Korea JoongAng Daily - Daily News from Korea

This article is by Kim Ji-ye and read by an artificial voice.

Actor Arden Cho, who voices Rumi in Netflix's hit animated film "KPop Demon Hunters" (2025), shared that seeing her character stirred up complicated emotions, reminding her of a childhood affected by racism, including experiences of bullying and even being sent to the doctor because of it.

"I experienced a lot of racism growing up," said Cho during a roundtable interview in Gangnam District, southern Seoul, on Friday. "When I was young, I was sent to the doctor about three times because kids would push and hit me, telling me to go back to my country. That left me feeling scared from an early age. They constantly made fun of my appearance, like my eyes and hair, and it made me question myself, wondering if something was wrong with me. I remember wishing I had blond hair and blue eyes when going to school."

She continued, "And Rumi had to cover her [demon] patterns, not able to show her true reality or her real self, so she cannot be who she is supposed to be. I felt that way in my 20s. Like Rumi, I wasn't confident enough to fully embrace my true self, and it was holding me back. So, when Rumi says, 'No more hiding, no more lies,' that really hit me."

Cho also shared that when she decided to become an actor based in the United States, she was recommended to change her last name, while feeling pressured to be more American.

"Some people even suggested that I make a stage name and drop my last name, Cho," she said. "But I never wanted to do that. I'm a Cho, I'm Korean, and I was constantly trying to hold onto and understand my Korean American identity."

Directed by Maggie Kang and Chris Appelhans, "KPop Demon Hunters" centers on Rumi, the lead singer of the fictional girl group HUNTR/X, as the group protects the world from evil demons while facing off against a rival demon boy band, the Saja Boys.

Released on June 20, 2025, the film has become Netflix's most-watched title to date, accumulating over 400 million views. It was also the first Netflix title to surpass 300 million views on the platform.

Expressing deep affection for the film, Cho became visibly emotional as she discussed the representation of Korean culture in "KPop Demon Hunters" and her participation in what she described as a meaningful and successful project.

"After more than 20 years of acting, this feels like the moment I've been waiting for," Cho said. "I never thought something like this would happen in my career."

Describing her contribution modestly as a "small participation," Cho said joining the project was "one of the best decisions" of her career, giving her renewed passion as she celebrated the film's success with the cast and crew.

With the film's popularity surging — particularly among children — Cho noted that the average age of her fan base has dropped. She added that she now frequently records short videos saying, "Hi, I'm Rumi," at parents' requests, and is often asked to deliver encouraging messages such as, "If you study hard, we'll meet someday."

Making golden history like its song, "Golden" (2025), it is now scheduled to appear at major award shows, including the Grammy Awards and the Oscars.

With the Grammys set for Sunday and "Golden" nominated for several awards, including Song of the Year, Cho shared that she is looking forward to hearing good news. Even if that doesn't happen, she said she already believes "they have already won."

"Just getting this far is already amazing," Cho said.

At the Oscars, the film received two nominations: Best Animated Feature and Best Original Song for "Golden." Following a lineage of internationally recognized Korean projects such as "Parasite" (2019), "Minari" (2021) and "Squid Game" (2021-25), Cho said she feels honored that her film stands alongside them, while also viewing a potential victory at this year's Oscars as a significant milestone.

"If it wins an Oscar, I really think the world would become even more open to and excited about Kor...

This article is by Lee Jian. and read by an artificial voice.

[INTERVIEW]

On April 20, 1447, Prince Anpyeong, the third son of Joseon Dynasty monarch (1392-1910) King Sejong, is said to have had one of the most beautiful dreams of his life.

In it, he and a close scholar walk along the foot of a mountain and arrive at a narrow valley hemmed in by jagged rocks. Unsure of which path to take, they are approached by a stranger, who leads them into a hidden garden: a secluded utopia where a stream flows quietly and peach blossom trees stand in full bloom.

