The film The Admiral: Roaring Currents remains the highest-grossing film in the history of Korean cinema, drawing an audience of seventeen million. Theatrically released in 2014, its monumental success can be attributed to the deep respect and admiration the Korean public holds for Admiral Yi Sun-sin—the historical figure and central focus of the film—who dealt a devastating blow to the Japanese Navy during the Imjin War, which began with the Japanese invasion and ravaged the Korean Peninsula from 1592 to 1598. The idolization of Admiral Yi likely played a major role in motivating viewers to flock to theaters. With such overwhelming public response, it raises a compelling question: has Admiral Yi become more of a national icon than a historical figure?
The Imjin War has inspired a wide range of popular narratives, from Eo-U’s Book of Tales, a 17th-century anthology of Korean folktales and mythologies that reflects on the war’s devastation, to Kingdom, the Netflix drama series in which a corrupt nobleman controls a zombified king—an allegorical reference to the chaos and collapse of governance during the Imjin era. Yet among all these stories, the most enduring and celebrated is that of Admiral Yi Sun-sin, often revered as the “god of war.” His legacy transcends national boundaries; even Japanese naval academy students paid respects by visiting the site of his decisive battle. Comparisons between Yi and Britain’s Horatio Nelson are hardly exaggerated. Facing overwhelmingly unfavorable odds, Yi turned the tide of war with only twelve vessels against a Japanese fleet of hundreds. His story is one of improbable victory, marked by wisdom, bravery, patriotism, and self-sacrifice. It is no surprise, then, that his statue stands at the heart of Seoul, exuding an aura of national pride and the indomitable spirit of Korea.
The Admiral: Roaring Currents recreates the Battle of Myeongnyang, one of Yi Sun-sin’s three decisive naval engagements that prevented the fall of Korea to Japanese forces during the Imjin War. The Myeongnyang Strait, located at the southwestern tip of the Korean Peninsula, is known for its fierce tidal currents. Today, a bridge spans the strait, connecting the mainland to nearby Jindo Island and facilitating convenient transportation.
The film opens with Admiral Yi reinstated after a demotion for alleged insubordination to the king, just as he prepares for another wave of Japanese attacks seeking to capitalize on their earlier victories. Yi supervises the construction of a turtle ship, designed with a domed, armor-plated deck resembling a turtle shell to protect against enemy fire and boarding attempts. However, one of his aides, Bae Seol—paralyzed by fear of an impending defeat—sets fire to the vessel and attempts to assassinate the admiral. As he flees, Bae is shot down by an arrow. Deprived of his secret weapon, Yi nevertheless confronts the Japanese fleet, led by Commander Kurushima Michifusa, with only twelve ships. With the help of local villagers—who once saved his vessel from the treacherous currents—Yi engages the enemy, ultimately defeating and killing Kurushima in direct combat aboard the ship. This secures an extraordinary and morale-shifting victory.
Fake News?
Imagine if this story of the Battle of Myeongnyang were broadcast as a news report—aimed at a Korean audience in the 16th century. It’s a wild and fanciful thought, but if such a report had existed, it would likely qualify as fake news—or even as sensationalist propaganda. To begin with, Admiral Yi did not order the construction of a turtle ship for the Battle of Myeongnyang. All of his turtle ships had already been destroyed in earlier battles during his demotion, when he was not in command. As such, his aide Bae Seol neither burned a turtle ship nor died before the battle. In reality, Bae preserved twelve ships during the chaos of a previous defeat—an act that made the subsequent victory at Myeongnyang possible.
Historians generally agree that villagers supported Admiral Yi and his forces, for example by providing food, but they did not physically pull his ships out of the currents. Another widely accepted point is that Yi likely did not engage in direct combat with Kurushima Michifusa aboard a ship. One of Yi’s core strategies was to prevent enemy boarding attempts altogether. By using the treacherous currents to his advantage—both as a natural defense and as a means of breaking up the enemy fleet—he avoided direct confrontation and instead struck the Japanese ships one by one. That tactical precision was the key to his victory.
When asked in a press interview about the historical accuracy of the direct-combat scene, director Kim Han-min responded that the moment was necessary to convey the spirit of Admiral Yi.
Undying Icon
In popular culture, Yi Sun-sin functions more as an icon than a historical figure, embodying the national pride and unyielding spirit of the Korean people. In this sense, the admiral occupies a symbolic position akin to that of the Virgin Mary, Marilyn Monroe in Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Diptych, or the lone protester facing a row of tanks in Tiananmen Square. Each figure transcends their historical moment to evoke something universal: the Virgin Mary signifies maternal love and the sacred bond between mother and child; Marilyn Monroe, the commodified glamour and vulnerability of stardom in the age of mass media; and the “Tank Man,” a powerful symbol of resistance and the struggle for freedom. Yi Sun-sin, likewise, represents steadfast resolve, national defense, and a roaring warning to unfriendly neighbors.
As with depictions of the Virgin Mary, the iconography of Yi Sun-sin is inseparable from the cultural and political context in which it is produced. The understanding of motherhood in works like Virgin and Child by Joos van Cleve (1525) or Raphael’s The Small Cowper Madonna (ca. 1505) is deeply rooted in their respective Italian and Netherlandish contexts (as noted in Marita Sturken and Lisa Cartwright’s Practices of Looking). Similarly, the image of Yi Sun-sin as a heroic icon is shaped by contemporary Korean sensibilities—especially the lasting legacy of Japanese colonial oppression, which still exerts influence on the national psyche and on pragmatic matters such as trade and foreign policy.
The problem is that the more Japan and its colonial-era atrocities are demonized, the more potent Yi Sun-sin becomes as an emblem of national resilience—so much so that historical accuracy begins to matter less. When calls for patriotism and national interest grow louder amid global competition, collective imagination tends to overshadow fact. It becomes not just plausible, but politically satisfying, to believe that Yi personally struck down the Japanese commander in hand-to-hand combat, aided by common people fighting shoulder to shoulder with him. In The Admiral: Roaring Currents, the Japanese officers—especially Kurushima Michifusa—are rendered ghost-like, almost horror-film villains. This stylization may have been necessary for Yi to fully activate as an icon.
Director Kim Han-min went on to complete a trilogy chronicling Yi’s three major battles, but the true sequel to The Admiral: Roaring Currents might just be Exhuma (2024). In this film, a Japanese specter—buried during the colonial period to curse Korea—awakens to unleash a dark spell. And who defeats this ghost? A pungsu (feng shui) expert, played by none other than Choi Min-sik, who also portrayed Yi Sun-sin in The Admiral. Yi Sun-sin magic, it seems, is still going strong.
Admittedly, my reading may contain its own historical limitations or misinterpretations. Yet that very instability underscores the cultural work of icon-making: where historical fact ends, collective imagination often takes over.