John Master

Rak Diao is worth your time provided that you [drowned out by canned laughter]

Rak Diao is a vexing show to review. Heck, it’s a vexing show to watch. This series has the most intrusive laugh track I have ever encountered. (Note: I grew up watching U.S. sitcoms that routinely overused the device, but Rak Diao’s artificial laughs are other-level.) The canned laughter not only sounds unnatural, but the sound editor seemed under the impression that every line of dialog warranted hysterical guffaws to sweeten the comedy—irrespective of whether the writers were attempting a joke or not. The sound team was apparently paid per interjection because the corny sound effects that plague most Thai dramas infest Rak Diao like flies at a dump. Sound editing should have nothing to do with the quality of a series in terms of acting, writing, direction; yet, I’ve chosen to lead this review by addressing these issues up front as a courtesy to those in the viewing audience who quit watching Asian shows in frustration because they cannot tune out such artificial noises. Rak Diao is not a series you all should even bother to start, as the vexing bonks, bops, and laughter assault the senses in an unrelenting barrage. For everyone else, Rak Diao delivers a compelling BL plotline that manages to save the series from some inane (and vexing) plot choices in the early episodes.

Underneath all that noise, Rak Diao is uneven: cringey and dull at its worst; sweet and satisfying at its best. The series takes its time to find its footing, but with a 15-episode run, it had the luxury of time. The last half-dozen episodes are quite good (when you can hear them). In the opener, Rak and Diao meet randomly on the street and instantly dislike one another. The audience knows Diao is on his way to a job interview, and anyone who ever watched Any Sit-Com Ever knows Rak will turn out to be the interviewer. When Diao returns home, convinced this opportunity won’t pan out, his elder sister mollifies his chagrin with a piece of good news: she’s managed to rent the spare room at their house to a pair of brothers, who will move in that same day. As anyone who has ever watched Any Sit-Com Ever knows….hmmm, I bet you, Gentle Reader, can finish that sentence yourself. And that’s the set-up for the whole series: a solid premise both for a BL series and for a sit-com. The two men dislike each other, until they don’t. Rak is the boss at work while Diao, as landlord, rules the roost at home. They take turns provoking one another until feelings bloom. Given how much energy each devotes to annoying the other, all that attention transforming to romantic sparks was inevitable. The BL aspect is one the series’ best assets, particularly after the two enemies begin to comprehend their emerging attraction. For those who consume BL for the fluffy love story, the emotional resonance of this late arc overcomes many of the series’ more shaky elements.

The weakest aspects of Rak Diao are the supposed comedy and the character building. Humor depends on sensibility and cultural cues to a greater degree than does drama or action or thrillers. But even allowing that some humor will get lost in translation, I found Rak Diao notably unfunny in most episodes. All great situation comedies (or individual episodes thereof) succeed when the “sit” portion appears to be grounded in some plausible reality. The “com” follows as viewers relate to the universal human element and to the characters caught up in that crazy situation. (Any person who ever worked an assembly line job knows the seemingly simple task includes built-in pressure to keep pace with the conveyor belt; so, when the beleaguered Lucy and Ethel start stuffing chocolates into their mouths and clothes, the moment remains rooted in a reality familiar to viewers. That episode is iconic 70 years after it was filmed because it earns the hysterics from being true to life and true to the characters.) Situation comedies flail when the “sit” and the “com” fail to connect, or when the audience cannot sympathize with the characters. The writers of Rak Diao generated some truly bizarre “sits,” but they often forgot about the “com” altogether. It was if they thought dumping Rak and Diao into an awkward situation sufficed for laughs on its own. There are exceptions: the episode with the fortune teller was genuinely funny, in part because in this instance the “com” derived from the characters reacting to the “sit.” Their reactions felt more grounded than most of the contrived sit-com plots. For me, that was the episode where Rak Diao found its footing.

The most glaring liability in Rak Diao is Diao. Here, I mean primarily how the writers wrote the character. The actor playing the part was the weaker of the two leads by far, but his performance perked up noticeably in the last episodes. Not coincidentally, that’s when the writers gave him good material to play. In any event, “inexperienced actor” was never the character’s problem. Being an insufferable human being was his problem. Immature at home and unprofessional at work, his asshattery drove most of the conflict between himself and Rak. But, seriously, why would anyone, let alone the even-keeled Rak, ever crush on such a self-centered jerk? You’d just want to crush the creep instead. If we take a step back, and look at Diao’s character arc as a whole, the entire series could be understood as depicting Diao’s journey from callow child into responsible adult. In that regard, it’s worth pointing out that the later episodes rely on the emotional resonance created by Diao’s slow realization of his attraction to Rak. The BL portions of this situation-comedy, especially in the final half-dozen episodes justify the time viewers need to invest in the early episodes.

I recommend Rak Diao…but expect to find it a frustrating, vexing ride until it begins to deliver.

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Come for the food porn, come for the Off-Gun magic, but not much else sparkles here

Cooking Crush was a steady series. Steady, but also safe. Starting with the casting, the story, and the characters, Cooking Crush evinces a startling shortfall in artistic ambition. You, the veteran viewer of innumerable prior BL series, have seen this sort of tale before. Continuing with the writing, directing, and editing, Cooking Crush likewise innovates no fresh way of conveying a BL storyline. You, the veteran viewer of innumerable prior BL series, have witnessed countless episodes that look, sound, and feel like these episodes look, sound, and feel. While the ingredients may lack freshness, the recipe cooks up a final product that surehandedly delivers solid, dependable BL comfort food. That is to say, if you crave plain, simple fare that still hits the spot, Cooking Crush suffices for that purpose. If you hoped for a BL meal thatmight deliver something special, memorable, or different, then Cooking Crush will not be to your taste.

The series marks the return to BL of the hallowed Off-Gun pairing, veritable Pillars of BL Shipping. Their previous project, Not Me (2021), featured dark themes and a level of social criticism atypical of BL fare. That series impressed viewers with its depth and complexity despite the bleak tone and socially conscious messaging. Reportedly by request of the actors, this new project aimed far lower, and the result is an utterly conventional BL. The series will most likely satisfy BL fans in search of a reliably sweet, romantic story, one told without any of the social criticism or genre blending that have become commonplace in recent years. Cooking Crush is very much a BL series in the mold of pre-2020 BL productions. Perhaps that is all it ever needed to be to be considered a success. By contrast, it will not much satisfy BL fans desperate to see the genre evolve.

Cooking Crush is not a bad series. Lukewarm praise? Surely yes; yet, that tepid analysis is more than can be said of several other recent series released by formula-factory GMMTV. If Cooking Crush delivers no significant highs, it also avoids any significant lows. It just plods along in predictable blandness until the requisite 12 episodes have been counted down. En route it delivered sweet moments and dramatic moments. It had a main couple and a side couple. It had pesky parents and supportive parents. Its supporting cast offered familiar favorites and a charming newcomer. It avoided the hyper-dramatic penultimate curse episode (hallelujah!) and likewise avoided any huge, gaping holes in story logic (glory hallelujah!). Given the dizzying illogic some of those more overtly ambitious recent series foisted on viewers in search of compelling plot twists, I choose to regard the absence of ambitious plotting as a virtue. A simple story needs no great leaps in logic! And sometimes, simple is all we need. Mind you, this story was so insubstantial I doubt the story framework offered sufficient space for plot holes to form. Ambition in plotting was traded for safety in plotting. Unsurprisingly, given the studio’s reliance on formulaic storytelling, but few scenes or episodes exuded natural progression of human relationships. Characters start to feel attracted to each other because the storyboard says it is time for that "twist." The plot just moves along in a way that always seemed calculated—sweetness, followed by tension, followed by a fresh dose of redemptive sweetness. Cooking Crush was manufactured as a star vehicle for the Pillars heading the cast, and the story felt manufactured to win audience approval. There’s nothing wrong with that. But there’s nothing exciting with that either. The series was conceived to be a safe project for all involved. It delivered exactly that—BL comfort food. And absolutely, positively nothing more than that.

Off and Gun continue to manifest tremendous chemistry. (Fans of this ship absolutely should enjoy the series.) But in some ways, I don’t think their prior history helped this production. They are almost too comfortable with one another. The series never cultivated any palpable sexual tension, in part because we viewers are so accustomed to seeing Off and Gun together. The pairing of Doc and Chef seemed inevitable, just as soon as sufficient numbers of sponsor products had been placed on screen. By design, Cooking Crush was never intended to challenge the actors' performative skills the way their prior pairing had; yet, the blandness of this script may have overcompensated. Off and Gun are always engaging, and their bonhomie draws the viewer into the cozy warmth of the narrative. Still, in Cooking Crush the actors seem to glide through their scenes by relying on muscle memory rather than inspiration. To be fair, the flatness of the script, which crafted familiar, monotonous character types patterned from an overused and worn-out template, offered the duo precious little opportunity to demonstrate any growth in their craft. Nevertheless, I depart Cooking Crush with a firm sense that perhaps the time has come when the Off-Gun pairing has reached a point of diminishing returns.

