As soon as news broke that writer Han Kang had won the Nobel Prize in Literature last October, I searched for themes related to Korean literature that could be explored in a film magazine, then put together a special feature on media adaptations of Korean novels. The article, published later that month, covered eight novels, from Gu Byeong-mo’s The Old Woman with the Knife to Hye-young Pyun’s The Hole, although the total number of works considered for the piece exceeded ten. Several of these adaptations were released in 2024 alone. Troll Factory and Because I Hate Korea, both based on novels of the same name by Chang Kang-myoung, reached theaters in March and October, respectively; the Netflix original My Name Is Loh Kiwan, adapted from Cho Hae-jin’s novel I Met Loh Kiwan, was also released in March.

        Yet it would be a stretch to regard film adaptations of novels as an industry trend. Webtoons and web novels have a firm grip on screen adaptations, and their influence is only growing stronger. (The Trauma Code: Heroes on Call, the hit Netflix series that aired over the Lunar New Year holidays, is also based on a web novel.) While covering this topic, I noticed an interesting distinction in what draws filmmakers to adapt literature as opposed to web-based content. While not a universal rule, the former tends to be driven by a desire to delve into the original work’s themes, whereas the latter is often motivated by the appeal of specific characters or scenes. For example, director Min Kyu-dong adapted The Old Woman with the Knife into a film, drawn to the rich cinematic potential he found in “the novel’s exploration of truth and falsehood, as well as its tension between past and present.” In contrast, director Lee Jang-hoon decided to take on a drama adaptation of Study Group, eager to “bring the webtoon’s charismatic protagonist to screen.”

        So do adaptations of literature into films and dramas emerge when a visual storyteller encounters a work that reflects their own artistic themes? While production companies often initiate film rights, the most compelling content comes to life when a director channels their creative vision through a literary work that resonates with the story they wish to tell. This was precisely the case with the film and drama adaptations of Love in the Big City, released on October 1, 2024 and October 21, 2024, respectively. Both were based on Sang Young Park’s novel of the same name, with the film directed by Lee Eon-hee and the drama unconventionally helmed by four directors—Son Taegyeom, Hur Jinho, Hong Jiyeong, and Kim Sein—with each handling two episodes apiece in the eight-part series. The film adapts only “Jaehee,” the first of the four chapters of the novel, while the drama brings the entire book to the small screen. Although the two adaptations were developed independently, they happened to premiere in the same month last year, and like the novel, both stood out for their embrace of the ordinary. What defines this “ordinariness” within these works is their focus on people often seen as outsiders, oddballs, or misfits in Korean society. The directors peeled away layers of stigma, misunderstanding, and myth by meticulously capturing the characters’ quotidian lives.

        The film version of Love in the Big City follows the friendship between Jaehee (Kim Go Eun) and Heungsoo (Noh Sang-hyun), two French literature majors who are considered the “ultimate outsiders” in their department. Their lives from the age of twenty to thirty-three unfold across familiar milestones—graduation, employment, romance, and marriage. As they navigate these experiences together, the outsider duo gradually comes to be seen as ordinary. What is key here is the “duo” element. While the novel’s original chapter “Jaehee” primarily focused on the queer literature student Young (renamed Heungsoo in the film), the adaptation significantly expands Jaehee’s role, reshaping the narrative into a story about both characters. This shift reinforces the film’s effort to highlight the ordinary characteristics of those on the outskirts of the mainstream. The decision to reframe the narrative with two equally central protagonists aligns with director Lee Eon-hee’s longstanding creative focus on one-on-one relationships. In an interview ahead of the film’s release, Lee revealed she has always been drawn to stories that “observe the dynamics between two people.” She chose to adapt “Jaehee” to “bring forward the charm of a female character who had remained in the background of a male protagonist’s narrative.” Lee’s filmography reflects a consistent interest in marginalized figures. From her debut film . . .ing, which centers on a girl born with a congenital hand deformity, to the mystery drama Missing, which portrays the lives of a single mother and a Chinese nanny, she has constantly turned her lens toward the vulnerable and marginalized. Given this, it is no surprise that Jaehee—an outsider among her peers—came into Lee’s line of sight.

