President Yoon praised the new Netflix movie Officer Black Belt for its portrayal of the younger generation’s dedication to the public good. He added that he would recommend the film to Millennials and Gen Z, often referred to as “MZ.” However, the lingering memory of the “passion pay” scandal makes it hard to take the president’s praise at face value.

Chuseok, also known as the Mid-Autumn Festival, is one of Korea’s most significant traditional holidays, marking the end of summer and celebrating the harvest. The film industry also celebrates this season as a major market push, trying to grab the attention of holiday audiences. A variety of films are released to tap into the needs of people who have extra time and cash from company bonuses and gifts from elders and relatives. However, this year’s Chuseok wasn’t exactly fireworks. I, the Executioner, the sequel to Veteran, barely managed to create a buzz among seasonal audiences. Unexpectedly, Heartspring: Teenieping of Love, a children’s animation about a princess saving her fairy friends, resonated well with younger viewers and their parents. Without the president’s comments, it might have been a relatively quiet Chuseok for films.

In Officer Black Belt, the main character, Jung-do, is portrayed as a fun-loving young man with a passion for video games and martial arts. Through voice-over narration, he explains that he enjoys these activities—both digital and physical—simply because they’re fun. In an attempt to align him with the values associated with MZ (Millennials and Gen Z), the film emphasizes the importance of personal interests, goals, and achievements by depicting Jung-do as a man driven by his own passions. One day, he saves a martial arts officer from an attack by a criminal on probation, who is wearing an electronic ankle monitor. This event leads to Jung-do being recruited to temporarily fill the officer’s position while he’s on medical leave.

Under the guidance of probation officer Kim Seon-min from the Ministry of Justice, Jung-do settles into his new role, helping to apprehend criminals on probation using his martial arts skills when things get rough. So far, it seems like a coming-of-age story where a young man finds his purpose. Jung-do begins to feel a sense of duty and satisfaction in helping to return criminals to prison. He even dyes his hair back to its natural black from blond with prominent black roots. Without understanding the complexities of Korea’s labor market, this could be seen as the story of a young man from the streets who finally turns his life around.

However, the role of a martial arts officer in Korea is a contract-based job, unlike the permanent employment status of probation officers.

To become a permanent employee, candidates must pass a rigorous entrance exam, while contract-based workers undergo a simpler hiring process. (Jung-do only needed Mr. Kim’s verbal offer to secure the job.) This difference in qualification paths leads to vastly different career trajectories: permanent employees have opportunities for promotion, raises, and decision-making roles, while contract workers remain in supporting roles, repeating the tasks they were initially hired to do. The most striking disparity between these two roles is the pay: permanent employees can advance to higher salary grades, while contract workers receive only minimal annual increases, often barely covering inflation. If a probation officer like Mr. Kim and a martial arts officer started their jobs at the same time, in ten years, their careers would look drastically different. One might express satisfaction with their career, while the other might say they’re doing the job only because of their passion.

This system persists because of the belief that certain job skills are inherently more valuable than others. But looking at Jung-do’s role, can we really say that his work is secondary to that of a probation officer? Should his position be relegated to an assistant role with corresponding lower pay, when his contributions are so integral to the management of criminals on probation? The only way to justify this imbalance is by promoting the notion of “passion”—that some people work not for fair compensation, but because they love what they do. Just a few years ago, young people struggling to enter the job market were forced to work as unpaid interns to enhance their résumés and improve their job prospects. For them, the mere feeling of progress toward their dream job was considered payment enough. This practice, dubbed “passion pay,” exposed the absurdity of the situation.

It seems tone-deaf and out of touch with recent history to claim that Jung-do is a model of commitment and dedication to the public good. Under Mr. Kim’s orders, Jung-do attempts to apprehend an underworld pornographer, only to be stabbed and hospitalized. Despite this, he checks himself out of the hospital and returns to the scene. Is this truly an example of a young man dedicated to public service, or a clear case of exploiting the passions of the younger generation? While it’s commendable that a Netflix drama tackles such a serious crime—a topic largely ignored by legacy media—it’s hard to shake the lingering feeling that we are still living in the era of “passion pay,” especially with the president’s remarks echoing in the background.