I thought the first episode of Signal was solid. I thought the second episode was fantastic. And then . . . well, then the show decided to go full throttle for “big emotional moments”. There were a lot of explosions, a lot of lurid cases, mostly involving ghastly things done to women, and a whole lot of crying. Despite excellent acting by Kim Hye Soo and Jo Jin Woong and stylish directing, I found myself becoming less and less engaged. Thrillers, especially those that dare to mess with the space-time continuum, demand top-notch writing, and while the script was serviceable, it never fully worked out the logistics of its crisscrossed universes. The actual detective work was also slighted, with its crack team instantly solving crimes that had baffled cops for years. Pinning all the blame for cases turning cold on “corruption” may be satisfying wish-fulfillment, but it felt lazy, especially in a show gunning for gritty realism.

On the plus side, the show's fast pacing tends to paper over the plot holes, but it shortchanges the development of most of the secondary characters. They become “innocent victims” or “evil elites” we’re supposed to mourn or hate simply because of the suffering they endure or inflict on others. Occasionally there are glimpses of greater depth before the show bustles viewers off to the next crime scene, but I would have appreciated fewer set ups and more follow through. The concept is intriguing, but once you unwrap the layers of snazzy time warp packaging you’re left with a pretty ordinary procedural. The present may be able to change the past and vice versa, but the conventions of the crime drama survive unscathed.

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In a time of injustice, what means are legitimate to right the wrongs? What happens when efficacy clashes with idealism, loyalty with morality, when the codes of the scholar, the warrior, the peasant and the noble founder on the shoals of ambition, love, envy, and self-preservation? Six Flying Dragons sets up six (well, actually, seven) protagonists, real and fictional, male and female, elite and ordinary, and sends them hurtling into the chaos of a collapsing nation as they struggle to conjure something better from its ashes. As a microcosm of the wider world, their intertwined stories allow the writers to explore how every choice, for good or ill, ripples through society, and to humanize both the triumphs and the costs of revolution.

On a technical level, the screenwriters’ ability to juggle so many through lines is stunning. Set-ups in early episodes lead to powerful payoffs hours down the line, and little time is wasted, with each scene deepening characterizations, drawing parallels, establishing new conflicts and reinforcing themes. Fictional elements are well integrated with the actual history, and while liberties are certainly taken, this is a much less romanticized world than that of most fusion sageuks. Reality constantly intrudes in all its messy brutality, and show embraces this, refusing to whitewash the actions of its characters. For me, the only misstep was the writers’ attempt to create a grand, overarching mythology running from Queen Seondeok to King Sejong. It felt forced and unnecessary, an in-joke that distracted from the story at hand, and its corresponding secret society was the least convincing aspect of the show.

The directing is initially a bit awkward, but as things progress, the editing calms down and the fabulous ensemble cast takes center stage, riveting in all their flawed, passionate, terrible humanity. Dark but never cynical, violent but never gratuitous, grim but never hopeless, the show cares for all its characters, and it makes you care deeply too. They often lose their battles, but they fight with everything they have, refusing to stop seeking, striving, dreaming. They can’t go on, and yet they do. And because of them, Six Flying Dragons soars.

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Arrgh! In Cheese, the production team conjures up a dark, fascinating antihero in the character of Jung, and then spends the second half of the show running from its own creation. It’s as if they have no idea what to do with the monster they’ve made, especially as embodied in Park Hae Jin’s riveting performance. The norms of romantic comedy crash headlong into the uncomfortable reality of a male lead who can’t be whitewashed into a perfect life partner, sending the show on a desperate hunt for an alternative. Unfortunately, their attempts to turn audience sympathy elsewhere (hey, perhaps a scruffy but lovable second lead will do the trick!) feel forced and underhanded. Instead of letting their heroine tease out the risks and benefits of her problematic relationship on her own, they take away her agency, refusing to allow her to make choices that might lead into disturbing territory. It’s a grave injustice to Kim Go-Eun’s lovely acting work and to the character of Seol, and it completely undermines the central premise of the drama as the story of a shy young woman’s empowerment. It also squanders everything that is unique about the show’s set up in the first place. Because why take the road less traveled if all you’re going to do is literally or metaphorically throw your leads under the bus at the end?

