UNDERSTANDING KOREAN TV SERIES

Today, there are millions of these fans worldwide, with Koreans making up less than a third of the total audience. These shows are watched all over the world, even in places like Iran, where foreign film content is so intensely censored that barely a dozen such films make it to local screens each year. However, each day, in Chile and Bangladesh, Egypt and Romania, Kazakhstan and Japan—the birthplace of the term ‘dorama’—millions of hands reach for the remote control to bring a distant country to their TV screens and into their lives. This action establishes a peculiar connection between their living space and that far-off land, much like a trance. It’s reminiscent of the bond between a potted flower and the homeowner nurturing it. It’s a joyous act of contemplation and silent, almost contactless support for one another.

In the past decade, as the popularity of doramas has surged worldwide, numerous articles and books attempting to explain this phenomenon have emerged. The term ‘soothing’ has often been associated with the effect of doramas, finding echoes in various languages. I would also describe it as healing. It’s like receiving a soul massage before going to sleep, though not everyone wants to be touched by someone else. Doramas tell stories in which physical contact—touch—is a rare occurrence and often arises after prolonged deliberations, reflections, and adjustments between two people. The quest for a unique language that defines their relationship becomes crucial.

Far from creating a slow, meditative spectacle, doramas are constantly dynamic. If you step away to pour a cup of tea, you’ll miss something so crucial that you’ll have to go back to catch up. At critical moments, directors prompt actors to deliver lines through significant pauses, allowing the viewer to grasp the feelings and thoughts expressed in them. Like when the heroine of The Heirs (Sangsokjadeul, 2013), in who knows which episode, for the first time, rests her head on her beloved’s shoulder and remarks with some surprise: ‘I thought it would be cozier.’ To which he responds, ‘That’s because you leaned your head on me, but you need to lean with your heart.’ Or like in Weightlifting Fairy Kim Bok-joo (Yeokdoyojeong Gimbokju, 2017), when a weightlifter needing specialized nutrition falls hopelessly in love with a nutritionist and schedules appointments, jeopardizing future records, in order to see him. Eventually, she confesses her feelings: ‘I like the smell of the earth after rain, and I also like you, Doctor.’

Certainly, modern Korea—as evidenced not only by doramas but also by the multitude of tourists flooding it since the Korean wave began, where the doramas play a crucial role—is a country of toned, sculpted men who, due to racial–genetic predispositions and the expertise of skilled fitness trainers, cosmetologists, hairdressers, and plastic surgeons, never seem to age. Hwang In-youp, who became famous at the age of thirty for a role as a high school student, is precisely the rule, not the exception. Here, people only start thinking about marriage after thirty. This is a nation where modern circumstances empower women to freely showcase their quirky personalities and spontaneous desires, assertively excelling in every domain, including the professional domain. It’s a land of stylish attire, to the point where a European might seem overdressed or like a fashion victim, while on Koreans, and indeed on individuals of Asian descent, with their thick locks and striking eyes, the garments hug the body perfectly, blurring the lines between who wears the clothes and whom the clothes wear.

This flattering picture of luxury and prosperity is undoubtedly a key factor in the success of doramas in a world where even Hollywood stars have long switched to wearing plain T-shirts. Nevertheless, the real reason behind this success seems to be the way they understand our feelings with patience and nuance. In the West emerging relationships are too quickly reduced to the question of sex or no sex. There are many ways people feel about each other, and words like 'friend' or 'lover' can't describe all of them. It's also important to find ways to show those feelings in a way that works for everyone involved. The significance of doramas lies in how they portray the journey of one person to another in its entirety, thus helping us reevaluate the unique aspects of individuals and gaining a deeper understanding of how to interact with each other.

It is also important to note that, whether talking about friendship or love, doramas show people trying to continue moving toward each other even if they hurt each other. They persist in their efforts despite the cultural norms imposed on them and the resulting mutual misunderstandings. In friendship and love, the attempt is what matters most.

