The new South Korean series Aema has launched globally on the Netflix streaming platform, presenting a historical comedy-drama that delves into one of the most turbulent and contradictory periods of the nation’s modern cultural history. Set in the heart of the Korean film industry, known as Chungmuro, during the early 1980s, the six-part series constructs a fictionalized narrative around the production of a real and historically significant film: the 1982 erotic feature Madame Aema. This film was a box office sensation that effectively inaugurated a boom in erotic cinema, a genre that would come to define much of the decade’s popular cinematic output. The series, however, uses this historical event not as the subject of a biopic, but as a catalyst to explore the systemic pressures, gender politics, and artistic compromises that defined filmmaking under an authoritarian regime. The narrative is driven by the intersecting trajectories of two women at opposite ends of the professional spectrum. Jung Hee-ran, portrayed by Lee Hanee, is an established, award-winning actress at the apex of her career, yet she finds herself struggling to redefine her public image and escape the typecasting that brought her fame. Opposite her is Shin Joo-ae, a fiercely ambitious newcomer played by Bang Hyo-rin, who begins the series as a nightclub tap dancer with aspirations of stardom. The central conflict is ignited when Hee-ran, in a decisive act of professional self-preservation, refuses the lead role in Madame Aema after reviewing a script replete with what she deems excessive and gratuitous nude scenes. This refusal creates a vacuum that the opportunistic Joo-ae eagerly fills, winning the part and setting the stage for a complex professional rivalry. This dynamic unfolds within a male-dominated industry where female agency is perpetually contested, establishing the series’ core thematic terrain from its opening moments. The classification of the series as a comedy-drama is a crucial indicator of its tonal and intellectual strategy. Rather than approaching its serious subject matter with unalloyed solemnity, Aema employs comedic and satirical elements to dissect the absurdities of the era’s power structures and social mores, positioning the work as a sophisticated critical commentary rather than a straightforward historical melodrama.

The Paradoxical Landscape of 1980s Chungmuro

To fully comprehend the narrative pressures shaping the characters in Aema, one must understand the unique and deeply paradoxical socio-political landscape of South Korea in the early 1980s. The series is set during the authoritarian military regime of President Chun Doo-hwan, whose rule from 1980 to 1988 is remembered as one of the darkest periods in the nation’s modern history, an era of intense political repression and curtailed civil liberties. In cinematic representations, this period is almost invariably depicted with a somber visual palette, characterized by muted colors and heavy shadows, reflecting the oppressive national mood, as seen in films like 12.12: The Day and 1987: When the Day Comes. The Chun government, seeking to quell public dissent and divert attention from its political activities, implemented what has been described as the “3S Policy”: a state-sponsored promotion of Screen (cinema), Sex (eroticism in popular culture), and Sports. While some historical debate exists regarding the formal codification of this policy, the series posits it as a calculated instrument of political pacification, designed to provide the masses with entertainment and outlets for distraction. A key component of this strategy was the active encouragement of the erotic film industry. The lifting of a 36-year nationwide curfew in 1982 created a new market for late-night entertainment, leading to the rise of “midnight films,” of which Madame Aema was the first and most explosive success. However, this state-sanctioned encouragement of sexual content was paired with an equally powerful and contradictory force: a stringent and often arbitrary system of state censorship. Filmmakers found themselves in a volatile and schizophrenic creative environment. They were pushed by government policy and market demand to produce sexually explicit content, yet simultaneously subjected to the unpredictable whims of censors who could demand cuts or alterations, effectively stripping them of their freedom of expression. This fundamental contradiction is not merely a historical backdrop in Aema; it functions as the narrative’s primary engine. The external pressures that buffet the characters—from the producer’s relentless demands for nudity to meet commercial expectations, to the director’s desire to create art amidst crass commercialism, to the actors’ struggles with exploitative scenes—are all direct consequences of this paradoxical state policy. The series posits that in this era, the personal and professional lives of artists were inextricably bound to the political machinations of an authoritarian state, creating a microcosm of the broader societal tensions of the time.

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A Narrative of Rivalry and Solidarity

