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When (low) life gives you porcelain
South Korea, '70s: Eyeing the opportunity for a highly lucrative business deal, small-time criminal O Gwan Seok and his nephew O Hui Dong join a ship expedition intent on recovering a large quantity of Chinese ceramics. The submerged treasure is located inside a wreck sunk off the coast of Mokpo, in South Jeolla Province; however, they need to find a financier and some divers, all without arousing the suspicion of the police and any rival treasure hunters...One could start from the assumption that ‘Low Life’ is not exactly a production for all tastes, given that the accumulation of stylistic elements within it goes somewhat against the grain of the classic (even aesthetic) canons of the multitude of more openly celebrated contemporary dramas.
While it is true that at times it seems almost like a coming-of-age story, and the voiceover in several places reinforces this idea, adding a melodramatic element that is perhaps a little rhetorical but undoubtedly charming, it is nevertheless in the generalised human scenario that the main strengths lie.
At the heart of it all, as always when it comes to money, fortune, wealth and “treasures”, there is obviously greed and avidity, which here go hand in hand with the inevitable feeling of vain hope and social redemption linked to the ephemeral illusion of achieving economic targets.
Certainly valuable and courageous is the choice to represent a microcosm of marginal characters, outcasts and petty criminals, ready to fight each other in order to obtain the coveted ‘treasure’ in the illusion that this lucrative opportunity could change their lives.
Modern buccaneers, one might say.
And mind you, greed here is not limited to certain characters in the drama, but is a generalised fault that overwhelms every single element of the story and, in many places, spares no one, not even in the fleeting emotional bonds that occasionally reveal themselves, perhaps with the illusion of some search for “normality”.
Undoubtedly, it is a picture full of shadows and contradictions, where, at least for a large part of the drama, there is no room for purity and moral integrity, and where every character in the story, either by their own decision or by a cruel twist of fate, ends up choosing the most immediate path, as well as, inevitably, the most dangerous one.
For some, a certain ‘harshness’ in the approach to ‘Low Life’ may be determined by an almost wait-and-see first section, which is extremely articulate and dialogue-heavy, where, cinematographically speaking, the plot development is rather limited (one could say that ‘little is happening’ from an action point of view), but which is essential for introducing the vast and varied cast, with all their peculiarities and contradictions; It is clearly with the start of the treasure hunt that, inevitably, the human dynamics and behavioural tensions that had been suppressed until then will explode...
So double-crossing, suspicion, betrayal and fragile alliances prevail, thanks to the excellent ensemble cast and skilful direction that alternates moments of comedy and black humour with sudden, chilling bursts of violence and sadism, as if to emphasise the ambiguous nature of the characters portrayed in the story.
The characterisation of O Gwan Seok by the excellent Ryu Seung-ryong is truly remarkable. He is an utterly impassive and cynical figure – a mask that seems to come straight out of 1970s genre movies – ready to do anything to achieve his targets; However, in my opinion, the talented Im Soo Jung is unbeatable in the role of the ruthless Yang Jeong Sook, a sort of cold and manipulative “dark lady” who remains unperturbed and determined for most of the story, even if her mask occasionally gives way to moments of unexpected romance.
More classic is Yang Se Jong's portrayal of the young O Hui Dong, who, while accepting the (dirty) rules of the business, bends, especially in the last few episodes, for obvious narrative reasons, to a more stereotyped and “chivalrous” representation of what is necessary.
But it is the ensemble of many well-known and distinctive faces, playing the parts of con artists, ceramist experts, suburban wrestlers and boxers, improvised divers, corrupt police officers and all the motley crew that follows them, that allows ‘Low Life’ to be appreciated as a whole.
Clearly, it is not a perfect drama; the ending is a bit rushed and perhaps too ‘open,’ and, as already mentioned, patience and attention are required at the beginning. There may also be some somewhat forced twists at the end, but you are rewarded with a beautiful adventure that offers an interesting—and nostalgic—portrait of a particular historical period (the '70s), where the first signs of the economic and urban boom (and, of course, speculation) that will come to Seoul are already visible, in contrast to the representation of urban marginality and the aesthetics of the slums, well rendered by a careful reproduction of the locations, costumes and incredible looks of the time.
7 ½
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This Must Be the Place (To Translate Love)
The premise of Can This Love Be Translated? is undoubtedly appealing.A drama that plays on linguistic differences, manages to weave Italian into its narrative structure and moves between fascinating international settings such as Canada, Italy, Japan and Korea, it seems to have all the right ingredients to surprise. However, once the initial impact has worn off, the series reveals its limitations: a rather thin narrative, which develops according to familiar patterns and struggles to stand out and really explore the subject matter, getting lost in smoke and mirrors and convoluted musings. Everything remains superficial, proceeding by accumulation and ending in a rambling and inconclusive manner.
And that's a shame, because the set of themes deserved a much more elaborate narrative; telling the story of love, identity and trauma through the filter of linguistic and cultural translation, especially in a meta-cinematic context – albeit reduced to a horrifying case of “dating show” around the world – would in itself be an excellent starting point:
Love, like language, is an imperfect system: Something is always lost in the transition from one heart to another. It is constantly filtered: By the right words, by messages, by unspoken words that must be rephrased so as not to hurt, so as not to lose the other person. The act of translation is not only linguistic, but emotional. The characters try to make themselves “readable”...
It almost seems like a “tragedy of miscommunication”: even though they speak the same language, Ju Ho Jin and Cha Mu Hui do not understand each other, and translators are not needed when the problem is not language, but meaning.
In this game of “emotional translations”, Can This Love Be Translated? introduces an element that is seemingly unrelated and unconventional, but in reality powerful, at least in principle: Do Ra Mi. A character who -initially- functions as the protagonist's alter ego — her lighter, more ironic version, the one who says what she cannot say — but who ultimately reveals herself to be something more trivially introjected.
Not an autonomous presence, but a functional projection that openly “betrays” the narrative construction; initially, the main character’s trauma is introduced with considerable weight (coma, loss of control, scarred childhood) but then it conforms, it is handled as a narrative mechanism, not as a transformative experience; Do Ra-mi - in principle - would be a “valve” that allows the protagonist to say what she does not dare to say, to act on what she cannot process, until the final “explanation” which, unreasonably, overturns everything, bringing it back to a cliché tiredly exploited in the Dramaverse, especially in the golden age; the internalised maternal voice, the one that teaches how to make oneself acceptable, how to survive emotionally, how to love “well”.
However, even this surprise is handled more as a narrative clarification than as a real emotional earthquake; even after the revelation, the conflict does not really intensify. The internalised mother does not suffocate, dominate or ever threaten to take definitive control. She is a tamed ghost, more explanatory than destabilising. In this way, the childhood trauma – which is evoked with great emphasis – never becomes a force capable of irreversibly redefining the protagonist's present. Everything is accepted and overcome with lightness...
Furthermore, from a cinematic point of view, the choice of an “off-screen” solution (... “I'll meet her in Koreatown” ...) to resolve what is, to all intents and purposes, the narrative core of the drama, is absolutely unacceptable and unforgivable!
