SYNOPSIS

Crown Prince Sado secretly slips away to a hidden garden inside the palace, carrying books from abroad such as Robinson Crusoe and Journey to the West. His favorite, however, is the mystical Scripture of the Jade Pivot (옥추경).

One day, King Yeongjo, his father, enters. Sado hides the books, but the Jade Pivot remains. Yeongjo accuses him of plotting regicide, citing witnesses who saw Sado attempt to kill him the night before. As punishment, the king orders Sado locked inside a rice chest.

Inside the chest, Sado despairs — until he tears a page from the Jade Pivot. The torn page transforms into a portal, carrying him outside to meet a young man who introduces himself as Yi Geum, a Joseon prince. Sado is startled: that is Yeongjo’s own name, yet the figure appears as a boy full of insecurity, longing for his older brother’s protection. Sado encourages him and promises to return.

Each time Sado tears a page, Yi Geum reappears — now older, now a crown prince, later a king accused of poisoning his brother. At every stage, Yi Geum confesses his fears: of losing love, of wielding power, of being abandoned. Sado comforts him, not realizing until the end that he has been speaking across time with his father’s younger self.

Meanwhile, reality presses in. Sado weakens inside the chest, recalling the night he raised a sword against Yeongjo. It was no hallucination but the act that condemned him. When Yi Geum returns as king, Sado sees the full mirror: father and son, both consumed by doubt, pride, and loneliness.

In their final meeting, Yeongjo reveals the truth — too many had seen Sado attempt to strike him, and father and son could not both survive. He tells Sado to kill him if he wishes. Instead, Sado breaks down, begging forgiveness for the first time. His death inside the chest seals his fate, leaving behind his young son who will grow to become King Jeongjo.

Thus Shadow frames history as both tragedy and dialogue across generations: Sado and Yeongjo, bound by love and fear, confronting each other through the pages of a forbidden book until the end.

Historical Background

Crown Prince Sado (1735–1762) was the son of King Yeongjo of the Joseon dynasty. Official records say that Sado suffered from severe mental illness, showing violent outbursts and even threatening the king’s life. In 1762, Yeongjo ordered him confined in a rice chest, where he died after eight days.

Later, Sado’s son ascended the throne as King Jeongjo (r. 1776–1800), one of Korea’s most admired rulers, who worked to restore his father’s honor while balancing court factions. The tragedy of Sado’s death has remained one of the most haunting stories in Korean history, inspiring novels, films, and stage works like Shadow.


REVIEW

The show opened with a rectangular prism-shaped frame rotated so its corner faced the audience, lit to resemble a rhombus box suspended in space. Outside this glowing outline, the live band anchored the stage — keyboard, guitar, and bass on the left, drums on the right. From the very first number, EMO FROM THE EAST, the auditorium roared like a rock concert. Jinho (Pentagon, CREZL) as Crown Prince Sado embodied a rebellious youth whose strong, searing voice fit perfectly. Singing into a stand mic that folded neatly into the stage, he radiated confidence. Though staged in a medium-sized 400-seat venue, the sound design made it feel like a full arena: every instrument distinct, yet blending smoothly. Early numbers were more warm-up than plot, with lyrics teaching how to make a rock sign and catchy “Oh-oh-oh” refrains, but they brought the audience along. Sado’s modern black suit and sackcloth-white shirt immediately announced this was no traditional costume drama.

Then Yeongjo appeared: long leather coat, tight trousers, accusing Sado of attempted regicide. From that moment it was clear Shadow was a modern reimagining of history. The rice chest, which confined Sado, became not just a coffin but a time-bending device — like the Pandorica in Doctor Who, a cube that is both tomb and portal. Through it, father and son encountered each other across eras, not knowing at first who they were. At one point Yeongjo even shielded the chest during a palace fire, wounded in the process — like Rory guarding the Pandorica, loyal to what he did not fully understand. The chest became a paradox: the vessel Yeongjo protected was also the instrument he would one day use to kill his son. In this retelling, he seemed to sense that fate all along, choosing the chest as execution method because it had already been destined.

Park Min-sung (Yeongjo) impressed with his span of roles, from insecure boy prince to hardened old king. I had known him as a singer in The Last Empress, but here I saw his acting range, and his voice shifted convincingly with age and authority. Jinho never left the stage, carrying the heaviest vocal load. It was a risk — exposing every detail of his performance — but he remained fluid and at ease, growing stronger as the show progressed. His presence anchored the evening.

When Yi Geum appeared, he wore a short jacket and a stage hat shaped like a Spanish bolero, decorated with a long metal pin and tassels — a modern nod to the Korean gat. Each time Sado tore a page from the mystical Jade Pivot, Yi Geum returned at a different stage of life: insecure prince, crown prince, then king accused of fratricide. Sado comforted him again and again, not realizing until the end that he had been speaking with his father’s younger self.

The score leaned into pure rock. Lyrics repeated in chant-like patterns, clearly designed for sing-alongs. On the “sing-along” day I attended, the front rows were filled with repeat fans who sang every syllable, even taking the mic when it was handed into the crowd. English refrains like “No more living in the shadow” and “I will survive” gave the music a global edge. The four-piece band — keyboard, guitar, bass, drums — underscored the pop-rock identity. With no violins or classical timbre, the sound declared itself thoroughly modern.

Narratively, I expected the show to dive into Sado’s inner reflection. Instead, in retrospect, it revealed itself as Yeongjo’s story. The rice chest bound him as much as it did Sado — father and son locked in a tragic full circle. History remembers Sado’s cruelty and his attempted regicide, but the musical softened this, hinting instead at desperation for love and recognition. Yeongjo, however, was shown as both executioner and guardian, protecting the chest even as he prepared to use it.
The theme is as compelling as Shakespeare’s Richard III: a royal family torn apart by suspicion, ambition, and love withheld. That is why Sado’s death remains one of Korea’s most retold tragedies, inspiring countless films, dramas, and now this rock-infused musical.

Leaving the theater, I felt the songs still needed time to settle — even good rock anthems grow stronger with repetition — but the energy of the band, the commitment of the two leads, and the bold reinterpretation made Shadow feel larger than its modest venue. More than Sado’s lament, it became a portrait of Yeongjo’s inevitability — a father doomed to kill the son he once tried to save.