Review Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo (2024) BY Felipe
Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo is one of those dramas that feels deeply personal and emotionally raw, yet somehow manages to leave a strange aftertaste—one of frustration mixed with admiration. At its core, the drama wants to explore healing, love, and the weight of past trauma, and it certainly puts in the effort to get there. But despite its good intentions, the journey isn't always a comfortable one, nor is it consistently compelling.
The early episodes give us a beautiful glimpse into the fragile tenderness of teenage affection. Do Hoe, with his quiet anger and unspoken wounds, finds in Ju Yeong a spark of light—an escape from the oppressive environment shaped by his violent father and the suffocating expectations of rural life. Ju Yeong, on the other hand, brings with him a warmth and open-heartedness that feels refreshing. The chemistry between the two is undeniable, and their early interactions feel grounded and sincere. One of the highlights is the subtle and honest way they navigate physical intimacy—awkward, hesitant, and real in a way that BL rarely captures. It’s a shame that the same level of emotional nuance doesn’t carry throughout the series.
The time skip is where the show begins to unravel. Ten years later, the hopeful spark that once defined Do Hoe is replaced by a cold bitterness. His adult self is not just jaded but, frankly, unlikeable. He pushes people away, speaks in clipped tones, and carries a sense of victimhood that borders on entitlement. It’s difficult to root for him, even knowing the hardships he's endured. While pain and trauma can change a person, the writing fails to offer even small moments where we see him trying to grow or take accountability. It becomes exhausting to watch, and instead of empathizing with him, I found myself impatiently waiting for the scenes to end.
Ju Yeong, in contrast, remains a steady and compassionate presence. Despite carrying his own burdens—grief, guilt, and unfulfilled dreams—he still tries to connect, to forgive, to move forward. His decision to care for the man who abused him for years, while emotionally complex, speaks volumes about his capacity for empathy and loyalty. He doesn’t come off as naive, but rather as someone who’s been forced to mature in ways he didn’t deserve. Watching him pour himself into reconnecting with Do Hoe only to be met with cold detachment was painful.
The core problem is that the emotional payoff never feels earned. Do Hoe’s arc doesn’t build toward healing—it limps toward a resolution that feels more obligatory than heartfelt. His actions often feel selfish, his communication limited, and his regret minimal. The show wants us to believe in the redemptive power of love, but that message falters when only one side is doing the emotional labor. Ju Yeong deserved someone who met him halfway, someone who didn’t make love feel like a punishment or a chore.
The supporting character Hyeonho is another sore point. His presence is both unnecessary and distracting. He exists almost purely as an obstacle—someone whose sole purpose is to stir conflict and delay reconciliation. The fake university subplot and his involvement with a student's mother feel like filler, padding a story that already struggles with pacing. His impact is shallow, yet he’s given far too much screen time for someone so one-dimensional.
To its credit, the drama does aim high. It tries to present a more grounded, less romanticized version of BL. It deals with trauma, the lasting effects of abuse, and the complexity of adult relationships. But good intentions don’t always translate to good storytelling. Sometimes, watching Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo feels like being stuck in a loop of unresolved tension and emotional distance. It’s not a bad show, and for viewers who appreciated the angst of To My Star 2, this might even be a gem. But for me, the imbalance in the relationship and the emotional coldness of one lead made it hard to enjoy.
At the end of it all, I was left feeling like Ju Yeong should have walked away. Not because he stopped loving Do Hoe, but because sometimes love alone isn't enough—especially when it's met with silence, pride, and walls too high to climb.
The early episodes give us a beautiful glimpse into the fragile tenderness of teenage affection. Do Hoe, with his quiet anger and unspoken wounds, finds in Ju Yeong a spark of light—an escape from the oppressive environment shaped by his violent father and the suffocating expectations of rural life. Ju Yeong, on the other hand, brings with him a warmth and open-heartedness that feels refreshing. The chemistry between the two is undeniable, and their early interactions feel grounded and sincere. One of the highlights is the subtle and honest way they navigate physical intimacy—awkward, hesitant, and real in a way that BL rarely captures. It’s a shame that the same level of emotional nuance doesn’t carry throughout the series.
The time skip is where the show begins to unravel. Ten years later, the hopeful spark that once defined Do Hoe is replaced by a cold bitterness. His adult self is not just jaded but, frankly, unlikeable. He pushes people away, speaks in clipped tones, and carries a sense of victimhood that borders on entitlement. It’s difficult to root for him, even knowing the hardships he's endured. While pain and trauma can change a person, the writing fails to offer even small moments where we see him trying to grow or take accountability. It becomes exhausting to watch, and instead of empathizing with him, I found myself impatiently waiting for the scenes to end.
Ju Yeong, in contrast, remains a steady and compassionate presence. Despite carrying his own burdens—grief, guilt, and unfulfilled dreams—he still tries to connect, to forgive, to move forward. His decision to care for the man who abused him for years, while emotionally complex, speaks volumes about his capacity for empathy and loyalty. He doesn’t come off as naive, but rather as someone who’s been forced to mature in ways he didn’t deserve. Watching him pour himself into reconnecting with Do Hoe only to be met with cold detachment was painful.
The core problem is that the emotional payoff never feels earned. Do Hoe’s arc doesn’t build toward healing—it limps toward a resolution that feels more obligatory than heartfelt. His actions often feel selfish, his communication limited, and his regret minimal. The show wants us to believe in the redemptive power of love, but that message falters when only one side is doing the emotional labor. Ju Yeong deserved someone who met him halfway, someone who didn’t make love feel like a punishment or a chore.
The supporting character Hyeonho is another sore point. His presence is both unnecessary and distracting. He exists almost purely as an obstacle—someone whose sole purpose is to stir conflict and delay reconciliation. The fake university subplot and his involvement with a student's mother feel like filler, padding a story that already struggles with pacing. His impact is shallow, yet he’s given far too much screen time for someone so one-dimensional.
To its credit, the drama does aim high. It tries to present a more grounded, less romanticized version of BL. It deals with trauma, the lasting effects of abuse, and the complexity of adult relationships. But good intentions don’t always translate to good storytelling. Sometimes, watching Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo feels like being stuck in a loop of unresolved tension and emotional distance. It’s not a bad show, and for viewers who appreciated the angst of To My Star 2, this might even be a gem. But for me, the imbalance in the relationship and the emotional coldness of one lead made it hard to enjoy.
At the end of it all, I was left feeling like Ju Yeong should have walked away. Not because he stopped loving Do Hoe, but because sometimes love alone isn't enough—especially when it's met with silence, pride, and walls too high to climb.
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Felipe
Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo (2024)
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