To Shine Like Stars: "Jeongnyeon: The Star Is Born" and the Search for Meaning in Uncertain Times

In my last post some two years ago(!), I had said that I would be interested in taking on a large-scale historical narrative for my next project. However, although the idea's somewhere in the back of my head, and I did start reading up on the things I wanted to say, the words themselves just never materialized.

Perhaps that project, still on the back burner, might come back; or perhaps it was simply not meant to be. Since I run this blog just for fun, I've learned to never force myself to produce something just for the sake of generating content; like an artist, I know I can't produce a post I'd be proud of if I'm not fully into it.

And from that perspective, it's interesting that the thing that has finally managed to inspire me to write once again, after two years of silence, is itself focused on the lives of artists.

Based on a webtoon by Seo Ireh and Namon, the 2024 Korean drama, Jeongnyeon: The Star Is Born [hereafter "Jeongnyeon" or "the drama"], tells the story of Yoon Jeong Nyeon (played by Kim Tae Ri), a teenaged girl in 1950s Korea with a preternatural singing voice and a passion for pansori [a traditional form of sung storytelling]. Despite being forbidden from singing by her mother, she regularly uses her skills to draw customers to her family's fishmonger's stall — and a chance encounter on one such day leads to her being scouted to join Maeran, a yeosung gukgeuk [women's musical theatre, hereafter "gukgeuk"] company in Seoul, as part of its newest intake of trainees. 

The rest of the story, then, unfolds in typical coming-of-age fashion as Jeong Nyeon and her fellow trainees press through a series of increasingly difficult challenges in their quests to become the next generation of Maeran's lead actors, growing past girlish cattiness and rivalries to form lifelong friendships under the strict-but-maternal eye of Director Kang (played by Ra Mi Ran). And, as is fitting for any K-drama whose focus is on the arts, it's aesthetically pleasing: beautifully shot (sometimes disturbingly so) and interspersed with entire scenes from Maeran's various stage productions. (Honestly, this drama is worth watching just for the eye candy alone.)

Yet, underlying this uplifting and heartwarming story is a deep sense of tragedy — mostly due to the nature of gukgeuk itself. 

Developed in the late 1940s following liberation from Imperial Japanese rule, gukgeuk was an attempt to combine several traditional Korean performing arts (e.g. pansori, traditional dances, etc.) and Western theatrical drama into a single cohesive medium. It was also notably an all-female establishment, developed by former gisaeng [female performing artists/entertainers] seeking to escape from a long history of sexual exploitation (particularly during Japanese colonization) and marginalization under traditional Confucian societal norms. Indeed, in an almost complete subversion, women played all the characters — including male ones — and took on key leadership roles. 

All of this is played with in numerous ways throughout Jeongnyeon. For instance, some actors specializing in male roles even adopt male dress in their everyday lives, creating wholly androgynous personas that allow them to both explore and present new understandings of not only femininity but also masculinity to their predominantly female audiences. This blurring of gender roles ultimately bleeds into the Maeran members' personal lives as well, with the search for and relationships with "opposite sex" performance partners taking on a similar emotional intensity as actual romances, with all the drama that that implies. The drama even takes a brief detour to contrast gukgeuk's female power structures with those of the male-dominated television industry, where young girls are lured in by promises of stardom and luxury but then reduced to being little more than products, expected to just look pretty, do as they're told, and stay quietly polite even in the face of unwanted looks or advances from older men.

This contrast between gukgeuk and the rest of the entertainment industry, while taking the least amount of screentime in the drama, ultimately has the most far-reaching implications — because despite (or possibly because of) its innovation, gukgeuk was extremely short-lived. Although it made a valiant effort to present Korea's female performance arts in a more institutionalized — and, thus, legitimized — form, historical attitudes relegating the gisaeng to the lowest social caste and associating them with prostitution; cultural suppression under the Japanese; and massive American cultural influence after the Korean War together gave gukgeuk a reputation as low-brow entertainment: good enough for the masses, but lacking the sophistication of classical music or the novelty and money-making potential of film/television.

Thus, despite a significant peak in the 1950s, gukgeuk had faded into near-total obscurity by the early 1960s, surviving mostly as a relic of cultural heritage rather than a living performance art. And it is in the latter half of the 1950s, right on the cusp of this decline, that Jeongnyeon is set. Specifically, the drama portrays Maeran as an example of gukgeuk's precarious position on the brink of massive social and cultural upheaval: struggling to define its own artistic vision and buckling under the strain of balancing its dual goals of cultural preservation and female empowerment with the practical needs of an increasingly profit-driven capitalist environment.

This is, I think, where Jeongnyeon really makes its mark as, after all, are we not living in similar times today? Everything, everywhere, seems to be falling apart all at once. Our societies and economies have been gutted by the COVID-19 pandemic and both trade and literal wars; our attention spans and capacity for empathy dried up by the rise of social media algorithms and echo chambers; and our cognitive processes and creativity stagnated and replaced by AI. And, as if all of that is not enough, the current climate crisis renders our lives ultimately meaningless: even if we do survive everything else, what's the point when our world is doomed to become uninhabitable within the next few decades anyway?

Given this resonance, I think it is worth exploring how Jeongnyeon answers the existential questions of its time, as shown in the stories of several of its main characters, and see what it can then say to us in ours.

However, in order to do that, I first need to add a few disclaimers:

SPOILER ALERT: As I go in-depth into these character arcs, there will be significant spoilers throughout this post. Meanwhile, as it is based solely on the TV drama adaptation (since I have not read the webtoon itself), I have adopted a similarly platonic/ambiguous depiction of relationships that were, to my knowledge, more explicitly queer/romantic in the original version of the story. 

TRIGGER WARNING: Due to the nature of one character's arc in particular, the remainder of this post will contain in-depth discussion of several darker themes, including substance abuse and self harm. Therefore, if any of these may be triggering for you, please take whatever steps you need to ground yourself before proceeding — or consider skipping this post altogether.

With all that said, let's begin.

"A Good-for-Nothing Prince": When Art Becomes a Product, What Becomes of the Artist?

While, as befitting its title, Jeongnyeon primarily focuses on the experiences of Jeong Nyeon and her fellow trainees as they work their way up to becoming full-fledged professional actors, their narrative is not the only one. Indeed, even as we see these young girls striving to achieve their dreams for stardom, we also see the far grimmer reality as experienced by those who are already there. 

And nowhere is this shown more poignantly — or more tragically — than in the case of Moon Ok Gyeong (played by Jung Eun Chae).

As the "Prince" [lead "male" actor] of Maeran, Ok Gyeong seems to have it all. With her androgynous good looks and charismatic stage presence, she is the one audiences flock to see, leading industry insiders to describe her, almost mythically, as "the face of female gukgeuk itself". And with such fame comes fortune as the profits she brings in afford her the luxuries that people like Jeong Nyeon could only dream of: stylishly tailored clothes; a large Western-style house, which she shares with her partner, Seo Hye Rang (played by Kim Yoon Hye) and Hye Rang's young daughter; and even (wonder of wonders) her own car.

Yet, as is often the case in these stories, despite this seemingly perfect life, she is actually deeply unhappy.

Now, before I move on, I do need to point out here that my interpretation of Ok Gyeong's motivations and actions differs significantly from some of the reviews/reactions I've read (so your mileage may vary). This stems, in part, from the drama's depiction of her as an enigma: the sort of person where you're never quite sure whether you're ever seeing the real individual or just a mask; and where anything that is revealed leads to more questions than answers.

In other words, there is no one version of Moon Ok Gyeong, with everything really being left up to viewer interpretation. But even if I do end up being alone in my personal take, what little I have managed to infer about her and her story, from the bits and pieces revealed throughout the drama, is still worth pondering.

Case in point: the issue of opium.

Speculation over whether Ok Gyeong is taking opium arises several times throughout the drama, a result of the constant media scrutiny and rumour-mongering of jealous rivals she is subject to as Maeran's main star. In most cases, the troupe rallies to defend her, issuing counterstatements denying the allegations and even, in Hye Rang's case, bribing reporters to cease and desist. But people's thirst for salacious gossip is endless and always, sooner or later, the rumours start up again and the cycle repeats.

So, what's the truth? Ok Gyeong had, in fact, been an opium addict...before. When, after several such rounds of speculation, she finally comes out to address the press directly, she admits to having used it in the past, but asserts that she's been clean ever since joining Maeran, citing the intense physical and mental stamina needed to practice gukgeuk itself as the factors that helped her to quit.

Now whether Ok Gyeong is really telling the truth is deliberately left open to viewer interpretation — after all, she is an actor and a good one at that. However, rather than the veracity of her statement, I am actually more interested in its deeper and broader implications:

While her backstory is never explicitly explained in the drama, given the known risk factors for opium use, the broader historical context as discussed in my introduction, and Ok Gyeong's own description of this point in her life as a time when she'd "lost [her] way", my hypothesis is that she had some sort of troubled past, the mental and emotional baggage of which had ultimately led to her addiction. From that perspective, it's also likely that she had joined Maeran in the hopes that it would help her to heal by giving her a safe environment, a healthier way to cope with her trauma, and a new sense of meaning in life overall. (Indeed, although later trainees came from all walks of life as gukgeuk grew in popularity, some of Maeran's policies do hint that Director Kang originally founded it as a place for girls seeking to escape from or avoid falling victim to exploitation.)

But what happens, the drama asks, when the thing that we have banked on to keep our demons at bay no longer works — and, in fact, may even be making them worse?

Here, it's important to note that the title of Prince for the lead "male" actor in a gukgeuk troupe is not just a term of respect — it is literal. Due to gukgeuk's roots in pansori, Maeran's repertoire is small, with plays based on the same traditional fairy tales and mythological and historical epics that have been told across Korea for centuries and featuring the same stock characters — the heroic prince, his honest but bumbling servant, the conniving government minister who wants to usurp the throne. And while other troupe members who take male roles can audition for a variety of characters with distinct personalities, Ok Gyeong is completely typecast. As the Prince, she is given the part of the male protagonist by default (and no one else would even dare to audition for it) — and every single one of those fits into the same heroic/romantic/tragic mould. The drama even directly lampshades this repetitiveness: two of her consecutive appearances are for the exact same role in the exact same play — distinguished by their staging, sets, and costumes, but identical where it really counts.

