SYNOPSIS

A man enters a basement carrying a suit, tie, dress shirt, and formal shoes. He secures the door with three locks and five latches. Outside, a zombie outbreak has wiped out humanity, and he has barely made it into B-103, a bunker in Sillim-dong, Seoul—one he had prepared long in advance. Believing he may be the last survivor, he attempts to contact others via radio, but receives no response.

He begins recording videos on his phone, documenting the bunker. Although communication networks have collapsed and the footage cannot be transmitted, he continues, hoping someone may one day find it. He explains his survival plan: food and water supplies calculated to sustain him for a year at 1,200 kcal per day, air purification systems, and even potatoes and potted plants he is growing. He ends his recording by saying, “You are not alone.” The presence of zombies is never shown directly; instead, it is suggested through mechanical sounds and shifts in lighting, as a cold blue hue engulfs the space.

The paper he uses is the back of a rejected job application form. At times, he mutters to himself, “I did my best.”

After 100 days, he records another video. He places a candle on a chocolate pie and sings himself a birthday song. Wearing a cone-shaped headpiece made from the box, marked with the Korean word jeong (情, affection), he reflects on human connection, old friends, and his mother’s love.

Startled by the sound of a rat, he searches the bunker and discovers a box he does not remember placing there. Inside are childhood shoes, a wand he bought after watching Harry Potter, and a large teddy bear. He begins talking to the bear and names it “John Ber” (pronounced like “John Burr” in a British accent), meaning "slang for 'enduring through hellish times.“

He recalls memories of drinking with friends after work and going on camping trips. Playing word games with the bear, every word that comes to mind is related to job hunting: qualifications, aptitude tests, portfolios.

Behind a curtain, he finds a company ID badge, dress shoes, and a laptop bag. Remembering someone telling him to “try harder,” he cries out that he did his best.

Heavy rain begins to flood the bunker. He struggles to contain the water, wringing out the soaked teddy bear and placing it on the bed. When he attempts to record again, his phone dies due to power failure and water damage. He drags his legs as if pushing through water and crouches on a chair to stay above the rising flood, still trying to document his existence. The space gradually becomes uninhabitable, no longer capable of sustaining normal life.

In despair, the bear tells him to go outside. He insists there is nowhere to go—that everyone is dead—but the bear urges him to go home. In that moment, he realizes he once had a home.

He unlocks the door, removing every latch, but fear overwhelms him and he locks it again. Trembling, he cries, “I never had a home.” If being human means existing between people, he questions whether he is still human at all.

Time passes. His food spoils, his water runs out, and the bunker fills with mold and insects. He grows weaker, eventually curling up in a corner, muttering to himself. Then, a signal emerges from the radio—Morse code. Another survivor is trying to make contact. He knows he must go out, but cannot bring himself to decide.

On the one-year anniversary of entering the bunker, he hears voices outside. A census worker is calling at the door. Confused—knowing zombies cannot speak—he hesitates. By the time he changes into clean clothes, the person is gone.

Convinced it was a trick, he reinforces the door, sealing himself in further. Yet outside, the sounds of ordinary life—and news footage flickering across the monitors—persist.

Instead, he puts on his suit, shoes, and tie, carrying his bag, and stands still—his gaze fixed somewhere beyond.


REVIEW

Drawn by the announcement of its upcoming one-month run at Southwark Playhouse Elephant in May 2026, I sought out the Seoul production with considerable anticipation. The stage was set as a semi-basement or underground studio, immediately establishing a sense of confinement.

The character explains that he had foreseen the zombie outbreak months in advance and had prepared this shelter accordingly. He appears to know the layout of the space intimately, and on the desk are several sketches of zombies—faces that resemble humans, yet with distortions in the eyes and mouth. The walls are solid concrete, and the only steel door is reinforced to be firmly sealed, with a small peephole serving as the sole connection to the outside world.

The performance opens with a striking rock number—clean, direct, and sharply delivered. Within the constraints of a solo piece, the music serves as a crucial structural anchor, maintaining the intensity of the work. While the number of songs is limited, the dialogue-driven format is punctuated with well-timed moments of humor, frequently drawing laughter from the audience. References to works such as Train to Busan, The Walking Dead, The Martian, and Harry Potter help establish the situation quickly and effectively. The character’s fondness for Hermione stands out as a particularly memorable detail.

The use of video recording as a narrative device is highly effective. The character documents his situation on his phone, and these recordings are projected onto multiple monitors on stage, visually reinforcing the separation between his confined space and the outside world.

The teddy bear, “John Ber,” functions as an embodiment of the survivor’s inner voice. While he isolates himself out of fear, the bear gives voice to the part of him that still longs to step outside, articulating the tension between withdrawal and survival.

This Korean production features four alternating actors, each with a different backstory leading to self-imposed isolation. Dialogue and props shift accordingly. The causes of isolation—failure, betrayal, illness, financial collapse, maladjustment, depression—are endless, and this structural flexibility allows the narrative to translate across cultures. This is precisely what makes The Last Man a work with strong international potential. Combined with its solid musical foundation, its capacity for expansion appears significant.

In the performance I attended, the character seemed to be someone who had failed to secure employment or had been unable to re-enter the workforce after leaving a job. A rejected job application form serves as a key prop. A round leather pouch, originally described as a camping compass, is reimagined as a company ID, through which he reconstructs an imagined office life in vivid detail. Even when he resolves to leave the bunker, he prioritizes packing items associated with work—his suit and shoes. His isolation is not born of misanthropy, but of rejection by society, and he lacks the strength to confront that reality.

At one point, as he cries out toward the door that confines him, the back of his T-shirt reveals the words “Value of Living.” As the performance progresses, he gradually deteriorates. The space, already disrupted by flooding, becomes increasingly disordered as he builds barricades to keep the zombies out. The bunker is no longer a viable space for survival. Although his supplies were originally planned to last a year—some of which have been ruined—he has already endured that period. At this point, the conflict between his reasons for hiding and the possibility of stepping outside comes to the forefront, revealing the full depth of the actor’s performance. Kim Chanjong, in the performance I saw, delivered a particularly strong portrayal, balancing stable vocals with precise comedic timing and a convincing depiction of psychological disintegration.

The lingering atmosphere of the piece made it difficult to respond with cheers; instead, the audience offered sustained applause. I found myself unable to stop clapping until the actor had fully exited the stage.

The pre-show announcement returned to mind: audience members were free to leave at any time if the performance became difficult to endure. Watching a character who cannot step outside, the audience—who can—are placed in a position of choice. In that moment, one has already encountered the core of the work. The freedom to leave.

The piece was reportedly inspired by news of solitary deaths in modern society.

It is often said that having even one person who truly loves you can sustain a life. I have tried, and will continue to try, to be that person for my children. At the same time, they have sustained me.

The character keeps returning to his mother—suggesting that being loved may be the only thing that allows one to endure. Yet he cannot bring himself to return home to see her. Is there truly no path left that could save him?