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Watching I Remember You is like attending the world’s most genteel serial killer convention. You can almost imagine the networking: “Oh, so you kill people? I kill people too. Let’s make a lovely chopped salad and compare knives.” Everyone leaves a trail of bodies in their wake, but they’re quite civilized about it. I’ve never seen a show with so many deliciously awkward dinners as multiple killers and cops share artfully prepared meals. It’s an intriguing choice, helped out by the fact that the principal antagonists are both strong actors. However, I found Jang Nara and Seo In-Guk underwhelming, and the sheer number of murderers became a bit much. Even for a show centered on a homicide unit, it seemed like everyone in Korea was out to avenge their arrest with a knife to someone’s gut. Or to the gut of the person who killed the person that killed . . . well, never mind. The utter incompetence of said homicide unit was also alarming, as they seemed to lack any ability to actually solve crimes. The issues raised about what might make (or unmake) a killer were interesting, but the show was never twisty enough to be a truly effective thriller, nor deep enough to be a revelatory character study. There was a lot of promise, but I wish the drama's execution had been as meticulous as the killings it chronicles.

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In contrast to its English title, Nirvana in Fire is an icy beauty. The wintery vistas and washed out color palette mirror the cool, calculated strategies of its stoic protagonist. Despite an incredibly complex back story, the central arc of seeking redress for past wrongs is clear and compelling, and the 54 episodes fly by in a whirl of fight scenes, political gamesmanship and intriguing character interactions. Smartly written and well-acted, the show was a compelling introduction to mainland Chinese drama.

The swift pacing does present some issues though. I know that adapting a well-loved, lengthy novel to the screen is challenging, but either pruning some of the more esoteric subplots or giving them additional screen time would have made the story easier to follow. It took a good 20 episodes to figure out the major character relationships, and some elements remained hazy up until the end. While I generally don’t advocate for extended flashbacks or childhood sequences, this is one case where showing rather than telling about past events would have been helpful. While I could intellectually understand the characters’ grief and their desire to right past wrongs, it was hard to emotionally engage with people and situations only encountered in the briefest of flashbacks. Like Mei Chang-su, the show is precise, intelligent and lovely. It’s also a bit cold. I would have liked more fire in the midst of all the snow.

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If the wild historical liberties of fusion sageuk are grating on you, The Great King Sejong is a refreshing alternative. Hewing relatively closely to fact, it generates its dramatic power through complex characterizations and thoughtful explorations of moral quandaries. Sejong’s reign may have been lauded precisely for its lack of drama, but the writers find plenty of conflict to build engaging story lines around, as they explore the challenges of ruling with benevolence rather than terror. They do an excellent job exploring how political systems stymie or support progress, as they build a compelling argument for governing to the better angels of our nature. That being said, this is not a fast show to watch. There are no love triangles, gorgeous warriors with great hair, gravity defying ninja moves, or epic cliffhangers. Many of the best acted and most intriguing characters are the various grey-haired ministers in their matching robes and odd hats, who for once are given compelling personalities instead of serving as indistinguishable agents of repression.

The first half of the show is particularly strong, in part due to outstanding performances by Kim Young Chul as Taejong and Choi Myung Gil as his embittered queen. Taejong may be monstrous, but he’s also powerfully human, and the show loses some of its spark when he exits the scene. The second half is weaker, perhaps because the series was cut down from 100 episodes to 86. This causes pacing issues, as some events are rushed through while drawn-out moments of pathos feel unearned due to a lack of dramatic set-up. Subplots get dropped and major characters disappear without acknowledgment or comment. It also means that Sejong comes off as far more serious than perhaps he was, as the show leaves out such “frivolous” elements of his life as his love of music and his passionate relationships with his concubines. In general, the show is more comfortable in the elegiac than the celebratory mode, but its tendency to emphasize loss sometimes deflects attention from just how extraordinary Sejong’s achievements were. It may be difficult to do great things, but there is great joy in such success as well.