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How to Do a Short Series the Right Way: No "if's" about it

In three distinct aspects, “Love Begins in the World of If” demonstrates how to do a series right. Two of these aspects relate to the dramatic structure: first, it nails the intricacies of its primary genre (parallel universe); second, it delivers a masterclass in pacing a brief series (three hours runtime spread across six 30 minute episodes). The third relates to the narrative and characters: the story delivers an emotional weight that belies its brief runtime. These accomplishments are not beholden to any specific genre: manifesting these qualities would make any series better. Since many potential viewers may have arrived at this review thinking the series was BL, let me offer this reassurance: the series delivers satisfactory BL fare alongside the well-done parallel universe story—especially for us BL addicts who consume the genre because, when well-done, we get to mainline serotonin. Tightly written, sprightly paced, and well-acted, Love Begins in the World of If absolutely merits three hours of your time.

Let’s unpack how the series blends parallel universe tropes with BL tropes. The story details the connection between two work colleagues, Kano Akihito and Ogami Seiji. The story begins a year after Kano, trained as an engineer, has been transferred to his company’s sales department. He finds his performance in this role lacking in comparison to his peers whose backgrounds prepared them for the role of salesman. He has befriended none of them, holding himself aloof from workplace interactions out of a fear that his personal shortcomings will become a burden to the unit. Kano finds Ogami particularly intimidating. The more experienced salesman constantly checks Kano’s work and seems not to trust the newcomer’s judgment. One dark night, Kano wanders into a shrine, where a sign nailed to a tree challenges him to look into a mirror then imagine his ideal self. Partisans of fantasy will instantly recognize indications of a trusty old trope. The appearance of the mirror in a swirling fog amidst a woodland setting despite a moment earlier having been in the middle of a city, can mean only one thing: something magical is about to happen. We do not get an explanation; we do not need one. The magic advances the story; it is the point of the story. So be it. Kano unpours his inadequacies and insecurities as a salesman into the mirror, then wishes he were better at his job and had the respect of his colleagues, especially Ogami.

Apparently, the mirror listened: Fog swirls. The light changes. And Kano faints away. When he regains consciousness, Ogami stands over him. How his work colleague happened to stumble across him lying unconscious in the woods is unclear to Kano, but the veteran watcher of BL can probably guess already. Brusquely, Kano dismisses Ogami’s concern and rushes into the night. At his apartment, he notes several curious discrepancies: for examples photos of events for which Kano has no memory. His befuddlement extends into the next day at work where everyone treats him differently. Kano intuits quickly that the mirror somehow transferred him into a parallel universe, a universe where the local Kano2 handled his transfer by relying on others for help instead of fearing to become a burden. Ultimately, Kano1 spends a full month living out this uncanny version of his life. The experience leaves him to speculate how his own life might have turned out differently if he had made different choices following his transfer. Such epiphanies epitomize character development in parallel universe storytelling.

The most striking difference in the lives of the two Kanos centers on the engineer’s relationship with the local Ogami2. This Ogami not only trusts Kano, but they work closely together. To the surprise of Kano1, Kano2 even confided his deepest secret to Ogami2. Anytime Kano experiences high stress, his body temperature drops precipitously and he suffers fainting spells. In Japanese BL, the uke figure almost invariably manifests some odd quirk, which the seme figure will balance out. Here, the symptoms of stress serve that function. In true BL fashion, anytime Kano experiences acute stress Ogami2 proves to be nearby, ready to assume the mantle of hero/rescuer. In such moments, Ogami proffers a timely hug, shares a coat, or produces chocolate, all of which soothe Kano’s frayed nerves. (Sweets like chocolate alleviate Kano’s symptoms because—in a rom-com—of course sharing sweet things will do that!) In this way the BL story buttresses the parallel universe story because Kano1 realizes that Kano2’s cozy relationship with Ogami2 is something he might have enjoyed himself.

I deem parallel universe to be the series’ primary genre because if we removed the BL element entirely, we’d still have a workplace drama where the struggling character must learn to better himself. To effectuate that result, the writers would need to introduce only minimal changes to the plot and character beats. On the other hand, both plot and character arcs would require substantial reworking if the parallel universe aspect was not present. Any number of workplace BL series demonstrate the viability of romance in such settings, but the mechanism that inspired the change (here, seeing how Kano2 did it) would require complete reworking. In that sense, Love in the World of If stands among those occasional BL series where the BL buttresses the tropes of a dominant primary genre rather anchor the story with its own tropes.* As in those other examples, the BL storyline never drives the action forward. When romance does motivate the characters’ behavior, their choices also reflect an evolution in the parallel universe aspect. Yes, the story features many trappings associated with BL—including the all-important serotonin shot near the climax—but consider that romantic outcome a bonus to a well-told parallel universe story rather than the reason World of If exists in the first place.

The real emotional pay-off to this tale arrives when Kano returns to his proper universe. Once back, he must use his new found coping skills not only to improve his job performance but also to establish a fresh new dynamic with Ogami1. I give the writers tremendous credit for evenly dividing the series’ limited time between the Prime Universe and the alternate. Episodes 1, 5, 6 take place in Kano’s “natural” setting, while 2, 3, 4 unspool in the alternate. That even split served the story well. Too often, a parallel universe series becomes so invested in the alternate universe that it gives short shrift to how the “lesson learned” gets applied when the characters return home—if they ever do. Credit to the actors as well, who had to play subtle variations in their characters depending on which universe they were in. Moreover, I appreciated that Kano had to start over with Ogami1, where many series would have skimped on that, forgetting that Ogami1 is, technically speaking, a completely different being than Ogami2.

In closing, Love in the World of If stands as an exemplar of excellent storytelling, whether for BL or for parallel universe. The series paces plot and character moments evenly across six episodes. It balances its time between the two parallel universes. It smoothly blends professional development and personal development. It relies on familiar tropes yet deploys them in ways that feel fresh. The insecurity felt by Kano feels plausible, and so does the manner of resolution. The lessons Kano learns in the alternate are made to matter in the prime. The story cultivates a slow-burn romance between the leads that the viewer wants to root for and can feel building. No series can be perfect in all things, and World of If will likely disappoint some fans of the BL crowd. Certainly, that segment of BL fandom that always wants the BL story front and center will feel this show missed their mark. That is not a flaw of the series, it just never aspired to suit that particular taste. Additionally, BL fans who prize NC scenes, those who dislike slow-burn romances, and those who want the leads to establish their couple-ship early enough that the viewer gets to spend time with them as a couple may all come away feeling shortchanged. None of those factors makes or breaks a BL series for me; so, I don’t mind missing them here. What I do prize includes compelling character arcs and a narrative that buttons down big and small details alike. In that regard, Love in the World of If delivers.

*--In case this meaning isn’t clear, I have in mind series like Khemjira (primarily a supernatural thriller); Manner of Death (primarily a whodunnit); or Spare Me Your Mercy (primarily a whodunnit + debate on medical ethics). All of the above feature prominent BL stories as well, but the characters in those romances are chiefly concerned with other responsibilities. That take applies as well to my reading of this series: the BL results as a repercussion to developments in the parallel universe story.

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This review aimed at folks deciding whether to watch. (Yes. Yes, you should. Worth it.)

The Hidden Moon is a macabre suspense thriller with a BL twist. The series mostly works. Early episodes shroud the story with supernatural elements that deliver a sense of foreboding. A palpable dread permeates the characters' interactions. Mysteries emerge that require sleuthing by our protagonists. Some of these unknowns pertain to Real World events while others transcend reality to seemingly touch upon ethereal planes. The series even broaches the Big Mystery: what happens when a person dies? Amidst all the paranormal uncertainty, a BL romance struggles to emerge. That subplot is almost an afterthought, however, as this series is a suspense thriller first; a romance, only to change pace between supernatural set pieces. That de-emphasis of the BL plot will disappoint viewers interested primarily in MM courtship. Their loss. If the idea of a slow-burn spooky ghost story appeals, the ten hours of The Hidden Moon will be worth the time to watch. If such fare is not your cup of tea, then you don't need to know the twisty turns anyway.

The writer of reviews must choose betweeen two variants of the form. One style pitches the text toward readers who have seen the material and cannot therefore be spoiled (full disclosures with double-barrel critiques). The alternative aims to reach those readers seeking out the review to help them decide whether to start watching. This group can be spoiled, so the reviewer should be circumspect (strategically withholding details and pulling punches in the criticism). To preserve the sense of macabre, to maintain the air of suspense, and to preserve potential thrills, this review will pursue the latter path. The production team behind The Hidden Moon mostly got right the macabre, the suspense, and the thrills. They do not deserve to have that effort undermined by a comprehensive debrief of every strength and weakness. So, this review will risk vagueness by imparting fewer details than customary. Indeed, I encourage anyone deciding whether to watch to avoid investigating specifics. The less you know about this one, the more you will enjoy it. With that disclaimer, onward with my purposefully vague critique.

