Weather and Seasons show up everywhere in Korean stories, as the most complimenting entities. Someone walks home in the rain, a room feels too hot, a grandmother cuts fresh watermelon on a nice summer day, and the winter is especially cold this time. We’ve witnessed these scenarios one too many times. You don’t need me to remind you; we all know exactly which ones they are.
In a lot of Korean storytelling, weather replaces explanation. It’s like when a character feels something, the story changes temperature. Take Our Beloved Summer, their story makes me think of the kind of heat that sticks to you and makes everything harder than it needs to be. And when rain shows up, it’s usually when there is an emotional spillover or a quiet realisation. Something similar can be seen in My Mister. The scene palette is cold, grey and damp. Emotion pain exists without speeches because the environment is already doing the work.
Then comes an all time classic Goblin, where weather moves from subtle shadowing to almost mythic. Snow becomes a recurring element tied to fate, separation and waiting. When something is about to begin, or end. We learn to read it instinctively because the story trusts that we will. What makes Goblin interesting is that the weather is not always heavy. At times it is gentle, and at times, it is isolating. The same snow that feels romantic and promising in one moment feels unbearable and a bitter reminder in another.
In Parasite, rain is a single shared event with such deep consequences. For one family it is refreshing, for another, it is catastrophic. No one speaks upfront about the inequality. The weather does its thing, and the aftermath speaks for itself. Here, rain is a social divider. The contrast of how the rain is even and heavy in all places, but the impact is anything but equal is shown brutally. And the film trusted the audience to make that connection by themselves.
In Summer Strike, there is a warmth that is slow, intentional and nostalgic. The drama positions itself clearly as slice of life and sticks to it. Summer here is not a vacation, but a way of life. “Yeoreum” ( translates to summer in Korean), is a young woman, burnt out by corporate life, moves to a small seaside village, to just pause. Days pass by quietly, people go about their routines and that is the whole point. The summer she steps into is closer to the ones we remember. Full of ordinary moments, casual magic and a life that allows her to exist with a sense of belonging.
What I believe makes all of this work is familiarity. Everyone knows what it feels like to walk home drenched in sweat by the heat, or wait out in the cold on days you’ve not put on enough layers. Weather lives in our bodies before it is expressed in language and dialogues. Writers and creators make pretty good use of this emotional shortcut.
Maybe this article was about the weather. Maybe it was about revisiting some iconic shows. However you read it, one thing is for sure. When the weather is good, bad, or just enough, everyone understands what that means.
Written by – Samhitha Avvari
About the author –
Samhitha is an avid hobbyist, exploring writing, photography and personal blogging through intention and curiosity. She hopes to build a personal archive that reflects her journey, and the way she sees the world. She believes in romanticising the ordinary, maximising life with every experience, in a world that often feels fast. Her creative practice is rooted in capturing casual magic; like the light on a street corner, ducks in the park, a sentence worth remembering. Samhitha is fascinated by the interplay between language shaping identity, connection, and expression, with a particular interest in Korean language and society.