases even longer – become a sort of marathon of psychological endurance. The overriding feeling, at least for me, was one and the same: claustrophobia.
And not just because much of the story takes place in the dormitory at Hosu Women’s University. It is the very structure of the drama that transforms almost every space into a trap. The dormitory, the military camp, the rooms where the ANSP leadership and the military decide the fate of the hostages, the political circles and even the Boutique Charmant become closed, suffocating spaces in which the characters never seem to have a real chance of escape.
At one point, I literally felt as though the school’s roof was right over my head.
And it’s a feeling which, in my view, isn’t just down to the story being told, but to the way in which “Snowdrop” chooses to tell it. The architecture gradually becomes a psychological element of the narrative: we aren’t simply inside these spaces; we are prisoners alongside the characters.
In “Snowdrop”, the set design is not merely a backdrop, but almost becomes a reflection of the characters’ circumstances. The dormitory is the first, and most obvious, of these cages. What should be a place of growth, friendship and freedom for the students of Hosu Women’s University quickly becomes a bunker. Narrow corridors, staircases, underground passages, crowded rooms: every space seems to gradually lose its original function, transforming into something hostile. The girls are not simply held captive: they are physically and metaphorically crushed between two power structures – the North and the South Korean – which, for entirely different reasons, arrive at the same conclusion: their lives are expendable.
And the paradox is that nobody on the outside seems to be in any real hurry (or to have any real need, as will gradually become clear) to set them free.
The military camp and the offices of the ANSP leadership and the military constitute a second prison, seemingly the opposite of the first. Here there are no terrified female students, but men convinced that they are in control of the situation, that they have the power to decide the fate of the hostages and, ultimately, to pull the strings of the political game. Yet even these environments are cold, closed off, rooms almost devoid of air. Those who believe themselves to be in charge (with utterly tragicomic results) are themselves prisoners of the very same mechanism at play, the product of the most absurd bureaucracy.
Equally intriguing, in its own way, is the Boutique Charmant, the social hub for the wives of the influential. A place seemingly a world away from the dormitory – elegant and refined – where the women of the elite move amongst dresses, jewellery and (fake) smiles whilst backstabbing one another to secure their husbands’ power and, of course, their own status. But in some ways, even this place is a sort of (golden) prison. Hence that sense of particular claustrophobia: the series doesn’t allow us a single place where we can breathe. In stories of siege or espionage, there is usually a certain alternation between dangers, escapes, hideouts, truces and so on; moments are created in which the characters – and we, the viewers – can let our guard down.
It is virtually non-existent here (the exception of the attic will, ironically, find its definitive fulfilment right at the very end).
The female students are in danger within their own home; the North Koreans are besieged from the outside by the ANSP and from within by the risk of riots, betrayals and mutinies; the men of the South Korean establishment are, in turn, prisoners of a political game that towers over them. No one is truly safe. And after a while, the viewer begins to feel unsafe too.
And this is where, in my view, “Snowdrop” makes a choice that is as effective as it is grueling: it freezes time.
The siege, which on paper ought to lead to a continuous escalation, ends up turning into a sort of enormous temporal parenthesis. The outside world exists, but it seems a world away; the world within is almost motionless. The characters speak, negotiate, threaten, betray one another, switch allegiances, raise their weapons and then lower them. And we remain there, inside that dormitory.
For long stretches, I felt as though I were watching the longest Mexican standoff I can remember. Not so much because there is a lack of events, but because the tension builds much more rapidly than the narrative progresses.
There are weapons everywhere, hostages, infiltrators, soldiers ready to intervene, ultimatums, threats of execution, betrayals and counter-betrayals; yet for a surprisingly long stretch of the series, there is relatively little shooting and few definitive consequences. The system must continue to maintain a balance because the main characters must remain within that place, and so every twist tends to produce a new stalemate.
Point the gun. Make threats. Negotiate. Uncover a betrayal. Renegotiate. Point the gun again. And start all over.
It is a pattern which, repeated over sixteen episodes, produces a peculiar effect: the suspense does not disappear, but gradually turns into exhaustion.