The series opens with five young people arriving at an Obligatory Old House. An Old House with a reputation. An Old House that may be haunted. They have come to investigate these rumors. Before the first episode ends, the group begins to experience unexplained events themselves. (That's five time-worn tropes already! Happily, none of them is a BL trope!) Over the next several episodes, the team tries to uncover explanations for the unusual goings-on. The pacing proves uneven. Not all episodes are equally spooky. A couple in the middle really drag. Arguably, the early episodes suffer from a bad case of writers trying to create mystery by simply not explaining anything. That tactic led to characters confused and frustrated with their situation. This reviewer suspects many viewers will share that sentiment. Hooking the audience with juicy details might have been a better strategy. Unexplained phenomena may rightfully vex characters, but they alienate viewers when dragged through too many consecutive episodes. Fortunately, viewers who stick with the series will be rewarded. Three strengths save the series from the reliance on hoary tropes and the problems with pacing.

First, the creative team (cinematography, direction, lighting, editing, music) understood their assignment. Overcoming gaps in story logic, the vibe remains consistently tense--brooding and unsettled. The sense of macabre persists during the slow episodes, so that when the story recovers vigor, the suspense has never descended into farce or hokiness. Few viewers of The Hidden Moon will ever nominate the series as an exemplar of the macabre suspense thriller genre's best. But it is absolutely solid work.

Second, later episodes grow stronger. They deliver cogent story beats, unexpected twists, and better interactions among the characters. When the payoffs arrive from those unexplained mysteries of the early episodes, they prove worthwhile. Episodes 8-9 (penultimate) stand out in particular.

Third, the series has a time travel element unusual in the suspense genre. One member of the Thai Scooby Gang experiences paranormal weirdness in two timestreams. For unknown reasons, Khen is shifting between the present and past of the Obligatory Old House. In both timelines, an angry female specter targets him for special attention with the kind of ghostly violence that threatens Khen's life. Fortunately, one denizen of the 1910s timeline is able to intervene on his behalf. Mas is the handsome son of the homeowner. As Mas and the strange visitor from "another world" grow better acquainted, bonds of affection grow between them.

The dynamic between the two young men, separated in time by about a century, provides the BL storyline. Perhaps during episodes 6-7 the macabre even takes a backseat to the courtship. Nevertheless, the BL story remains mostly threadbare. The two would-be lovers, after all, recognize that living in two different worlds poses an insurmountable challenge to their future prospects. And veteran viewers of K-drama and BL alike are surely aware that ghost-human romance has little chance of achieving a happy ending. An undercurrent of "why bother?" haunts the scenes where Mas and Khen deepen their emotional bonds. Young love, inevitably, will persist against all admitted logic. And so it is with Khen and Mas. The BL tale adds some emotional heft to The Hidden Moon's endgame, and it is the duo's interaction that will restore balance to each universe. BL viewers who endure the suspense and supernatural shenanigans in the hopes of a romantic denoument suffused with happy endorphins will see their patience rewarded. Kind of. I'd say more...but spoilers.

In closing, The Hidden Moon isn't primarily a BL series. Rather, it is a supernatural thriller that tossed in a BL romance. Substitute a straight romance, and the underlying tale of macabre would require no alteration. In the final analysis, I'd argue that the series succeeds as a thriller even more than it succeeds as a romance. Full credit to the production team for that success, for I do not belive they worked from a lavish budget. But they deployed their resources wisely, resulting in a finished product that may well be an instance where the whole surpassed the sum of its parts. It is not a great series, but it is certainly very good. It is worth the ten-hour investment of your time to watch.

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BL Sizzle Overwhelmed by Vibrant Historical Storytelling

Shine is an outstanding historical drama. The series opens in July 1969, its initial scenes set during the very moment of Neil Armstrong’s “great leap for mankind,” and that timeline places its events in a Thailand struggling to make democratic principles viable amidst a military dictatorship. This reviewer lacks the expertise in the history of Thailand to comment on the accuracy of the events portrayed across the series’ 10 episodes as a reflection of that country’s past. But I am not sure accuracy was ever a goal of the producers. They set out instead to create a triptych of a turbulent time—one panel devoted to politics and protest, one to cultural transformation and ferment, and the third to romance and lust. The blend of history, politics, and romance--atypical for a series created by any company known for BL productions—yields a series with strong characters and a compelling narrative. It is thoughtful, complex, and nuanced.

As a work of historical drama, Shine shines for its ability to evoke the zeitgeist of that period. Not just Thailand, but the whole world was inspired by mankind’s first steps on the moon. Not just Thailand, but the whole world felt the rush of new trends in music and fashion. Not just Thailand, but the whole world grappled with the implications of the Sexual Revolution, still unfolding. Not just Thailand, but many countries struggled to balance rapid industrialization with quality of life. Not just Thailand, but many western-allied countries struggled to balance fidelity to democracy to protecting against communist influence. The late 1960s were a turbulent era for cultures spread across many continents. What Shine does is convey a sense of how that era looked and felt in Thailand; how the people of Thailand might have behaved and believed. In this regard, Be On Cloud’s production succeeds in evoking the spirit of those times. The genius of Shine is that it may be specific to Thailand, but in many respects its depiction of 1969 has universal overtones.

Be On Cloud made a name for itself as a producer of BL series, notably 2022’s Kinn Porsche. Indeed, cast in lead roles for Shine are the same duo who headlined Kinn Porsche, Mile Phakphum Romsaithong and Apo Nattawin Wattanagitiphat. To rally the support of that series’ and duo’s considerable fanbase, marketing for Shine made clear that Mile’s and Apo’s characters would again become romantically involved. A clear expectation existed among the fandom that Shine would be a BL. The reality is somewhat more complicated. The only notable romances are indeed between male characters, and (typical of Be on Cloud’s production ethos) the sex scenes sizzle with steamy encounters between actors wearing very little clothing indeed. Nevertheless, the production team clearly had ambition beyond the romance-centered storylines commonly associated with the BL genre. Neither of the two principal romances drives the action. Neither evinces the sort of idealized fantasy romance commonly typical of BL. Indeed, the second-class status (and less, even, in 1969) of same-sex relationships bespeaks tropes associated with LGBT genre series more so than BL. The vibe is closer to “love that dares not speak its name” than to “idealized fantasy romance.” The "curse episode" (a customary BL trope) so plausibly, so effectively, uses a clandestine queer relationship against the characters that one feels queasy watching the plot unfold. In the end, pinning down Shine’s genre as either BL or LGBT strikes me as an irrelevancy. Its real purpose seems to be the portrayal of a moment in Thai history where protest helped wrest back control of the country from a military dictatorship. The romance never spurs the plot forward; a desire to discredit authoritarian government does.

The Thailand of 1969 was still modernizing. In economic terms modernization meant rapid industrialization, even where “progress” might impose harm on ordinary people. In social terms, modernization meant transitioning between a traditional social structure where oligarchic families concentrated power (economic, political, military) in their own hands (as the nobility once had) and a democratic society that rewarded individual brilliance regardless of the social class that birthed the person. Such transitions create contradictions and tensions, and Shine captures effectively the ensuring discomfort. The military justifies its control of society by the need to preserve order. Industrialists justify the development of industry as keystones to the nation’s future, even if their efforts cause harm to people living in the present. Students seeing the injustice of both (and certainly aware of student protest movements elsewhere in the world during the 1960s), take to the streets to protest all of the above.

The characters in Shine fit into all these groups, some more than one. Here, Apo portrays Trin, an intellectual groomed for a future serving his nation in government ministries. Trin returns from France in the first episode, having obtained the best western education possible. He will be snapped up for a position as an architect of the country’s economic development. Paraded like a prize at a high-society social event on his first day back Trin encounters Tanwa (Mile), the disaffected scion of an industrialist family. Tanwa is a classic long-haired slacker: he has deliberately failed out of college, refuses to be drawn into his father’s desired career path, and plays in a rock band. He smokes and drinks constantly, befitting that Sixties rocker vibe. (His hair and wardrobe also scream “San Francisco, Summer of Love” another element in how this series recreates the vibe of an era, albeit a style so on-the-nose for 1969 San Francisco that it may not yet have reached Bangkok that quickly.) Tanwa takes an immediate shine to Trin, and they engage a smoldering game of off-and-on flirtation for the remainder of the series. (Having professionally known many high achievers like Trin in my career, I am skeptical that Trin would ever be so strongly attracted to a chronic underachiever like Tanwa, but after all, anything is possible. Perhaps the “idealized fantasy romance” in Shine derives from accepting that Trin feels a spark with a slacker.) At any rate, most fans of the MileApo ship will feel satisfied by the actors’ interactions despite the plausible hesitance of the plot to commit to TrinTanwa.

