SYNOPSIS

Set in a storybook version of Victorian London, Red Book follows Anna, a spirited near-thirty “spinster” whose frankness and imagination clash with societal norms. After losing her first love and being cast out by her family, she drifts between jobs until she encounters Violet, a widowed noblewoman, and Violet’s grandson Brown, a rigid young lawyer.

Anna discovers purpose when she joins the women’s writers’ society on Lorelei Hill, channeling her memories and fantasies into serialized tales published in The Red Book. Though condemned by critics as vulgar, her stories are cherished by readers of all ages. Her world collides with Brown’s legal profession, sparking spirited clashes that grow into an unlikely romance.

When Anna rejects the critic Dick Johnson’s advances — leaving him impotent — he retaliates by bringing charges against her under a publication law. In a comic courtroom climax, ordinary readers testify to the power of her words, outweighing legal arguments. By the finale, Anna emerges both vindicated and celebrated, recognized as a novelist of stature and joined in love with Brown.

(For the full synopsis, see the Namuwiki entry: copy and paste en.namu.wiki/w/레드북#s-4)


REVIEW

Red Book is created by Han Jeong-seok and Lee Seon-young, who also made ‘The Goddess is Watching’ and ‘Laika on B612.’ They mix real history with fantasy, are sharp with puns and nuances, and have a gift for memorable scores. Red Book follows in this tradition with strong melodies and a large portion of spoken dialogue that efficiently carries the narrative.

The show aimed abroad, with a reading in 2022 at Seven Dials Playhouse in Covent Garden (an off-West End venue) and a 2023 showcase at The Other Palace. One thing seemed clear to me: it cannot be compared to Les Misérables, as so often happens when a Korean show goes to London. No full orchestra, no barricades, no Paris — just a London backdrop with a band tucked behind a screen. They may even claim Anna’s solo is an Éponine-like belt, but I will say it first.

The story is simple. Anna, an independent woman in Victorian London in 1894, declares herself “야한 여자” (a sultry girl) and begins writing erotic novels. She is condemned by society but embraced by readers, rising to become a writer admired by the public. The narrative bends history freely, inserting modern norms into a nineteenth-century setting, and takes generous liberties for comic effect. Even in small details, the imbalance shows: Anna is referred to only by her first name, while her counterpart is known only as Brown.

The show is laced with humor, including the bouncing choreographed steps by Brown and his two gentlemen friends, meant to parody strutting Victorian posture. The satire peaks in courtroom scenes that deliberately distort history. In one, Brown wins a divorce case by comparing love to the ever-changing weather, directly opposing Shakespeare’s sonnet 116. In another, Anna is prosecuted for her novels, only to be defended by ordinary readers: a bailiff’s wife credits them with reviving her marriage, a young woman gives her suitor — the prosecutor — more chances, and even the judge’s elderly mother scolds her son while recalling her late husband. These moments are exaggerated on purpose, ensuring the show is comedy rather than historical recreation.

But comedy depends on precise language, and Red Book risks stumbling abroad. Anna calls her deceased sweetheart “Owl” (올빼미) and howls — a pun that collapses in English, since owls hoot, not howl. The critic “Dick Johnson” is another trap: in English, both names are slang for the same body part, yet the script leans only on “Johnson,” leaving the joke muddled. One solution might have been to call him Richard Johnson, letting the innuendo rest in one place instead of pulling in two directions, and allowing the hidden pun to make audiences giggle. In one scene, Dick Johnson sings “Muse” while attempting to seduce Anna, insisting “I am Muse, Muse, Muse.” In English, however, “Muse” is traditionally feminine, rooted in Greek mythology, and it is unusual for a man to declare himself one. What sounds playful in Korean, where 뮤즈 simply means inspiration, could strike a London audience as puzzling or absurd. The diction itself also blurred, sliding toward 뮤자 in repetition, further clouding the effect. Korean press often calls male stars like G-Dragon “Chanel’s muse,” but in official brand language he is an ambassador, since houses like Chanel or Dior almost never use “muse” formally for men.

Anna’s key lines bring further translation cliffs. “나는 야한 여자야” suggests risqué or provocative in Korean — playful but not debasing — yet English equivalents like “I’m a naughty girl,” “I’m a sultry girl,” or “I’m a daring girl” each miss the nuance.

I attended the show twice with different casts: Ock Joo-hyun with Song Won-geun, and Min Kyoung-ah with Kim Sung-sik. Ock brought commanding presence and maturity to Anna, her rendition of “나는 나를 말하는 사람” (I Am the One Who Tells My Own Story) fierce and unyielding, reminding me of Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca. Min Kyoung-ah’s Anna was more youthful and fresh, with her phrasing in the same solo effectively highlighting the character’s growth.

Song Won-geun’s Brown was especially enjoyable. I had previously seen him as Raoul in The Phantom of the Opera and as the ghost in Ghost Bakery, and his strengths carried through here. His spoken delivery was natural, the songs suited him well, and he handled the small choreographed dances with ease. Compared to Raoul’s score, which demands more vocal power, Red Book was less taxing, allowing him to balance singing, acting, and comic timing without strain. Kim Sung-sik, seen in preview week, showed some tension and occasional diction slips — “s” sounds (시옷) blurring toward “th” — but these may well smooth out with time. Min Kyoung-ah had similar diction moments, likely due in part to acoustics.

