Reviews

Despite Its Flaws, “It’s Art” (PSY)

When I started watching We Are All Trying Here, I was reminded of Fabrice Luchini speaking about the sense of uselessness described by Blaise Pascal, one of the greatest French thinkers of the 17th century. In Pascal’s work, there is this deep recognition of existential emptiness that emerges when a person is confronted with their own insignificance. From there comes a constant need for distraction, recognition, and self-expression: because the moment one is no longer occupied, the feeling of being useless returns. Behind this drama, we find screenwriter Park Hae-young, known for Another Miss Oh, but especially for My Mister and My Liberation Notes. I felt this series revisited a familiar pairing she seems particularly fond of: a young, strikingly beautiful woman contrasted with an older man, marked by life’s hardships (after IU and Kim Ji-won, we now have Go Youn-jung’s almost “madonna-like” figure). However, the narrative suffers from certain clumsiness, due to poorly introduced or sometimes simply omitted elements. Once again, this is a psychological and sociological study of characters, all of whom carry—or continue to carry—a burden. That said, this is not a 100% tragedy: the series also allows for lighter, even comedic moments. Because this work is not intended solely for neurotics or pessimists; it also shows that beyond suffering, there is always a small opening toward light and healing.

The story revolves around a group of friends gathered in the “Eight Club”: screenwriters, directors, producers—everyone works in the film industry. Some have succeeded, while others have had a much harder path. Hwang Dong-man (Koo Kyo-hwan), in his forties, is the only one who has achieved nothing in twenty years. He is a dreamer, shaped by life’s vicissitudes, often appearing lazy and detached. He frequently comes across as a victim, a role he unconsciously nurtures. To avoid sinking into the feeling of uselessness, he clings to anything available—whether in real life or in the films he watches as a form of escape. He lives in a small apartment he shares with his older brother, Hwang Jin-man (Park Hae-joon), a once-renowned poet now physically and mentally broken, surviving through menial jobs. They are painful to watch, both in deep emotional distress. On the other side, Byeon Eun-a (Go Youn-jung) works at a production company. Her job is to read scripts, revise them, and approve them. Her life is shaped by emotional emptiness, rooted in a complete lack of maternal connection after being abandoned at age nine. She drowns her melancholy in work. Her anxiety manifests physically through frequent nosebleeds whenever she feels threatened. Knowing each other professionally and also through an academic program, Dong-man and Eun-a gradually grow closer, helping each other confront their emotional states and the contempt they face from others.

This drama feels like it closes a trilogy about mental alienation and the paths toward healing. After the extreme poverty and responsibility awakening of My Mister, and the rural monotony, alcoholism, and existential suffocation of My Liberation Notes, We Are All Trying Here explores abandonment and existential emptiness. These are anti-heroes who feel they have missed their lives due to external circumstances, but also because of their own choices. However, this is not about excusing them—the story avoids self-pity. It is once again a slice-of-life narrative from the writer. Yet while I was moved by My Mister and disappointed by My Liberation Notes, here it is more the casting than the writing that holds the series together, despite a sometimes chaotic structure that loses track of its own narrative threads. The story of Jin-man and Mi-ran, in particular, feels underdeveloped. As viewers, we are often left to fill in the gaps ourselves, which creates a frustrating sense of incompleteness. Only toward the very end do we finally receive, almost in thriller fashion, a late explanation of Jin-man’s traumatic past—feeling almost like a patch added after the fact.

So what is We Are All Trying Here to me? It is a mirror of life itself, a gallery of portraits in which each character must face their own demons: they feel they have failed or missed their lives because, while others moved forward, they stagnated—missing what mattered due to professional or personal missteps. External events have amplified this sense of injustice. Dong-man and Byeon Eun-a have both suffered life’s blows. But while the former is partly responsible for his situation due to arrogance and minimal effort, Eun-a carries a melancholy that is not of her own making. She was built alone, without emotional support; the love of a surrogate grandmother is not enough to fill that void. The common point between these two broken beings is that they are constantly humiliated by their respective nemeses: for Dong-man, Park Gyeong-se (Oh Jung-se), a failed director sustained only by his wife Ko Hye-jin (Kang Mal-geum); for Eun-a, her boss Choi Dong-hyeon (Choi Won-young), who reduces her to a convenient scapegoat. Without spoiling anything, Eun-a must eventually confront her mother for the first time since her abandonment—much like Luke confronting his father in Star Wars to break free and become whole. These confrontations between the two women are beautifully written and mark a major turning point in her character. As for Dong-man, he becomes the man he always wanted to be by overcoming his emotional excess and impulsive behavior.

The series’ greatest strengths lie in its finely written dialogue and outstanding cast: nothing is said without purpose. Coming straight from the disappointing Perfect Crown, this felt like a punch in the face—in the best possible way. Koo Kyo-hwan is given full space to showcase his talent in this deeply human and sincere fable. I have nothing against Go Youn-jung, but like Kim Ji-won, her physical presence sometimes overshadows her acting. Once Jang Mi-ran (Han Sun-hwa) enters the story, she partially eclipses her. I also grow tired of the overly pitiful “Calimero-like” expressions and somewhat stereotyped acting style. However, the casting overall is handled very well. The introduction of veteran actors like Bae Jong-ok and Sung Dong-il in the second half adds real energy to the drama. The direction is solid, as is the cinematography, with visual metaphors that are both explicit and effective. Unfortunately, while the series opens many narrative doors, some arcs remain unresolved or underdeveloped, seemingly due to convenience rather than intention. Why does no journalist investigate Oh Jeong-hui’s past? And why introduce Jin-man’s backstory if it ultimately leads nowhere? This sense of incompleteness is frustrating. A few clichés are also easily forgettable.