This is, thus, the essence of doramas—they make us sensitive. This was exemplified in the first dorama, Jealousy (Jiltu, 1992), which arguably marks the beginning of this genre in its current form. It tells the story of a boy and a girl who had been friends since school but didn’t think more of each other. However, as they grew up and found someone else each, a piercing jealousy made them look at their own relationship more closely. Like a drop of water reflects the ocean, it reflected the themes, environment, and presentation that are part of all current doramas. But before delving into that, let’s consider the cultural and historical context in which this show, and genre, emerged in South Korea in 1992.

As we have discussed, the term ‘dorama’ comes from the Japanese language, where consecutive consonants are challenging to pronounce. Thus, when Japanese television embraced the multi-episode format in the 1950s, ‘drama’ evolved into ‘dorama’. Korea, on the other hand, experienced successive military regimes until 1988, remaining totalitarian and closed off, with its limited cultural exports. In contrast, Japan, after being fully disarmed at the end of the Second World War, quickly established friendly relations across the globe, spreading its modern culture as early as the 1950s. When Korean doramas began to gain popularity internationally in the early twenty-first century, the Japanese term became associated with them.

At the same time, no two products are more different from each other than Japanese and Korean doramas. Japanese series are shot casually, using a style reminiscent of home videos. The acting is characterized by assertiveness, resembling a curious mix of clownery and performances for children at a New Year’s party. Exceptions, like the irresistible detective dorama Triangle (Toraianguru, 2009), which features authentic shots in Paris and melancholic scenes with the handsome Yosuke Eguchi in a cloak, only confirm the rule. They are specially crafted for individual and short-term projects (Triangle comprised only ten episodes).

On the other hand, Korean doramas strive to resemble full-fledged films intended for cinematic release. They achieve this through carefully crafted lighting, frequent changes of shots, an abundance of picturesque natural atmosphere, and impactful emotional pieces emphasized by camera movement. The simplicity of television techniques is introduced deliberately as a stylization, ironically referring to foreign and widely known layers of mass culture. This was evident in The Heirs, with its theatrical scenes, resonant live sound, and frontal angles reminiscent of Brazilian telenovelas.

In South Korea, television producers began experimenting with the multi-episode dorama format in the 1960s. However, these shows only became standard evening family entertainment by the end of the 1970s, when color televisions became affordable to most families. After the war, the nation faced the challenges of rebuilding, with the North inheriting the natural resources and factories established by the Japanese during their occupation. Despite this, the country rose from destitution under stringent state oversight. Its economic revival commenced with the manufacturing of wigs, which served as the first component of Korean exports. This progression, which propelled Korea into the global arena of electronics, household appliances, and automobiles, persisted until 1988. This pivotal year saw the Olympics take place in Seoul and marked the end of the need for a dictatorship as a prerequisite for the nation’s existence, paving the way for the first democratic elections.

Life in a totalitarian state meant a series of predictable days, especially for members of a certain social strata. At that time, schoolchildren and students, along with their parents, watched long-running series, lasting nine months or even continuing into the next calendar year when deemed successful, in the evening. The level of control over personal life in South Korean society is evident in the highly acclaimed dorama Reply 1988 (Eungdabhara 1988, 2016). In the show, the new government is beginning to consider repealing the law prohibiting marriages between people with the same last name. One can only imagine the hopeless situation this law created for young men and women in a country where a third of the surnames are Kim and another third are Lee!

This law was repealed, and gradually, other prohibitions were also lifted, bringing about a completely different dynamic in social life. While Korea was experiencing an economic boom orchestrated by former dictators, it had also transformed into a country offering equal opportunities and a wide range of ways to overcome class divisions. The era of boredom ended, freeing young people from spending their evenings with the elderly in front of the television, observing someone else’s family dramas, because their own lives could change rapidly within a couple of months.

Jealousy was the first show to introduce a series format that could fit into this time frame of a couple of months. It had sixteen episodes, a number that remains the preferred standard, though with some minor variations. For example, there was Incarnations of Jealousy (Jiltuui hwasin, 2016) with twenty-four episodes, where the personal and professional relationships of a colorful cast of characters became overly intertwined. Another example is The Forbidden Marriage (Geumhonryung, Joseon Honin Geumjiryung, 2023), with only twelve episodes. In this series, we see both the curious detective tricks and the whims of the female lead, who forges fraternal relationships with high-born peers through drinking sessions followed by hangovers that leave a stinging discomfort in the eyes. However, these elements somehow dissipate by the middle, under pressure to reconcile the melodramatic twists and turns that set the plot in motion.

