“Modern Farmer”—A rock‑band‑to‑cabbage‑field comedy that sprouts real love in rural Korea
Introduction
The first time I watched Modern Farmer, I felt that jittery, once‑in‑a‑while spark—like stumbling into an old hometown and seeing the lights still on. Have you ever needed a reset so badly that even dirt under your nails felt like salvation? This drama invites you to chase a foolish dream with friends who never stop believing, even when their hands blister and their pride crumbles. I laughed hard, then unexpectedly wiped away tears as the fields remapped the characters’ hearts. By the finale, I wasn’t just rooting for a band comeback; I was pulling for a village, a family, and a first love to finally say what it had been circling for years. If you’re craving warmth that doesn’t shy away from life’s mess, this is that rare show that hugs you back.
Overview
Title: Modern Farmer (모던파머)
Year: 2014
Genre: Comedy, Romance, Family
Main Cast: Lee Hong‑gi, Park Min‑woo, Lee Si‑eon, Kwak Dong‑yeon, Lee Hanee
Episodes: 20
Runtime: Approx. 60 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Viki.
Overall Story
The story opens on Lee Min‑ki, a once‑buzzed‑about rocker now skirting loan sharks and stale gigs, who learns he’s inherited farmland from his late grandmother. Instead of selling out, he dives into a different gamble: plant cabbages, sell big, and bankroll a long‑delayed album with his band, Excellent Souls—“ExSo” for short. His brothers‑in‑arms—quietly steadfast Kang Hyeok, soft‑hearted bassist Yoo Han‑cheol, and puppyish maknae Han Ki‑joon—follow him out of Seoul with more bravado than common sense. When their bus pulls into Hadurok‑ri, the air is crisp and the city armor starts to crack. Min‑ki also collides with someone he didn’t plan on seeing: Kang Yoon‑hee, his fearless first love who now happens to be the village’s youngest—and first female—leader. The country backdrop isn’t cute wallpaper; it’s the story’s engine, making every misstep feel both humiliating and holy.
Day one in the fields is economic shock therapy. Seeds, soil tests, irrigation hoses, fertilizer—the numbers balloon, and the band realizes they’ll need more than swagger to keep lights and water on. They run afoul of petty local politics, scramble for part‑time jobs, and learn there are no shortcuts to harvests or apologies. When illegal greenhouse workers stage a protest over unpaid wages, the band’s naïve city lens widens to the precarity that props up cheap produce. Bul‑ja, a sharp‑eyed worker who gathers snakes to sell for extra money, brushes up against Ki‑joon’s pride and innocence, turning a throwaway subplot into something unexpectedly humane. Between learning to compost and bargaining at markets, ExSo’s dreams shrink from “fame” to “one more day where we didn’t mess up,” and that humility is the drama’s quiet miracle.
Min‑ki and Yoon‑hee keep orbiting each other with the complicated gravity of shared youth. She’s not a manic pixie in boots; she’s a single mom and the town’s chief, balancing budgets, gossip, and a son who needs steady ground. Her competence both intimidates and heals Min‑ki, who has spent years performing confidence without a plan. Their banter is spiky, but the silences are softer—barn‑light pauses where he starts to see resilience as beauty. In a culture that has long stigmatized single motherhood, the show sketches how village eyes can wound and then, slowly, protect. Watching Min‑ki choose to show up (not just show off) is the tender arc that sneaks up on you.
Kang Hyeok is the drama’s emotional compass—a smiling iceberg hiding deep water. A med‑school golden boy turned keyboardist, he wears “I’m fine” like armor, especially where Yoon‑hee is concerned. Hyeok’s devotion runs quiet; he fixes tractors, mends fences, and steps in when Min‑ki fumbles what words can’t hold. His brand of love isn’t ownership; it’s shelter, and it makes the triangle ache in an adult way. The show resists making him a villain; instead, it lets him ask a grown‑up question: what does it mean to love someone by letting them go? Even as he tutors Min‑ki in courage, Hyeok is learning it himself.
