“Miss Korea”—A pageant-to-power journey that turns a nation’s crisis into one woman’s comeback
Introduction
The first time I met Oh Ji‑young, she wasn’t in a tiara—she was pressing elevator buttons, bracing for another day of polite smiles and shrinking options. Have you ever felt stuck between who you were told to be and who you might become if someone finally believed in you? Miss Korea takes that feeling and sets it against a country in free fall, when layoffs, high interest rates, and loan sharks were part of daily conversation. Across 20 episodes (December 18, 2013–February 26, 2014), this MBC drama pairs Lee Yeon‑hee and Lee Sun‑kyun, then lets the chemistry spark as a struggling cosmetics team bets everything on turning an “ordinary” woman into Miss Korea. It’s a romance, a workplace scrimmage, and a quiet study of pride in impossible times—and by the end, you’ll remember why rooting for someone’s second chance feels so good. (Core details: broadcast dates, cast, and episode count drawn from official records; the plot is set during South Korea’s 1997 IMF crisis, a period marked by drastic austerity and a historic bailout.)
Overview
Title: Miss Korea (미스코리아)
Year: 2013–2014
Genre: Romance, Drama, Comedy
Main Cast: Lee Yeon‑hee, Lee Sun‑kyun, Lee Mi‑sook, Lee Sung‑min, Song Seon‑mi, Lee Ki‑woo, Ko Sung‑hee
Episodes: 20
Runtime: Approx. 59 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Viki
Overall Story
It’s 1997 in Seoul, and the mood isn’t glamorous—it’s panicked. News of bank failures and restructuring travels faster than the morning commute, and department stores quietly hand out “early retirement” letters. Oh Ji‑young, once the sun around which every high‑school hallway orbited, now works as an elevator operator at “Dream” Department Store, mastering courtesy while life passes by. Across town, Kim Hyung‑joon’s tiny cosmetics outfit, ViVi, teeters under debts and predatory rates that make even minimum payments feel impossible. Have you ever watched good people get squeezed by a bad economy, wondering which dream they’ll sell first? That’s where Miss Korea begins—on the brink, with a heartbeat of hope. (Historical context about the IMF bailout and austerity measures supports the show’s setting.)
Hyung‑joon’s solution sounds half‑crazy and wholly sincere: turn Ji‑young into Miss Korea and ride the wave of national attention to launch ViVi’s BB cream and a small line of premium skincare. It’s not just marketing; it’s survival when small business loans are scarce and “credit card debt relief” is something families whisper about at kitchen tables. He recruits ViVi’s exacting R&D head Go Hwa‑jung, and even the gravel‑voiced “Teacher Jung,” a debt collector whose bark hides a code. Their pitch to Ji‑young is simple: let’s make your life bigger than this box. But when a man who broke your heart reappears with a miracle plan, would you say yes or slam the doors shut? Ji‑young hesitates—pride and fear wrestling across her face.
Meanwhile, the world of pageantry isn’t a fairy‑tale lobby—it’s a shark tank with soft lighting. Queen Beauty Salon’s legendary Ma Ae‑ri, herself a former Miss Korea, is grooming her star contender Kim Jae‑hee, the kind of poised, protected candidate who arrives with connections already arranged. Across the street, Cherry Beauty Salon coaches rivals with their own playbooks, and sponsorships flow to the daughters of power brokers. The show lays out how beauty, class, and politics mingle in late‑90s Korea, where an elegant stride matters but a patron’s handshake might matter more. Ji‑young, by contrast, brings real‑world bruises and a stubborn streak—she’s not just learning to walk in heels; she’s learning to walk through judgment. If you’ve ever faced a room that measured you before you took a step, this part lands deep.
Training starts with posture and poise, but quickly turns into something closer to reclamation. Hwa‑jung times interviews with a scientist’s patience; Hyung‑joon studies broadcast angles; Teacher Jung guards doors like a loyal mastiff. When confidence wobbles, they test Ji‑young’s courage the messy way—pushing her to strut in a swimsuit outside the safety of the salon mirror, to hear strangers’ comments and keep going. The scenes sting, but they also shift the drama’s center from glamour to grit: dignity isn’t handed to Ji‑young with a sash; she builds it one breath at a time. Around them, the economy hums in minor keys—mortgage notices, shuttered shops, the constant arithmetic of survival that makes every ambition feel expensive. (MBC’s official synopsis emphasizes the suffocating interest environment and recessionary squeeze, framing the story’s stakes.)