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Punch is well-written, well-acted, and well-directed. It’s also a show that never fully emotionally grabbed me. I could appreciated its slick visual look, all shades of grey and brushed metal, just like its steely, morally murky characters. I could enjoy its tight plotting, elaborate metaphors, and sharp timing. The cast is terrific navigating the script’s hairpin turns and landing its incisive dialogue. However, I always felt rather removed watching its endless double and triple crosses. The show claims that bigger concepts like “justice” and “the rule of law” are in play, but its craven, narcissistic characters mostly just claw at each other in a race-to-the-bottom battle for survival. There are token nods towards the idea of fighting for a better world, but the characters’ motivations are essentially personal, lowering the stakes and making it tough to justify their “unconventional” strategies. I also had a hard time buying that people would instantly switch from paragons of virtue to irredeemable scoundrels. Once folks started trotting down the primrose path to hell they seemed remarkably unconflicted about their choices, making them formidable opponents but not particularly believable human beings.

The show’s overall worldview bothered me as well. Since making morally “good” decisions tends to get folks squashed like ants, the drama, perhaps unintentionally, leaves viewers with the problematic suggestion that, since the game is rigged and everyone is cheating anyway, it’s better to choose open corruption over hypocrisy. I’d personally vote for “not corrupt” but that isn’t presented as a viable menu option. There are lots of strong moments, but I wanted to care more about the final outcome, rather than being forced to pick, as one character put it, between a “bad person and a slightly less bad person.” Because even a slightly less bad person is still, well, bad.

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Like its lead characters, Kill Me, Heal Me is a splendid mess. If you’re looking for subtlety, good medical ethics, or a realistic exploration of mental illness, watch something else. However, if you’re willing to be swept up in the show’s campy, gonzo universe, it’s a hoot, and, towards the end, surprisingly moving as well. Ji Sung gives a fabulous performance (performances?), transitioning effortlessly from hilarity to pathos, guyliner to pink lip gloss, teen angst to adult longing. The tonal shifts are equally dramatic, and more effective than one might think, in part because the show never takes itself too seriously. It’s happy to acknowledge its inherent absurdities, winking at viewers while welcoming them, often quite literally, into its world. This is fundamentally a piece about performance, and its meta-theatricality is an apt medium for exploring the many roles people voluntarily and involuntarily play. Cha Do Hyun’s disorder is simply the most extreme version of the multiple sides all of the characters exhibit as they struggle with the challenges of life.

The writing can be structurally erratic, but it’s always balanced and humane in its portrayal of both its heroes and its demons. This is a show driven by the “Heal Me” part of its title, emphasizing not vengeance for past wrongs, but reconciliation and re-integration for future happiness. Some plot threads are left hanging, but its exploration of how people are broken and put back together, medically implausible as it may be, is metaphorically lovely. It’s fiction, but it’s a show that knows that the stories we tell have the power to reshape our lives.

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Given K-drama’s reputation for being all about the romance, it’s surprising how rarely I’ve found the main couple to be the star attraction in shows I’ve watched. Healer may not have the most original of plots, but it nails the brave, aching, adorable love story between two lost children that forms its emotional core. It also proves that casting the right actors is often more critical than casting the “best” actors. Whatever Ji Chang Wook and Park Min Young may sometimes lack in technique, they more than make up for in heart, chemistry and a willingness to be vulnerable in front of the camera and each other. When they’re together on screen you’ll want to jump up and down, squeal and hug puppies. They’re also surrounded by a marvelous gang of unique, well-written supporting characters (I’m looking at you, Hacker Ahjumma), that you’d enjoy spending well over the allotted twenty hours hanging out with.