As a side hustle, Trin also finds himself teaching a university class. That serves the narrative purpose of bringing him into contact with a group of students who have decided to take their discontent to the streets. The students mistrust Trin, since his family background and professional training position him as an opponent of their cause. Yet, his political sympathies prove more expansive than they expect. Even as he critiques their faith in socialist ideology, he acknowledges where their critiques of capitalism have validity. His willingness to listen, even as he challenges them, wins their trust. Trin becomes a de facto mentor to the group. Here, an element of Trin’s backstory becomes crucial. He was present in Paris during the student protests of 1968. Those upheavals scarred French society deeply, an historical analysis the script shortchanges. Understandably, since the story is about Thailand; yet, I cannot help but think that a deeper dive into Trin’s experience of Paris 1968 might have made his choices in Bangkok 1969 resonate even more deeply. When he chides the would-be revolutionaries for their naïve approach to the danger inherent to protesting, that caution speaks to what he witnessed in Paris. Lives were lost in the City of Light in ’68, and lives are at stake in the Great City of Angels in ’69. (Indeed, anyone conversant with the general history of student protests against military dictatorships can by Shine’s middle episodes anticipate the tragedy looming ahead.) Trin’s involvement with the younger generation also creates a love triangle when one of the students becomes enamored with the professor. Victor is the half-farang offspring of a dissident Soviet émigré. (Dad’s cynicism about the communist leanings of the student protestors resonates quite differently than the objections of the capitalist characters. His character’s point of view adds a nuance to the political discussion that demonstrates that the Cold War dichotomy “capitalism versus communism” had drawbacks no matter which side a developing nation might pick.) His character becomes the viewpoint character for the student protestors. In fact, I would argue, that Victor may actually be the most important character in the series because his various storylines thread through all thematic elements of the triptych. Certainly, his arc proves the most compelling to follow. The part was portrayed by debutant Ukranian-Thai actor Peter Deriy, and one can only hope the role springboards his career to leading man status.

Finally, Shine also features a second couple. Krailert is Trin’s uncle, but he is also an army colonel. In fact, he is the army’s public face, as press spokesperson. For the sake of his career, Krailert married a former commander’s daughter. (Flashbacks make clear he was maneuvered into the arrangement, because his romance with a male film star would have disgraced not just himself, but the service.) Inevitably, in a genre known for “idealized fantasy romance,” Colonel Army Press Spokesman will be drawn into an affair with a reporter hostile to the military dictatorship. Naran is a champion of liberal democracy and the free press, deeply suspicious of the government. He is also often at odds with his own editor, whose job entails not getting the paper shut down by the authorities if they openly oppose or subvert the regime. I shall eschew details of how Krailert and Naran transition from professional antagonists to torrid secret romance, but suffice it to say their relationship provides the most compelling romantic storyline Shine has to offer. Orchestrated via coded message, their rendezvous scenes convey danger, intrigue, mystery, desperation, and desire. Of course, 1969-70 is a bit premature to expect a same-sex couple to experience acceptance; so, that sense of impending doom that looms over the student protestors also haunts Krailert and Naran as their bond deepens. Lives are, indeed, at stake.

In closing, Shine offers a narrative rich in character detail, ripe with flavors of the time period, and textured with complex, nuanced political statements. Its queer romances provide emphasis and distraction; they do not drive the action forward. But those romantic yearnings do rather tie together the disparate threads into a whole. Journalist Naran has professional connections with the student protestors; Soldier Krailert has the familial connection to Trin; and both colonel and reporter tangle with economic project overseen by Tanwa’s father’s conglomerate. So, all three elements of Shine’s thematic triptych weave together into a cohesive series. It’s all fiction, of course. But it’s a fiction that seems to slot right into the world of 1969 Thailand. From beginning to end, Shine is a compelling watch.

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The obvious jumping off points for comparison will be The Untamed and Word of Honor. Like those two earlier series, Blossom presents a fantasy world grounded in an alternate version of a recognizable version of the distant Chinese past. Like those earlier series, the emphasis on martial arts qualifies its genre as wuxia. Like those earlier series, the plot involves a dizzying number of rivalries, factions, dynastic jealousies, and family politics. Like those earlier series, all that razzmatazz can become overwhelming and confusing—and is mostly incidental anyway because these machinations merely provide a structural form through which the main characters pass. Like those earlier series, Blossom revolves around the relationship between two men, qualifying it as representing the danmei genre. Unlike those earlier series, Blossom shrugs away the need to cloak that relationship beneath a veneer of respectable bromance. Instead, it makes no secret of the fact that Jin Xiao Bao and Zong Zheng Huai En are smitten with one another.

All three source novels presented their central same-sex romance in an unambiguous manner; yet, only the adaptation of Blossom manages to transfer that frankness to television. Many will deem that success alone as a justification for extolling what Blossom has achieved. Rightly so; I shall not gainsay that point of view. Blossom can elude the strictest constraints of censorship because the production was financed by backers from outside the People’s Republic. Strictures banning the depiction of same-sex themes presented an obstacle this production team could surmount. As a result, the on-screen product had no need to rely on winking at the audience in the hopes they will understand the significance when two male characters stare into each other’s eyes. Wait a moment, and those stares may well evolve into a passionate kiss—or more.

The plot mostly makes no sense. Where Untamed and Word each had 30+ episodes to layer in the world-building, Blossom’s budget permitted only a dozen. Some pivotal plot points simply occur off-screen. For example, when wounded or injured characters finish one episode traveling toward help, the next episode often resumes the story with that injured party waking up in bed. How, exactly, their rescue was effectuated remains obscure. In another example, Huai En has jumped toward a river of lava to retrieve a magical flower as it blossoms. Imagine the potential in this set-up for adventure or mortal peril! Imagine also the CGI cost to generate a river of lava. We never actually see what happens in this exciting situation because the series deems it unnecessary to depict the actual retrieval of the crucial flora. Huai En is presumed dead; yet, in the next episode, he is simply there with the others having been successful in his mission. These sorts of plot holes definitely demarcate Blossom as an inferior product to the highly respected Word and Untamed. On the bright side, some of the early episodes convey an almost campy spirit of action and adventure, as if the filmmakers are leaning into their own limitations. At times, Blossom can be a hoot because of its narrative shortcomings. It is ridiculous, but—wink wink—it knows it is ridiculous.

For me, two specific criticisms detract from my overall impression of the series. First, the second half-dozen episodes failed to match the breezy vibe of the fist half-dozen. Much of the early entertainment value derives from following the bungling fool Xiao Bo as he bumbles his way through life. He provides romance, adventure, and comic relief all in one berobed package. The series loses its way when it sidelines Xiao Bo from the worldly action due to a poisoning. That fate relegates him to bed for an exorbitant number of scenes and deprives the series of its most entertaining character, who is shunted away from most action sequences thereafter. Petty jealousies between other berobed characters competing to nurse the patient, whining and sighing endlessly in his bedchamber, become repetitive and tiresome.

My second complaint is far more serious. Blossom has a disturbing tendency to depict its “romantic” scenes as non-consensual. If a viewer wanted to reject the entire series on the basis of these non-com scenes, I would certainly not defend the series. One might overlook these moments on the grounds that a series portraying a milieu whose social structure is rooted in hierarchy, patriarchy, servitude, and misogyny need not remain faithful to 21st century values regarding the merits of consent in sexual relationships. And yet…the folks making this series do live in a 21st century milieu, and so does the audience they hope to attract. They could have done better. They should have done better. Why would enemies shoot an aphrodisiac laced dart at an opponent? Wouldn’t poison work better? Why not just kill him with swords or arrows? The answer is that the aphrodisiac gives the writers an excuse to stage a scene where one overly amorous lead character can (violently) seduce the other lead character, with the justification that he was under the influence of this potion at the time. OK…maybe. But if the original circumstances of the poisoning make no sense, then neither does any result flowing out of that event. (Again, why not just kill him? How does making your enemy horny help you?) Furthermore, it would be possible that the second character—recognizing that his acquaintance is not his usual self—might volunteer to “help him out” rather than portray their encounter as a violent assault. That choice is on the writers, not on the patriarchal milieu. The other major example of sexual assault in this story follows a fit of jealous rage when one lead is trying to assert his control and mastery (owernship) over the other. This sequence is even less defensible. Again, other options would have been better choices for the 2020s.

In short, Blossom is a mess, but mostly it’s a fun mess. The attraction between Xiao Bo and Huai En makes no sense, but logic in romantic affairs has never been a prerequisite in the BL genre. Most BL fans will find Xiao Bo’s and Huai En’s continual striving to live life together to be quite satisfying. Afficianadoes of wuxia will likely not rank Blossom among the best examples of that genre, but its innate cheesiness makes it kind of fun. Those who object to scenes depicting non-consensual sexual moments will wish to steer clear.

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You've seen this before, but it's still fun

“Second Chance the Series” is a perfectly innocuous example of a Thai BL series. If you watch BL because they make you happy, this series will work for you. The various plotlines unfold in such by-the-numbers fashion that one could easily envision, standing open on the screenwriter’s desk, a dogeared copy of that famous reference guide So You’re Writing a BL Series? Formulaic it may be, but “Second Chance” entertains; it pleases; it delivers not one, not two, but three (THREE!) cute couples to cheer for. Predictability becomes both a strength and a weakness. Strength: the series delivers Exactly What Viewers Expect and Want from a BL. Weakness: the series possesses no traits that enable it to stand out amidst a crowded slate of series in a genre that is evolving rapidly beyond its traditional tropes.