Unforgivable, like the representation of Italy, once again reduced to a stereotype, to an imaginary concept rather than the real country; For decades, the narrative of the Belpaese, mainly due to Hollywood, has portrayed Italy as a narrative postcard, an open-air museum with its slow pace, almost invisible work, as if we were a nation of slackers, permanent conviviality, and the absurd rituals of coffee, wine and weddings (the whole part about the protagonist's mother's wedding is an anthology of the ridiculous...); and here there is also a touch of irony, where a drama entitled “Can This Love Be Translated?” ends up not really “translating” Italy, but adapting it to a convenient, already familiar language.
A compendium of the most hackneyed narrative clichés of K-drama, ‘CTLBT’ plays on the tried and tested, offering an accessible, elegant and emotionally safe narrative in which it seems that the choice has been made not to make the characters pay a real emotional price. No truly irreversible choices, no net losses. And without loss, the conclusion struggles to feel necessary in a drama that promises complexity but chooses consolation, leaving two doubts that are at least concrete;
The Netflix model focuses on building media hype to capture the “present”, with a young, beautiful, "Instagrammable" lead actress, a beloved actor who never divides opinion – their excellent performances practically single-handedly “save” the drama – and a “clean”, explained, resolved trauma; all set in a beautiful scenario that leads one to think that the whole thing is the result of a major global marketing operation.
"Can This Love Be Translated" is not a creative failure—the series is saved by its craftsmanship and adequate cast—but rather a deliberate choice of narrative safety in a context of global aesthetic ambition. Perhaps for younger generations – or for those who have no memory of the great dramas of the early 2000s or the more radical titles of the 2010s – this series seems mature because it deals with trauma, identity and social issues. But talking about them is not the same as experiencing them, it is simply finding oneself in a comfort zone that works very well at the moment, generates discussion, etc., but which, perhaps in a few years' time, will be remembered as one of those “nice Netflix dramas”.
6 ½
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Free me now so I can see, the taste of wind and be like me (So Tonight That I Might See)
Oh Soo (Jo In-sung), abandoned at birth under a tree and raised in an orphanage, as an adult slips into gambling and fraud. A huge debt to a gangster gives him 100 days: either he pays up or he dies. With his back against the wall, an unexpected opportunity presents itself: to exploit his namesake, his deceased friend — disowned by his father — who was the brother of Oh Young (Song Hye-kyo), heiress to the PL Group. Upon her father's death, Oh Young becomes the sole heir to a business empire. Oh Soo then decides to stage the perfect scam: pretending to be her “lost” brother to get the money he needs to save himself. But deceiving Oh Young will not be easy: she may be blind, but she is anything but naive.In the history of Dramaverse, 'That Winter, the Wind Blows' occupies a pivotal position. There was a time when Korean melodrama spoke the language of the seasons: impossible loves, hidden identities, illness, sacrifice, destiny. Then, before the full globalization of platforms, writing became more layered, more hybrid. This series is not a simple return to the past, but a bridge capable of integrating classic melodrama into a more complex structure, contaminated by noir, supported by a strong visual dimension and a highly evocative soundtrack.
Here, lie is not only a narrative tool: it is a choice that comes at a price. Winter is not simply an aesthetic backdrop but an existential condition. The characters survive rather than live; they choose deception as a temporary refuge from a world that has already asked too much of them.
The disturbing element is not the deception itself, but its ethical nature. Oh Soo does not simply pretend to be someone else: he takes on a name that implies a moral function. While the con man carries within him an origin marked by abandonment, the dead brother was defined by protection. The homonymy becomes the mechanism that slowly tightens the grip of destiny. By accepting that identity out of necessity, Oh Soo also inherits the symbolic weight of the name. Noir imposes the mask; melodrama empties it and fills it with responsibility.
Oh Young's blindness is not a Hollywood-style thriller device, but rather the distance that separates and defines the character. It amplifies her isolation and vulnerability in a world where every gesture can be betrayal. Protected by a wealth that is both a shield and a prison, she lives in a system of ambiguous relationships, where care and control are blurred.
Deception creates a grey area where rules are broken. By pretending, Oh Soo inhabits a role he does not fully master; by relying on his “brother”, Oh Young exposes his fragility to inevitable risk. The series makes a paradoxical move: it makes fraud a necessary step towards trust. The lie becomes the threshold between guilt and redemption, survival and authenticity. Not only is it a morally questionable act, but it is also a crack through which the truth enters.
Oh Soo's identity begins as a performance: he studies habits, controls reactions, moves like an actor. But here, the acting does not remain external. While in theatre the performer returns to being himself, in this story the role changes the player.
The stage is the mansion: a place of apparent protection, but also of control and secrets. Oh Soo carries out a sort of emotional domestic invasion, entering rooms that hold suspended identities. A space where noir sets the stage for deception and melodrama transforms it.
In noir genre conventions, the hidden room promises fatal revelations. When Oh Young sneaks in, the series seems to promise a dark twist. Instead, there is a reversal: inside there is no crime, but memories. Videotapes, maternal objects, fragments of a bright childhood. The structure is that of an identity thriller, but the heart is bittersweet melancholy.
By crossing that threshold, Oh Soo does not just invade a space: he enters a past that does not belong to him. He studies those memories strategically, transforming them into an appropriate performance: a phrase at the right moment, a tone that evokes shared pain. The room becomes the place where the character is created. But melodrama sabotages noir: internalized memory does not remain neutral.
The rootless con man appropriates for the first-time a past that continues to hold sway. Watching those VHS and looking at those photographs means coming into contact with a lost happiness he has never known. The house ceases to be merely a place of deception and becomes a space of transformation: the paradoxical beginning of a moral conscience.
From the middle of the tale, the noir atmosphere does not disappear, but the story takes an emotional leap: it becomes internalized, subtle, transforming debt and threat into matters of the heart and body. Time, previously marked by the economic deadline, splits in two: on the one hand, the countdown of the debt and the danger imposed by the gangster Mo Chul, on the other, the slow and uncertain rhythm of Oh Young's illness, the return of the tumor and the refusal of the operation.
The truth emerges: he is not her long-lost brother, but an orphan who grew up surrounded by debt, gambling and dangerous streets. This recognition, both expected and feared, does not break their bond; it transforms it. Oh Young, though surprised and hurt, clearly perceives the depth of the feelings that unite them: love is not born from a glance, but from proximity: from the sound of a bell, the taste of candy floss, the shared breath in a hospital room, no longer brotherly, but a love suspended between caution and ardor, between protection and desire. At the beginning, the series had established a code, a symbolic barrier, but here the dam breaks.
The shared pill — an animal euthanasia drug that becomes a symbol of extreme choice — marks the boundary between power and powerlessness, between calculation and affection, guilt and the desire of protection. When Oh Young asks Oh Soo, ‘Why didn't you kill me when you could?’, the series makes its most radical move: noir and melodrama meet, measuring the distance between morality and the heart. She offers him justification, but he does not carry out the act. Not because he cannot, not because he has been discovered, but because he no longer wants to. It is no more a question of succeeding in deception. It is a question of responsibility.
In the final chapters, Oh Soo faces his destiny almost like a hero in a Jean Pierre Melville movie: he renounces his possessions, leaves money to pay off his debt, moves towards moral and emotional catharsis, ready to risk everything to save Oh Young. He is preparing for closure; he is the heroic figure who accepts the end. At the beginning, everything revolved around a monetary debt. Now the debt has become moral. He entered the mansion for money; he leaves it renouncing it.
