From ER chaos to supernatural curses, 2025’s Korean slate mixes thrills, laughs, time‑travel cuisine, and emotional comfort
Artwork by Shradha Raul
2025 just handed us a mixtape of Korean drama and cinema, hitting all the right notes. From the tense, fast‑paced ER chaos of The Trauma Code: Heroes on Call to the bruised‑but‑unbroken halls of Weak Hero Class 2, this year served up a cocktail of gritty thrillers, hilarious road trips, and culinary time‑travel. We also got a taste of the supernatural, with the likes of The Witch and KPop Demon Hunters giving us curses and demon-slaying choreography in equal measure. And just when we were craving something deeper and more intriguing, Nine Puzzles and Revelations gave us plenty to think about. Finally, for a good‑old‑fashioned emotional hit, stories like When Life Gives You Tangerines and Our Unwritten Seoul proved to be the perfect comfort‑viewing experience. Here are our recommendations of the 25 best K‑dramas and Korean movies released this year.
In just eight episodes, the series crams a full‑blown medical thriller into a tight run, dropping you straight into a tense emergency ward where every second counts. But instead of just shouting over monitors, it layers in the personal baggage of the staff, turning each surgery into a mini‑character study. The main lead, played by Ju Ji‑hoon, balances cocky confidence with a surprisingly tender vulnerability that makes his “hero” feel human and relatable. What really sets the series apart are the narrative quirks — quick flashbacks that explain why a nurse is terrified of blood, a darkly comic sidekick who cracks jokes in the middle of a code, and subtle digs at hospital bureaucracy that are timely and universal. Visually, it’s crisp, the soundtrack pulses with urgency, and the whole package feels like a love letter to real‑life trauma teams while still delivering the binge‑worthy drama K‑fans crave. All of that adds up to a story that’s not just entertaining, but oddly resonant, making it one of the year’s best K-dramas.
Weak Hero Class 2 is a sequel as excellent as its predecessor, taking an already heated premise and dialling it up with even higher stakes, sharper humor, and a raw intensity. The story intensifies the pressure by thrusting Park Ji-hoon’s Yeon Si-eun back into a new school that’s a hotspot for bullying, hallway brawls, and juvenile delinquency while still letting his haunted past bleed into every showdown. Park is still a magnetic lead — his understated stare now carries the weight of a teen who’s learned that fighting the system sometimes means fighting yourself. The supporting cast adds fresh layers, and the villains embody the casual cruelty that fuels school campus terror. Visually, it’s a muted color palette, a grungy mess that reflects the inner scars of the characters. And beneath all the fights and bruises, it asks: What does it mean to be strong when everyone around you is already hurting? It’s a difficult question, but Weak Hero Class 2 answers it with nuance.
Trigger hits a nerve and questions, “What would cause an ordinary person to pick up a gun?” Kim Nam-gil’s haunted ex-soldier Lee Do wrestles with his sniper past while trying to stay unarmed, and Kim Young-kwang’s vengeful arms dealer Moon Baek turns broken souls — an exam-stressed candidate, a bullied teen, an overworked nurse, and a grieving mother — into walking “triggers,” proving anyone can snap when society’s safety net collapses. Director Kwon Oh‑seung’s insistence on relatable, everyday victims (“It was important that the characters who eventually pick up a gun were not special”) gives the show a raw, unsettling realism, while his comment that we’ve become “desensitized to many issues… because we are too often exposed to them through the news” fuels the series’ critique of a numb, unequal world. The ending pulls an unexpected turn: Lee Do drops his gun and hugs a terrified child. That simple act says “empathy beats violence,” and it makes Trigger feel less like a thriller and more like a gripping exploration of pain, morality, and the fine line between justice and revenge.
Buried Hearts nods to the secrets everyone’s trying to keep under the surface, the emotional baggage that stays hidden behind polished corporate smiles. Park Hyung‑sik turns the quiet, meticulous secretary Seo Dong‑ju into a magnetic antihero, slipping from charming efficiency to cold-blooded vengeance with a subtle intensity that makes every glance feel loaded. Opposite him, Huh Joon‑ho plays the charismatic tycoon Yeom Jang‑seon with a calm menace that keeps you guessing whether his smiles are genuine or just another move on the board. The plot twists around a hidden two‑trillion‑won slush fund, but what really hooks you is the way the series layers personal betrayal with bigger questions about power, class, and how easily ordinary people can become pawns or puppeteers in a corrupt system. That, combined with the chemistry between Dong‑ju and Eun‑nam (Hong Hwa‑yeon), adds a whole lot of heat.
