10
41
15
This review may contain spoilers
More than a remake. And more than a thriller.
A woman locked away because she dared too much. She is called “Queen Mantis,” and the name itself is a portent—or a threat. The praying mantis, after all, is known for devouring the head of her mate once he is no longer useful. A provocative metaphor in a society that prefers to see women as victims, but not as avengers.
The Korean remake of the French La Mante transplants the original plot into distinctly South Korean terrain: abandoned mining towns that lie across the country like open wounds. Places where children once grew up, only to become perpetrators or victims later—or both at once. Here, the hunt is not only for a serial killer, but also for a social catastrophe: domestic violence so widespread in South Korea that it has become almost invisible. The police, who should protect, look the other way.
The women in this series are no saints. They are opaque, contradictory, dangerous. Go Hyun‑jung plays the Mantis with brilliance—her presence both magnetic and repellent. A woman one is not meant to love, but impossible to forget. The other female characters, too, are layered and elusive. By contrast, the men appear as clichéd shadows: policemen, perpetrators, fathers, all in familiar costumes.
Perhaps this is deliberate: a reversal of the usual roles, where women are mere decoration and men drive the plot. Here, the crime drama is solid—its subject matter not entirely new, but its execution striking.
Queen Mantis is more than a remake. And more than a thriller. It is a mirror of Korean contradictions: between victimhood and vigilantism, between patriarchal violence and female resistance. It shows that murder—even as revenge—does not lead to justice, but only opens new abysses.
The series poses an uncomfortable question: when institutions fail, when private violence goes unpunished—does vigilantism become a crime, or a necessity? The answer is as clear as it is unclear: murder remains murder, even when disguised as justice. Yet viewers are invited to linger at this moral precipice, to look into it, perhaps even to understand.
At the heart of Queen Mantis lies not only the pursuit of a serial killer, but also the fractured relationship between mother and son. Jung Yi‑shin and Cha Su‑yeol meet like strangers—bound by blood, yet separated by silence and guilt. Their conversations are less investigative work than tentative steps through the ruins of a shared past.
The series reflects this damaged bond in other parent‑child relationships as well: fathers who could not protect, mothers who wounded while trying to shield, children who inherit not only trauma but also silence. A web of reflections emerges, showing how violence does not remain isolated but travels through generations, warping love and corroding trust. Queen Mantis offers no solution, but leaves viewers suspended—between closeness and repulsion, between connection and rupture.
One thorn remains: the portrayal of a trans character, framed in proximity to mental disorder. In a country where trans identity is already marginalized, this feels like a relapse into old patterns. A small but not insignificant shadow on a series that otherwise illuminates social fault lines with such precision.
Overall: Remarkable, and worth watching.
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SIDE NOTE: The End of South Korea’s Mining Towns
Until the 1970s and 80s, South Korea had numerous coal and ore mines, especially in Gangwon‑do (Taebaek, Sabuk, Hwangji) and Chungcheongbuk‑do. With economic restructuring and the move away from coal energy, many mines closed in the 1980s and 90s.
What remained were “ghost towns”: half‑abandoned settlements, decaying workers’ housing, sealed shafts. Entire generations crumbled along with the homes they once inhabited. Alcohol, violence, loneliness—the social aftershocks were as reliable as the tremors that once shook the ground.
Some places, like Taebaek or Jeongseon, later reinvented themselves as tourist destinations (ski resorts, festivals). Others remained melancholically hollowed out. These towns carry an aura of social trauma: unemployment, out‑migration, fractured communities. That is precisely what makes them so charged as settings for thrillers and dramas.
The Korean remake of the French La Mante transplants the original plot into distinctly South Korean terrain: abandoned mining towns that lie across the country like open wounds. Places where children once grew up, only to become perpetrators or victims later—or both at once. Here, the hunt is not only for a serial killer, but also for a social catastrophe: domestic violence so widespread in South Korea that it has become almost invisible. The police, who should protect, look the other way.
The women in this series are no saints. They are opaque, contradictory, dangerous. Go Hyun‑jung plays the Mantis with brilliance—her presence both magnetic and repellent. A woman one is not meant to love, but impossible to forget. The other female characters, too, are layered and elusive. By contrast, the men appear as clichéd shadows: policemen, perpetrators, fathers, all in familiar costumes.
Perhaps this is deliberate: a reversal of the usual roles, where women are mere decoration and men drive the plot. Here, the crime drama is solid—its subject matter not entirely new, but its execution striking.
Queen Mantis is more than a remake. And more than a thriller. It is a mirror of Korean contradictions: between victimhood and vigilantism, between patriarchal violence and female resistance. It shows that murder—even as revenge—does not lead to justice, but only opens new abysses.
The series poses an uncomfortable question: when institutions fail, when private violence goes unpunished—does vigilantism become a crime, or a necessity? The answer is as clear as it is unclear: murder remains murder, even when disguised as justice. Yet viewers are invited to linger at this moral precipice, to look into it, perhaps even to understand.
At the heart of Queen Mantis lies not only the pursuit of a serial killer, but also the fractured relationship between mother and son. Jung Yi‑shin and Cha Su‑yeol meet like strangers—bound by blood, yet separated by silence and guilt. Their conversations are less investigative work than tentative steps through the ruins of a shared past.
The series reflects this damaged bond in other parent‑child relationships as well: fathers who could not protect, mothers who wounded while trying to shield, children who inherit not only trauma but also silence. A web of reflections emerges, showing how violence does not remain isolated but travels through generations, warping love and corroding trust. Queen Mantis offers no solution, but leaves viewers suspended—between closeness and repulsion, between connection and rupture.
One thorn remains: the portrayal of a trans character, framed in proximity to mental disorder. In a country where trans identity is already marginalized, this feels like a relapse into old patterns. A small but not insignificant shadow on a series that otherwise illuminates social fault lines with such precision.
Overall: Remarkable, and worth watching.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
SIDE NOTE: The End of South Korea’s Mining Towns
Until the 1970s and 80s, South Korea had numerous coal and ore mines, especially in Gangwon‑do (Taebaek, Sabuk, Hwangji) and Chungcheongbuk‑do. With economic restructuring and the move away from coal energy, many mines closed in the 1980s and 90s.
What remained were “ghost towns”: half‑abandoned settlements, decaying workers’ housing, sealed shafts. Entire generations crumbled along with the homes they once inhabited. Alcohol, violence, loneliness—the social aftershocks were as reliable as the tremors that once shook the ground.
Some places, like Taebaek or Jeongseon, later reinvented themselves as tourist destinations (ski resorts, festivals). Others remained melancholically hollowed out. These towns carry an aura of social trauma: unemployment, out‑migration, fractured communities. That is precisely what makes them so charged as settings for thrillers and dramas.
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