“Everyone Is Fighting Against Their Own Sense of Worthlessness”: this is the real title of the drama, and it captures its essence perfectly. It reflects the internal struggle we all face simply to continue existing—not merely to avoid being forgotten, two very different things. I agree with Moon Yeong, who notes in her review how misleading Netflix’s chosen title is, as it feels hollow and disconnected from the work’s true meaning. This drama shows that resilience leads to healing—partial or complete—through mutual emotional support that is tangible and lasting. The series is not at all miserabilist; quite the opposite. It is a psychological study of a slice of life that is corrosive, sincere, and deeply moving. It becomes a true emotional rollercoaster, even if it is imperfect. The narrative suffers from uneven pacing and occasionally unnecessary scenes; there was clearly room for refinement. The OST is sublime and poetic, enhancing the visuals and occasionally bringing tears. And Koo Kyo-hwan, like a storm, carries everything in his path. Fortunately, the final four episodes are particularly strong, culminating in a hopeful horizon. The most memorable moment comes in Jin-man’s monologue to Dong-man—a powerful, poetic speech that encapsulates the soul of the story. This earns the drama a bonus point in my view. A deeply humane work, never truly tragic, but rather an ode to reconciliation with oneself and to life itself, expressed with humility.

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Gold Fever… Until There’s Nothing Left

As an anecdote, several sequences of the drama were filmed in France in June 2025. And at the very end, I nearly had a shock… we can see the town of Cassis near Marseille (there’s even a casino) and the village of Le Castellet in the Var region (near the Paul Ricard circuit).

The title Gold Land takes on its full meaning in its symbolic dimension. Gold is never merely a material stake—it is a corrupting force. While it is first and foremost the name of a casino hotel planted in the middle of nowhere, visible from miles away, it also becomes a territorial imprint everyone wants to possess. The drama leaves a strange and paradoxical impression: that of an imperfect work, sometimes frustrating, yet difficult to dismiss as a simple failure, as it manages to establish a strong atmosphere and emotional trajectory. Initially presented as a conventional crime thriller, Gold Land turns out to be far more hybrid: both noir and psychological, slow at first and then suddenly frantic, where gold functions less as a material objective than as a mental contagion. The writing is conventional, sometimes porous, but it is saved by masterful direction and strong performances that tip the balance in its favor.

Kim Hee-Ju (Park Bo-Young) works in the freight department of a small airport, inspecting incoming cargo from abroad. Her boyfriend, Lee Do-Kyeong (Lee Hyun-Wook), a pilot, contacts her to help transport a rather unusual coffin. What she does not know is that he has long been drowning in debt and is secretly working for a criminal cartel, transporting illegal goods. No spoilers here—it is gold. And not just a little: one ton, divided into 100 ten-kilo bars. When she comes into contact with this fortune due to Do-Kyeong’s troubles, greed begins to override reason. Coming from a very poor background, the sight of all that gold burns her eyes. Soon, she must either confront or ally herself—with various dangerous figures depending on circumstances. Around her gravitate Park Ho-Cheol (Lee Kwang-Soo), the right-hand man managing the Gold Land palace; Jang Wook (Kim Sung-Cheol), a small-time but ambitious loan shark; and Kim Jin-Man (Kim Hee-Won), a corrupt detective drowning in debt. Her only goal: survival while protecting her “treasure.”

One essential point must be made: the story truly centers on a single protagonist—Hee-Ju. Park Bo-Young is almost unrecognizable in her first real dramatic lead role, and she delivers a solid performance. Gold, omnipresent throughout, becomes the true narrative engine and, more importantly, a revealer: it does not make people evil, it exposes how evil they already were. Everyone in Gold Land is, in one way or another, corrupt—but to varying degrees, and sometimes with mitigating circumstances. We move through a world of openly systemic cynicism. The casino itself is barely shown and ultimately has little real impact; it functions more as a symbolic device for power and domination, a focal point of corruption. Gold reshapes all human relationships: trust, judgment, morality, perception. Like Gollum in The Lord of the Rings, possession becomes obsession. Hee-Ju drifts through a twisted initiation journey, haunted by shadows of her past, where danger is constant. We are initially presented with a fragile woman easily manipulated—but is she really? The thriller begins slowly, almost like a psychological drama, before building into a clear escalation toward an explosive finale. What I appreciated most is the constant uncertainty about how it will end.

Gold Land does not reinvent the genre, but it offers interesting variations in structure. It is never monotonous in tone or atmosphere; there is a clear progression in tension and adrenaline. However, the script is sometimes confusing, relying on narrative shortcuts to push the story forward. Certain decisions or sequences feel implausible and struggle to convince, and some fight scenes are not entirely believable, clearly exaggerated for effect. Still, the series delivers intensity, and it effectively provokes either empathy or hatred toward its characters. The final three episodes restore much of the show’s momentum—except for the very ending, which feels overly convenient, almost like a postcard epilogue. One must never lose sight of the fact that the story often lacks consistency and logic. The sudden, near-instant bond between Hee-Ju and Jang Wook, for example, feels like it comes out of nowhere. At times, the narrative relies on strained explanations to justify implausible developments. And when the gold changes hands, it becomes easy to lose track. Violence is omnipresent, both verbal and physical: fans of heavy action and bloodshed will not be disappointed. The writing is fragile, but it knows how to surprise.

Yet Gold Land’s strengths lie elsewhere: the direction is solid and effectively builds a tense atmosphere, as expected from a proper thriller. The series alternates between psychological sequences centered on its characters and extremely violent action scenes that disrupt the rhythm. The cinematography is particularly striking, reminiscent of classic noir films. Many scenes are shot at night to heighten the sense of fear and constant danger. There are frequent narrative ruptures to revisit past events or blur the viewer’s perception. It is often intense, despite a noticeable lack of balance. The deeper the characters sink into gold fever, the more their greed—or resistance to it—and madness erupt. We witness who still retains a shred of humanity. The casting is another major strength, fully meeting the stakes of the story: Kim Hee-Won brings increasing depth to his role; Kim Sung-Cheol remains intriguingly ambivalent until the end; but above all, two actors stand out. Park Bo-Young delivers a surprisingly convincing against-type performance, and her critics might note that one does not win the Best Actress award at the 2026 Baeksang Arts Awards by accident. And finally, Lee Kwang-Soo is simply monstrous—in every sense of the word. He is completely unhinged, in the best possible way.