Jealousy was the first dorama tailored for and about young people. It was designed to fit into a format convenient for the youth of the new era. It placed the action in the world of glossy magazines and tourist agencies. By this time, big businesses like electronics, automobiles, and shipbuilding were already divided among the chaebols, the family-controlled conglomerates that dominate South Korea's economy. In contrast, the entertainment sector, still in a nascent stage, seemed like a place where young people could cross various social boundaries with their talent, beauty, and charm. This realm, known for bringing people joy, goodness, and beauty, remains the preferred professional setting in which dorama plots unfold. Typical heroes include advertising agents (Agency (Daehaengsa), 2023), pop musicians (Dream High (Deurimhai), 2011), artists and designers (Fated to Love You (Unmeyongcheoreom Neol Saranghae), 2014), comic book authors (Parallel Worlds (Deobeuryu), 2016), athletes (Weightlifting Fairy Kim Bok-joo), radio show creators (Radio Romance (Radio Romaenseu) 2018), and TV announcers (Incarnations of Jealousy).

The dorama genre also explored its own territory. Temperature of Love (Sarang-ui Ondo, 2017), which focused on the work of women scriptwriters as women predominantly handle dorama scripts. Finding themselves in their element, the authors generously provided a whopping forty episodes, ensuring there was no room for boredom, meticulously intertwining the television plot with the story of how a high-end restaurant was established.

In terms of the format, even the most successful dorama never goes beyond a second season. A well-known example is the American series The Good Doctor, about an autistic individual who becomes a surgeon in the pediatric department, which is now in its seventh year. However, few know that this is a remake of the Korean dorama Good Doctor (Gut Dakteo) from 2013. Despite the handsome looks and charm of actor Joo Won, which might prompt some to call the Korean original The Fine Doctor rather than The Good Doctor, the decision was made not to extend the show after the triumphant conclusion of the twentieth episode. The reason for this, as we have discussed, is that every dorama is an in-depth exploration of relationships, their possibilities, and their most authentic expressions. Once the answer is revealed, the dorama’s storyline reaches its conclusion. Thus, dorama creators rightfully avoid subjecting these relationships—be it love or friendship—to unnecessary melodramatic trials as authenticity is achieved instead through genuine effort.

However, there are thematic cycles of films with similar settings but different characters, such as School, the nostalgic Reply series (with 1997 and 1994 preceding 1988), and Dream High, which focuses on the journey of future pop idols during their training. The only extended Korean series that comes to mind is Hello My Twenties! (Cheongchunsidae, 2016–17). However, in that story, the story revolved around an apartment shared by five girls, and not all of them had sorted out their personal lives by the end of the first season. Therefore, there was ample room for the storyline to evolve naturally.

In addition to setting the standard for the format and the characters’ environment, Jealousy also defined the central theme of the dorama, which remains unchanged to this day: friendship, its intricacies, and the myriad ways to maintain or express it. Remarkably, mainstream art pays very little attention to this most tender and selfless feeling, often relegating it to the sidelines of entertainment. This is in stark contrast to Korean doramas, which view friendship differently. They explore the feelings between friends and how those dynamics shift when love enters your life or a friend’s life, often paying greater attention to these themes than they do to the intricacies of love. Doramas deserve our gratitude for highlighting the warmest, most comforting, and most enduring aspect of our lives.

Jealousy tells the story of a friendship between a boy and a girl, predictably leading them to navigate their way through jealousy to the realization that they constantly needed each other in many ways. Among the best doramas about the friendship between a boy and a girl is Fight for My Way (Ssam Maiwei, 2017). It explores this dynamic not in an abstract way but in a relatable situation where both the protagonists begin by pursuing their dreams but settle for less. For instance, a taekwondo champion participates in underground fights, while a girl who dreamed of being a presenter or radio host reads announcements into a microphone at a supermarket.

