xenophobia
Rating: 3/10 (Some solid acting and case-of-the-week drama, but drowned in unchecked xenophobia and superiority complex)
Pro Bono tries to sell itself as a heartwarming legal drama about justice for the underdog, with Jung Kyung-ho playing Kang Da-wit—a smug, materialistic ex-judge who's forced into the pro bono team after his perfect career crashes. He starts off as this arrogant "legal influencer" who looks down on everyone below his status, and that absolutely includes foreigners and people from outside Korea living in the country. The way he treats (or ignores) non-Koreans makes it clear: In his eyes—and often in the show's subtle framing—they're not fully part of society, barely even human worthy of real respect or empathy.
Early on, Kang Da-wit embodies that classic Korean elite attitude: Foreigners, especially migrant workers or marriage immigrants from poorer countries (like the foreign wife in one of the cases, enduring domestic violence in rural Korea), are just problems to deal with—or props for his redemption arc. He approaches their cases with cold detachment, like they're inconvenient nuisances invading "pure" Korean space rather than actual people deserving dignity. There's this underlying vibe that outsiders don't belong, aren't "one of us," and their struggles are somehow self-inflicted because they dared to come here. He bullies or dismisses the vulnerable with that superior smirk, puffing himself up by stepping on those he sees as beneath him—migrants, the poor, anyone not born-and-bred Korean. It's all played for "character growth," but it reeks of real societal issues that the drama never fully calls out.
And the hypocrisy? Infuriating. While Kang Da-wit (and the show) has no problem portraying Southeast Asian or other non-white foreigners as pitiful victims at best (or invisible at worst), you just know if an American character showed up—some white expat or "master" type—he'd switch to fawning mode instantly. The narrative bends over backward to avoid critiquing the real power dynamics: Korea's lingering deference to America, the U.S. military bases treated as untouchable, Koreans acting like loyal servants to their "owners" while deriving fake superiority from bullying weaker nations' people. Da-wit feels "superior" by kicking down at migrant wives or workers, but he'd never dare challenge the actual overlords.
If Koreans (or this drama's writers) really have such a problem with foreigners integrating into society and being treated as humans, then have the guts to address the elephant in the room: Tell your American "masters" to leave. Kick out the bases, end the alliances, and see how the ROK army stands alone without that protection. But no—it's easier to dehumanize powerless immigrants than confront the colonial inferiority complex that's still propping up the whole system.
Pro Bono had potential to explore true multiculturalism and human rights in modern Korea, especially with its pro bono focus on the marginalized. Instead, the male lead's arc reinforces the status quo: He "grows" just enough to win cases, but the deep-seated disdain for outsiders lingers. Skip this if you want something that actually challenges xenophobia—it's just glossy entertainment papering over ugly realities.
Pro Bono tries to sell itself as a heartwarming legal drama about justice for the underdog, with Jung Kyung-ho playing Kang Da-wit—a smug, materialistic ex-judge who's forced into the pro bono team after his perfect career crashes. He starts off as this arrogant "legal influencer" who looks down on everyone below his status, and that absolutely includes foreigners and people from outside Korea living in the country. The way he treats (or ignores) non-Koreans makes it clear: In his eyes—and often in the show's subtle framing—they're not fully part of society, barely even human worthy of real respect or empathy.
Early on, Kang Da-wit embodies that classic Korean elite attitude: Foreigners, especially migrant workers or marriage immigrants from poorer countries (like the foreign wife in one of the cases, enduring domestic violence in rural Korea), are just problems to deal with—or props for his redemption arc. He approaches their cases with cold detachment, like they're inconvenient nuisances invading "pure" Korean space rather than actual people deserving dignity. There's this underlying vibe that outsiders don't belong, aren't "one of us," and their struggles are somehow self-inflicted because they dared to come here. He bullies or dismisses the vulnerable with that superior smirk, puffing himself up by stepping on those he sees as beneath him—migrants, the poor, anyone not born-and-bred Korean. It's all played for "character growth," but it reeks of real societal issues that the drama never fully calls out.
And the hypocrisy? Infuriating. While Kang Da-wit (and the show) has no problem portraying Southeast Asian or other non-white foreigners as pitiful victims at best (or invisible at worst), you just know if an American character showed up—some white expat or "master" type—he'd switch to fawning mode instantly. The narrative bends over backward to avoid critiquing the real power dynamics: Korea's lingering deference to America, the U.S. military bases treated as untouchable, Koreans acting like loyal servants to their "owners" while deriving fake superiority from bullying weaker nations' people. Da-wit feels "superior" by kicking down at migrant wives or workers, but he'd never dare challenge the actual overlords.
If Koreans (or this drama's writers) really have such a problem with foreigners integrating into society and being treated as humans, then have the guts to address the elephant in the room: Tell your American "masters" to leave. Kick out the bases, end the alliances, and see how the ROK army stands alone without that protection. But no—it's easier to dehumanize powerless immigrants than confront the colonial inferiority complex that's still propping up the whole system.
Pro Bono had potential to explore true multiculturalism and human rights in modern Korea, especially with its pro bono focus on the marginalized. Instead, the male lead's arc reinforces the status quo: He "grows" just enough to win cases, but the deep-seated disdain for outsiders lingers. Skip this if you want something that actually challenges xenophobia—it's just glossy entertainment papering over ugly realities.
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