This drama is far from perfect, but it does manage to convey a tangible story and real emotions. Yes, there are oddities that make you think (the coffin’s weight at the beginning, for instance, or that somewhat forced ending resembling a travel postcard), but at its core, it remains a true thriller. One enjoys analyzing the characters’ behavior in the face of this mountain of gold, watching them make irrational, impulsive, disproportionate decisions they would never make under normal circumstances. At times, gold acts as a mirror of the soul, revealing people’s true nature with brutal clarity, like a poker player going all in. Cheat, yes; lie, no—this could well be the motto of Gold Land. While some show restraint, others show no mercy, with betrayal becoming a recurring theme. It is unfortunate that certain secrets remain in the shadows, preserving a layer of mystery—whether intentional or not. What remains in the end? That gold is a toxic element, the ultimate temptation of human greed. Man becomes his own prey in pursuit of a metal that Midas once rendered meaningless. And above all, seeing Park Bo-Young speak French—albeit phonetically, but so poetically—in the streets of Cassis or Le Castellet is worth more than all the gold in the world, isn’t it?

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Analysis of the Theory of Emptiness, or a Failed Parody

This review was conducted without any trickery, though it contains minor spoilers that have no real consequences. Well, the time has come to perform an autopsy on the beast, which—after a slow 12-episode agony—finally collapsed, torn between mediocrity and embarrassment. Sometimes one can be mistaken, but for a major public broadcaster in a prime-time slot, the conclusion is unmistakable: this is not merely a failure, it is a full-blown industrial accident. The 2026 audience has spoken. Viewers refuse to be treated like fools, and this disaster proves that the era of glossy, algorithm-driven rom-coms is coming to an end. Lightness is fine; stupidity and mindless nonsense are not—never again, thank you. As a viewer, I’m tired of being taken for an idiot. I’m willing to be indulgent, to swallow a few absurdities for the sake of a “cute” romantic comedy, but my patience has limits. I made it to episode 6 and then bailed. Yes, even my intrinsic masochism told me to stop the carnage. That, in essence, explains my 2/10 rating. I got off the bus, and as Denis Brogniart would say: the verdict is final.

Matthew Lee / Lee Hae-seok (Ahn Hyo-Seop) is a young farmer (well… sort of) with a rough-around-the-edges personality but a heart of gold (like Elvis). He passionately cultivates white-flowered nuri mushrooms. One day, Dam Ye-Jin (Chae Won-Bin) disrupts his peaceful routine. A star host on a home-shopping channel, she has made it her mission to get Matthew to sign with Eric Seo (Kim Beom), co-CEO of the international cosmetics brand L’Étoile. (Naturally, despite having spent half his life in France, he doesn’t speak a word of French.) She comes to renew their contract. Despite his repeated refusals, she persists. Their relationship begins to evolve. Long story short: love triangle, romance, childhood psychological baggage, and all the usual tropes—except without nuance or depth, because apparently we had better things to do, right? It’s the “seen it 100 times before” syndrome… and even on a good day, it still doesn’t work.

Sold Out on You (the French title is frankly awful) suffers from lazy, mechanical writing that confuses humor with hysteria. Between flat, unfunny characters, misunderstandings staged like advertising sketches, and editing that feels like a poorly assembled scaffolding just to exaggerate effects, the series generates a constant sense of discomfort. The childish reactions of thirty-year-old adults and the “cute” scenes devoid of any real emotion instantly break the viewer’s engagement. The unsettling part is that the drama believes itself to be adorable, while it actually sinks into pathetic overacting. There is no emotional connection possible because everything is pre-calculated to the millimeter. It reminded me of Mozinor’s parody generator: take the same ingredients, reshuffle them, change the setting and job titles, but keep the same mechanical structure. The characters are no longer coherent individuals, but bundles of recycled tropes: the clumsy yet “modern working girl” heroine, the taciturn but perfect male lead, the chic but empty rival, and eccentric villagers used as joke machines. Everything becomes predictable ten minutes in advance. It could almost be turned into TikTok Shorts.

As mentioned, it all feels like déjà vu: a clone of Brewing Love, with hints of Hometown Cha-Cha-Cha and Business Proposal. There is absolutely no originality or new creative direction. It shamelessly recycles past dramas in bulk, scene by scene. The same tired formula is everywhere: a fake “artisan, rural, bucolic” aesthetic used purely as decorative background, and the same artificial clash of opposites (the hyperactive city girl versus the overly sensitive country man). There is a complete absence of social realism, as physically demanding jobs are stripped of substance to become aesthetic wallpaper. Sold Out on You clumsily attempts to replicate a formula that was already showing cracks, confirming the creative drought of its writers. In truth, it feels like a collapse of social coherence disguised as luxury advertising. The drama descends into involuntary absurdity by disconnecting its characters from any sense of reality. A 25-year-old home-shopping host driving a Porsche convertible, living in a Gangnam showroom-style apartment, and owning a wardrobe worthy of Céline Dion instantly destroys credibility. Many recent rom-coms seem afraid of reality: everything must be Instagrammable, and sincerity—romantic or otherwise—is killed before it can even emerge.