Doramas depicting male friendship have also gained importance due to their uniqueness. In the past, male friendship in dramatic works and movies often revolved around common endeavors, military adventures, or criminal escapades. Nowadays, Western mass culture often portrays close male relationships ending up in bed. However, doramas seek and highlight different paths, those that are free from adventure, which everyday life rarely offers, and from sex, which friends not only rarely need but often find unnecessary.

Nearly half of all doramas feature such plots, with the best of them emphasizing the idea that even a seemingly shattered friendship can be effectively restored when two friends find themselves in forced physical proximity due to caring for each other, such as when one is injured or ill. Their contact and physical interaction, whether in hospitals (True Beauty or Jealousy Incarnate) or when stranded in the wilderness (Moorim School (Murimhakgyo), 2016) extend beyond elementary squeamishness. Initially experiencing each other’s vulnerability, they realize their own ability to support one another, easily finding the true essence of genuine friendship. It is a simple yet highly effective way of bonding and testing/displaying one’s own feelings. The conclusion that either comes or doesn’t come after such a test is clear: Am I ready or not to live on this earth without you? Is the knowledge that you walk it whole and unharmed a guarantee of my trust in the world, of feeling the planet is a safe place?

In Korean dramas, there's a strong theme of finding harmony in friendships, often shown in extreme ways. But there are also countless instances of less radical manifestations of such ‘resolutions’. Jealousy also presents a distinctly Korean approach to the intriguing dynamics of relationships, focusing on feeling jealousy and offering a perspective on an incredibly challenging emotion. In these shows, jealousy is an indicator of whether you care deeply for someone. After navigating a complex array of emotions and doubts, the characters of Jealousy Incarnate—two close friends and a girl entangled in their feelings—ultimately conclude that jealousy is a simple way to determine whether you should fight for someone. To put it bluntly, in matters of love and friendship, jealousy is much like a male erection. Despite the rationalizations or arguments one may make, it decisively reveals who one truly desires above all others. Understanding this can help us deal with our own jealousy and use it to strengthen our relationships with those who matter most to us.

Let’s compare the old Jealousy to the modern Jealousy Incarnate to talk about the dramaturgy of Korean doramas, which is unique and fundamentally different from any other, be it Western or Latin American. Here’s the main storyline of the show. A ‘silly girl’—who also loves to drink—lands a job as a weather forecaster on the evening news. Here, she falls in love with a carefree reporter and begins pursuing him with the persistence of a novice in love. You can imagine what a nightmare her attentions are for a man who takes pride in his reports, physique, and fancy suits. He publicly rejects her and goes to Thailand on assignment for three years.

A little later, she ends up being assigned to his team in Bangkok. While she's helping him prepare for a shoot, she accidentally scratches him while he's changing his shirt. When she tries to apply a bandage, she notices a swelling in his chest and insists on feeling it again. He assumes she's only flirting with him, but her mother died from breast cancer, and so she recognizes the abnormality in his chest and is genuinely concerned. Eventually, they return to Korea together. It turns out he has breast cancer, and the girl needs to have a benign tumor removed from her breast. Thus, they end up in the same hospital room.

Of course there are comedic elements in the plot, and almost all modern doramas, even if they are not comedies in the conventional sense, are structured according to the laws of Greek comedy. They are filled with distinctive characters, and the central actors consider it an honor to use their talent to amuse the audience. Soon, both characters undergo surgery for their breast, and the man has to undergo chemotherapy as well. As a public figure, he’s ashamed of his illness, which makes him feel like less of a man, with people recognizing him in the hospital corridors. That’s when the girl comes up with the idea of pretending she has breast cancer, allowing him to be seen as her caregiver. Her care makes him see her differently, and he eventually falls in love with her. In theory—that would have been the resolution according to Western standards.