When the prince awoke the next morning, he immediately summoned Ahn Gyeon, one of the most accomplished painters of the Joseon court, and ordered him to render the dream into an image. Three days later, the vision was realized as a sweeping ink-wash painting titled "Mongyudowondo," or "Dream Journey to the Peach Blossom Land."

More than five centuries later, in 2002, writer Choi In-ho (1945–2013) revisited the legendary painting, weaving its origin story together with an ancient Korean folktale about a tyrant king who seeks to tear apart two lovers. He titled it "Mongyudowondo."

A prolific author and screenwriter, Choi was also a devoted theatergoer, often attending musicals with his longtime friend Yoon Ho-jin, a musical director under legacy production house ACOM. After reading the novel, Yoon became determined to adapt it for the stage: a story about a king, Yeokyung, who falls in love with a woman he sees in his dreams. The king meets the woman, Arang, in real life and tries to separate her from her husband, Domi, and make her his.

The project, now titled "Arang," took longer than anticipated — over two decades — in part because Yoon was searching for collaborators who could fully realize his vision.

Central to that vision was the challenge of conjuring utopia live. Theater is always ready for spectacle and has long imagined ideal worlds in dazzling ways. But Yoon wanted something more attuned to the source material.

He turned back to ink. To realize his idea, he enlisted ink-wash media artist Tak Young-hwan, known for his work in ink-wash animation.

"My work is quiet, restrained, almost still. I did wonder whether it would work in musical theater," Tak told the Korea JoongAng Daily in an interview in Yongsan District, central Seoul, on Jan. 26. "But I stayed focused on bringing out the authentic beauty of Korea."

Tak, who holds a master's degree in fine arts from Musashino Art University's Department of Imaging Arts and Sciences in Japan and a Ph.D. from Jeonbuk National University's College of Fine Arts in Korea, mainly works with ink wash — hand-drawn, then digitally rendered into moving animation. His works have been exhibited across Korea, Japan and Taiwan, and have also been used in various commercial projects, including in advertisements and Korean dramas. He has received accolades including an International Emmy nomination for interactive media and the top prize at the Asia Digital Art Awards. He is currently teaching at Tainan University of Technology's Department of Multimedia & Animation.

"Arang" marks the first time he has worked on a musical. Tak spent a year and a half creating 15 landscapes, including the peach blossom paradise.

The outcome is dreamy. The scenes feel like pages from a storybook and have a transporting power. More importantly, they play a major role in advancing the narrative.

The sun, for instance, illuminates everything beneath it like a source of power, symbolizing the king's obsessive desire for Arang. Subtle shifts in the sun's position and hue were also intended to mirror his psychological turbulence.

By contrast, the moon symbolizes Arang and Domi. The changing phases of the moon reveal the characters' inner states: the full moon signals abundance and happiness; the waning moon, anxiety and crisis; and the waxing moon stands for Arang and Domi's unyielding love — reunion, recovery and permanence.

The glimmer of the moon against the w...

Kim Bong-ryeol

The author is an architect and a former president of the Korea National University of Arts.

In the early 20th century, Germany, then considered an industrial latecomer in Europe, formed the association Deutscher Werkbund to accelerate modernization. Architects and designers banded together to design every aspect of daily life, from sofas to urban planning. They developed streamlined electric fans, simple but ergonomic chairs, efficient kitchen and bathroom designs and, most ambitiously, the modern apartment itself.

In 1927, Stuttgart hosted a Werkbund exhibition for housing, aimed at proposing collective housing prototypes that were functional, economical and capable of standardization. At the Weissenhof Estate, organizers constructed a full-scale showcase comprising 163 housing units spread across 21 buildings, all designed by 17 avant-garde architects. While some detached houses were included in the exhibition, its focus was on row houses and small apartment blocks.

The overall direction of the exhibition was entrusted to the German master Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, who also designed a four-story apartment building accommodating 24 households. He invited his mentor Peter Behrens, his colleague Walter Gropius and even his foremost rival Le Corbusier.

