Jesus
'Weird Al' Yankovic
Jesus
Overview
In the early 1900s, Ellen, an aspiring actress, tries to find her lucky break in a studio where everything goes wrong.
Cast
Comic
Adam Celentano
Comic
Apostle / Cameraman / Suitor
Nick Celentano
Apostle / Cameraman / Suitor
Receptionist / Wardrobe Maiden
Jody Fasanella
Receptionist / Wardrobe Maiden
Director
Brendan McIvor Fleming
Director
Cameraman
Collin Fowler
Cameraman
Photographer
Douglas Kirkland
Photographer
Cameraman
Ryan Anthony Martin
Cameraman
Prussian Director
Ian McCrudden
Prussian Director
Cameraman / Carpenter
David Pierce
Cameraman / Carpenter
Dancing Skeleton / Cameraman
John Quinlen
Dancing Skeleton / Cameraman
Dancing Skeleton / Cameraman
John Quinlen
Dancing Skeleton / Cameraman
Reviews
✦ AI-generated review
The Unsung Architects of Changri-dong
In the sprawling, neon-soaked landscape of South Korean television, the superhero narrative usually tilts toward the messianic. We are accustomed to chosen ones saving the planet from cosmic threats or chae-bol heirs dismantling corruption with a wave of a hand. Yet, director Cho Woong’s *Heroes Next Door* (2025) dares to ask a smaller, more intimate question: what happens when the special forces soldier retires not to a life of glory, but to run a hardware store? The answer is a series that functions less as a bombastic action vehicle and more as a humanist fable about the quiet dignity of community defense. It is a show that understands that sometimes, saving the world just means making sure your block doesn't burn down.
Cho Woong, whose previous work like *Justice* displayed a knack for noirish tension, here pivots to a visual language that is disarmingly domestic. The cinematography eschews the glossy, hyper-stylized violence of typical espionage thrillers for the warm, cluttered textures of Changri-dong. The camera lingers on the mundanity of a stationery shop or the fluorescent hum of a local mart, framing these spaces not as backdrops, but as the very things worth fighting for. When violence does erupt—sparked by a series of mysterious explosions—it feels intrusive and jarring, a violation of the peace that the director has painstakingly established. The action choreography is tactical but grounded; these are not superheroes flying through the air, but aging veterans using duct tape, intuition, and rusty muscle memory to neutralize threats.
At the center of this narrative storm is the reunited duo of Yoon Kye-sang and Jin Sun-kyu, whose chemistry has evolved from the antagonistic friction of *The Outlaws* into a lived-in, brotherly rhythm. Yoon plays Choi Kang, an insurance investigator masking his lethal past behind a facade of bumbling bureaucracy, while Jin embodies Gwak Byung-nam, a hardware store owner whose greatest weapon is his intimate knowledge of the neighborhood’s geography.
The series shines brightest when it explores the duality of these men. They are "dual citizens" of a sort—residents of the violent past and the peaceful present. The script, written by Ban Gi-ri, excels in the moments between the fights. We see the toll of their past service not in melodramatic flashbacks, but in their hyper-vigilance and the silent understanding that passes between them when a car backfires. The humor—and there is plenty—arises from the absurdity of using special ops tactics to solve petty neighborhood disputes, a satirical edge that keeps the show from drowning in self-seriousness.
Ultimately, *Heroes Next Door* is a tribute to the unseen labor of maintenance—both of buildings and of society. In an era obsessed with global stakes, this series argues that the local matters. The "villain" here is often the indifference of the state, forcing these civilians to privatize their own protection. It is a surprisingly poignant commentary on the modern condition: we are all, in some way, waiting for a hero, only to realize we must become the ones we are waiting for. Cho Woong has crafted a series that is ostensibly about defusing bombs, but is truly about the explosive power of solidarity.
In the sprawling, neon-soaked landscape of South Korean television, the superhero narrative usually tilts toward the messianic. We are accustomed to chosen ones saving the planet from cosmic threats or chae-bol heirs dismantling corruption with a wave of a hand. Yet, director Cho Woong’s *Heroes Next Door* (2025) dares to ask a smaller, more intimate question: what happens when the special forces soldier retires not to a life of glory, but to run a hardware store? The answer is a series that functions less as a bombastic action vehicle and more as a humanist fable about the quiet dignity of community defense. It is a show that understands that sometimes, saving the world just means making sure your block doesn't burn down.
Cho Woong, whose previous work like *Justice* displayed a knack for noirish tension, here pivots to a visual language that is disarmingly domestic. The cinematography eschews the glossy, hyper-stylized violence of typical espionage thrillers for the warm, cluttered textures of Changri-dong. The camera lingers on the mundanity of a stationery shop or the fluorescent hum of a local mart, framing these spaces not as backdrops, but as the very things worth fighting for. When violence does erupt—sparked by a series of mysterious explosions—it feels intrusive and jarring, a violation of the peace that the director has painstakingly established. The action choreography is tactical but grounded; these are not superheroes flying through the air, but aging veterans using duct tape, intuition, and rusty muscle memory to neutralize threats.
At the center of this narrative storm is the reunited duo of Yoon Kye-sang and Jin Sun-kyu, whose chemistry has evolved from the antagonistic friction of *The Outlaws* into a lived-in, brotherly rhythm. Yoon plays Choi Kang, an insurance investigator masking his lethal past behind a facade of bumbling bureaucracy, while Jin embodies Gwak Byung-nam, a hardware store owner whose greatest weapon is his intimate knowledge of the neighborhood’s geography.
The series shines brightest when it explores the duality of these men. They are "dual citizens" of a sort—residents of the violent past and the peaceful present. The script, written by Ban Gi-ri, excels in the moments between the fights. We see the toll of their past service not in melodramatic flashbacks, but in their hyper-vigilance and the silent understanding that passes between them when a car backfires. The humor—and there is plenty—arises from the absurdity of using special ops tactics to solve petty neighborhood disputes, a satirical edge that keeps the show from drowning in self-seriousness.
Ultimately, *Heroes Next Door* is a tribute to the unseen labor of maintenance—both of buildings and of society. In an era obsessed with global stakes, this series argues that the local matters. The "villain" here is often the indifference of the state, forcing these civilians to privatize their own protection. It is a surprisingly poignant commentary on the modern condition: we are all, in some way, waiting for a hero, only to realize we must become the ones we are waiting for. Cho Woong has crafted a series that is ostensibly about defusing bombs, but is truly about the explosive power of solidarity.