Years of living like this mean that, by the time we see her in the drama, Ok Gyeong is simply going through the motions. Physically, she's still there, but her smile is now more forced and likely to fade when no-one's looking. And although she still manages to perform on stage to the same high standard she always has or warmly greet her screaming fans at the theatre entrance, these experiences now drain rather than exhilarate her; and her comments and reactions now feel scripted, reflecting more what she believes people want her to say than what she actually feels.

In other words, what had started as Ok Gyeong's place of healing has now, ironically, become her prison.

Now, I know that some viewers — and even Ok Gyeong herself — describe what she is feeling as boredom or understimulation. But personally, I think there's also something deeper going on and that she is actually experiencing something more akin to burnout, depression, or ennui: that existential dread where everything that we do is ultimately meaningless; and where others only care about us insofar as we are useful to them.

I say this because the drama hints throughout that Ok Gyeong is actually one of those introverted artistic types, who would much rather be using her acting skills to explore the complexities of the human psyche than cater to fans as a teenage heartthrob. This is shown primarily through the constant off-screen presence of her "artist friends" (to use Hye Rang's wording): people whom Ok Gyeong is supposedly drawn to for their stimulating avant-garde ideas but who also have a reputation for, let us say, a rather bohemian lifestyle. She's playing with fire whenever she meets them, as it's their reputed use of opium that allows the press to render her guilty by association — yet, despite Hye Rang's requests for her to stop, she can't...because these are also the only people to whom she could truly be herself.

To be fair, Hye Rang's concerns are not entirely unfounded: in addition to the rumours surrounding opium use, she reasonably believes that these friends are further fuelling Ok Gyeong's dissatisfaction with her life by giving her a place to vent or by working themselves in more exciting fields like film: 

What if, under their influence, Ok Gyeong chooses to quit gukgeuk altogether? What would happen to Maeran then?

However, while she does broach the subject in theory, Ok Gyeong's not ready to take such a drastic step just yet. After all, whatever she may think of her situation, she does recognize that Director Kang had quite literally saved her life by taking her in, drug addict though she was, and teaching her gukgeuk. Leaving Maeran just like that, without having first appointed a successor, would mean stabbing her benefactor in the back — and she's not that cruel.

Instead, Ok Gyeong's strategy is to try to reform Maeran itself. Using her clout as the Prince (and, thus, the leader among the actors as a whole), she requests repeatedly for the troupe to expand its repertoire to include so-called "experimental plays" — stories based on the lives of working-class people or featuring more morally grey characters, These, she believes, would benefit not only herself, but also Maeran by diversifying its audience and, thus, preventing it from being overtaken by Korea's newly emerging film and television industries. However, these requests are consistently denied: with gukgeuk already losing ground, Director Kang couldn't dare to risk alienating its existing fanbase in order to try something new. Thus, despite knowing her own instincts to be correct (based as they are on insider knowledge from her friends), Ok Gyeong can only wait, hoping that something, or someone, would come along to change the Director's mind.

This, of course, is not even considering the toll that celebrity itself is taking on her. Quiet, deeply empathetic, but also sensitive (almost melancholic) by nature, Ok Gyeong is still, deep down, the lost young girl she had been all those years ago: wary and distrusting of the attentions of others (most of which she has learned to be empty at best and nefarious at worst), yet still desperately needing love and support in order to stay afloat. She particularly desires this whenever media speculation erupts around her supposed opium use: knowing these rumours to be false, yet unable to sue for libel without that, too, being spun into an implicit admission of guilt, she instead looks to Director Kang for reassurance, confident that so long as she believes her, everything would be alright. 

Yet, when this happens once again during the last stage of Maeran's national tour, Ok Gyeong comes to a sudden sobering realization: that Director Kang would officially deny the allegations, regardless of her actual thoughts on the issue, in order to save Maeran's reputation. And, thus, a seed of doubt starts to grow in the back of her mind: since the outward support and solidarity she receives would be the same either way, is Director Kang — is anyone — doing this because they actually see and value her as a person, or are they all simply focused on the profits she can bring in as the Prince?

Ok Gyeong's suspicions only grow further when, even as Director Kang promises to release the usual counterstatement to the press, she instructs her to stay behind at their current stop for some time rather than returning to Seoul with the rest of the troupe.  While the request may have been meant to help (i.e. to evade the worst of the media storm), it ultimately stings: feeling more to her like exile, a thinly veiled rejection and pronouncement of guilt. Nevertheless, left with little choice on the matter, she settles down in this small seaside town, conceding that, if nothing else, a holiday might actually do her some good.

And, sure enough, it does — because this is how she meets Jeong Nyeon. 

Their first encounter had actually happened a few days before this turn of events, when Ok Gyeong had, by chance, come upon Jeong Nyeon singing in the marketplace. Intrigued by her clear yet soulful voice, despite the lack of any formal training, she had gifted her with free tickets to Maeran's show with instructions to get in touch afterward if she ever became interested in actually pursuing gukgeuk professionally. And Jeong Nyeon, equally captivated by Ok Gyeong's performance on stage and determined to earn a better life for herself and her family than she could ever achieve by selling fish, now readily accepts the offer.

Thus, for the remainder of her time off, Ok Gyeong teaches Jeong Nyeon the basic skills she needs to pass Maeran's entrance audition. While her acting is awkwardly "stiff as a board" at first, she quickly makes up for it with her sharp memory (demonstrated by reciting one of Ok Gyeong's scenes right back at her) and, of course, her singing voice. More importantly, her eagerness to learn, genuine admiration, and unabashed honesty (including one instance where she literally asks, point blank, whether she really, truly, could make enough to "buy a house and a car" as a gukgeuk actor) are infectious — and soon, almost despite herself, Ok Gyeong begins to open up as well.

Watching this dynamic unfold over the course of the drama's first episode is heartwarming enough when viewed as-is since it perfectly sets Jeong Nyeon up as the plucky protagonist we all want to root for. However, it is only in hindsight, after we as viewers get more of Ok Gyeong's story, that the true poignancy of these moments is revealed — because, for the first time in a long time, her smiles, her laughs, her bemusement and affection are truly spontaneous and heartfelt.

And if viewers can sense this change in her, how much more so can Ok Gyeong herself? And with that, how could she not want to keep this constant ray of sunshine by her side?

Thus, she comes up a new plan, for both Maeran and herself, that even Director Kang can't refuse: to train Jeong Nyeon up as her rival. Her hope is that, under her guidance, Jeong Nyeon would soon grow to become her equal in acting (having already far surpassed her in singing) — at which point the two of them could develop a mutually beneficial partnership where, equally skilled but distinct in style, they support and inspire each other by competing for the same lead "male" roles. 

If, Ok Gyeong reasons, her plan works, she'd finally receive the intellectual stimulation and emotional support she needs to stay with Maeran until the point when she inevitably ages out from her role as Prince and moves on to other things. But if it doesn't, and she discovers that she really cannot stay any longer, at least she now knows she could leave gracefully and with a clear conscience. 

After all, with Jeong Nyeon succeeding her as Prince either way, at least Maeran will be in good hands.

To Rise "Beyond the Stars": When Life Becomes a Competition, Can We Ever be "Good Enough"?

While Ok Gyeong's story provides valuable context for much of what happens within Jeongnyeon, the drama is ultimately a coming-of-age story, focusing on the journeys of Jeong Nyeon and several of her fellow trainees. And from them, I think we can glean important lessons about growing up and fighting to pursue one's dreams, showing both its benefits and its risks.

Although only Jeong Nyeon's own age is explicitly given in the drama (she is stated to be 19, meaning she is 18 by international reckoning), based on Maeran's system and the dynamics between the girls themselves, it is likely that the other trainees are likewise somewhere in their mid-teens to early twenties, with the professional actors (including Ok Gyeong and Hye Rang) appearing to be in their twenties through early thirties.

 

First, there's the Maeran complex itself, with its similar vibe to an all-girls boarding school/college campus. A large collection of hanok buildings located on the outskirts of Seoul, it contains pretty much everything (save performance space) that the troupe needs to function: offices, rehearsal/practice rooms, props and costumes storage, and accommodations for the members. While some long-standing troupe members, like Ok Gyeong and Hye Rang, do choose to live outside, trainees generally live in the dormitory: a section of the complex with bedrooms sleeping several girls each and shared common areas for meals or leisure. And the resemblance is compounded by the manner of instruction itself, where the trainees attend morning group classes in the three main skills (singing, acting, and dancing) and spend the rest of the day on chores, group rehearsals, and independent practice.

Thus, we see in Jeongnyeon many of the tropes of a high-school/university teen drama, albeit with a distinct gukgeuk-infused twist: the same struggles to fit in, make friends or balance personal dreams with family expectations, but with pressures to succeed as actors or singers rather than academically and the girls fighting each other for parts or performance partners rather than boys.

And, as with most teen dramas, Jeong Nyeon is initially marked out as the outcast. Her speech, mannerisms, and appearance are clear indicators of her rural working-class origins (especially her clothes, which several other girls initially complain make her smell like fish). However, more than that, it's the strange circumstances under which she arrived — i.e. brought in personally by the Prince, Ok Gyeong, herself — that make her a prime target for bullying as the presumed recipient of favouritism in Maeran's management. And although Director Kang does attempt to quell such speculation by requiring her to first serve a separate probationary period as an understudy, this only furthers the impression that special exceptions are being put in place for her benefit. 

Nevertheless, Jeong Nyeon soon settles in at Maeran, with several of the other trainees playing significant roles in her experience: 

First, Park Cho Rok (played by Seunghee), one of the "female" trainees, is adamant that Jeong Nyeon must have gotten in unfairly — because how could a girl who had hitherto just spent her life selling fish possibly be qualified when most trainees had been learning traditional music and dance from childhood? — and therefore repeatedly picks on her. However, despite this shaky beginning, Jeong Nyeon soon earns her respect through a combination of rapidly improving acting, resilience in the face of challenges, and genuine empathy and willingness to forgive. 

