Those people who are crying about her acting in the comment section should read it dozens of time🤣🤣🤣
When a new drama is released, don’t I have the right to check the comments and the cast? Do I need your permission? What on earth are you talking about? Honestly, go get some therapy. Instead of telling others to get a life, maybe look at your own - you’re getting triggered over one comment. I’ll write whatever I like, however I like. In fact, just to spite you, I’ll write even more. Haha.
She's very beautiful. I don't think "silly" roles like those in My Boss suit her. Her role in First Frost suited her best. I think it was one of the best dramas of recent times.
Those people who are crying about her acting in the comment section should read it dozens of time🤣🤣🤣
People might not even like the acting of people whose job is to be actors. Jisoo's acting is really bad. She was really terrible in Snowdrop. Of course, she'll be hardworking and respectful of her profession. But that doesn't make her a good actress. The director can't say otherwise because Jisoo's reason for being in the drama is her popularity. And he can't say anything that would provoke a reaction from her fans.
The baby is so cute. All dramas are a tool of propaganda. For example, Korea introduced its cuisine to the world…
I think it is handy to develop the capacity to distinguish between mere exposure and genuine understanding. Saying that this is not propaganda feels overly naïve to me. South Korea has one of the lowest birth rates in the world. For years, the government has announced multi-billion-won incentive packages, developed family policies and run public campaigns to increase births. In such a country, the repeated idealisation of babies in television dramas, the romanticising of parenthood, and its constant framing as “difficult but the greatest happiness” does not seem accidental. Propaganda does not have to mean posters and slogans. Modern propaganda produces desire, and television dramas are one of its most powerful tools. After the 1997 financial crisis, the cultural industry was officially declared a strategic sector by the state. The Ministry of Culture’s budget was expanded, and content producers were supported through incentives. That is the official framework. After Descendants of the Sun aired, public perception of the South Korean military improved significantly; the soldier character was portrayed as romantic, self-sacrificing and morally strong. That is image management. In legal dramas, the “ethical and idealistic” prosecutor figure is frequently highlighted, suggesting that state institutions are not entirely corrupt systems but structures that contain good people within them. Productions such as Hospital Playlist package doctors as noble and highly respected professionals. In police and intelligence series, security institutions are generally portrayed as rational and legitimate. The idealisation of professions that may face shortages or image problems is not new; cultural production has long influenced young people’s career perceptions.
Product placement is also obvious. Samsung phones, Hyundai cars, Korean cosmetics and everyday consumer goods are naturally integrated into storylines. Clean and safe cities, high technology and comfortable yet “accessible” lifestyles are constantly displayed. This is not random; it is a lifestyle package. Culture becomes a vehicle for national branding.
Regarding the baby issue, in a country facing a demographic crisis, the emotional glorification of forming a family and the repeated presentation of babies as “the meaning of life” cannot be separated from political context. If the state is dealing with a population crisis, it is unrealistic to assume that the cultural industry operates entirely independently from that reality. In a sector this large, state-supported and strategically positioned, narratives do not emerge in a vacuum.
In China, the situation is even clearer. Media operates under state oversight. Historical dramas repeatedly construct the image of a strong and unified China, while modern productions emphasise a disciplined and rising superpower. That is direct ideological framing.
I am not promoting a conspiracy theory. I am simply saying that the entertainment industry is now a strategic field. Culture, economy and state policy are intertwined. That is why I do not see overly sweet baby scenes as merely innocent details. They are among the softest yet most effective ways of shaping social orientation. Calling this propaganda is not an exaggeration; it is a realistic reading of how modern soft power operates.
I think it is handy to be able to think about these issues critically. Even something as simple as whether LGBTQ themes can be portrayed in a country’s television dramas ultimately depends on the limits set by the state. Media functions, to varying degrees, as a tool of propaganda. There is a significant difference between merely looking and truly seeing. I will see you again when you are able to see.
(My English is not very strong; I translated this text with AI. I apologise for any grammatical mistakes.)
For example, if a city in a drama is constantly portrayed through sunset shots, glowing streets and happy people, while poverty, chaos and ordinariness are kept out of the frame, that is selective representation. Selective representation is a propaganda technique. Propaganda does not always lie; more often, it highlights the parts of reality that serve its purpose and leaves the rest unseen.
Tourism promotion films are already state-supported. Dramas are more powerful because audiences form emotional connections. A character falls in love in that city, gets married there, achieves their dreams there. The place is no longer just a location; it becomes an emotional symbol. That is a deliberate cultural strategy.
