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A Sonata of Flaws, Forgiveness, and Found Family
Some stories announce themselves loudly from the very first note. Quartet is not that kind of story.
It opens like a hesitant pluck of string on a barely tuned violin—shy, awkward, slow. For the first episode or two, you might find yourself wondering whether you’ve wandered into an avant-garde meditation on adult disappointment. But then, like all the best compositions, Quartet finds its tempo. And when it does, it plays a symphony that is bittersweet, whimsical, aching, and profoundly human.
Set against the frosted silence of a Karuizawa winter, Quartet introduces us to four individuals who each carry a secret like a cello case on their back—heavy, awkward, impossible to ignore. They meet by fate, or perhaps by narrative trickery, and decide to form a string quartet named, of all things, “Doughnut Hole.” The reason? “Because only people with holes in their hearts can create music like this.” That absurdly poignant metaphor is the beating heart of the entire show.
Let’s get this out of the way: Quartet boasts one of the finest ensemble casts I’ve seen in a J-drama. And it’s not just about individual performances—it’s about how they breathe in sync, like musicians sharing one breath across four instruments.
Mitsushima Hikari as Suzume is absolutely mesmerizing. If emotion had a stealth mode, she’s cracked it. Her portrayal of the free-spirited, sleepy, yet emotionally wounded cellist is so layered it’s like peeling an onion while blindfolded—every revelation stings a little, and yet you can’t stop. She brings to life a woman who smiles while her heart crumbles, and somehow, it never feels contrived. Just devastatingly real. Suzume, the sleepy-eyed cellist with a murky past and the soul of a wounded animal, is one of the most layered characters I've seen in a long time. Her ability to mask sadness with whimsy, to cry while smiling, to offer joy while breaking inside—Hikari performs every emotional beat with a terrifying precision that’s impossible to look away from.
Takako Matsu as Maki Maki (yes, really) is equally brilliant in her restraint. Maki is a character wrapped in silk and secrets, a woman who speaks in polite half-truths and musical metaphors, and Matsu delivers her story with the grace of a tightrope walker—careful, deliberate, breathtaking when she finally leaps. The drama wisely waits to unpack Maki’s backstory until the perfect moment, and when it lands, it does so with a narrative weight that hits like a dropped bow on a silent stage. Giving us a character who seems composed on the outside but harbors storms inside. Her backstory unfolds like a tightly sealed letter, opened only when the drama is good and ready—and when it lands, it lands hard.
Issei Takahashi and Ryuhei Matsuda round out the quartet as Beppu and Iemori, each bringing a distinct texture to the ensemble. Beppu is the closest thing this drama has to a romantic lead, though he is so emotionally flammable that romance feels less like a spark and more like a fire hazard. Iemori, on the other hand, is the oddball viola player who speaks in riddles and seems to orbit reality at his own tilt. His interactions with Suzume—chaotic, tender, sometimes absurd—are some of the most charming moments in the show.
What truly elevates Quartet isn’t just the acting—it’s the writing. This is one of those rare dramas where the banter is a highlight. From seemingly pointless debates about whether to squeeze lemon on karaage, to metaphysical musings on love, truth, and identity, every conversation feels like a carefully composed jazz riff: casual on the surface, precise underneath. The humor is deadpan and odd, the emotional reveals are sudden but earned, and the story dances constantly between past and present without warning. It asks for your full attention, but it rewards you for listening.
The dialogue leans heavily on Japanese wordplay and cultural references, which might fly over the heads of non-Japanese speakers. But if you’re fluent or even semi-fluent, it’s a treasure trove of clever puns and emotionally resonant lines that walk the tightrope between comedy and tragedy.
The soundtrack, too, deserves special mention. Not only do the cast members perform the quartet pieces themselves (with some studio magic and a lot of practice), but the original theme song—sung by the actors—is an addictive, jazzy bossa nova earworm that manages to be upbeat and melancholy. Kind of like the show itself.
At a glance, Quartet might seem like your average slice-of-life story. Four strangers. One villa. A musical dream. But under the cozy kotatsu of that premise lies a surprisingly twisty web of deception, longing, and past regrets. But Quartet isn’t really about music. It’s about the people who make it. It’s about what happens when four flawed, lonely, misfit adults accidentally find each other and, without fixing their broken pieces, learn how to play together anyway. The love angles are messy—beautifully so. Suzume loves Beppu, who only sees her as a sister. Beppu pines for Maki, who is still unraveling from a marriage that almost destroyed her. Iemori, ever the pragmatic oddball, quietly protects Suzume from emotional pain, knowing he’ll never be the one she looks at that way. And despite all this emotional entanglement, the show never devolves into melodrama. It just lets the awkwardness, the longing, the unspoken words simmer quietly, as they do in real life.