Conversely, Hong Joo Ran (played by Woo Da Vi), another "female" trainee, immediately sets out to become Jeong Nyeon's friend, never mind what the others say. And soon, the two girls are inseparable, with their opposing personalities — Jeong Nyeon being a bold and bubbly extrovert and Joo Ran being warmly gentle but also timid — perfectly filling in each other's gaps. At Jeong Nyeon's encouragement, Joo Ran finally takes the plunge to grow from ensemble to major supporting roles and they eventually pledge to continue supporting one another until, some day, they can become partners "just like Ok Gyeong and Hye Rang."

And then...there's Heo Young Seo (played by Shin Ye Eun): the star pupil among Maeran's trainees and, incidentally, Jeong Nyeon's roommate. Excelling equally across all three skills (a rarity even among the professional troupe members), she is diligent and exacting, frequently opting to study or practice on her own rather than socializing with the other girls. This has earned her their awe and respect, but also a reputation as an ice queen who holds everyone else to her own perfectionistic standard.

By appearances, then, Jeong Nyeon and Young Seo couldn't be any more different, whether in terms of personality, working style, or even family background. Where Jeong Nyeon is working class, Young Seo comes from a wealthy "old money" family; where Jeong Nyeon's mother is entirely averse to music, Young Seo's mother and older sister are both professional opera singers. This leaves them almost wholly unable to see eye-to-eye, with personal tensions bubbling over into arguments or even full-on fights.

Yet, as time goes by, both girls realize they are actually quite similar. Most notably, both had come to Maeran in defiance of their mothers' wishes and are now trying to reach the top in order to prove themselves. In Young Seo's case, her decision to pursue gukgeuk instead of opera has made her the black sheep of her family and the subject of condescending ridicule from their elite social circle — and becoming the best is the only way she could regain her mother's respect. 

As for Jeong Nyeon, it's even more complicated. Unbeknownst to her until after she joined Maeran, her mother had actually been a famous pansori singer in her youth (and, coincidentally, Director Kang's best friend), until over-practice ultimately caused her to lose her voice. Devastated, she had fled Seoul for the countryside, changing her name so as not to be found by prying fans, and spent years trying to put this part of her past behind her. And she would have succeeded had her daughter, Jeong Nyeon, not inherited her strong voice, passion for pansori...and dogged stubborn streak. Thus, despite her mother's pleas for her to reconsider, lest history repeat itself, Jeong Nyeon becomes even more determined to press on, hoping she could make up for what had been lost by succeeding where her mother had not.

With both Young Seo and Jeong Nyeon wishing to become the best among the trainees, and both coincidentally choosing to specialize in male roles, they inevitably become each other's greatest rivals for the title of Maeran's next Prince. 

The competition is intense, and occasionally petty, yet, above all else, it is fair, with both girls agreeing that only by avoiding sabotage or subterfuge could they truly be judged solely on their skills. And paradoxically, they are even able to put aside their differences to help each other. For instance, when Jeong Nyeon is conspicuously missing during one important audition, Young Seo searches for her, only to discover that she had somehow gotten locked into the props storage room. And although Young Seo could easily have walked away and let Jeong Nyeon be disqualified, she immediately rushes to get her out in time to make her slot.

In fact, if we want an actual demonstration of the sort of rivalry that Ok Gyeong is hoping to one day establish with Jeong Nyeon, it would be in the dynamic between Jeong Nyeon and Young Seo: not just because of their ability to simultaneously help and compete with each other, but because they possess perfectly complementary strengths and weaknesses. While Jeong Nyeon's acting is initially shaky, being entirely new to this aspect of gukgeuk, she very quickly catches up due to her unique approach to self-study. Specifically, in addition to practicing her lines and scenes to herself in the rehearsal rooms like everyone else, Jeong Nyeon takes her learning out into the streets: shadowing a street performer for several days to play a comedic role; spending a day disguised as a schoolboy to learn male mannerisms and speech; and volunteering at a soup kitchen for war veterans to learn what it is really like to be a soldier. 

This approach ultimately reveals Jeong Nyeon's greatest strength, but also her weakness. As she grows past her initial awkwardness, she appears to unlock within herself the rare (almost supernatural) ability to be able to literally transform into her characters by completely entering into their emotional states. Compared to the more consciously put-on or stylized method of acting common in gukgeuk, Jeong Nyeon's style has the potential to be far more natural and realistic and is, thus, considered the mark of a great actor. Yet such raw power is notoriously difficult to control, and in her first official performance, Jeong Nyeon does lose control, veering so wildly off-script in the heat of the moment that she leaves Young Seo frozen speechless and Hye Rang scrambling in the background to get the scene back on track. 

Conversely, Young Seo's acting techniques and style are more controlled and conducive to the teamwork required in actual live performance. However, pressure from her mother has also given her performance anxiety, which causes her to overthink her delivery. Thus, despite extensive practice, she is still prone to freezing if she makes a mistake; or resorting to emulating past actors' interpretations rather than developing her own. And, in a vicious cycle, this lack of artistic interpretation and originality is actually preventing her from breaking out into the major lead roles she needs to earn her mother's acceptance.

This, then, is where Ok Gyeong herself comes in, having closely followed both Jeong Nyeon and Young Seo's progress from the sidelines all this time. Teaching and providing feedback to trainees wishing to specialize in male roles is one of her duties as the Prince, but she had never actually been all that invested in it until Jeong Nyeon's arrival at Maeran; and both her and Young Seo's becoming potential successors. Now, though, she actually begins to initiate these encounters (whether they be practicing sword-fighting with Young Seo or drilling scenes with Jeong Nyeon), using them to pass on not just her skills, but also key life lessons that will help her two trainees both on- and off-stage: to enjoy the moment and see the bigger collaborative picture, respectively.

In regards to the latter, Ok Gyeong is also the only actor in the troupe who is not intimidated by Jeong Nyeon's extraordinary immersive ability — and, thus, becomes the one who ultimately teaches her how to control it. From what I can see, it appears to be a classic case of "it takes one to know one", since Ok Gyeong is similarly said to have seemingly been "born to [act]" — with no specific method, but instead just somehow instinctively being able to feel what her characters do. However, through years of experience, she's also learned to achieve absolute mastery over her own acting, such that she can even adjust, in real time, the degree of her immersion to simultaneously deliver her lines to the audience as her character and subtly communicate with and prompt her co-actors as herself. It's this ability to be both completely in character and still keep a part of herself consciously aware of those around her that she ends up passing down, and the next time Jeong Nyeon performs on stage (including a scene with Ok Gyeong herself), it's clear to everyone that she has finally achieved the right balance.

However, as helpful as she can be as a mentor, Ok Gyeong can also be difficult, presenting both Jeong Nyeon and Young Seo with loaded questions and ethical dilemmas so strange that not only the trainees themselves, but even viewers, are left confused as to her intentions. 

In Jeong Nyeon's case (Young Seo's will be covered later in this post), just a few days after her joining Maeran, Ok Gyeong secretly offers her a copy of the audition script for the troupe's next official production, stating that if Jeong Nyeon so wishes, she would personally ensure that she could get a part in the show immediately, skipping the prerequisite trainee performances altogether. 

This offer is not only a blatant violation of Maeran's policies but completely pedagogically nonsensical. When this meeting occurs, Jeong Nyeon has literally had no concrete experience in acting; even if Ok Gyeong believes her to be capable of catching up, just dropping her into the deep end like this is likely to do more harm than good. 

However, although it may seem like Ok Gyeong's become so eager to have Jeong Nyeon as her successor that she has resorted to desperate measures or completely lost all sense of reason, I personally think it's something else: specifically, a test of character.

This is because, as previously mentioned, Ok Gyeong is generally wary about trusting others and, thus, tends to be rather cryptic in her own interactions: both consciously and subconsciously seeking to test the other person's character or intentions before deciding whether to proceed any further. Thus, in this offer to Jeong Nyeon, I believe Ok Gyeong is assessing where her priorities are: would she take the easy backdoor road to fame if given the chance; or would she instead be willing to put in the time and effort to actually learn the craft of gukgeuk? And although Ok Gyeong is momentarily disappointed when Jeong Nyeon refuses (since accepting the offer would have allowed her to reach her goal of having a rival that much more easily), this is also the response she needs to know for certain that she has chosen a worthy successor.

Yet, no matter how much Ok Gyeong may wish otherwise, the actual appointment of a successor is not wholly her choice to make. Instead, it must be done according to proper procedure —through a rigorous contest judged by both insiders and outsiders to the industry — to ensure a fair outcome. Thus, once Jeong Nyeon, Young Seo, and Joo Ran have finally progressed to the point of playing major supporting roles in Maeran's performances, Director Kang formally begins the selection process.

The rules are straightforward: trainees who are interested will audition in "male"-"female" pairs to play the younger versions of Ok Gyeong and Hye Rang's own characters in Maeran's next show: a large-scale collaborative production with several gukgeuk troupes from across Korea. And while the casting call is open to everyone, Maeran's trainees are still considered frontrunners, having learned their skills from working alongside the Prince and Princess themselves.

To be fair, Director Kang has put a lot of time and effort into trying to make this process as fair as possible. But, like with many systems and procedures, it cannot account for the human factor and soon, things start to go terribly wrong.

First, there is the matter of partners: while Maeran has two strong candidates for "male" leads among its trainees, it only has one "female". Thus, Joo Ran is put in the agonizing position of having to choose whether to partner (possibly permanently) with either Young Seo or Jeong Nyeon; no matter whom she picks, she will end up having to hurt one of her close friends.

However, a decision must be made and, to the surprise of all the trainees, she ultimately goes with Young Seo despite her initial promise to Jeong Nyeon. Her reasoning for this is that, despite being closer with Jeong Nyeon in real life, she sees herself as being more compatible with Young Seo on stage. This is due to Jeong Nyeon's extraordinary ability to essentially transform into the characters she plays; while Joo Ran counts this as one of her friend's strengths, she is also intimidated by it and worries that she is simply not skilled enough yet to match Jeong Nyeon's intensity. Conversely, from having actually collaborated with her in past productions, Joo Ran finds Young Seo to be more steady in her approach and, thus, a clearer match to her own style.

Of course, all of this is really difficult to put into words (especially for teenagers, for whom friendship is everything), so needless to say, both Young Seo and Jeong Nyeon take this entirely the wrong way. For Young Seo, she believes that Joo Ran is simply settling: choosing her out of pity when she would actually prefer Jeong Nyeon instead. As for Jeong Nyeon, she jumps to the opposite conclusion: that Joo Ran actually thinks she is not yet good enough to be her "male" partner; and that she must now do everything she could to close the gap.

