Review: Women of Gukgeuk
Yoo Su-yeon's new documentary captures the determined persistence of Korea's overlooked theatrical tradition
When the TV drama "Jeongnyeon: The Star Is Born" captivated viewers last year, its real triumph wasn't the plot or performances— it was reviving interest in gukgeuk, Korea's forgotten all-women theater. But even as millions worldwide watched the dramatized 1950s story of a talented country girl's rise to gukgeuk stardom, few knew the history behind this unique artistic tradition, let alone its precarious present.
Yoo Su-yeon's upcoming documentary "Women's Gukgeuk: Enduring on the Edge of Time" fills this void with unvarnished realism. It follows two young gukgeuk practitioners, Hwang Ji-young and Park Soo-bin, on a journey to mount an ambitious intergenerational performance as they struggle to preserve their fading cultural practice.
Gukgeuk emerged in the late 1940s as a uniquely Korean theatre where women performed all roles— including male characters. It was wildly popular in the 1950s post-war period, when its productions outnumbered films and its stars achieved cult-like fame. Women playing male leads developed particularly devoted female followings, with some fans even asking to take mock wedding photos with their idols.
Then it vanished. Gukgeuk fell into oblivion in the 1960s as television and film became the order of the day. It languished without institutional recognition, frequently looked down upon by male-dominated pansori circles and excluded from government funding channels. In 2019, gukgeuk applied for intangible cultural heritage status — which would have made it eligible for government support — but was rejected on technicality: Its post-1945 origin disqualified it from consideration.
Against this backdrop, Yoo's film shapes up less as a celebration of artistic excellence than as a documentation of cultural endangerment and survival.
We witness Ji-young and Soo-bin, professionally trained talents in their field, traversing the country in a dilapidated camping car. Their performances at regional festivals barely cover expenses, and the camera repeatedly captures audience members walking out mid-show — a telling leitmotif of public indifference to an art form relegated to the margins.
The duo's visit to Japan's Takarazuka Revue, a thriving all-female theatrical company since 1913, throws into stark relief the abyss between a flourishing tradition and their own neglected inheritance.
The film's emotional core lies in the relationship between these young practitioners and their 91-year-old mentor, Cho Young-sook, a first-generation master of the craft who once specialized in comedic male roles.
Her tireless teachings speak to the disciplined transmission of embodied knowledge — through an unbroken chain from first-generation to third. When Ji-young and Soo-bin announce their ambition to stage "Legend Chunhyangjeon," a monumental showcase featuring performers spanning generations as tribute to their aging mentors, Cho embraces them with trembling gratitude.
Their path from concept to culmination turns out to be a study in perseverance. During initial production talks, Soo-bin and Ji-young must admit they have "zero budget."
Soo-bin pounds the pavement soliciting sponsors, sometimes resorting to singing in karaoke rooms and pouring drinks for potential male donors — a striking irony for a artistic endeavor celebrated for supposedly empowering women.
The question of gender — its performativity and fluidity — is a widely discussed element of gukgeuk, one that the film approaches with refreshing nuance. Rather than romanticize gukgeuk's gender-bending qualities, the film chooses to complicate that reputation by exposing tensions inherent in the tradition. While gukgeuk allows women to occupy traditionally male spaces — playing heroes, villains, and lovers — it is repeatedly shown to reinscribe conventional gender codes in unexpected ways.
For one thing, as performers candidly admit, those in female roles are expected to dramatize traditional femininity as counterpoint to the stylized masculinity of male characters.
The strict hierarchy within traditional Korean arts proves as equally constraining as gender roles themselves. Viewers are reminded that Ji-young didn't choose to play female parts; her vocal range determined this path at the behest of her mentor (She also faces body-shaming from senior performers who insist she lose weight to look the part for Chunhyang, the female lead). When Soo-bin suggests changing the script to give Chunhyang more agency, elder performers firmly reject any deviation from tradition.
The final performance receives extended documentation and ultimately proves itself worth every struggle. It makes clear what distinguishes gukgeuk from other pansori-derived forms — its heightened theatrical expression and visual spectacle. The most captivating moments come from nonagenarians Lee So-ja and Cho, whose vocal precision and physical expressiveness display an almost uncanny vitality.
At one point, the director asks Soo-bin why she persists with this dying art. Soo-bin's answer cuts through pretense, "Gukgeuk had to prove its existence throughout its life, and so did I. It's just like me."
These words capture the personal stakes driving these women — not merely some abstract allegiance to preserving cultural heritage, but finding themselves reflected in an art form perpetually fighting for recognition.
"Women's Gukgeuk: Enduring on the Edge of Time" opens Wednesday.
moonkihoon@heraldcorp.com
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