Finally, the title itself poses challenges. In Korea, 빨간책 instantly signals erotic fiction, but in English Red Book suggests politics, accounting, or Mao’s Little Red Book. Unless the creators can redefine the term abroad, a retitling or subtitle may be needed.

In Korea, the distortion and satire work well: the show is lively, fun, and buoyed by music that resonates while reinforcing themes of female self-esteem. For British audiences, the reaction could go two ways — they might laugh and accept the playful exaggeration, or they might bristle at the liberties taken with Victorian reality. British theatre itself has plenty of satire and melodrama, but for Red Book to travel comfortably, adjustments will help. With such care, the strongest asset of the production — its music — could carry it abroad.

Some musicals take time to set context in Act I, but Red Book cleverly scatters its history and never overburdens the audience. With good music and comedy, it deserves a strong rating. And I trust the creative team will refine the cultural nuances if the show travels abroad.

I am sorry to say that I pointed out so many critical issues. But I truly enjoyed the show. It is a well-imagined, finely detailed, and above all, beautifully composed work.

🌹 Encore Impressions

After writing my earlier review, I went back for a third visit to Red Book, because the songs were so memorable and appealing that they kept drawing me in. The strength of the score is no surprise: the writer–composer team also created The Goddess is Watching (여신님이 보고 계셔) and Laika on B612 (라이카). I saw Laika on B612 as well, which had several good songs, including its most famous number “One Zero.”

The songs linger more each time I return. Red Book has so many memorable numbers — witty, comic, and cleverly arranged. The opening “What Am I?” is just one example, turning a simple wordplay (나머지 “remainder” into 난 뭐지 “what am I”) into a witty self-introduction that shifts from earnest to comic to self-reflective. Many of the other songs strike the same balance, combining lyrical wit with melodic strength in ways that keep drawing me back.

This time I saw Ivy as Anna and Ji Hyun-woo as Brown, completing the full principal cast. Ji Hyun-woo, already well known as an actor and the vocalist of the band The Nuts, showed finely balanced acting and singing. His comic timing was impeccable — knowing exactly when to pause and when to rush ahead, making the audience laugh at the smallest beats. Ivy’s Anna brought a strong vocal presence, belting “I Am the One Who Tells My Own Story” with grandeur. If Ock Joo-hyun’s Anna reminded me of Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca, Ivy’s Anna felt closer to Lucy in Jekyll & Hyde — dramatic but with a thread of world-weariness, the kind of depth that comes from lived experience rather than untouched youth.

All the Annas are strong singers, but I sometimes felt the role needs more than vocal power — it needs the radiance of youth. A young Anna dares without yet knowing how far she can go, and that very uncertainty is what makes her shine. When the part is played with the confidence of a seasoned woman, the character’s recklessness can feel more like world-weariness. That difference subtly shifts the story, and it’s why I long to see an Anna whose audacity comes from innocence as much as experience.

One comic highlight came in Lorelei’s writing class: when Lorelei exclaims at Brown’s confession of love for Anna in her absence, Violet interprets it as an acknowledgment of their relationship, but Lorelei is actually praising Brown’s “disguise” as a woman. Ji Hyun-woo’s physical disguise was unconvincing — he is tall and cloaked in little more than rags — yet his falsetto and feminine vocal color made the joke land. It was one of those small theatrical moments where the actor’s awareness of tone, not costume, won the crowd.

Although I have now seen the show in something like a rotating fashion with different casts, I still feel that the script of Red Book has room for improvement. Since the piece was created with overseas productions in mind, cultural adjustments are especially necessary. Its setting is late 19th-century London, and humor that works effectively on a Korean stage could risk confusion in the U.K. Understanding cultural differences is crucial, and wordplay in particular cannot be carried over directly. Yet with careful refinement, I believe the show’s greatest strength — its songs — can cross borders.

Among the productions I’ve seen recently, Red Book had the best music. Even after this performance, I have already booked another ticket, determined to see it once more before the run ends.

🌀 What If

Although the songs of Red Book are strong enough to anchor a much bigger hit, I remain surprised that the show has not gained wider momentum. One reason may be its choice of setting. By locating the story in late 19th-century London, the creators step directly onto ground already well-trodden by British and Western theatre. For London audiences, Victorian backdrops are abundant, and Red Book risks feeling like an outsider imitation rather than a fresh perspective.

The idea could have worked even more strongly if placed in mid-20th century Korea. During the 1970s and 80s, newspapers and films often carried erotic or sensational tales, nearly all written by men. Recasting Anna as a woman breaking into that male-dominated market would give the satire a distinctly Korean resonance while keeping the universal themes intact. Even the “Owl” motif could be traded for a wolf — letting her howl instead of hoot, with both linguistic and theatrical impact.

The gentleman satire, too, could easily be localized. The strutting walk and comic dance of Brown and his companions are universally funny, and could just as well parody Korean gentlemen of another era. In fact, a Korean setting might even strengthen the courtroom arc. As the case of Ma Kwang-soo and Sara’s Joy in the 1990s shows, writers could face real prosecution for works deemed improper. Setting Red Book in the 1970s or 80s, with a daring female author breaking into a market of erotic stories dominated by men, would capture the same humor and satire while rooting it in a believable, distinctly Korean history.