Who Are The Main Characters In Shoplifter?

Let’s talk about how 'Shoplifter' makes you root for someone doing objectively bad things! Corinna’s not a hero or antihero; she’s just… human. Her shoplifting starts small (magazines, candy) and escalates, paralleling how her job drains her creativity. The book’s sparse dialogue means her facial expressions carry so much—the way she zones out mid-conversation or smirks after getting away with theft. Mike’s blandness contrasts her turmoil; their scenes together scream ‘emotional misalignment.’ Even minor characters, like her boss or the store clerk, highlight how transactional her world feels. The climax isn’t some grand redemption—it’s a quiet realization that shocks you with its simplicity.

Shoplifter' by Michael Cho is this incredibly raw, relatable graphic novel that sticks with you. The protagonist, Corinna Park, is a disillusioned ad copywriter who feels trapped in her mundane life—until she starts shoplifting as a way to feel something. She’s not a ‘typical’ thief; her actions are more about reclaiming control than greed. The story digs into her loneliness, creative frustrations, and the way she drifts through relationships, like with her kinda-sorta boyfriend Mike, who never really sees her. The beauty of the book is how quiet it is—no explosions, just this aching realism about urban isolation and the small rebellions we cling to.

What grabbed me was how Corinna’s shoplifting isn’t glamorized. It’s messy, impulsive, and leaves her even emptier afterward. The secondary characters, like her coworker Nate or the convenience store clerk who catches her, aren’t deeply explored, but they serve as mirrors to her detachment. The art’s moody blues and shadows amplify that ‘3 a.m. existential spiral’ vibe. It’s one of those stories where the ‘main character’ is really the weight of unspoken disappointments.

Corinna Park’s the heart of 'Shoplifter,' no question. She’s in her late 20s, Korean-Canadian (though her heritage isn’t a focal point), and stuck in this cycle of self-sabotage. The guy she’s seeing, Mike, is barely a character—more like a placeholder for the half-hearted connections she maintains. There’s a brief interaction with a cop after she gets caught that’s chilling in its banality, like the system barely registers her as a person. The real tension comes from Corinna’s internal monologue; you watch her dissociate during meetings or while stealing, and it’s painfully familiar if you’ve ever felt adrift. The lack of a ‘villain’ is intentional—her enemy’s the numbness of modern adulthood.

Corinna Park’s loneliness in 'Shoplifter' is almost tactile. She’s surrounded by people—coworkers, Mike, strangers—but they might as well be ghosts. The graphic novel’s strength is in what’s unsaid: her family’s absence, the way she uses petty theft to fill voids. Mike’s so forgettable it hurts, which seems intentional—he’s part of the life she’s sleepwalking through. When she finally cracks, it’s not dramatic; it’s a sigh into the abyss. The art’s minimalist style makes every stolen moment feel heavier.