At first, this drama's promise is simple: delightfully corny entertainment against an intriguing historical backdrop. With swift efficiency, it sketches characters with touching - and even thought-provoking - conflicts tied to the troubled times it takes place in. Curiosity piqued, hope soon follows: could this overdramatisation serve in painting a more profound picture of the period and its people?

Alas, the hand that deftly outlined this compelling context proves just as quick in quashing it, soon unveiling where its true loyalty lies: with cheap writing and unsavory values.

In the 30s, as Japan controls Korea, a masked figure mocks the occupying force and sows seeds of sedition among the subjugated locals. On the trail of this heroic figure, we find our own: an ambitious and ruthless Korean man enrolled in the imperial police. Though disowned by his countrymen and distrusted by his colleagues, desperation to escape poverty drives him. By his side, few friends, with one of interest: a gentle Japanese teacher, admirative of Korean culture albeit from a typical military family. It is a straightforward and effective setup, rife with turmoil and torn identities.

Yet in spite of its solid concept, Gaksital suffers from an incredibly incoherent narrative in which no character, no development, no situation ever arises from a sensible perspective. Rather, it sticks to a shoddy script which substitutes itself to the laws of space, time, human physiology and psychology. What the script dictates becomes reality, in a bizarre and mystifying parody of verisimilitude: the plot, all-powerful and arbitrary, bends the characters' intelligence and psyche, teleports them where it needs, heals or breaks them as necessary, grafts the required emotions onto them and discards any and every element in its way, including what was previously established.

Thus, our very nominal hero swings from an extreme of frustration and violence to one of rebellion and selflessness, while very flimsy justifications are given: familial duty, inherent goodness and empathy, innate Korean pride… none of it seamlessly reconciles with his early rage and disdain, the sheer magnitude of his misdeeds; none of it accounts for the injustice of a society that pushed him into this traitorous impasse. Instead, the narrative childishly posits all crimes as forgiven through acts of zealous patriotism. So the Korean characters, despite their past grudges and jealousies, despite the many doubts they should harbour, happily embrace each other as comrades, no question asked.

More egregious is the case of the hero's Japanese friend, falling victim to what amounts to a personality transplant. He, too, converts from one excess to another, from cordial to cruel, in a mirror yet not less inexplicable trajectory. Familial duty once again gets invoked, plus a dash of genetic evil - how to view it otherwise, when all Japanese are evil minus one, granted with the dubious privilege of idiocy? -, in a manner that vexes reason. We should believe, yes, in the triumph of filial devotion in a man with strained relations towards his relatives; and we should believe it strong enough to shatter friendships that he cherishes more than family. In this contrived way, he rises as a villain against our hero: their rivalry, instead of heartbreaking, seems phony.

To seal the deal, so to speak, the drama employs romance: a rebel woman loved by both men. As one has come to expect from fictional heroines, the poor soul turned out to be another sham - a passive object the men strive to possess and passed on between them, captured, freed, captured, freed! a fate she endures, patiently worrying for the men close to her when she's not tasked with the brave, rebellious act of… cooking for said men. Already, the insignificance of her role appals; the blend of romance utterly infuriates, for what is there to admire, to adore? What Gaksital puts forward as explanation leaves one stunned: our love story stems from a teenage crush. For both suitors and the lady involved, the great basis to their infatuation comes from the very first flutter of fascination felt for the opposite sex. The series holds this as not only plausible, but so powerful it absolves of abuse inflicted without knowing the other's identity; so powerful it becomes obsession and trumps, just like filial devotion, friendships that were made tangible.

As we witness these baffling developments, we must also wince from the poor logistics of them! Torture is but a scratch: no amount of beatings, whippings, slashings or bombings is able to diminish the characters… unless, of course, it befalls a doomed secondary one, then the body suddenly succumbs for quick shock value. Time flows in debatable measures, dilated as much as can be in order to let the hero get away, swaps clothing, then sneaks back; the police always vanishes and tarries when the good guys need a moment to flee. Likewise, intellects fluctuate to a concerning degree - the beatings, perhaps? - as friends and foes ponder on the very evident clues before them or abruptly connect two inconclusive pieces of information.

And that is, still, far from the complete picture, teeming also with a conveniently appearing horse, flushed out rebels freed after a good session of torture - this will teach them? -, a secret independence movement recruiting in the open and a villainous organisation which actions and goals, by the end, made neither sense nor a captivating antagonistic force.

Consequently, on screen, the actors embody not human beings but puppets: uprooted from their personal history and material circumstances, untethered from their relationships or beliefs, thus unsettled in their quirks and what could constitute their personality. Constantly diminished by the erratic script, the often capable performances of the (main) actors never fully convince, only entertain. How could they? On a whim, their characters switch from sweet to violent, indifferent to affectionate, sly to silly and back again, and back again, in a revolving motion that leaves their already poorly sourced motives in shambles.

Damning it further are the continuity errors and set oddities cropping up between every other sequence: to close one's eyes on the miraculous healing power of our heroes is one thing, to have it highlighted through wrongly placed wounds is another… the details, one by one, add up: differently positioned props between cuts, misadjusted or unbloodied clothing, styles of questionable accuracy, various cheesy effects, the obviously limited backlot and not less confusing layouts of interiors. What would have been forgiven elsewhere, here chips at it more - puppets or perhaps worse, characters of cardboard hastily shipped from room to room, dents and flaking visible.

Insult to injury, the series boasts a miserably high number of episodes for what it knows to offer. Deprived of the strength of nuanced characters yet unable to provide rich intrigues, the almighty plot runs in circles: a few key situations, ad nauseam - a damsel to distress then undistress, a round of our male duo warily eyeing each other, Gaksital! saving the day, rinse, repeat… a permanent standoff, as no radical measure can be utilised before the very last episodes. It feels long and tiring, the beginning thrill fading more and more as episodes pass and neither bring something new nor build something of value.

Gaksital keeps a pretense, one aligned with not only mediocre writing - a lesser crime - but also a deeply conservative worldview.

One slavishly devoted to the authority of the father, his ideals, his beliefs so that honouring his memory and avenging him is a foregone conclusion; and that his political embodiments, as absolutely wise elder teachers, generals or monarchs, deserve the same unquestioned respect.

One blind to the complexities and flaws of Korean society independent to colonial matters, thus portraying a simplistic heroic unity against a villainous Japan; so that the complicated feelings one might develop because of poverty, hierarchy and prejudice are handwaved; and that all characters fall between a caricature of either good or evil, depending on nationality, with no nuance of ideology or morality.

One disdainful of women, their roles, their intelligence, so that they become accessories or fantasy to men, pitiful objects to protect, possess or destroy; and that they happily comply or keep quiet about their fates, always irrelevant and powerless against the politics and the narrative. This, despite their constant and even formative presence in all of these men's lives! laughable.

Hence, a charade: unconcerned with the flawed humanity of its protagonists, unbothered by the superficiality of its arguments but oh, so satisfied with its little patriotic demonstration. Setting aside any expectation of inventive fun and meaningfully crafted narrative, some enjoyment can be derived from its performances and overall ridicule… not enough to wish it on anyone who isn't a die-hard fan of the main actors, though.