Thus, determined to participate in the contest if for no other reason than to prove herself, Jeong Nyeon, in yet another unexpected twist, accepts Cho Rok as her partner. This arrangement obviously benefits Cho Rok, whose skills improve significantly as they practice, but Jeong Nyeon is never fully there, instead preoccupied by thoughts on how well Young Seo and Joo Ran must be doing without her. 

And slowly, for the first time since joining Maeran, Jeong Nyeon starts to feel that intense overwhelming pressure to succeed: to be the absolute best so as not to lose Joo Ran for good.

It is at this point, then, when Jeong Nyeon is at her most insecure and desperate, that Hye Rang approaches her with a shortcut: if she were to go to a certain cave on a nearby mountain known for its acoustics and sing her audition piece there 100 times a day, to the point of coughing up blood, she will have improved enough by the competition date to beat Young Seo.

This is obviously terrible advice; even someone who's not a singer should be able to see that. Yet, Hye Rang's no fool, nor, unlike Ok Gyeong, is she trying to test Jeong Nyeon and hoping she'd refuse. Instead, she actually wants Jeong Nyeon to take her advice...and lose.

See, Hye Rang has absolutely no intention of stepping down from her place as Maeran's Princess. In part, this is because she still enjoys the adulation and perks the position brings; and in part, it's because, after being partnered with Ok Gyeong for so long, she is genuinely afraid to face a life where they might need to go their separate ways after retiring from the stage. But even greater still, underneath these two external reasons, there is also jealousy: jealousy that, in just a few short months, Jeong Nyeon appears to have claimed a closer place in Ok Gyeong's heart than Hye Rang has been able to do in years.

Thus, just as Ok Gyeong is determined to speed Jeong Nyeon along as her successor, Hye Rang is equally determined to halt her progress. In fact, this is not even the first time that she has resorted to sabotage — the incident in which Jeong Nyeon was locked in the props storage was also her doing, in attempts to prevent her from auditioning for a lead role (unnecessarily, in that case, as Jeong Nyeon ultimately went for an ensemble role instead).

Yet, whatever Hye Rang's intent might have been, this "advice" could only succeed in harming Jeong Nyeon if she actually takes it — and, sadly, she does just that. Desperate for a way to win the audition and, thus, regain Joo Ran's friendship (even though it had never been lost in the first place), Jeong Nyeon follows through, sneaking off to the mountain at the crack of dawn to squeeze in hours of practice before returning to resume her regular classes or paired sessions with Cho Rok, with hardly any breaks.

Within days, it's clear that something is wrong: Jeong Nyeon's voice becomes tight and hoarse; and she develops a fever and racking cough that, at its worst, literally does bring up blood. This understandably terrifies her, but where most people might stop and rest, she presses on, believing incorrectly in her panic that this deterioration means she is still not good enough — perhaps will never be good enough — and, thus, that she needs to go back to the mountain and practice even harder to get good enough.

Soon, Jeong Nyeon's condition begins to alarm even the other troupe members and, one by one, they attempt to reason with her. Cho Rok begs for her to stop and allow herself to rest; Young Seo bluntly points out that this would only result in an unfair competition (with Jeong Nyeon herself being disadvantaged); and Director Kang, fearful she'd suffer the same fate as her mother, tries to talk her through her insecurities in hopes of switching her over to a healthier mindset. However, rather than heeding their sound advice, Jeong Nyeon instead misinterprets it as their simply telling her to give up and let Young Seo win — and she'd rather die than do that if it means giving up Joo Ran as well.

In hindsight, the only two people who probably could have snapped Jeong Nyeon out of this train of thought would have been Joo Ran and Ok Gyeong, yet neither of them end up crossing paths with her during this time. For Joo Ran, it's understandable: given how deeply she had hurt Jeong Nyeon's feelings by partnering with Young Seo, both girls have been trying to avoid running into each other if at all possible. 

However, I do feel that Ok Gyeong's ignorance of these events is a significant oversight: being both the one most invested in Jeong Nyeon's winning this competition and, as it turns out, fully aware of Hye Rang's past actions and the reasoning behind them, it's odd that she would not have checked up on Jeong Nyeon at least once in this process. If she had, she might have been able to intervene: warning Jeong Nyeon of Hye Rang's true intentions, reassuring her of her strengths, and offering her a safer method to achieve her goals for improvement.

But frustrating as this is, there is such a thing as rule of drama. Thus, Ok Gyeong only realizes what is happening on the day of the audition itself, when Jeong Nyeon stumbles in late, with a raging fever, and so hoarse that she could barely speak, let alone sing. And by then, it's already too late. 

Jeong Nyeon starts her duet with Cho Rok well enough, but then, to everyone's horror, her voice breaks right as she's about to reach the climax. And although Director Kang pleads with her to stop before she hurts herself further, Jeong Nyeon begs tearfully to be allowed to finish — if for no other reason than for the sense of closure over what would likely be her final performance.

And, thus, with the silent grieving support of those around her, she miraculously manages to push through her pain to give a near-perfect rendition of the song's climax before she finally coughs up blood and collapses, unconscious, to the stage — martyred by her own ambition.

Singing with a Broken Voice: When Everything is Broken, How Can We Turn Our Pain into Joy?

It is common knowledge that for a musician, their instrument is everything — how much more so when said instrument is their own voice!

Needless to say, the loss of Jeong Nyeon's voice, right at what should have been her moment of triumph, is a tragedy, and no-one at Maeran is left unaffected.

With Jeong Nyeon out of the running, Young Seo and Joo Ran are naturally named the winners of the audition and, by extension, the presumed successors for the Prince and Princess of Maeran. Yet, considering the price that was paid, the victory ultimately falls flat. Joo Ran particularly blames herself, convinced that had she just kept to her original promise and chosen Jeong Nyeon as her partner, none of this would have happened. 

Meanwhile, Young Seo cannot shake the feeling that somehow, despite not having done anything wrong herself, she has cheated Jeong Nyeon out of a position that should be hers. And she has to deal not only with guilt, but also anger and disgust at the fact that her mother, one of the competition's external judges, had not only bribed the others in advance to vote in her favour, but had also been the only person present at that audition with the tone-deaf audacity to publicly celebrate her win and, by extension, Jeong Nyeon's loss.

However, despite being the actual injured party, Jeong Nyeon responds to these events with surprising maturity. Although naturally disappointed, she is also genuinely happy for Young Seo and Joo Ran, making it clear from the outset that she, and she alone, should be held responsible for the loss of her voice. After all, whatever anyone else might say on the matter, she was the one who chose, consciously, to be upset at Joo Ran's choice; take Hye Rang's obviously harmful advice; and continue pushing herself beyond her limits. 

And if she's the one who had gotten herself into this mess, then she should be the one to get herself back out.

Earnest optimism has always been one of Jeong Nyeon's key strengths; time and time again, it has been both her sword and her shield, helping her to push through the challenges life throws at her. Thus, she now approaches the loss of her voice with similar drive, heading out to consult one doctor after another in hopes that, with the proper medical treatment, her voice could be restored.

However, in reality, there are some problems that could never be resolved, some poor decisions that could never be undone no matter how much one regrets and repents from them now. After all, while many singers have indeed successfully recovered following illness or injury...they have also not gotten to the point of literally coughing up blood. So no matter how much Jeong Nyeon may wish otherwise, every doctor she seeks out gives her the same diagnosis: her vocal cords are simply too badly injured for her to be able to sing professionally again.

Yet, Jeong Nyeon still cannot admit defeat. Instead, once again, she grows desperate for a solution, which once again, leaves her vulnerable to bad advice: in this case, a herbologist's suggestion that she take opium so that she could at least sing without pain. 

Luckily, Director Kang intervenes just in time before Jeong Nyeon makes another life-altering (possibly even fatal!) mistake and, in her typical tough love fashion, proposes a plan to put an end to such nonsense: she will bring Jeong Nyeon to see a specialist in hopes that he could suggest a safer treatment — but if he can't, she must accept the reality of her situation. 

Sure enough, even this doctor decides that nothing can be done and Jeong Nyeon, finally, understands the enormity of just what her foolish ambition had cost her: not just her voice, but her hopes and dreams for the future, and even, arguably, her very identity. After all, if her voice, the one thing that had made her valuable as a gukgeuk actor — as a person altogether — is gone, what else does she have to live for?

This, too, is foolishness — after all, was Jeong Nyeon not herself a whole person before she had even heard of gukgeuk or Maeran in the first place? Yet, no matter how much Director Kang tries to pull Jeong Nyeon away from such a dark train of thought, to see that there are other paths in life than just singing, she couldn't. Not when the wound is still so raw. Thus, finally realizing the wisdom behind her mother's warning from so long ago, Jeong Nyeon decides to return back home: if there's anyone who could help her to continue living with this heartache, it would be the one person who's lived it before.

What must it have been like for Jeong Nyeon's mother to come home from the market as usual, only to discover her daughter, lost and dejected, on the doorstep? On the one hand, this must be an outcome she had seen coming — had she not tried to stop Jeong Nyeon from joining Maeran to begin with, specifically because they were both so alike in temperament that they were bound to make the same mistakes? Yet, on the other hand, she must also have hoped, on at least some level, that her daughter's dreams for success could actually become reality — and the realization that she, too, has failed is a difficult pill to swallow.

Thus, for both these reasons, Jeong Nyeon's mother receives her like a prodigal child, simultaneously grumbling that this had better be the last time she brings up "that damned gukgeuk" again and preparing herbal tonics to soothe her throat and help her regain her strength. 

Through all this, she waits patiently for Jeong Nyeon to take the initiative to confide in her, and when she does, she teaches what she herself had learned all those years ago: that coming to terms with a new reality takes time and there will be good days and bad days, but if we simply live each day as it comes, focusing on the present and future rather than the past, we can gradually succeed in putting that past behind us.

However, Jeong Nyeon, despite everything she's been through, does not want to give up on gukgeuk just yet. Although some parts of her journey have, indeed, been painful, most of it has not; and she cannot see herself just casting the whole thing aside on account of what, in all fairness, was caused by her own poor judgement. Not when there were so many fond memories, too. 