It’s hard to talk about the plot without spoiling the little moments that make it special. Let’s just say this: every character is hiding something, but this isn’t a mystery show in the traditional sense. The secrets unravel slowly, organically, sometimes out of order, and often without warning. Flashbacks are slipped in with no announcement. Conversations hint at timelines that aren’t immediately clear. You’ll need to listen—not just to the music, but to what’s being said between the silences.
Yes, some resolutions feel rushed. And yes, the plot can get convoluted. But if you surrender to the rhythm, the emotional payoff is worth the patience. There are flaws, of course. The show starts slow—some might abandon it before it finds its rhythm. The plot sometimes spirals into convoluted timelines and subtle cues that could confuse an inattentive viewer. And certain resolutions to conflicts might feel too brisk or unresolved. But the emotional payoff is rich. Quartet is not about tying everything neatly—it's about learning to live with the knots.
If I had to pick one reason to recommend Quartet, it’s Suzume. Her arc is the emotional backbone of the series. She’s the trickster, the wildcard, the dreamer with the saddest eyes. Watching her struggle with unrequited love, personal guilt, and the fear of being abandoned again is like watching someone play a concerto on broken strings—and somehow still create beauty.
Another favorite thread was the quiet understanding between Iemori and Suzume. Their friendship, full of strange conversations and unspoken affection, is the kind of dynamic you rarely see onscreen. And while they don’t end up together, the mutual respect and care in their interactions was deeply touching. The show ends not with grand resolutions but with acceptance. The quartet performs to a full audience not because they’ve fixed their lives, but because they’ve decided to keep playing anyway
Verdict:
Quartet is a rare gem that doesn’t shout for your attention—it whispers, and if you’re willing to lean in close enough, it will sing to you about longing, forgiveness, and the quiet, imperfect beauty of being known. A slow start, yes, and sometimes too subtle for its own good, but what a profoundly satisfying little sonata it turned out to be.
Quartet asks: what happens when broken people come together not to fix each other, but simply to listen? What kind of music can be made from lives with gaping holes at their center?
The answer: something unexpectedly beautiful.
Yes, the pacing stumbles early on. Yes, it demands attention and cultural fluency. But once the pieces fall into place, Quartet becomes a delicate, emotional masterpiece—a found-family tale that lingers long after the final bow.
This is not a drama about solving mysteries or winning love. It’s a story about acceptance. About knowing someone might never heal completely, and choosing to stay anyway. In a world obsessed with perfection, Quartet dares to say: you don’t need to be whole to make harmony. Sometimes, all you need is someone to play alongside you.
Score: 8/10
It opens like a hesitant pluck of string on a barely tuned violin—shy, awkward, slow. For the first episode or two, you might find yourself wondering whether you’ve wandered into an avant-garde meditation on adult disappointment. But then, like all the best compositions, Quartet finds its tempo. And when it does, it plays a symphony that is bittersweet, whimsical, aching, and profoundly human.
Set against the frosted silence of a Karuizawa winter, Quartet introduces us to four individuals who each carry a secret like a cello case on their back—heavy, awkward, impossible to ignore. They meet by fate, or perhaps by narrative trickery, and decide to form a string quartet named, of all things, “Doughnut Hole.” The reason? “Because only people with holes in their hearts can create music like this.” That absurdly poignant metaphor is the beating heart of the entire show.
Let’s get this out of the way: Quartet boasts one of the finest ensemble casts I’ve seen in a J-drama. And it’s not just about individual performances—it’s about how they breathe in sync, like musicians sharing one breath across four instruments.
Mitsushima Hikari as Suzume is absolutely mesmerizing. If emotion had a stealth mode, she’s cracked it. Her portrayal of the free-spirited, sleepy, yet emotionally wounded cellist is so layered it’s like peeling an onion while blindfolded—every revelation stings a little, and yet you can’t stop. She brings to life a woman who smiles while her heart crumbles, and somehow, it never feels contrived. Just devastatingly real. Suzume, the sleepy-eyed cellist with a murky past and the soul of a wounded animal, is one of the most layered characters I've seen in a long time. Her ability to mask sadness with whimsy, to cry while smiling, to offer joy while breaking inside—Hikari performs every emotional beat with a terrifying precision that’s impossible to look away from.
Takako Matsu as Maki Maki (yes, really) is equally brilliant in her restraint. Maki is a character wrapped in silk and secrets, a woman who speaks in polite half-truths and musical metaphors, and Matsu delivers her story with the grace of a tightrope walker—careful, deliberate, breathtaking when she finally leaps. The drama wisely waits to unpack Maki’s backstory until the perfect moment, and when it lands, it does so with a narrative weight that hits like a dropped bow on a silent stage. Giving us a character who seems composed on the outside but harbors storms inside. Her backstory unfolds like a tightly sealed letter, opened only when the drama is good and ready—and when it lands, it lands hard.