There comes a point where my experience as a viewer diverges most significantly from what I imagine was the filmmakers’ intention. I fully understand the desire to maintain a constant sense of dread, to never grant a real respite, to turn the viewer themselves into a hostage, just like the characters. It’s just that I felt that very sensation, almost as if I were viewing it as more than merely a narrative device.
The political dimension of “Snowdrop” lends an even broader significance to that sense of captivity. Because, on closer inspection, it is not only the female students who are held hostage in the hall of residence. Almost everyone is.
Set in 1987, during one of the most delicate periods in South Korean history, at a time of historic transition, the drama constructs its political narrative by cleverly exploiting the so-called communist threat to stoke fear and sway public opinion to the advantage of those in power.
The scheme depicted in the drama is ruthless precisely because of its simplicity: the crisis is fuelled and then exploited for political ends, whilst the hostages in the hall of residence become far more than simply people to be rescued.
They are electoral pawns, in a reflection on contemporary society that proves truly illuminating: for the leadership of both sides, the lives of citizens, students and even their own agents can become expendable when a greater interest is at stake.
Those who appear to be in control thus discover that they, too, are pawns, ready to be eliminated as soon as the leadership’s plans change.
Paradoxically, North Koreans often seem more relatable on a human level: they have bonds, fears, loyalties and affections. South Korean institutions, by contrast, appear colder and more instrumental, because political ends tend to overshadow everything else. But ultimately the result is the same: ideologies change, uniforms change, but the logic of sacrifice remains the same.
What I had described as a massive Mexican standoff takes on a different meaning. Everyone is pointing their guns, everyone is threatening everyone else, but no one is truly free to pull the trigger. The dormitory becomes the focal point of a political game far bigger than its occupants.
It is a conceptually very effective structure. Perhaps even too effective, because the feeling of being trapped that I had sensed within the narrative structure ends up being transferred directly to the viewer. “Snowdrop” almost never offers a way out: neither to its characters, nor to its story, nor to those watching it.
Within this system, in which everyone seems to be nothing more than pawns, the one thing that truly tries to defy the rules of the game emerges: the love between Soo-ho and Young-ro. “Snowdrop” never really promises that this story might have a future. Right from the very first episodes, it is clear that this is a hopelessly impossible love. The drama doesn’t deceive us: it lays out the rules of the game straight away and then does something far crueller – it lets us hope all the same.
It is their relationship that makes the drama all the more painful. In classic love stories, falling in love tends to broaden the characters’ world; here, the opposite happens: love narrows it. So-ho and Young-ro can only meet in the hidden corners of the dormitory, in the attic, in secluded rooms. They are buried alive inside that building and, paradoxically, it is precisely there that they find their inner freedom.
Young-ro goes from seeing Soo-ho as a threat to wanting to protect him, trusting him and, ultimately, loving him. Soo-ho, in turn, goes from seeing her as a complication to making her the reason why it is worth disobeying. Love thus becomes the means by which both of them gradually cease to be pawns of their respective organisations.
It is significant that the whole thing remains extremely chaste: it thrives on glances, anticipation, protection and small gestures. Almost on absence. It is a love story built on the inability to have.
When Soo-ho reassures Young-ro, those words take on an almost tragic significance: they are not necessarily a promise about the future, but a way of protecting her from the present. It is the age-old mechanism of melodrama: I know how it will end; you must not know yet.
That is why every tender moment becomes both romantic and sorrowful. And whilst the plot continues to unfold – North, South, betrayal, counter-betrayal, guns drawn and fresh negotiations – their relationship, by contrast, moves in only one direction: they are growing closer.
And the closer they get, the more obvious it becomes that the world around them will not let them get anywhere. When Soo-ho finally returns to the dormitory, there is no longer any need to pretend that another possibility might exist. The circle closes right there, in the very place where it all began, beside Young-ro. His return is not an escape to safety, but the acceptance of a fate that “Snowdrop” had planned from the very beginning.
