The Birth of Korean Cool (11 page)

American pop culture was—for a time—the symbol of liberation for South Korea: American GIs introduced South Koreans to rock ‘n’ roll, Spam, and baseball—all of
which became immensely popular and synonymous with freedom: freedom from the Japanese, freedom from communism. (Koreans still like Spam. A lot. Outside the United States, South Korea is the
world’s highest consumer of Spam.)

And now, it’s Korea’s turn. Korea looked to pop culture as a way to create new sources of revenue, unite people, and generate an exportable product that would help spread Korean
culture globally.

K-culture has the potential to be a powerful diplomatic tool. I’m convinced that the late Korean president Kim Daejung will be proven right in his prediction that Hallyu, not politics,
will bring north and south together.

North Korean black marketers are literally risking their lives to smuggle in copies of South Korean videos and dramas. In 2009, a North Korean defector to the south told
Time
magazine
that in North Korea, bootleg American movies fetched 35 cents on the black market, whereas South Korean movies cost $3.75, because the punishment for being caught with the latter is much more
severe.
²

THE WORLD’S COOLEST MINISTRY OF CULTURE

For the longest time, I couldn’t hear the words “Ministry of Culture” without thinking of some horrible totalitarian state. I was always reminded of the
Ministry of Truth in George Orwell’s dystopian novel
1984
, which produced lowbrow entertainment for the proletariat, such as insalubrious pulp novels written from a formula based on
six mix-and-match plots.

I took a pretty dim view of the whole notion. That is, until I visited the Korean Ministry of Culture.

Imagine the top levels of government working on virtual reality and hyperrealistic hologram technology—but not for the purpose of warfare or espionage; rather, to make a mind-blowing
concert experience. That’s one of the projects undertaken by the Ministry of Culture, Sport, and Tourism.

What’s so great about holograms? “Holograms are very important for the performing arts,” said Choi Bokeun, who has the coolest title ever: director of the Popular Culture
Industry Division. The explanation was not one I was expecting to hear from a bespectacled, gray-suited, highly educated official in the Korean central government.

Primarily, his focus is on Korean pop music, fashion, mass entertainment, comic books, and web cartoons. Sounds like a party! But Choi has what I suspect is one of the most stressful jobs in
contemporary Korea.

You would never guess from the building’s imposing, high-ceilinged architecture and its dead-quiet corridors that any vaguely show-biz-related activity was taking place inside. Its
atmosphere and employees were redolent of the Einstein Lab at Princeton.

One of Choi’s division’s roles is to promote the research and development of highly advanced “cultural technology.” I’d never heard that term before, but according
to Choi, Hallyu depends on it and the government invests a great deal on it.

Holograms can enhance stage performances. For example, a K-pop band can give a quasi-live simultaneous performance in all the world’s major cities without actually being physically
present.

Also in the works are artificial rainbows, as well as fireworks whose shapes can be manipulated and changed at will—for example, to take the shape of traditional Korean
designs—without the use of CGI. “It’s very tricky, but we’re developing it,” said Choi.

These technological feats are developed in cooperation with ETRI—Electronics and Telecommunications Research Institute—a Korean think tank and technology lab in the southern city of
Daejon. They also work with the Korean Culture Technology Institute, a research and development laboratory dedicated to Korean culture technology, based in the southwestern province of Gwangju.
Both are government-owned. Yeah. The Korean government owns the local equivalent of Industrial Light and Magic.

That said, Choi disagreed with my characterization that the government was the invisible hand behind Hallyu: “The Korean Wave is not guided by the Korean government; we just serve a
coordinating function.”

Pop culture is such a high priority for President Park Geun-hye that, shortly after taking office in early 2013, she upgraded Choi’s team from a small task force to an entire division.
Many other countries have government arts funding, but how many governments finance popular culture—or create a $1 billion investment fund to nurture it?