To be clear, “Second Chance” is a good series. But a great series, it is not. The production delivers an entertaining result. The story and acting entertain sufficiently. The production values are unobjectionable. Well, save for the unfortunate instance when one character’s hair changed colors between scenes then reverted to the original thereafter. Lack of originality in the story supplies this show’s major flaw. The audience will have seen these story beats previously, probably in multiple instances. And that’s where the predictability undermines any claim to greatness. “Second Chance” aired in March and April—and already by this point in 2021, several of the year’s other series have dazzled and delighted viewers. 2021 is likely to go down in the annals of BL history as a transformative year, one that introduced genre-altering innovations in storytelling and series quality.

• Unlike “Manner of Death,” SC breaks no new ground in its setting or plot—it’s got both feet firmly entrenched in the standard-model story about high school students.
• Unlike “Lovely Writer,” SC has nothing much to say about BL as a genre—the story features boys falling for each other (and fujioshi girls cheering them on) without much introspection about what it all means.
• Unlike “Fish Upon the Sky,” SC wasn’t highly-anticipated due to a star-studded cast who earned their pedigree and their popularity acting in prior BL series—the actors offer typical levels of cuteness and charm, but none exudes attention-grabbing charisma.
• Unlike “We Best Love” [either season], SC didn’t take standard BL-couple tropes and rework them so they felt charming and fresh—the three featured couples tread the familiar, if comfortable, beats of the friends-to-lovers trope, a standard pursuit of a crush trope, and a younger-older trope (here, mostly not-cringey).
• Unlike “History 4: Come to Me,” SC will not require any trigger warnings—here, the boys’ methods of courtship raise no red flags. (Ok, that’s actually a good thing, but fans sniping at each other in message boards over H4’s narrative choices creates controversy that probably drives eyeballs to the series. So, again, nothing here to make the series stand out.)

And that’s just how this series stacks up against other 2021 series so far. Given the stratospheric expectations surrounding more than a few of the year’s yet-to-air productions, it’s likely that swaths of BL fandom will simply overlook this effort. By hewing so closely to the genre’s standard playbook, “Second Chance” will likely enrapture some portion of the genre’s devotees. Ultimately, however, this series will not likely linger long in memory. In 2021, being good is not good enough.

Story Synopsis
The story trails the romantic trials of three couples, TongFah/Paper (friends-to-lovers), Chris/Jeno (pursuing a reluctant crush), and Near/M (younger-older). TongFah, Paper, and Chris are close friends. Jeno and Near are other students at the same school, while M operates a game/coffee shop that serves as a hangout for the characters. From the first episode, it’s clear TongFah’s feelings for Paper have evolved beyond the friend stage, but it’s less clear how enthusiastic Paper is for this shift in their friendship. Jeno is being bullied at school by his ex-boyfriend, prompting him to sign up for MuayThai instruction. His mentor at the gym turns out to be Chris, who quickly determines to pursue his reticent classmate. Near, an avid gamer, has a part-time job at M’s café. It’s clear to viewers that M likes his young employee, but that Near is oblivious to the boss’s feelings. “Second Chance” is a bit of a slow burn, but by the end of Episode 3, all three couples seem to be inching towards acknowledging mutual attractions. By the end Ep 4, all three embryonic couplings have imploded. Yes, folks—they need a second chance!

Where “Second Chance” had the potential to deliver some originality to BL storytelling lay in its exploration of couples trying to reboot their relationships. I do not recall another BL series centered around the idea of redeeming a relationship that once had foundered. Unfortunately, such redemption would have required more time to unfold than the two episodes that remained in the series. Those last two episodes are the weakest two in the series, rushing through complications, reconciliations, and proms.

Typical of Thai BL series, “Second Chance” offers no particular comment on what it means to be gay in 21st century Thailand. Posters from queer cinema classics decorate the walls of TongFah’s bedroom, but that’s as close as the series comes to implying any of the lads extrapolates a personal identity from his romantic leanings. On the bright side, the writers eschewed using homophobic families as a source of conflict in the story. Boys falling for other boys is treated as a perfectly normal state of affairs in this tale, no complications from school authorities, the families, or from society writ large. Frankly, relief from those overused tropes about anti-gay attitudes is a big reason the meager plot of “Second Chance” succeeds in delivering a happy story—and after all, seeing happy stories that lead to boys kissing other boys is why many of us consume BL series in the first place.

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When Fluffy BL meets literary substance, good things follow

The 2022 series Plus & Minus (Taiwan) offers one of the stronger interpretations of the “friends to lovers” tropes that a BL connoisseur is likely to encounter in the ever-growing pantheon of BL series. The series pairs these friends with a delightful side couple. But the factor that distinguishes Plus & Minus from that BL pantheon is its ability to comment on the human condition generally, specifically on the emotionally fraught topic of how our romantic relationships succeed or fail. One could say there’s a cognitive dissonance in having a BL series, which usually focus on people falling in love, spend so much time pondering how relationships end. But full credit to the writers: that disconnect works poetically in this story. Plus & Minus merits watching for its literary attributes alone—treat the BL romances as a happy bonus in this instance.

“Fluffy” is a frequent descriptor of the BL genre. The term has both positive and negative connotations. On the plus side, “fluffy” bespeaks the cheery, hopeful romanticism that infuses many BL series and makes them a fun, pleasurable ride. On the negative side, “fluffy” connotes an absence of solidity or lack of substance. Fun and pleasurable, the typical BL series may be, but they seldom offer any meaningful insight into the human condition. Offering perceptive nuggets into humanity’s foibles and follies or our potentials and proficiencies is more typically a hallmark of fine literature or prestige film and TV productions. When present, such literary merits supersede any story’s specific points of plot and character to examine the generic human experience. Plus & Minus delivers both delightful BL fluff but also has some meaningful things to say about love and romance. That combination in a BL is rare, and it elevates Plus & Minus into a near-masterpiece.

The previous two paragraphs will suffice as an endorsement in favor of sampling this series. The rest—lengthy!—offers a more detailed analysis. In most reviews, I’d favor presenting my ideas in an essay format. But it seems to me that the title of this series warrants a wholly different approach. So please forgive the bullet pointed, pluses and minuses in this analysis of Plus & Minus. Note that the +’s outnumber the –‘s. Caution: some light spoilers lurk inevitably ahead.

+ The lead characters work as divorce lawyers, and that makes the series a prolonged meditation about why some relationships persist and others fail.

Guest characters seeking out the professional services of these barristers briefly enter into the story, offering our leads ample opportunity to discuss what makes some relationships fail while others succeed. In examining their clients’ failing relationship dynamics and helping those clients to navigate romantic disentanglement, Fu Li Gong and Cheng Ze Shou also must confront what leads two people to commit to one another in the first place. Friends since kindergarten, Li Gong and Ze Shou have a markedly close relationship themselves. Flashbacks (and lingering glances) make it abundantly clear that Fu Li Gong harbors a longstanding crush on his best friend. These office conversations about their clients’ reason to disentangle also serve as commentary to mirror the growing awareness of their mutual (?) feelings toward one another. (These are BL characters, after all. They are going to move from friends to lovers.) Adding another layer to the theme “why relationships fail and how do we deal with it?” is a subplot revolving around Ze Shou’s family. His mother abandoned her husband and two children when Ze Shou and his sister were quite young. Ze Shou bears a grudge, the sister seems prepared to let by-gones be by-gones, while Ze Shou’s father (as an abandoned spouse rather than an abandoned child) has issues specific to his own situation. Those issues build gradually from the start, then reach a head at a critical point in the story. I think this character backstory amplifies and accents the thematic elements introduced by having the leads work as divorce lawyers.

If Plus & Minus enters the class of “great BLs” whose stories and characters hold up over time, these conversations about the nature of long-term romances will be a chief reason why the series stands out from the pack.

+ Both the lead couple and the side couple are actual adults leading adult lives.

Lawyers, obviously, are older than high school age or college age students. Thus, Plus & Minus is a welcome addition to the growing trend of building BL plots around actual adults rather than kids. (To be fair, Taiwan has been good at this for a while.) Any BL fan who desires a reprieve from school-based series will appreciate the more adult outlook on offer here.

+ The three “guest couples” who become clients for 2-3 episodes each.

The writers did a good job of presenting married couples in different stages of marital collapse. The first relationship depicted was so toxic that no one would dispute divorce was necessary. The second couple really needed marriage counseling rather than divorce lawyers. And the third couple had simply reached the end of the line after a 30 year marriage. Li Gong and Ze Shou spent bits of two episodes coming to terms with the idea that sometimes relationships fizzle out and, simply, there is NO REASON why. (They did so while just embarking on their own adventure.) I found that sequence to be one of the more poignant discussions in a series that handled poignancy with aplomb.

Taiwan, as all BL fans ought to know already, is the one Asian country to ratify same-sex relationships with the privilege of marriage. Thus, it was gratifying that the second of the three couples happened to be a gay couple. (Happily, the one couple they saved from divorce was the gay couple.) The series does not belabor the fact that gay marriages fail just as straight ones do; rather, the lawyers just processed these clients the same as they would any other. Representation begets normalization, folks! Representation matters!

- The transition from friends to lovers was a bit too glib.

