Inside The Last Man: Southwark’s Solo Korean Rock Musical

“We may have moved past the era of physical lockdowns, but audiences are acutely aware that the ‘psychological bunkers’ people erected within themselves during that time remain firmly shut.”

So says director Daljung Kim. His subject is The Last Man. The South Korean rock musical is currently playing its English-language premiere at Southwark Playhouse Elephant.

The production’s billed premise is pretty stark. A mysterious virus has eradicated humanity. The undead patrol the streets outside. Inside bunker B-103 sits a lone survivor.

Yet the actual threat, according to Kim, is internal. The director notes that audiences no longer view the undead outside the bunker as literal monsters. Instead, he intended them as metaphors for “overwhelming anxieties—unbearable interpersonal relationships, a cold societal system, or the dread of failure.” Kim directly connects this directorial choice to modern individuals choosing “voluntary alienation… amidst a hyper-competitive society.”

“We may have moved past the era of physical lockdowns, but audiences are acutely aware that the ‘psychological bunkers’ people erected within themselves during that time remain firmly shut.” So says director Daljung Kim.

Developed originally by the Seoul Performing Arts Company in 2020, the production is currently playing its third season in Seoul. Now, NEO, Inc. mounts a new English adaptation by Jishik Kim and Seungyeon Kwon, with dramaturgy by Jethro Compton. The producers have set an unforgiving format. One actor. One stage. One hour and forty minutes of solitary confinement driven by a live rock score.

The narrative problem is physical survival. The thematic reality, as outlined by the creative team, is the psychological decay of total isolation.

Adapting The Last Man from Seoul to London

Relocating a production rooted in specific South Korean anxieties to South London required an active editorial process. Kim stated the original run relied heavily on the inherent claustrophobia of the Banjiha—the cramped semi-basement apartments ubiquitous in Seoul.

“The reinterpretation of cultural nuances was the most crucial task,” said Kim. “We thought long and hard about how to convey the distinct Korean anxiety around ‘survival’ and ‘isolation’ to Londoners at Southwark Playhouse.”

This required finding English equivalents for entirely alien cultural concepts. Kim points to the difficulty of translating Jeong, a specific Korean emotional bond. Then there is Jonber, gritty slang roughly translating to ‘hold the fk on’. It is not merely a curse word. Kim explained the term specifically embodies “the intense pressure felt by the younger generation.” He credits Compton with unpicking these artistic snags during a research trip to Seoul.

The script uses dark humour to expose the protagonist’s profound loneliness. To make this work for a UK audience, Kim noted that he and Compton stripped the Korean puns and situational comedy for parts, rebuilding them for a British palate.

“In the end, this entire journey was about ensuring that ‘The Survivor’ would feel entirely natural to the audience, even if he were living in a tiny basement flat somewhere in London rather than a Banjiha in Seoul,” said Kim. “Language is more than words; it holds the history, culture, and soul of a society.”

The Mechanics of a Solo Rock Musical

Kim acknowledged that a one-person show lives or dies on the performer’s ability to maintain tension without a scene partner. To prevent the energy from flatlining, he treats the technical elements as the missing cast members. He directed the music, sound design, and lighting to operate as active antagonists.

“When the Survivor’s anxiety spikes, the piercing rock music and heavy drums are his internal rage and racing pulse materialized,” said Kim. “The chilling silence and ambient noises that follow the rock storm also deliver their own dialogue of stillness, crushing them with bone-deep loneliness. The actor is not performing into a void; he maintains tension by constantly exchanging energy and sparring with these partners.”

The protagonist does have one physical companion. Kim described a teddy bear named ‘John Bear’ as an alter ego and a final tether to sanity. Rather than treating it as a standard prop, Kim instructed the actors to fiercely confront their own fracturing minds through the bear.

The production also implements a camera to shatter the fourth wall. The survivor records bizarre vlogs for a dead internet. Through the lens, the audience becomes a silent gallery of subscribers. Kim views their live feedback—laughter or cold silence—as the engine fuelling the performance.