Yoo Han‑cheol’s storyline is where comedy brushes sorrow. After collapsing, he’s told he’s at the end of his road, and in panic and grace he writes a bucket list that’s more about love than thrills. Enter Soo‑yeon, whose no‑nonsense kindness walks him through cheap couple rings, coffees in town, and kisses that say “live anyway.” Then the show yanks the rug: a medical curveball reframes fear as a second chance. Their arc turns into a meditation on how we spend limited days—on pity, or on presence. It’s sweet without syrup, and it keeps the series from floating away on hijinks alone.
Maknae Han Ki‑joon grows up in the cracks. Drawn to the fiercely independent Bul‑ja, he stumbles through cringe, apology, and finally respect. His city‑boy rules—don’t get attached, don’t get involved—melt in the hothouses where real people sweat for every won. When he tries to flex cool, Bul‑ja answers with work and sharp truth; when he finally learns to listen, the drama rewards him with small mercies. Their scenes carry a grounded pulse that balances the central romance. In a show about planting roots, Ki‑joon learns that “staying” can be the bravest verb.
Midseason, ExSo’s schemes multiply: selling spinach at bars, entering local sing‑offs, even guarding fields after thieves strip the village’s crops. Snails turn out not to be cute but cabbage‑killing pests, and the “farming god” becomes both a myth and a community of neighbors who show up when it counts. This is where Hadurok‑ri transforms from backdrop to ensemble, each ajusshi and ajumma getting beats that matter. The band’s priorities shift; they celebrate coverage on TV not because of fame, but because it might help sell salted cabbage to keep the lights on. Small victories feel huge because the math of survival finally bends their way.
Yoon‑hee’s past arrives wearing a tailored suit: her son’s father returns, contrite and persuasive, dangling a shiny path back to the city. The village, in chorus, pushes and pulls—some want stability for the child, others trust Yoon‑hee to choose her own happy. Hyeok, hurting but honest, tells Min‑ki what love looks like when it’s unselfish: if she smiles, you smile; if she cries, it breaks you; if you stumble, she’s where you lean. Min‑ki, king of bravado, finally hears it. And when he does, the question ceases to be “Who wins?” and becomes “Who will stand beside her when the season turns?”
The finale lands like a soft harvest. A silly‑sweet viral moment puts their music back on the air, and an agency call suggests a door cracking open. But the most unforgettable beat is wordless: a bus window fogs, and in the frost appears a confession that took twenty episodes to write. The show gives us not fireworks but a bus ride, not a proposal but partnership, not a perfect plan but courage to keep trying. One year later, the epilogue proves love isn’t the end of hustle; it’s the reason you load the truck again. In the final joke—chasing tuna like they once chased cabbages—the boys stay exactly themselves, only better.
What lingers after credits is the way Modern Farmer reframes success. It isn’t a stadium roar; it’s a table with soup you earned together, a community that knows your worst days and still waves you in. As a viewer, I felt the same recalibration: I started the show chasing laughs and left gulping down feelings I didn’t expect. Streaming from my couch, I saved episodes like precious tracks in cloud storage, every encore more comforting than the last. And yes, between late‑night binges and grocery runs, I even tallied my next‑month credit card rewards as if ExSo’s scrappy budgeting had rubbed off. Have you ever realized the life you wanted was the life you were already living, once you decided to love it?
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 The comeback plan no label would bankroll—plant 100,000 cabbages, sell high, make an album—turns a funeral inheritance into a bet on friendship. The boys’ arrival in Hadurok‑ri is hilariously unprepared: no clue about irrigation, no clue about neighbors, just impossible hope. Min‑ki’s crash reunion with Yoon‑hee, now the village chief, sets sparks and stakes. The premise sounds outlandish, yet it’s mapped to the real economics of farming the show keeps revisiting. It’s the moment city noise gives way to wind in plastic greenhouses, and you feel the plot truly begin.
Episode 3 A protest by underpaid migrant workers—among them Bul‑ja—forces ExSo to see the labor they’ve been joking through. The boys flail between wanting hotteok and needing to budget for seeds as prices and reality bite. Ki‑joon’s awkwardness with Bul‑ja reveals his privilege; her blunt grace starts to teach him a new language of respect. The town’s power games—who controls water, who cuts electricity—tighten the vise. When the sun sets on their first real day of “work,” they finally understand what survival will cost.
