Editorials 
This review may contain spoilers
The quiet desperation of success
Henry David Thoreau famously observed, "the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." The opening episodes of The Ordinary Jackpot seem almost a perfect illustration of this observation.
We encounter a man trapped in a joyless existence, following a path laid out from school to university to employment in a conglomerate. There is nothing but work, and nothing much to be proud of except the sheer effort of working itself. For whom, and for what purpose, seems almost irrelevant. Getting ahead is an end in itself, although what he is getting ahead towards remains unclear.
His is an overwhelmingly grey life. There is little companionship, connection or meaningful purpose. His diet of beer and fried pork has given him a fatty liver. A day off consists of television, exercise and snacks. And beneath this heavy morass of grey living lies a white-hot anger.
Thoreau also suggested that the true cost of anything should be measured by how much of our life we give up to acquire it. Looking at this man's life, it's difficult to see what all his hard work has bought him, beyond the pride he takes in being hardworking.
And then everything changes. He wins a substantial amount of money. Not enough to abandon work, but enough to give him something he has never really possessed before: the freedom to make mistakes.
Suddenly his suppressed anger becomes useful. He can take risks, challenge authority and engage in the competitive life of the workplace without constantly fearing the consequences. Work, previously nothing but drudgery, becomes a form of competitive play. He discovers teamwork, shared purpose and genuine companionship.
But beneath this transformation lies a larger question: What is all this work for?
Against the backdrop of South Korea's history, it's a particularly interesting question. Hard work, sacrifice and collective effort helped transform a country devastated by war into a prosperous industrial nation. But now, with prosperity achieved and one of the world's lowest birth rates, what is all that sacrifice building towards?
The male lead's transformation is both satisfying and strangely incomplete. Money gives him permission to play, express his anger and connect with others. Eventually, he realises he could have done these things without it. But almost all his newfound freedom remains directed towards work.
After successfully closing an important deal, he returns home and experiences profound loneliness. What consoles him is remembering the work he did alongside his colleagues. Those memories bring him genuine satisfaction, but even his consolation for loneliness must come from work.
Meanwhile, the company remains a business, governed by commercial imperatives and conditional loyalties. Today his interests may align with its own, but tomorrow they may not. And although he discovers that courage and friendship needn't depend on money, it was financial security that made his initial risks possible.
The drama presents these contradictions without inviting us to examine them too closely. The jaunty music of its final scenes encourages us to celebrate his liberation rather than question its limits.
And there is certainly something worth celebrating. He has escaped the fear, suppression and quiet desperation that once governed his existence. He has discovered friendship, pleasure, courage and the ability to play.
But he hasn't escaped the narrowness of the life that produced his desperation in the first place.
The drama seems content to leave him happier within that life, without asking too insistently whether there ought to be something more.
And so the question that has been simmering beneath the story remains unanswered:
What is all this work for, if it leaves you with no life of your own?
We encounter a man trapped in a joyless existence, following a path laid out from school to university to employment in a conglomerate. There is nothing but work, and nothing much to be proud of except the sheer effort of working itself. For whom, and for what purpose, seems almost irrelevant. Getting ahead is an end in itself, although what he is getting ahead towards remains unclear.
His is an overwhelmingly grey life. There is little companionship, connection or meaningful purpose. His diet of beer and fried pork has given him a fatty liver. A day off consists of television, exercise and snacks. And beneath this heavy morass of grey living lies a white-hot anger.
Thoreau also suggested that the true cost of anything should be measured by how much of our life we give up to acquire it. Looking at this man's life, it's difficult to see what all his hard work has bought him, beyond the pride he takes in being hardworking.
And then everything changes. He wins a substantial amount of money. Not enough to abandon work, but enough to give him something he has never really possessed before: the freedom to make mistakes.
Suddenly his suppressed anger becomes useful. He can take risks, challenge authority and engage in the competitive life of the workplace without constantly fearing the consequences. Work, previously nothing but drudgery, becomes a form of competitive play. He discovers teamwork, shared purpose and genuine companionship.
But beneath this transformation lies a larger question: What is all this work for?
Against the backdrop of South Korea's history, it's a particularly interesting question. Hard work, sacrifice and collective effort helped transform a country devastated by war into a prosperous industrial nation. But now, with prosperity achieved and one of the world's lowest birth rates, what is all that sacrifice building towards?
The male lead's transformation is both satisfying and strangely incomplete. Money gives him permission to play, express his anger and connect with others. Eventually, he realises he could have done these things without it. But almost all his newfound freedom remains directed towards work.
After successfully closing an important deal, he returns home and experiences profound loneliness. What consoles him is remembering the work he did alongside his colleagues. Those memories bring him genuine satisfaction, but even his consolation for loneliness must come from work.
Meanwhile, the company remains a business, governed by commercial imperatives and conditional loyalties. Today his interests may align with its own, but tomorrow they may not. And although he discovers that courage and friendship needn't depend on money, it was financial security that made his initial risks possible.
The drama presents these contradictions without inviting us to examine them too closely. The jaunty music of its final scenes encourages us to celebrate his liberation rather than question its limits.
And there is certainly something worth celebrating. He has escaped the fear, suppression and quiet desperation that once governed his existence. He has discovered friendship, pleasure, courage and the ability to play.
But he hasn't escaped the narrowness of the life that produced his desperation in the first place.
The drama seems content to leave him happier within that life, without asking too insistently whether there ought to be something more.
And so the question that has been simmering beneath the story remains unanswered:
What is all this work for, if it leaves you with no life of your own?
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