Casting Lex Lee and Nabi Brown

The vocal and physical demands of the role led the producers to double-cast the lead. Lex Lee, a Kiwi-Korean actor with credits spanning London, Berlin, and New Zealand, alternates the role with Nabi Brown, a recent Trinity Laban graduate.

Kim noted that the solo format guarantees two completely distinct interpretations.

“Lex Lee anchors the show with emotional depth and a heavy, commanding presence, shaped by his rich life experiences across New Zealand, Berlin, and London,” said Kim. “He channels a dry, cynical wit mixed with a fierce survival instinct, giving the impression of a seasoned veteran who has long battled isolation.”

Kim stated that Brown offers a different energy.

“Nabi Brown delivers a raw, explosive energy coupled with a delicate vulnerability,” Kim said. “As a dual British Korean citizen raised across diverse cultural landscapes, her background infuses the character—who grapples with identity confusion and isolation—with a uniquely poignant sensibility.”

Both actors confirm they spent the majority of the rehearsal period apart to protect these distinct approaches.

“In the early stages we rehearsed together, which was actually really lovely because you get to see another actor approaching the same material from a different angle,” said Lee. “But quite early on I realised I wanted to protect my own instincts as well. Not out of distance – more because with a one-person show, especially one this intimate, I believe one’s interpretation should come from somewhere really personal. I think if I started leaning into someone else’s choices, I’d lose a bit of that.”

Brown agreed with this assessment.

“The majority of our rehearsals were held separately, so there was very little opportunity to take inspiration from each other’s performances,” she said. “That being said there are moments where our choices, either informed by the text or directorial decisions, overlap. It’s really interesting to see where our instincts align and where they differ most.”

Surviving the Stage

Beyond the acting choices, both performers highlighted the sheer stamina required to execute The Last Man. Carrying a rock thriller solo for nearly two hours is punishing work.

“Physically, I’ve had to think of it more like an athletic event than a standard musical – hydration, sleep, warming up properly, knowing where the peaks are and not burning all the fuel in the first twenty minutes,” said Lee. “Mentally, I try not to carry the whole story at once. I try to say present and just live moment to moment, because in a weird way that’s exactly what the character is doing as well – surviving one day at a time.”

Brown stated she relies on the text’s structure to manage her energy output across the runtime.

“I think the clarity in the passing of time is incredibly helpful in allowing for the journey of not only the show and character, but the performance as well,” said Brown. “It really comes down to pacing yourself and knowing when to give it everything and when to hold back which, again, is greatly informed by the writing and directing.”

Comedy as a Coping Mechanism

For the cast, The Last Man uses extreme isolation to force a confrontation with human frailty. When stripped of society, the mind fractures. The actors interpret the play’s humour as an involuntary defence mechanism.

“Language is more than words; it holds the history, culture, and soul of a society.” So says Daljung Kim.

“I think it’s a very human thing to want to shy away from vulnerability and to use humour as a coping mechanism,” said Brown. “That human-ness is incredibly prevalent in this show and I think that reverting to that dark humour allows for those moments of true emotional honesty to hold that much more weight. For me it’s all in the balancing act and what the jokes and the attempted detachment from their situation implies about the survivor’s wider mental state.”

The setting may be a concrete bunker surrounded by the undead, but Lee views the internal mechanics as entirely domestic.

“I think humans are bizarrely funny when we’re left alone,” said Lee. “We’ve all had versions of it – talking to ourselves in the kitchen, narrating our own life, getting emotionally attached to completely random things. The darker things get, the more ridiculous your brain becomes because it’s desperate for connection or distraction. That’s where I think the humour lives.”

That humour is pretty grim, but survival is survival…

“The character isn’t trying to be funny,” says Lee. “He’s trying not to disappear inside his own head.”

Featured Image: The Last Man – Poster