The ministry has three other cultural content industry divisions: one for video games, one for television, and one for cultural industry policy. Collectively, they are called the Cultural
Content Office. Choi explained their role: “To create an ecosystem for all creators to play in a fair manner, with fair compensation. [We are] the rule setters.” The cultural content
divisions’ most important role is protecting intellectual property and prosecuting copyright infringers. The ministry develops policies to penalize illegal file sharing of music, shows,
movies, and published material; violators can be stripped of Internet service for six months. Every time someone sings a song in a
noraebang
, or karaoke room, the artist is supposed to
receive royalties. Choi’s division writes those policies.

After the Asian financial crisis, President Kim Dae-jung created a special fund to create the Cultural Content Office. The initial annual bud get was $50 million; now, said Choi, it’s
around $500 million. Choi’s own budget is 10 percent of that total budget, or $50 million. Choi said the Cultural Content Office is now the “nucleus” of Korea’s soft-power
strategy.

Naturally, bud get management and fund disbursement is a day-to-day part of the job. The Cultural Content Office has two budget controls. One is spending on cultural projects: for Choi, that
comes out of his $50 million annual budget. But that’s not even close to being enough money to achieve Korea’s pop cultural ambitions.

Hence the second means of funding for the Korean culture machine: an investment fund—not to give free grants, but a for-profit fund, very much aimed at making high returns. Currently the
fund size is a staggering $1 billion. That entire fund is earmarked just for the Korean pop culture industry; it does not include the fine arts like museums, opera, or ballet. (Those industries are
run by an entirely separate division. Koreans take culture very seriously.)

According to Choi, about 20 to 30 percent of the fund comes from the Korean government; the rest of the monies are from investment banks and private companies, such as music labels. This fund
is, in turn, operated by the Korean Venture Investment Corporation (KVIC), made up of private-sector fund managers. “The fund invests mostly in film,” said Choi, “but also in
animation, music, and drama.”

Unsurprisingly, the cultural content industry divisions have a five-year plan: their aim, said Choi, is for the market size of the collective Korean cultural industry exports to reach $10
billion—more than double the current figure. That’s a tall order.

The Ministry of Culture oversees projects on a level of detail you could not imagine: for example, regulating Korea’s many
noraebangs
. Part of this is vice control: “We want
a ‘singing room’ to have a family-friendly environment where people can enjoy singing clean songs,” Choi explained.

To that end, the
noraebangs
are legally classified into three types: One type is not permitted to sell alcohol, but some owners sell it illegally anyway, so the government tries to
monitor this. The second kind is allowed to sell alcohol. And the third kind, said Choi, blushing as he did so, “is the one where you can be with women.” The Koreans call the third type
a “room salon.” Choi’s ministry only concerns itself with the first kind of
noraebang
; the latter two are regulated by the police bureau and the Ministry of Welfare and
Health. Who knew that karaoke rooms required so much bureaucratic hassle and such a staggeringly complex taxonomy? For that matter, who knew that karaoke rooms were such a popular hooker
hangout?

The government is also raising private funds to build Hallyu World, a multicomplex theme park, in Ilsan, a town northwest of Seoul. Hallyu World will include a private fifteen-hundred-seat
concert hall, as well as hotels and a K-culture-themed shopping area. The scale of investment is $200 million, with a projected finish date of 2016.

I asked Choi whether he thought Hallyu was a passing fancy. His answer was characteristically pragmatic: “No, because there are so many investors.” It’s true; if people throw
money at something, it tends to stay alive. He also reiterated that the government’s role was merely that of coordination. The future of Hallyu, he said, is “all up to the Korean
people, the private sector. It’s not up to the Korean government.”

Inevitably, though, certain aspects of Hallyu don’t reap the benefits of government promotion. One person who feels left in the cold is Kim Heon-jun, the head of Jinjo
Crew—Korea’s most successful B-boy (street dancing or break-dancing) troupe. As with most young Korean celebrities, his rebellious exterior belies an exceptional politeness. He’s
dressed to look tough, yet he uses the most respectful form of Korean address with me, except on a few occasions when he good-naturedly called me a
seh-ggi
(meaning “bastard,”
but not as strong).

