Negotiating Neoliberal Modernity: Meritocracy, Perfectionism, and Competitive Individualism in Contemporary South Korean Cinema
Over the past several decades, South Korean cinema has developed into an important cultural space for reflecting on the country’s rapid social and political transformation. South Korea’s transition from an authoritarian state to a democratic and increasingly globalized society has not been a simple or entirely progressive process. It has also produced new forms of anxiety concerning identity, social belonging, class, and power. These tensions are particularly visible in representations of masculinity, violence, and individual struggle. The emergence of New Korean Cinema has been especially significant in this regard, as many of its films examine globalization not simply as a sign of progress but as a process that has also reshaped everyday life in difficult and sometimes painful ways. Rather than presenting modernization as an uncomplicated success story, contemporary Korean cinema often focuses on the tensions between older forms of social and familial responsibility and the demands of a highly competitive neoliberal society. In doing so, it provides a complex critique of the ways people attempt to negotiate class, economic insecurity, social mobility, and institutional power.
One of the clearest changes represented in contemporary Korean cinema is the growing importance of individualism. This tendency can be seen particularly clearly in gangster films and narratives centered on violence. Earlier representations of such characters were often connected to ideas of loyalty, friendship, collective responsibility, and traditional forms of obligation. In more recent narratives, however, characters are frequently presented as increasingly isolated individuals whose main concerns are survival, personal advancement, and self-interest. This shift reflects the emergence of what can be described as the neoliberal subject: a person who is expected to treat the self almost like a personal project, constantly improving skills, appearance, education, economic value, and social position. Success and failure are then presented as individual responsibilities, even when the conditions determining them are largely structural. As a result, relationships with other people can become secondary to competition and economic survival. Korean cinema captures this transformation by showing what happens when solidarity gradually gives way to self-reliance and when other people begin to appear less as members of a shared community and more as competitors.
This transformation is closely connected to the growing influence of meritocracy. In principle, meritocracy promises that ability and hard work will be rewarded. In contemporary South Korea, however, the idea has increasingly become associated with an intense culture of competition. Academic achievement, university reputation, entrance examinations, income, and occupational status are among the most visible ways in which people are compared and ranked. The problem is not simply that these measurements exist, but that they can begin to determine how individuals understand their own value. When success is reduced to grades, university rankings, salaries, or professional titles, people may find it increasingly difficult to imagine forms of achievement that cannot be measured. Korean films and television dramas frequently represent schools as highly competitive environments in which students are not merely trying to perform well academically; they are preparing for their future position in society. The classroom therefore becomes a smaller version of the wider social order, where individual worth is repeatedly tested through measurable performance.
This pressure becomes particularly visible when social class is brought into the discussion. Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite provides one of the most powerful examples of how Korean cinema has explored the relationship between class and meritocracy. The contrast between the wealthy Park family and the economically disadvantaged Kim family reveals that social inequality cannot simply be explained by differences in effort or personal ability. The film challenges the familiar idea that anyone can succeed if they work hard enough. Instead, it asks what kinds of choices are actually available to people whose lives begin from radically different social positions. The concept of the “golden spoon” and the “dirt spoon” captures this problem particularly well: people may technically be allowed to compete on equal terms, but they do not necessarily possess the same resources, connections, education, or security with which to begin that competition. Under these circumstances, the language of equal opportunity can hide rather than resolve inequality. Meritocracy may therefore preserve hierarchy by making unequal outcomes appear natural or deserved.
Perfectionism is another important part of this competitive social environment. Contemporary Korean screen narratives often portray perfectionism less as healthy ambition than as a form of pressure that gradually takes over people’s lives. Students, employees, and professionals are expected to perform at increasingly high levels, sometimes at the expense of their physical health, emotional stability, relationships, and moral judgment. School dramas are particularly effective at illustrating this process. Characters may cheat, manipulate others, use illegal substances, or engage in other dangerous behavior simply because falling behind is perceived as unacceptable. What makes these narratives disturbing is that the desire to succeed is rarely presented as entirely irrational. The characters have legitimate fears about their futures. Their anxiety comes from living in an environment where failure appears to carry consequences that extend far beyond a single examination or job opportunity.