If a country polishes its tourism image through television dramas, it is not merely an aesthetic choice but an economic and political communication strategy. Building a national brand through culture is the soft but modern form of propaganda. When we talk about Korea and propaganda, it would be incomplete not to mention the North Korea dimension. The division of the peninsula provides a constant point of contrast. In many dramas, North Korea is portrayed as closed, rigid and restrictive, while South Korea is shown as modern, prosperous, technologically advanced and emotionally free. Explicit political messaging is not required; the comparison itself shapes perception. By placing the two realities side by side, the narrative subtly reinforces the image of South Korea as the more desirable system. That, too, is a form of soft power — operating not through slogans, but through storytelling and contrast. And again, everything operates within a framework of messaging. Skin tone ideals, lipstick shades, fashion styles promoted to women, the constant glorification of thinness, the expectation that women should be “cute” or slightly naïve, and that men should be emotionally distant or “tsundere” are not neutral patterns. When certain traits are repeatedly presented as attractive, desirable or normal, they shape standards and expectations. Media does not need to issue commands; repetition is enough. What is consistently shown as beautiful, lovable, successful or worthy gradually becomes internalised as ideal. In that sense, media functions as a continuous mechanism of cultural conditioning. It may not always be overt or centrally directed, but it consistently produces norms, hierarchies and aspirations. In modern societies, media is one of the primary arenas where values are constructed, reinforced and circulated.
This little boy got negativity in reactions on YT. Calling it a propaganda tool to want you to have children.…
The baby is so cute. All dramas are a tool of propaganda. For example, Korea introduced its cuisine to the world through dramas. It promotes tourism. It showcases the country's culture. These are all forms of propaganda. Dramas show how successfully a country emerged from an economic crisis. Historical dramas depict how they defeated their enemies. Not all propaganda is bad. Sometimes they even use it to promote certain professions (like firefighting, etc.). And it's not surprising that they make dramas for this purpose given their low birth rates. Media shapes our entire lives and perceptions, especially if you're a media-driven country like Korea.
There is a book I love deeply; I won’t name it, in case someone reading this has read it. In the story, a girl speaks every week on the phone with her mother, who is in prison. Throughout these conversations, the mother relentlessly belittles her daughter, always under the guise of concern. “You don’t really deserve that anyway.” “They spend time with you out of pity.” “Did she call you sweet? Then she probably didn’t like you that much.” At first, these words seem like nothing more than the language of a cruel mother. But toward the end of the book, it becomes clear that the “mother” the girl hears is less a real person than a voice deeply rooted in her mind. This is not simply an imaginary mother; it is an inner voice shaped by childhood trauma, one that forms the girl’s beliefs about herself, a voice that claims to protect her while quietly shrinking her, shaming her, and pushing her into solitude.
This is a painful truth, yet the story whispers this: for a child, the mother’s voice is not an interpretation but reality itself. How the world works, what people mean, what love looks like — all of this is learned through that voice. Even when the mother disappears, the voice remains, because it no longer speaks from the outside but from within.
When read alongside Can This Love Be Translated, this meaning deepens further. In that story, the character the girl creates ultimately turning out to be her mother does not suggest a return to the mother, but rather the inevitable emergence of the mother from within the mind. The one who was meant to learn the language of love never learned it at all. And so love does not appear as tenderness or closeness, but as control and diminishment. The girl reconstructs the only form of love she knows.
In this book, the mother’s voice builds an invisible glass wall between the protagonist and the world. Because the voice insists, “No one truly loves you,” the protagonist grows increasingly isolated. As the isolation deepens, the voice validates itself; loneliness becomes its strongest evidence.
Both stories bleed from the same wound: sometimes we are hurt most where we were meant to be loved. And perhaps more painfully still, we are hurt most where we were forced to change ourselves in order to be loved. For the more we change shape, the more we lose our own voice until only someone else’s remains.
Saying that this is not propaganda feels overly naïve to me. South Korea has one of the lowest birth rates in the world. For years, the government has announced multi-billion-won incentive packages, developed family policies and run public campaigns to increase births. In such a country, the repeated idealisation of babies in television dramas, the romanticising of parenthood, and its constant framing as “difficult but the greatest happiness” does not seem accidental.
Propaganda does not have to mean posters and slogans. Modern propaganda produces desire, and television dramas are one of its most powerful tools. After the 1997 financial crisis, the cultural industry was officially declared a strategic sector by the state. The Ministry of Culture’s budget was expanded, and content producers were supported through incentives. That is the official framework. After Descendants of the Sun aired, public perception of the South Korean military improved significantly; the soldier character was portrayed as romantic, self-sacrificing and morally strong. That is image management. In legal dramas, the “ethical and idealistic” prosecutor figure is frequently highlighted, suggesting that state institutions are not entirely corrupt systems but structures that contain good people within them. Productions such as Hospital Playlist package doctors as noble and highly respected professionals. In police and intelligence series, security institutions are generally portrayed as rational and legitimate. The idealisation of professions that may face shortages or image problems is not new; cultural production has long influenced young people’s career perceptions.