Modernism's leading figures thus converged in one place. Le Corbusier introduced both row houses and detached homes that faithfully embodied his five principles of modern architecture. The most radical proposal came from Dutch architect J. J. P. Oud, who designed a terrace house complex. On a gentle slope, he arranged five simple homes in a row for working-class residents. Though Hans Scharoun contributed a house incorporating curved forms, most buildings took the shape of simple rectangular boxes with unadorned white facades.

Critics at the time, accustomed to steeply pitched roofs and ornate villas, derided the exhibition, saying it felt like "a village on the outskirts of Jerusalem." Mies countered, "What we designed here is not buildings but a new way of life for a new era."

The Weissenhof exhibition became a crucial turning point in the modern architecture movement, after which cities around the world began to fill with boxlike structures. The apartments and minimalist interiors proposed there became the archetypal form of 20th-century housing. Our standardized way of life, for better or worse, is also part of the legacy of Weissenhof. Today, the estate is recognized as an Unesco World Heritage site and remains a reference point for debates on density, affordability and design.

This article was originally written in Korean and translated by a bilingual reporter with the help of generative AI tools. It was then edited by a native English-speaking editor. All AI-assisted translations are reviewed and refined by our newsroom.

Won Ok-kum

The author is a representative of the Migrant Center Donghaeng and is originally from Vietnam.

A recent survey by the Korea Federation of SMEs of 310 companies employing foreign workers found that 48.7 percent favored maintaining the current rule that bars migrant workers from switching jobs for three years. Business owners argue that job mobility would worsen labor shortages at small firms and quickly turn into a management crisis. Behind this view lies a pervasive fear of attrition: After investing time and money recruiting and training workers, employers worry they will leave for better conditions elsewhere. That anxiety has come to dominate policy debate and decision-making.

But the discussion may be proceeding without addressing the most important question of all: Why do those workers want to leave in the first place? Mobility is not a matter of caprice; it is often a plea for survival.

A Vietnamese man I counseled, whom I will call Minh, worked at a metal processing factory in Gyeonggi. For two years after arriving in Korea, he said, he never once considered changing jobs. When he finally came to see me, his hands were covered in cuts, and his voice trembled as he spoke. Promised allowances had been repeatedly delayed. The sandwich panel dormitory where he lived was riddled with mold and offered no protection against the winter cold. He told me he had been placed in front of dangerous machinery without receiving even a single proper safety briefing. What Minh wanted was not more money. He wanted only the minimum conditions required to work with dignity. Under the current Employment Permit System, however, he remains bound to that workplace unless the employer consents to his departure. Behind companies' claims of worsening labor shortages lie the silenced voices of people collapsing from exhaustion. For them, changing jobs is not a whim but a last resort.

The reasons Korean youth avoid so-called 3-D jobs, or dirty, dangerous and difficult manual work, and the reasons migrant workers seek to leave their workplaces are not fundamentally different. Low wages, poor welfare and a lack of opportunities to advance their career drive people away. The logic that "there are not enough workers, so mobility must be banned" applies only to migrant workers in Korea, a grim exception in a democratic country and neither a fair nor effective method of solving labor shortages.

Imagine if the government announced that Korean workers will also be barred from changing jobs for three years because small- and medium-sized enterprises are struggling with labor shortages. The country would erupt in protest. Freedom of occupational choice is one of the most basic rights guaranteed by the Constitution.

The National Human Rights Commission of Korea and the International Labour Organization have repeatedly warned that the Employment Permit System risks forced labor. Migrant workers, as human beings, have the right to preserve their dignity, and the ability to leave an abusive workplace is the minimum safeguard of that dignity. Yet Korea's laws and institutions apply this value to people differently based on their nationality.

None of this negates the hardships faced by small businesses. But forcibly tying people to their jobs will never raise their skill levels or productivity. A worker whose body is trapped in a factory while their mind has already left cannot produce quality goods with care. Expecting innovation or growth from workplaces filled with conflict and distrust is wishful thinking.