On the downside, I do wish the antagonists in the show were as multi-dimensional as the protagonists. The shadowy gang of leering oligarchs plotting EEEEVIL in back rooms felt preordered from central casting, with master plans that were too over-the-top to be really believable. I kept expecting them to start stroking Persian cats or feeding their piranhas. If you’re watching for the action thriller/romance elements, you probably won’t mind, but their cartoonish-ness undermines the credibility of the crusading journalists out to take down corruption strand of the story. It doesn’t diminish the fun, but it does make the show less socially relevant than it would like to be. There is also an odd casualness in the way that all of the characters, both good and bad, roam in and out of each others' lives and lairs with impunity. I guess courage is virtue, but I’m not sure I’d curl up and take a nap in the heart of enemy territory.

This is a show though where the emotional through-lines not the plot mechanics are the real draw, and those deliver with a vengeance. You’ll laugh and cry and smile and fall in love. In an entertainment world full of lots of explosions but few real sparks, that's reason to rejoice.

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Like the driven business professionals it chronicles, Misaeng pays attention to detail. It understands the importance of the little things, capturing its characters’ everyday epiphanies with the lapidary precision of a miniaturist. Some are painful, some sweet, some hilarious, some surreal, but all are written, acted, and filmed with care. The tight ensemble cast mixes promising newbies with skilled veterans to create a lived-in world that feels larger than the cramped cubicles that define it. There are also refreshingly few drama clichés as the show builds a love affair between a renegade manager and his star-struck young temp that, while completely platonic, is every bit as fraught and passionate as a standard romance.

While Chief Oh and Geu-Rae’s relationship forms the backbone of the show, the overall structure is fairly loose. This fits the slice-of-life style, but can make the drama a slow watch. It also means that issues and characters come and go, sometimes drifting away with little resolution. Individual episodes are gems of close observation and visual inventiveness, but don’t always build into a single compelling through-line. For me, the small moments resonated far more than the drama’s grander pronouncements about life, the universe, and everything. But, then again, maybe that’s the point. Perhaps a show about incompleteness can be forgiven for being more compelling in its fragments than for the bigger picture that it tries to draw.

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Time between Dog and Wolf has a lot going for it. It’s beautifully directed, with striking visual storytelling, and it’s the rare k-drama that actually uses a foreign location shoot as more than expensive window dressing. Bangkok pops off the screen, its luminous temples and seedy clubs setting up key story moments in addition to providing grit and grandeur. The characters, “good” and “bad” alike, are three-dimensional, complex human beings and unlike many action-driven shows, the drama takes the time to develop their relationships before setting them on collision courses with each other. It also features a heroine who manages to be self-assured, sexy, morally grounded, and willing to call out the men around her when they lapse into testosterone-driven stupidity. Throw in Lee Jun Ki and Jung Kyung Ho as brothers-in-arms (and occasionally brothers armed against each other) and a great supporting cast of seasoned veterans and there’s much to celebrate.

The show’s strengths though have the unfortunate effect of making its flaws more glaring. Believable characters are wonderful until they’re suddenly asked by the script to act in completely unbelievable ways around the show’s midpoint. The logic gaps are jarring, but the bigger issue is the show’s ambivalence about what to do with its antiheroes. On one level, it wants us to feel the horror of its characters’ violent choices, but it also revels in the cool swagger of its pretty boys with guns. Forgiveness and understanding for their “lapses” come a bit too easily, undermining the impact of the story’s darker moments. The ending reflects this, with a rushed conclusion that tries to be simultaneously tragic and redemptive but falls short of both as it dodges the more unruly moral elephants in the room. If you’re content with a stylish action thriller, it’s an entertaining watch, but it’s frustrating because it comes close to being so much more.