If the writing no longer even smells remotely fresh, the waste is equally evident in the casting and technical execution. The directing is a disaster, the editing even worse, with constant continuity errors and scenes that make no sense in real life (yes, it’s a rom-com, fine—but still). The most frustrating part is how the actors are handled. Ahn Hyo-Seop is drowned in hollow dialogue lines worthy of a teenage sitcom, while poor Kim Beom is reduced to a ghost-like presence or a glorified food courier, disappearing from entire sequences without explanation, a collateral victim of a broken script. And worst of all is Chae Won-Bin: unconvincing, poor performance, completely unfit for the role. To top it off, the technical side is a mess. The pacing is artificially chopped up in a desperate attempt to revive a drama already brain-dead from the start, while advertising constraints are visibly dictating choices. The production team seems to have given up, resulting in sheer chaos. It’s a parade of clichés and worn-out tropes; everything is black and white, and the series proudly embraces it. Supporting characters are stuck in the same repetitive roles to the point of exhaustion (family ties, friendship clichés, etc.). In short… it’s boring.

In conclusion, Sold Out on You is the very definition of the “theory of emptiness”: visually, we are saturated with an aesthetic that feels entirely out of place, fake luxury, and clinical filters—everything reeks of artificiality. This historically low 2.9% audience share is a much-needed wake-up call from a viewership that has matured and now demands texture, sincerity, and respect. Subjecting myself to six more episodes of this marketing parade would amount to pure televisual masochism. The series never actually tells a story; it merely recycles a catalogue. It is often childish and saccharine. For newcomers to K-dramas, it might still pass (I might have stuck with it last year, perhaps). But for those who are tired of being treated like fools, it’s better to move on—you’ll save your time. I’m not asking for a perfect romance in a perfect world, only for credible characters capable of conveying emotion, even within an imperfect script. Beneath the filters, the Porsche, and the romantic slow-motion shots, there was ultimately… nothing. The “stop” button has been pressed. Definitively.

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The Secrets of Auditing… and Love

Yet another completely misleading K-drama title translation that ends up confusing viewers rather than helping them. With Filing for Love, you should not expect anything in the vein of What’s Wrong with Secretary Kim, Business Proposal, or even Crazy Love. This drama is worlds apart. In fact, romance only takes up about 30% of the runtime. The main focus is instead on portraying—albeit in a dramatized way—the workings of an audit department within a major chaebol. Such oversight bodies exist in all large corporations, including in France, though under different regulations. The interest of the series lies primarily in exposing misconduct that can harm a company in any form. However, the script sometimes veers into moralizing melodrama, so consider yourself warned. One last important point: avoid viewing certain situations through a Western lens, or you may find yourself somewhat shocked by local cultural norms.

Joo In-A (Shin Hae-Sun) is appointed head of the audit department at Haemu Group, the country’s 7th-largest chaebol. Cold, distant, and rigid, she is unwavering in her principles. Noh Ki-Jun (Gong Myung) is part of the elite team handling major corporate disputes. However, the arrival of this new boss disrupts his daily life: In-A demotes him to Team 3, which handles internal scandals. Disillusioned, he struggles to understand this “promotion,” which he interprets as punishment. At the top of the hierarchy, Vice President Jeon Jae-Yeol (Kim Jae-Wook) is going through both a family and professional crisis. A kind man, he was In-A’s lover more than ten years ago but was forced into an arranged marriage. Park A-Jeong (Hong Hwa-Yeon), his secretary, is Ki-Jun’s former girlfriend; she is in love with the vice president, who remains emotionally tied to the past. As investigations unfold, Ki-Jun discovers a different side of In-A and gradually develops feelings for her.

The drama focuses on a small group of main characters, allowing their relationships and personal arcs to be developed solidly without scattering the narrative. Like a crime procedural, there are cases to solve, but the goal is not simply to identify a culprit: it is above all to showcase the work of the Audit Team and reveal the wounds, secrets, and sometimes hidden suffering behind corporate life. I enjoy this kind of drama that sparks curiosity, and it even made me want to learn more about how audit departments actually operate in South Korea and what their role is within large corporations. However, at times I felt the series went a bit too far into people’s private lives. For context, adultery was still a criminal offense in South Korea until 2015, and extramarital relationships within companies remain highly frowned upon. Indeed, a conglomerate’s public image is of paramount importance. The story truly picks up around episode three. Alongside the main plot, we follow investigations involving inappropriate (or allegedly inappropriate) relationships, including sexual and moral harassment, defamation, infidelity, and more. There are genuinely serious and dramatic moments. Office life can be harsh and resemble a real ordeal for some, with constant stress driven by work pressure and expectations.

As this is a dramedy with romantic elements, the narrative lightens the heaviness with humorous and offbeat moments. This comes either through the central couple, who must keep their relationship secret, or through the members of Team 3, all of whom are quite endearing. I also appreciated the absence of a love triangle. The situation is clear-cut, even if romantic conflicts can still arise from elsewhere and cause collateral damage. At times, it genuinely feels like an internal corporate morality police force. However, this should be understood within the South Korean context, where issues of reputation, social image, and personal relationships are perceived differently than in the West. This does not mean everything must be accepted uncritically; one can disagree with certain practices or how they are portrayed. But it is more meaningful to try to understand the cultural context rather than judge it solely through Western standards. The drama also highlights how thin the line can be between legitimate investigation, defamation, slander, and intrusion into privacy. It prompts reflection on working conditions, and is therefore far from the saccharine, simplistic romances often found in the genre.

Some moments are genuinely touching, while others are quite disturbing. Moreover, the drama gives Joo In-A a complex psychological backstory that explains her current behavior. She is a woman shaped by hardship, self-made, a powerful and respected career woman. Ki-Jun, meanwhile, was raised in a matriarchal household consisting of his mother and three older sisters, who still dote on him because he remains single. The pairing of Shin Hae-Sun and Gong Myung works well, especially by placing a slightly older, authoritative woman opposite a younger man with wit and personality. The core of the series is strong and engaging, even if it does not entirely escape familiar tropes. Humanity is at the heart of the story, whether in professional or romantic relationships. The balance between dramatic, romantic, and lighter scenes is generally well handled. The romance is present but never the central focus. This is прежде all a story about wounds, recovery, work, responsibility, and repressed emotions. The love story unfolds slowly, shaped by past emotions. Those looking only for quirky situations, caricatured characters, or shallow romance will likely be disappointed. This series takes a more mature and restrained approach.

