SYNOPSIS

Four elderly women attending a literacy school, along with their teacher Ga-eul, become unexpected radio guests after a poem they wrote while learning to read and write in their seventies and eighties attracts public attention. Ordered by his station director to turn them into a documentary subject, producer Seok-gu is dispatched to Palbok Village, though he is far from enthusiastic about the assignment.

Yeong-ran, the eldest among the women, dislikes the idea of being filmed. However, the literacy school is on the verge of losing its funding, and Ga-eul, the teacher, persuades her that the documentary might help keep the classes alive. Reluctantly, Yeong-ran agrees.

The women can now write their names and addresses, but dictation remains difficult for them. Ga-eul encourages them to try writing poetry, telling them that poetry exists everywhere and that anything can become a poem. Slowly, they begin uncovering memories they had buried for decades.

In-soon is a romantic at heart. Raised in a household where only her younger brothers were allowed to attend school, she spent her youth washing their school uniforms. One day, a handsome neighborhood boy passing by on her way to school places Pushkin’s ‘What though life conspire to cheat you’ in her hands and reads it to her every day until she memorizes it. Remembering those moments, In-soon recites a poem about her feelings for him. When the other women, swept up in the story, ask what happened to the young man, she laughs and reveals that he became her husband — “that old fool.”

Chun-sim once dreamed of becoming a singer, but she gave up because she could not even fill out an application form. Now that she has learned to write, she enters the Palbok Village Singing Contest with a poem titled “A Lively Age of 88” and successfully passes the preliminary round. Ga-eul, Seok-gu, and the elderly women all join the competition together, but Chun-sim fails after drinking yogurt mixed with soju that Yeong-ran offered to calm her nerves. Upset and embarrassed, Chun-sim lashes out, while Yeong-ran storms off to her son’s apartment in Seoul.

Yeong-ran remembered how her six-year-old grandson had proudly shown off his Korean writing and multiplication tables, while she had boasted that she could still recite Japanese words from memory. But the memory of mistaking an illustration of Puss in Boots for a tiger — and exposing her illiteracy in front of her grandson — still haunted her. Now, after finally learning to read and write, she confidently completes her grandson’s dictation exercises. But when he asks her to write the single word “chicken (닭),” she is suddenly reminded that the trauma of being exposed as illiterate to her son forty-five years earlier had begun with that very word.

Although life in Seoul is comfortable, Yeong-ran feels lonely and prepares to return to Palbok Village. Seok-gu, who has come to film her life in the city, encourages her to write something for her son. Yeong-ran leaves behind a poem expressing her love for him and her guilt over her aging, unhealthy body before returning to the countryside.

At the bus stop, the other women tell Yeong-ran that only Bun-han’s poem remains unfinished. Bun-han’s story begins with her name itself. As a child, she excitedly anticipated a feast, while her grandfather disapproved of his daughter-in-law for giving birth to three daughters. The resentment and sorrow of Bun-han’s mother became embedded in the name “Lee Bun-han.” Ashamed of a name people rarely even called her by, Bun-han finally embraces it through the literacy school and completes her last poem about reclaiming her own identity.

Ga-eul suggests holding a small celebration, and everyone drinks soju together. Seok-gu, who has grown deeply attached to the women, drinks the most. Smiling drunkenly, he reveals on his phone that he has already submitted applications for the National Poetry Recitation Contest despite Yeong-ran shouting at him to withdraw them.

Later, Seok-gu and Ga-eul wait for the women while confessing to the camera that they, too, have come to love them deeply. Soon the women appear wearing high school uniforms prepared by Seok-gu. Laughing and taking photographs together, they wait nervously for their turn on stage.

Seventy-five-year-old In-soon recites a poem about Pushkin and her first love. Eighty-eight-year-old Chun-sim recalls the husband who left her behind in a village blooming with balloon flowers, along with their three children and mother-in-law. Eighty-nine-year-old Yeong-ran shares a poem expressing love for her “precious and beloved” son and guilt over her failing body. Seventy-two-year-old Bun-han recites a poem longing for her mother.