The real solution lies in having corporations create reasons for foreign workers to stay. That means paying fair wages, ensuring safe working environments and fostering a culture that respects them as members of society.

Migrant workers are not disposable stopgaps in the Korean economy. The cries of "I can't endure this any longer" heard on factory floors must be transformed into the hope of "I want to keep working here." What Korea needs is n...

Lee Hyun-sang

The author is a columnist at the JoongAng Ilbo.

The reaction from the ruling camp was explosive after the first-instance court sentenced former first lady Kim Keon Hee to one year and eight months in prison — a punishment widely described as "light," given that the sentence amounted to just one-ninth of the 15-year term sought by prosecutors. Some criticized the ruling as falling short of public expectations of justice, while others went further, branding it "lenient" and calling for judicial reform.

That reaction is difficult to accept at face value. From a judge's perspective, what incentive would there be to show leniency to the spouse of a former administration leader whose political standing has collapsed so far that prosecutors sought the harshest penalties possible? For the judiciary, imposing a heavy sentence would arguably have been the easier choice, as it would have shielded the court from public outrage and political attacks. The ruling itself reveals how the bench struggled between adherence to legal reasoning and evidence and the pressure to reflect social demands.

Although the sentence was lighter than many expected, the court sharply rebuked the defendant by invoking the phrase "frugal but not shabby, and elegant but not extravagant." It was a pointed moral censure. While legal constraints prevented a heavier punishment, moral responsibility would not be glossed over. Judges ultimately cannot choose applause from the public over the letter of the law and established precedent. The verdict reflects a collision between the special prosecutor's expansive indictment framework and the principle of judicial proportionality. It serves as a reminder of the severity of the principle of legality: However detestable an alleged offense may appear, punishment must rest solely on grounds explicitly provided by law.

This brings responsibility back to the special prosecutor. Insisting until the end that Kim should be charged as co-principal in the alleged stock manipulation case was close to a strategic blunder. Establishing joint principal liability requires strict proof of close coordination and a clear division of roles. In the earlier Deutsche Motors case, other alleged financiers were acquitted as co-principals and only convicted after charges were amended to include aiding and abetting. But the special prosecutor, driven by political considerations, clung to the most difficult charge to prove. Courts cannot convict a defendant on an aiding charge that prosecutors themselves did not bring. The prosecution's overreach effectively foreclosed the path to a heavier sentence.

The ruling camp's response is also internally contradictory. President Lee Jae Myung has long defended himself against his own legal risks by emphasizing evidentiary standards and criticizing what he described as politically motivated overreach by prosecutors. He and his allies have repeatedly invoked the presumption of innocence and warned against branding defendants guilty on unproven allegations. Yet in Kim's case, legal reasoning is cast aside in favor of emotional outrage directed at the judiciary.

The statue of Justitia, the Roman goddess of justice, above the entrance to the Supreme Court in Seocho District, southern Seoul, differs from the familiar Western image. Instead of a blindfold, she holds a book and gazes forward with her eyes wide open. The message is often read as a call to face reality. But seeing reality does not mean aligning the law with the shouts from the public square. Justice gains authority only when its gaze remains fixed on statutory language and the substance of evidence, unmoved by public opinion.

It is hard to argue that the first-instance court's verdict fully satisfies public sentiment, and it is equally true that the ruling may not be the final word. Appellate review remains. Still, the decision underscored that trials are neither staged events nor outlets for emotional catharsis. After announcing its...

Talks between Korea and the United States have run into difficulty after U.S. President Donald Trump warned that Washington could reimpose reciprocal tariffs of 25 percent on Korean goods, citing delays in the National Assembly's handling of a special law on U.S. investment. Kim Jung-kwan, Minister of Trade, Industry and Resources, traveled to Washington and held two rounds of discussions with U.S. Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick, but returned home earlier this week without a resolution.