I met with him in the empty, echoing lobby café of the Chungmu Art Hall in Seoul; he was there for a rehearsal, but he could not have looked more out of place in the buttoned-down theater
and gallery space. His manner of dress is what counts for hopelessly rebellious in Korea: a black baseball cap turned backwards, a casual T-shirt, and black nylon track pants. Kim looks and behaves
a decade younger than his twenty-seven years, and on a bathroom break he sprinted. “There’s no need to rush!” I said. He replied, “I run everywhere. Walking is a waste of
time, right?”

Kim has led Jinjo Crew to several first-place victories in world B-boy tournaments, but he feels his sport is not getting the attention it deserves—he feels overshadowed by K-pop. When I
mentioned to him that I was about to meet Choi for an interview, his face lit up and he said, “Really? Please make sure you tell him to help us.”

“What exactly would you like me to say?” I asked.

“For real, B-boy is more famous internationally than K-pop, but I don’t think [the government] realizes that. We’re not just playing around. There’s so much attention on
K-pop but we’re not just a fad; this is a culture. In other countries, B-boy culture is really huge, but in Korea we don’t have any support from the government. Ask him to pay attention
to B-boys too, or else we’ll lose all our good dancers to other countries that care more about this art. Please.”

I forgot to relay Kim’s message. But my exchange with the street dancer is emblematic of the absurdity of modern Korea: in what other country would a B-boy try to make the case that he
deserves his government’s support?

SAY WHAT YOU WILL ABOUT THE QUALITY OF K-POP
music, but Lee Moon-won, Korea’s most influential pop culture critic, made a shockingly frank
pronouncement in describing K-pop: “Koreans are not good at creativity.”

If he’s right, then President Park Geun-hye’s promise of turning Korea into a “creative economy” is in trouble.

Sitting across from him, my eyes widened and I asked him to elaborate. “Koreans are better at packaging and marketing. Look at Samsung, for example. With K-pop, the songwriters are not
Korean. They’re Europe an. The people who do the editing studied in the United States; they’re multinational. The dance choreographers are from everywhere. It’s really a
factory.”

Many of the songwriters
are
European—Swedes especially. “Korean pop is based on Europop,” Lee explained. Which totally explains why K-pop songs sound like Eurovision
Song Contest entries. He elaborated, “The Europe an sound influence is electronic and techno music. There’s a heavy electronic base.”

K-pop boy bands TVXQ! and Big Bang are examples of Europop-influenced acts; other K-pop bands fall into other mainstream genres like R & B (Rain or MBLAQ) or bubble gum pop (Girls’
Generation).

There’s a very good reason for the lack of an original, homegrown Korean sound: the Korean pop scene got a very late start because of censorship that stifled musical talent and creativity.
For a critical period during the 1970s, rock music was banned in Korea.

As a consequence of this ban, the Korean pop sound did not absorb any influence from the whole 1970s sound progression, including classic rock, punk, glam rock, and early heavy metal. No Led
Zeppelin, No Sex Pistols, no David Bowie.

During his eighteen-year rule from 1962 to 1979 (ending with his assassination), President Park Chung-hee (father of current South Korean President Park Geun-hye) instituted on-again, off-again
martial law. Park was the hero behind Korea’s rags-to-riches ascent (and—full disclosure—my grandfather’s employer). It’s now considered politically incorrect to refer
to Park as a dictator, but I am failing to find another word to describe someone who amends voting laws to all but ensure his presidency for life.

Park’s iron-fisted policies were partly in response to North Korea, which was putting most of its resources into building its military; this made South Korea extremely nervous. In 1972,
Park responded to the threat of invasion as any sensible ruler would: by banning miniskirts, long hair on men, and rock ‘n’ roll. That pretty much ruled out mods, rockers, and
hippies—imminent threats to national security.

Police would stop women on the streets, take a ruler to their skirts, and force them to go home and change if the gap between the hemline and the knee exceeded twenty centimeters. They would
grab long-haired men and cut off their hair on the spot. No doubt these tactics will go down in the annals of history as the most effective war prevention gesture of all time. I’m sure that
the North Korean rulers were quivering in their boots when they got wind of it.