The extreme gesture she makes is the point at which the melodrama reaches its absolute limit. But what makes the scene powerful is not the gesture itself — it is what happens afterwards. Oh Soo's rescue is not only physical. It is the definitive revelation of feelings. The moment when Oh Young “hears” the video confession in the secret room is perfectly consistent with the whole discourse on blindness as an alternative perceptual device. She does not see the confession. She perceives it, and therefore her lucid and painful analysis is devastating precisely because it is not hysterical. She is aware; here it feels like being inside one of Douglas Sirk's flamboyant melodramas; the truth does not immediately liberate, the truth hurts, but it is the only ground on which authentic love can grow.
In the minutes leading up to the epilogue, the show seems to want to return to its original rhythm: the time of debt and the time of illness overlap once again. On one side, the operating theatre, suspended between light and darkness; on the other, the green table, the final theatre of destiny. It is here that noir regains its breath: the crucial game, the tense silence, the man who plays not only to save himself but to free himself. gamble does not win out: it is choice. The financial debt is paid; the moral debt remains.
And just when it seems to be heading towards possible redemption, the story takes an almost Shakespearean twists. Betrayed friendship, a knife in the back, sacrifice imposed by blackmail: fate strikes with the dry cruelty of a Melville movie. For a moment, we truly believe that winter will never end. That everything must end there. The great melodramas of the early days taught us this: love is destined to be consumed by loss.
The ending chooses a brighter path, but not an easy one. There is an almost metaphysical passage: spring melting away the rigidity of winter. The atmosphere becomes airy, suspended, and we no longer know whether what we see is reality or desire. A ringing sound crosses the space — an echo of that sound that had replaced the gaze, an invisible thread between two solitudes. The pain encountered is not erased, but traversed. Not a reward but an achievement; if at the beginning everything arose from a stolen name, in the end what remains is an earned identity.
The work of the fantastic Song Hye-kyo is, first and foremost, physical. Keeping her pupils suspended in limbo for almost the entire series, her head slightly turned to listen, her posture composed, almost crystallized, is not a simple technical exercise: it is a dramaturgical choice. The fixed gaze in all those extraordinary close-ups becomes the opposite of emotional immobility. The more controlled the body is, the more the interior expands. Her Oh Young is rational, analytical, ruthless with herself. The tapes recorded in the secret room are not just memories: they are self-criticism. She is the first to judge herself. This detail avoids any drift into pity.
She is not the “fragile girl”. She is a clear-minded person who is suffering. The pivotal moment when she enters Oh Soo's room alone and lies down on the bed crying is devastating precisely because it is not dramatized. There is no hysteria. There is a silent collapse. It is not a lack of wisdom: it is an excess of analysis compared to the heart. Oh Young is a woman who understands everything — too much — and that is precisely why she hurts herself.
In contrast, Jo In-sung's work is pure movement. If Song Hye-kyo is subtractive and fixed, Jo In-sung is continuous muscular tension. A shifting gaze. A clenched jaw. Sudden outbursts. A body always ready to flee or sprint. He is an actor who works on the edge of implosion. In his other works, that tension was almost self-destructive. Here, it is more layered. The moment when he asks himself, “Why didn't I just cheat her? Why did I make her fall in love with me?” is the cruelest summary of the series. He doesn't cry because he's been found out.
He cries because he has crossed the point of no return. He has turned a plan into a feeling. And making a male protagonist cry without making him seem pathetic is a very rare balancing act. The writing supports it, but it is the acting that makes it credible: the emotion comes across as a breaking of armour, not as a request for empathy.
When kisskh talks about “chemistry”, it often means attraction or romantic intensity. Here, it's something more structural. She works by subtraction. He works by accumulation. She is control. He is nerve. She internalises. He externalises. Their complementarity is not only emotional: it is rhythmic. On stage, their breathing patterns do not coincide — and it is precisely this asynchrony that generates tension. When they reach the confession, the scene does not explode: it settles. There is no detonation. There is balance.
This is chemistry in the highest sense: two forces that collide and change shape. And that is why the series avoids tear-jerking melodrama. Both actors protect the dignity of their characters. They do not ask the viewer to cry: they remove any excuse for not doing so. She does not beg for compassion. He does not seek absolution. When they finally admit their love, it is not euphoria. It is lucidity. It is not liberation. It is responsibility. They are not celebrating a feeling. They are choosing to pay the price for it. Absolutely outstanding.
Perhaps winter is not a season, but a condition: one in which one lives when wearing a name that is not one's own. In the beginning, everything stems from a stolen identity, from survival built on deception. In the end, what remains is not melted snow, but the nakedness of a choice. It is not fate that changes characters: it is responsibility.
“That Winter, the Wind Blows” does not simply tell the story of an impossible love that becomes possible. It describes the moment when a man stops pretending to be someone else and finally becomes himself. And if spring arrives, it is not a miracle: it is the price paid for getting through that winter without hiding anymore.
9/10
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In the shadowplay, acting out your own death, knowing no more
‘The Art of Sarah’ builds its structure around a theme that is, first and foremost, a question about identity. Perhaps it is precisely by starting from the end that we can find the most honest key to understanding this drama: a world dominated by brands, super-luxury, appearances and perceived value, where even a name can become a choice, an invention, a strategy.In this scenario dominated by appearances, Sarah is introduced as an almost mythological figure. Not so much for what she does, but for the way the series observes her: always slightly above the others, more aware, more lucid, as if the system surrounding her were not only a cage, but also a language to be mastered.
This is where the drama builds its most fascinating ambiguity. Is Sarah a victim? Is she a strategist? Is she both? The narrative seems to suggest that, in a world where value is perception, even morality can become a form of representation.
The metaphor of luxury handbags, perfect but exposed because they are “too accurate”, is not a decorative detail: it is the conceptual heart of the drama. Like those seemingly authentic objects, Sarah also oscillates between originality and performance, between authenticity and construction. The audience perceives the tension between what is and what appears to be, and it is here that the moral suspension that accompanies the entire series takes shape.
However, as the story delves deeper into the heart of the matter, that suspension slowly tends to resolve itself, not abruptly, but almost imperceptibly. It is as if, after flirting with the idea of an identity that cannot be reduced to a definition, the series finally chooses to bring it back within a more readable perimeter, without betraying the initial ambiguity and without losing the charm of doubt that Sarah has been able to generate at every step of her journey.
The unveiling, then, seems to take a more cautious trajectory: some elements, perhaps introduced belatedly, give the impression of a functional rather than inevitable relaunch, and the whole tends to come together in a more orderly fashion than might have been expected. This is not inconsistency, but more prosaically a form of narrative caution; after suggesting moral vertigo, the series opts for a controlled landing, which does not cancel out the initial suspension but recomposes it with lightness.
Overall, however, it remains a solid, elegant and coherent production. And above all, she stands out. Shin Hye-sun is magnetic: she combines fragility and calculation with rare naturalness, without ever overdoing it with unnecessary mannerisms. Even when the writing becomes more cautious, her performance continues to suggest something unresolved. She alone makes it drama worth watching.
Lee Joon-hyuk, on the other hand, remains prudently more conventional — perhaps deliberately — and this contrast brings out an interesting element: ambiguity is more fascinating than moral correctness. The morally “dark” character is narratively more vivid than the “righteous” one, and Shin Hye-sun's presence amplifies this tension, making it clear that the true energy of the drama stems from its ability to embody doubt without resolving it.
