"Your honor, I learned this on Netflix": Law and the City exposes the gap between TV lawyers and reality

Law and the City is a new K-drama that offers a refreshing look at the legal world. Instead of Oscar-winning performances from lawyers in huge cases, the drama focuses on daily routines, small frustrations, and the quiet struggles hiding from the public behind every case.

Instead of idealized heroes, Law and the City depicts—even if fictionalized—real lawyers navigating crowded trains, lunch vouchers, and piles and piles of endless paperwork.

"Your honor, I learned this on Netflix." In Law and the City, this line hits like a gavel, exposing just how far TV courtrooms drift from reality. By the time the rookie lawyer tries to channel his favorite drama heroes in front of a real judge, everyone in the courtroom looks at him with a mix of confusion and disbelief.

Our protagonist, the associate attorney Ahn Joo-hyung, calmly tells him he should arrive early and watch actual hearings instead of trying to mimic dramatic TV performances. He pokes even more fun at the rookie lawyer by pointing out that the drama in question is about criminal cases, not civil ones, and he should get at least the genre right. All of that is coldly stated.

This awkward moment turns into a procedural meltdown, the ultimate proof that TV logic falls apart under real legal protocol. This scene stands out in the very first episode of Law and the City, and it delivers a sharp, meta wink. Rather than just parody, it uncovers our shared fascination with courtroom dramas, our desire for dramatic interrogations, unexpected admissions, and eleventh-hour proof that saves the day, overlooking that real courtrooms depend on endurance, planning, and endless documentation.

In Law and the City, paperwork floods every corner. Infinite piles of paperwork, messy folders, and overflowing containers form a constant battleground. The fixation on paper seems nearly stifling, transforming the office into a maze of documentation and due dates.

The courtroom as theater

Television usually shows courtrooms as grand stages where lawyers act more like performers than legal professionals. Each hearing transforms into a confrontation filled with fervent speeches, theatrical pacing around the room, and witnesses who falter under pressure at precisely the right time.

Shows like Suits, How to Get Away with Murder, and The Good Wife make legal practices seem like shows in an alluring arena. Characters don flawless suits, deliver cutting one-liners, and reveal astonishing secrets moments before the final verdict.

In Suits, Harvey Specter wins cases with pure charisma and magnetic confidence. Each negotiation is dealt with as though part of a high-stakes poker game. Annalise Keating commands lecture halls and courtrooms with explosive emotional force in How to Get Away with Murder. In The Good Wife, Alicia Florrick transforms into a fierce strategist, mastering last-minute revelations and moral gambits that change everything at the last minute.

Usually, attorneys emerge as contemporary knights, wielding proof like blades and rescuing the situation with charm and intuition alone. Each case resembles a journey, each cross-examination a battle.

Law and the City moves in the opposite direction, highlighting more ordinary activities: attorneys traveling by subway, hauling piles of paperwork, and showing weary apathy towards victories or defeats after nearly ten years in the profession.

This subtle realism dispels the illusion of the glamourized and ever-charismatic legal champion, replacing it with a more relatable and unembellished image of the law practice.

Law and the City highlights the gap between imaginary stories and the nuanced—often unnoticed accomplishments of real legal work—through its more pragmatic perspective.

In fiction, the law bends for emotional impact when reality rarely offers such thrilling symmetry. However, these stories satisfy our deep desire to watch justice unfold on-screen like a perfectly written play.

Law and the City: The truth behind the bench

Outside the screen, courtrooms usually operate with subtle accuracy. Hearings occur in whispered voices, precise timelines, and a continuous movement of papers and records.

There are no unexpected witnesses bursting in at the final moment, no sudden emotional reactions that alter the whole outcome, no passionate sprints across the room.

Attorneys operate within a world of deadlines, written motions, and procedural choreography, each move depending on preparation, strategy, and patience rather than instinct or charisma.

Law and the City captures this daily grind with a surprisingly warm, and almost comforting touch. Instead of fiery monologues, it shows them taking the subway half-asleep, chatting about lunch, or feeling indifferent after a win or a loss, exposing how routine shapes these professionals far more than big speeches ever could.

In these instances, Law and the City uncovers a legal realm founded on subtle resolve and small personal triumphs. Every scene feels like a gentle reminder that resilience doesn't always roar. Sometimes it appears as a weary grin on a crowded train, a shared dinner after a long day, or a quiet nod to a coworker across a messy office.

Law and the City acknowledges the unseen burden shouldered by these attorneys, showing how they seek solace in routine and cultivate small moments of happiness amidst a daily work life filled with unending paperwork and quiet stress.

By emphasizing these subtle human elements, Law and the City turns what might appear dull into a vibrant, personal depiction of resilience that feels genuinely authentic and subtly courageous.

The K-drama factor

K-dramas love to add layers of personal drama to professional spaces. In legal series, this means rivalries that turn into lifelong vendettas, love triangles that complicate closing arguments, and moral dilemmas that feel as grand as a final battle in a fantasy epic.

These stories build lawyers into heroic figures, transforming office corridors into battlefields of pride and passion. Emotional confessions replace legal logic, and characters often make choices that defy all professional sense just to protect someone they love.

Law and the City strips away this glamour completely. We see the five main lawyers gathering to eat lunch together, complaining that food vouchers don’t cover their meals, and stressing over-packed subway rides. They wear immaculate suits, but move through the world like any other exhausted commuter.

It feels like watching a legal fairy lose its glamour, stepping into crowded trains and cheap lunch spots with the rest of us. The magic fades, and what remains is a raw, human portrait of life behind the courtroom doors.

Why we love the fiction anyway

Despite knowing how far TV courtrooms stray from reality, we keep coming back. There is something irresistible about the promise of justice delivered in a single, cathartic moment. Watching a lawyer tear apart a witness or deliver a last-minute revelation scratches a very human itch for clear resolution and moral triumph.

Legal dramas give us heroes and villains, sharp lines between right and wrong, and the thrill of watching someone win through sheer brilliance or stubborn determination. Even when the stories bend every rule, they offer comfort and a sense of control that real life rarely grants.

Law and the City invites us to see the contrast more clearly, reminding us that real justice is slow, messy, and deeply human. Yet, it doesn’t judge viewers for loving the spectacle. Instead, it holds a mirror to our desires and shows why we need these larger-than-life stories in the first place.

When fictional lawyers teach us more than the bar exam ever could

No fictional series can capture the quiet weight of real legal work, the endless documents, or the daily exhaustion after small, unnoticed victories. Yet, this gap between fiction and reality reveals more than it hides.

Law and the City suggests that we don’t watch legal dramas to learn law but to explore human vulnerability, ego, and the hunger for redemption. We crave stories where truth triumphs in a single scene, where words cut deeper than any blade, and where one person can change everything with a final argument.

In the end, these stories remind us why we dream of heroes, why we imagine fairies with endless glamour, and why we keep believing in the courtroom as a stage. And maybe that’s the real verdict: fiction doesn’t teach us how to practice law, but it shows us how deeply we want to believe in it.