For these characters, academic ranking can gradually become part of their identity. A grade is no longer simply a grade; it becomes evidence of intelligence, social value, and future potential. The constant need for recognition creates a form of subjectivity in which individuals feel that they must always improve themselves. Even dystopian narratives that exaggerate these pressures often remain recognizable because they are built around concerns that already exist in everyday life. Their significance lies precisely in this exaggeration: by pushing existing social tendencies to an extreme, they make the psychological costs of permanent competition easier to see.
The social anxieties represented by Korean cinema also need to be understood in relation to the economic changes that followed the 1997 Asian financial crisis. The crisis became an important turning point in South Korea’s economic and social development, particularly as neoliberal reforms, labor insecurity, and new forms of employment precariousness became more prominent. These changes affected not only the economy but also the way people imagined their futures. Economic insecurity, unemployment, social mobility, and class division increasingly became part of everyday cultural consciousness. Korean cinema and television have repeatedly transformed these concerns into stories of survival. Dystopian narratives are particularly effective because they can make social problems visible through fictional worlds that are extreme but still familiar. Squid Game, for example, presents a society in which economically vulnerable individuals are pushed into a violent competition for money. Although its setting is fictional and exaggerated, the desperation experienced by its characters reflects recognizable anxieties about debt, inequality, employment, and social status. The violence of the series therefore works on more than one level: it provides dramatic spectacle while also expressing the violence already embedded in economic and social competition.
These tensions can also be found in representations of academic and corporate institutions. Schools and workplaces increasingly operate through systems of measurement: grades, rankings, productivity targets, performance evaluations, promotions, and other numerical indicators. Such systems can make competition appear objective because numbers seem neutral. Yet the emphasis on measurable performance can also encourage people to internalize institutional expectations and judge themselves according to the same standards. Workplace dramas and corporate satires often expose the gap between the promise of individual achievement and the insecurity experienced by ordinary workers. Career advancement is rarely presented as the simple result of talent and hard work. Instead, characters encounter organizational politics, unequal opportunities, economic uncertainty, and expectations that require them to sacrifice increasing amounts of time and emotional energy. The language of personal responsibility can therefore become problematic when it places the burden of structural problems entirely on individuals.
The expression “Hell Joseon” captures many of these frustrations. Although the term is deliberately provocative, it expresses a widespread perception of contemporary society as a place where economic insecurity, social competition, limited mobility, and uncertainty about the future have become difficult to escape. It also reflects a growing sense that the traditional promise of social progress may no longer apply equally to everyone. In many cultural narratives, this frustration produces a survivalist mentality. People are encouraged to compete because they believe there are too few opportunities to go around, while failure can be interpreted as evidence of personal inadequacy. At the same time, resentment toward those who appear more successful can turn into a desire for punishment rather than solidarity. These attitudes can reinforce one another: when everyone is encouraged to see everyone else as a competitor, cooperation becomes increasingly difficult. Korean cinema frequently captures this emotional atmosphere by depicting relationships that are shaped by suspicion, calculation, and self-interest rather than trust.
Questions of gender and masculinity add another layer to these representations of power and competition. South Korean cinema has a long history of using the male body, physical strength, and violence to express anxieties about modernization, authoritarianism, and national identity. The representation of masculinity has changed considerably over time. Earlier films often presented male characters as powerless, frustrated, or even self-destructive figures struggling to find a place within rapidly changing social structures. Later narratives increasingly introduced men who could exercise physical violence and use force to regain a sense of control. Violence in these films can therefore represent more than individual aggression. It can also express a deeper frustration with social structures that deny characters meaningful agency. At the same time, contemporary Korean cinema does not always reproduce a simple opposition between traditional masculinity and modernity. Many films challenge established gender roles and question who is allowed to participate in dominant narratives of success. The exclusion of marginalized groups consequently becomes another way of exposing the limitations of a social order that presents upward mobility as though it were equally available to everyone.
The relationship between academic competition and perfectionism is particularly visible in High Cookie. Set in an elite high-school environment, the series presents a disturbing world in which students turn to drugs in their attempt to achieve the highest possible academic results. The school becomes less a place of learning than a battlefield where health, ethics, friendship, and personal well-being are sacrificed for performance. What is especially significant is that students are not simply competing against one another academically. They are also competing over access to the resources and strategies that might allow them to remain competitive. The pressure therefore extends beyond the classroom. Students begin to experience themselves through numbers, rankings, and examination results, while their value as human beings becomes increasingly tied to academic performance. High Cookie illustrates how a system designed to evaluate achievement can eventually influence the way individuals understand themselves.