In the end, ‘The Art of Sarah’ avoids — courageously!? cautiously!? — giving us clear answers, instead creating an open space for reflection, where identity, appearance and morality intertwine without being completely resolved. A drama that knows how to play with doubt, challenging the viewer to question rather than passively observe, and does so with elegance and consistency, without ever betraying its conceptual construction.
For those who love stories that leave a trail of questions rather than certainties — and the inevitable need for a second viewing! — this can be considered a successful narrative experiment: provocative, sophisticated and, above all, capable of making you talk and think, even after the credits roll, and especially after THAT final question...
7/10
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Ghost In The Machine / I Bury The Living (?)
A jealousy and cuckolded husband “kills” his wife and then, in a macabre farce, carries her around in a hearse to extort money from her former lovers, but not everything is as it seems...1964 was a remarkable year, which saw the release of this curious work by Hajime Sato:
It came after the untimely death of the master Ozu (which, incidentally, also coincided with the retirement from the screen of the extraordinary Setsuko Hara) and the release of interesting works that, curiously, also arrived in Italy:
Among the many, Teshigahara’s beautiful “Woman In The Dunes” (often shown on TV) as well as Suzuki's “The Flower And The Angry Waves” and “Gate Of Flesh” (among my favourites by the master), Masumura's ‘Manji’ (another personal favourite of mine), Shindo Kaneto's ‘Onibaba’, as well as works by Imamura, Honda, Shinoda, Naruse (who has been criminally ignored here for decades!) etc.
‘Sanpo Suru Reikyusha’ by Sato, known internationally as ‘The Glamorous Ghost’, also arrives in Italy but is released with a completely different title (a practice that is, alas, widely abused...) and becomes, for some reason, ‘L’ Amore scotta a Yokohama’, something like ‘Love Burns in Yokohama’…
But why, as many have pointed out, is the action set in Tokyo, what does Yokohama have to do with it?
Who knows!
Although difficult to categorise, but well analysed on various websites that have discussed it over the years, the movie can be considered a black comedy with a grotesque atmosphere, with decidedly surreal touches and some concessions to the macabre that place it, with considerable freedom, in the so-called “Ero guro” genre, with all that this entails…
Decidedly ambiguous in structure and morally cruel in its portrayal of the characters—all of whom are deeply unlikeable—the film truly seems like an allegory, or rather, as is often the case in many works from the Land of the Rising Sun, a parable about the destructive power of money which, when all is said and done, always leads to ruin due to greed and cupidity.
One of the film's greatest strengths is its ability to bring out the worst traits in all of its characters, who are largely devoid of humanity and feelings, driven by the murkiest of impulses, greed for wealth, coldfinancial calculation and abuse of power, taken to the extreme.
If the characterisation of the taxi driver husband (Kō Nishimura, with his extraordinary career) is a mediocre figure, lacking in scruples and moral integrity, ready to adapt and exploit the various twists and turns of the situation, he does not present any positive characteristics, his wife (Masumi Harukawa, also a veteran actress) is no less impressive, a treacherous double-crosser who coldly and lucidly exploits her (arguably questionable) attractiveness not for exclusive physical satisfaction, but purely for the desire to get rich...
And the supporting figures who gradually appear throughout the story are no less (obnoxiously) remarkable.
A grotesque comedy of errors, ‘The Glamorous Ghost’ inevitably ends up being compared to ‘The Comedy of Terrors’, one of the last movies by the great Jacques Tourneur, which coincidentally came out just a year earlier. Tourneur’s movie, it must be said, is certainly not unforgettable, revealing its main strength in its excellent and entertaining cast.
This work by Sato, a director perhaps hastily placed in marginal categories of Japanese cinema, on the contrary, thanks to remarkable black and white photography that increases the contrasts between light and shadow, contributing to amplifying the caricatural effect on the characters, his skewed, distorting shots, and moments of amusing surreal comedy (such as the trips in the hearse and the visit to the morgue with all the corpses awaiting burial) is still appreciated today, thanks to its somewhat macabre, undoubtedly unconventional taste, which may not be to everyone's liking, but certainly a faithful reflection of contemporary society, where everything seems to be driven by money and selfishness and where no redemption seems possible, as can also be inferred from the mockingly ironic ending.
7
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You Must Be a Witch...
Very high expectations supported by a result that is not entirely satisfying, for this 'Bitter Sweet Hell', a reasonably good but not outstanding drama, capable of starting off in a very solid and engaging manner, but, as frequently happens in contemporary productions, able to end up losing a little focus in the development of the plot.Beyond the personal taste interpretation of the genre (it is definitely bold to consider BSH a generic 'black comedy'), the drama can comfortably be placed in the context of a family-based thriller, accompanied by the now overused theme of revenge linked to past events, where it is precisely the concept of family, in its multiple aspects, that provides the best key to interpretation and analysis.
Beginning as a phenomenological study of a typical upper-class Korean family (I imagine belonging to that famous 1% often depicted in dramas), 'Bitter Sweet Hell' has the merit of highlighting a harsh analysis of the family institution, highlighting through the failure of marriage, the dramatic and in many ways impossible ability concerning the proper management of interpersonal relationships within the same family unit.
That all this originates through the external factor of the criminal element of the plot, the notorious 'Witch', a sort of puppet master, capable of pulling the strings at his own sadistic will, is certainly one of the most interesting aspects in the development of the story.
The perfect, idyllic, but utterly fake and insincere portrayal of the family unit reveals all its fragility when the death of the patriarch (the always excellent Kwon Hae-hyo, also sacrified for plot exigencies), opens the infamous Pandora's box on the private vices and sins of the various family members...
The carnage game that ensues leads Dr. No, an eminent psychiatrist with a TV programme affiliated with her, to vacillate over the truth behind her own father's death, her father-in-law's responsibility and, at the same time, the mysterious disappearance of her own husband, the famous surgeon Choi Jae Jin.
Faced with the collapse of her certainties, purely selfish doubts about her own career, the resulting social status quo, and the safety/protection of her son (holder of an unmentionable secret), Dr No will even have to confront her mother-in-law, the famous mystery novelist Hong Sa Gang ('Cigarette Queen'), a lover of Agatha Christie and not at all resigned to the risk of a veritable media pillory capable of demolishing the few certainties left in the family...
The confrontation/clash between daughter-in-law and mother-in-law gives us the most enjoyable moments of the drama, thanks to the two prima donnas, perfectly placed in their roles; if Kim Hee Sun may seem a little more conservative with an extremely measured style (but she is just great style, as always, even if in the ending she literally loosens the reins as a mother bear protecting her cub) , in the intense performance of the always remarkable Lee Hye Young, we can really appreciate the ultimate feeling of the story, thanks also to a clever use of explicative flashbacks that add meat to the fire, enriching the plot and leading us to understand the sincere love of the novelist for her family, obviously impossible to explain in words, but comprehensible through the pages of books...
The moments in the whole part concerning the search for the husband/son Choi Jae Jin are very well presented, thanks also to the contribution of Park Kang Sung in the role of Ahn Kil Kang, handyman in the service of the novelist and manager of the 'Soft Hands' restaurant; the characterisation of Kim Nam Hee in the role of a genuine pusillanimous, only partly justified by the personal revelation about his origins, is very well done...