Moreover, she has an advantage with gukgeuk that her mother, being from an earlier generation, did not have with focusing on pansori alone: she could still act. This is what Young Seo reminds her of when she arrives with Director Kang on a surprise visit, and it's this argument that she, in turn, presents to her mother when she does decide she wants to return to Maeran and try again. 

Interestingly, while Jeong Nyeon goes back home in hopes that her mother could help her to heal, it also happens in reverse. See, for all her claims that she has put the past behind her, Jeong Nyeon's mother never really did recover emotionally from her loss. Like her daughter, she had pushed herself too hard in hopes of maintaining her position as a celebrity pansori singer; and like her daughter, she had become despondent, questioning what to do with herself once her voice was gone. However, by shutting off that part of herself so abruptly and refusing to think back on it ever again — to use Director Kang's words, by simply "running away scared because [she was] no longer a genius" — she had also denied herself the chance to reflect on the loss of her voice and realize that the problem had never so much been pansori itself, but her past ambition to be the best.

This, Director Kang points out, is where Jeong Nyeon is different. Throughout her time at Maeran, she has made numerous mistakes and, like most young people, can be stubbornly resistant to criticism. However, when things do inevitably go wrong, rather than casting blame on others or her own circumstances, Jeong Nyeon reflects — asking herself where she had gone wrong not so much in her actions, but in the attitudes and mindsets behind then — and, thus, consistently grows and improves.

From this perspective, even the loss of her voice can be a good thing if she manages to find the root of the problem. And she does, realizing that prior to that one audition, it had never really mattered to her whether she was the best; instead, she had taken joy in gukgeuk itself and in sharing that joy with others in any capacity she'd been given.

Could not Jeong Nyeon's mother, then, take a similar lesson from her daughter such that, together, they end up in a better place? 

That's the advice that Director Kang leaves them with, asking specifically that Jeong Nyeon's mother try to sing again, just once, and see what happens. Though sceptical, she does make an attempt, and while she initially cringes at the sound of her own voice, rusty as it is after years of neglect, she discovers that, for once, the memories that come to her mind are not the ones of her former celebrity or the loss of her voice, but of the loving father who had scrimped and saved in order for her to pursue her dreams. 

Just as importantly, after giving herself time to adjust, she comes to the realization that, broken and hoarse though it might be compared to before, her voice is not genuinely, objectively bad — just different. If, then, Jeong Nyeon could do the same, carefully experimenting with her technique to be able to sing with rather than against her new voice, she can go back to doing what she loves best: using her talents to bring joy to those around her.

A Love that Causes Harm to Others: When Love Makes Us Do Wrong, How can We Make Things Right?

But what if that's not the case? What if, no matter what we do, we simply cannot go back because our wrong choices have not hurt us, but other people — and innocent ones at that? 

While the latter stretch of Jeongnyeon focuses primarily on Jeong Nyeon's journey to recovery after losing her voice, I do appreciate that it also looks at its effects on Ok Gyeong and Hye Rang as the other two main parties involved: specifically, the way it shows the tensions — even ruptures — that can occur when there is a conflict between our relationships and our values; our desire to shield and protect those we love and our need to stay true to our morals and ethics.

This is because arguably, with the exception of Jeong Nyeon herself, Ok Gyeong is the one who is hit the hardest by this tragedy.

After all, as I've stated before, she's the one who most wanted Jeong Nyeon to succeed in this audition; indeed, her even bringing Jeong Nyeon to Maeran in the first place was all just meant for this exact moment when, finally, she could appoint her successor and, thus, find some relief from the prison that being the Prince has become. But then, from the moment she had gone over to the trainees' dressing room, wondering why on earth Jeong Nyeon wasn't already backstage yet, she was forced to watch, in heart-sinking horror, her entire plan falling apart before her eyes.

But it's not just about the plan. In fact, I think Ok Gyeong does genuinely care for Jeong Nyeon. To be fair, the underlying motive of raising her up as a rival/successor is always there, but to say that that's all this was about and that there wasn't real personal affection involved would also be a lie — and, honestly, I'm not sure if even Ok Gyeong herself could tell which was driving her feelings and actions more at any given moment. 

In all fairness, this may not be a friendship per se: the mutually self-serving root of this relationship; the inherent hierarchical gap between them as teacher and student; and their age difference (only further exaggerated by their differing personalities and experiences) would all preclude any chance of this being a true connection between equals. Yet, Jeong Nyeon is so bright and innocent and genuine in everything she does that Ok Gyeong just can't help but want to protect her.

Granted, it's not something she can show openly: for better or worse, experience has taught her to present any aid towards Jeong Nyeon as simply being good for business rather than due to any personal attachment. Yet, whenever Jeong Nyeon does end up struggling or getting into trouble, she always takes an instinctive step forward to help before stopping herself; and whenever she receives some perk from fans that she wants to share, she always looks for or calls out to Jeong Nyeon first before remembering to include the other trainees as well. And gradually, as Jeong Nyeon comes into her own as an actor, Ok Gyeong likewise becomes bolder and more overt in her favour in a clear sign that she is her choice for successor.

All this, of course, is what ends up spurring Hye Rang's jealousy and fear that Jeong Nyeon might not only replace Ok Gyeong on stage, but also Hye Rang's own position in her heart. But the tragic irony of all this is that, if so, her jealousy is entirely misplaced:

See, where Ok Gyeong likes Jeong Nyeon, and even cares for Jeong Nyeon, I'd argue that, whether she herself realizes it or not, she loves Hye Rang.

By this, I do not mean love in the romantic sense (although this relationship within the drama is the one that comes closest to its original webtoon counterpart in this regard). Instead, I mean love in its truest, most universal sense, whether referring to our partners, our families, or our friends: the wish to connect deeply and intimately with another person, whose benefit and betterment we value even more highly than our own. 

Because honestly, the partnership between Ok Gyeong and Hye Rang has held up through a lot over the years. The drama doesn't say much about how they met or came together, but if nothing else, they are two people who have managed to support each other through the toughest challenges in their lives: Ok Gyeong's opium addiction and Hye Rang's being an unwed mother (a situation so taboo that she can't even acknowledge her daughter as her own, instead raising her as an adopted "niece", with presumably only Ok Gyeong and Director Kang knowing the truth).

Yet no matter how close they may have been in the past, it is clear that by the beginning of the drama's events, they have been steadily drifting apart, with Ok Gyeong in particular becoming increasingly distant and detached. In her desperation to find an explanation (and, thus, a solution), Hye Rang assumes that the culprit must be some third party — the "artist friends", the trainees (especially Jeong Nyeon), etc. — but she couldn't be further from the truth. In fact, the actual issue is a growing sense on Ok Gyeong's part that their values and priorities, particularly in their approaches toward the troupe's future and their shared celebrity, are becoming fundamentally incompatible. And ironically, the more Hye Rang tries to fight for them to keep their positions as the Prince and Princess of Maeran, the more she is actually driving in the wedge between them.

So why, then, would I say that Ok Gyeong still loves Hye Rang? Because love is not like. It runs deeper, more subtly, blending almost undetected into the routines of everyday life. More importantly, it is patient and will fight like hell to survive, even if it hurts us in the process. Thus, where we can easily give up on someone we simply like if they do something we see as morally wrong, love makes us want to persevere, whether by gritting our teeth through or turning a blind eye to the red flags, because the person underneath the action still matters more.

And this, initially, is what Ok Gyeong does in response to Hye Rang's bullying of not just Jeong Nyeon, but (it's implied) several other trainees as well. While it's unclear how much she knows of some of the earlier instances, she does realize what is happening after hearing about the storage room incident. 

Yet, despite knowing what she should do, Ok Gyeong cannot actually bring herself to confront Hye Rang directly or report her actions to Director Kang (knowing that doing so could lead to her dismissal from the troupe). Instead, she simply mentions in passing during an otherwise everyday conversation that, apparently, Jeong Nyeon's nearly missing that audition had been due to her being locked inside the storage room and that she would be "really sad if someone [had done it] on purpose." 

Ok Gyeong's hope, of course, is that Hye Rang would take the hint and stop abusing the trainees, but she doesn't. Instead, as Jeong Nyeon, Young Seo, and Joo Ran all improve to the point of actual becoming serious contenders for the succession, she only grows increasingly paranoid, ranting hysterically that the trainees are out to usurp Ok Gyeong's crown as Prince and that anything she does against them in return is, therefore, for Ok Gyeong's own good. Thus, still reluctant to report Hye Rang's behaviour to Director Kang yet left with few other options, she finally issues an ultimatum: if Hye Rang antagonizes the trainees (especially Jeong Nyeon) any further, she will begin to seriously consider leaving Maeran for good.

This, then, might explain Ok Gyeong's relative inaction in the weeks leading up to the actual disastrous audition. After all, it's been clear up to this point just how attached Hye Rang is to their partnership. Surely then, she must have reasoned, Hye Rang would value her enough — if not as a person, then at least as the Prince of Maeran — to respect her wishes and leave Jeong Nyeon alone.

But, unfortunately, real life doesn't always work like that and the rest, as they say, is history.

I cannot even begin to imagine the massive emotional turmoil Ok Gyeong must have felt over the span of just a few hours, watching the entire disaster unfold (and a quick shout-out to Jung Eun Chae for so effectively conveying not so much Ok Gyeong's emotions but her sheer inability to process them all at once): 

Concern when she heads out to find Jeong Nyeong and sinking dread when she finally does. Fury and disgust as she then hears what Hye Rang had done. Hope through the first half of the performance that Jeong Nyeon might just be able to pull through, cut short by dismay when her voice abruptly breaks. Compassion when she begs to be allowed to continue and visceral pain when Director Kang only agrees because she'd likely never sing again. Wonder and a rush of relief when, against all odds, she manages to rally herself to perfectly complete the piece...and then utter despair when she collapses and her hopes are dashed for good.

And, underlying all of this, guilt. Guilt for failing to notice what was happening in time to intervene. Guilt for choosing to give Hye Rang the benefit of the doubt and assuming Jeong Nyeon would be safe. Guilt at her own disappointment at losing a successor (because how could that possibly matter compared to Jeong Nyeon's situation?). Guilt for the fact that, ultimately, she had been the one to put Jeong Nyeon in harm's way by bringing her to Maeran in the first place.

