SYNOPSIS

Revolution, loyalty, and the ruin of trust — told through the fractured legacies of Kim Okkyun, King Gojong, and the man sent to kill a dream.

In 1884, the Gapsin Coup briefly ignites hopes of reform in Joseon. Young visionary Kim Okkyun, backed by King Gojong and supported by Japan, leads an uprising to modernize the nation. But in just three days, Qing intervention and Japan’s betrayal crush the movement. Kim flees to Japan — exiled, disillusioned, and branded a traitor.

Years later, Gojong summons Han Jeong-hoon — a man who once sold his noble lineage and lived in France under the name Hong Jong-u, the first Korean student ever sent abroad. To return undetected, Han uses that name as his own.

Gojong, now weakened and watched by Prime Minister Yi Wan, secretly tasks Han with a mission: assassinate Kim Okkyun. The real motive is not justice — but concealment. To hide the fact that Gojong himself supported the failed coup, Kim must die. Han agrees — pressured by royal demand and tempted by a second chance in Joseon.

In Japan, Kim lives quietly in despair, accompanied by his loyal Japanese bodyguard Wada. When Han approaches, Kim invites him to play Go. For a week they play — and through each move, Kim reads Han’s heart. Han, who came to kill a traitor, instead finds a man still carrying the weight of ideals and betrayal.
Meanwhile, King Gojong, increasingly paranoid and obsessed with regaining control, grows desperate. Yi Wan’s pressure intensifies. Gojong orders the assassination again.

In their final meeting, Kim turns his back and softly says, “Go ahead.” He has known all along.

Han raises the gun — and fires.


REVIEW

Revolution, loyalty, and the ruin of trust — told through the fractured legacies of Kim Okkyun, King Gojong, and the man sent to kill a dream.

When I first read the summary, I wondered why this show was so popular. The later years of the Joseon dynasty have long been a popular subject in Korean storytelling — countless films, dramas, and musicals have covered the period. With so many existing portrayals, from national hero narratives to harsh critiques, what more could Gone Tomorrow offer?

But from the opening moments, I realized this was something different.

As the performance began, the stage was stark — no elaborate props, only shifting lights. Dancers in white robes lined the stage while Kim appeared quietly from behind them, stepping forward to center stage. At the same time, a stack of wheeled, cube-like steel crates was pushed in, with Gojong seated atop them like a modernist throne. The revolutionaries wore black, creating a striking visual contrast. It was a bold opening, one that immediately established the production's aesthetic: minimalist, abstract, and emotionally charged.

Hand and Kim’s meeting does not open with a beginning, but builds toward an ending — a gun raised at Kim Okkyun in the latter part of Act 1. From that moment, the timeline fractures. Through non-linear sequences, we watch the layered relationship between Kim and Han Jeong-hoon unfold. Han, returning from France under the assumed name Hong Jong-u (the name of the first Korean to study abroad in France), is tasked with Kim’s assassination — but their week-long Go matches evolve from confrontation to connection, revealing more than either intended.

The entire aesthetic is grand and minimal — almost a modern dance musical. Light is used as architecture. Props roll in and out fluidly, while stage lifts and flickering shadows create shifts in time and tone. The choreography is bold, poetic, and constant, never ornamental but always integrated.

Beyond the design, what struck me most was the emotional clarity. The show doesn’t dwell on politics. Prime Minister Yi Wan is the most overtly antagonistic figure. The show frames him as a calculating force — someone who pressures Gojong not to reform, but to control.

Kim and Han's emotional arcs drive the show. Kim, even in exile, remains upright and mission-driven — a man with no delusions, only a deep sense of purpose. Han, in contrast, is a survivalist. He sheds his identity, adopts foreign names, and seeks opportunity — yet finds himself changed by Kim’s quiet dignity. Their relationship, punctuated by repeated Go matches, deepens from strangers to reluctant allies, and eventually to something like mentor and student. Han, once sent to kill a dreamer, becomes a believer himself — later joining the resistance in a moment of political awakening.

King Gojong, portrayed in my performance by Park Young-su, was the most mesmerizing. At first determined to modernize Joseon, he spirals into paranoia and despair after the Gapsin Coup’s failure. To hide his complicity from Yi Wan, Gojong orders Kim’s death. Park’s performance conveyed not only madness, but also unbearable regret. Draped in layered silver-white robes, he moved like a man underwater — limbs wide, steps staggering, halfway between majesty and collapse. At times he seemed drunk, at others possessed. It was unforgettable.

The climax is both inevitable and heartbreaking. Han, threatened and pressured into compliance, finds Kim already expecting betrayal. Kim turns away and gently tells him to proceed. Han raises the gun — and fires.

But Kim returns once more, in the show’s final song. As a ghost, he sings not of vengeance, but of longing — asking for his remains to be returned to Joseon. Not to reclaim glory, but to rest in the soil of the country he loved.

The melodies lingered afterward. The orchestration carried emotional weight. The lighting, movement, and music worked as one — and that cohesion is what makes Gone Tomorrow resonate. Not a lecture, not a spectacle, but a clean, introspective historic piece that moves like memory.

I went for familiar voices, but left remembering Park Young-su’s King Gojong — graceful, silver-robed, and dancing like a man unraveling. It wasn’t perfect singing. But it was unforgettable stage presence.