Among the drama's negative aspects, which unfortunately affect the final result quite a bit, I have to place the "Wicked" Lee Se Na, played by an inadequate Yeonwoo, in my opinion (it's always a personal thing, specific!) incapable of portraying a memorable villain, commensurate with the story;
if the explanation on the origin of Se Na's evil is decidedly conventional, even less is made clear as to how she could have circuited and manipulated more or less all the men (there is talk of three husbands, several lovers and even some women) in her revenge intentions;
The head tilt and a mocking glance are not enough to define evil, and the last two episodes, with the usual incongruities in the script and the obvious narrative strains, the sudden 'illuminations' capable of giving the drama a decisive turn, suffer greatly from this serious weakness (or casting error, to my way of thinking), dragging the story towards a rather predictable and even not very courageous ending.
Much, much better is the character of Moon Tae Oh (played by Jung Gun Joo) in the role of the main actors' son's tutor; in his case the roots of the evil are fully justified by deriving family faults and therefore deserving of a justified process of recovery, of 'salvation and redemption', unlike Se Na who, perversely guilty, as a pure 'witch' will meet her just fate....
Interesting is the role of Dr Oh Ji Eun (played by Shin So Yool), hopelessly in love, in search of familial acceptance and a victim in spite of herself of adult scheming and insensitivity...
Lee Se Na, Moon Tae Oh and Dr Oh herself represent in different ways three aspects of a family laceration with devastating consequences, irreparable in Se Na's case.
Vice versa, for the main character family, there can be a chance of redemption and new awareness through mutual solidarity, the ability to listen and understand, the principle of 'acceptance'; exemplary from this point of view is the role of the whole family towards the existential condition of their son Do Hyun (portrayed by a sincere and very human Park Jae-chan), and the appeal, albeit painful but necessary, towards memories (through letters, photographs, footage)
The pursuit of dialogue, sitting around the table, even if only to eat together once in a while, may seem a simple or obvious message, but it can be seen as a curative approach... From this point of view, the conclusion, although overly conciliatory, is quite in line with the development.
To sum up, in my personal opinion, 'Bitter Sweet Hell' is a good drama that lacks a bit of solidity in the second half, but is sustained by an almost completely successful cast and that has the virtue of not going on for too long; I would even have appreciated a couple more episodes to highlight the role of the novelist a bit more concretely, especially in her tormented relationship with her husband, but that's OK;
In some sections, I found several points of contact with the contemporaneous 'Hide' (which is however more reliable on the complex) with which, curiously enough, it shares the location of the holiday residence, the scene of adultery in one case and of crimes in the other...
Personal side note: Hong Sa Gang's car is absolutely awesome!
7/10
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Magnificent Obsession
"Ms. Perfect" is a scintillating melodrama with a classic flavour, able to offer an intricately multifaceted story that, starting from a fairly conventional family drama structure, with the end of a married couple's love affair at its centre and the relative painful disintegration of the domestic unit, gradually evolves into a fascinating and enthralling mystery thriller with an incredible story of mad love at its centre, absolutely indebted to the Hollywood classics of the golden age...Thanks to the chance offered by a singular and apparently perfect woman, a strange rental contract (extremely favourable! ) and a forced and curious cohabitation, accompanied by a heterogeneous group of family members, friends, and real or presumed servants, the focus of the story will develop in the new home of our heroine who, faced with ambiguously hostile characters and situations, gripped by doubts, feelings of guilt (not only her husband's betrayal, but also the uncomfortable presence/figure of her ex-first love) and even erroneous evaluations, will end up feeling threatened in the actual space of her new living location...
Trying to play with cinematic genres, in order to tempt the curious, “Ms. Perfect” seems to be the evolution of the so-called 'gothic movie', in its female variant, starring a woman, in spite of herself, grappling with a marriage affair with disturbing contours. Only in this case, the danger does not come directly from the male counterpart, but from the ambiguous and perturbing co-star, a true modern adaptation of the figure of the 'dark lady', a typical characterisation of the noir genre.
Everything is prodigiously served by a writing script that is never ordinary, capable of re-launching the plot each time with courageous choices, absolutely unsettling in many cases, at the service of a cast of an extraordinary level, able to alternate between comedy and tragedy, charade and drama, in a constant involvement that accompanies us throughout the wonderful twenty episodes, which show no sign of weakness or tiredness...
Intrigues and mysteries, real or presumed ghosts that re-emerge from a past with many interrogative aspects. As in the best tradition of Korean dramas, an underlying ambiguity appears that is able to characterise all the actors of "Ms. Perfect"... No one seems to be immune from guilt, albeit on different levels, and this ambiguity allows us to escape from easy "good/bad" classifications, thanks to a great performance by the whole cast...
The main attraction of this drama rotates around the astonishing performance of the charismatic Cho Yeo Jung, an actress of incredible beauty, capable, thanks to her immense and ambiguous charm, of portraying the role of a foolish woman in love, disposed to do anything to obtain the object of her desire... Absolutely ambiguous and sinister right from the moment she appears on the scene, Eun Hee becomes the true focal point of the narrative, catalysing the attention on her character who will progressively reveal her hidden object, concretely managing to raise the attention also on the omnipresent and obsessive relationship that connects stars and their fans (stalker! ?)
Sacrificial victims of his love madness are the "rival" Jae Bok, played by the also very beautiful Ko So Young (almost a twin sister of Kim Ha Neul!) and her husband, Jung Hee, brilliantly rendered by the excellent Yoon Sang Hyun, in one of the best roles of his remarkable career... In my opinion, it is precisely through the character of Jung Hee, in his progressive personality transformation, in the clash/confrontation with his wife Jae Bok, that some of the most interesting narrative cues emerge, capable of instilling doubts above all of a moral nature, on ambition, guilt and careerism at any cost...
It was said of the overall excellent cast where also the very good Sung Joon/Bong Goo makes his character evolve in a decidedly mature manner, thanks also to the exemplary part played by Im Se Mi/Na Mi who, mainly in the first half of the drama, shows a prominent role in the unravelling of the intrigued plot... I also really appreciated Jae Bok's two funny female friends, Na Hye Ran (played by Kim Jung Nan) and, above all, Kim Won Jae (Jung Soo Young) who could even have been used in more depth, given the psychoanalytic aspect emerging in the development of the storyline.... But, again, bravo to all, adults and children alike
There are many truly fascinating passages, often concentrated inside the vast mansion; the mysterious doors forbidden to all, also a typical noir cliché, almost an update of Hitchcock's "Rebecca" or so many of its epigones; Jae Bok's continuous wandering in the house, often intimidated by the presence of "hostile" figures; the effective use of flash-backs, which, thanks also to the classic repetitions of past traumas, reveal the many dark points of the principal characters... The confrontation between Na Mi and Eun Hee, Eun Hee finding herself alone in the huge house...And then one of my favourite movie tropes: The forced closure in the asylum, as well as the literally " flaming" finale that seems taken from a Roger Corman movie of the Edgar Allan Poe series....
Managing to satisfy so many of my cinematic obsessions, with an intriguing, engaging, well-written, perfectly acted tale, without moments of boredom or the usual lapses into more or less acceptable nonsense, 'Ms. Perfect' is a 'perfectly' successful example of excellent narrative script that meets absolutely exemplary mise-en-scene, creating a very entertaining story
9/10
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Love can come at any time in our life
I watched this movie to detox myself a bit from a disappointing drama I ‘ve been watching in the past few days, also recommended by another MDL user, what can I say, really a happy breath of fresh air...It's a really pleasantly well-made romantic comedy that, without saying anything new, joyfully succeeds in engaging the well-prepared viewer for its two-hour duration (which is not particularly heavy at all, however).