In short, for Ok Gyeong, being forced to watch all this unfold whilst being utterly powerless to stop it is torture. Pure psychological torture.

To her credit, she manages to stay in the auditorium through the entire incident, doing her best to provide Jeong Nyeon the moral support she needs. But no sooner has Jeong Nyeon collapsed than Ok Gyeong herself disappears, leaving the theatre without even hearing the competition results. And when Hye Rang arrives home some time later, it is to find Ok Gyeong seated, fully clothed, in the bathtub, broken glass littering the floor and her hands cut up and covered in blood.

Whether her injuries came about accidentally or intentionally is never stated in the drama — and perhaps it doesn't really matter. Either way, on some deep psychological or emotional level, Ok Gyeong has died and she will never be the same again.

However, when we see Ok Gyeong again (in response to yet another round of media speculation re: opium use), after Jeong Nyeon has already returned to her hometown, she appears strangely detached, as though none of this had ever even happened. Not once does she mention Jeong Nyeon of her own volition or attempt to seek her out; and when Young Seo, confused, asks her about this, she simply states that while she had favoured Jeong Nyeon in the past, there's no point dwelling on "a lost cause" as "The audience only applauds for the one who has survived to be on stage."

It's a chillingly callous way to sum up what had once been such a warm relationship, unnerving both Young Seo and viewers alike. In fact, I am aware that for some, this behaviour retroactively colours everything Ok Gyeong has said and done thus far, leading to the conclusion that she was just a bored former(?) drug addict who had only taken interest in Jeong Nyeon as her next fix or a tool that could be readily discarded if things fell through.

But here, once again, I disagree. 

After all, the idea that Ok Gyeong would consider Jeong Nyeon to be "a lost cause" in the sense of having no future anymore in gukgeuk is entirely understandable. Given what had happened and the lack of any real precedent otherwise, it would be unrealistic to expect that Jeong Nyeon could make some miraculous recovery — and even if she could, to sing to the calibre needed to become the next Prince. Better, then, to just focus on "the one who has survived" (i.e. Young Seo) and move on.

But then again, it's not so much what Ok Gyeong says that feels off, but that it so sharply contrasts what both the rest of Maeran and viewers of the drama have seen of her so far. Are we seriously to believe that all of what happened before was fake and she's just showing her true self now; or that she really is that shallow of a person as to be able to forget Jeong Nyeon that easily?

Personally, I don't think so. And to understand why, we need to go back to the night of the incident itself: specifically, that, even in the face of such overt distress from Ok Gyeong, Hye Rang still fails to realize the wrongfulness of her actions, instead trying to hastily sweep everything under the rug by saying that perhaps now, they can finally go back to performing as Maeran's leads like before. 

And Ok Gyeong's response says it all: "What point is there in playing a good-for-nothing Prince?"

In one of my earlier (non-K-drama-related) posts, I had said that "a government's honour is only as good as its ability to protect its people." And I think that, through this tragedy with Jeong Nyeon, Ok Gyeong has come to a similar realization: that she (and, indeed, everyone in Maeran) had had the wrong idea of what it meant to be the Prince all along. The title might be given to the strongest "male" actor in the troupe, but if it's just a mark of prestige or marketability, then it is ultimately meaningless.

Instead, like a real Prince, the Prince of Maeran should be a leader. A protector. The person that others within the troupe could look to for guidance and who is responsible for bringing anyone who goes astray back into the fold.

And Ok Gyeong had tried to do all that. She'd really had. But what did she have to show for it? The trainee whom she'd sworn to protect has, in effect, been "killed" by the Princess — and she, the Prince, had had the chance to stop this tragedy...but done nothing.

A good-for-nothing Prince indeed.

Thus, I honestly don't think that Ok Gyeong's refusal to speak either to or of Jeong Nyeon after the incident is because she never cared about her, or even that she had cared before and no longer does. Rather, it's that, in her guilt and self-loathing, she no longer believes she has the right to care and, as a fellow "lost cause", has instead chosen to actively deny herself any opportunity for closure or forgiveness.

And it's not even just about Jeong Nyeon. Ok Gyeong's relationship with Hye Rang has also reached its breaking point, rapidly deteriorating from simply tense or incompatible to outright toxic, maybe even abusive. More importantly, the fundamental conflict between the need for Maeran to diversify its lead cast (lest it die from stagnation) and Hye Rang's willingness to resort to unscrupulous means to maintain the status quo still remains unresolved. And for as long as Ok Gyeong stays on as the Prince — a title she never asked for and now even despises — it never will be, since she herself has become the unwitting driving force within its core. 

Thus, for all these reasons, Ok Gyeong really has only one option left: to redeem herself and save Maeran, she must eliminate the problem at its source by leaving not just the troupe, but gukgeuk altogether.

It's a drastic decision, and a rather daunting one at that. Even though Ok Gyeong had previously entertained the thought of leaving, it had always been in an abstract or hypothetical sense. And even if she had considered it more seriously, her plan would have been for it happen smoothly, after spending some time training and performing alongside her own successor, such that she could gracefully retire knowing that both the troupe and audiences alike have already accepted their new Prince.

But having already been burned once by Hye Rang's treatment of Jeong Nyeon, Ok Gyeong also knows that simply sticking to her original plan with Young Seo as her new successor would no longer work. Instead, like an amputation, the break must be done abruptly and cleanly — a single decisive blow that no-one could see coming. 

Thus, in the weeks following Jeong Nyeon's failed audition, Ok Gyeong devises an exit plan that I could only describe as outright mad: signing a secret contract with a film production company that is set to take effect during the run of Maeran's next show (a play whose story — that of a commoner who marries a princess only to watch helplessly as she grows into a ruthless tyrant — uncannily reflects her own experiences with Hye Rang and, implicitly, Jeong Nyeon). Then, with this looming deadline steeling her resolve, she will disappear on the night of the premiere itself, sneaking out of the theatre immediately after her final scene before anyone notices.

A plan this strange cannot be an accident. Instead, it appears to have been almost deliberately designed to be painful. To be ugly. To make herself out to be some sort of cold unfeeling monster who would be willing to abandon Maeran simply because she's lost interest in it. 

And that's certainly the impression she gives when her initial plan goes awry (damned rule of drama!) and she ends up running separately into  — and, thus, having to directly explain herself to — both Hye Rang and Director Kang on her way out. 

Obviously, the encounter with Hye Rang does not go well, especially when she becomes hysterical, first ranting once again that all the unethical actions she has taken thus far were for Ok Gyeong's sake and then, seconds later, tearfully apologizing and begging for forgiveness. However, now finally recognizing this behaviour to be the emotional manipulation that it is, Ok Gyeong remains unmoved, simply stating that there is nothing left in their relationship anymore. 

Yet, despite this, she still holds some sliver of love left, as, in her final parting words, she expresses her hope that, someday, she could look back and remember Hye Rang fondly — but that this would only be possible if she finally owns up to her mistakes and stops herself from falling even further,

The confrontation with Director Kang is even more painful, mostly due to their more complicated relationship. After all, Ok Gyeong remains as thankful to Director Kang as ever for saving her all those years ago, yet this gratitude has also been tempered by that deep-seated doubt, first planted in the drama's opening episode, that the Director now only sees her as the profitable Prince of Maeran rather than a person in her own right. 

The tragic irony of all this is that, in fact, Director Kang does love Ok Gyeong — would she have even had the patience to help her through her addiction, with no real promise of reward, if she didn't? And although she struggles to show it, she has long tried to be something of a mother to this most difficult, yet most vulnerable of all her girls. So naturally, she has noticed the change in Ok Gyeong's demeanour since the incident with Jeong Nyeon and inferred the distress underneath, particularly given her terrible luck of also being hit by her biggest media scandal to date (the first one with a purported witness calling her out by name as an opium addict) at the same time. Thus, wishing to help however she can, Director Kang approaches her in her dressing room, whilst she is preparing for that fateful show, with a new offer: the right to choose the script for Maeran's next production, no questions asked. 

It's a concession that Ok Gyeong has waited years for and indeed does make her waver in her resolve to leave. Yet, she is also no longer the person she was when she had last requested a change to the repertoire: following Hye Rang's betrayal, she is now even more sceptical, more cautious, more suspicious as to whether Director Kang's feelings for her are pure. 

Thus, she probes further, looking to see what signs, if any, the Director will give of her motives — and, sure enough, when Ok Gyeong warily asks why she's doing this, she replies with what she believes to be an encouraging comment: "It doesn't matter what [others] say against you. You are the best male lead in female gukgeuk." 

And that, for Ok Gyeong, is the final straw. 

Thus, in her farewell following the show, although she does thank Director Kang wholeheartedly for all her help in the past, she refuses the offer as too little, too late — and even adds bluntly that the Director would be a fool to assume that she would actually hold any more feeling towards Maeran or gukgeuk by this point or that she would stay simply out of a sense of responsibility.

Needless to say, this barb hits its mark and Ok Gyeong is finally free to walk away, leaving a furiously speechless Director Kang in her wake. But, once again, is what we are seeing actually the truth? Does she really, truly, feel nothing more for Director Kang, Maeran, or gukgeuk — or is she just saying the harshest thing she could think of (whether she means it or not) just to get the separation over and done with before she either breaks down or loses her nerve?

While it's likely that at least some of the disappointment and resentment she expresses are genuine, I also think that, like her earlier callousness towards Jeong Nyeon, there's more than a bit of a front as well: in this case, a mask that disguises her true feelings so that she could achieve her purpose.

This is because I'm not sure if her final statement about refusing to take responsibility for her actions is even entirely true in the first place. While walking out in the middle of a show's run certainly is irresponsible, we also need to consider the intention behind it: to have the succession take place suddenly, without any prior notice, such that by the time anyone (especially Hye Rang), catches on, she is already long gone and Maeran has no choice but to accept its new Prince. 

Moreover, if she really has no feeling for Maeran left, she could have just left without saying anything — and yet, she actually tells Young Seo her intentions in advance.