Back in the village, the women finally go on the picnic they had dreamed about all their lives. When Seok-gu asks whether they realize it is the last day of the literacy school, Ga-eul replies that they know perfectly well, but are enjoying themselves even more because they still carry unresolved sorrow in their hearts. The women spend the day happily searching for hidden treasures and laughing together. When Seok-gu suggests taking a picture, they joke that it will become their funeral portrait and laugh with delight, calling Ga-eul and Seok-gu over to join them for the photograph.


REVIEW

The elderly women in this musical have not lived easy lives. Most of them never received even a basic education. They experienced discrimination, poverty, and loss, and some became the sole pillars of their families after their husbands passed away. Physical pain and illness are simply part of everyday life for them now. Yet these women are remarkably cheerful and full of light. They quarrel over trivial things, sulk for a while, and quietly reconcile again like schoolgirls.

In-sun recalls how her husband used to send her to the bank whenever he was angry, knowing she could not read and would feel humiliated. She resents him for it, yet misses him deeply at the same time. Yeong-ran, the blunt and sharp-tongued eldest sister figure of Palbok-ri, appears stern on the surface but is perhaps the warmest-hearted among them. Her tenderness is revealed most clearly when she speaks to her six-year-old grandson. She adored her son’s family, yet every visit to Seoul filled her with anxiety because she feared they would discover that she could not read. Ironically, among the literacy-school students, Yeong-ran is considered the most educated — she attended elementary school up to third grade during the Japanese colonial era.

Chun-sim still mourns the husband who died young, leaving her with three children and a mother-in-law to care for. Yet she still dreams of becoming a singer and giving autographs to fans someday. Bun-han remembers the sorrow of watching her mother suffer for bearing only daughters, and she herself spent most of her life overlooked and pushed aside. But at the literacy school, people finally call her by her own name. In the past, she recognized a sesame oil shop only by its smell. Now she can read the sign even before the scent reaches her.

The four women at the literacy school are not portrayed sentimentally. In fact, what is striking is how calmly they face the reality of aging and death. Death is not treated as a distant tragedy but as an inevitable part of life. What they fear is not death itself, but becoming a burden to the people they love during the process.

That is why the musical feels surprisingly joyful. At times it pierces deeply into the heart, but the women’s quiet acceptance of life commands profound respect. They are not model students at the literacy school. Or perhaps they study harder than anyone, but as they say themselves, “We forget it as soon as we turn around.” Still, simply gathering together to go to school was once an impossible dream for them, and spending time laughing together like young girls brings them immense happiness. They secretly drink soju during class and pull out playing cards, only to be scolded by Teacher Ga-eul, but even those moments become part of the warmth of their shared lives.

One of the musical’s greatest strengths is its music. By the end of my first viewing, I was already humming the reprises to myself. By the second performance, I was already clapping on the beat before Yeong-ran even told us to. The score moves effortlessly through rock, rap, trot, dramatic belting numbers, and dance music. The rap sequence featuring the grandmothers is especially delightful, while Yeong-ran’s explosive vocal number about her humiliation over the word “chicken (닭)” leaves a powerful impression. The choreography is equally flavorful and alive with personality. The staging, built around a circular stage partially enclosed by set pieces, flows seamlessly, and the concise 80-minute running time feels perfectly judged.

When the women hear that another elderly villager passed away peacefully in her sleep, Yeong-ran simply remarks, “She died well.” The women themselves say that this is how they wish to die. Bun-han adds that she would at least like three days to see all the people she loves before she goes. For people who have already experienced countless farewells, death is neither abstract nor terrifying. It is simply part of everyday reality. What matters is not necessarily living longer, but living whatever time remains as joyfully as possible.