It is unfortunate that the final episode, which serves little purpose for about 80% of its runtime, feels somewhat out of place. It acts as a decompression episode, releasing narrative pressure. We even get the obligatory “one year later” segment used to add a few extra scenes. Still, overall, Filing for Love is a work that, while not entirely flawless, offers an interesting dive into corporate mechanisms, reputation, human relationships, and the sometimes heavy consequences of our choices. It is a journey into unfamiliar territory for viewers unacquainted with the internal workings and regulations of large corporations. Beneath the romance lies far more than superficial lightness: the writing is much smarter than the title suggests. And yes, as is often the case in the genre, someone gets a second chance—and perhaps more. Ultimately, the series focuses on the positive. The Audit Team can be ruthless toward those who harm the company, but it is also portrayed as attentive and protective of ordinary employees facing pressure from above. Behind every worker may lie someone emotionally struggling. A worthwhile watch, both educational and entertaining.

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The Masks of the Scarecrow

The Scarecrow is a crime thriller that takes place primarily in 1988 during its first ten episodes, with the final two shifting to 2019. Why 1988? For one, it is a year frequently used in K-dramas (most notably Reply 1988), partly because South Korea hosted the Olympic Games that year. More importantly, it marks the final years of military dictatorship before the country's democratic transition. This historical context is crucial and should never be forgotten while watching the story unfold. It was an era when brutal police methods were commonplace. If investigators failed to catch the real culprit, they often settled for extracting confessions from innocent suspects through violence. The title The Scarecrow refers not only to the serial killer himself but also serves as a metaphor: a scarecrow is, above all, a decoy. Its purpose is to deceive, manipulate perception, and create an illusion. Throughout the drama, the line between truth, accusation, and manipulation becomes increasingly blurred, constantly confronting viewers with morally questionable decisions and difficult dilemmas. Emotionally, this is not a drama one walks away from unscathed.

Kang Tae-joo (Park Hae-soo) is a seasoned and fearless detective with little respect for authority. After being demoted and disciplined, he is transferred from Seoul back to the small town where he grew up. There, he soon finds himself investigating a serial killer targeting women at night along a rural road lined with rice fields and scarecrows—the murderer disguises himself as one to lure and deceive his victims. Tae-joo's path crosses once again with prosecutor Cha Si-young (Lee Hee-jun), a man who left deep psychological scars on him during their high school years through relentless bullying. Though Tae-joo still harbors a strong resentment toward him, the two bitter enemies are forced to work together to stop the monster terrorizing the region. However, Si-young comes from a powerful family, and his position as a prosecutor during the dictatorship grants him influence that often extends beyond his official authority. While the serial killer embodies calculated cruelty, the drama also exposes another form of monstrosity: the brutality of police officers serving a ruthless and corrupt system that shows little mercy toward the vulnerable. What follows is a manhunt spanning more than thirty years, leaving irreversible damage in its wake and destroying countless innocent lives.

The drama's structure relies on brief time jumps scattered throughout the narrative. The director carefully plants flash-forwards that either open or close chapters with prison encounters between Tae-joo and the real killer. Their exchanges become psychological duels, made all the more frustrating by the fact that the murderer's crimes are now beyond the statute of limitations, while he is incarcerated for entirely different offenses. This narrative device creates a fascinating dual timeline. As we follow the 1988 investigation—with all its flaws and systemic violence—these glimpses into the future act as a tragic countdown. We already know the hunt will last thirty years and that irreversible mistakes will be made. Yet the mystery remains compelling, as the killer's identity is not officially revealed until the end of Episode 7 (although attentive viewers may figure it out sooner). Knowing the culprit relatively early is not a problem because the story's real strength lies elsewhere. The suspense remains intact until the very end because the audience never truly knows what to expect, even when they think they do. The Scarecrow is, above all, a psychological drama that deliberately presses on painful wounds. It is raw, violent, often disturbing, but firmly rooted in reality.

Beneath its crime-thriller surface lies a much broader reflection on wrongful convictions, coerced confessions, and the institutional abuses that plagued South Korea during decades marked by authoritarian rule and anti-communist paranoia. The brief but remarkably filmed confrontation between students and police perfectly captures this atmosphere. Through characters who are falsely accused, imprisoned, or destroyed by suspicion, the series shines a light on the forgotten victims of rushed investigations, police pressure, and a justice system sometimes more concerned with closing cases than uncovering the truth. In this sense, the investigation itself ceases to be the heart of the story and instead becomes a symbol of a flawed system whose mistakes continue to haunt survivors decades later. That said, some writing choices raise questions. Why are certain characters never seriously considered as suspects? Why does the investigation cling so stubbornly to fragile assumptions, particularly regarding blood types? Viewed strictly as a detective story, the investigation can occasionally feel like a complete disaster. One ultimately accepts these shortcomings by reminding oneself of the historical context and investigative limitations of the period.

There are no simplistic heroes or villains here. Apart from the serial killer, every major character carries deep emotional wounds that cloud their judgment and threaten their mental stability. The line between good and evil is often razor-thin, and some will pay a terrible price for crossing it. What truly elevates the series is the confrontation between Park Hae-soo and Lee Hee-jun. Quite simply, both actors are exceptional in their respective roles. Having reportedly dreamed of acting together for over a decade, they bring remarkable authenticity and emotional intensity to their performances. Park Hae-soo delivers a nuanced portrayal of a man worn down by time, haunted by failure, and consumed by guilt. Opposite him, Lee Hee-jun is equally impressive. His constantly ambiguous performance maintains an atmosphere of tension throughout the entire series, making his character fascinating, unsettling, and profoundly human all at once. In a thriller, credibility is everything, and these two actors make every moment believable. Their conflict, rooted in a dark shared past, follows them throughout their lives. Eventually, one of them must step aside to protect the people he loves, displaying extraordinary resilience and self-sacrifice.

