Tale of the Nine-Tailed
Directed by: Kang Shin-hyo
Written by: Han Woo-ri
Original Network: tvN
Year of Release: 2020
Available on: Prime Video

I stumbled upon Tale of the Nine-Tailed on Prime Video while in search of yet another good Oriental fantasy series. I’m pleased to report that it did not disappoint. Korean dramas, with their taste for intricate storytelling and mythological depth, have a way of drawing you into their worlds. This one, with its blend of folklore, romance, and supernatural intrigue, is no exception.

At its core, the series centres around Lee Yeon (played by the handsome and impressively toned, if thin, Lee Dong-wook), a centuries-old gumiho who traded his role as a mountain guardian to protect the reincarnation of his lost love. Modern-day Lee Yeon works as a supernatural enforcer of sorts, ensuring harmony between realms. But his serene exterior masks the anguish of a love lost to fate’s cruelties. Lee Dong-wook is wonderful in the role, radiating charisma and a sort of ethereal gravitas. He reminded me of Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, but more imposing and layered.

Equally compelling is Lee Rang, played by Kim Bum, who takes on the role of Yeon’s bitter and mischief-making half-brother. With his sly grin and palpable disdain for humanity, he’s every bit the trickster you want to see wreak havoc—though you secretly hope for his redemption. Amusingly, he looks strikingly like a younger, more devilish Peter Mandelson, which somehow adds to his charm.

Then there’s Jo Bo-ah as Nam Ji-ah, the intrepid producer investigating supernatural phenomena. She’s pretty and resourceful, a character written to inspire admiration. Yet, I found myself curiously unmoved by her. Perhaps it’s the performance or the lack of emotional depth in her character, but she left me feeling strangely hollow. I just didn’t care about the search for her missing parents that drives much of the plot. A pity, given how central her search is to the plot.

The narrative itself is a snaking labyrinth, typical of Oriental television. Plots within plots, detours into side stories, and threads of backstory tied together by the supernatural—it’s a long and winding road. The journey is fascinating, even when you feel a bit lost. It’s the sort of storytelling that demands your patience and rewards your investment.

Visually, the series is stunning. The effects are first class, the sets rich with atmosphere; the fight scenes are impressively choreographed. The world-building is soaked in Korean mythology, providing a depth that feel both ancient and accessible.

Something else caught my attention as I watched: the appearance of the actors. There’s no denying that they all look immaculate, with sharp jawlines, flawless skin, and perfectly symmetrical features. It’s hard not to speculate on what they might have looked like before going under the knife. In Korea, plastic surgery seems as compulsory as obesity and nose rings are among British feminists. The difference, of course, is that Koreans aim for an aesthetic ideal, while the latter at best embrace an anti-aesthetic of aggressive ugliness: at worst, mind you—and this may be closer to the truth—they are too lazy to watch what they shovel into their self-pitying mouths. Say what you will about cultural norms, but the uniformity of beauty in Korean entertainment is striking—even if it leaves one wondering about the individuality buried beneath the perfection.

As another aside, I’ve never tried cosmetics, but, after looking so much at Lee Dong-wook and various other male Oriental actors, I do feel tempted. Would I get away with it? Or would it just attract untoward attention of every kind? I will think about that.

Would I recommend it? Absolutely. It’s a series that stays with you, not least because of its charismatic leads and the poignant themes of love, loss, and redemption. I’ll be digging into the sequel, Tale of the Nine-Tailed 1938, as soon as I’ve wrapped up some A-Level homework—not that this should take very long.

Related posts:

Honour and Mercy in Takashi Miike’s “Hara-Kiri: Death of a Samurai” (2011): A Review

Powered by YARPP.