Episode 5 Bul‑ja gifts wild honey to Ki‑joon, a gesture that terrifies him into cruelty before growth. The band consults the so‑called “farming god,” only to learn the god is really persistence—and neighbors willing to help when you’ve earned it. Yoon‑hee’s counsel is brisk and kind, revealing why a whole town trusts her leadership. The comedy lands (bee stings, anyone?) but the takeaway is sober: this isn’t a montage; it’s a marathon. The episode plants seeds for multiple romances without betraying the show’s beating heart—work.
Episode 8 Thieves clear out crops, and Hadurok‑ri responds like a family: rotating night watches, hot drinks in paper cups, and dry jokes to mask fear. ExSo stops being “the band” and becomes “our boys,” folded into the village’s collective muscle. The scare also steels Min‑ki and Yoon‑hee, who begin to share a vocabulary of duty rather than just history. When the sun finally rises, the losses still hurt—but the belonging feels won. It’s a turning point where community overtakes chemistry for a few crucial beats.
Episode 13 A national sing‑off to promote local apples doubles as comic therapy; meanwhile, the “adorable snails” in the cabbage patch are unmasked as silent destroyers. Watching ExSo rehearse between pest removal and fertilizer schedules is peak Modern Farmer: earnest, ridiculous, oddly inspiring. The town rallies, sequins meet soil, and pride tastes like whatever you can harvest. There’s music onstage and grumbling in the fields, and both matter equally. It’s the show’s mission statement in one hour: art and agriculture keeping each other honest.
Episode 20 (Final) Hyeok defines love without possessing it, pushing Min‑ki toward a choice that costs them both. A viral carp clip puts ExSo’s song on air, but the moment that stops time is written, not spoken: “Yoon‑hee loves Min‑ki,” traced in bus‑window frost. The epilogue cements the ordinary magic—marriage, money troubles, and one more half‑mad scheme—because happy isn’t easy, it’s chosen day after day. It’s tender, funny, and exactly the goodbye this world deserves. You’ll close the episode wanting to hug a cabbage and call your friends.
Memorable Lines
“Let’s raise cabbages and make an album.” – Lee Min‑ki, Episode 1 Said when rock‑bottom pride meets rock‑solid friendship, it reframes “get rich quick” as “grow up slowly.” The line captures ExSo’s pivot from ego to effort in one rash promise. It also sets the clock on a season of work where every blister is a receipt for their dream. Hearing it, you know you’re not just in a comedy; you’re in a commitment.
“Love is when you’re happy when she’s happy.” – Kang Hyeok, Episode 20 Spoken to a rival he respects, it’s the most generous definition of love the show offers. Hyeok isn’t conceding defeat; he’s choosing a love that doesn’t demand a prize. The line also unlocks Min‑ki’s courage, turning feeling into action. In a genre crowded with possession, this is the rare sentence that breathes.
“If you keep this up, I’ll just want to live.” – Yoo Han‑cheol, Episode 20 A confession delivered through tears when Soo‑yeon’s kindness makes dying harder to accept. It flips the bucket‑list trope into a plea for time, not thrills. The moment binds comedy to mortality without cheapening either. After this, every small joy in their arc glows brighter.
“Turn on the news—our song is playing!” – Sang‑eun, Episode 20 Her savvy trade of a scandal video for airtime becomes the strangest kind of marketing win. The boys don’t cheer because they’re famous; they cheer because cabbage might finally pay. It’s a victory made of hustle and community smarts. And it’s the first time the dream feels feasible without a miracle.
“Yoon‑hee loves Min‑ki.” – Written on a fogged bus window, Episode 20 Not a spoken line, but the series’ most indelible sentence. It’s a love note to second chances, traced by hands that have learned to work and wait. After twenty episodes of almosts, this quiet declaration lands like sunrise. Sometimes the bravest words are the ones you finally write down.