The production itself deserves praise as well. The opening sequence is magnificent, the direction often feels cinematic, and the rural late-1980s atmosphere is recreated with remarkable authenticity. At times, the show even evokes the feeling of an old American crime film, with acoustic guitar melodies adding an extra layer of charm. The supporting cast also deserves recognition for delivering strong performances across the board. As a fun piece of trivia, Lee Min-ki makes a brief appearance toward the end. The reason is simple: the director is also behind the K-drama Crash (Seasons 1 and 2), in which Lee Min-ki stars My only real reservation concerns the conclusion presented in the final episode. Personally, frustration outweighs satisfaction, even though I understand the creative choice the director made. Without revealing spoilers, the reactions of certain characters—particularly Sun-young, Tae-joo's younger sister, and her son—left me puzzled.

Some individuals are eventually exonerated, and the justice system acknowledges its mistakes, but not all cases can be corrected due to statutes of limitation. Curiously, some investigative avenues also appear to have been ignored in 2019, despite South Korea abolishing the statute of limitations for murder in 2015. At times, the suspense can feel predictable, and a few inconsistencies emerge to move the investigation forward. Morally and legally, however, do not expect a neat or universally satisfying ending. What remains is a masterclass in acting, a chilling story, a dark and melancholic atmosphere, and thought-provoking questions about ethics, justice, and morality. The Scarecrow is not a puzzle-box mystery designed to challenge viewers to identify the killer. Instead, it is a story about the suffering of innocent people and the devastating consequences when justice fails—or refuses—to do its job properly. Despite its imperfections, it is both heartbreaking and shocking. In the end, The Scarecrow is a powerful drama with real substance and weight, all the more compelling because it is deeply rooted in history.

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I absolutely looooveed it

I watched both seasons back to back because I hadn't seen since it came out. And I love both seasons. But I love season 2 slightly more. The jokes landed for me. And the villains ate. Not all villains need a backstory or a redeeming story. Some villains are just evil and just want power. Pilgwang and Felly, 10/10 as villains. They really embodied evil. Ma Juseok on the other hand was the kind of villain you had to have pity for because he was pushed into it, so that's another kind of villain/bad guy, 10 out of 10. I loved his story. I also loved the fact that Hana and So Mun have a sibling relationship instead of romantic relationship. I'm soo happy about that. I loved JangMul here as well, and how he still continues to pursue Mae-Ok and look after her. The only thing I'd say that I was a bit disappointed in was Jeong-gu as the new counter. I was so excited for the new counter and was more excited when he became one. And I was all for the “fool with a hero's heart” storyline. I'm just a bit disappointed that his potential was doused. I felt like he should have learnt how to fight well by the end of the series as So Mun. Yes, he was an asset to the team with his sniffing skills but I felt like he could've done more if he had gotten the treatment So Mun got when he first came, y'know the training and lessons and all of that. I just had a lot of expectations for Jeong-gu and I feel like he had so much potential.
Nevertheless, I enjoyed the season very much. Final rating, 9 out of 10.

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silly yet heartwarming in its own way

the premise of age gap bl got me hooked, yet the one that truly mattered was the obnoxious storyline. i love how this drama puts bl like it's a part of a bigger complex social issues rather than solely relying on bl to keep you interested. the highlights about having a dream, letting go of your idealism, and accepting yourself the way you are despite being different than everyone else made this drama more charming and heartwarming in its own way. watching this sorta feel like a trauma healing session.

the storyline's a bit repetitive at some point, but hey it's mimicking real life and real life's boring sometimes, so the portrayal is kinda spot on. acting was good, i could feel the awkwardness past the screen though. seeing that hatano genichi was really supposed to be an awkward character, i guess that's more of a praise than a hate.

really recommend to watch if you're looking for something lighthearted! remember to put no expectation at all because this is a slice of life drama after all~

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Love Upon a Time should be the standard for the BL industry.

Net Siraphop, JJ Radchapon, Latte Thanutchon, Kim Pongsaton and all the other incredible actors and actresses that made Love Upon a Time come true, I wish I could give you the biggest hug and "thank you" ever. I don't exactly know what happened to DMD''s ever since they produced Your Sky but they've been hitting the jackpot over and over again.

Love Upon a Time starts as a really light and even funny (for the first three episodes) series and then it starts with the "real" lore and Nakhun's realization that he is in Klao's body and has a duty to complete. I don't have enough words to describe how incredible JJ is for this role; his acting is phenomenal and we can notice the difference between Klao from the past and Nakhun pretending to be Klao, just because JJ is THAT good. Net is always delivering with his acting and I'll never get tired of appreciating him and all his effort to make LUAT come true. Jom/Thee and Kaew/Pun are also portrayed extremely well and I truly love their stories — but I still wish the series had focused a little bit more on them and their stories, like with CharnJet in Khemjira. All the other actors that gave life to amazing characters to the series, like Chuay, Sai, Kong, Pim, Cherd, Harn, Warna, Chai, Meng, Klao's dad and Phop's parents, you all deserve so much acknowledgment.

LUAT is everyting we needed and I hope it is remembered for being a true masterpiece for the bl industry. I can't wait to see NETTJJ and LATTEKIM in new projects and showing the potential they truly have.

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A Bitter-Tasting " Bouillabaisse "

Adapted from the webcomic Chamkyoyook, No. Lesson for Everyone! (or Get Schooled!) sets out with a clear ambition: exposing school violence, bullying, abuse of power, educational pressure, and the failures of a system that is supposed to protect the most vulnerable. On paper, it's hard not to support such a project. Yet as the episodes progress, a growing sense of frustration begins to emerge. Not because the subjects themselves are uninteresting, but because the series constantly seems to favor spectacle over reflection, instant emotional gratification over analysis, and punishment over understanding. The show relies on radical and highly efficient methods that are undeniably satisfying in the moment. But then what? What are the long-term results? What perspective does it offer? In many ways, it's a lot like politics: plenty of smoke and mirrors. The series focuses almost exclusively on the consequences while rarely addressing the root causes. That's the central paradox: I completely agree with the diagnosis, but less and less with the way it is presented. From the very beginning, it reminded me of Gordon Ramsay-style rescue shows: the hero arrives, cleans up the mess, and leaves. Fine—but what happens afterward?

