Screenplay by Soo Hugh & directed by Leanne Welham, Arvin Chen, and Sang-il Lee.

Rating: ★★★★★

Pachinko is exquisite. No matter how hard I try, no word—layered, textured, or poetic—seems to capture its soul. It is a work that transcends adjectives, slipping through the nets of language to rest instead in the heart. How fulfilling it is to encounter storytelling with such emotional intelligence, such an unflinching yet tender study of what it means to be human. Watching this show feels less like consuming entertainment and more like gazing into a mirror—one that reflects the complexities of survival, love, and loss with startling clarity. Lee Min-ho delivers one of his most nuanced performances, showcasing layered emotions with subtle yet powerful restraint. Through his gaze and voice, he captures ambition, love, and longing, embodying the story’s essence: that the deepest truths are often quietly expressed.

At its heart, this is more than a historical drama—it’s an ongoing dialogue with the past, a reminder of how deeply history shapes the present. Perhaps that’s why history was always my first love at school. But don’t be misled by its Korean roots into expecting a conventional South Korean drama. This is an American production, and that distinction subtly shapes its approach. The broader, more global lens allows the story to resonate beyond cultural boundaries, inviting a wider audience to connect with its themes of survival and identity. There’s a deliberate intensity here, a cinematographic stillness that lets grief, love, and longing linger in silence. It lingers in the weight of a gaze, in the tremor of a voice holding back a tidal wave of sorrow. Pachinko doesn’t hurry; it breathes. And in that stillness, it draws us into something universal: the yearning for belonging, dignity, and the fragile hope of a better tomorrow—even as the ground beneath us threatens to give way.

But here’s what gnaws at me—what lingers long after the credits roll. After my review of Season 1, someone commented: “Who cares about what happened in Korea, Japan, Vietnam, or whatever Asian country?” I remember reading those words, their indifference landing like a quiet ache in my chest. It wasn’t just the ignorance that stung—it was the distance they revealed. A gap between one person’s pain and another’s willingness to care.

And that made me wonder: If we set a limit on our empathy here, where does it end? Do we not care about past atrocities, or the ongoing conflicts that continue to devastate lives? Do we restrict our compassion to suffering that mirrors our own, dismissing everything else as distant or unrelated? Is that the kind of world we want to live in—one where empathy is rationed, given only to those we consider familiar? Because when we stop caring about the suffering of others, we lose a piece of our humanity. Stories like this remind us of that truth. They show us that the pain of one family, one community, ripples outward, touching us in ways we may not immediately see. Watching this drama isn’t just entertainment—it’s about bearing witness. And in doing so, we’re reminded of what connects us as human beings.

Great storytelling—whether in Pachinko, The Pianist, The Boy and the Heron, or Jojo Rabbit—doesn’t just entertain. It compels us to remember, to feel, to ask the hard questions. It strips away the walls we build around our hearts and demands that we let the light in, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. And that’s where the brilliance lies: it doesn’t ask us to merely watch. It asks us to participate, to feel the echoes of lives we may never have imagined, and to see ourselves reflected in them.

So, if you’ve ever looked at a story like this one and thought, Why should I care?, perhaps this review isn’t for you. Perhaps this series isn’t for you. Because to watch it is to engage—not passively, but actively—with the suffering, resilience, and dignity of others. It is to confront truths about humanity that are both heartbreaking and redemptive. It’s not an easy journey, but it’s a necessary one. As I finished the final episode, I found myself wondering: What stories are we leaving behind for future generations? What fragments of our lives—our pain, our joy, our resilience—will they discover in the echoes of our choices? And, perhaps most importantly, will they care enough to listen?

Pachinko’s answer is clear. The stories of the past are not just worth telling—they are essential. They are the threads that connect us across time and place, the lessons that teach us how to endure, and the truths that compel us to imagine something better. If we lose those stories, what remains of us? Perhaps the real gift of this production is not just the story it tells, but the way it reminds us to keep telling stories of our own. To remember. To witness. To care.

Image courtesy of Apple TV Plus