This story is like a warm breeze from Jeju that sneaks into your soul and stays there. It follows Ae‑sun, a scarf-clipping poet born in the 1950s, and her steadfast love, Gwan‑sik, tracking their lives through war, economic downturn, and heartbreaks. IU and Park Bo‑gum are just perfect playing the roles, letting you feel every cracked smile and silent tear without any over-the-top melodrama. The series plays with time, slipping back and forth so smoothly you never lose the thread. And beneath their romance lies a low-key commentary on the pressure to conform, the invisible struggles of women, and how love can be both a refuge and a rebellion against a rapidly modernizing society. Wrapped in gorgeous island scenery and a soundtrack that hums in the background, this K-drama is a 2025 gem.
Set against the backdrop of the 1997 IMF storm, Lee Jun‑ho (of 2PM) pulls off the shift from a carefree playboy to a reluctant heir with his signature charm. His character, Kang Tae‑poong, is a guy who suddenly has to run his dad’s failing company, becoming a mirror for a whole generation that had to trade fun for responsibility overnight in Korea. Opposite him, Kim Min‑ha’s Oh Mi‑seon brings an understated resolve to the office bookkeeper, juggling family duties and her personal ambitions. As their connection deepens softly, an undercurrent that builds with slow intensity. The series has a slice‑of‑life rhythm, letting small moments like late‑night coffee runs, awkward board meetings, whispered arguments, and a chain of hurdles breathe, which makes the larger economic backdrop feel personal. Visually, it’s a warm, slightly grainy snapshot, beneath whose laughs and inevitable squabbles lies a take on resilience: when the nation’s values get shaken, it’s the messy, imperfect bonds that keep you afloat. All of that adds up to a heartfelt ride, cementing Typhoon Family as one of our favorites this year.
Ji Chang‑wook drags you straight into the nightmare of Park Tae‑joong, a delivery guy whose ordinary life is ripped apart by a flawless crime set‑up, turning the series into a pressure‑cooker of pure suspense and bruised humanity. Ji treads the thin line between broken victim and simmering avenger, delivering a performance that’s as hard‑hitting as it is oddly tender. Meanwhile D.O (of EXO) radiates a cold, calculating menace — his stare alone could freeze a courtroom. The storytelling is crisp, slipping in flashbacks and tight close‑ups that let you feel every heartbeat of the cat‑and‑mouse chase, and the narrative never allows you to forget that the real villain might be the system that manufactures scapegoats. Visually, the show is a gritty noir, turning prison corridors into a maze of moral ambiguity, and an occasional, almost lyrical silence amplifies its observation on power, truth, and how easily innocence can be erased.
True to its title, Nine Puzzles is a mind‑bending jigsaw starring Kim Da‑mi’s Yoon E‑na — a high‑school trauma survivor turned keen profiler who can read a crime scene like an open book. The series opens with the chilling image of her uncle’s murder, the lone puzzle piece that haunts her memory, and then jumps a decade to watch her dissect fresh killings that mirror that old nightmare. Son Suk‑ku’s Detective Kim Han‑saem walks beside her, a weary cop whose lingering doubt about E‑na’s involvement adds a constant sense of tension to their uneasy partnership. The storytelling is deliberately fractured — flashbacks bleed into present-day interrogations, suspects shift allegiances, and the camera dwells on the silent moments where you can sense the weight of every clue. Below the clever whodunit lies an exploration of how trauma can rewrite identity and how truth can be a moving target, all shrouded in a moody visual style. The series ends on a cliffhanger that leaves the final piece hovering, forcing you to wonder whether the answer will ever truly fit.
So Ji‑sub dives right back into a “no‑forgiveness” mess as Nam Gi‑jun, an ex‑gangster who’s now slaving away at the drink‑stand until his brother gets killed and his inner beast shows up — again. The drama delivers pure emotional punch and cinematic thrills that made his 2022 comeback in Doctor Lawyer a hit, while blending the dark noir of Alienoid and Confession into a relentless vendetta. Directed by Choi Sung‑eun and adapted from O Se‑hyung’s webtoon Plaza Wars: Mercy for None, the series boasts a stacked cast — Heo Jun‑ho, Ahn Kil‑kang, Cha Seung‑won, and others — that deepens Gi‑jun’s clash between brotherly loyalty and underworld brutality. In short, it’s a compact, nonstop action fest that feels fresh and unmistakably tied to the world of So Ji‑sub.