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Aw hell yeah! Christmas came early this year, in the form of a smart, dark thriller packed with whiplash twists, intriguing characters, and complex moral quandaries. This is one of my favorite genres when done well, and Liar Game served up arsenic-laced crack in twelve fast, furious episodes. Best of all, it made intellect sexy. The rules of the competitions may have been overly Byzantine, but it was a blast watching minds capable of calculating probabilities in milliseconds unravel them. The fact that those minds belonged to scarred, unpredictable antiheroes was the big, fool’s gold bow on top of the package.

However, for a drama premised on betrayal, it was surprisingly uncynical. I wish Da Jung had been less saintly and a bit faster on the uptake (or that the gender roles had been reversed – does the sweet, naïve character always have to be female?), but I appreciated how her worldview was handled in the greater context of the story. The fall from grace is an easy tale to tell, but the show suggests that if we all hold on, even the deserving don't have to tumble into the dark.

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Silly title aside, Shut Up Flower Boy Band boasts a surprisingly strong script. While it hits many of the expected plot points (the boys from the wrong side of the tracks vs. the entitled rich kids, the battle-of-the-bands face off, the hit single) it moves beyond them to weigh the joys and costs of a life in music with remarkable honesty. Unfortunately, the young cast often lacks the skills to fully realize the moments the writer provides. Lee Min Ki makes the most of his limited screen time and Sung Joon does a fine job smoldering with inarticulate passion, but the rest of the band members default to bland, fresh-faced niceness. While relatively inoffensive, this undermines their credibility as ruffians and turns what should have been meaty, differentiated characters into cardboard-cut-out clones. Much of the subtext gets lost in flat line delivery and awkward timing, and scenes that should crackle with tension fizzle out.

Sweet is better than grating, though, and if you can overlook the missed acting opportunities, the show has a scruffy, heart-felt appeal that manages to be endearing without ever becoming saccharine. Like a catchy garage band rock song, the show makes up in enthusiasm what it sometimes lacks in craft.

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Oh, dear lord, Bad Guy. On the one hand, the script is a disaster, its ineptitude obvious long before the crash and burn finale. On the other hand, three of the four leads have both talent and screen presence, making them great fun to watch when they’re not tripping over loopy narrative threads. Part of the problem is that the director and writers appear to be telling two completely different stories. In interviews, the director mentioned wanting to create a modern version of Stendhal’s “The Red and the Black”, focused on ambitious outsiders seducing their way to the top. This element of the story is actually interesting, and, had it been fully developed, could have been twisted, sexy fun. The writers apparently never got the memo though, as they crank out a paint-by-numbers revenge drama, complete with ham-fisted moralizing, dead puppies, and incoherent plot twists.

If you can tune out the big picture and focus on the pretty, there are lots of entertaining scenes full of atmospheric camera work, great music and sizzling chemistry. Just don’t expect it to all add up to anything by the time you get to the end.

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Few Korean dramas get better as they go along. Live shoots, script changes, and attempts to milk ratings tend to sabotage the second halves of shows. It is therefore remarkable that Mixed-Up Investigative Agency actually improves with every episode. It starts out low rent and silly, with broad acting and chintzy production values, but around the halfway mark, it morphs into a moving, tightly written meditation on friendship, life choices, and the way that the past always literally or figuratively haunts the present. Characters who initially seem like caricatures become multidimensional and unpredictable, with especially lovely turns by Ye Ji Won as a crackpot psychic, Park Hee Soon as an enigmatic gangster, and Ryu Seung Soo as an apathetic manhwa vender.

Off-kilter visuals, clever dialogue and ingenious music choices provide plenty of humor (don't miss the little bonus scenes tacked on at the end of each episode), but they’re in the service of serious themes. Without ever becoming overly didactic, the show notes the fragility of life and the importance of embracing the here and now. The protagonists may long for extraordinary riches (in this case, tons of hidden gold), but their everyday interactions are where true value lies. For the viewer, though, the biggest prize is getting to savor this underrated gem of a show. Like all treasures, it may be hard to find, but you’ll be well rewarded if you seek it out.

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