Rei

I have been watching Park Hae-young’s work for two years now, and honestly, I still do not know how to correctly review it. My Mister humbled me. My Liberation Notes finished the job. And then We Are All Trying Here arrived and did something neither of those managed to do, it made me question whether I had the language for this at all, not just in any of the five languages, but in the one I built specifically for this space. How do you put into words something that was always going to be better experienced than explained? I am genuinely not sure you can. But Park Hae-young did not write this drama for critics. She wrote it for the person sitting alone at midnight, heart still racing twenty minutes after the credits rolled, wondering why they cannot stop thinking about people they have never met. So consider this less a review, and more a letter from someone who got found.

Park Hae-young sits in an SSS tier (mirroring Kiseki’s Bracer’s Guild ranking) of her own making in my book, a designation I do not hand out lightly and have never had reason to revisit. My Mister and My Liberation Notes remain two of the finest dramas I have ever watched, and both earned their place through the same terrifying gift: her ability to create a spectacle out of the mundane, to weaponise silence and negative space until the absence of sound becomes louder than anything a score offers, and to write human beings with a precision making you feel personally targeted. When We Are All Trying Here was announced, my expectations were already set at an altitude most writers never reach. What followed was something I did not anticipate even then: a writer I thought I understood, showing me she had been holding something back all along. Park Hae-young did not repeat her previous language here; she pushed it into new territory. The result is a drama that feels like a step forward in ambition, even if it is slightly constrained by its shorter twelve-episode structure compared to her usual sixteen.

It is not a comfortable watch. It is not an easy watch. It is, however, unmistakably a Park Hae-young work operating at near-peak intent, even when the format occasionally tightens around it.

I need to confess something: the character who almost made me quit this drama is also the reason I ended up loving it. Koo Kyo-hwan plays Hwang Dong-man, our male lead and, in a first for any Park Hae-young drama I have watched, a character who actively repulsed me in the opening episodes. Dong-man is an aspiring film director who has spent nearly two decades failing to debut while his entire social circle, a prestigious industry film club called “The Eight,” has long since surpassed him. He talks too much, he picks fights at dinner tables, and he radiates that desperate, sweaty energy of a man who is trying too hard to prove he still matters. His brother works odd jobs to keep them both afloat, the people around him walk on eggshells to manage his emotions, and he repays all of it with contempt aimed outward. It is much harder to feel compassion for someone cushioned by other people’s love who still chooses to be cruel, and for three episodes I was ready to file a formal complaint with Park Hae-young herself.

But here is the trick Park Hae‑young pulls. She wrote him as repulsive on purpose. Because once you sit with that discomfort, once you stop flinching and start looking, you see the layers underneath. What she did with him afterward belongs in the section below, but here I want to give Koo Kyo-hwan his full due: he plays Dong-man with a raw, almost frightening vulnerability that never feels like acting. There is no visible effort, no actorly plea for sympathy, no performance asking you to notice it. A man in a body that has been at war with itself for twenty years, and Koo Kyo-hwan makes every scene feel like something happening rather than something being performed. He fakes an injury just to have a moment of rest. He climbs a hill and screams his own name into the void so he can feel like he still exists.

Opposite him is Go Youn-jung as Byeon Eun-ah, in a role that finally made me sit up and seriously notice her. Eun-ah is a producer known in the industry as “The Axe” for the precision of her screenplay critiques, and she is the perfect emotional foil and counterbalance to Dong-man. Where he externalises everything, she keeps it all locked inside, speaking in short quiet bursts while carrying her own deep trauma of abandonment. The role demands enormous subtlety, minimal facial expression, and the ability to deliver devastating emotional weight through the smallest possible physical gesture. Go Youn-jung devoured every scene. There is a two-minute sequence in episode two, almost entirely silent, where she does more with a hesitation and a forced smile than most actors manage across an entire series. After this drama, she climbed straight into the same category in my mind as Shin Hae-sun, and I will be watching everything she does next with considerable attention. Byeon Eun-ah was definitely the quintessential Park Hae-young’s experience that I’m familiar with and she dragged me back in, kicking and screaming.

Of course, a Park Hae‑young drama is never just about the two leads. There is a whole ecosystem of side characters, and while I will not list all of them, a few supporting performances absolutely stole the show for me. Oh Jung‑se is, as always, reliably excellent as Park Gyeong‑se, a successful director who is secretly just as insecure as Dong‑man but hides it by lashing out at him. Then there is Kang Mal‑geum as Ko Hye‑jin, who became one of my favorite supporting characters in the entire drama. Hye‑jin owns a small production company with a bar underneath, and that bar serves as the main hub where all the characters gather and where most of the plots evolve. Kang Mal‑geum delivers a standout moment when her character finally snaps and tells Dong‑man the brutal truth about how his behavior affects others. It is the kind of scene that makes you hold your breath.

Another supporting character who charmed me completely was Jung Min‑ah as Park Jeong‑min. She is effortlessly funny and warm, and her character functions as one of the primary pressure release valves of the narrative as Park Gyeong‑se’s co‑writer. Her ability to flip back and forth between comedy and the more melodramatic moments as the plot evolves made me put her firmly on my radar for future works. And finally, I have to include Han Sun‑hwa as Jang Mi‑ran. I first noticed her in Welcome to Samdal‑ri, then accidentally stumbled upon her in Work Later, Drink Now. From romcom to straight comedy to now a dark comedic melodrama, I have started to see her range, and I genuinely look forward to whatever she does next.

