SYNOPSIS

Moosim, worn and exhausted, stands on the road leading to Bihaedang (Anpyeong’s former residence) and reflects on her past. Once Princess Hyeonju, daughter of Prince Anpyeong, she lost her father and brother during the Gyeyujeongnan (1453 coup led by Suyang) at the age of sixteen, was reduced to slavery, and was only freed twenty-seven years later. Now, she wanders in search of her father’s remains, hoping at least to build him a grave, and makes her way back to her former home.

An Kyon and Dae-Eohyang, a former concubine of Prince Anpyeong, also head toward Bihaedang, reminiscing about better days. They encounter Moosim and greet her with joy. Dae-Eohyang, scarred in a fire and abandoned, had been taken in by An Kyon. Moosim laments that, branded as traitors, no one will tell her the truth about her father’s final moments.

A mysterious Wayfarer appears before them. Bound at the waist by a long red cord, he is controlled by the ghost of Suyang, who holds the other end, though the ghost is visible only to him. The Wayfarer recalls meeting Prince Anpyeong even on the day he was taken away, and tells how the prince and his son were killed while “pacing the void.” Suyang echoes these words. The Wayfarer speaks of fleeing, returning years later to find his children dead and his wife gone, and laments his existence as one who wanders endlessly between worlds.

The three invite the Wayfarer to An Kyon’s house and go inside ahead of him. Outside, Suyang suffers from an unbearable itching and calls for his younger brother. The Wayfarer begs to be released, but Suyang calls him Yong (Anpyeong’s childhood name) and insists they cannot be separated.

Inside the house, Moosim, Dae-Eohyang, An Kyon, and the Wayfarer share their stories, while the ghost remains present but silent. A message arrives from Bongong, a Buddhist nun at Daejaam, who requests to see Moosim. They set out together. Along the way, Suyang reflects bitterly that while people have vanished, the blossoms remain unchanged.

An Kyon recounts how he survived. When Prince Anpyeong discovered that the Yongmaemukhwan (an ink stick used for calligraphy) had gone missing and found it on An Kyon, he publicly feigned anger and drove him away, making it appear as if An Kyon had stolen it. Yet after dismissing everyone, he quietly returned the object, sparing his life.

An Kyon reflects that it was through Anpyeong that he gained the vision to see and create great art.

They lament that all of Anpyeong’s writings and paintings were burned. Urged on by the Wayfarer, they continue to Daejaam, where the aged Bongong greets them. Once beloved by Anpyeong but prevented from becoming his concubine, she had entered Buddhist life. She reveals that Suyang once visited and left behind Anpyeong’s belongings. When Moosim asks what her father left behind, Bongong answers, “A dream.”

From a box, Bongong produces the painting Mongyudowondo (A Dream Journey to the Peach Blossom Land). An Kyon, now nearly blind, is astonished to see his own work again.

The Wayfarer recalls a dream of traveling along a steep path, drawn by the scent of peach blossoms into a utopian realm. As he speaks of the peace he found there, the stage transforms into the world of the painting.

In contrast, a memory unfolds from the ghost of Suyang. Gradually consumed by anger, he envisions Anpyeong’s dream of the Peach Blossom Land turning into a blaze that would reduce it to ashes.

In this memory, he goes to Bihaedang to confront his brother and urges him to stand with him, but Anpyeong quietly presses his shoulder and says that it is simply that his brother has won and he has lost, before bidding him farewell.

The Wayfarer recounts his final moments. After receiving poison from Suyang, he awakens unable to tell whether he stands between life and death. He is told that his brother left something behind, but finds only a blank page. When those listening react in shock, he dismisses it all as a joke.

An Kyon and Dae-Eohyang realize that the Wayfarer is Prince Anpyeong, address him as “Grand Prince,” and bow before him. As he departs, Moosim voices the anguish of the past she has endured, yet ultimately calls him “father.” Suyang appears once more, calling his brother by name, and speaks as though nothing has changed since their childhood.


REVIEW

This was my fourth changgeuk (Korean traditional opera) after The Merchants of Venice, Simcheong, and The Story of Lee Nal-chi. The Merchants of Venice was both entertaining and served as my introduction to the genre, while Simcheong felt considerably heavier. The Story of Lee Nal-chi, in contrast, was lighter and revealed elements that resembled musical theatre in its structure.