Fu Li Gong and Cheng Ze Shou have been best friends for over 20 years. One of them has had a semi-secret crush since at least adolescence. I’m not fully sure what triggered Li Gong to suddenly confess, which means the moment could have been portrayed in more dramatic, exciting fashion. When the confession did arrive, the moment felt anti-climactic. Then, the part where they shift from friends to boyfriends was too quick and way too easy. These two already have one type of deep connection, and the nature of that connection would seemingly make the conversion to lovers difficult. Such a profound change to an established interpersonal dynamic ought to have required either a sudden surrender to long-repressed passion and emotion (like a dam breaking) and/or a series of awkward exchanges as they try to recalibrate their customary interactions to accommodate their new, emerging dynamic. So, for me their actual conversion seemed a little too easy.

+ The transition from friends to lovers begins in the middle of the series.

Plus & Minus has 12 episodes, and the shift from friends to lovers begins just past the halfway point. (About the same time as the duo favorably resolves the divorce case for the gay couple, suggesting that the example of that same-sex couple might have triggered Li Gong’s abrupt confession.) Structurally, the series neither shifted them into romance mode too early nor waited so long that there was no time to investigate the transition.

I suspect a certain segment of BL fandom will find the lead couple’s progress to have been too slow. Such fans also likely will wail at how much time is wasted discussing divorcing straight couples. I, however, believe that the writers played this scenario exactly right. Yes, their romance is assuredly a slow burn, but I will argue that that pacing fits the story and characters. In a series that takes "the evolution of relationships from start to finish" as one of its themes, playing slow with the main relationship's beginning is an astute choice.

- Uncertainty about Cheng Ze Shou’s awareness of Li Gong’s crush.

At times it felt like Ze Shou was aware of Li Gong’s unspoken attraction. At other times, the series seems to hint that Ze Shou was aware of his own attraction to Li Gong. Notably, in both flashbacks to high school and in the present, he plants drunken kisses on his friend’s face. Li Gong neither reacts to these overtures (if they were overtures), nor does he push the issue when Ze Shou fails to remember these drunken kisses the morning after (if he really did forget). I dislike the “drunken kiss doesn’t count” gambit anyway, but if the writers wanted to play that card anyway, they should have made those moments matter by having consequences attached.

+ The side couple was outstanding.

Jian Ying Ze is a divorced man who owns a laundromat and occasionally has custody of his daughter. At some point prior to the series, our two leads handled his divorce case; subsequently, they became regular clients at his laundromat. Below the laundromat, is a dive bar that employs Yuki as a bartender. It’s also the watering hole favored by the lawyers; so, Li Gong and Ze Shou have personal connections to both Yuki and Ying Ze even before the latter duo meet each other. Yuki attracts female clients to the bar, who swoon over his long locks and beautiful face. A caretaker type, Yuki soon develops an interest in the broken human being who runs the laundromat. Their relationship takes flight much earlier than the lead couple’s probably to distract the audience from the fact Li Gong and Ze Shou haven’t figured themselves out yet. These two eventually sort out their issues. Like the divorce clients mentioned above, I think interacting with this nascent gay couple helps demonstrate to Li Gong and Ze Shou that same-sex relationships can work. The inevitable drama in their relationship feels a bit contrived, but not nearly at the level of Li Gong and Ze Shou.

- That time Li Gong and Ze Shou break up.

Ok, it’s a BL tradition that our lead couple must endure some sort of existential threat to their relationship, one that might even tear them apart so that the finale has something to do besides just exist. It’s just that the execution of this subplot is uncommonly stupid even by BL standards. Li Gong just spent 10+ years pining away for his best friend. He confesses. They get together. They profess eternal love and exchange versions of “I will always be by your side.” Then, two episodes later, for no reason that has been earned via character development or prior dialog, Li Gong initiates a break-up. The moment felt flimsy and forced when it happened—drama because a drama series has to have drama for the sake of having drama, right? Having seen the end of the series (the “why” gets explained after the fact), I still think that plot development feels indefensible. Egregiously so. I dropped the MDL score for this series a full point just for this bit.

+ / - The female side characters are a mixed bag.

On the bright side, the archetypal jealous female villain is absent. In place of that stock character is an array of other women orbiting our two lead couples. While Nikita, the bar owner, has a longstanding crush on Li Gong, she also recognizes that his heart is set on Ze Shou. After making her own confession, she even pushes him back toward Ze Shou after the idiotic break-up. (I liked that she took her shot, and that getting her feelings out into the open helped her.) Ze Shou’s sister seems aware the boys ought to be together before they do, and she supports them fully. The bar has a second female employee who remains on the fringes of the story. All three of these adult women feel underwritten as characters. The fourth female character is Ying Ze’s precocious daughter. I could nitpick how worldly she is for her tender age, dishing out sophisticated relationship advice to her emotionally damaged father, but I will overlook that. Her function in the story is to act as a muse for Ying Ze as he contemplates his failed prior marriage and the scary, scary business of starting over with someone new. She actually plays a pivotal role in helping both Yuki and Ying Ze negotiate their blossoming romance.

+ / - The two dads are a mixed bag.

Fu Li Gong’s father is the managing partner at the law firm that employs the two leads. Cheng Ze Shou’s working class father owns a restaurant. Let me acknowledge up front that I understand and accept that Asian parents often play an overt role in their adult children’s romantic choices. And, I understand and accept that the older generation may have little preparation to deal with same-sex romances. Thus, it’s not particularly surprising when Papa Cheng becomes an obstacle to the blossoming romance between his son and Li Gong. But too many series (not just BL!) rely on "parental interference" to create tension in the plot. I am bone weary of watching series where parental interference drives a wedge into the main relationship. If Papa Cheng had been more fully developed; if the interference had arisen from character or story context; if the series had telegraphed this development ahead rather than springing it on us; if this parental interference had felt fresh and original rather than cliché and convenient; if any of those, then I might not have minded. But his attitude felt like drama for the sake of drama. Other than that, Papa Cheng is actually a compelling figure as he insists to his bitter son that he should forgive the absent mother. His take on why relationships fail adds a contemplative element. But all that means his disapproval of Ze Shou and Li Gong felt inconsistent with his prior characterization.

Papa Fu is even less sketched out, but his support of the relationship proves pivotal. He is the one who tells Li Gong to pull his head out of his ass and go reverse the idiotic break-up before it’s too late. However, I think that speech would have been even more effective (and the character more interesting) if it had been delivered seven episodes earlier, before the CONFESSION. Papa Fu seems like the kind of dad who would have spotted his son's crush. He could have been a catalyst for the initial union rather than for the re-union. It was a nice grace note, however, that when Papa Fu offered to go talk to Papa Cheng on the couple’s behalf, Li Gong declined the offer in favor of taking care of his own business.

+ + + + + Effective use of cameo appearances from actors who appeared in other BL roles.

These cameos are pure audience service, of course, but BL afficionados will be absolutely delighted at the unexpected appearances of familiar faces, some of them (unofficially) playing familiar characters. There’s one + above for each BL series I counted.

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So much spoiled promise

Perhaps the first warning sign would be that today, the airdate of the final episode, the plot synopsis on this site continues to bear no resemblance whatever to the actual storyline that showed up. Perhaps the premise changed between pitch session and production but no one updated the plot summary? When it began airing, the My DramaList details announced 8 episodes--and indeed, Episode 8 is basically the finale to the first eight episodes. That was also the first day I saw the number of episodes had changed from 8 to 12--and episode 8 was so short one wonders whether elements of the "original" ending had to be cut to make room for the newly added episodes. The final four essentially begin a new story from scratch and aside from a few references, abandons the already-existing plotlines, characters, and actors. It even changes location by having the main character go on vacation for four episodes.

I've seen a few other posts that, like this one, were written within hours of watching the last episode the same day it aired. Their criticisms echo my own, so I feel little need to pile on repetitiously. (Clearly, we all watched til the end...so something here did work for us!) But I will echo another prevailing sentiment in these reviews: the premise of this series was endearing. Somewhere in this hot mess is the makings of a delightful tale of romance. For whatever reason(s), this production was unable to deliver on the inherent promise of its premise. One thing they did right--so much so it's almost a novelty in Thai BLs--was that the main character is unabashedly, unashamedly gay from before the series starts. More of that is needed.

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Adventures in the Exquisite Anguish of the Adolescent Crush

“How do you end a crush?” ask two different characters in the finale episode of Heesu in Class 2. That question vexed that duo (and others) for ten episodes worth of adolescent anxiety. Finding a solution at that age? Never easy. The high school romance genre is evergreen because the experience of being an adolescent is universal. Nearly as universal? The experience of being an adolescent awash with romantic feelings for someone close-at-hand, feelings an inexperienced teen may simply have no clue how to direct. Not without risking embarrassment and exposure. Keeping the crush a secret can become an all-consuming mission of its own. Left unspoken, after all, a crush cannot bring pain—except the pain of unrequited love. For a closeted gay boy, the crush itself is perhaps not even the chief secret. Preserving the secret of the closet can outrank the desire to confess a crush because the risks of revelation as gay can seem exponentially greater than placing one’s emotions on the line. Gay or straight, determining when to reveal a crush is tricky. Heesu in Class 2 captures the exquisite anguish of that time in life more deftly, more sweetly, and more creatively than any other high school romance series I’ve seen. The plot derives tension from words left unspoken, confessions deferred. Some patience will be required of the viewer, but when the confessions at last flow, the catharsis feels sweet.

