SYNOPSIS

Act I

Present Day

A documentary producer, Jinseok, visits Kangbae, a former academic now living alone in a dilapidated van converted into living quarters in a forest. Jinseok asks Kangbae, who holds a PhD in Korean language, to translate a manuscript entrusted to him by an Italian woman named Ellena Corea. Kangbae initially refuses. He has withdrawn from academia following an incident connected to Professor Ma’s controversial thesis on Jang Yeong-sil, and wishes to avoid further involvement.

Kangbae changes his mind, however, when he notices the manuscript’s final page: a drawing later known as Rubens’s Man in Hanbok. Drawn into the manuscript by the image, he begins to read.

Jinseok later seeks out Professor Ma for further information. Ma is initially defensive and urges Jinseok not to pursue the matter, but upon seeing the manuscript, he becomes absorbed by it. He explains that Rubens’s drawing can be understood within the tradition of artists copying from earlier masters, accounting for the historical time gap between Jang Yeong-sil and Rubens. The manuscript, written in multiple languages, begins to reopen questions Ma once raised — and was forced to abandon.

Joseon Dynasty

The story shifts to early Joseon. Jang Yeong-sil is introduced as a gifted slave child, punished for his intelligence. As a young man, he continues to suffer beatings for pursuing mechanical experiments, including the construction of a model flying device (bicha). Though his sister and a close friend lament the limitations imposed by their status, Jang remains hopeful. He presents his sister with a telescope of his own making, telling her that one day he hopes to reach the stars.

At court, King Sejong struggles against internal resistance and external pressure, yet declares his resolve to promote science and create a writing system for the people. He announces a royal competition to discover and support new inventions.

Jang constructs an automatic water clock (Jagyeongnu, 자격루, 自擊漏), witnessed by his close friend and a young boy who immediately grasps its principles simply by observing it. Jang and the boy discuss science, joking that the king’s appetite for innovation may be boundless.

Jang’s invention draws the attention of King Sejong. When Jang is summoned to court, the boy reappears and is revealed to be a princess — the king’s daughter — causing Jang momentary shock.

Recognizing Jang’s talent, the king elevates him first to the status of a commoner, and as his inventions continue to accumulate, eventually grants him noble rank. Jang’s close friend is likewise freed from enslavement and made a commoner. Despite Jang’s rise, his sister remains enslaved and is forced into a life as a gisaeng.

Court officials — including the Minister of Military Affairs — grow resentful of Jang’s rapid advancement. The minister plots with an external envoy, angered by the king’s demotion of his own son and determined to reassert influence by arranging a marriage between his son and the princess. Jang’s sister attempts to warn him of the scheme, but is seized by the minister’s men.

With Jang now a nobleman and his influence steadily expanding, opposition against him hardens. Powerful figures move to remove him from court. King Sejong orders Jang to construct a royal carriage. When the carriage later collapses, Jang is arrested and beaten, providing grounds for his imprisonment.

In prison, Jang longs for the king’s trust, and Sejong himself secretly appears. To protect both Jang and the kingdom, the king decides to declare Jang dead and arrange his departure from Joseon aboard a fleet led by Admiral Zheng He.

As Jang is escorted toward a small boat that will take him to the ship, pursuing swordsmen close in. His friend sacrifices himself to delay them, allowing Jang to escape. The act ends with Jang setting out into exile, officially erased from Joseon.

Act II

Italy

Jang Yeong-sil arrives in Rome with Admiral Zheng He and Chunil, another eunuch, bearing gifts from King Sejong. They are received by the Pope, and begin working with the Italian scholar Paolo dal Pozzo Toscanelli. Together, they develop a range of mechanical and astronomical devices, including a revised calendar that correctly calculates the date of Easter, which has drifted over time. In order to finance a return journey to Joseon, they sell the gifts entrusted to them by the king.

Jang presents the completed calendar to the Pope and speaks of further inventions, including a flying machine. When the Pope expresses a desire to see the edge of the world, Jang states that the Earth is round and moves around the sun. This declaration provokes outrage, and Jang and his companions are ordered to leave. Toscanelli warns them that execution has been scheduled, and urges them to flee to Florence, which is then in conflict with papal authority.

In Florence, Jang develops a weapon based on multiple projectiles (singijeon), propelled by explosive force. During its testing, a young boy immediately grasps its operating principle and warns Jang of a delayed explosion, preventing injury. The papal army advances on the city, but Jang’s device is deployed in battle, helping Florence withstand the attack.

The governor of Florence offers to finance a ship for Jang and his companions to return home. Jang ultimately decides to remain behind, fearing that the forces seeking his removal still hold power. Zheng He and the others depart Italy without him.

Years later, an elderly Jang is shown asleep, seated alone. A teenage boy sketches him. When Jang awakens and asks about the drawing, the boy says he wishes to depict him wearing hanbok. Jang asks the boy — Leonardo — to add one more drawing to the final page of his memorandum. The boy hesitates, then complies as Jang stands upright and poses.

As the scene closes, Jang walks alone toward the light, his steps slow and unsteady.

Present Day

In modern Seoul, Jinseok is instructed to halt his documentary project due to concerns over potential diplomatic repercussions. Ellena Corea is briefly detained by the authorities and later released. She meets with Jinseok, questioning why the material should be considered problematic. Ellena identifies herself as a descendant of Antonio Corea, linking her family history to the manuscript.