Why It's Special
If you’ve ever dreamed of pressing pause on city chaos and starting over somewhere green and quiet, Modern Farmer invites you to do exactly that—without leaving your couch. This 2014 SBS weekend drama follows a once-buzzy rock band that retreats to the countryside to rebuild their lives, their friendships, and maybe even their music. It’s a fish‑out‑of‑water story that becomes a gentle, big‑hearted fable about community, second chances, and the surprising ways we find ourselves when the noise dies down.
Curious where to watch? As of February 2026, Modern Farmer is streaming in the United States on Viki and on KOCOWA (also accessible via the KOCOWA channel on Prime Video and within the Apple TV app, depending on your setup). If you’re planning a cozy weekend marathon, that makes it easy to queue up on a phone, tablet, or smart TV. Availability can shift by region, so double‑check what’s offered where you live.
What makes the show special isn’t just the premise—it’s the way it blends boisterous comedy with real tenderness. Have you ever felt this way: you laugh so hard your sides hurt, and then one quiet scene sneaks up and makes your eyes sting? Modern Farmer lives in that space, giving you pratfalls and punchlines one minute and a soft, aching truth about growing up the next. It’s a drama that understands grief, pride, and friendship—and it lets those emotions breathe between jokes.
The writing leans into contrast: big-city bravado versus rural wisdom, quick fixes versus patient work, dreams that feel shiny versus joy that’s earned with mud on your boots. The bandmates arrive with rock‑star swagger but learn to listen—to the land, to the elders in town, and to one another. Their misadventures feel outrageous, yet their small victories land with the warmth of real-life progress.
Direction matters in a tone‑juggling show like this, and Modern Farmer nails it. Scenes are staged like musical numbers without the singing, zipping from kinetic slapstick to stillness where a character finally says what they mean. The camera treats the hills, markets, and tractor paths like old friends; you don’t just watch the countryside, you feel welcomed by it.
There’s also a playful rhythm to how conflicts resolve. Problems aren’t solved by grand gestures so much as by stubborn effort: one more cabbage hauled, one more apology offered. That workaday approach gives the humor heart. Even when the band stumbles (often), the narrative refuses to humiliate them; it lets them grow.
And then there’s the sound of the series—the clatter of farm tools, the buzz of the marketplace, and a feel‑good soundtrack that dovetails with the characters’ musical roots. The result is an easy rewatch: a drama you can return to when you need levity with meaning, the televisual equivalent of fresh air after a long week.
Popularity & Reception
During its original 2014 broadcast run on SBS, Modern Farmer aired in the competitive weekend slot, where many titles chase mass appeal. Rather than going for relentless melodrama, it carved out a niche with warm, rural comedy and ensemble chemistry—a choice that helped it age beautifully as a comfort watch. Viewers who discover it now often remark that it feels both throwback and fresh, like uncovering a well‑kept gem.
On Viki, longtime fans and new viewers alike praise the show’s witty set pieces and the way its silliness masks something sincere. Scroll through the user comments and you’ll see recurring love for the bandmates’ camaraderie and the mayor’s grounded leadership—proof that this story resonates across cultures and rewatch cycles.
Awards chatter also tells a story. At the 2014 SBS Drama Awards, Lee Hanee (Honey Lee) received an Excellence Award nomination, while veteran actress Lee Il‑hwa earned a Special Award nomination—recognition that mirrors what audiences feel: the performers anchor the comedy with credibility.
Internationally, the series has enjoyed a second life through streaming. Word of mouth travels fast when a drama is approachable, funny, and heartfelt, and Modern Farmer fits the bill. Fans often recommend it as a palate cleanser between heavier thrillers and makjang sagas, praising how it leaves them smiling without feeling lightweight.
Availability varies by region, and that has shaped its renewed momentum. For some viewers outside the U.S., Modern Farmer appears in local Netflix libraries, while Americans reliably find it on Viki and KOCOWA. That mix keeps the fandom global and chatty, with memes, gif sets, and soundtrack call‑outs brightening social feeds every planting—and binge‑watching—season.
Cast & Fun Facts
Lee Hong‑gi is the heartbeat of Modern Farmer as Lee Min‑ki, a lead singer whose swagger crumples the moment reality hits. He plays Min‑ki’s bravado like a too‑big jacket—flashy at first, then endearingly awkward as he learns humility. You can practically hear the metronome shift as his ambitions refocus from stadium lights to sunrise over newly planted fields. The performance sells the series’ thesis: that starting over can be loud, messy, and life‑giving.