The dramatic core of Aema resides in the intricate, evolving relationship between its two female protagonists, whose personal and professional journeys serve as a powerful lens through which the series examines the gender politics of 1980s Korean cinema. The narrative meticulously charts their dynamic as it transforms from one of sharp-edged rivalry into a resilient and meaningful alliance. Jung Hee-ran’s character arc is one of resistance and reclamation. As portrayed by Lee Hanee, she is a top star who built her career on the popular “hostess films” of the 1970s, movies that often featured bar girls and prostitutes, cementing her image as a sex symbol. Now, at a pivotal point in her career, she is determined to move beyond this persona and be recognized for her acting talent alone. Her refusal of the lead role in Madame Aema is not an act of prudishness but one of calculated professional self-determination, a stand against being further typecast and exploited. This act of defiance, however, does not grant her freedom. She is contractually bound to the film’s producer, the odious and manipulative Gu Joog-ho (Jin Seon-kyu), who uses a loophole in their agreement to force her into a humiliating supporting role in the very film she rejected. This forces her to navigate the production from a compromised position, culminating in moments of explosive confrontation, including a physical altercation with the producer and the defiant promise, “Joong-ho, let’s go to hell”. In stark contrast, Shin Joo-ae’s arc is a bildungsroman of ambition and disillusionment. Played by newcomer Bang Hyo-rin, Joo-ae is a character of raw ambition, a tap dancer who views the vacated lead role in Madame Aema as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She audaciously declares her intention to become “the next Jeong Hee-ran,” signaling her desire to supplant her idol. Initially, she is willing to do whatever it takes to succeed, including complying with the industry’s exploitative demands. However, as production progresses, her illusions are systematically shattered. She is confronted with the reality of her role, forced to perform “senseless explicit scenes” dictated by producers and censors, and experiences firsthand the pervasive misogyny of the industry. Her journey is a painful but transformative one, leading her from naive ambition to a developed critical consciousness about the system she sought to conquer.

Initially, the relationship between the two women is defined by friction. Hee-ran, insecure about being sidelined and resentful of her replacement, gives the newcomer a “hard time” on set. Yet, as they both endure the machinations of the men in power, their shared experience of systemic oppression begins to forge an unlikely bond. Their rivalry slowly gives way to a “gentle solidarity”. They come to recognize that their true enemy is not each other, but the patriarchal system that pits them against one another for scraps of power and respect. This evolution from antagonists to allies, united in a shared resolve to push back against exploitation, forms the emotional and thematic heart of the series. This journey is framed by the actions of the male characters who represent the industry’s corrupting forces. Gu Joog-ho, the CEO of Shinsung Films, is the embodiment of cynical commercialism. Described as a “shady producer” who would “stop at nothing to survive” in the competitive world of Chungmuro, he views his actors as commodities and art as a product to be sold. His foil is the rookie director, Kwak In-woo (Cho Hyun-chul). Characterized as “timid,” “awkward,” and “diffident,” In-woo is an aspiring artist who wants to make a film with “subtle eroticism” but finds himself caught between his own creative vision and the producer’s relentless clamor for “endless bosoms”. He represents the compromised artist, struggling to maintain integrity within a system geared toward exploitation. The series employs a sophisticated narrative structure where the film-within-a-film becomes a potent meta-commentary on female agency. The on-screen struggles of the characters in Madame Aema directly mirror the off-screen battles of the actresses portraying them. As one analysis notes, “Transmuted through the filmmaking process, the on-screen sexual desire of Madame Aema’s protagonists becomes the desire for agency of the actresses portraying them”. Hee-ran’s fight against performing nude scenes and Joo-ae’s discomfort with gratuitous content are not mere plot points; they are thematic arguments about the control and objectification of the female body in both cinema and society at large. Furthermore, the series makes a subversive structural choice in its allocation of tone. The primary dramatic narrative—the complex emotional journey from rivalry to solidarity in the face of systemic abuse—is carried almost exclusively by the two female leads. In contrast, the male cast members are largely responsible for the comedic elements, which often arise from their crudeness and the peak cringe comedy of directing and shooting the erotic scenes. By making the male figures of authority the primary objects of satire and the female figures the subjects of serious, compelling drama, the series subtly inverts traditional narrative power dynamics, centering the female experience and using humor to critique the very foundations of the patriarchal system.

The Auteurist Vision of Lee Hae-young

Aema marks the television debut of writer-director Lee Hae-young, a filmmaker whose established body of work in cinema provides a clear context for the series’ stylistic and thematic ambitions. An examination of his filmography reveals an auteur with a distinctive voice, characterized by genre fluidity, a refined visual sensibility, and a consistent preoccupation with characters navigating oppressive social structures. His previous films have spanned multiple genres, from the crime action of Believer (2018) and the spy thriller Phantom (2023) to the mystery-horror of The Silenced (2015) and the comedies Foxy Festival (2010) and Like a Virgin (2006). Across these varied projects, his work has been praised for its “fresh storytelling,” “sensitive and subtle direction,” and a sophisticated mise-en-scène that combines strong action with highly distinctive characterizations. The thematic concerns of Aema are not new to Lee’s work. His most recent film, Phantom, which also starred Lee Hanee, was noted for its focus on “women’s solidarity in a suffocatingly patriarchal society,” a theme that is central to this new series. In this sense, Aema can be seen as a continuation and expansion of his artistic interests, applying his cinematic sensibilities to the episodic format of television. Perhaps the most striking authorial signature in Aema is its deliberate and highly stylized visual aesthetic. The series consciously rejects the conventional visual language used to represent the Chun Doo-hwan era. Instead of the expected “muted palettes” and “thick shadows” that signify political oppression, Lee Hae-young constructs the 1980s as a “ravishing” and “voluptuous” world, a “smorgasbord of kaleidoscopic colours and fabulous fashion”. This is not an act of nostalgic romanticization but a calculated critical strategy. The director himself has articulated the intent behind this choice, stating that the more “dazzling the sounds and images appear on the surface, the more clearly the violence of that barbaric age would come through as a message”. This aesthetic choice functions as a form of historical revisionism. It argues visually that the era’s brutality was not just a matter of overt political repression but was also masked by the gaudy, distracting surface of a state-sponsored mass entertainment culture. The vibrant aesthetic forces the viewer to confront the profound dissonance between the burgeoning, colorful culture industry and the grim political reality it was designed to obscure. This visual strategy makes the underlying oppression feel more insidious, highlighting the hypocrisy at the heart of the 3S Policy.