        The theme of ordinariness is reinforced in the film in various ways, letting it take root and expand. At its heart is the everyday life of Jaehee and Heungsoo, who, as the novel describes, at some point became “the closest and most comfortable people in the world to each other.” Their friendship, initially guarded, takes a turn during the summer they turn twenty, when Jaehee learns that Heungsoo is gay. Recognizing in each other an undeniable outsider trait and an equally insatiable appetite for nightlife, they become “inseparable overnight.” Their bond further deepens when a suspicious man starts lurking around Jaehee’s studio, prompting them to become roommates. The film brims with moments that capture their day-to-day intimacy—like the times they “fall asleep side by side with dried-up cosmetic masks  glued to their faces,” or “sharing quick meals of cold rice with old kimchi.” Scenes overflow with daily rituals: watching movies in their messy studio, swearing off alcohol only to break that promise in front of a bowl of hangover noodles cooked to perfection. Alongside the good times, the film confronts the more somber moments as well: Jaehee’s crushing disappointment as she questions whether Heungsoo values their friendship as deeply as she does, and the way their arguments, sparked by something as trivial as uncollected trash, quickly spiral out of control. The camera dwells on the spaces they occupy—the living room, the bathroom, their separate bedrooms—capturing the details of their daily life, from razors to cosmetics. None of these objects are remarkable. Their routines, the places they go, are all familiar and their emotions are relatable. Through carefully layered depictions of their everyday life, the protagonists seamlessly blend into “normal.” For Heungsoo, a gay man burdened by society’s judgment of him as abnormal, and Jaehee, labeled as promiscuous, this is the director’s gift—a sense of freedom.

        In its latter half, the film makes another move to close the gap between the protagonists and the audience. It expands on a moment from the original story—when “in the first semester of senior year, Jaehee defied her (widely recognized) job market handicap of being a female humanities major and scored a job at a large electronics company”—by adding a layer of realism through an imagined detail: an inserted sequence shows Jaehee, once brimming with personality in both style and spirit, now attending job interviews in the same black suit as everyone else, followed by her struggles to adapt to corporate life. The portrayal of her early days as a working professional is tinged with sorrow. One of its most poignant scenes captures Jaehee on the subway, now an office worker, gazing with quiet resignation at another young woman across from her dressed in the same unremarkable trench coat and flats. The fear and despair creeping over her, the unsettling realization she might be losing herself, are emotions all too familiar to anyone who has already faded into the muted tones of corporate life. A similar current runs through Heungsoo’s time in the military. While the original novel presents this period lightheartedly, centering on Jaehee’s letters, the film is more pensive in mood, focusing on Heungsoo’s expressions, heavy with uncertainty about his future. Additionally, the film delves deeper into Heungsoo’s life before he becomes a novelist, depicting his struggles as a job seeker, making his journey feel more familiar. In summary, by leading both protagonists through the inevitable dulling of life that comes with the transition from youth to adulthood, the director further anchors their identity in the ordinary.

        The drama series Love in the Big City stays closely connected to the novel—author Sang Young Park himself penned the script and the directors were committed to capturing the essence of the original work. However, in adapting to the conventions of television drama, it leans toward a coming-of-age narrative with clearer emotional highs and lows. The four directors, by directing two episodes each, create a natural four-part structure. Director Son Taegyeom’s “Miae” (episodes 1-2) explores protagonist Young’s friendship with Miae (Lee Sookyung) and his naive romance with Namgyu (Kwon Hyuk). Director Hur Jinho’s “A Bite of Rockfish, Taste the Universe” (episodes 3-4) delves into Young’s strained yet unbreakable relationship with his mother (Kim Sungryung) as well as his relationship with Youngsoo (Na Hyunwoo), his next lover after Namgyu. Director Hong Jiyeong’s “Love in the Big City” (episodes 5-6) focuses on Young’s central romantic interest, Gyuho (Jin Hoeun), while Director Kim Sein’s “Late Rainy Season Vacation” (episodes 7-8) follows Young as he reflects on his past with Gyuho while building a new relationship with Habibi (Kim Wonjoong). In essence, the drama charts Young’s journey from his early twenties to his early thirties as he navigates relationships and comes into his own.

        Notably, Young’s growth isn’t confined to a coming-of-age tale about a sexual minority; rather, it extends to the broader experience of youth in general. The drama pulses with the protagonist’s youthful energy, depicting the pursuit of his dreams, the emotional highs and lows of love, family conflicts and reconciliations, and moments of wavering and doubt—all of which shape him as an ordinary young man. Thoughtfully woven with elements from the novel—what Young eats, sees, and passes by—the series preserves the evocative details: blueberries in the freezer, a furiously spinning ceiling fan, an autumn evening at Olympic Park. This delicate balance was made possible by the directors’ shared vision. Ahead of the drama’s release, lead actor Nam Yoonsu and the four directors discussed the story together and unanimously agreed that Love in the Big City, at its core, is a universal love story, with Young conveyed as an ordinary young Korean man. Though separated by generations, Son Taegyeom, Hur Jinho, Hong Jiyeong, and Kim Sein share a sensibility and talent for capturing contemporary lives with striking realism. Under their direction, the drama sidesteps the trope of “the special life of a queer artist in the big city” and instead becomes “the ordinary life of a young person navigating love and success in an expensive city like Seoul.”