But that’s not quite the case in Korea. The reporter’s friend falls in love with the girl, and she begins to enjoy the attention of a handsome, wealthy suitor, mistaking comfort for love. The reporter is furious, sparking rivalry and enmity between the two friends. The tension continues until the friend, while tracking the girl, stumbles upon the room where his friend is undergoing chemotherapy. They reconcile, drink, and lament their fate. But whom will she ultimately choose? The girl has been working to become a news anchor but misses an important live weather forecast competition due to a delayed departure. So, the reporter flies to her on a company helicopter, and she lands the position she dreamed of while the reporter gets his kiss, culminating in her choosing him!

It might seem like a fairy tale ending, but there’s more to the story. The elections are looming, and thanks to the reporter’s efforts, the girl gets a huge break— she will be reporting on the elections live with him. However, things take a turn when she spectacularly fails the task that she prepared for in the previous few episodes. After the first commercial break, she is replaced by another reporter, the daughter of an influential official who is also interested in the reporter. Meanwhile, the friend reenters the picture. And as you might guess, the story is far from over.

It’s important to clarify that we’re not discussing something like Santa Barbara, which aired for years and employed every possible tactic to keep viewers engaged. We’re talking about a condensed narrative timeframe—just twenty-four episodes. In Korean doramas, the main storyline is usually resolved by the sixth or seventh episode. The primary theme is wrapped but the story persists, often in a different direction. It transitions from romance to career, from a love triangle to friendships, and then it evolves further. This is what makes them fascinating to watch—they don’t dwell on a single theme. They satisfy one aspect of interest while viewers are still profoundly engaged, and then they pivot, sometimes even changing genres.

This aspect isn’t unique to Korean dramaturgy. It emerged because doramas used to be produced while already filmed episodes were airing. Sometimes, a scene that needed to be broadcast in half an hour was still being filmed. Meanwhile, viewers would inundate the studio with suggestions on what they’d like to see next and how to make the plot more engaging. A few decades ago, attempts were made to create interactive detective stories. However, Korean doramas have been interactive since the early 1990s. They were rewritten on the go, and actors would arrive on set and need to forget their memorized lines because they were about to play something entirely different. For instance, instead of a love story, it might suddenly become a murder mystery.

The year 2016 brought a significant turning point in the relationship between doramas and their audience. Highly anticipated doramas of the season like the historical Hwarang: The Poet Warrior Youth (Hwarang), featuring an elite group of fighters, or the modern romantic comedy Uncontrollably Fond (Hamburo Aeteutage) marked this change. In Hwarang, one of the requirements to join the cast, much like a film casting process, was to be unquestionably handsome. Additionally, in Uncontrollably Fond, after five years, the nation’s most popular supporting actor, Kim Woo-bin, took on a lead role.

Complete scripts were usually filmed and sent to the studio before they needed to be aired, but even to this day, if a show evokes too much intense and unequivocal condemnation in online communities, where users unanimously demand a different turn of events, the actors are called to the set once again to film entirely new episodes, which may even contradict the original storyline.

The unique aspect of Korean drama, born from its interactive origins, is that it's designed for immediate engagement with viewers. However, watching these dramas later, outside of Korea and the initial broadcast excitement, can be extremely intriguing. The climaxes and resolutions don’t keep you hanging, and new problems and questions arise quickly.

Let’s look back at the impact of the show Jealousy for a brief moment. Its success in 1992 was so clear that television studios swiftly shifted from their previous months-long family sagas to shorter, stylish shows featuring young heroes. The successes of this format were significant enough for the dorama to confidently expand to screens in neighboring China, Taiwan, and Hong Kong. The next milestone in the dorama’s journey to global dominance came in 2002, when Winter Sonata (Gyeouryeon-ga) swept Japan off its feet. And where Japan leads, the rest of the Asia-Pacific region follows. The show’s success sent ripples along two main channels. First, it was extremely popular among forty- to fifty-year-old Japanese women. A year later, about 150,000 people flocked to the island of Namiseom, where the show was filmed, marking the beginning of a tourism boom in Korea. Second, in the fashion industry, the polar star, which symbolized immortal love in the film, became the central motif, if not the only one, for all jewelry produced in East Asia for all of the upcoming season. Even in warm places like Singapore, men learned to tie wool scarves like the lead actor, Bae Yong-joon.