It is in the choice of the main players that the movie's success is most evident; telling a love story with two mature characters, wonderfully mature I would say, but at the same time still young in their hearts and at the end of the day simply desperate to have someone at their side to love, like all of us...
The story is of disarming simplicity and the plot mechanics are those well established in the classic Korean rom-com: the main character, with his hilarious facial expressions, lost in his foibles and fixations, with an absolutely absurd and decidedly unhealthy job, the usual circle of colleagues/acquaintances more deranged than him, as well as the bothering element of his brother; on the other side, our beautiful Kim Hee Sun, a messed-up single mother with a teenage daughter, obviously problematic...
Rather than the usual clash-meeting between two completely antithetical entities, the most interesting element is surely the lengthy courteousness on her part, which allows the staging of several rather amusing scenes related to the total clumsiness of our male subject
But it is precisely in these phases of rapprochement of the two lonely souls, in this gradual process towards a state of happiness, that I found myself most satisfied, in that desire to attempt to experience the same joyfully adolescent emotions that can be found in so many dramas or movies, more or less good; that attempt at normality that leads us to think: "Why can't we experience the same joys too!"
Of course, there are the obvious lucky coincidences and even several innocent ingenuities that push the story towards the most obvious ending, thanks also to a supporting cast that is functional to its role, but in the end you are immediately inclined to cheer for the two heroes and therefore we welcome that bit of magical coincidence that leads to the happy end, just to have a Romantic Heart and believe/hope that love can come at any time in our life
The rating is a perhaps generous 7.5/10, but in cases like this it is OK to be kind...
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A marvelous story of indissoluble love
A poignant drama, permeated with a deeply felt melancholy that accompanies us from beginning to end, The Snow Queen continues to be, in my opinion, a marvelous story of indissoluble love, capable of transcending any barrier, pushing (in all senses) towards extreme borders (not only figuratively speaking) thanks to the sincere romanticism of a practically perfect script and an excellent direction (the author is the same director of 'Winter Sonata', to be clear)As always, love, chance and destiny are preponderant elements that drive the story forward, but compared to similar cases, one does not turn one's nose up at any inconsistency, illogic or magnanimous demands for complete suspension of disbelief, since everything manages to be coordinated in a balanced and 'realistic' structure that also guarantees a sentimental identification with the beautiful characters of the drama...
The composite screenplay manages to overcome a linear storyline with a concentric structure, full of randomness and coincidences, alternating points of view, even narrative variations on the same theme, as well as subplots and geometrical plotlines that enrich the construction of the story, where even a few symbols or simple objects such as a pager, a music tape and a couple of photographs have the strength to release sincere emotion without trespassing on the pathetic.
It is achieved without falling into the baroque or exaggerated mannerism (typical of many contemporary dramas) that sometimes makes us raise an eyebrow or roll our eyes, thanks to skillful and never ordinary dialogue of obvious literary derivation, capable of arousing equal passion for two apparently antithetical subjects such as mathematics and boxing, and this is also possible thanks to a perfect cast in an absolute state of grace.
Hyun Bin renders his character's torment and remorse very well, with a truly calibrated, touching and involving performance, a prisoner of his own secret and bearer of an inner suffering bordering on self-destruction, almost Catholic in nature, even though the religious references (much more marked in other dramas of the same period) remain confined to a desperate prayer/invocation towards the end of the drama. Yu-ri -very gorgeous! -is absolutely perfect, capable of operating a sort of progressive transformation and dramatic growth that is functional to the narrative development of the story; the bumptious and spoilt little girl of the beginning of the story, ends up evolving and becoming a mature (young) woman, consciously resigned, in spite of herself, to her own fate.
The remaining cast is perfectly integrated in their roles without any pedantic backstory that in this case would frankly be considered pleonastic, with the exception of the excellent portrayal of Tae Woong's mother, who is absolutely decisive in further accentuating the protagonist's torments, and Bo Ra's father, capable of confirming once again that founding principle of dramas whereby the faults of parents end up falling on their children (in fact, he is responsible for the tragic fate of his eldest son)
Much has been written, and rightly so, about the extraordinary venues of the story, and the skillful use of the locations really deserves a separate mention, starting with the extraordinary landscapes in the opening, later reproposed in the last episode, to continue with the gymnasium, a sort of perfect microcosm populated by a group of marginalized people with a warm heart, which restores to us all the sense of sadness that lingers in the (icy!?) heart of the protagonist; Bo Ra's house, almost a gilded prison, up to the basketball court that returns also in the heartbreaking finale...
As is common in other productions, the role of nature is central, both in the snowy sequences and in those where it is the sea that increasingly, almost overwhelmingly, emphasizes the lyricism of the drama; for example, the sequences at the grave of the friend/brother, which personally have always made me think of my favorite Murakami Haruki book, 'Norwegian Wood' ...
Touching and melancholic without ever being intrusive, the soundtrack is the further strength of this extraordinary drama, a kind of contemporary fairy tale that is a truly perfect transposition of Andersen's sadly melancholic universe...
I decided to re-watch this gem a distance of a few years, after, what an irony for a drama-fan such myself! Fate has stripped me, in a short space of time, of some of the most beloved people who have accompanied my life... When one loses, affections, loves, friendships, beyond the pain and inner wounding, one questions oneself and seeks answers as to why things happen...
Just like the characters in the drama, we are constantly asking ourselves many questions, and the reflection on the differences between mathematics, which is always able to provide answers, and life, which acts by chance and very often does not provide answers, is perhaps the best possible metaphor or the perfect theorem to sum up not only this drama, but the lives of many people...
10/10
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Personally I struggle a bit with the temporal collocation of some events, but no big deal.
In my humble opinion, I love so much the so called " old dramas" there is certainly more courage and more melodramatic strength than the contemporaries, but I also understand that these peculiarities can leave some viewers a bit sceptical,
for what it's worth my personal rating is 8/10
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For lovers of genre
I watched "Awaken" based on VIKI's introduction, expecting a crime thriller maybe in the style of "Flower of Evil" or "The Devil", two series I really adoredAt the beginning, I followed with good expectations, thanks to a rather impressive incipit and with intriguing subsequent suggestions, even though the typifications of the main characters were not particularly original (the usual typecasting of the variegated team at work always reminds me of certain Japanese robot cartoons of childhood with the leader, the beauty, the clumsy and the nerd, those things, in short...).
However, as the episodes went on, I began to have more than one doubt about the direction of the series with a growing sense of annoyance, a red alert for a scenario completely different from the initial perspective; getting to the point, the expansion to Sci-Fi and things of this nature I had not really planned for and at that point the interest really dropped exponentially...
I mean, it's not that the story is particularly boring, it's reasonably elaborate and repeatedly tries to revive the attention with impactful cliffhangers, but the problem is that 'Awaken' really does come at a very late stage and smashes open doors from so many previous ones...
With everything we ‘ve had, from 'The X-Files' to 'Stranger Things', via 'Dark Angel' and their many epigones with 'special kids', it's a moment's notice to find yourself in such trite situations that you're able to understand much of the unfolding almost immediately.