I had mentioned earlier in this post that, on separate occasions, Ok Gyeong tests both Jeong Nyeon and Young Seo to determine whether they would have not only the skills (which go without saying) but, more importantly, the characters to become Maeran's next Prince. In the case of Jeong Nyeon, it was that backdoor offer to accelerated stardom, which she then rightfully rejected in favour of working her own way up like any trainee should. 

And now, we finally come to Young Seo's test, issued during the conversation they'd shared after Ok Gyeong had first returned to Maeran after the disastrous audition — the same one where she had brushed Jeong Nyeon aside as a lost cause. Specifically, after Young Seo admits to valuing her applause and approval more than the audience's, she responds that, given that, "If I asked you to leave Maeran with me, would you?"

To be fair, I don't think that Ok Gyeong ever seriously thought that Young Seo would agree to leave with her; anyone in Maeran would already know the answer to that. Instead, I believe this question serves other purposes. First, and most obviously, it's Ok Gyeong's way to subtly let Young Seo know what to expect so that she'd be mentally prepared when the time comes. Secondly, it allows her to receive direct confirmation that Young Seo will stay no matter what happens after she leaves. Finally, she could see whether Young Seo is actually ready to take up the responsibilities of being the Prince — and, thus, whether she could actually leave with peace of mind.

And more than Young Seo's promise to stay, it's what she says next that ultimately affirms Ok Gyeong's decision: that she still has faith in Jeong Nyeon and is waiting for her return. More importantly, she's doing this not because she sees Jeong Nyeon as a rival, but because she sees her as a friend who truly understands and supports her and vice-versa.

This type of love and support is what Ok Gyeong had been hoping to find throughout her time at Maeran. Her relationships with Hye Rang and Director Kang had held promise, but have since become broken beyond repair; and while she did manage to achieve this with Jeong Nyeon, she had ruined that relationship herself and must now live with the consequences.

However, more importantly, from her long observation of these two trainees, these rivals who have paradoxically become friends, Ok Gyeong could see that where she herself had only focused on whether she was receiving this love, Young Seo and Jeong Nyeon have instead chosen to prioritize giving it: to each other as well as the rest of the troupe. 

And if for no other reason than that, from this conversation onward, Ok Gyeong knows that she not only can leave Maeran, but that she must: because both Young Seo and (fingers crossed) Jeong Nyeon would objectively be better Princes than her — not because of their skills, but because of their characters — and the only way that anyone's going to realize that is if she, the original Prince, abdicates first.

Thus, rather than being irresponsible, Ok Gyeong is, in fact, taking responsibility: making up for her own failure as a leader by making way for someone else who could do better.

Hopefully, in hindsight, the troupe will be able to forgive her — but if not, that's simply the price she will have to pay.

"We Still Have Our People": When We've Suffered Unbearable Loss, How can We Move Forward?

Needless to say, it is a very different version of Maeran that Jeong Nyeon returns to once she has finally recovered enough, both physically and emotionally, to do so (this time with her mother's permission):

Ok Gyeong is gone. Hye Rang, too, is gone, having finally been dismissed for what she'd done to Jeong Nyeon and the other trainees. Maeran, with the sudden loss of its Prince, is now deeply in debt, scrambling to pay both penalties and refunds after being forced to cancel the remaining performances of its last show. And even most of the professional actors have left, seeing Ok Gyeong's departure as the beginning of the end for the troupe.

All this Director Kang has been handling silently, trying her best to maintain some sort of normalcy for the members (mostly trainees) who are left. But this is easier said than done. The only way to pay off Maeran's debts is to generate income by putting on a new show, but that requires both a script and investment capital, and neither of those are easy to obtain. 

The problem, as it turns out, is not with Maeran itself, but with gukgeuk in general. True to Ok Gyeong's original warning, the Korean entertainment industry has now shifted almost entirely to film. And it's not just actors who are switching; the playwrights who have long collaborated with gukgeuk companies now work as screenwriters, leading to a dearth of new scripts altogether. For all these reasons, Director Kang's efforts to find investors ultimately prove fruitless as most are unwilling to put money into a waning industry. And when, after weeks of searching, she finally does receive an offer, it is to discover that this investor's aim is simply to buy the Maeran complex and convert it into a hostess bar in direct opposition to Maeran's original purpose. This last insult is simply too much to bear and, soon after Jeong Nyeon's return, Director Kang suffers a nervous breakdown.

Fortunately, not all the changes have been bad. With the recent departures, Young Seo, Joo Ran, and Cho Rok have all been promoted from trainees to full-time professional actors — and Cho Rok, as the boldest of the three, has quickly risen to the forefront as the leader and morale booster for the remaining trainees. But her own quick temper tends to get the better of her, and tensions soon spill over, with the girls fighting amongst themselves.

All this is to say that Jeong Nyeon could not have returned at a better time, the other trainees welcoming and gathering around her as a new beacon of hope: after all, if even she — the one who had so badly damaged her voice that even doctors had said she was beyond recovery — could make a comeback, then who's to say that the troupe can't as well?

And no one is happier at this development than Young Seo, whose faith in Jeong Nyeon had outlasted so many others'. She is the one who tells Jeong Nyeon what has happened in her absence; and although she is now an official actor and Jeong Nyeon still a trainee (requesting that Director Kang not bump her up until after she's proven herself with her new voice) their old rivalry has now grown into a true friendship between equals, the old jabs they used to send one another now softening into a banter that keeps their spirits up throughout their shared mission to stay with Maeran no matter what.

Things, however, are not so fortunate with Joo Ran. While she, too, has long hoped that Jeong Nyeon would return, she consistently avoids her once she does, still feeling guilty over her involvement in the loss of Jeong Nyeon's voice. Only after she has seen and heard for herself that Jeong Nyeon really can sing again does she find the courage to seek reconciliation. And while Jeong Nyeon states that no apology was needed in the first place, she does explicitly forgive Joo Ran to grant her peace of mind.

Yet any happiness gained from this is short-lived as Joo Ran, too, must leave Maeran: in her case, to get married. It's not by her own choice, being an arranged marriage set up by her parents, but she cannot fault them their decision: her family has long struggled financially due to her sister's tuberculosis and her prospective in-laws have promised to cover all future medical expenses on the condition that she quit gukgeuk and settle down as a housewife. Understanding that this financial aid would be far more than she could ever make herself, she agrees, asking only that she be allowed to stay long enough to bid Jeong Nyeon farewell in person. And as could be expected for two best friends (possibly even soulmates), the actual moment of parting, when it comes, is tearful and heartfelt, with Joo Ran vowing never to forget Jeong Nyeon as her "one and only prince." (And, indeed, they do continue to stay in touch through letters.)

And finally, there's Ok Gyeong. Indeed, this is the one serious point of regret that Jeong Nyeon holds about her return: that she had not come back in time to be able to give Ok Gyeong the closure she deserves. Whether or not she knew the entire truth of Ok Gyeong's role in the loss of her voice, she would have easily inferred that, like Joo Ran, Ok Gyeong had been avoiding her since the incident out of some sense of guilt or despair. And thus, Jeong Nyeon had hoped that showing her in person that she was now recovered would have allowed her to finally forgive herself.

Yet, reality doesn't always turn out the way we want and both Jeong Nyeon and Young Seo ultimately acknowledge that even had she returned in time, she might not have been able to stop Ok Gyeong from leaving. Because, in hindsight, it had never been about the loss of Jeong Nyeon's voice: on some deep fundamental level, Ok Gyeong had not been okay — perhaps had never been okay — and, thus, she had ultimately made the only choice she could to finally be at peace with herself. And that, in the grand scheme of things, is what really matters. Thus, rather than mourning or resenting her, it is better that they, as her trainees, honour her legacy by continuing to lead the troupe in her stead.

"Mourning", "legacy"...these are words I choose deliberately. Because for some reason, in regards to Ok Gyeong's departure and its effects, Jeongnyeon takes on a tone that I could only describe as posthumous. While she is not literally dead, the abrupt finality of her disappearance; the drama's various allusions to death leading up to it (e.g. the death of her character in her final play and the bathtub scene's visual evocation of paintings of Ophelia and Marat); and the fact that she is never actually seen or heard from again (not even to confirm whether she has, in fact, actually moved on to film) all make it feel as though she is. (And I do honestly wonder whether her entire arc was meant to be a subtle metaphor for the very real such "disappearances" in Korea's entertainment industry today.)

Without any source of closure, any sort of proper goodbye, her absence — her silence — becomes an oppressive weight: a thickness in the air that seems to permeate everywhere, ghostly as the photographs that are now the only proof left that she'd ever existed.

Feeling this most acutely, of course, are Hye Rang and Director Kang. In the days following her dismissal, Hye Rang has become a reclusive alcoholic, driven half-mad at the belated realization that she had destroyed, by her own hand, everything that had mattered most to her. Meanwhile, Director Kang similarly ruminates over the past, desperately trying to figure out what she could have done differently to avoid these tragedies. Except there wasn't. Not really. She had simply done what she believed was best for Maeran under the circumstances — how could she have known that those very same things were what would ultimately cause Hye Rang to go astray and push Ok Gyeong over the edge?

Yet such is the nature of grief and loss: even if we've done nothing wrong, we can still be haunted by what-ifs, could-haves, and should-haves, rising up in a churning flood that threatens to engulf us.

Jeong Nyeon, too, could have fallen into such despair, but she doesn't — nor does she fall back on the overly simplistic optimism from before. Instead, drawing upon the lessons she has learned from losing her voice, she commits to moving forward from her grief, keeping Ok Gyeong fondly in her memory while still pressing on ahead. Young Seo, who has long believed Jeong Nyeon, not herself, to be Ok Gyeong's rightful successor, immediately rallies behind her — and it is through their efforts that Maeran starts to rebuild.

Their first step is to improve morale among the trainees who, with no future production to prepare for, have been left wallowing in their own dark thoughts without any sense of purpose to guide them. Here, using the reason of needing to see for herself whether she could still hold her own as a singer following her recovery, Jeong Nyeon volunteers to busk in public to garner support for the troupe. Taking the hint, Young Seo jumps in to challenge her, betting that she would draw the bigger crowd and, maintaining their pretense as "enemies", the two of them rapidly escalate the stakes until even Jeong Nyeon's being permitted to rejoin the troupe at all is put on the line. And within moments, all the trainees are out in the streets, spreading word of the upcoming competition between two of Maeran's rising stars.