        One particularly interesting choice is the drama’s use of death as a thematic undercurrent to heighten its realism, something that the original work only subtly implied. The adaptation strips away romanticized notions of queerness, emphasizing that queer individuals, too, are simply human, bound by mortality like everyone else. This is powerfully reinforced through the drama’s funeral scenes. In the series, Young attends funerals for his first love, Namgyu, and his mother, who had been battling cancer. The novel only briefly mentions the death of Namgyu (referred to as “K3” in the novel) through a text message about his funeral and merely hints at his mother’s passing, whereas the drama brings these losses to the forefront. But the theme manifests itself even more directly through Young’s suicide attempt. After discovering that his second boyfriend, Youngsu, had deliberately approached him as part of his research on homosexuality—described in Youngsu’s own writing as “capitalism’s mental illness” (from his article as a researcher at the Institute of Ethnic and Social Culture)—and facing the sting of blatant rejection, Young is devastated. In despair, he overdoses. The scene, shot in a long take from a distance, lingers on Young as he swallows the pills one by one, gradually ratcheting up the tension (in the novel, he drinks pesticide). Even without pinpointing specific examples, death’s presence looms over the entire drama.

        Episodes 3 and 4 revolve around Young caring for his ailing mother, while her funeral at the beginning of episode 5 sets the tone for the latter half of the series. “Kylie”—the name Young gives to the HIV he has contracted—plays a crucial role. The drama subtly threads his inner turmoil throughout, capturing both the enduring fear that death might come at any moment as well as his surrender to the idea that its timing no longer matters. Remarkably, this ever-present shadow of death paradoxically transforms him into someone who clings fiercely to life. Like light visible only against darkness, Young’s determination to love and write, despite death’s looming presence, radiates unmistakable vitality. This culminates in the final episode’s closing scene where he watches fireworks with friends and hope flares brightly within him. Essentially, the queer character in Love in the Big City, through confronting the extremity of death, and feeling, thinking, and growing in profound ways, evolves as an ordinary yet vividly living and breathing individual.

        Revisiting these versions of Love in the Big City reminded me of Kelly Reichardt’s Showing Up, currently in theaters. While the film follows a sculptor preparing for an exhibition, its focus, surprisingly, lies in the everyday challenges she faces at home, such as a broken water heater that leaves her unable to shower for days or certain family issues that interfere with her work. Watching it, I came to understand that artists, too, are ordinary people. The abstractness I had always associated with them dissolved, making them feel more tangible. Artworks at exhibitions and artist residency programs resonated in a new, more relatable way. And this experience led to a realization: there needs to be more visual storytelling that conveys how those perceived as peculiar or strange in our society are, in reality, just like everyone else. When we feel a sense of closeness to someone, when we can envision their lives in intimate detail, discrimination and distortion naturally lose their grip. In this light, the film and drama adaptations of Love in the Big City mark a crucial first step. The directors have shaped the novel into a story about ordinary Korean youth who are outsiders, with a keen sense of realism. As a result, these adaptations serve as an essential bridge between those on the fringes and the broader audience.

        Yet another significant achievement of these works is how they crack the media’s distorted representation of queer individuals. For too long, media portrayals, particularly of gay men, have relied on lazy stereotypes: flamboyant fashion, chatty high-pitched voices, and the raised pinky finger while drinking. These one-dimensional depictions have cemented the perception of queer people as distant, almost alien, beings. However, the film and drama adaptations of Love in the Big City have introduced characters free from these exaggerations to affirm that queer people are simply and undeniably human. In other words, these two works, which assert that queer individuals exist everywhere like everyone else, carry symbolic significance in the history of LGBTQ+ media representation, and 2024, the year of their joint release, will be recorded as a pivotal moment.

Translated by Kim Soyoung

Lee Yoochae is a journalist for Cine21 film magazine.

Korean Works Mentioned:

Sang Young Park, Love in the Big City (tr. Anton Hur, Tilted Axis, 2021)     

박상영, 『대도시의 사랑법』 (창비, 2019) 

Gu Byeong-mo, The Old Woman with the Knife (tr. Chi-Young Kim, Canongate, 2022)

구병모, 『파과』 (자음과모음, 2013)

Hye-young Pyun, The Hole (tr. Sora Kim-Russell, Arcade Publishing, 2017)

편혜영, 『홀』 (문학과지성사, 2016) 

Chang Kang-myoung, Troll Factory (EunHaeng NaMu, 2015), Because I Hate Korea (Minumsa, 2015)

장강명, 『댓글부대』 (은행나무, 2015), 『한국이 싫어서』 (민음사, 2015)

Cho Hae-jin, I Met Loh Kiwan (tr. Ji-Eun Lee, University of Hawai’i Press, 2019)

조해진, 『로기완을 만났다』 (창비, 2011)