No Tail to Tell

The Burden of Mortality

The gumiho—the nine-tailed fox of Korean folklore—has long wandered the landscape of cinema and television as a figure of tragic longing. Traditionally, she is a creature tormented by her otherness, willing to endure centuries of penance or eat the livers of men just for a chance to become human. Director Kim Jeong-kwon’s latest series, *No Tail to Tell*, upends this ancient table with a distinctly modern, perhaps even nihilistic, question: Why would an immortal being with superpowers and eternal youth ever want to downgrade to being human?



In this vibrant, satirical fantasy, the answer is a resounding "she wouldn't." Kim Hye-yoon plays Eun-ho, a "Gen Z" gumiho who views humanity not as an aspiration, but as a dull, aging demographic. She treats her immortality like an unlimited credit card, indulging in the consumerist pleasures of Seoul without the crushing weight of moral responsibility or the fear of wrinkles. It is a brilliant inversion of the trope, transforming the gumiho from a figure of horror or pity into an icon of ultimate freedom.

Director Kim Jeong-kwon, whose previous works like *Ditto* (2000) and *BA:BO* (2008) were steeped in the soft-focus melancholy of traditional melodrama, here pivots to a sharper, more glossy visual language. The cinematography is saturated and kinetic, mirroring the dopamine-hit lifestyle of its protagonist. The camera lingers on the textures of luxury and the neon hum of the city, creating a visual argument for why Eun-ho fights so hard to stay a fox. The world looks delicious through her eyes, making her eventual "fall" into humanity feel like a genuine expulsion from Eden.



The narrative engine kicks in when this carefree existence crashes—quite literally—into Kang Si-yeol (Lomon), a preening soccer star whose narcissism rivals Eun-ho’s own self-interest. The brilliance of the script lies in how it frames the central conflict: Eun-ho inadvertently becomes human, and she reacts to this miracle with the horror of someone diagnosed with a terminal illness. Watching Kim Hye-yoon navigate the indignities of a mortal body—hunger, fatigue, the sudden inability to magically fix a bad hair day—is both comedic and unexpectedly poignant. It forces the audience to examine the "gift" of humanity we take for granted, asking if our finite time is actually a blessing or just a biological raw deal.

Lomon, as the unwitting catalyst of her mortality, provides a grounding force. While the show is billed as a rom-com, the chemistry is built on a foundation of mutual inconvenience rather than instant attraction. They are two selfish creatures forced to learn the most human of traits: empathy. The CGI, particularly in the manifestation of Eun-ho’s powers and the subsequent loss of them, is handled with restraint, serving the story rather than overwhelming it. The magic feels tactile, a part of the world rather than a post-production layer.



Ultimately, *No Tail to Tell* is a sly commentary on the modern condition. In an era where we use filters to blur our pores and technology to extend our reach, we are all, in a sense, trying to escape the limitations of being human. By dragging a fantasy creature down to our level and forcing her to cope with rent, gravity, and heartbreak, Kim Jeong-kwon delivers a series that is as philosophically rich as it is entertaining. It suggests that while immortality might be fun, the beauty of life—messy, finite, and painful as it is—lies in the very fact that it ends.