The series also arrives as part of a larger conversation within contemporary South Korean cinema. It shares notable stylistic and thematic DNA with other recent films that re-examine the nation’s cinematic past. Its premise bears a strong resemblance to Kim Jee-woon’s Cobweb (2023), a meta-comedy and affectionate farce that satirizes the egos and insecurities of a film crew in the 1970s. Using a film-within-a-film structure, Cobweb follows a frustrated director as he battles studio executives and government censors while trying to reshoot the ending of his picture. Furthermore, Aema‘s visual panache and its casting of Lee Hanee in a role that deconstructs female archetypes echo Lee Won-suk’s cult film Killing Romance (2023). That absurdist musical black comedy also utilized a vibrant, surrealist style and a darkly comedic plot to explore a woman’s liberation from an abusive, controlling man, while critiquing celebrity culture. The emergence of these films suggests that Aema is not an isolated work but a key entry in a developing subgenre of self-reflexive period pieces. This movement sees contemporary Korean filmmakers engaging in a critical dialogue with their own national and cinematic history, using the tools of genre, style, and meta-narrative to re-interrogate the traumas and contradictions of the past from a modern perspective.

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A Fictional Lens on Historical Truth

While Aema is deeply rooted in a specific historical moment, it is crucial to understand its relationship to the factual record. The series is a work of historical fiction, not a documentary or a biopic. The 1982 film Madame Aema was a real and massively influential cultural phenomenon, topping the box office and spawning a dozen direct sequels and numerous other spin-offs. However, the characters who populate the series—from the actresses Jung Hee-ran and Shin Joo-ae to the producer Gu Joog-ho and director Kwak In-woo—are entirely fictional creations. Director Lee Hae-young has acknowledged drawing inspiration from the documented experiences of actresses from that era, particularly An So-young, the star of the original Madame Aema, but the narrative does not adhere to the specific events of any single individual’s life. This deliberate fictionalization is a strategic choice that allows the series to pursue a deeper and more expansive thematic agenda. By creating archetypal characters rather than being constrained by biographical fidelity, the narrative is free to function as a broader social commentary. It can more effectively explore the systemic issues of misogyny, censorship, artistic compromise, and corporate exploitation that were endemic to the industry at the time. The characters become representatives of the various forces at play, allowing for a more focused examination of the era’s power dynamics.

Lending significant weight to this approach is the involvement of the production company The Lamp Co., Ltd., which co-produced the series with Studio Kik Co., Ltd.. The Lamp Co. has built a formidable reputation for producing critically acclaimed and commercially successful films that are meticulously researched and based on true historical events. Their filmography includes such landmark titles as A Taxi Driver (2017), which dramatized the Gwangju Uprising; Mal-Mo-E: The Secret Mission (2019), about the preservation of the Korean language under Japanese colonial rule; Samjin Company English Class (2020), based on a real corporate scandal; and Phantom (2023), a spy thriller also directed by Lee Hae-young and starring Lee Hanee. The association of a production house known for its commitment to historical authenticity with a project that is explicitly fictional is a significant creative decision. It suggests a belief that, in this case, a fictional narrative is a more potent vehicle for conveying the emotional and systemic truth of the 1980s than a strictly factual retelling might be. It signals to the audience that while the story is not literally true, it is intended to be taken seriously as a historical interpretation, balancing the series’ vibrant, comedic, and dramatic elements with an undercurrent of journalistic and historical integrity. Ultimately, Aema presents itself as a complex modern re-examination of a pivotal and controversial moment in Korean cultural history. It utilizes its fictional framework and a distinct auteurist vision to explore enduring themes of female solidarity, the price of artistic integrity, and the intricate, often perilous, relationship between art, commerce, and politics.

The six-part series Aema is now available for streaming worldwide, having premiered on Netflix on August 22, 2025.

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