The usual secret labs, the usual child-guinea-pigs, the usual mad doctors, between Dr. Frankenstein and the many crazed demiurges in a delirium of omnipotence, perhaps even parents of the aforementioned lab subjects
In overall terms, for fans of the same genre, it is certainly something that can intrigue and involve, but at the same time, for the aficionado with a little knowledge of the material, it is impossible not to notice the incredible accumulation of references, clichés and tired stereotypes that make the nose twitch, as well as the usual holes in the logic that often screw up the elaboration and development of many situations...
And it's a pity, because in my opinion the moral dimension of the story should have been highlighted more, thanks to the excellent performance of the main character Namkoong Min, capable of casting for several episodes the classic shadow of doubt on his true nature; it's also a shame for the little in-depth analysis between our super-child and the really disturbing mad scientist-mother, limited to the last episodes; the same goes for the police-daughter/father-scientist relationship, with an always excellent Kim Chang Wan in a role that would have deserved a better deepening, but then the police daughter (who we are told is also of great merit) really knows practically nothing about her father's work, for all those years! ?
The lead character in the guise of a wanted possible multiple homicide who calmly drives around the city, in defiance of roadblocks, checkpoints, camera recordings or phone interceptions (as seen in so many dramas or movies) is inexcusable, as is the Terminator-turn with the relative moving of trucks with his hands (but why?), with sudden and opportune super-powers...
A comic anthology is the three days wasted by Jamie (by the way, she, Lee Chung Ah, really beautiful -nda) and the nosey reporter waiting for the rain to cease so they can go by boat to the island-laboratory, and then the two 'super-boys' who come and go in a flash, at night, and how do they do it, maybe flying!?
It gets to the end rather tiredly due to the too many twists and turns of the drama with a pretty predictable and practically inevitable ending that leaves that inevitable sense of déjà-vu and general discontent quite marked...
Personally my rating is 7/10, fairly generous, more for the first part of the story and for some of the acting performances:
Of course Namkoong Min who certainly doesn't need me to tell him that (he's a class actor!) and something in the minor characterisations but at the end of the whole affair there are no particular desires left for second viewings...
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I know a girl who's soft and sweet / She's so fine, she can't be beat / Got everything that I desire
The web series Candy is a small and curious television production, which fits into the GL (girls love) rom-com genre. With its eight episodes of about half an hour each, it is easy to follow and manages to intrigue the viewer, even if it does not always fully explore its characters.The story focuses on the reunion between Lin Can, now an established actress, and Nuan Nuan, her school friend from years ago. The two girls had been very close in the past, but a scandal linked to their relationship and hostility from their families had led to a painful separation. When they meet again as young adults, their feelings for each other seem to have not faded at all: Lin Can appears determined and direct, while Nuan Nuan remains shyer and more cautious. Under the pretext of hiring her as a personal assistant, the two begin to live together, slowly reopening a relationship that had been left unresolved.
Alongside the main couple, another romantic dynamic develops between manager Si Han and famous actress Jiang Wan. This quartet of characters gives rise to a narrative made up of skirmishes, subtle jealousies and romantic moments, in which the drama alternates between light-hearted comedy and more melodramatic passages.
One of the most interesting elements is the frequent use of flashbacks, which gradually reveal the characters' pasts and the reasons for their break-up. These flashbacks also paint a rather critical picture of the adult world: autocratic fathers, possessive or violent men, and unscrupulous figures of authority represent the main obstacles to the women's freedom. In this sense, the series introduces, without fully developing it, an almost “social” dimension linked to the difficulties the young women have had to face in their lives.
Not everything, however, always appears perfectly harmonised. Some narrative developments – such as episodes of sudden violence or situations bordering on thriller – introduce stronger tones than the prevailing romantic lightness. Even the psychological construction of the characters sometimes remains barely hinted at: many emotions are suggested rather than fully explored, probably also due to the relatively short length of the series.
The urban setting, on the other hand, is interesting: modern, clean and almost futuristic cities, often shown with surprisingly empty streets. This visual choice creates a particular, almost suspended atmosphere, which contributes to giving the show a fairly recognisable visual identity.
The overall tone remains delicate, however. The scenes between the main characters are constructed with restraint and discreet sensuality, without ever slipping into vulgarity. The title itself, “Candy”, refers to a small recurring gesture between Lin Can and Nuan Nuan: the exchange of sweets to soften difficult moments, a simple but effective metaphor for their bond.
Of course, we are not dealing with works as structured as queer cinema classics such as “Desert Hearts” or “The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love”. However, Candy remains a curious and enjoyable little series, capable of functioning exactly like the gesture of giving sweets: simple, discreet, but able to sweeten the viewer's experience. The ending is beautiful and compensatory.
7/10
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Tonight, we’ll meet / At the dark end of the street (You and Me)
A painful but necessary family drama, ‘Love Me’ depicts love as a fragile yet tenacious force, capable of blossoming even where pain has left only ruins. The loss of the wife/mother — the angel of the house and emotional anchor of the family — is not so much the focus of the narrative as the mechanism that triggers a long, tortuous and dolorous process of reconstruction, in which each character seeks to rediscover a balance that seems irretrievably broken.A sort of slice of life that subtly, without shouting, avoids the most obvious melodramatic clichés, the series confronts us not with the trauma of loss, but with the “after”, when life demands to continue, to be lived anyway. In this sense, ‘Love Me’ moves slowly, with silences and pauses that are not empty but full of meaning, as only real life can be.
The narrative follows the parallel trajectories of widowed father Jin Ho and his children Jun Gyeong and Jun Seo, three different responses to the same void. Jin Ho, a faithful husband for decades, is taken aback by his desire to love again and, at the same time, terrified of his family's judgement. Jun Gyeong, a midwife, carries a sense of guilt that makes any potential relationship a minefield: she wants to love, but fears making mistakes. Jun Seo, the youngest, represents a contemporary fragility: the fear of not being good enough, the feeling of falling short of others' expectations and of one's own life.
The romantic relationships that develop throughout the series are not presented as salvation, but as a challenge. Love does not come to “fix” the main characters’ lives, but to test them further.
Jin Ho is a man who loved with all his heart and now finds himself faced with the chance of a new relationship. Fear of judgement, loyalty to the memory of his wife, the difficulty of accepting happiness: everything mixes together in silent torment. When love knocks on his door again, the drama recounts the tenderness of someone who feels guilty for still wanting to love. And when a dramatic turn of events upsets his new relationship, the story does not choose the easy way out: it confronts him with a different kind of loss and forces him to choose to live in the present, even if it is short-lived and fragile.
Jun Gyeong, a midwife, is a woman who knows how to give life to others but struggles to give it to herself. Her heart is trapped between guilt and fear of making mistakes. Hers is the most turbulent trajectory; initially, she welcomes love with suspicion, as if any happiness could turn out to be a deception. With Do Hyeon and young Daniel, she builds, or at least tries to build, a new family, but her vulnerability leads her to make a mistake that calls everything into question. Nevertheless, with patience and humanity, and the support of her partner, she learns that loving does not mean being perfect, but staying, even when you fall.
Jun Seo experiences a more “ordinary” but equally profound crisis. Having set aside the career he thought he wanted, he feels inferior to his girlfriend, an aspiring writer with a more defined future. His journey, made up of attempts and failures, leads him in a new, more concrete and realistic direction. In reconnecting with Hye On, Jun Seo learns that love does not measure value based on success, but, on the contrary, on the sincerity of the heart.
