Conclusion

On July 27, 2007, I was invited to give a talk at Kyung Hee University in Seoul, as part of a seminar about the Korean Wave. Given that movie, manhwa, and television exports had suddenly dropped, and over a year had passed without any big cinematic hits like The Host, there was considerable worry in the entertainment industry that Korea’s great run of pop culture successes was coming to an end. I decided to have a little fun with the topic and people’s worries, so offered the thesis that the Korean Wave was more than dead—it had never lived in the first place.

Just before hitting “send” on my email program, I looked at that thesis again and suddenly had a thought—what else is both dead and undead at the same time? Why zombies, of course. So I quickly titled the paper “Zombie Wave” and submitted it to the seminar organizers.

That turned out to have been a questionable move on my part. Some newspapers got a look at my essay and its catchy title, and not really understanding it, quickly cranked out a bunch of articles about how I was critical of the Korean Wave and thought Korean pop culture was worthless. Good, old-fashioned tabloid journalism. Of course, my essay was actually quite positive about Korea’s many achievements in entertainment and the arts. Nonetheless, soon I was fielding phone calls from my contacts and friends in the industry, upset that I had apparently written such negative things. In the grand scheme of things, the scandal was a small one, but in my little world it was more excitement than I prefer, and it took a few days of damage control to smooth the ruffled feathers.

But I did find it amusing and instructive to see how, despite years of writing positive stories and developing relationships, so many people were so ready to believe the worst. For all of the Korean entertainment industry’s amazing triumphs and feats, there is a real insecurity still, as if people fear their accomplishments are not real and could be taken away at any time. In fact, in all the years I have lived in Korea, despite all the fantastic gains that have been made, I have never heard a producer or executive in the entertainment industry tell me, “Yeah, things are pretty good these days.” The amount of money being made by local filmmakers grew nearly fifteen times larger from 1996 to 2006, but still the movie industry is in trouble. Korean TV exports have grown ten times from what they were, but television people still find times tough. Digital music sales are as big as CD sales once were, but that does not matter.

Part of that worry, I think, comes from how Koreans think about their cultural triumphs of recent years.* “The Korean Wave”—the term originally arose to talk about the success of Korean pop culture abroad, but it has also become emblematic in many people’s minds of all of Korea’s accomplishments, at home and abroad. “Korea is a small country,” people repeat endlessly, “We need to be successful abroad.”

But a quick glance around the world clearly shows that the size of the Korean nation is not the source of the problem. Plenty of artists, singers, actors, and directors succeed in much smaller markets than Korea’s. Iceland is a country full of great music, despite having fewer than a million people. Quebec’s film industry is surprisingly strong these days. Connecting with the world and finding success abroad is very healthy and helpful, but it is not always a necessity.

In Korea, success abroad is even thought to be synonymous with success at home. The reggae artist known as Skull barely made a ripple at home with his band Stony Skunk (although he earned more than a few derisive titters), selling a paltry 30,000 copies of his first three albums combined. But as soon as his solo album made a little bit of noise on the Billboard charts, Korean journalists were suddenly clamoring for interviews. (Yet no amount of success would allow Korean journalists to embrace Korean-American comedian Margaret Cho).

Waving Goodbye

The trouble with talking about a “Korean Wave” is that it does not really explain anything. Korean pop culture crosses many media, demographics, and regions, and it means very different things to different people. Can we really say there is anything specifically “Korean” that allows teenagers in Hong Kong to enjoy Korean pop music, adult movie critics in France to enjoy Korean cinema, housewives in Japan to enjoy its television melodramas, hip-hop fans in Germany to enjoy its b-boy dancers, and college-aged comic book fans in the United States to enjoy its manhwa? “Korean Wave” is a black box, a magical answer that explains everything and nothing.

Which is why I have told these stories with an eye to the business side of pop culture. Great artists come and go, sometimes famous but often unrecognized—the environment needs to be supportive to grow from a singular genius to a general trend. From the Renaissance to rock’n’roll, the great (and even the not-so-great) artistic movements have gone hand-in-hand with changes in society. Pop culture in particular is dependent on the mass media.

