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

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

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

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

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

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Korean television rarely does science fiction, so Circle has novelty in its favor. Unfortunately it tries to cram the entire genre into a mere twelve episodes. It dashes from alien encounters to mad scientists to dystopian utopias to cyberpunk hackers to clones without ever stopping to flesh out a single theme or develop a unique voice and production style. It raises some interesting questions about the role memory plays in identity and whether trauma is an important part of our humanity or an impediment to happiness, but it never digs into its ideas in a meaty, revelatory way. Plot points are introduced to provide “twists” and then discarded when they’re no longer useful. Characters often behave in unbelievable ways, and perfunctory directing leads to visual inconsistencies and hackneyed acting choices. Yeo Jin Goo is talented enough to be riveting anyway, but the rest of the cast suffers. The final result is a show that feels more like a sketch than a finished product. It’s fast paced enough to hold viewers’ attention but it doesn’t give either of its worlds or timelines the care and attention they deserve.

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W can’t be accused of setting the bar low. It attempts to tell a compelling, tightly crafted story while simultaneously deconstructing the narrative tropes that drive such plots. At first, it pulls it off, pairing sly meta-commentary with unpredictable twists as characters defiantly refuse to follow their creator’s whims. However, as the story within the story goes off the rails, it becomes increasingly difficult for the “real” story to stay on track as well. By depriving itself of the traditional payoffs provided by standard dramatic structure, the show ironically defaults to the same hackneyed conventions it’s mocking (Deaths that aren’t actually deaths! Amnesia! It’s all a dream!).

What starts as an engaging meditation on how artistic works can take on a life of their own devolves into a jumble of incomprehensible rules and mangled timelines. The bigger thematic ideas get lost as you sense the actual writer struggling every bit as much as her cartoonist antihero to give her work an ending. And unfortunately, just like him, she can’t seal the deal. In a world where everyone can magically draw (or write) themselves out of difficulty, the act of creation gets reduced to expediency, not art. The fans within the show know something’s gone awry, but, alas, the fans in the “real”, real world are left hanging too. As a metaphor for how stories slip away from their authors, this one turns out to be a bit too apt.

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Rebel, as its title suggests, seethes with righteous indignation at the Joseon era’s brutal caste system, and it does a better job than most dramas of showing the ways that people internalize and reinforce their own oppression. Caught up in the way things are, characters are often believably slow to grasp the way things could be and to fight back against the structures that constrain them. The show also features a strong ensemble cast, with exceptional performances by Kim Ji Suk as the unstable King Yeonsangun and Honey Lee as Jang Nok Su, and stirring recreations of traditional Korean music and dance. Viewed as a cultural celebration and social manifesto, it’s compelling.

The plot mechanics, on the other hand, are less effective. There are tons of intriguing set-ups that never pay off in meaningful ways, and the story takes an awfully long time to build to anything approaching actual rebellion. It also introduces a supernatural element that’s too literal to be read as symbolic but too underdeveloped to serve as a unifying mythology. It ends up feeling like a distraction from the very real issues that the characters confront – an easy way to get the characters out of trouble (hey look, super powers!) without serving any broader thematic purpose. In the end, the show is solid, but I wish its dramatic revelations were as engaging as its revolutionary ideas.

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Chuno is an odd show. It’s gorgeous to look at, if overly self-conscious, full of odd camera angles, exotic fight choreography, half-naked hunks and stylized slow-mo. However, all the pretty is in the service of a story that is essentially an extended chase scene. Jang Hyuk dazzles as Dae-Gil, owning the screen with sly humor and feral intensity. The role itself though is rather underwritten, and in the hands of a lesser actor could easily have become an inscrutable cipher. Speaking of ciphers, the principal antagonist looks fabulous massacring his way across Korea, but there is little sense of internal conflict or even compelling motivation as he instantly transforms from dutiful son to unstoppable killing machine. The female characters are also problematic. Lee Da Hae spends much of the show radiating pristine helplessness, more a walking stereotype of unattainable love than a human being, while Kim Ha Eun starts out spunky and clever, but devolves into obsessed and clingy.

Thematically, there are some interesting ideas thrown around about slavery, class, progress and authority but the writer seems unsure of exactly what he wants to say about them. The show is built around the awfulness of slavery, but it also depicts most of its slave characters as gullible fools, reinforcing the negative stereotypes stamped on them by the powerful. Folks respond to injustice with violence and/or flight, but neither tactic really seems to get anyone anywhere. There is a lot of stunning footage of running and fighting, but little clear sense of how the audience should feel about these choices. Are we supposed to applaud them? Reject them? Realize that the situation is a hopeless mess? And what is a viewer supposed to conclude from the fact that when change does happen, it results from factors almost totally removed from the actions of the central characters?

Good acting and striking visuals keep Chuno entertaining, but the narrative muddle weighs it down. There are some powerful moments, but the script never matches the dangerous, high-flying verve of its knife-wielding leading man.

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

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

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Is it possible to rule both effectively and humanely? Queen Seondeok begins with the premise that it is only possible to achieve and hold power with the help of others. To be effective, leaders must be able to win people to their sides and keep them there. And yet, paradoxically, gaining the backing of “the people” often means sacrificing any semblance of normal relations with individuals. While this show uses many of the conventions of the biopic, it never strays far from these fundamental themes, making it less the story of a single ruler and more of a meditation on clashing political philosophies. It often deviates wildly from historical fact, but it provides a smart, nuanced look at the mechanics and costs of power.

