Somewhere between a mistranslated sentence and an awkward pause, Can This Love Be Translated quietly settles into its own rhythm.
This isn't a drama that rushes to impress or overwhelms you with declarations of love in the first hour. Instead, it lingers, sometimes a little too long, but often with intention, allowing emotions to surface gradually, much like the relationships it portrays.
At its heart, the series is built around two people who are excellent with words but surprisingly clumsy with feelings.
Kim Seon-ho plays Joo Ho-jin, a multilingual interpreter who navigates languages with ease but struggles when it comes to emotional honesty.
Opposite him is Go Youn-jung as Cha Mu-hee, an actress who wakes up to overnight fame after a career-altering accident, only to realise that recognition doesn't make life any less complicated.
Their first meeting in Japan feels incidental, almost fleeting, but the show cleverly allows that moment to echo through the rest of the narrative.
What makes Can This Love Be Translated? engaging is its refusal to frame romance as a clean, linear journey. The attraction between Ho-jin and Mu-hee grows in fragments - half-conversations, misunderstandings, moments that almost become confessions but stop short.
Kim Seon-ho brings a gentle restraint to Ho-jin, making him quietly watchable. His performance relies on pauses, glances and emotional hesitation rather than grand gestures, and it works beautifully.
Go Youn-jung, meanwhile, balances lightness and fragility with ease. Mu-hee could have easily been written as a glossy celebrity archetype, but she is instead messy, anxious, funny and deeply human.
A standout narrative choice is how the series visualises Mu-hee's unresolved trauma through her alter ego, Do Ra-mi - the zombie character that made her famous and now seems to follow her everywhere. The contrast between Mu-hee's outward composure and her inner chaos is one of the show's most compelling threads.
The supporting cast complements the central story without overpowering it. Sota Fukushi brings warmth and sincerity to Hiro Kurosawa, avoiding the usual pitfalls of the second-lead stereotype. His presence adds emotional tension without tipping the story into melodrama. The relationships outside the main romance - especially the quieter, more grounded ones - help anchor the series and give it emotional breathing room.
Visually, the show is a delight. Shot across South Korea, Japan, Canada and Italy, the cinematography is lush without being indulgent.
Each location feels thoughtfully chosen, not as a travel postcard but as an emotional extension of the characters' states of mind. The use of colour, warm yellows and oranges against cooler blues and greys, subtly mirrors the push and pull between connection and isolation.
Even the quieter scenes are framed with care, making the series consistently pleasing to look at.
That said, the show is not without its flaws. The pacing falters in parts, particularly in the middle stretch, where the narrative seems content to sit with the same emotional beats for a little too long.
Some moments linger past their impact, testing patience rather than deepening insight. While this slow-burn approach will appeal to viewers who enjoy emotional immersion, others may find themselves wishing the story would move forward more decisively.
Still, when Can This Love Be Translated? works, it really works. Its strength lies in its sincerity, in the way it treats miscommunication not as a plot obstacle to be fixed, but as an inevitable part of intimacy.
The series understands that love isn't always about finding the right words, but about staying present long enough to learn what someone means beyond them.
By the time the final episodes roll around, the show doesn't feel like it's trying to dazzle you.
It simply hopes you'll stay, listen, and maybe recognise a little of yourself in the silences between its conversations. And more often than not, that's enough.
