Is there a difference between the fiction of facts and the facts of fiction? The question poses an etiological conundrum philosophers have tried in vain to answer since the beginning of recorded time. Is anything real? Or, in other words, is everything an illusion? Who cares is what I say. Just do it: Fall in love, slay your enemy, assess Miss Ripley. Not bad is my initial reaction. A drama appeals to its viewer in one of two ways: 1) It grants the viewer a portal into an alien world or 2) It acts as a mirror to the viewer's own world. To me, Miss Ripley is a case of the former, and I thoroughly enjoyed the depiction of a con artist from a seedy underworld who manages to make fools of the upstanding and the respectable. A drama, however, cannot sustain itself on shock value/edgy content alone. As it often happens in life, the lies with which the con artist gets away with murder catch up to her, and it's here where the drama stretches the seams of plausibility past their resiliency threshold. Or perhaps I'm being too cynical. I'll close by paying my complements to the composer of the haunting piano piece the drama features when Kim Seung Woo's character uncover's the titular heroine's seedy past.