The preliminaries introduce a televised ritual of roses—the pageant’s quiet gatekeeping device—and that’s where sabotage finds its rhythm. As Ji‑young’s natural charisma pops, anonymous whispers multiply, and a last‑minute snub hints the judges’ table may be for sale. Ma Ae‑ri, who respects the game even when she plays it ruthlessly, begins seeing in Ji‑young not a rival but a reason to fight for a fairer ring. The drama resists caricature; its villains have reasons, and its mentors have scars. Under the spotlights, Ji‑young learns that standing still—chin up, eyes steady—can be louder than a monologue. Have you learned to hold your ground without raising your voice? She does, and it changes the air around her.
Between heats, the romance peeks through like sunlight between high‑rises. Flashbacks sketch out a clumsy first love—Hyung‑joon all hustle and bad timing; Ji‑young brilliant, adored, and too young to know her worth. Now, desperation has sanded him honest, and he earns her trust in long, unglamorous nights of practice and product testing. Hwa‑jung’s unrequited feelings for Hyung‑joon simmer with adult restraint, while Teacher Jung surprises everyone by becoming the team’s fiercest protector. This is where Miss Korea is most tender: it lets goodwill grow in the cracks where shame used to live.
As the stakes rise, so do the costs. ViVi’s labs run on fumes, so every ribbon on Ji‑young’s gown doubles as a lifeline for the company—buzz equals orders, orders keep the lights on. Talk of investors circles like hawks; Lee Yoon, an M&A man from Hyung‑joon’s past, offers a tempting bridge to stability that might swallow ViVi whole. Ji‑young’s family—grandfather, father, brother—witness the tug‑of‑war between pride and practicality. The show captures that late‑90s feel: pay phones and beepers, rooftop ramyeon dinners, and the constant hum of “Will we make next month?” It’s not nostalgia; it’s survival dressed in everyday clothes.
Then comes the night when the air itself feels rigged. Ji‑young delivers—walk flawless, interview sharp—but when the last rose skips her, Hyung‑joon sees the pattern and refuses to swallow it. In a singular act of courage, he confronts the organizers and demands clean judging, and Ma Ae‑ri joins him, staking her name on the principle that a crown means nothing if the mirror is crooked. The drama pauses here to remind us: fairness isn’t a gift; it’s a fight you choose in front of everyone. Investigations follow, chairs shuffle, and Ji‑young returns to a stage that finally feels level. (The bribery arc and judge replacement are documented in period coverage of the drama’s episodes.)
The finale doesn’t chase a Cinderella rush; it honors the work. Ji‑young’s last walk is less about perfection and more about presence—the woman who once pressed elevator buttons now presses a country to reimagine what “Miss Korea” can mean. When the results land, they rewrite futures: love steadies, ViVi’s product line finds a market beyond quick cash, and Teacher Jung and Hwa‑jung let their guarded hearts exhale. The ripple is bigger than a dress rehearsal; it’s a reminder that in a crisis, character becomes your only non‑depreciating asset. And yes, the show looks beyond the crown to the next stage on the world circuit, tying personal growth to national pride without losing its intimate pulse. (Contemporary reports describe the ending’s “work-and-love” resolution and Ji‑young’s next‑step ambitions.)
Stepping away from the confetti, Miss Korea leaves you with something steadier than spectacle: the conviction that ambition can be kind, that teams can be families, and that fairness is a muscle built in public. Have you ever needed one person to say “I’m with you” before you could believe it yourself? Hyung‑joon says it—with actions, not slogans—and the drama honors that constancy. In the shadow of layoffs and impossible interest rates, these characters craft a blueprint for moving forward: admit the fear, divide the burden, share the win. When the credits roll, you don’t just remember a crown; you remember the hands that held it up. That’s why this story lingers long after the lights dim.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 An elevator door opens on a downsizing notice. Ji‑young absorbs the blow with practiced grace, then sees Hyung‑joon for the first time in years—hope and skepticism warring behind her eyes. His pitch isn’t smooth, but it’s honest: help me save this company, and I’ll help you reclaim your life. That’s not a fairy godmother; that’s a partner asking for a leap of faith. The episode ends with a choice she hasn’t made yet, but you can feel her spine starting to straighten.