Professor Ma becomes the target of rumors intended to discredit him and distances himself from the project entirely. Despite this, Jinseok proceeds to release the documentary, only to be met with widespread skepticism.

At the airport, preparing to depart for Florence in pursuit of further answers, Jinseok encounters the image of Jang Yeong-sil, smiling silently at him.


REVIEW

Jang Yeong-sil, born in the late 14th century, was one of the most accomplished scientists of early Joseon. His inventions include the celestial globe, the automatic water clock, and the sundial. His rise from enslavement to noble status under King Sejong is a historical fact, as is his sudden fall from record following the collapse of a royal carriage.

Man in Hanbok, adapted from a novel of the same name, builds a speculative narrative upon this historical absence. Its central premise is that Peter Paul Rubens’s drawing Man in Hanbok depicts Jang Yeong-sil, and that Jang’s life continued beyond Joseon, eventually leading him to Italy. With no surviving records after the carriage incident, the musical uses this silence as an imaginative opening rather than a factual claim.

There are many ways to guide an audience when history and fiction intersect. One is restraint—leaving space for imagination. Another is accumulation—providing explanations for every leap. Man in Hanbok chooses the latter. The show is not difficult to follow; on the contrary, it explains itself constantly. Each transition is carefully signposted, each motivation spelled out. I could follow the story without difficulty, but the experience was ultimately tiring rather than confusing.

Act I alternates between Joseon and present-day Korea. This dual timeline creates urgency, encouraging the audience to anticipate the fate of a king’s favored scientist. The bond between Jang and King Sejong is the emotional anchor of the production and is portrayed with sincerity. Their relationship—built on trust, recognition, and protection—is the most compelling part of the musical. When Jang leaves Joseon under the pretense of death, the moment lands with weight: in 15th-century Joseon, exile could feel as final as imprisonment.

Act II shifts dramatically in tone and setting. Rome and Florence are depicted through full European costuming and rapid scenic changes. Language barriers are bypassed without friction—an accepted convention in musical theatre—and Jang is quickly integrated into European scientific life. These transitions are staged confidently, but they also mark the point where the narrative begins to stretch.

The musical introduces a young Leonardo da Vinci, who ultimately sketches Jang in hanbok—an image later echoed by Rubens’s drawing. The interaction is presented warmly, emphasizing shared curiosity rather than hierarchy. Still, the inclusion of Da Vinci invites reflection. Leonardo was famously meticulous in recording his encounters and ideas, and his legacy is inseparable from documentation. While this musical is clearly fictional and symbolic in intent, the connection may feel heavier than necessary, as it draws attention away from Jang’s own journey and toward questions the work does not aim to answer.

Musically, the strongest moments are the duets between Jang and King Sejong. Danny Go (Go Eun-sung) delivers a particularly stable and resonant performance, with a secure lower register and a distinctive vocal color that carries emotional clarity. His portrayal anchors the role vocally and dramatically. Lee Kyoo-hyung offers a calm and reliable presence, and the two harmonize comfortably, supported by clear diction and natural physicality.

The hall’s acoustics were excellent, favoring clarity over reverberation. Lyrics were easy to hear, and Act I incorporates arrangements inspired by traditional Korean musical idioms, which added texture without excess.

Visually, the production is ambitious. A mid-depth LED screen effectively partitions space, allowing scenes to reset behind it while maintaining momentum. Multiple vertical structures shift horizontally to redefine locations, and lighting is used with precision to sculpt focus and depth. The mid-stage screen, in particular, creates striking reveals when it opens to expose fully prepared scenes behind it. In the final moments, constellation imagery fills the auditorium, visually linking Jang’s scientific legacy to the passage of time.

The ensemble is large and energetic. In Act I, choreography draws from traditional Korean dance forms; in Act II, the same performers transform into cardinals, soldiers, and civilians with European-style movement. The scale is impressive, though frequent movement of large props occasionally crowds the stage, reinforcing the sense that the production is carrying more than it needs.

Narratively, the show’s generosity becomes its limitation. Certain elements—such as the princess’s role or the modern documentary subplot—feel included to add urgency rather than necessity. The modern storyline introduces stakes involving diplomatic tension and suppression, but these conflicts resolve quickly and without clear consequence, raising questions about their purpose within the larger arc.

Ultimately, Man in Hanbok is defined by ambition—and by the fatigue that ambition can produce when left unchecked. It is not a failure of imagination, but of proportion. The musical wants to say many important things, and in doing so, sometimes forgets that silence, omission, and trust in the audience are also storytelling tools.

What remains most compelling is the story closest to home: a gifted man constrained by status, and a king who chooses knowledge as an act of care. This relationship has been explored before in Korean film and television, and Man in Hanbok seeks to expand it outward, across continents and centuries. The result is intriguing but diffuse. With greater restraint and cultural sensitivity, the story could breathe more fully.

One quiet moment stayed with me: the use of the old Korean word ᄃᆞᆺ—the root of 그리웁다 (“to miss”)—woven into a song expressing Jang’s longing for home. Even as the narrative reaches far abroad, it is this simple articulation of loss, delivered with clarity and care, that resonates most deeply.