Boheoja belonged to yet another category. It felt more philosophical, as if positioned somewhere between theatre and opera. The work contained a substantial amount of spoken dialogue, yet even without melodic lines, the performers’ speech retained the distinct rhythmic and tonal qualities of pansori. Having now seen a few changgeuk productions, I found it easier to follow both the dialogue and the overall pacing of the piece.

The orchestra consisted almost entirely of traditional Korean instruments, with the exception of one virtual instrumentation (VSTi). Despite the absence of Western instruments, the sonic weight and gravity of the music—amplified through microphones—evoked the experience of watching operas such as Rigoletto or Attila.

The narrative is set 27 years after the Gyeyu Coup, during which Grand Prince Suyang seized power by eliminating his rivals, including King Danjong, Grand Prince Anpyeong, and the Six Martyred Ministers. The story follows those who were close to Anpyeong as they trace his legacy and uncover the truth behind his final fate.

An Gyeon, the painter, reflects on how his artistic maturity was shaped by the opportunity to experience great works under Anpyeong’s patronage. The Dream Journey to the Peach Blossom Land (Mongyudowondo)—inspired by Anpyeong’s dream—becomes a visual and emotional climax, flooding the stage with light in a dreamlike spectacle.

Anpyeong’s daughter, Moosim (Princess Hyeonju), is portrayed as a tragic figure who, after her father’s execution as a traitor, was reduced to slavery before being reinstated. She lives with an enduring longing for her father. Other figures, such as his concubine Dae-Eohyang and Bongong, who turned to Buddhism after failing to become his consort, also embody this lingering attachment to him.

The most unsettling twist of the production lies in its reinterpretation of history: Suyang, who is believed to have executed Anpyeong, is instead portrayed as having been unable to kill him. Even after death, he remains bound to Anpyeong as a restless spirit. Suyang recalls their childhood, calling Anpyeong by his old name, “Yong.”

However, this reinterpretation does not humanize Suyang for me. Rather, it intensifies his cruelty. Sparing Anpyeong’s life—after annihilating his family and condemning him to a living death—does not read as mercy, but as a more prolonged form of torture. The production may intend to grant Suyang a trace of conscience or familial affection, but the result feels more disturbing than redeeming. One is left to question: if one’s entire family had been destroyed so brutally, could survival itself be perceived as an act of mercy?

Anpyeong appears as a wayfarer, a being without physical existence in the real world—someone suspended in a void. Officially dead, he cannot reveal himself, and his existence is confined to a world detached from reality.

Despite these philosophical layers, the work is structurally well constructed. The ensemble was cohesive throughout.

Kim Junsu, as Anpyeong, occasionally showed a lighter lower register, but his emotionally charged singing made it clear why he is regarded as a leading figure in changgeuk. Lee Gwangbok, as Suyang, whom I had previously seen as Lee Nal-chi, delivered a powerful performance well suited to a role driven by inner turmoil.

The performer portraying Moosim (Min Eun-kyung) offered a stable and comfortable tone, maintaining both lyrical flow and vocal strength through sustained phrases. Dae Eohyang’s role was marked by a balance of restraint and intensity. The actor playing Bonggong, who also served as the narrator, carried the narrative with authority.

Among the cast, Yoo Taepyeongyang as An Gyeon left the strongest impression. Without resorting to overt emotional outbursts, he conveyed deep regret and demonstrated remarkable control in transitioning between emotional states.

Alongside Mongyudowondo, the relationship between Anpyeong and Suyang forms the central thematic axis of the work. Bound together by a red rope, Anpyeong remains under Suyang’s control, never fully released. Their connection reflects both guilt and resentment, extending even into the afterlife.

Yet the Gyeyu Coup was not a tragedy limited to Anpyeong alone—it was a far larger and more brutal historical event. A more unequivocal portrayal of Suyang as a villain might have allowed for a more immersive viewing experience without moral hesitation.

The ambiguity surrounding Anpyeong’s existence—whether real or imagined—also functions as a device that softens logical scrutiny, offering a kind of narrative license for the unfolding events.

Finally, the English title was striking. As I watched the subtitles, I wondered how “허공” would be translated—and then saw the word void. It immediately felt more absolute than simple emptiness: a space devoid not only of matter, but of even the slightest trace of existence. It powerfully reinforces the sense of a human being erased from reality.