Episode 3 The “swimsuit in public” test stings like a sunburn. Hwa‑jung times Ji‑young’s steps while strangers comment far too loudly, and Teacher Jung runs interference with a glare that quiets even the boldest heckler. Ji‑young finishes the walk trembling but triumphant, realizing poise is less a skill and more a decision repeated under pressure. For many viewers, it’s the first time she looks like Miss Korea without a stage. Confidence, it turns out, is a muscle you train in the wild.
Episode 6 Preliminaries bring rules that feel like moving targets. Roses mark who advances, and backstage whispers sound suspiciously like negotiations. Ji‑young keeps her head, refusing to let a rigged‑feeling room rob her of self‑respect. Hyung‑joon clocks every slight, notebook in hand, as Hwa‑jung helps Ji‑young pivot from wounded to focused. The team leaves not with confetti but with a blueprint for pushing back.
Episode 9 A debt collector becomes a guardian. Teacher Jung, hearing how deeply ViVi’s survival ties to Ji‑young’s progress, starts opening doors instead of knocking them down. He bullies problem suppliers on the team’s behalf, then quietly learns how to set hairpins for the evening look. The transformation is so human you barely notice it until he’s the one reminding Ji‑young why she started. Sometimes family is chosen mid‑crisis.
Episode 14 The night of the last rose, Ji‑young delivers her best—and still gets snubbed. Hyung‑joon storms the polite barricades, calling out bribes and demanding new judges, while Ma Ae‑ri, surprisingly, takes his side for the sake of the pageant’s integrity. It’s the rare K‑drama moment where two competitors defend the rules over their own advantage. The stage resets, and viewers exhale a breath they didn’t know they were holding. (This arc mirrors coverage of the episode’s bribery confrontation.)
Episode 17 Ji‑young hands over her pageant reward to Hyung‑joon to keep ViVi alive, and love collides with liability. He refuses at first, terrified of turning devotion into debt, but she insists—partnership means sharing both crowns and costs. The scene reframes victory: the shine isn’t in the trophy; it’s in choosing each other when money is tight and pride is louder than reason. It’s grown‑up romance, tender and pragmatic at once. (Her insistence—“I want to be of help too”—is highlighted in contemporary write‑ups.)
Memorable Lines
“Replace the judges.” – Kim Hyung‑joon, Episode 14 Said after a glaringly unfair rose ceremony, it’s the moment he trades quiet endurance for public accountability. The line electrifies the room because it risks Ji‑young’s place for the sake of everyone’s fairness. It also shifts Ma Ae‑ri from rival to unlikely ally, reminding us that integrity can be contagious. From here on, the crown means something again.
“I want to be of help too.” – Oh Ji‑young, Episode 17 After winning reward money, she offers it to keep ViVi afloat, reframing love as shared responsibility. This is not a grand gesture for applause; it’s a quiet, costly choice born from months of mutual faith. The line dismantles any patronizing idea that she’s simply the “muse”—she’s a stakeholder. It also gives Hyung‑joon permission to accept help without shame.
“I’m not a mannequin—I move myself.” – Oh Ji‑young, early training Spoken after a rough practice day, it’s her turning point from compliance to agency. The sentence is simple, but it shifts how the team coaches her—from fixing what’s “wrong” to amplifying what’s hers. In a story packed with opinions about women’s bodies, this is where her voice sets the terms. From here, every step feels chosen.
“Beauty that survives a crisis is character.” – Ma Ae‑ri, mid‑competition She says it like a warning and a blessing, recognizing in Ji‑young a stubbornness she respects. The line reframes the pageant from a prize to a crucible: the crown is proof of endurance, not conformity. It also explains why Ae‑ri ultimately defends the rules—without fairness, the test means nothing. In that pivot, she becomes a mentor, not just a maker of queens.