And perhaps that is the most bitter thing of all: the system is never truly defeated. It can punish those who have betrayed it, sacrifice its own pawns, and then carry on as if nothing had happened. The dormitory, on the other hand, can once again become a place of life, but only after having learnt the price.
In the end, there remains that feeling that is hard to shake off: in “Snowdrop” there is no real victory, only someone who, for once, chose not to obey the rules imposed on them to the letter.
History may change, systems may change, even generations may change, but for those who find themselves living with the consequences, there is not always a real reward, nor a sense of justice capable of putting everything back in its rightful place. What remains is the memory of what might have been, of a life merely imagined and of a love which, however brief and impossible, managed, at least for a moment, to escape from everything else.
It is a painful conclusion exactly because it offers no consolation: sometimes history does not even grant its protagonists the right to live the life they would have chosen.
A cast of this calibre benefits enormously from “Snowdrop”’s massive running time: sixteen episodes lasting eighty, ninety minutes or more offer the actors a scope rarely seen for developing characters full of contradictions, second thoughts and grey areas. And perhaps this is one of the series’ greatest strengths: almost no one can be neatly pigeonholed into the good/bad dichotomy. Everyone seems to be hiding something; everyone can be both a victim and a perpetrator at the same time; and the uncertainty over who can truly be trusted stays with the viewer for much of the story.
Jung Hae-in stands out above all others, delivering a truly remarkable performance. Soo-ho goes through virtually every possible emotional state: he is the team leader, the soldier who must obey orders, the man blackmailed by the threat hanging over his sister, the man trying to survive whilst simultaneously protecting the hostages, and finally the man in love who gradually realises just how little control he now has over his own destiny.
Hae-in manages to blend strength, fear, fragility, contradictions and sudden twists, guiding us step by step through the awakening of a character who realises ever more clearly that he is being crushed by something far greater than himself. In a story that constantly changes its own rules, it is a performance that must change alongside them.
Yoon Se-ah is also very convincing: initially almost a caricature of the stern governess from “Heidi” – even made to look less attractive for the role – she is then gradually revealed to be a much more complex character. Her evolution is one of many examples of how “Snowdrop” loves to challenge first impressions: someone who appears to be one thing may be something else entirely.
Yoo In-na is also excellent, perfect in the role of the infiltrated North Korean spy, with all the cunning, seduction and duplicity that belong to the finest tradition of spy films. And, let’s face it, with remarkable sex appeal.
The characters played by Yoon Se-ah and Yoo In-na then become almost two variations on the same theme: don’t trust first impressions. And they won’t be the only ones
There are, however, still some reservations about Jisoo. Young-ro works well, and Jisoo manages to bring that ‘girl-next-door’ spontaneity that the character requires; in the moments of greatest emotional intensity, however, the gap between her and the more experienced actors in the cast is at times noticeable. It is not a poor performance, far from it: it is simply that realm of pathos where, in my view, she could have dared to go a little further.
Ultimately, then, my opinion stems from the realisation of just how much “Snowdrop” manages to achieve, despite everything that put me to the test whilst watching it. It is an ambitious, multi-layered and visually striking drama, backed by an excellent cast and capable of turning its lengthy running time into a formidable machine of tension, emotion and plot twists. But it is also a machine that, at least for me, worked all too well.
Because the very qualities that make it so powerful are the ones that have gradually drained me: the relentless tension, the seemingly never-ending siege, the claustrophobia, the accumulation of tragedies and that constant feeling that there is never a real moment in which to catch my breath. When I reached the end, rather than feeling satisfied, I felt drained.
And this is the curious paradox of my opinion: I can recognise that “Snowdrop” has merits that fully justify a high rating. I enjoyed it. It drew me in. It gave me a great deal to think about. But, once I’d finished it, the only thing I wanted was to get out of that school.
7 ½
A great story, a beautiful one, and in some ways absolutely stunning; a cast that is, for the most part, excellent; and visual composition and atmosphere that are often of the highest calibre. And yet I am almost mathematically certain of one thing: I won’t be watching it again.