Comments made by Kim after his return suggest Washington believes Korea is intentionally dragging its feet on the legislation. Although Seoul says it has explained the Assembly's procedural realities to dispel misunderstandings, signs that the United States is preparing a notice for its official gazette raise the risk that the 25 percent tariff could be reinstated in a worst-case scenario. The urgency was underscored when Han Jeoung-ae, policy chief of the Democratic Party, held a holiday press briefing outlining plans to process the bill in late February or early March. The move has fueled speculation that Washington may be holding firm to the threat of reimposing the tariff until the bill is passed.

An America First approach from the Donald Trump administration that shows little regard for allies has become constant. The most realistic goal now is to end the standoff without the 25 percent tariff being reinstated, given the heavy blow such a move would deal to Korean industry. The ruling and opposition parties should consult from the standpoint of national interest rather than partisan rivalry and move swiftly to pass the necessary legislation. The government must also consider the likelihood that Washington will repeatedly use the tariff threat in future talks over issues that have been postponed, including the selection of U.S. investment destinations and decisions on investment scale.

Separately, Seoul should closely track, based on reciprocity, follow-up steps by Washington on commitments made in last year's Korea-U.S. trade and security fact sheet. Those include cooperation on building nuclear-powered submarines, allowing the reprocessing of spent nuclear fuel rods and permitting uranium enrichment. Foreign Minister Cho Hyun recently mentioned the possibility of a U.S. negotiating team visiting Korea in February, and a tangible conclusion should be reached as soon as possible.

Since the start of the year, Korea-U.S. relations have resembled a walk on thin ice across a range of trade and security issues. Open opposition by the U.S.-led United Nations Command to a bill promoted by the Unification Ministry on the peaceful use of the demilitarized zone does little to help manage bilateral ties. This is an issue that calls for coordination at the presidential level.

This article was originally written in Korean and translated by a bilingual reporter with the help of generative AI tools. It was then edited by a native English-speaking editor. All AI-assisted translations are reviewed and refined by our newsroom.

This article is by Sarah Chea and read by an artificial voice.

This article is by Kim Su-min and read by an artificial voice.

Rising memory chip prices and a weak won are pushing up the cost of consumer electronics in Korea, most noticeably in laptops and smartphones. As AI features become standard in home appliances and cars, analysts warn that higher memory costs could spread to prices of other domestic brands.

Samsung Electronics is weighing a price increase for its upcoming Galaxy S26 series, industry insiders said Wednesday, as rising component costs make it increasingly difficult to hold the line on prices.

Industry sources said Samsung's Mobile eXperience division plans to raise prices for the Galaxy S26 when it launches next month, but is exploring options to soften the blow for consumers. The company has kept Galaxy S-series prices unchanged for three consecutive years since 2023, but executives reportedly now view an increase as unavoidable.

The primary driver is a sharp rise in memory chip prices.

Market tracker Counterpoint Research estimates that prices for smartphone memory will climb an additional 40 percent through the second quarter of this year, raising overall manufacturing costs for finished devices by 8 to 10 percent.

TrendForce said memory's share of smartphone production costs has risen from about 10 to 15 percent in the past to more than 20 percent in recent years, reflecting structural changes tied to the expansion of AI functions.

Roh Tae-moon, president of Samsung Electronics and head of its Device eXperience business, acknowledged the pressure earlier this month at CES 2026, saying "there will be some form of price impact from rising memory prices."

Price increases have already appeared in other product categories. Samsung's 2026 Galaxy Book 6 laptop series costs roughly 20 to 48 percent more than the previous Galaxy Book 5 Pro line. LG Electronics' new LG Gram Pro AI 2026 laptop also carries a higher price tag, with the 16-inch model priced at 3.14 million won ($2,200), about 500,000 won more than its predecessor.

Exchange rates have added another layer of pressure. In markets where companies both procure components and sell finished products in dollars, currency fluctuations have limited impact. In Korea, however, manufacturers typically purchase components in dollars while selling products in won, leaving them exposed to the weak local currency.