Bon Appétit, Your Majesty is a culinary-themed roller coaster that quickly became one of 2025’s beloved K‑dramas. The premise of modern French chef Yeon Ji‑yeong abruptly time-slipping into Joseon after a big win gives the series a “fish‑out‑of‑water” punch, and the way each episode spins around a new dish turns food into a plot engine. The chemistry between Yoona’s (of Girls’ Generation) determined chef and Lee Chae-min’s brooding king really sells the romance; their banter is as natural as a perfectly seasoned broth. The palace aesthetics are lavish, and the meticulous plating of fusion cuisine is practically a character in itself, turning every shot into a curated Instagram post. Beneath the glittering plates, the drama nudges at bigger ideas — how genuine care can bridge centuries, heal old wounds, and challenge rigid traditions. In short, it blends fantasy, politics, comedy, and food into a single, addictive bite that’s an ode to Korean cuisine and a reminder that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
A freak accident connects six strangers — a jittery witness who trades his soul for a secret, a haunted doctor confronting the man who scarred her childhood, a crypto‑broke dad chased by loan sharks, a fired office worker recruited for a shady job, a charming clinic owner whose girlfriend is a manipulative schemer, and a desperate man teetering on the edge of ruin — into a knotted mess. Each episode comes with a new character’s backstory, a fresh crime, and a cliffhanger that makes you hit “next” eagerly, while the whole thing snaps together in a relentless, omnibus style. The visuals of dull alleyways, stark interiors, and a set of colors between gray and occasional, almost surreal pops of red amplify the noir piece further. The cast, especially Park Hae-soo’s deadpan intensity and Shin Min-a’s trauma-struck performance, turns each protagonist into a mirror for our own hidden sins, highlighting that Karma hits back, that selfish, desperate acts echo back like a boomerang, and that no one walks away unscathed.
Roh Jeong‑eui plays Mi‑jeong, the “witch” who’s been shunned since every guy who falls for her ends up dead, and she carries that weight with a silence that makes you feel her loneliness in every frame. When Jinyoung (of Got7) swoops back in as the data‑whiz Dong‑Jin, his unwavering love for her (since high school) and stubborn optimism turn the whole mystery into a slow-burning puzzle, with flashbacks that pull the curtain on the rumor that turned a kid’s gossip into a life sentence. There aren’t any frantic chase scenes, just lingering shots capturing Dong-jin’s feelings, his secret love for Mi-jeong, and how hard he’s trying to free her from the curse and loneliness she has been living with. The performances are top-notch, bringing the supernatural vibe to life, and the subtle satire on witch hunts and the conflict between science and superstition resonate more profoundly than any Kang Full universe stories that fans have been engrossed in since Moving.
At Yusung Technical High School, the only thing sharper than the protagonist’s glasses is his fighting skill, and the series blends that contrast into something very entertaining. Hwang Min-hyun portrays Yoon Ga‑min, a bespectacled underachiever at this notorious school who dreams of college but keeps hitting the bottom of the class — and who discovers his secret weapon: he can fight like no other. When he ropes a few fellow strivers and a teacher (who’s against the mess on campus) into a makeshift study group, the gang has to fight the school bullies and a crime ring that treats the campus like its own playground. The fast‑paced action‑comedy featuring over‑the‑top fist fights and walls getting punched through delivers cathartic conflict resolution, while the visual contrast between Ga‑min’s meek student side and his fierce fighter alter ego gives the narrative an anime‑like kick, calling out Korea’s cut‑throat education system and celebrating perseverance, friendship, and the belief that if you want to be a hero, your special skills will matter more than a perfect GPA.