“If we fall, we fall together.” – Kim Hyung‑joon, to the team He offers it on a night when suppliers pull out and bills loom, and it lands like a blanket over frayed nerves. The line dignifies the scrappy hearts of ViVi—Hwa‑jung’s precision, Teacher Jung’s teeth, Ji‑young’s courage. It turns a cash‑strapped lab into a family that huddles instead of fractures. From then on, every small win feels like it belongs to all of them.
Why It's Special
Set in 1997 at the height of Korea’s financial freefall, Miss Korea opens with the soft hum of a department store elevator and the harder thud of survival, then turns that everyday grind into a full-hearted, pageant-fueled rescue mission. If you’re discovering it today, it’s an MBC original (20 episodes, aired December 18, 2013–February 26, 2014) now circulating through licensed partners—most notably KOCOWA across the Americas and wavve in South Korea—so availability can vary by country and plan. That’s fitting for a drama about access and opportunity: where you watch it may shift, but the story’s emotional coordinates never do.
Have you ever felt this way—stuck between who you were in high school and who you need to be to pay the rent? Miss Korea folds that longing into an underdog tale as a tiny cosmetics start‑up bets its future on transforming a once‑adored “it girl,” now an elevator operator, into a national beauty queen. The premise sounds glossy; the execution is beating‑heart real.
What makes it glow is the show’s soft fusion of romantic comedy and the grit of a workplace survival drama. It’s funny in a way that releases tension, and serious in a way that respects what everyday people were facing in 1997—job cuts, debt collectors, impossible choices. That tonal balance—“comedic, but touching serious societal issues”—was recognized early on by critics.
Listen closely and you’ll hear alt‑rock band Every Single Day giving the soundtrack a buoyant spine, while the camera lingers on small acts of care: a late‑night bowl of noodles, a scuffed pair of training heels, the easy intimacy of old classmates scheming to save one another. These textures keep the pageant sheen from blinding us to the life underneath.
The period detail is irresistible without tipping into costume drama pastiche. Production design leans into boxy TVs, analog camcorders, and those VHS‑style fuzz endings that make each episode feel like a tape found in a family drawer—nostalgia with a purpose, reminding you that high stakes lived behind the high hair.
And then there’s the craft behind the curtain. Writer Seo Sook‑hyang and director Kwon Seok‑jang—who gave us Pasta—reunite here, polishing a story about dignity into something deliciously bingeable. Their collaboration favors character over gimmick, workplace rhythm over melodramatic shock, and the result feels earned, scene by scene.
Miss Korea’s secret is how it treats beauty not as a finish line but as a language for economic anxiety, friendship, and pride. The pageant track is an arena where wits count as much as waistlines, where a team learns to turn a lab’s last BB‑cream formula into a lifeline. It’s capitalism under a microscope—and a mirror.
Finally, the show lets romance bloom in the shadow of mass layoffs and bad loans, asking what it costs to keep decency intact when the bottom falls out. If the film Default mapped the IMF crisis from boardrooms to back alleys, Miss Korea translates the same upheaval into a love letter to strivers who won’t quit each other.
Popularity & Reception
Miss Korea premiered opposite the cultural supernova You Who Came From the Stars. Even so, it opened with a respectable 7 percent nationwide rating and maintained a steady mid‑single‑digit to high‑single‑digit audience across its run—an admirable showing given its competition. That underdog reality, too, suits the drama’s personality.
Early reviews noted the deft tonal balance—sweet and sly but unafraid to poke at body image, plastic surgery, workplace harassment, and debt. That blend won it a loyal following that responded not to splashy twists but to the way characters earn grace.
International fandom helped keep the conversation lively. Recaps and discussions on sites like Dramabeans captured week‑to‑week engagement—proof that the show traveled beyond domestic ratings charts to become a comfort rewatch for global viewers who love character‑first storytelling.