These shows are near-opposites in their approaches, yet both are equally effective. Hosting hers in a large public park and having already performed on stage as Ok Gyeong's official successor, Young Seo draws a large crowd before she even begins. She causes a stir by appearing suddenly in costume in their midst and actively interacting with audience members as she sings a popular love song, and soon, her performance has turned into a lively public celebration. 

Meanwhile, Jeong Nyeon chooses the marketplace by the train station: both it and the song she has chosen (her mother's own signature piece from long ago) acting as subtle nods to her origins. The bustling environment puts her at a disadvantage as she must compete with other vendors for attention; and indeed, her audience is initially a lot smaller, with one man even heckling her for the hoarseness in her voice. However, with Joo Ran's encouragement from the sidelines, she presses on, using her immersive acting skills to accentuate the mournful qualities of the song. And by the end, she has not only drawn a large crowd, but has moved both it and her fellow trainees to tears.

And more besides, because Director Kang is also in the audience, having been brought out by her assistant specifically to witness this moment. Seeing her trainees getting back on their feet and thinking outside the box to revive public interest in Maeran also inspires her to rethink what gukgeuk (or any theatre in general) actually is: a medium through which actors touch the hearts of and relay truths to audiences through the stories of the characters they play. And although the physical trappings (the sets, the costumes, the venue, etc.) are also great, these three things — actors, audience, and story/message — are the only ones that matter.

As Jeong Nyeon puts it in the drama's finale: "I've got a team to perform with and an audience to watch me [...] If we still have our people with us, we've got everything."

What's interesting is that this concept of "we still have our people" ends up transcending time to include not just those in the present, but the past and future as well. One instance where this is shown quite vividly is when Director Kang visits Hye Rang and helps her to finally see where she'd gone wrong: becoming so fixated on just one aspect of her life, one marker of success, as to become blind to everything else. 

But, she points out, Hye Rang has always been so much more than just Ok Gyeong's partner or the Princess of Maeran: she had also been a role model to an entire generation of strong young women both on- and off-stage. More importantly, she is also a mother with a daughter who loves her and looks up to her still — and that, if nothing else, is something worth living for.

This message, then, is what ultimately gets through to Hye Rang and allows her to put her ghosts to rest. Thus, when we next see her, it's to find her bringing her daughter (whom she's now finally told the truth to as to her identity) to attend the premiere of Jeong Nyeon's comeback performance, genuinely happy for her at last.

A similar pattern plays out with the show itself. Realizing from Jeong Nyeon's words that ensuring the troupe actually has the means to perform at all is more important than maintaining its pride, Director Kang finally agrees to the sale of the complex. Yet, even so, there are still simply no longer enough members to put on the same grand spectacles from before — nor would this be a wise way to spend their still-limited funds. 

Instead, understanding this to be a new beginning for Maeran, Director Kang ultimately selects one of the "experimental plays" that she had once rejected for being too unorthodox. And while the drama never states explicitly that this was one of Ok Gyeong's recommendations, this is strongly implied by its "experimental" label; its unusual focus on two "male" leads (rival stonemasons each tasked with completing a pagoda for the royal Buddhist temple); and its emotionally charged conclusion (where the protagonist descends into maddened grief when, upon completing his masterpiece, he returns home to discover his wife has died, brokenhearted after hearing the false rumour that he'd been unfaithful to her).

This final scene alone would demand literally everything of its actor, pushing even a Prince like Ok Gyeong beyond her limits. Perhaps that is why this particular script had appealed to her in the first place and, now, why Director Kang decides to use it to redo the selection for Maeran's next Prince through a new public audition, with Young Seo and Jeong Nyeon as the only candidates.

Right from the start, it's clear just how much both Young Seo and Jeong Nyeon have improved, the experiences from the past few months granting them both a greater maturity and nuance in their acting. Young Seo, in particular, is far more emotionally engaged in her performance here than she has ever been before, immersing herself fully into the bereaved husband's longing and grief. 

Yet Young Seo has not experienced the same type of loss that this husband has: the loss that, although caused by others, brings a pain that feels almost justly deserved, imbued as it is with his guilt for having left his wife to pursue his art in the first place. But Jeong Nyeon has experienced this. Director Kang has experienced this. And, while no longer physically present, Ok Gyeong has experienced this — possibly more than anyone else. 

And thus, by tapping into this shared experience, Jeong Nyeon delivers a performance so powerfully raw that, before the judges can even confer among themselves, Young Seo rises to pronounce her Ok Gyeong's rightful successor as the next Prince. And while it may just be me (quick shout-out to Kim Tae Ri regardless), there does strangely appear to be something of Ok Gyeong peering out through Jeong Nyeon's eyes in her version of the scene: Maeran's past and future overlapping as the husband's intermingled grief, resentment, and guilt build up inside until, finally, he shatters — like broken glass in a bloodied hand — and, in this moment of enlightenment (or is it madness?), destroys his own work, believing that he must "unveil Buddha's precious face" in order to set himself back on the right path.

For what good is it to gain the entire world if it costs us our souls — or the people we love most?

This, then, is the question that runs through everything I've discussed so far and is, in my opinion, the ultimate message in Jeongnyeon. We see it in women like Director Kang, who founded Maeran to give young girls a new path forward in life, but whose focus on preserving the troupe's pride ultimately led to the loss of the one girl who needed her most. We see it in women like Ok Gyeong or Jeong Nyeon's mother, who poured themselves into their art only to be crushed by the weight of their own success. We see it in women like Hye Rang or Young Seo's mother, who had equated material success with their own self-worth and, in this obsession, caused inexorable heartbreak to those around them. And finally, we see it in women like Jeong Nyeon and Young Seo themselves, whose dreams of emulating the successes of those who came before them had nearly led them on the same destructive paths.

But as Ok Gyeong once mused to Hye Rang about Jeong Nyeong, "Being young allows her to take in everything and keep on improving endlessly." She may have meant this about acting, but I think Jeongnyeon takes this far further and deeper than that. Indeed, throughout the drama, we see that it is only through reflection, looking back on their own pasts and those of the ones around them, and an openness to self-improvement that these women each eventually come to see what really matters. 

For Director Kang, it's realizing that loving the girls in her charge requires cultivating their hearts and characters as much as their talents. For Jeong Nyeon's mother, it's realizing that hardships are not just sources of pain and bitterness, but opportunities for growth. For Ok Gyeong, it's realizing that even if she has done the unforgiveable and must herself be damned, she can still pave the way for those who come after her to do better. For Hye Rang, it's realizing that her value as a person should stem not from her fame, but from the love and support that only she can give as a mentor and a parent. For Young Seo's mother, it's realizing that wanting the best for one's children does not mean pushing them to reach the top, but fostering the goodness inside them. For Young Seo herself, it's realizing that it is far more fulfilling to celebrate the successes of others than compete against them and to accept their help than to go it alone. And for Jeong Nyeon, it's realizing that the point of becoming a star is not to reach the sky, but to be a guiding light in the darkness.

Like Maeran and its members, we'll never know what the future brings. While they successfully put on a new show, with Jeong Nyeon leading as the new Prince, there's no guarantee that this will last, that they'd earn enough to put on their next show, or the next one after that. And yet, for these women, it no longer matters. Standing up on stage, they look out into their auditorium and see their friends and families, total strangers mingling with those who have known them all their lives. And even a new generation of little girls, like Hye Rang's daughter, ready and eager to be inspired by all the lessons they can share. For as long as these loved ones are there to watch them, they will have the strength to keep performing, to keep giving back.

We, too, do not have much time left. We, too, must live each day never knowing what will happen the next. But like the women of Jeongnyeon, we, too, can find the strength to keep living meaningful, fulfilling lives, if we look less to our own success and more to our souls and our relationships with the people we love.

Because even if we can just put in that effort for one more day, it'll be worth it.

The above blog post is part of the ongoing series Hallyu for Our World, which examines the broader universal themes and life lessons that we can glean from Korean popular culture. To access a master list for this and other series, click here.

Image Credits

All images from Jeongnyeon: The Star is Born (c) tvN — subsequent edits (cropping, collaging, etc.) done by Kitty Na using Picasa 3.

Further Reading and Resources

"A New Dawn for Yeoseong Gukgeuk and Its Unwavering Devotees" by Park Su-hyeon for The Chosun Daily — a news article on renewed public interest in gukgeuk following Jeongnyeon's success

"Female Masculinity and Cultural Symbolism: A History of Yeoseong gukgeuk, the All-Female Cast Theatrical Genre" by Ju-yong Ha for The Review of Korean Studies — a more extensive academic article on the history of gukgeuk and the life of its real-life Prince, Im Chun-aeng (Note: while some elements of Im Chun-aeng's life seem to be reflected in both Director Kang and Moon Ok Gyeong's stories, Jeongnyeon is still a fictional story and I do not know the extent to which its creators drew upon this history to inform their work. Therefore, I have not drawn upon this biography in my own writing; and my interpretations of the drama's plot and characters remain solely based on what I have inferred from my viewing of the show itself.)

"‘Jeong-nyeon’ Webtoon Creators Shed Light on Traditional All-Women Musical Troupe" by Hwang Dong-hee for The Korean Herald — an article based on an interview with the creators of the original webtoon series that inspired this drama (Note: some characters and plot elements have been changed for the TV adaptation, so names and identifying details do not match exactly.)

"Review: Jeongnyeon: The Star Is Born" by The Fangirl Verdict — one of several online reviews of Jeongnyeon that inspired me to write this post to share my own take

"The Dramatically Forgotten: Redefining Traditional Korean Theatre and Gender Politics" by The Debaser Magazine — an interview with siren eun young jung, a Korean performing artist, discussing gukgeuk as an early form of feminism in Korea

Statement of Originality

In light of recent technological advancements, I want to point out that no generative AI was used in the writing of this post — I simply enjoy the process of researching, analyzing, reflecting, and writing too much to ever want to outsource it to anyone or anything else. This post in particular took me close to a month and multiple drafts and even complete rehashes (especially the portions re: Moon Ok Gyeong) to complete; it is my art and, like the women in this drama, I take pride in the time and effort needed to create it.