Issei Takahashi and Ryuhei Matsuda round out the quartet as Beppu and Iemori, each bringing a distinct texture to the ensemble. Beppu is the closest thing this drama has to a romantic lead, though he is so emotionally flammable that romance feels less like a spark and more like a fire hazard. Iemori, on the other hand, is the oddball viola player who speaks in riddles and seems to orbit reality at his own tilt. His interactions with Suzume—chaotic, tender, sometimes absurd—are some of the most charming moments in the show.
What truly elevates Quartet isn’t just the acting—it’s the writing. This is one of those rare dramas where the banter is a highlight. From seemingly pointless debates about whether to squeeze lemon on karaage, to metaphysical musings on love, truth, and identity, every conversation feels like a carefully composed jazz riff: casual on the surface, precise underneath. The humor is deadpan and odd, the emotional reveals are sudden but earned, and the story dances constantly between past and present without warning. It asks for your full attention, but it rewards you for listening.
The dialogue leans heavily on Japanese wordplay and cultural references, which might fly over the heads of non-Japanese speakers. But if you’re fluent or even semi-fluent, it’s a treasure trove of clever puns and emotionally resonant lines that walk the tightrope between comedy and tragedy.
The soundtrack, too, deserves special mention. Not only do the cast members perform the quartet pieces themselves (with some studio magic and a lot of practice), but the original theme song—sung by the actors—is an addictive, jazzy bossa nova earworm that manages to be upbeat and melancholy. Kind of like the show itself.
At a glance, Quartet might seem like your average slice-of-life story. Four strangers. One villa. A musical dream. But under the cozy kotatsu of that premise lies a surprisingly twisty web of deception, longing, and past regrets. But Quartet isn’t really about music. It’s about the people who make it. It’s about what happens when four flawed, lonely, misfit adults accidentally find each other and, without fixing their broken pieces, learn how to play together anyway. The love angles are messy—beautifully so. Suzume loves Beppu, who only sees her as a sister. Beppu pines for Maki, who is still unraveling from a marriage that almost destroyed her. Iemori, ever the pragmatic oddball, quietly protects Suzume from emotional pain, knowing he’ll never be the one she looks at that way. And despite all this emotional entanglement, the show never devolves into melodrama. It just lets the awkwardness, the longing, the unspoken words simmer quietly, as they do in real life.
It’s hard to talk about the plot without spoiling the little moments that make it special. Let’s just say this: every character is hiding something, but this isn’t a mystery show in the traditional sense. The secrets unravel slowly, organically, sometimes out of order, and often without warning. Flashbacks are slipped in with no announcement. Conversations hint at timelines that aren’t immediately clear. You’ll need to listen—not just to the music, but to what’s being said between the silences.
Yes, some resolutions feel rushed. And yes, the plot can get convoluted. But if you surrender to the rhythm, the emotional payoff is worth the patience. There are flaws, of course. The show starts slow—some might abandon it before it finds its rhythm. The plot sometimes spirals into convoluted timelines and subtle cues that could confuse an inattentive viewer. And certain resolutions to conflicts might feel too brisk or unresolved. But the emotional payoff is rich. Quartet is not about tying everything neatly—it's about learning to live with the knots.
If I had to pick one reason to recommend Quartet, it’s Suzume. Her arc is the emotional backbone of the series. She’s the trickster, the wildcard, the dreamer with the saddest eyes. Watching her struggle with unrequited love, personal guilt, and the fear of being abandoned again is like watching someone play a concerto on broken strings—and somehow still create beauty.
Another favorite thread was the quiet understanding between Iemori and Suzume. Their friendship, full of strange conversations and unspoken affection, is the kind of dynamic you rarely see onscreen. And while they don’t end up together, the mutual respect and care in their interactions was deeply touching. The show ends not with grand resolutions but with acceptance. The quartet performs to a full audience not because they’ve fixed their lives, but because they’ve decided to keep playing anyway
Verdict:
Quartet is a rare gem that doesn’t shout for your attention—it whispers, and if you’re willing to lean in close enough, it will sing to you about longing, forgiveness, and the quiet, imperfect beauty of being known. A slow start, yes, and sometimes too subtle for its own good, but what a profoundly satisfying little sonata it turned out to be.
Quartet asks: what happens when broken people come together not to fix each other, but simply to listen? What kind of music can be made from lives with gaping holes at their center?
The answer: something unexpectedly beautiful.
Yes, the pacing stumbles early on. Yes, it demands attention and cultural fluency. But once the pieces fall into place, Quartet becomes a delicate, emotional masterpiece—a found-family tale that lingers long after the final bow.
This is not a drama about solving mysteries or winning love. It’s a story about acceptance. About knowing someone might never heal completely, and choosing to stay anyway. In a world obsessed with perfection, Quartet dares to say: you don’t need to be whole to make harmony. Sometimes, all you need is someone to play alongside you.
Score: 8/10
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