Korea’s moments of great creativity seldom spread beyond the nation’s borders. Shin Joong-hyun and the great rock music of the 1960s and early 1970s. The golden age of movies in the late 1950s and 1960s. Korea has had plenty of wonderful, creative artists and movements, but without a larger structure for them, they came and went like a breeze. Indeed, the policies of Korean military governments have been actively hostile to art of all sorts.

The common point through all the different facets of Korea’s pop culture is bigger than just talented artists. It is the infrastructure and business behind the artists that supports them and allows them to operate on a global scale.

As a reporter who concentrates on the entertainment industry, I have seen a lot of changes in Korea’s entertainment scene over the past decade. Indeed, I have seen a lot of changes in the entertainment industry across Asia. When I arrived in Korea for the first time, back in 1996, Korean movies were at their low point, in terms of domestic business, anyhow. The music industry, on the other hand, was at its apex, with the Seo Taiji phenomenon coming to an end just as H.O.T was starting an explosion of dancing pop bands. Television, too, was in a strong run, with drama after drama getting huge ratings, from First Love to Sandglass to Hur Joon.

But as far as the international community is concerned, the ups and downs of Korean pop culture were not on the radar. On occasion, a reporter from Time or AP might write about Seo Taiji or the phenomenon of the day, but on the whole there was little regular coverage of Korean entertainment. Even the trade magazines did very little—Variety ran a few stories out of Korea (often written by correspondents based in Japan or Australia), but The Hollywood Reporter had no correspondent, nor did Billboard. Even the Pusan International Film Festival, as impressive as it was from its beginnings in 1996, had a limited impact on the thinking of journalists.

If there was a big moment of change for the Western media, unsurprisingly, the moment was Shiri. Dimwitted editors in Los Angeles or New York may not know a Biryani from a Bibimbap, but they do recognize the words “record-setting,” not to mention simplistic catch-phrases like “bigger than Titanic” or “the $5 million film pulled in $27 million at the box office.” JSA and Friend cemented the idea in editors’ minds that something was going on in Korea.

Head and Shoulders above the Rest

Despite many of Korea’s biggest pop stars targeting the American market, the only one to make any noise on the Billboard charts was one of the most unexpected: a dreadlocked reggae artist named Skull, almost unknown in his home country, who reached No. 4 on the Billboard R&B/Hiphop Sales Chart.

At the same time, Korean movies were winning awards at international film festivals. Which may not mean much in terms of making money, but it raised awareness. Whether it was Lee Chang-dong impressing people in Vancouver, or Rotterdam with Green Fish, or Kim Ki-duk making people vomit at Venice with fishhooks, Korean films were building a reputation for their stories as well as their profits.

While Korean movies led the way to global recognition in the West, Korean music and television have fared less well there. Rain and Boa and the rest have enthralled fans around Asia, but to North American ears, they sound far too bubblegum and derivative to impress. Most stories about singing stars have centered on how well they are doing in Asia, or, on rare occasions, about plans to bring them to North America or Europe. Or else about the rise of digital distribution channels, which have been at the world’s forefront in Korea.

But there have been no significant stories about Korean pop music that rave about the music for the music’s sake. God knows I have tried to sell such stories but have been met with a brick wall of indifference. Recently, Shin Joong-hyun has gotten some press, but those stories were in large part about the brick wall of indifference the great songwriter has faced in Korea. For the most part, fans of Korean underground music have had very few outlets in the West or in Korea. In fact, several singers—such as Yoonki or Lee Sangeun—have found they can do far better in Japan than they can at home. Hip-hop and b-boy dancing has gotten a little coverage over the years, especially recently, and Park Jin-young has worked tirelessly over the past several years building ties with American R&B and hip-hop producers. But now that Park’s No. 1 creation Rain has gone his separate way, who knows what the future will hold?

Korean television also travels poorly to the West, coming across as histrionic soap operas most of the time. Winter Sonata has been huge all over Asia, and I have gotten emails from Egypt and Eastern Europe raving about Dae Jang Geum. But for people used to CSI and The Sopranos, there are only so many stories of separated twins and dying lost loves that one can take. Tellingly, the biggest Korean television impact in the United States has probably been Bobby Lee and MadTV’s Korean TV parody Taedo, which they translate as Attitudes and Feelings, Both Desirable and Sometimes Secretive. Which is saying something when the parody of a trend travels faster and farther than the trend itself.