Not because it’s a bad drama – far from it. The problem is that “Snowdrop” took a huge emotional and physical toll on me. Sixteen episodes, often running to nearly an hour and a half – and in some cases even longer – become a sort of marathon of psychological endurance. The overriding feeling, at least for me, was one and the same: claustrophobia.
And not just because much of the story takes place in the dormitory at Hosu Women’s University. It is the very structure of the drama that transforms almost every space into a trap. The dormitory, the military camp, the rooms where the ANSP leadership and the military decide the fate of the hostages, the political circles and even the Boutique Charmant become closed, suffocating spaces in which the characters never seem to have a real chance of escape.
At one point, I literally felt as though the school’s roof was right over my head.
And it’s a feeling which, in my view, isn’t just down to the story being told, but to the way in which “Snowdrop” chooses to tell it. The architecture gradually becomes a psychological element of the narrative: we aren’t simply inside these spaces; we are prisoners alongside the characters.
In “Snowdrop”, the set design is not merely a backdrop, but almost becomes a reflection of the characters’ circumstances. The dormitory is the first, and most obvious, of these cages. What should be a place of growth, friendship and freedom for the students of Hosu Women’s University quickly becomes a bunker. Narrow corridors, staircases, underground passages, crowded rooms: every space seems to gradually lose its original function, transforming into something hostile. The girls are not simply held captive: they are physically and metaphorically crushed between two power structures – the North and the South Korean – which, for entirely different reasons, arrive at the same conclusion: their lives are expendable.
And the paradox is that nobody on the outside seems to be in any real hurry (or to have any real need, as will gradually become clear) to set them free.
The military camp and the offices of the ANSP leadership and the military constitute a second prison, seemingly the opposite of the first. Here there are no terrified female students, but men convinced that they are in control of the situation, that they have the power to decide the fate of the hostages and, ultimately, to pull the strings of the political game. Yet even these environments are cold, closed off, rooms almost devoid of air. Those who believe themselves to be in charge (with utterly tragicomic results) are themselves prisoners of the very same mechanism at play, the product of the most absurd bureaucracy.
Equally intriguing, in its own way, is the Boutique Charmant, the social hub for the wives of the influential. A place seemingly a world away from the dormitory – elegant and refined – where the women of the elite move amongst dresses, jewellery and (fake) smiles whilst backstabbing one another to secure their husbands’ power and, of course, their own status. But in some ways, even this place is a sort of (golden) prison. Hence that sense of particular claustrophobia: the series doesn’t allow us a single place where we can breathe. In stories of siege or espionage, there is usually a certain alternation between dangers, escapes, hideouts, truces and so on; moments are created in which the characters – and we, the viewers – can let our guard down.
It is virtually non-existent here (the exception of the attic will, ironically, find its definitive fulfilment right at the very end).
The female students are in danger within their own home; the North Koreans are besieged from the outside by the ANSP and from within by the risk of riots, betrayals and mutinies; the men of the South Korean establishment are, in turn, prisoners of a political game that towers over them. No one is truly safe. And after a while, the viewer begins to feel unsafe too.
And this is where, in my view, “Snowdrop” makes a choice that is as effective as it is grueling: it freezes time.
The siege, which on paper ought to lead to a continuous escalation, ends up turning into a sort of enormous temporal parenthesis. The outside world exists, but it seems a world away; the world within is almost motionless. The characters speak, negotiate, threaten, betray one another, switch allegiances, raise their weapons and then lower them. And we remain there, inside that dormitory.
For long stretches, I felt as though I were watching the longest Mexican standoff I can remember. Not so much because there is a lack of events, but because the tension builds much more rapidly than the narrative progresses.
There are weapons everywhere, hostages, infiltrators, soldiers ready to intervene, ultimatums, threats of execution, betrayals and counter-betrayals; yet for a surprisingly long stretch of the series, there is relatively little shooting and few definitive consequences. The system must continue to maintain a balance because the main characters must remain within that place, and so every twist tends to produce a new stalemate.