Although the musical outwardly centers on overcoming illiteracy, its true heart lies elsewhere. It is ultimately a story about friendship, companionship, and human connection — elderly women who understand each other without needing many words, Teacher Ga-eul who sincerely supports their learning, and PD Seok-gu who initially keeps his distance but gradually comes to love them deeply. The emotional center of the story is the warmth of people living alongside one another.

The musical becomes moving not because “pitiful old women learned to read,” but because it reminds us that human beings continue to live through relationships until the very end, and that dignity, joy, and self-worth remain even in old age. One of the work’s greatest virtues is the absence of excessive sentimentality. There is no manipulative sobbing or melodramatic suffering. The women neither deny life nor heroically fight against it; instead, they endure it with quiet dignity. Though none of them lived easy lives, they have gained, through old age itself, a kind of wisdom and self-respect that feels deeply admirable. Teacher Gaeul made me think the world would be a better place if more people like her existed, and even Seok-gu eventually becomes charmed by the women’s warmth and vitality.

The musical also beautifully incorporates the structure of the Korean writing system itself into the story. Hangul is a phonetic alphabet in which consonants and vowels are combined into compact syllabic blocks. Some blocks are simple, such as “소” (so) or “주” (ju) from the word soju. Others are visually complex. The word “닭” (“chicken”), for example, compresses multiple consonants into a single syllable block and is notoriously difficult even for Korean children learning dictation. In the musical, the word becomes a symbol of Yeong-ran’s lifelong shame surrounding illiteracy.

Yet the scene is not played merely for pity. Eventually, Yeong-ran remembers how to spell “닭” by joking that chickens have two legs, so the word must end with two final consonants. The moment is humorous, but it also reveals how the women learn language not through abstract grammar rules but through lived images and practical associations. Although Hangul may initially appear visually complicated, it is in fact an extraordinarily phonetic and logical writing system once its principles are understood. The musical gently connects the structure of Hangul itself to memory, experience, and everyday life.

And in the end, the musical becomes a story about poetry itself. Poetry does not exist only in books or in grand artistic spaces. Whenever the world suddenly appears radiant, life itself becomes poetry. These grandmothers are poets no less remarkable than Pushkin’s heroines. Perhaps anyone who continues living through the hardships of life is already a poet in their own way.

As Pushkin wrote, life may sometimes deceive us. There are moments of sorrow, anger, and disappointment. Yet there are also undeniably radiant moments. Leaving the theater, I found myself making a quiet promise to love myself a little more and to live this one precious life as fully as possible.

A significant part of the musical's charm in Korea comes from the rich Gyeongsang-do dialect. It provides a rustic, fast-paced, and inherently humorous "mal-mat" (the savory flavor of spoken words) that prevents the story from feeling dry. As this production expands internationally—following its showcase in Japan and upcoming stages in Taiwan—a creative American adaptation could brilliantly replicate this magic. Instead of flattening the text into standard English, localizing the script through rich regional or ethnic American dialects—such as the warm, slow-drawn cadence of Southern American English, the rhythmic soul of African American Vernacular English (AAVE), or the spirited blending of Spanglish—would perfectly capture the raw authenticity, humor, and communal warmth of the original Korean production.

Much of the musical’s warmth comes from the grannies’ rich Gyeongsang-do dialect. The earthy humor, rapid-fire rhythm, and distinctive “mal-mat” — the savory flavor of spoken language — keep the show lively and deeply human without ever slipping into sentimentality.

The musical already held a showcase in Japan in 2025 and is scheduled for performances in Taiwan. If it eventually expands into English-speaking markets, it would be fascinating to see productions preserve this spirit through local voices and rhythms rather than flattening everything into standard English.

I could especially imagine the musical working beautifully with the warm, sharp, and quietly philosophical humor often found in African American community storytelling traditions. Just imagining how the wordplay, dialect jokes, and difficult spelling moments could be localized is exciting in itself. The grannies’ playful teasing, fast exchanges, and deeply lived-in wisdom feel surprisingly close in spirit.