Costs tied to the dollar — including components, logistics and overseas labor — have risen broadly. Samsung sources a large portion of its mobile application processors (AP), the core chips that power smartphones, from U.S.-based Qualcomm. The company's cumulative spending on mobile APs reached a record 10.93 trillion won through the third quarter of last year.

Against that backdrop, Samsung has cautiously discussed applying its in-house Exynos chips to domestic Galaxy models for the first time in about five years, since the Galaxy S21. The company remains concerned, however, that using different processors by country or raising prices more sharply in the domestic market could spark criticism over discrimination against Korean consumers.

Cost pressures from memory chips are also spreading beyond personal electronics. AI capabilities are increasingly built into refrigerators, washing machines and automobiles, raising the risk that higher chip prices could feed into a broader range of consumer goods.

In the auto industry, the shift toward software-defined vehicles and more advanced autonomous driving systems has significantly increased the number of semiconductors used per vehicle.

Hyundai Motor's all-new Palisade, released in 2025, rose in price by 6 to 7 million won depending on the trim, far exceeding the 3 to 4 million won increase seen in the previous model change from 2022 to 2024.

The 2025 Palisade included a wide range of AI-enabled features, including an AI assistant, a next-generation infotainment system and a rear camera cleaning function.

An auto industry official said manufacturers are trying to stab...

This article is by Yi Woo-lim and read by an artificial voice.

Nikon used to be considered a camera brand preferred by professionals and older segments of the market, yet in Korea, over 61 percent of its new mirrorless and Z Cinema line customers are Gen-Zs and millennials.

At a time when smartphones advertise 200-megapixel cameras — more than professional mirrorless cameras — and use AI to perfect every shot, traditional cameras are booming among younger generations, with manual dials and controls paired with lenses and larger sensors.

Cameras have now evolved from simple tools into "hip" accessories that signal personal taste. Jung Hae-hwan, CEO of Nikon Imaging Korea, explained this shift during an interview on Jan. 20. Jung took the lead of the Korean subsidiary of Nikon in 2019 and serves as the first Korean head of the company, which celebrates its 20th anniversary this year.

"Smartphones once posed a major threat," said Jung at the Nikon Imaging Korea headquarters in Gangnam District, southern Seoul. "Now, the smartphone and camera markets have clearly differentiated."

Jung said that more young people are drawn to the effort required to take a photo with a dedicated camera, rather than the perfect, seamless images produced by smartphones.

Two cameras sat on Jung's desk: the Zf and Zfc. These heritage models draw inspiration from the FM2, a popular Nikon film camera from the 1980s.

"The dials and buttons require manual operation, just like old film cameras, yet the internal functions are cutting-edge digital," Jung said.

These products are hits among younger users who want analog aesthetics with digital convenience.

Younger buyers are now Nikon's core demographic. The share of users in their teens, 20s, and 30s who registered mirrorless and cinema line products on Nikon's website rose from 31 percent in 2021 to 61 percent as of November 2025, according to Nikon Imaging Korea.

While the 30s age group grew by 7 percentage points, the group 20 and under jumped from 7 percent to 30 percent. Notably, younger buyers account for 66 percent of sales for the "heritage line," referring to the Nikon Zf and Zfc, according to the company.

Jung identified the pandemic as the turning point for this trend. "Social distancing limited outdoor activities," he said. "People began sharing their daily lives through SNS and YouTube vlogs." K-pop idols and celebrities also began using Nikon cameras more frequently, even when we didn't run extra advertisements. This changed the brand's image for teenagers. They no longer see Nikon as a relic for fathers, but as a hip brand.

Spending habits have also shifted. Premium products priced between 2 million won ($1,380) and 3 million won now lead the market. In the past, budget models under 1 million won were the standard.

High prices do not stop young buyers, according to Jung.

"I realized the market had changed when young customers told me they could afford a camera," Jung said. "They noted that an iPhone and iPad combo costs even more."