The phenomenon of Winter Sonata stems from the convergence of interests and sentiments among older Japanese women and Korean television producers, ignited by a shared cultural connection. This show is like a Japanese melancholic melodrama from the 1970s, primarily inspired by Claude Lelouch’s A Man and a Woman, which won the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival in 1966. The show blends the glossy allure of a fashion photoshoot with the improvised style of cinematic strolls—except these strolls aren’t leisurely walks but rather truancies, much like ditching school or work.

For Japanese women, watching Winter Sonata stirred nostalgia for the films of their youth, whose essence seemed to be lost with the arrival of the economically focused and unrefined 1980s. For Koreans, this slice of Japanese cinema was as sweet as forbidden fruit. This was because, from the Korean War era until as late as 1998, all Japanese media, including films, were banned in South Korea due to the Japanese occupation. Nevertheless, television producers were allowed to watch these films for ‘educational purposes’. However, the desire to remake something like The Rendezvous (Yakusoku, 1972), where the young and irresistibly charming Kenichi Hagiwara, draped in his Delon-esque coat, spent an hour and a half silently wandering along the chilly winter coastline in pursuit of the forty-year-old Keiko Kishi. Later films featuring Ken Takakura, such as The Yellow Handkerchief of Happiness (Shiawase no kiiroi hankachi, 1977), Winter Flower (Fuyu no hana, 1978), or The Station (Eki, 1981), featuring his pilot jackets, the same wintry coastline, and the melancholic music by masters like Claude Ciari, all spoke to his existential vulnerability, his unyielding hope for love. And against the odds, they went ahead and accomplished it!

The plot of Winter Sonata revolves around a girl whose boyfriend died during her school years. A decade later, she encounters his doppelgänger—who is actually him; he survived but suffered amnesia and relocated to America—on a wintry shore. Now a prominent architect, he hires her as an interior designer for an upcoming project. This narrative seamlessly aligns with the desired mood and imagery.

Winter Sonata set a trend for impeccably dressed male protagonists donning the latest designer fashions and prestigious brands. This trend echoes in the carrot-colored coat and chunky turtleneck sported by Kim Woo-bin in The Heirs, the periwinkle attire of the heartthrob Lee Min-ho in The Legend of the Blue Sea (Pureun Badaui Jeonseol, 2017), and the remarkable white suit with a tie adorned with a black print reminiscent of Aubrey Beardsley’s style showcased by Kim Min-jae in the first episode of Dali & Cocky Prince (Dalliwa Gamjatang, 2021), a flawless comedy about galleries and conceptualists.

The bold trend of dressing men elaborately originated in Japan in the 1970s, a time when the country was reaping the benefits of economic prosperity, much like Korea today. In movies like Kôji Wakamatsu's To Love Again (Ai futatabi, 1971), even actors like the young Frenchman Renaud Verley looked as charming and stylish as those in Visconti's films.

In the 1970s, Japan’s craze for impeccably dressed and well-groomed men caught the attention of people across the word. Even in the less glamorous Soviet Union, where Japanese films were frequently shown, certain movies like The Dangerous Chase (Kimi yo fundo no kawa wo watare, 1976)—featuring a breathtaking duel between Ken Takakura and Yoshio Harada, both sporting impressive sideburns and coats—or Legend of Dinosaurs and Monster Birds (Kyoryu kaicho no densetsu, 1977)—with its characters wearing baseball caps and leather driving gloves—enjoyed phenomenal success. Central Asian filmmakers took note of this masculine fashion trend. For instance, the eternal screen gangster Talgat Nigmatulin became as elegant, unattainable, and poignant as autumn in the Kyrgyz film A Provincial Romance (1981). Eventually, the incomparable poser Viktor Tsoi, especially after his role in The Needle (Igla, 1988), became a true Korean idol (which meant a universal entertainer: singer, songwriter, actor, model), even though the concept of K-pop didn’t exist in Korea, and the world had never heard of it.

It wouldn’t be until the beginning of the new millennium that this wind would reach Korea, which had been isolated from Japan for half a century. But since then, there has been no stopping the music.

Read the second part of our story about Korean TV series here.