K-Drama 
This review may contain spoilers
Jesus almost got me / I don't know how many prayers he overheard
“Love Letter” belongs to a particularly significant period in the evolution of the Dramaverse – the era of the drama seasons: it was released at the same time as “Summer Scent”, shortly after “Winter Sonata” and alongside, amongst others, similar dramas such as “Stairway to Heaven”. In many ways, everything seems to point to the great Korean romantic melodramas of the early 2000s: intense emotions, fate, sacrifice, past traumas and a classic love triangle destined to further complicate the protagonists’ lives. Yet “Love Letter” takes a less predictable path than its structure might suggest, introducing a surprisingly significant religious element into the melodrama, which transforms the usual romantic rivalry into a far more complex conflict between emotion, vocation, guilt and sacrifice.
The religious element, in fact, is not merely a decorative feature or a device used simply to further complicate the love triangle: it is one of the cornerstones around which the entire story is built. Faith plays a part in the characters’ backgrounds, influences their choices, fuels their feelings of guilt and, above all, introduces into the usual romantic conflict a question that romantic melodrama does not typically pose in these terms: what happens when love for another person clashes with a vocation that is considered superior to any earthly bond?
This gives rise to a tension that runs through virtually the entire drama, because none of the main characters is simply called upon to choose whom to love: each must come to terms with what they believe to be right, with what they desire, and with what they feel they must sacrifice.
Here, the figure of Andrea becomes central. His personal story initially appears to follow the most classic of providential paths: an oppressed child, a lost family, an uncle who is a priest and who appears almost as a saviour-figure, and a new life within the religious community. Andrea therefore grows up linking his own salvation to his faith and, above all, to the conviction that he has been given a sort of second chance.
When, years later, love for Eun-ha enters his life, the conflict is not merely about his desire to be with the woman he loves: it means calling into question the very foundation upon which he has built his identity.
Jung Yoo-jung’s arrival at college completes the love triangle, but not just that one: an almost brotherly bond immediately develops between him and Andrea, though this is destined to fray when Yoo-jung falls in love with Eun-ha and begins to see his friend as a rival. From that moment on, ‘Love Letter’ follows a fairly classic trajectory for Korean melodramas of the era, characterised by jealousy, misunderstandings and family revelations that constantly shift the balance of power.
The discovery of their respective identities and the links between their families introduces a new rift, whilst Yoo-jung’s jealousy compounds the pain of a past that suddenly takes on a different meaning. Even Andrea’s decision to take her vows, rather than resolving the conflict, paradoxically ends up fuelling it: the love remains there, unresolved, and the letter that Yoo-jung hides from Eun-ha becomes one of the many small gestures through which the protagonists are gradually deprived of any choice.
The love triangle thus inevitably begins to unravel, with Eun-ha increasingly torn between the two men and Yoo-jung, in her attempt to win what she desires, repeatedly crossing the line between love and possession. It is a dynamic familiar to the melodramas of that era, but here it works because it ties in with the story’s other two main themes: family wounds and the conflict between emotion and vocation.
It is, however, through Eun-ha that the love triangle ultimately takes on a different perspective. Gradually worn down by the rivalry between the two men, torn between her love for Andrea and Yoo-jung’s persistent marriage proposals, she finds herself facing a far more dramatic conflict, which the story reveals only gradually: the discovery of a serious heart condition, accompanied by uncertainty about how long she has left to live. From this point on, the melodrama shifts significantly in tone, as the usual romantic indecision gives way to the anguish of a future that might suddenly cease to exist.
His gradual isolation, his hesitations and apparent second thoughts thus take on a different meaning, whilst his sense of guilt towards Andrea ends up fuelling the conviction that his illness may be a punishment for having distanced him from God.
The conflict between feelings and vocation thus takes on a more truly existential dimension, in which the problem is no longer merely a matter of choosing how to live out one’s love, but of facing the very possibility of losing it forever.
Eun-ha’s tragedy reverberates through the two men, who are already tormented by increasingly fragile certainties: Andrea gradually loses his footing between his vocation and love, whilst Yoo-jung allows himself to be consumed by resentment. Both thus seem to lose touch with who they once were, just as Eun-ha’s illness forces the love triangle into a completely new perspective.