In a wink to his musician roots, Lee Hong‑gi’s voice doesn’t stay in the background. The official soundtrack folds in his vocals alongside other artists, amplifying the show’s buoyant tone and giving certain scenes the thrum of a live set. It’s a neat circle: a story about bandmates finding harmony, underscored by a lead actor who knows exactly how to lift a chorus.
Park Min‑woo crafts Kang Hyeok with droll, deadpan precision—the kind of friend who undercuts a disaster with one perfectly timed line. As the band’s more cerebral member, his clashes with the unpredictability of farm life generate some of the show’s sharpest laughs. Yet when the plot nudges him toward responsibility, Park lets the mask slip just enough to reveal someone who wants to do right, even if it means moving slower than he planned.
Across the run, Park Min‑woo builds an understated romance with quiet beats and stolen glances rather than the capital‑K K‑drama swoon. It’s a choice that fits the series’ pastoral vibe: simple gestures, honest stakes, and affection that grows like seedlings—unhurried, sturdy, and very real.
Lee Si‑eon turns Yoo Han‑cheol into the team’s lovable chaos engine. His comedic instincts—elastic reactions, fizzy line deliveries—fuel many of the show’s laugh‑out‑loud moments. But he never reduces Han‑cheol to a punchline; there’s a sweet, slightly bruised optimism in his gaze that makes you root for him, even when he’s in way over his head.
When Han‑cheol stumbles into matters of the heart, Lee Si‑eon dials down the volume and lets vulnerability lead. Those shifts—from slapstick to sincerity—are where Modern Farmer finds its magic, and Lee handles them with the ease of a veteran comic actor who knows when to chase the gag and when to hold the silence.
Kwak Dong‑yeon brings buoyant youth to Han Ki‑joon, the drummer whose earnestness keeps the band’s spirit beating. His wide‑eyed faith in both friends and fortune gives the narrative its spark, and his timing—physical and emotional—adds snap to the ensemble’s rhythms. You feel his victories in your chest, like a cymbal crash heard across a field.
As Ki‑joon confronts the harder edges of adulthood, Kwak threads in quiet resilience. He makes small choices—a steadier posture here, a longer pause there—that show a boy edging toward manhood without losing his light. It’s subtle, satisfying work that lingers after the credits.
Lee Hanee shines as Kang Yoon‑hee, the youngest—and first female—village leader whose practicality grounds the band’s mania. She’s flinty without being cold, witty without cruelty, and every scene with her feels like the show taking a deep, steadying breath. Lee’s performance is so assured that it earned recognition at the 2014 SBS Drama Awards, a nod that underscores how central Yoon‑hee is to the story’s beating heart.
In romance, Lee Hanee flips the usual city‑girl trope. Yoon‑hee doesn’t need saving; she needs partnership. Watching her navigate first‑love history with present‑tense wisdom is one of the series’ great pleasures, and Lee plays those notes with grace—equal parts steel and sun.
A quick note on the creative team: Director Oh Jin‑suk and writer Kim Ki‑ho keep the show’s tonal compass true. Their collaboration balances riotous set pieces with character‑driven payoffs, making sure the laughs land and the lessons feel earned. It’s the kind of behind‑the‑scenes harmony you can sense, even if you never see it.
One last tidbit fans love: the band within the show is called “Excellent Souls” (ExSo), a name that sparked playful chatter among K‑pop fans back in 2014. The production navigated that moment with good humor—another example of how Modern Farmer winks at music culture while telling a story anyone can enjoy.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re craving a story that lets you laugh hard and feel deeply, let Modern Farmer be your next comfort watch. Curl up with your favorite streaming subscription on a smart TV, and if you’re traveling, a reliable VPN for streaming can help you stay connected to your library. Give the first two episodes a chance to work their charm, and you might find yourself lingering in that village long after harvest season ends. When life feels loud, this drama reminds you that quieter places—and kinder choices—are still out there.
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