INTERVIEW Human prism: Lee Byung-hun
Actor Lee Byung-hun / Courtesty of BH Entertainment
A face between Hollywood and Seoul, between success and anxiety
Between “G.I. Joe” and “ Squid Game,” hero and villain, acclaim and controversy, actor Lee Byung-hun has made the space between worlds a stage for his brilliance. A defining figure of Korean cinema, he absorbs the light and shadow of his time, refracting contradictory elements of desires and anxiety through his life and performance.
A recent Forbes headline offered an unexpected point of connection: “Oracle Has Cut 21,000 Jobs This Year Due to AI, More Layoffs Expected.” The news of workers confronting an uncertain future echoed themes that emerged in a long conversation with Lee last year — a broader exploration of the human condition in an age when familiar boundaries are increasingly difficult to hold.
On a crisp October day, with late autumn settling quietly over Seoul, Lee sat down for an extended conversation at a quiet cafe in Samcheong-dong. The meeting followed a series of encounters at the Venice International Film Festival, in Los Angeles and later in Busan, before the conversation finally continued in Seoul.
On screen, Lee possesses the kind of presence that seems to command the frame itself. Away from the camera, however, another side comes into view: warm, unassuming and effortlessly gracious, with an easy, disarming smile that quickly puts those around him at ease.
On the Lido in Venice, the memory of watching Lee step onto the red carpet and disappear beneath a storm of camera flashes remains vivid. For a moment, he seemed more than a film star — a living embodiment of a cultural moment.
That memory brings a question back to mind: How had this one face become a prism reflecting both the hopes and anxieties of an era?
Actor Lee Byung-hun in a scene from "No Other Choice" / Courtesy of CJ ENM
Korean narratives, global resonance
Q: Korean culture has never seemed more influential than it is today. As someone standing at the very center of that phenomenon, when do you most strongly feel the scale of the Korean wave's global impact?
A: It really made me realize, wow, Korean culture has come such a long way. I’ve done international promotions many times before, but this time felt completely different. “Squid Game” was already huge, but this feels even bigger. There are so many people who first discovered Korean content through shows like “Crash Landing on You.” That’s incredibly gratifying, of course. But honestly, it’s almost a little scary. Sometimes I don’t even know how to take it all in.
Q: It seems audiences around the world aren’t drawn to Korean stories simply because they’re new or exotic. “Squid Game,” for instance, became a modern fable about anxiety, inequality and relentless competition. Why do you think these resonated so deeply across cultures? And as an actor portraying those fears and desires, what emotion stayed with you most?
A: In “No Other Choice,” Man-su works in the paper industry, which is slowly disappearing. In a way, he reminded me of Charlie Chaplin in “Modern Times” — you know, someone who’s struggling to keep up with a world that’s becoming more and more mechanized.
And then, in the final scene, he’s faced with this artificial intelligence-driven system that he just can’t adapt to. He looks completely lost, like he doesn’t know which way to go or what to do next. And honestly, I think theaters today are in a very similar situation. The film industry is, too.
A story for uncertain age
Q: Spaces that once stood at the center of our culture are gradually being pushed to the margins. Audiences are changing, and so is the way we experience stories. That’s why “No Other Choice” feels like a film aimed directly at the heart of our moment. Which scene stayed with you the most while filming?
A: The first job interview and the last one. I love those two scenes because they’re almost complete opposites. Inside, Man-su is just overwhelmed with fear and desperation. But on the outside, he’s trying really hard to look calm and confident, like everything’s fine. I found that contrast really fascinating.
Q: What makes Mansu such a compelling character ?
A: I never really thought of Man-su as someone special. And what really got to me wasn’t watching a good man turn into a monster. It was watching this ordinary, decent person slowly convince himself that maybe he could do things he never, ever imagined he was capable of. That was the part that really stayed with me.
Q: I suppose what the audience should find most frightening when looking at Man-su is not the thought, “That person is different from me,” but rather, “Perhaps I could become like him too.”
A: I don’t think empathy comes from watching something extraordinary. I think it comes when you see someone at their absolute weakest and suddenly think, “I know that feeling.” You see their fear, their desperation, and somehow … you recognize your own. That’s what makes Man-su so heartbreaking.
Actor Lee Byung-hun in a scene from Netflix series "Squid Game" Season 3 / Courtesy of Netflix
Beyond character, discovering human
Q: I see. When you first received the screenplay, what made you decide that this was a project you wanted to take on?
A: When I first read the script, I laughed a lot. But ultimately, the most important thing for me is whether I genuinely enjoyed reading it.
Q: When you say “enjoyment,” it doesn’t seem to mean simple entertainment. It feels closer to the intense attraction that comes from looking into the deepest conflicts within human nature. Over the years, you’ve also become known for portraying complex villains. Have those experiences changed the way you approach a character?
A: People probably think actors draw a lot from their own personal experiences. But honestly, I think we rely on them much less than people imagine. It’s more like we take emotions we’ve experienced in our own lives. Fear, anxiety, desperation, whatever it may be and we kind of amplify them. We make them bigger, deeper, more intense.
Because if we could only act from things we’ve actually experienced, then what? Would I have to become a real monster just to play a villain?
[Reflecting on his role in “Kpop Demon Hunters,”] my son once asked me, “Dad, who are you?” And I told him, “You know that guy who comes out of the fire? That’s your dad.”
At first, he was actually rooting for the villain. But the more he watched, the more he realized, “Oh, this guy is really bad.” And at the end, he looked at me and asked, “Dad, why did you do that?”
My son is finally old enough to watch my movies. And, strangely enough, I’ve been playing villains more and more lately. So sometimes I wonder if he looks at me and thinks, “Wait, is my dad actually a professional villain?”
Q: Over the years, you’ve moved fluidly between hero and villain, Korea and Hollywood, stardom and the vulnerable human being behind it. From your early Hollywood appearances to “I Saw the Devil” and “Squid Game,” those seemingly different selves have become part of one extraordinary journey.
A: I’ve never really thought of them as different worlds. I was simply trying to play each role as honestly as I could.
Q: Today, you are widely seen as the figures who embody the global rise of Korean culture, alongside filmmakers Bong Joon-ho and Park Chan-wook. The path you once crossed between Seoul and Hollywood has become a bridge for a new generation of Korean actors.
Anxiety behind success
Q: After everything you’ve accomplished, do you still feel anxiety about the future?
A: When I think about the possibility of losing everything, that anxiety is always there. I often ask myself: How much longer will I be an actor that people still want to see? How long can I continue to remain relevant?
Those words stayed with the conversation long after the interview ended.
What drives Lee is not simply success or fame. It is the relentless desire to keep searching for better performances while continuing to look directly at the anxieties of his time and the fears that exist within every human being.
As the cafe emptied that afternoon, late sunlight quietly fell across his face. In that moment, he seemed less like a celebrity and more like a reflection of all those living through an uncertain era — a person trying not to surrender his own story, even as the world around him continues to change.
Because at its heart, Korean cinema does not simply show the collapse of a world — it asks how we continue to find humanity within it.
And perhaps that is the most powerful comfort, and the greatest hope, that Korean cinema offers the world today.