The premise itself is strong. Following the alarming observation that teachers' authority has significantly eroded and that school violence continues to rise, South Korea's National Assembly passes a new law. Supported by the President and the Minister of Education, Choi Gang-Seok (Lee Sung-Min)—whose own daughter, a teacher, was murdered by a high school student two years earlier—a Bureau for the Protection of Educational Rights is created. On the ground, it is led by Na Hwa-Jin (Kim Moo-Yul), a former elite soldier who was also the deceased teacher's husband. He is assisted by Im Han-Rim (Jin Ki-Joo), who once served under him in the military, and Bong Geun-Dae (Pyo Ji-Hoon), a computer genius. Their mission is simple: intervene directly in schools and deal with problems at their source, using force when necessary. Like a procedural crime drama, the series tackles bullying, parental pressure, corruption, physical violence, social inequality, juvenile delinquency, and institutional failures. All relevant topics, certainly—but far too many to be handled thoroughly within the show's limited runtime.

To give you an idea, it's as if someone threw a little bit of The Glory, Extracurricular, Weak Hero, Study Group, ONE, and even GTO into a giant wok and stirred everything together. Unfortunately, the "one case per episode" structure weakens the overall narrative, especially in a series consisting of only ten episodes. Sixteen would probably have been necessary to properly explore everything. The formula rarely changes: a problem appears, the Bureau intervenes, the guilty parties are punished, and the story moves on to the next case. As a result, everything feels somewhat superficial because the show almost never takes the time to examine the origins of the conflicts, with only a few exceptions. Yes, it is satisfying to watch bullies and incompetent adults finally get what they deserve. But to what end? The consequences quickly disappear, the situations lack depth, and most importantly, everything becomes predictable. The story simply moves from one school environment to another, checking boxes along the way. It often feels less like a coherent narrative and more like a catalogue of social issues. The repetitive structure quickly becomes tiresome: a victim, a bully, a forceful intervention, punishment, and then on to the next case. At first glance, that sounds entertaining. In reality, not so much. The series never seriously examines the deeper causes of these problems. How did such violence emerge? How did the system allow it to flourish? Why did institutions fail, and more importantly, did they ever genuinely attempt to solve these issues before they reached crisis point? The protagonists act like firefighters: they put out the fire, but the show rarely cares about why the house is burning in the first place. There are simply too many cases and not enough episodes to properly develop the ideas being presented.

Another issue is the complete absence of tension. Na Hwa-Jin, much like prime Steven Seagal, is never truly challenged. He functions more as an archetype than a realistic character—a cross between Superman and Zorro. Somewhere between vigilante fantasy and rough justice, he bulldozes through every obstacle, solving situations either through cleverness or physical force. Twenty opponents at once? No problem. He's essentially an unarmed version of So Ji-Sub, with a smug smile added for good measure. Physical confrontation frequently replaces actual conflict resolution. To keep the story moving, the series constantly escalates situations, but this escalation destroys much of its credibility. Seventeen-year-old students look thirty. Thirteen-year-old middle schoolers look twenty. Adults are passive, absent, or incompetent. Institutions barely seem to function. Where is the police? What are the prosecutors doing? There are never any meaningful investigations beforehand. Everything is exaggerated for dramatic effect. The series embraces pure black-and-white morality: the untouchable hero, the irredeemably evil villain, the fragile victim, the complete absence of accountability, and bystanders who never react. Another weakness is the lack of a true antagonist. It's difficult to determine whether the corrupt politician or the murderer of Na Hwa-Jin's wife is supposed to be the show's central adversary.

That being said, there are some genuinely strong moments. I particularly enjoyed Episode 5, which follows a teacher being relentlessly harassed by a deeply troubled parent, and Episode 8, which echoes the themes explored in SKY Castle, portraying parents willing to sacrifice anything for their children's success. These episodes are more nuanced, more human, and encourage reflection about parenting in a society where children are either treated like royalty or thrown into the arena of relentless competition. Ultimately, the series is more interesting for the questions it raises than for the answers it provides: school violence, juvenile justice, and the limitations of educational and institutional systems. At times, it also reminded me of Taxi Driver. Whenever all hope is lost, the Bureau arrives as a miracle solution capable of fixing everything within days. Another aspect that bothered me is the complete lack of scale. Although the issues presented are supposedly systemic and nationwide, everything feels strangely localized on screen, as if these problems only exist within the boundaries of a single mid-sized city. The broader national dimension is never convincingly portrayed.

And then there's the Bureau itself. A four-person team reporting directly to a government minister simply makes no sense. Everything is simplified to maximize the appearance of efficiency, but it often feels more like a narrative shortcut than a genuine attempt to engage with reality. As a result, much of the show's impact and authenticity is lost. Nearly every development feels telegraphed, leaving little room for surprise. As for the cast, while the direction is effective enough, I wasn't entirely convinced by the performances. Kim Moo-Yul gets the job done but brings little nuance to his character. Lee Sung-Min, on the other hand, fits his role perfectly. However, I'm still struggling to understand the narrative purpose of Jin Ki-Joo and Pyo Ji-Hoon's characters. Were there really no better options available?