From a production standpoint, the show is often uneven. This is very much a writers’ show, and at its best, it’s tightly plotted, with thematic depth, complex characters, and powerful payoffs. It’s not perfect - the initial episodes are exposition heavy and awkward, the action lags in places, and the set-up presents a giant structural challenge that the writers are never able to fully overcome. The directing is functional, but not particularly distinguished. It’s also a show that is far more fortunate in the casting of its antagonists than of its protagonists. On the plus side, Go Hyun Jung and Kim Nam Gil are fabulous, and their performances alone are worth the 62 hour investment in the show. On the down side, this skews the dramatic structure and emotional impact of the story in ways that become particularly problematic towards the end.

Issues aside though, this remains a powerful show, one that for all the political games, epic battles, and over-dramatic close-ups keeps returning to three abandoned children and the cost of breaking human bonds. And how often do dramas of any type provide both a strong, smart female protagonist and a strong,smart female antagonist (and surround them with gorgeous guys)?

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

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

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

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

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

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Generational divides are a drama staple, but few versions of the trope are as high stakes as the one presented in The Princess’ Man. The aristocrats at the heart of the show vie for power knowing that they are risking not only their own lives but the lives of their entire families on the success of their schemes. Their plots are complicated further by the fact that the desires and allegiances of their children often diverge greatly from their own. The initial episodes take full advantage of the moral quandaries created by this zero sum game, as characters are forced to choose between friends and family, parents and lovers, ambition and affection. With the addition of sumptuous, jewel-toned cinematography and solid acting, things get off to a great start.

Alas, for all the lovely visuals and promising set-ups, the screenplay soon runs into issues. Few things frustrate me more than when characters act in ways that are convenient for the writer but fly in the face of common sense. Once the bloodshed begins, the characters appear to lose brain cells along with hemoglobin, making stupid choices that often seem directly at odds with their stated goals. If you’re looking for carefully crafted revenge schemes, you’ve come to the wrong show. Complex characters and decisions get dumbed down, and “Daddy doesn’t like my boyfriend” is treated as a crisis equivalent to “Dozens of innocent people may die today.” I personally found the secondary couple’s story arc much more compelling, if less swooningly romantic, than that of the leads, in large part because it seemed more grounded in the real world.

Finally, I wish the show had been willing to tackle the difficult questions raised by the historical events it draws on. This is a drama that has no place for the inconvenient truth that Suyang, for all his ruthlessness, turned out to be an excellent ruler, or for the idea that the welfare of a nation might matter more than the suffering of the elites. The period offers fertile ground for exploring if and when ends justify means, but the writer ultimately settles for easy heroes and villains. All in all, there’s a lot of flair, but far less substance than I hoped for.

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This show goes to eleven.

Always. It’s like being trapped in a room with a blind boxer. Windows get broken, messes get made, lots of punches go awry. Between the shouting and the pistol-waving and the torture and the explosions you may want to slip the show a few Valiums and tell it to chill. But then a punch lands, and damn . . .

Is the show often over-the-top? Repetitive? Uneven? Infuriating? Yes. All of the above. But its no-holds-barred approach is also its greatest strength. The show takes big risks, and while not all of them pay off, its willingness to push the boundaries of content and plot conventions makes it gripping and unpredictable. It’s rarely subtle, but when it works it’s powerful. Much of this power comes from the raw energy of its male leads, and their explosive chemistry as they love and hate and destroy each other and those around them. The female lead is weak but it doesn’t really matter. This show is all about the boys.

Is there a lot of sturm und drang? Yes. Is all of it necessary? Maybe not, but the best moments will haunt you long after the screaming stops.

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

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On the surface, Nodame Cantabile is a typical romantic comedy of opposites attracting. Tamaki Hiroshi and Ueno Juri are pitch perfect as the mismatched pair, seamlessly veering from slapstick hijinks to emotionally grounded moments of discovery. However, the show’s real love affair is with music, and it’s a doozy, a delirious, swooning, unicorns-and-rainbows relationship that captures the raw joy of shared artistry, of that moment when an eclectic group of individuals joins together to become something greater than themselves.

The manga-esque staginess takes a bit of getting used to, with heavy-handed (literally) physical attacks and cartoonish mugging. The silliness alternates between endearing and alarming, but there is nothing frivolous about the show’s treatment of music. It notes how unforgiving the arts world can be, full of too many gifted students and too few opportunities, how competition, envy, harsh instructors and grueling practice regimens can drain the spark from performers. But, to its credit, the drama never glosses over the discipline needed to do great work. This is a show that celebrates both playfulness and rigor, suggesting that the best art comes not from one or the other but from a happy marriage of the two. It isn’t the misfits vs. the superstars, but an understanding that both are needed to bring a score to life. Moments of true harmony may be fleeting, but when they happen, in either love or music, it’s cause for celebration.

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I started Sungkyunkwan Scandal expecting fluff and eye candy. The pretty cast and brightly colored posters suggested college hijinks with hanboks, and there was indeed plenty of cute, anachronistic fun. What I didn’t expect was solid writing that would use the not so light and fluffy realities of the show’s historical era to poke a sharp stick at Neo-Confucianist ideas about gender, class, sexual orientation and filial piety. The four central characters are given multidimensional, compelling relationships, and while I wish the two leads were played by more dynamic actors, Yoo Ah In and Song Joong Ki are marvelous. The show recognizes that while college in any time period may contain lots of frivolity, petty rivalries, romance, and odd initiation rites, it is most crucially the place where young idealists take aim at the cynicism and corruption of their elders.

Unfortunately though, while the show is willing to raise provocative issues, it’s unwilling to really deal with the ramifications of those issues. A world where being an educated woman or a gay man is a capital crime is hardly likely to provide a happy ending for nonconformists. Instead of confronting this head-on, the drama drifts into fantasy in its final episodes, substituting feel-good platitudes and miraculous solutions for the difficult problems it has so compellingly presented. This allows it to maintain its romantic comedy credentials, but at the cost of what could have been a much darker, but also much more honest show.

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