Just when the love triangle seems irreparably broken, it is the illness itself that ultimately mends, at least temporarily, what the romantic conflict had torn apart. Faced with the very real possibility of losing Eun-ha, rivalries and grudges are pushed into the background: Yoo-jung returns, first and foremost, to being the doctor who can try to save her, whilst Andrea must finally face up to the possibility of losing her, no longer able to put off making her own choices. The very person who had divided them thus becomes the force that compels them to find their way back to one another.
It is no coincidence, after all, that almost all the main characters are connected to the medical profession: in “Love Letter”, faith and science are not set against one another, but curiously end up converging precisely where the protagonists’ lives are most at risk.
It is perhaps here that the true ‘miracle’ of “Love Letter” takes place: not so much in Eun-ha’s fate, but in the mending of the three protagonists’ feelings. Andrea finally realises that his calling need not necessarily overshadow his love for Eun-ha, whilst she gradually stops viewing that love as a sin to be atoned for; that moment on the beach, which in a conventional melodrama would probably mark the beginning of their love story, instead becomes its definitive form: a moment of mutual acknowledgement that does not open up a new path, but clarifies the one they have both now chosen.
What also holds together a narrative structure so rich in twists, second thoughts and repetitions is the excellent work of the cast, who are called upon to portray characters that could easily have lost credibility under the very weight of the melodrama.
Jo Hyun-jae, Soo Ae and Ji Jin-hee, however, manage to keep the various nuances of their characters consistently recognisable, accompanying their transformations without reducing them to the usual roles of a love triangle. Andrea, Eun-ha and Yoo-jung thus remain three deeply human figures, each with their own contradictions and weaknesses, and it is probably also thanks to this solid acting that “Love Letter” manages to see it through to the end without losing the delicate balance between love, faith, guilt and sacrifice.
The ending – which, in a story so full of twists and turns, could easily have undermined everything that had been built up previously – turns out, instead, to be perfectly consistent with the characters’ journeys. It does not seek spectacular solutions nor does it resort to a final twist to astonish the viewer: it simply brings to a conclusion what the sixteen episodes had set up, allowing love, vocation and sacrifice to finally find a place where they can coexist. It is a conclusion that does not shy away from melodrama, but brings it to its natural conclusion, and is probably the best outcome the drama could have hoped for.
That old fairy tale from Andrea’s childhood inevitably springs to mind – the one about the rope that came down from the sky to save the child from his loneliness. That rope, which seemed merely a symbol of hope, ends up running symbolically through the entire story: first, someone reaches out to Andrea; then it is Andrea who reaches out to someone else. It’s comforting to think that the ultimate meaning of ‘Love Letter’ is indeed this: not that love must necessarily triumph over faith, or faith over love, but that both can take on a different form without ceasing to be what they are.
7 ½
The religious element, in fact, is not merely a decorative feature or a device used simply to further complicate the love triangle: it is one of the cornerstones around which the entire story is built. Faith plays a part in the characters’ backgrounds, influences their choices, fuels their feelings of guilt and, above all, introduces into the usual romantic conflict a question that romantic melodrama does not typically pose in these terms: what happens when love for another person clashes with a vocation that is considered superior to any earthly bond?
This gives rise to a tension that runs through virtually the entire drama, because none of the main characters is simply called upon to choose whom to love: each must come to terms with what they believe to be right, with what they desire, and with what they feel they must sacrifice.
Here, the figure of Andrea becomes central. His personal story initially appears to follow the most classic of providential paths: an oppressed child, a lost family, an uncle who is a priest and who appears almost as a saviour-figure, and a new life within the religious community. Andrea therefore grows up linking his own salvation to his faith and, above all, to the conviction that he has been given a sort of second chance.
When, years later, love for Eun-ha enters his life, the conflict is not merely about his desire to be with the woman he loves: it means calling into question the very foundation upon which he has built his identity.
Jung Yoo-jung’s arrival at college completes the love triangle, but not just that one: an almost brotherly bond immediately develops between him and Andrea, though this is destined to fray when Yoo-jung falls in love with Eun-ha and begins to see his friend as a rival. From that moment on, ‘Love Letter’ follows a fairly classic trajectory for Korean melodramas of the era, characterised by jealousy, misunderstandings and family revelations that constantly shift the balance of power.
The discovery of their respective identities and the links between their families introduces a new rift, whilst Yoo-jung’s jealousy compounds the pain of a past that suddenly takes on a different meaning. Even Andrea’s decision to take her vows, rather than resolving the conflict, paradoxically ends up fuelling it: the love remains there, unresolved, and the letter that Yoo-jung hides from Eun-ha becomes one of the many small gestures through which the protagonists are gradually deprived of any choice.