Point the gun. Make threats. Negotiate. Uncover a betrayal. Renegotiate. Point the gun again. And start all over.
It is a pattern which, repeated over sixteen episodes, produces a peculiar effect: the suspense does not disappear, but gradually turns into exhaustion.
There comes a point where my experience as a viewer diverges most significantly from what I imagine was the filmmakers’ intention. I fully understand the desire to maintain a constant sense of dread, to never grant a real respite, to turn the viewer themselves into a hostage, just like the characters. It’s just that I felt that very sensation, almost as if I were viewing it as more than merely a narrative device.
The political dimension of “Snowdrop” lends an even broader significance to that sense of captivity. Because, on closer inspection, it is not only the female students who are held hostage in the hall of residence. Almost everyone is.
Set in 1987, during one of the most delicate periods in South Korean history, at a time of historic transition, the drama constructs its political narrative by cleverly exploiting the so-called communist threat to stoke fear and sway public opinion to the advantage of those in power.
The scheme depicted in the drama is ruthless precisely because of its simplicity: the crisis is fuelled and then exploited for political ends, whilst the hostages in the hall of residence become far more than simply people to be rescued.
They are electoral pawns, in a reflection on contemporary society that proves truly illuminating: for the leadership of both sides, the lives of citizens, students and even their own agents can become expendable when a greater interest is at stake.
Those who appear to be in control thus discover that they, too, are pawns, ready to be eliminated as soon as the leadership’s plans change.
Paradoxically, North Koreans often seem more relatable on a human level: they have bonds, fears, loyalties and affections. South Korean institutions, by contrast, appear colder and more instrumental, because political ends tend to overshadow everything else. But ultimately the result is the same: ideologies change, uniforms change, but the logic of sacrifice remains the same.
What I had described as a massive Mexican standoff takes on a different meaning. Everyone is pointing their guns, everyone is threatening everyone else, but no one is truly free to pull the trigger. The dormitory becomes the focal point of a political game far bigger than its occupants.
It is a conceptually very effective structure. Perhaps even too effective, because the feeling of being trapped that I had sensed within the narrative structure ends up being transferred directly to the viewer. “Snowdrop” almost never offers a way out: neither to its characters, nor to its story, nor to those watching it.
Within this system, in which everyone seems to be nothing more than pawns, the one thing that truly tries to defy the rules of the game emerges: the love between Soo-ho and Young-ro. “Snowdrop” never really promises that this story might have a future. Right from the very first episodes, it is clear that this is a hopelessly impossible love. The drama doesn’t deceive us: it lays out the rules of the game straight away and then does something far crueller – it lets us hope all the same.
It is their relationship that makes the drama all the more painful. In classic love stories, falling in love tends to broaden the characters’ world; here, the opposite happens: love narrows it. So-ho and Young-ro can only meet in the hidden corners of the dormitory, in the attic, in secluded rooms. They are buried alive inside that building and, paradoxically, it is precisely there that they find their inner freedom.
Young-ro goes from seeing Soo-ho as a threat to wanting to protect him, trusting him and, ultimately, loving him. Soo-ho, in turn, goes from seeing her as a complication to making her the reason why it is worth disobeying. Love thus becomes the means by which both of them gradually cease to be pawns of their respective organisations.
It is significant that the whole thing remains extremely chaste: it thrives on glances, anticipation, protection and small gestures. Almost on absence. It is a love story built on the inability to have.
When Soo-ho reassures Young-ro, those words take on an almost tragic significance: they are not necessarily a promise about the future, but a way of protecting her from the present. It is the age-old mechanism of melodrama: I know how it will end; you must not know yet.
That is why every tender moment becomes both romantic and sorrowful. And whilst the plot continues to unfold – North, South, betrayal, counter-betrayal, guns drawn and fresh negotiations – their relationship, by contrast, moves in only one direction: they are growing closer.