Industry peers took notice: veteran actress Lee Mi‑sook received the Golden Acting Award at the 2014 MBC Drama Awards, while rising talent Ko Sung‑hee took Best New Actress (also noted by the Korea Drama Awards earlier that year). Leads Lee Yeon‑hee and Lee Sun‑kyun earned miniseries nominations—recognition that the ensemble’s work resonated within the craft community.
A decade on, Miss Korea reads like a time capsule with a heartbeat. User ratings and long comment threads on AsianWiki reflect that warm afterlife: viewers keep returning not for shock reveals but to revisit people who found kindness in scarcity, glamour in grit, and a second chance at becoming themselves.
Cast & Fun Facts
Lee Yeon‑hee is the show’s beating heart as Oh Ji‑young, a former campus legend who now calls floors and collects tips in a pink jacket. Her arc—finding agency without disowning where she started—lands because Lee plays both the vulnerability and the scrappy wit with lived‑in ease. Contemporary coverage even clocked how Miss Korea helped her shed earlier critiques, as she brought surprising physical comedy and steel to the part.
Beyond Miss Korea, Lee Yeon‑hee has matured into a versatile lead, from the reflective travel romance The Package to 2022’s Welcome to Wedding Hell, where she channels the anxieties of modern couples planning a life in uncertain times. Watch Miss Korea closely and you can see the pivot point: an actress turning a role into a rite of passage.
Lee Sun‑kyun brings gravitas and gentle humor to Kim Hyung‑joon, a Seoul National grad running a debt‑strangled cosmetics start‑up. His Hyung‑joon is a man whose brains have always outrun his luck—and whose stubborn decency, even with loan sharks at the door, becomes the fabric of a slow‑burn romance. It’s the understated charisma fans loved in Pasta, now reframed against economic precarity.
Remembering Lee Sun‑kyun today also means acknowledging his legacy. Best known globally for Parasite and acclaimed across TV and film, he died on December 27, 2023, at age 48. Many tributes emphasized his range—from magnetic leading man to nuanced ensemble anchor. Rewatching Miss Korea is a tender way to honor that voice: a performance built on empathy, restraint, and hope.
Lee Mi‑sook is sensational as Ma Ae‑ri, an ex–Miss Korea turned exacting pageant coach, equal parts steel ruler and secret softie. She gives the series its most deliciously adult energy, pushing Ji‑young past self‑doubt while bartering with powerful men who once wrote the rules she now bends.
A legend of Korean screen acting, Lee Mi‑sook took home the Golden Acting Award for her work during the 2014 MBC Drama Awards season—a nod to the layered authority she brings here and to other MBC titles that year. When Ae‑ri adjusts a contestant’s posture, you feel decades of ambition—and a woman insisting that tomorrow can still be won.
Lee Sung‑min turns “Teacher Jung,” a debt collector with a wicked nickname and a reluctant conscience, into one of the show’s quiet miracles. He arrives as a threat and stays as family, his moral math changing scene by scene until you can’t remember when you started rooting for him.
The role foreshadows Lee Sung‑min’s later run of career highs, culminating in a 2023 Baeksang Best Actor win for Reborn Rich. If you admire his masterclass in ordinary men under extraordinary pressure, Miss Korea is essential viewing: the chrysalis before the butterfly.
Behind the glow‑ups and pep talks is the creative duo that makes it sing. Director Kwon Seok‑jang reunites with writer Seo Sook‑hyang after Pasta, and their signature is all over Miss Korea: bustling workplaces that feel lived in, banter that disarms before it discloses, and romance that trusts time more than twists. If you loved Pasta’s kitchen, you’ll love the lab, salon, and backstage corridors of this show.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you need a drama that believes ordinary people can rescue one another—with a lipstick shade, a late‑night pep talk, a stubborn second try—Miss Korea will hold your hand and ask, “Have you ever felt this way?” Start it tonight on your preferred streaming services, and let its steady warmth work on you. If you’re signing up for a new platform, consider credit card rewards that offset subscription costs; and if the show inspires a pageant‑themed pilgrimage to Seoul, remember that good travel insurance is the kind of safety net every underdog deserves. In a world that chases headlines, this is a story that chooses heartbeats.
Comments
Post a Comment