Undercover High School works because it turns a classic spy premise into a high‑school comedy‑thriller that actually makes sense. Seo Kang‑joon plays NIS ace Jeong Hae‑seong, who gets demoted after a botched operation and is sent undercover at an elite high school to hunt for missing gold bars linked to Emperor Gojong. The school becomes both his new field of operation and his chance to learn the truth about his missing father, an NIS agent who disappeared years ago while working on the same mission. There, he teams up with history teacher Oh Su‑a (Jin Ki‑joo), a childhood crush who slowly realizes the “new student” is the boy she once loved, and together they navigate bullying, school politics, and corruption. The drama’s mix of genres — action, comedy, teen drama, and a slow‑burn romance — keeps the first half lighthearted and the second half surprisingly deep, letting the mystery unfold at a satisfying pace. There are fun and heartfelt school scenes juxtaposed against slick fight sequences, and Seo Kang‑joon’s post-military comeback reintroduces his arresting presence and firmly anchors the series.
Park Bo‑young pulls off a flawless twin role as the free‑spirited ex‑athlete Mi‑ji and the buttoned‑up corporate warrior Mi‑rae, two identical sisters swapping places for a few months, which turns into a clever mirror therapy, forcing each woman to confront her own cracks, from Mi‑rae’s workplace issues to Mi‑ji’s grief over their mother’s death. Along the way, a laid-back farmer and a caring lawyer turn into unexpected allies they can confide in. Slice-of-life moments in the drama, such as ramen by the Hangang, the hum of a rural field, and the contrast between Seoul’s neon grid and the sleepy countryside, captured with a painter’s eye, intensify the emotional undercurrent. We come across depression, anxiety, and generational trauma explored with honesty, and the line, “Everything you do to survive is an act of courage,” settles in like a calm, reassuring whisper you didn’t even know you needed.
In true Park Chan-wook style, the film takes on a dehumanizing economy, exposing the toxic competition that the system breeds. Lee Byung-hun turns a middle-aged paper company expert into a desperate anti-hero whose change from polite resignation to murderous job-hunting gets scarier over time. Son Ye-jin‘s quiet presence injects a subtle but powerful sense of family pressure that grounds his downfall in reality. The film’s satire bites hard, alongside a tense pacing that never lets you settle. And through swift whip pans and abrupt zooms, the camera work mirrors the protagonist’s growing panic and anxiety. It’s a singular black‑comedy thriller critiquing a structure that treats workers as disposable, turning a simple layoff into a brutal survival game that resonates way beyond 2025.
Director Yeon Sang-ho frames his mystery story in a way that makes you piece together a mother’s tragic past alongside her son, Lim Dong-hwan. The plot follows Dong‑hwan, the son of a blind seal‑engraving master, who discovers his mother’s skeletal remains after forty years and, with a journalist, digs into the family’s dark secrets. Park Jeong‑min, as usual, aces his characters, this time in a double act as the present-day son and flashback father. The film’s “ugly” look is an intentional statement on how society brands people as monsters, probing beauty, prejudice, and the cost of Korea’s rapid growth. Its modest $143k budget turned into a $7.7 million box‑office win, proving that gritty storytelling and performances can shine brighter than any expensive production.
Lee Jeong-hwan (Jo Jung-suk) is a single father whose teenage daughter, Soo-a (Choi Yu-ri), contracts a virus during a zombie outbreak. He brings her to his mom’s seaside village, steering clear of neighbors ready to shoot, and attempts to “train” his zombie daughter with his tiger trainer expertise, as she oddly continues to dance and sing along to her favorite songs. The film balances playful silliness and heartfelt sweetness, tossing snappy humor into scenes that hit you right in the heart. The film’s biggest win? It makes you root for a zombie teen. No wonder it’s one of the most commercially successful South Korean movies of 2025.
The film follows the K-pop sensation group Huntrix — Rumi, Mira, and Zoey — who double as demon hunters protecting Seoul’s magical Honmoon from the soul‑sucking Saja Boys and their overlord Gwi‑Ma. The songs, which blend K-pop with an urban fantasy replete with mythology, drive the plot. With their fusion of 3D CGI and K-pop video style, directors Maggie Kang and Chris Appelhans create the illusion that every battle is a ballet. The dynamic Seoul backdrop, which fuses together reality and folklore, elevates the experience. Rumi’s half-demon skin becomes a metaphor for shame, and the friendship among the girls turns the climax into an anthem of self-acceptance. The film comes alive as a cultural celebration and a universal coming-of-age tale, steeped in Korean mythology, language, and K-pop culture, making it feel unmistakably Korean despite being a Sony Pictures Animation (U.S.) production.