Of course, Korea has not changed in a bubble. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon really got people excited, getting unimaginative producers convinced that Western audiences were hungry to see endless martial-arts fantasies. Hollywood, ravenous beast that it is, has steadily absorbed much of Hong Kong’s top talent. More than that, Crouching Tiger made producers all over Asia look to the rest of Asia. The number of coproductions continues to rise, as filmmakers look for the best star power in the region and for any secrets they can learn from their neighbors.

Also, travel within Asia is on the rise. More travel means cultural mixing, CDs and DVDs circulating in wider circles, more comic books, and just plain more. The Internet also has increased awareness in Asia of neighboring countries, their trends and tastes, hits and misses.

Pop Goes the World

There never was a Korean Wave. Rather, what we are seeing is globalization in its latest iteration, and Korea was the first country in Asia to fully embrace the idea. In fact, most celebrities and producers I talk to these days wince at the words “Korean Wave.” Some even grant interviews on the condition that I do not use the term. Clearly, there are a lot of negative connotations associated with The Korean Wave—shortsighted fad, poor financing, crude nationalism, and the like.

In addition, the business strategies employed by Korean companies (ones I have examined in this book) are not unique to Korea. They are eminently learnable. Today, we see creators all over Asia figuring out the lessons that Korean creators learned over the past ten years or so. Thailand is a rising star. Japan is trying to shake up its stolid movie industry, reluctantly and slowly learning the benefits of high-risk, high-reward entertainment. Even communist Vietnam is getting in on the act, creating TV dramas and movies very consciously influenced by Korean content.

As other countries learn the lessons the Korean entertainment industry learned, the competition will only increase. Anyone who thinks there is something innately special about Korea will be rudely disappointed. Like so much else in international business, when a business is not growing and getting better, it risks fading in relevance and revenue, to be surpassed by those hungrier and more ambitious.

For all the great strides made over the past decade, there is still plenty more that needs to change. Korea’s music industry desperately needs a live music scene, genuine artists, and clubs where young people can play and learn and grow. Its movies need a minor league to go with its major league, a place where young directors can break in with alternative projects and replenish the industry’s creative engines. The manhwa industry needs partners who can inject money into the business, with intent to expand the manwha audiences with movie, TV, and animated crossovers.

But the single greatest problem with Korea’s pop culture is its lack of historical connection. People buy today’s hit songs, but they do not buy the hits of yesterday. They flood the movie theaters, but they do not watch films at the repertory cinemas or buy the DVDs. While in America, Europe, and elsewhere, media companies make as much or more from old music, old movies, and old TV shows, their Korean equivalents have lacked the luxury of those extra sources of revenue.

Catalog sales are essential to any country’s pop culture, bringing in steady revenue streams that can tide over companies in the lean times and when big projects misfire.

Not to lay all the blame on Korean consumers, though. Their entertainment industries deserted them first. In figuring out how to better fire up the youth markets, the entertainment industry discovered a passionate, constantly renewing source of customers. But they also made their content even more disposable than pop culture usually is. It is in the industry’s advantage to nurture both the talent of tomorrow and a love for the hits of yesterday.

The story I’ve been telling is important because it is not innate to Korea. It’s the story of Asia. The story of the future. Korea was at the forefront of a variety of changes that are (or will be) affecting all of Asia and the rest of the world. People everywhere want the best, most engaging, most exciting pop culture they can find. But they also want to see movies, listen to music, read stories, and watch TV in their own language, from their own culture, featuring their own stars. Slowly, our world is evolving into a place where people can have both. Where they will demand both.

The question for Korea is: How will Korea’s entertainment industries respond to the new challenges and competition heading their way? Ten years is a long time to shine, and doubtlessly as other entertainment industries around Asia grow and learn, they will compete more and more intensely with Korea. Contending with this rising competition may be difficult, but it is also healthy, ever pushing creators and creative industries in Korea and across Asia. It has been exciting to watch and be a part of Korea’s story over the past decade. I can only hope the next ten years will be just as exciting.

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*Of course, some of that worry comes from the natural pessimism of the bean counters. And Koreans do tend to be a rather pessimistic people, as explained by the late great scholar Hahm Pyong-choon in his wonderful essay “Shamanism and the Korean World-View,” from the book Shamanism: The Spirit World of Korea (Berkeley: Asian Humanities Press, 1988).