And the closer they get, the more obvious it becomes that the world around them will not let them get anywhere. When Soo-ho finally returns to the dormitory, there is no longer any need to pretend that another possibility might exist. The circle closes right there, in the very place where it all began, beside Young-ro. His return is not an escape to safety, but the acceptance of a fate that “Snowdrop” had planned from the very beginning.
And perhaps that is the most bitter thing of all: the system is never truly defeated. It can punish those who have betrayed it, sacrifice its own pawns, and then carry on as if nothing had happened. The dormitory, on the other hand, can once again become a place of life, but only after having learnt the price.
In the end, there remains that feeling that is hard to shake off: in “Snowdrop” there is no real victory, only someone who, for once, chose not to obey the rules imposed on them to the letter.
History may change, systems may change, even generations may change, but for those who find themselves living with the consequences, there is not always a real reward, nor a sense of justice capable of putting everything back in its rightful place. What remains is the memory of what might have been, of a life merely imagined and of a love which, however brief and impossible, managed, at least for a moment, to escape from everything else.
It is a painful conclusion exactly because it offers no consolation: sometimes history does not even grant its protagonists the right to live the life they would have chosen.
A cast of this calibre benefits enormously from “Snowdrop”’s massive running time: sixteen episodes lasting eighty, ninety minutes or more offer the actors a scope rarely seen for developing characters full of contradictions, second thoughts and grey areas. And perhaps this is one of the series’ greatest strengths: almost no one can be neatly pigeonholed into the good/bad dichotomy. Everyone seems to be hiding something; everyone can be both a victim and a perpetrator at the same time; and the uncertainty over who can truly be trusted stays with the viewer for much of the story.
Jung Hae-in stands out above all others, delivering a truly remarkable performance. Soo-ho goes through virtually every possible emotional state: he is the team leader, the soldier who must obey orders, the man blackmailed by the threat hanging over his sister, the man trying to survive whilst simultaneously protecting the hostages, and finally the man in love who gradually realises just how little control he now has over his own destiny.
Hae-in manages to blend strength, fear, fragility, contradictions and sudden twists, guiding us step by step through the awakening of a character who realises ever more clearly that he is being crushed by something far greater than himself. In a story that constantly changes its own rules, it is a performance that must change alongside them.
Yoon Se-ah is also very convincing: initially almost a caricature of the stern governess from “Heidi” – even made to look less attractive for the role – she is then gradually revealed to be a much more complex character. Her evolution is one of many examples of how “Snowdrop” loves to challenge first impressions: someone who appears to be one thing may be something else entirely.
Yoo In-na is also excellent, perfect in the role of the infiltrated North Korean spy, with all the cunning, seduction and duplicity that belong to the finest tradition of spy films. And, let’s face it, with remarkable sex appeal.
The characters played by Yoon Se-ah and Yoo In-na then become almost two variations on the same theme: don’t trust first impressions. And they won’t be the only ones
There are, however, still some reservations about Jisoo. Young-ro works well, and Jisoo manages to bring that ‘girl-next-door’ spontaneity that the character requires; in the moments of greatest emotional intensity, however, the gap between her and the more experienced actors in the cast is at times noticeable. It is not a poor performance, far from it: it is simply that realm of pathos where, in my view, she could have dared to go a little further.
Ultimately, then, my opinion stems from the realisation of just how much “Snowdrop” manages to achieve, despite everything that put me to the test whilst watching it. It is an ambitious, multi-layered and visually striking drama, backed by an excellent cast and capable of turning its lengthy running time into a formidable machine of tension, emotion and plot twists. But it is also a machine that, at least for me, worked all too well.
Because the very qualities that make it so powerful are the ones that have gradually drained me: the relentless tension, the seemingly never-ending siege, the claustrophobia, the accumulation of tragedies and that constant feeling that there is never a real moment in which to catch my breath. When I reached the end, rather than feeling satisfied, I felt drained.
And this is the curious paradox of my opinion: I can recognise that “Snowdrop” has merits that fully justify a high rating. I enjoyed it. It drew me in. It gave me a great deal to think about. But, once I’d finished it, the only thing I wanted was to get out of that school.
7 ½
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