When Nikon opens pop-up stores in Seoul, people queue for up to 5 hours before opening to buy a limited-edition camera, according to Jung.

The strategic importance of the Korean market is growing. While annual revenue stands at 40 billion won and operating profit at 1 billion won, Korea serves as a vital test bed for Nikon. The company even exported its Korean pop-up store model to other global branches.

Jung wants to grow Nikon's video presence in 2026. "The video industry has high entry barriers because of established brands," Jung said. "We will build our position by investing steadily in cinematic cameras."

This article is by Lee Jian and read by an artificial voice.

[REVIEW]

New musical "Arang," which opened Tuesday at the National Theater of Korea, is a game changer in the local theater scene.

Produced by ACOM, behind large-scale historical musicals such as "Hero" and "Empress Myeongseong," "Arang" carries an experimental excitement and, simultaneously, the scale and shine of legacy prestige theater.

Hand-painted ink wash imagery on stage, decadent hanbok (traditional Korean dress), poetic lyrics, orchestration that fluidly moves through Eastern and Western sounds and choreography brimming with drama add up to a nuanced and refreshing show that prioritizes meaning over ornament and sets a new bar for the genre.

The show takes one brazen gamble, however, by setting its protagonist as a technical device, and not a moral one. More bluntly, he is incredibly unlikable.

Set in 460 A.D., the musical follows a king of Baekje (18 B.C. to A.D. 660) named Yeokyung. Constantly anxious about losing his throne — a recurring concern of many kings in the Korean monarchy — he is plagued by nightmares.

This is where the musical opens. In another nightmare, the king wanders a sort of postapocalyptic wasteland amid a sandstorm until, this time, he arrives at a picturesque, dreamlike utopia.

A full moon that gleams against the shimmering water, with majestic mountains behind, and peach blossom trees with petals blowing in the wind like snow — which are hand-painted with blotted ink on hanji (mulberry paper) — make it feel as though audiences have truly entered a dream, setting the aesthetic of the show.

In this paradise, the king encounters a woman whom he immediately falls in love with. When he wakes from the dream, he orders his loyal servant, Hyangsil, to find her. And it turns out she exists: Arang. But she is newly married and deeply in love with another man, Domi.

From here, events spiral into a series of violent, blood-spattering destruction as the king's maniacal desire to make Arang his wife curdles into obsession and plain madness.

Villains can be protagonists, to be fair. But the musical's king is not engaging enough for the audience to follow his line of action, especially because viewers are not given time to understand him beyond the madness — his father was assassinated and he rose to the throne during precarious times. Giving only a few lyrics and lines to achieve this, though it makes for a fast-moving show, is insufficient.

But to its bracing credit, the show does not seek audience sympathy for Yeokyung, and there is a distinct refusal to redeem him. His actions are undeniably deranged and the musical's resistance to soften them is a wise urge resisted. Still, as a viewer, this reporter could not understand why she had to sit through four of his solos — the most in the show. We get it. You have issues.

The choice crystallizes in the moment Yeokyung kills Hyangsil after the faithful servant pleads with him to abandon his fixation on Arang. When the blade falls, the stage empties emotionally. Yeokyung stands alone, staring unapologetically into the darkened auditorium, unforgiven and isolated both within the narrative and from the audience. He stares out blankly under the spotlight.

The weakness is offset by the rest of the show.

The score moves fluidly between Eastern and Western melodies, blending violins with haegeum (two-stringed fiddle) and flute with daegeum (large bamboo flute) and piri (reed instrument). The result does not sound new or inventive — the melodies feel safe and slightly bland — but it is executed well to achieve its intended purpose, which is to be a recognizable musical theater score with distinct traditional sounds and rhythm.

One of the most memorable numbers is "O Moon, My Moon," sung by Arang and the couple's spiritual protector Bia in the first act as Domi leaves at the king's command, promising to return.

Sung in the style of jeongga, a restrained and refined traditional vocal form, the piece gai...