After-School War Activities presents a similarly disturbing connection between survival and academic advancement. The students’ participation in military activities in exchange for additional points toward university admission creates an extreme but revealing image of meritocratic competition. Education and physical survival become directly connected, while war itself is transformed into an instrument of academic advancement. The absurdity of the situation is precisely what makes the narrative effective. It asks what happens when the logic of competition becomes so powerful that even extraordinary experiences such as war can be incorporated into the race for educational success. The series also complicates the idea of fairness. Students may technically receive the same opportunity to earn additional points, but this formal equality does not erase the unequal conditions that shape their lives. Equality of opportunity, in other words, does not necessarily produce equality of outcome.
At the corporate level, The Age of Success provides another perspective on these issues. Through its portrayal of the emerging managerial class of the 1980s, the film exposes the tension between professional ambition and employment insecurity. Career success is presented as something that individuals are expected to achieve through effort and perseverance, yet the professional environment remains unstable and highly competitive. The film therefore questions the belief that success can be explained entirely through personal merit. Its characters are caught in a cycle of striving for greater income, status, and professional recognition, but these goals do not necessarily produce a corresponding sense of fulfillment. Professional perfectionism comes with a significant human cost, particularly when work becomes the main source of identity and self-worth.
Another important consequence of this social environment is the difficulty of imagining the future. When employment, housing, education, and social mobility become increasingly uncertain, long-term planning itself can begin to feel unrealistic. Instead of building stable expectations about the future, individuals may focus almost entirely on immediate survival. Parasite captures this condition through its depiction of economic instability and the absence of secure prospects. The film’s characters do not simply lack money; they lack a convincing sense that their circumstances can fundamentally change. This problem is also connected to geography. Seoul occupies an unusually powerful position within South Korea’s economic, educational, and cultural landscape, and access to the capital can therefore become another form of competition. Opportunities are concentrated in particular places, forcing individuals to compete not only for jobs and education but also for access to the spaces in which those opportunities exist. Geographic inequality consequently reinforces the broader hierarchy of contemporary Korean society.
Ultimately, South Korean cinema repeatedly asks whether income, academic achievement, university prestige, professional status, or social rank should be treated as reliable measures of human worth. One of the most important contributions of these narratives is that they make the emotional consequences of such measurements visible. When people constantly compare themselves with others, inequality can begin to appear inevitable. Those who succeed may believe that they simply worked harder, while those who fail may blame themselves for conditions that were never entirely within their control. Korean cinema challenges this way of thinking by showing the human experiences hidden behind statistics and rankings.
Yet these films and series are not always completely pessimistic. Even within stories dominated by competition, violence, and survival, moments of friendship, cooperation, affection, and sacrifice continue to appear. These moments are often brief, but their importance should not be underestimated. They represent values that cannot easily be measured: caring for another person, remaining loyal when there is no material benefit, helping someone without expecting a reward, or choosing another person’s well-being over personal advancement. In narratives where almost everything has been turned into a competition, such actions become quietly radical.
The international popularity of Korean films and series also suggests that these concerns extend far beyond South Korea. Inequality, precarious employment, perfectionism, social ranking, educational pressure, and competitive individualism are increasingly recognizable experiences in many societies. What makes South Korean cinema particularly powerful is its ability to transform historically specific Korean experiences into stories that audiences elsewhere can also recognize. Its dystopian worlds may be exaggerated, and its characters may face extraordinary circumstances, but the anxieties behind those stories remain remarkably familiar.
For this reason, contemporary South Korean cinema can be understood not simply as a reflection of Korean society but as a broader critique of competitive modernity. By focusing on the psychological and ethical costs of constant competition, these films and series question the values through which contemporary societies define success. More importantly, they repeatedly return to the possibility of human connection. Friendship, love, cooperation, and solidarity may not provide an easy solution to structural inequality, but their presence challenges the assumption that human beings should be valued according to productivity, wealth, rank, or achievement. In this sense, Korean cinema remains an important cultural space for asking a difficult but necessary question: if a society measures almost everything, what happens to the things that matter but cannot be measured?