Product placement is also obvious. Samsung phones, Hyundai cars, Korean cosmetics and everyday consumer goods are naturally integrated into storylines. Clean and safe cities, high technology and comfortable yet “accessible” lifestyles are constantly displayed. This is not random; it is a lifestyle package. Culture becomes a vehicle for national branding.
Regarding the baby issue, in a country facing a demographic crisis, the emotional glorification of forming a family and the repeated presentation of babies as “the meaning of life” cannot be separated from political context. If the state is dealing with a population crisis, it is unrealistic to assume that the cultural industry operates entirely independently from that reality. In a sector this large, state-supported and strategically positioned, narratives do not emerge in a vacuum.
In China, the situation is even clearer. Media operates under state oversight. Historical dramas repeatedly construct the image of a strong and unified China, while modern productions emphasise a disciplined and rising superpower. That is direct ideological framing.
I am not promoting a conspiracy theory. I am simply saying that the entertainment industry is now a strategic field. Culture, economy and state policy are intertwined. That is why I do not see overly sweet baby scenes as merely innocent details. They are among the softest yet most effective ways of shaping social orientation. Calling this propaganda is not an exaggeration; it is a realistic reading of how modern soft power operates.
I think it is handy to be able to think about these issues critically. Even something as simple as whether LGBTQ themes can be portrayed in a country’s television dramas ultimately depends on the limits set by the state. Media functions, to varying degrees, as a tool of propaganda. There is a significant difference between merely looking and truly seeing. I will see you again when you are able to see.
(My English is not very strong; I translated this text with AI. I apologise for any grammatical mistakes.)
For example, if a city in a drama is constantly portrayed through sunset shots, glowing streets and happy people, while poverty, chaos and ordinariness are kept out of the frame, that is selective representation. Selective representation is a propaganda technique. Propaganda does not always lie; more often, it highlights the parts of reality that serve its purpose and leaves the rest unseen.
Tourism promotion films are already state-supported. Dramas are more powerful because audiences form emotional connections. A character falls in love in that city, gets married there, achieves their dreams there. The place is no longer just a location; it becomes an emotional symbol. That is a deliberate cultural strategy.
If a country polishes its tourism image through television dramas, it is not merely an aesthetic choice but an economic and political communication strategy. Building a national brand through culture is the soft but modern form of propaganda.
When we talk about Korea and propaganda, it would be incomplete not to mention the North Korea dimension. The division of the peninsula provides a constant point of contrast. In many dramas, North Korea is portrayed as closed, rigid and restrictive, while South Korea is shown as modern, prosperous, technologically advanced and emotionally free. Explicit political messaging is not required; the comparison itself shapes perception. By placing the two realities side by side, the narrative subtly reinforces the image of South Korea as the more desirable system. That, too, is a form of soft power — operating not through slogans, but through storytelling and contrast.
And again, everything operates within a framework of messaging. Skin tone ideals, lipstick shades, fashion styles promoted to women, the constant glorification of thinness, the expectation that women should be “cute” or slightly naïve, and that men should be emotionally distant or “tsundere” are not neutral patterns. When certain traits are repeatedly presented as attractive, desirable or normal, they shape standards and expectations. Media does not need to issue commands; repetition is enough. What is consistently shown as beautiful, lovable, successful or worthy gradually becomes internalised as ideal. In that sense, media functions as a continuous mechanism of cultural conditioning. It may not always be overt or centrally directed, but it consistently produces norms, hierarchies and aspirations. In modern societies, media is one of the primary arenas where values are constructed, reinforced and circulated.
This is a painful truth, yet the story whispers this: for a child, the mother’s voice is not an interpretation but reality itself. How the world works, what people mean, what love looks like — all of this is learned through that voice. Even when the mother disappears, the voice remains, because it no longer speaks from the outside but from within.
When read alongside Can This Love Be Translated, this meaning deepens further. In that story, the character the girl creates ultimately turning out to be her mother does not suggest a return to the mother, but rather the inevitable emergence of the mother from within the mind. The one who was meant to learn the language of love never learned it at all. And so love does not appear as tenderness or closeness, but as control and diminishment. The girl reconstructs the only form of love she knows.
In this book, the mother’s voice builds an invisible glass wall between the protagonist and the world. Because the voice insists, “No one truly loves you,” the protagonist grows increasingly isolated. As the isolation deepens, the voice validates itself; loneliness becomes its strongest evidence.
Both stories bleed from the same wound: sometimes we are hurt most where we were meant to be loved. And perhaps more painfully still, we are hurt most where we were forced to change ourselves in order to be loved. For the more we change shape, the more we lose our own voice until only someone else’s remains.