Explaining the plot almost requires a diagram. A has liked his best friend, B, for ages but doesn’t wish to risk their longstanding friendship by confessing to another boy. Meanwhile, B likes C. She actually likes B back but chooses to conceal it. (It’s a strategy.) C’s best friend D likes A. D wants to keep A and B apart, while A wants to keep B and C apart. Naturally, D enlists A to help him court C (whom he does not like). You know, as anyone would. Strategically, the matchmaking effort will afford D opportunities to interact with A, while keeping A away from B. A accepts this role as putative matchmaker because he hopes to take C off the market, refocusing B’s attention on himself. Did I mention that C is a sympathetic co-conspirator on D’s scheme to win over A? Well, that cooperation itself thwarts her own clandestine pursuit of B, but that contradiction just adds to the fun. Ultimately, D’s ersatz courtship of C sparks jealousy from B, a turn of events that propels their story forward. Eventually, A (Heesu) must come to terms with the fact his crush has chosen another. He soon refocuses his attention on D, but his dilemma has not changed. Confession risks not just a broken heart but possible social ostracization should his attraction to boys become known. And, so, keeping secrets secret becomes a major concern in this plot. (Perhaps to the detriment of the series, since it sometimes feels as if the story is caught up in endless circles of futility.) D and A have fallen for one another, but the safety of the closet prevents either from speaking his truth. With all of this misdirection, Heesu in Class 2 becomes, low-key anyway, a bit of a farce and very much a comedy of manners.

Preposterous as all of the foregoing may sound, the crucial thing is that the characters feel emotionally honest at all times. That owes to some very fine work by the cast at conveying the emotional turbulence felt by each character. You have known a teenager who has acted loony in love. Maybe you were that teenager? These portrayals will recall to mind those by-gone days. Lacking confidence about their prospects for romantic success, each of these inexperienced wannabe players struggles to determine the right moment to confess their true feelings. One side-character girl even persuades the object of her desire to confess his feelings to a different girl entirely, precisely because she knows his feelings would not be reciprocated. His heartache could be her chance, but he needs to feel it first. “I got tired of waiting. I want him to get rejected quickly. Will it be Day 1 for me today?” She delivers that line to A—by now, smitten instead with D—who is inspired to accelerate his own confession. This minor side couple exists to illustrate another attribute of teen-aged romance: learning to accept when your crush has chosen someone else. At times each of the four lead characters must grapple with that possibility—and A (Heesu himself) feels it most keenly. Maintaining a secret crush thus presents its own risks: the risk that someone else will swoop in first. The tension born of waiting—waiting for someone to realize their feelings for you; waiting for the nerve to confess your own secrets—encapsulates what makes this series tick. These teens make (mostly) bad choices; yet, most former teens will empathize with the thought processes that yielded such decisions. Been there. Felt that.

As if capturing the flavor of unrequited youthful ardor is insufficient accomplishment in itself, Heesu manges an even more impressive feat, one few BL series bother to attempt. Heesu in Class 2 walks the line between the straightforward sweetness of BL-style courtship (seldom grounded in reality) and intelligent representation of the queer experience (often grounded in depressing reality). It is scary enough for a straight boy to confess to a girl or vice versa. But for those contemplating confession to another of their own sex, the potential pitfalls take on added layers of concern. In fact, a likely reason the writers matched a straight crush (B for C and C for B) with a gay crush (A for B and D; D for A) may precisely be to illustrate how the pressures of keeping secrets operates differently for closeted gay boys. Consistent with that theory, resolution for B and C arrives much earlier in the story. They simply had less to risk, and thus acted much sooner on their feelings. Completely closeted, A is in no hurry to confess to either boy he crushes on. I do not perceive Heesu as afraid to risk his heart. Rather, he cannot fathom the social consequences if the confession goes awry. By the penultimate episode, his secret crush on D has become more than he can bear. Perhaps, in part, because he now has had the experience of watching his first crush (B) pursue someone else without ever having taken his own shot. That wisdom propels him not to replicate the error with D, but more: he seems to have recognized a new despair. His own identity has become imperiled. “Now I’m going to tell, too. [Voiceover] Before my secret swallows me up. Before I fall into this dark hole forever.” Queer people will recognize that feeling as well, when the safety of the closet seemed to offer more harm than comfort. That is the sort of thing that galvanizes the closeted to come out.

HIC2 does not shy away from depicting these added layers for queer people, but neither does it belabor them. The BL genre occasionally uses the familial ramifications of same-sex romance to create conflict in the plot (the angry parent), but the genre typically disregards, blithely so, the ramifications to the individual in emotional and social terms. At various moments, it is clear both A and D, each shy from confessing his feelings precisely due to internalized homophobia. So long as it remains unspoken, the secret crush does not threaten the safety of the closet. Voicing those hidden feelings, after all, risks more than just rejection from one person. In a later episode, after C and B have found their way to each other, C becomes exasperated with D’s continued avoidance of his crush on A. She thinks a confession would solve his suffering as it had hers earlier. He will have none of it, and any queer person who has spent time in the closet will understand his response. “Do you not know, or are you pretending not to know? It’s much harder for me to just confess than it is for you. Have you ever thought about that?” The script sees no reason to elaborate on this explanation. A meta-theory as to why: perhaps because the Korean writers wish to shield any heavy-handed observation about gay truths from a domestic audience still uncomfortable with accepting queer attraction as a legitimate alternative. But an in-universe theory works equally well: perhaps because actual friends would understand each other without the added exposition needed to articulate those unspoken gay truths. In any event, C admits she was “just pretending” to be unaware of why D hesitated. But neither does this concession modify her advice. She quickly reminds him that he cannot move forward from, cannot bring a close to, the perpetual anguish rooted in his unspoken feelings without being open about those feelings. “There’s no other way anyway,” she sums up. Moving forward still requires a confession no matter the risk of rejection or the risk of his same-sex ardor becoming exposed. Heesu in Class 2 thus provides the viewer both the endorphin overload expected from top-notch BL shenanigans but also insight into a teenager’s emerging self-acceptance of a gay identity. The balance is tricky, but it works here quite well.

Finally, Heesu in Class 2 does not forget two other bugaboos of teen life: tension from living with family and having the courage to pursue your dreams. We spend the most time with Heesu (A) and his three older sisters, none of whom has proven to be a great role model for romantic success. The romantic trials and tribulations of his three lovelorn noonas prove instructive to Heesu as he navigates his own dilemmas in that department. Their household is raucous but loving. Most importantly, Heesu’s sisters are present in a way that both B and D, alienated from their own nuclear families, wish they could experience. Often left home alone, D leads a solitary existence. Living next door to Heesu and his sisters, D can hear the shouted teases and arguments emanating from that household. He clearly craves those kinds of familial ties for himself. An odd little scene where he joins Heesu and sisters for breakfast proves surprisingly affective for the wistful way D listens to the siblings banter. Just a routine morning at the Heesu household, but a type of familial closeness beyond D’s reach.
Meanwhile B has family issues of his own, related to his desire to pursue tennis. His father deems that activity a waste of time, a distraction that will hold him back later in life. Their relationship frays so badly over this issue that B eventually runs away to live with Heesu. (Naturally, B’s insertion into Heesu’s daily routine comes along precisely when the title character has not only resolved to accept B’s burgeoning romance with C by getting over his longtime crush, but also as he is beginning to crush instead on D.) Meanwhile, C dreams of a career as a professional musician. This subplot adds texture to the character and reinforces some of the series’ overall themes, but it carries far less weight than nearly everything else. Nevertheless, any added complexity to a Korean-BL is welcome, since that country’s BL plots tend to be stripped down to the bare essentials. The worldbuilding in HIC2 extends far beyond the BL storyframe, and the series is richer for it.

Heesu in Class 2 presents one of the more common experiences among high schoolers anywhere, anywhen, any sexual orientation: the surge of amorous emotion that overwhelms the developing personality. Yet to cultivate the social skills or social confidence to cope with those feelings, teenagers make choices that may not be in their own best interests. Streaming services these days abound with series that tackle this near-universal moment in the modern life course. That period when fear of what may follow a confession paralyzes us with indecision. That period before we become acquainted with either the sting of rejection or with the thrill of acceptance. The high school romance genre flourishes generation after generation precisely because watching fictional characters suffering through an unvoiced crush evokes from almost everyone a nostalgia for their own adolescence. Usually, the wistful variety. What might have happened, if only I’d done something differently? What if I had spoken up sooner? What if I had never spoken at all? Whether or not to confess, to take that secret crush from deep inside your own heart and lay it bare….that is a dilemma with which nearly all of us have wrestled at some moment or another. The cast and crew of Heesu in Class 2 have captured these adolescent insecurities most adroitly. The comedy feels grounded in reality. The absurdity, not so far-fetched. This series is worth the time to watch.

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This review aimed at folks deciding whether to watch or not. (Yes. Yes, you should. Worth it.)