Revelations is a tight maze of faith, paranoia, and broken memories, and with Alfonso Cuarón’s steady hand on the production side, the whole thing has an almost documentary feel. Ryu Jun-yeol plays Pastor Sung Min-chan with a subtle intensity that makes his strict sermons crack under pressure. Shin Hyun-been’s Detective Lee Yeon-hee is a haunted, bruised heroine whose visions of her dead sister bleed into every interrogation. The story starts with a girl who has gone missing, but then quickly becomes a clash of faith, ideas, and opinion. It doesn’t use jump scares very often; instead, it uses psychological fear to show how belief can creepily change reality.
Dark Nuns is an intriguing follow-up to The Priests (2015), which sends two nuns on a dangerous exorcism that could cost them. Song Hye‑kyo’s Nun Yunia tackles a tabooed practice with an undying conviction; her staunch determination to save a demon-possessed Hee‑joon (Moon Woo‑jin) drives every intense expression and gesture. Director Kwon Hyeok‑jae frames the nuns’ forbidden exorcism as a crossfire between faith and medicine — Priest Paul trusts medical care while Priest Andrew employs exorcism, and the clash feels like a fray of horror and challenges. Jeon Yeo-been’s Nun Mikaela balances stoic resolve with the subtle doubt that makes the demon’s grip palpable. In the end, Dark Nuns becomes a contemplation on self-sacrifice, unwavering belief, and the bravery to defy authority when the fate of mankind is at stake by fusing Korean religious symbolism with an eternal struggle between good and evil.
If you’re looking for a sports flick with a twist, The Match delivers. It’s based on the true story of Go legend Cho Hun‑hyun and his protégé Lee Chang-ho, showing how the mentor-student vibe turns sour as Lee’s skills start to outshine Cho’s. The movie does a great job of capturing how tense and heavy the rivalry between the student and the master is on their minds and hearts. Lee Byung-hun and Yoo Ah-in deliver powerful performances, bringing depth and nuance to their characters and their inner struggles. Their work pushes an already sublime story beyond the Go arena, reframing the game through a unique lens that captures ambition, pride, and redemption.
Director Kim Soo‑jin taps into Korea’s obsession with noisy apartments and turns it into a spine‑chilling mind game. The movie follows Ju‑young (Lee Sun‑bin), a young woman on a relentless hunt for answers after her sister vanishes from their cramped high‑rise. Ju‑young’s own hearing glitch makes every creak feel like a scream, and suddenly the walls are alive with weird noises and an unsettling presence that won’t let her rest. It’s the kind of film that scares you while also making you question every floorboard you ever stepped on.
Yadang: The Snitch is the year’s top-growing R-rated hit. Kang Ha‑neul plays Lee Kang‑soo, a street-smart broker who’s slammed into prison on a bogus drug charge, only to be offered a deal by the ruthless prosecutor Koo Gwan‑hee (Yoo Hae‑jin) to snitch for his freedom. As Kang‑soo supplies key information that advances Gwan‑hee’s political career, Detective Oh Sang‑jae (Park Hae‑joon) uncovers the suspicious alliance. When a VIP party bust reveals a web of high-profile corruption, Kang-soo is betrayed, framed, and left for dead, leading to a harsh, “Sting”-style revenge pact with the disillusioned cop. Director Hwang Byeong-guk’s neo‑noir aesthetic, sharp editing, and dark humor blend with authentic food‑scene details, while the film’s insight into systemic rot and moral compromise gives it a lasting kick.
First Ride is like crashing a friend’s party — messy, hilarious, and utterly charming. Four lifelong friends, all approaching 30, finally take the overseas trip of a lifetime to Thailand, only to get royally lost in the chaos. Kang Ha‑neul, Kim Young‑kwang, Cha Eun‑woo, and Kang Young‑seok throw down the usual banter and friendship, while Han Sun‑hwa totally steals the show as the fearless Ok Sim. Director Nam Dae‑joong mixes up the laughs with some genuinely heartwarming moments, catching that bittersweet feeling of getting older and still chasing crazy dreams. The gorgeous scenic locations and bright, sun-kissed shots crank up the wanderlust, making the whole thing feel like a feel-good road trip that’ll have you smiling — and maybe sighing a little over your own wild rides.
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