It is interesting how the construction of these narratives is intertwined with one of the most powerful symbolic elements of the drama: the house. The family home is not just a setting, but a silent presence that preserves everything. It is the place that has seen love blossom, children grow up, and everyday life unfold; and it is the same space that welcomes infermity and death without denial (the bed, the photographs, the garden...). Even when the idea of leaving it takes hold, it remains clear that certain places are not abandoned but change form, are passed through, in order to continue to preserve what has been...
In this sense, ‘Love Me’ takes on an almost Zen-like dimension: impermanence, acceptance, the ability to find meaning in things we cannot control. But without abstract interpretations, probably due in part to the Catholic influence that is a strong presence in the Seo family. Pain is not explained, but accepted as part of existence; life is not a straight line, but a series of sudden turns. And even when it seems that everything is over, love is not a consolatory promise of salvation, but a conscious choice, often difficult and always exposed to loss; love can return to enlighten even the darkest corners.
A little television miracle made possible thanks to an exceptionally talented cast, definitely one of the story's strong points; all choose a controlled, measured acting style, never over the top, which renounces emphasis in favor of small gestures, glances and half-phrases. Through a “natural”, almost spontaneous style that does not demand attention but wins it over, allowing the viewer to grasp every emotional nuance and tune in to the characters without filters. By personal choice, Seo Hyun Jin and Yoon Se Ah (but here I am not impartial!) completely won me over; two beautiful actresses, in every sense.
The drama undoubtedly requires the right kind of mood, perhaps viewing in small doses, to allow emotions and reflections to settle; it does not promise easy consolation, but it does offer a discreet certainty: even when you make mistakes, even when you lose, even when you start again late, you are never truly alone. And somewhere, there is always the possibility of loving again, and being loved...
8/10
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Moonlight Finds What Daylight Misses
'Forbidden Love' (2004) remains, years later, an anomalous but surprisingly coherent work: a drama that uses melodrama as its backbone to graft on horror folklore, urban action and a far from trivial reflection on power and visibility. A work that does not seek balance, but builds its identity precisely on the friction between registers.One of the most interesting aspects of the series is the choice not to “hide” the supernatural, but rather to have it coexist openly with the urban landscape. The gumiho clan does not live on the margins: they are fully embedded in contemporary society, often occupying positions of authority. If during the day these creatures appear perfectly integrated into civil life, at night they sink into the underground, where an archaic realm of braziers, altars and ancestral symbols (and an abundance of leather outfits!) opens up, fuelling a world of rituals, feuds and millennial secrets. An imagery that, in terms of artificiality and evocativeness, is more reminiscent of Italian peplum movies and certain deliberately fictitious sets by Mario Bava than television realism.
In this dual space — bourgeois surface above, primordial rituality below — suspended between melodrama and gothic horror, paganism and the occult, the series finds its most authentic identity. 'Forbidden Love' is not a “spectacular” fantasy in the classical sense, but a lateral fantasy that infiltrates the interstices of the modern city: the fantastic does not destroy reality or replace it, but slowly infects it, almost vampirically, creeping into the creases of everyday life.
The melodramatic storyline is based on predestined yet impossible loves, in which every feeling is doomed from the outset. The gumiho Shi Yeon (Kim Tae Hee, beautiful and committed to a well-developed role, albeit still too expressive in her facial gestures) is at the centre of an emotional four-way relationship with no way out: She rejects the human and predestined love of policeman Kang Min Woo (Jo Hyun Jae, convincing), because she belongs to the lineage that he, initially unaware, fights against; but she also rejects that of her fellow Mu Young (Jun Jin, overly restrained), unable to arouse true involvement in her.
Shi Yeon is inextricably linked to the fate of the thousand-year-old fox; a natural and spiritual law that governs the existence of gumiho, laden with symbolic and metaphorical references: the impossibility of emotional bonds, not having to give in to human love, not mixing desire with the primordial instinct of the fox. The ‘curse’ represents the price to be paid for becoming fully human. Hence the divided identity, the repression of feelings, the eternal conflict between imposed destiny and individual choice, the personal sacrifice that precludes both paths, because every emotional bond strengthens one part of her at the expense of the other...
The gumiho warrior is an almost ascetic figure, forced into solitude not by moral choice, but by ontological necessity, which is immutable. The drama still holds up today precisely because of this mature and painful conflict: love truly becomes “forbidden love”.
Around them moves Chae Yi (Han Ye Seul, super sexy and perfectly suited to the role), a tragic character crushed by a double inferiority — hierarchical and sentimental — that transforms jealousy into betrayal. In this context, the melodrama offers no promise of redemption: love, though predestined, cannot be fulfilled without destroying those who feel it. No one, human or gumiho, is destined for a happy ending, because the predestination of love is not a promise, but a condemnation.
It is within this relentless logic that a “sideways” loss occurs, seemingly unrelated to the love four-way, but destined to contaminate it from within: a human bereavement, innocent and unaware of the deep axis of the story, which, touching on one of the symbolic cores of the gumiho’s existence, transforms love itself into guilt.
The introduction of the special police division marks a decisive change of scale. The military, not surprisingly, ‘don't mince words’: they embody a cold and repressive rationality that conflicts with both the gumiho and Kang Min Woo. The policeman thus becomes a tragic figure in his own right: torn between love and duty, empathy and repression, caught in the middle of two worlds that demand absolute loyalty. His conflict is insoluble, because every choice involves a loss. It is here that the melodrama acquires an unexpected depth: love is not salvation, but yet another battlefield.
The action scenes do not seek realism or pure spectacle, but instead function as geometric rituals inscribed in urban space. Squares, rooftops, stadiums, gyms, shopping centers, and even churches become chessboards where Korean folklore, television melodrama, and post- ‘Matrix’ and ‘Underworld’ action imagery coexist in a kitschy balance that is as delirious as it is coherent.
The characters seem to move according to invisible rules: the conflict is less psychological and more topological. The gumiho factions occupy areas, the police establish a counter-map, and the clashes take the form of choreographed rituals rather than traditional narrative events. Many sequences seem to openly declare: “Let's take a hyper-kinetic Western grammar and perform it with absolute seriousness, even when it's excessive.” Accelerated editing without realistic justification, iconic poses, sudden slow motion. This is where kitsch becomes conscious language: not irony, not parody, but total adherence to the subject's delirium.
In this radicalism, Korean drama touches upon — perhaps unintentionally — an unexpected arthouse cinema: a Jacques Rivette catapulted into contemporary Seoul, between ‘Duelle’, ‘Noroît’ and ‘Out 1’, but filmed as if Spike Jonze and the Beastie Boys had stumbled upon the set by chance. “Comment vous dire... c'est du sabotage!”. A happy and vital sabotage that cracks the surface romanticism and lets it breathe in the unexpected, in physical gestures, in the pure energy of movement.
Despite its obvious flaws in terms of pacing and writing, ‘Forbidden Love’ remains an ambitious drama with a strong sense of identity. Re-evaluating it means accepting its irregularities without mistaking them for superficiality. It does not excel in every single aspect, but it builds a coherent universe, a layered urban mythology and a surprising dialogue between folklore, action and melodrama. Its value lies in the sum of its parts, not in the perfection of each one: an uneven but coherent story, which finds its strength in its eclecticism. Not a perfect series, but an object with an off-kilter charm that, years later, deserves a closer look and a more generous judgement — and, above all, recognition of its courage in remaining true to itself, right up to the very last frame.
7 ½
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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
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