The love triangle thus inevitably begins to unravel, with Eun-ha increasingly torn between the two men and Yoo-jung, in her attempt to win what she desires, repeatedly crossing the line between love and possession. It is a dynamic familiar to the melodramas of that era, but here it works because it ties in with the story’s other two main themes: family wounds and the conflict between emotion and vocation.
It is, however, through Eun-ha that the love triangle ultimately takes on a different perspective. Gradually worn down by the rivalry between the two men, torn between her love for Andrea and Yoo-jung’s persistent marriage proposals, she finds herself facing a far more dramatic conflict, which the story reveals only gradually: the discovery of a serious heart condition, accompanied by uncertainty about how long she has left to live. From this point on, the melodrama shifts significantly in tone, as the usual romantic indecision gives way to the anguish of a future that might suddenly cease to exist.
His gradual isolation, his hesitations and apparent second thoughts thus take on a different meaning, whilst his sense of guilt towards Andrea ends up fuelling the conviction that his illness may be a punishment for having distanced him from God.
The conflict between feelings and vocation thus takes on a more truly existential dimension, in which the problem is no longer merely a matter of choosing how to live out one’s love, but of facing the very possibility of losing it forever.
Eun-ha’s tragedy reverberates through the two men, who are already tormented by increasingly fragile certainties: Andrea gradually loses his footing between his vocation and love, whilst Yoo-jung allows himself to be consumed by resentment. Both thus seem to lose touch with who they once were, just as Eun-ha’s illness forces the love triangle into a completely new perspective.
Just when the love triangle seems irreparably broken, it is the illness itself that ultimately mends, at least temporarily, what the romantic conflict had torn apart. Faced with the very real possibility of losing Eun-ha, rivalries and grudges are pushed into the background: Yoo-jung returns, first and foremost, to being the doctor who can try to save her, whilst Andrea must finally face up to the possibility of losing her, no longer able to put off making her own choices. The very person who had divided them thus becomes the force that compels them to find their way back to one another.
It is no coincidence, after all, that almost all the main characters are connected to the medical profession: in “Love Letter”, faith and science are not set against one another, but curiously end up converging precisely where the protagonists’ lives are most at risk.
It is perhaps here that the true ‘miracle’ of “Love Letter” takes place: not so much in Eun-ha’s fate, but in the mending of the three protagonists’ feelings. Andrea finally realises that his calling need not necessarily overshadow his love for Eun-ha, whilst she gradually stops viewing that love as a sin to be atoned for; that moment on the beach, which in a conventional melodrama would probably mark the beginning of their love story, instead becomes its definitive form: a moment of mutual acknowledgement that does not open up a new path, but clarifies the one they have both now chosen.
What also holds together a narrative structure so rich in twists, second thoughts and repetitions is the excellent work of the cast, who are called upon to portray characters that could easily have lost credibility under the very weight of the melodrama.
Jo Hyun-jae, Soo Ae and Ji Jin-hee, however, manage to keep the various nuances of their characters consistently recognisable, accompanying their transformations without reducing them to the usual roles of a love triangle. Andrea, Eun-ha and Yoo-jung thus remain three deeply human figures, each with their own contradictions and weaknesses, and it is probably also thanks to this solid acting that “Love Letter” manages to see it through to the end without losing the delicate balance between love, faith, guilt and sacrifice.
The ending – which, in a story so full of twists and turns, could easily have undermined everything that had been built up previously – turns out, instead, to be perfectly consistent with the characters’ journeys. It does not seek spectacular solutions nor does it resort to a final twist to astonish the viewer: it simply brings to a conclusion what the sixteen episodes had set up, allowing love, vocation and sacrifice to finally find a place where they can coexist. It is a conclusion that does not shy away from melodrama, but brings it to its natural conclusion, and is probably the best outcome the drama could have hoped for.
That old fairy tale from Andrea’s childhood inevitably springs to mind – the one about the rope that came down from the sky to save the child from his loneliness. That rope, which seemed merely a symbol of hope, ends up running symbolically through the entire story: first, someone reaches out to Andrea; then it is Andrea who reaches out to someone else. It’s comforting to think that the ultimate meaning of ‘Love Letter’ is indeed this: not that love must necessarily triumph over faith, or faith over love, but that both can take on a different form without ceasing to be what they are.
7 ½
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