The series relies heavily on implausible situations and exaggerated set pieces to keep the audience entertained and move the plot forward. In the end, it doesn't reveal anything particularly new about the issues it discusses. The final episode falls completely into convenience and narrative shortcuts in order to justify the Bureau's existence. This feels very much like a low-budget Netflix production that deserved a far more sophisticated treatment. Adapting a webtoon should have allowed the writers greater freedom, yet the result remains surprisingly constrained. While the original webtoon generated controversy—particularly in the United States, which I find somewhat amusing—the drama adaptation will likely spark debates of its own.
In the end, I fully agree with the show's core premise. The issues it addresses are important, timely, and universal. However, the execution is often counterproductive. By constantly prioritizing spectacle, escalation, and quick resolutions, the series ultimately weakens its own message. The problem isn't the subject matter—it's the way it's handled. A worthy intention. A relevant diagnosis. But an oversimplified demonstration. Despite occasional flashes of insight, the final result remains unsatisfying because there were simply too many ingredients, and none of them were ever given enough time to fully develop their flavor.

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This shows what chemistry looks like

rewatching my favourite
This is my favourite couple in kdrama I already rewatched multiple times, now did again
i like them more in this than kill me heal me

i feel they have the best chemistry, any kdrama couple hasn't been my favourite as much as them they're top 1

ml- it's better to watch for ml than FML here boy gets scammed by 2 people the FML and his bf I feel only bad for him first later FML , he's one of the best character in drama the obsessive type I have seen men like him only in manwha and this drama
he wasn't wrong to FML at all, same people meet eachother that do too much or extra in love

FML - so she was getting married to a guy who didn't like her that much? and knowing she did it ? she ruined her own life , the way the man let her go to prison says enough that he doesn't love her because being in prison is suffering for her , girl also abandoned her own father for bf ? who is alone and old ? FML is hard to like when she cause a mess like this in real she a good person but she choose a wrong guy, I also dislike the fact she hide the bf being the killer till end

romance - , visual couple,both are so good looking,I am type to like interactions more than intimate moments like kiss ? they have the best interaction I have ever seen in drama and feels realistic , sadly story focus too much on melodrama and villians 😭😭😭😭 less space for romance my most favourite couple romance appears barely 30-40 % even in that they breakup ? seriously? 😭😭😭 i wanted to see more romance I'm really annoyed by less romance shown here , other stories have satisfying romance here interaction is more satisfying than romance

what I dislike
too much side characters even though they're main but villians? since I'm rewatching I skipped all scenes of ml friend and FML ex

plot/villian - as this is old drama the romance part is really satisfying even though less but when it comes to villians? no ? only till last end ep the FML ex got arrested seriously? after tormenting her continuously and other crimes they show it like this ? not even that ,ml broke up because of FML ex and his female friend ? and successfully got married or engaged? i dont know I skipped ? I'm really dissatisfied by this really annoying, villans annoying till the end

end - I forgot story so I think when ml company has problem because of that FML ex everything turns back to him ? but no ? instead ml gives up and does what his family and female friend wants ? and time skip ?
as I rewatched I only remember the satisfying romance and forgot the end eps sucks even though only at last scene they get back together, the revenge or villians party is completely annoying since nothing satisfying happened in the end , the romance did ....

the villians ml friend and FML ex feel they're shown way too much or even more than main couple? because I skipped all their parts I felt the main couple had less screentime? their meet-ups were shown more than the main couple ? like who wants to see that ? every few minutes they would meet and talk ? and both were toxic

the fact that ml being so crazy to punish the killer forgets when he found out the ex is the one? because he didn't do the same to him like he did to FML ? and he being rich and powerful couldn't handle a lawyer? the way ml himself put him in his company was also ridiculous

not logical or ridiculous - now I saw ml had already fallen for her knowing she killed his ex? how is that possible? i thought he liked after finding out she didn't kill her

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sweet, short and that's basically it.

a very short sweet drama perfect for times when you just want to turn your brain off and enjoy good things.

plot:🗯️
our FL get dumped by her asshole boyfriend and runs into her childhood friend. they start living together and support each other. will romance bloom between them?

the drama🗯️🗯️
the plot is all in the premise. our female lead is on her journey to regain her happiness. at first she thinks getting back with her ex will be her end dreams but as time passes, her childhood friend turns into something more than an emotional "crutch".

there is nothing really groundbreaking here or memorable, it's just a good time with cute actors.

the most "memorable" thing in the drama is the concept that women are at their lowest in terms of beauty or stress on Wednesday at 15.30. I did a quick Google search and it's apparently true😅.

the actors and characters"🗯️
I liked them both. I was already familiar with the female lead. she is funny, cute and good with a different range of emotions.

never saw the main male lead but he is fine. maybe his "golden retriever. energy " was a bit too much for my liking, but that's his character and I'm fine with it.

the bad boyfriend was a paper thin villain. he didn't feel like a real person in screen.

conclusions:🗯️
should you watch it?
I'd say yes only if you don't have anything else in your list.
there is really nothing new here or moving too such an extend you should ditch something else to watch this instead.

maybe keep it on your list in case you feel bored.

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Such a sweet, heartwarming modern drama!

this drama was a nice sweet watch! what interested me was that it starts off with them meeting as players in a VR game then having encounters irl, and lord they had soooo much chemistry i swear lyx never fails to deliver on that aspect she always clicks well with her mls; the story is quite simple and not overcomplicated or filled with lots of scheming or annoying side characters, it was a bit slow at times but the build up to the romance was done well and i loved the tension they had 🤭 it’s also the first time i watched a drama that had architectural aspects which was pretty interesting. i loved the fl’s strong personality, never giving up on her dreams even when things got hard and i loved how supportive ml was of her and how sweet he was with her as well, they were such a nice couple their relationship is defo one of the best ones from the modern dramas ive seen up to now imo! the only thing that left me a bit disappointed was the VR didn’t play a major role in the plot like i thought it would cause i would’ve loved to have seen more scenes of that (plus more excuses to see them in that republican era clothing 😹) but overall this drama was a light watch and very satisfactory, with great cinematography, and amazing acting and chemistry delivered by lyx and cxx!

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