We Are All Trying Here marks something of a departure for Park Hae-young in one specific way: it is her first drama to lean meaningfully into comedy, and the tonal balance she maintains between the genuinely funny and the quietly devastating is one of its quieter achievements. The first three episodes tested my trust in her more than anything she has written before. Hwang Dong-man was hard to love. He was, to put it plainly, bleeding other people to fund his own dysfunction, and the empathy contract Park Hae-young has always maintained with her audience felt deliberately fractured. Where her previous leads carried their wounds inward, Dong-man wore his outward and aimed them at the people who loved him most. However, as the narrative progresses, that perception breaks down. Dong-man is revealed as someone constantly drowning in unspoken anxiety. His noise is survival. His cruelty is deflection. His chaos is regulation. I felt guilty for briefly feeling relieved when his friends finally set their boundaries. This guilt, I later understood, was the drama working exactly as intended.

Because what Park Hae-young was building underneath the irritation was this: Dong-man and Eun-ah are distorted mirrors of the same wound. He externalises, she internalises. He creates noise, she creates silence. He fills every room he enters, she empties herself to make space for others. But underneath all of it, both are trying to say the same impossible sentence, help me, and the tragedy is that neither of them has ever learned how. Dong-man talks endlessly because silence feels like drowning. Eun-ah stayed quiet through things that would break most people, including a mother who crossed her off at nine years old and an ex-partner who erased her name from work she co-wrote, because asking for help was never something the people around her made available. Their relationship is not a Kdrama rescue mission. It offers something far more radical: the idea that comfort does not come from someone telling you everything will be fine, but from someone saying “I know why you are like that,” and meaning it without condition. This is a story about people finally willing to ask for help, and discovering it does not diminish their worth.

The OST deserves a mention, because this is a Park Hae-young drama and the music always pulls its weight. Starlight by Lucy anchors the lighter comedic register with exactly the right amount of warmth, and Pieces by TAEYEON is a standout in holding the emotional weight of the heavier sequences. I will admit I was surprised Sondia did not appear on this OST given her near-permanent presence in Park Hae-young’s previous works, but every selection here earns its place with the same quiet precision the writing demands.

Visually, the drama understands negative spaces in a way few others do. Those long silences, the shots of Dong‑man walking alone at night, Eun‑ah sitting in a room full of people and saying nothing. Park Hae‑young has always been a writer who weaponizes what is not said, and here the camera follows her lead.

Here is where my heart genuinely hurts. The real flaw of We Are All Trying Here is the narrative estate. Twelve episodes are simply not enough for Park Hae‑young to tell her story, and that constraint becomes painfully obvious in the final episode. She tried, she really did, and almost every plot point does get closed. But an 80‑minute finale is brutally tight pacing for a writer who usually luxuriates in 16 episodes. Something had to give. And what gives is Eun‑ah’s story with the script. Her conclusion is nowhere near as clean or as satisfying as the rest of the drama, especially when I compare it to Park Hae‑young’s other works. I do not say this lightly, but it left me feeling slightly dirty, like she became the sacrificial lamb because Dong‑man’s story needed more room to land. There is a strange and uncomfortable irony in a drama about a woman who spent her life being made invisible choosing to leave her resolution the least visible of all. I would have understood more if they had sidelined Hwang Ji‑man’s plot line instead, but they did not. And so here I am, sitting with the knowledge that this drama was four episodes away from my third Perfect 10 of the year. I am genuinely grieving those four episodes we should have had. This imbalance does not break the drama, but it does reveal its boundaries. The final stretch feels less like failure and more like a visible ceiling placed on an otherwise expanding emotional architecture.

As is typical of Park Hae-young’s writing, this is a drama you have to experience yourself. Behind the mundane and deceptively ordinary surface of people simply being people, layers fold into layers, and no summary does them adequate justice. She remains the only writer who has ever made me cry purely from dialogues. No swelling score, no camera tricks, no close-up held a beat too long to cue the emotion. Two people in a room, talking, and somehow I was undone.

For a drama that began with me wanting to remove Hwang Dong-man from the premises entirely, Park Hae-young got me to the point where the two leads’ unconscious cry for help shattered me completely. It is terrifying how thoroughly she dismantled every resistance I brought to this drama: an obnoxious lead, a gimmicky device I dismissed in episode two, a tonal register I did not recognise as hers at first. Because it is one thing to write within a viewer’s established preferences. It is another thing entirely to identify exactly what makes a viewer resistant and then dismantle that resistance so carefully and so precisely that by episode eight I was sitting there thinking she probably could have made me love a love triangle. That is not just good writing. That is a writer operating with complete command of her audience’s emotional interior.

It is, ultimately, a reminder of what Park Hae-young does best, and what she might achieve with even more narrative space. It really is unfortunate that the drama is four episodes short of what it needed. She needs the narrative estate. She deserves it. Give Park Hae-young all the narrative estate she needs, damnit. Hell, give her 20 episodes like Mr. Sunshine. She’d knock that out of the park too.