The Hidden Moon is a macabre suspense thriller with a BL twist. The series mostly works. Early episodes shroud the story with supernatural elements that deliver a sense of foreboding. A palpable dread permeates the characters' interactions. Mysteries emerge that require sleuthing by our protagonists. Some of these unknowns pertain to Real World events while others transcend reality to seemingly touch upon ethereal planes. The series even broaches the Big Mystery: what happens when a person dies? Amidst all the paranormal uncertainty, a BL romance struggles to emerge. That subplot is almost an afterthought, however, as this series is a suspense thriller first; a romance, only to change pace between supernatural set pieces. That de-emphasis of the BL plot will disappoint viewers interested primarily in MM courtship. Their loss. If the idea of a slow-burn spooky ghost story appeals, the ten hours of The Hidden Moon will be worth the time to watch. If such fare is not your cup of tea, then you don't need to know the twisty turns anyway.

The writer of reviews must choose betweeen two variants of the form. One style pitches the text toward readers who have seen the material and cannot therefore be spoiled (full disclosures with double-barrel critiques). The alternative aims to reach those readers seeking out the review to help them decide whether to start watching. This group can be spoiled, so the reviewer should be circumspect (strategically withholding details and pulling punches in the criticism). To preserve the sense of macabre, to maintain the air of suspense, and to preserve potential thrills, this review will pursue the latter path. The production team behind The Hidden Moon mostly got right the macabre, the suspense, and the thrills. They do not deserve to have that effort undermined by a comprehensive debrief of every strength and weakness. So, this review will risk vagueness by imparting fewer details than customary. Indeed, I encourage anyone deciding whether to watch to avoid investigating specifics. The less you know about this one, the more you will enjoy it. With that disclaimer, onward with my purposefully vague critique.

The series opens with five young people arriving at an Obligatory Old House. An Old House with a reputation. An Old House that may be haunted. They have come to investigate these rumors. Before the first episode ends, the group begins to experience unexplained events themselves. (That's five time-worn tropes already! Happily, none of them is a BL trope!) Over the next several episodes, the team tries to uncover explanations for the unusual goings-on. The pacing proves uneven. Not all episodes are equally spooky. A couple in the middle really drag. Arguably, the early episodes suffer from a bad case of writers trying to create mystery by simply not explaining anything. That tactic led to characters confused and frustrated with their situation. This reviewer suspects many viewers will share that sentiment. Hooking the audience with juicy details might have been a better strategy. Unexplained phenomena may rightfully vex characters, but they alienate viewers when dragged through too many consecutive episodes. Fortunately, viewers who stick with the series will be rewarded. Three strengths save the series from the reliance on hoary tropes and the problems with pacing.

First, the technical arts creative team (cinematography, direction, lighting, editing, music) understood their assignment. Overcoming gaps in story logic, the vibe remains consistently tense--brooding and unsettled. The sense of macabre persists during the slow episodes, so that when the story recovers vigor, the suspense has never descended into farce or hokiness. Few viewers of The Hidden Moon will ever nominate the series as an exemplar of the macabre suspense thriller genre's best. But it is absolutely solid work.

Second, later episodes grow stronger. They deliver cogent story beats, unexpected twists, and better interactions among the characters. When the payoffs arrive from those unexplained mysteries of the early episodes, they prove worthwhile. Episodes 8-9 (penultimate) stand out in particular.

Third, the series has a time travel element unusual in the suspense genre. One member of the Thai Scooby Gang experiences paranormal weirdness in two timestreams. For unknown reasons, Khen is shifting between the past and present of the Obligatory Old House. In both timelines, an angry female specter targets him for special attention with the kind of ghostly violence that threatens Khen's life. Fortunately, one denizen of the 1910s timeline is able to intervene on his behalf. Mas is the handsome son of the homeowner. As Mas and the strange visitor from "another world" grow better acquainted, bonds of affection grow between them.

The dynamic between the two young men, separated in time by about a century, provides the BL storyline. Perhaps during episodes 6-7 the macabre even takes a backseat to the courtship. Nevertheless, the BL story remains mostly threadbare. The two would-be lovers, after all, recognize that living in two different worlds poses an insurmountable challenge to their future prospects. And veteran viewers of K-drama and BL alike are surely aware that ghost-human romance has little chance of achieving a happy ending. An undercurrent of "why bother?" haunts the scenes where Mas and Khen deepen their emotional bonds. Young love, inevitably, will persist against all admitted logic. And so it is with Khen and Mas. The BL tale adds some emotional heft to The Hidden Moon's endgame, and it is the duo's interaction that will restore balance to each universe. BL viewers who endure the suspense and supernatural shenanigans in the hopes of a romantic denoument suffused with happy endorphins will see their patience rewarded. Kind of. I'd say more...but spoilers.

In closing, The Hidden Moon isn't primarily a BL series. Rather, it is a supernatural thriller that tossed in a BL romance. Substitute a straight romance, and the underlying tale of macabre would require no alteration. In the final analysis, I'd argue that the series succeeds as a thriller even more than it succeeds as a romance. Full credit to the production team for that success, for I do not belive they worked from a lavish budget. But they deployed their resources wisely, resulting in a finished product that may well be an instance where the whole surpassed the sum of its parts. It is not a great series, but it is certainly very good. It is worth the ten-hour investment of your time to watch.

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What’s the better synonym for “Do Over”—"Rearrange"? Or "Reset"?

Why write a review for Reset and Rearrange, two 2025 series that each ended months ago? This essay comes along too late to serve those who watched as the series aired. Instead, I assume my readers in 2026 (or later) comprise folks who missed the original broadcast. Perhaps, Dear Reader, you came here to learn more about a series that someone recommended to you? If you’ve heard of only the one, the one whose review you’re presently reading…well, surprise! There’s another one just like it! Hopefully, my comparative review will help guide you to which “Re-do” series is more likely to match your own taste in BL consumption. Though, in all honesty, this reviewer was entertained by each, and if you press me—I’d advise to watch them both. Though, perhaps not at the same time. Too many timelines to keep track of all at once!

In 1998, two competing Hollywood studios sent to theaters two big budget films with the exact same premise: a meteor is about to crash into the Earth and wipe out humanity, unless brave astronauts on an emergency space mission can save the day. Somehow, Deep Impact and Armageddon managed to distinguish themselves from each other, likely because each film delivered audiences a unique experience. The identical premises became less “who did it better?” and more “well that was interesting in its own right.” Here in 2025, two competing Thai studios sent to streaming platforms two BL series with the exact same premise: a discontented middle-aged man gets into an accident and awakens to find himself returned to the body of his younger self. Will this be a chance for him to rewrite (reset? rearrange?) the details of his life, perhaps making this second chance more meaningful? Somehow, Reset and Rearrange also managed to distinguish themselves from each other. The two series have a different vibe, a different ethic, and each hero with a second chance at life has very different objectives when he contemplates how to maximize his big Do Over. Each series is interesting in its own right.

As noted, Reset and Rearrange share a premise. They each start with the death of a middle-aged man, but that character’s starting point is somewhat different. We meet Armin (Reset) as a successful actor, receiving accolades at mid-life for his professional achievements. Unfortunately, his personal life is messier; he feuds with professional colleagues; his former best friend wants nothing to do with him; and his longtime lover jilts him in favor of someone he trusted. His death is accidental, but his dying thoughts are to ponder how everything went wrong. Meanwhile, when we encounter middle-aged Win (Rearrange), he loses his job, struggles to pay his rent, is estranged from his only living family, and still mourns for an unrequited high school crush who died more than 25 years prior, in 1997. Feeling despondent about the disappointment his life turned out to be, Win, like Armin, ponders where everything went wrong. At that precise moment, Win takes his eyes off the road to retrieve his fallen cell phone from the floor. And then—well, Dear Reader, suffice to say that is not the smartest thing to do while driving. Reset was quite clear that present-day Armin died in his accident. Rearrange is more ambiguous. We hear the crunch of a collision, but then Win awakens in his own bed—well, his own bed from 1997, a time when he lived at home with his father and brother and was still in high school. Glancing at a mirror, Win is astonished to see the familiar youthful face that stares back at him. Almost at once his thoughts turn to his late, long-deceased friend, Nut. Can Win meet Nut again? Armin experiences a similar moment of temporal confusion, but he regains consciousness in the middle of a film set. The gig was—is?—his first job as a professional. He was a rookie actor then, but now he has years of professional experience to guide his performance. He can rewrite his own history by dazzling the movie set with his accumulated acting prowess. Well, he might do so following a momentary freak-out stemming from his unexpected temporal relocation. Quite understandable in the circumstances, but rather exasperating in a professional environment. These summaries essentially account for the premiere episode of each series. The remaining nine episodes of each depict the respective efforts of Win and Armin to alter the undesirable trajectory of his previous life.

Rearrange is by far the simpler of the two stories. Win is a high school student, and his two chief ambitions befit the worldview of a high schooler: to start a band with his crush, Nut; and to confess that crush to Nut before the latter dies from a brain tumor. Other characters in Win’s world include his father and brother; his bandmates and their parents; and a boss at his job who also died in 1997. Win attempts to save the boss from death, but Fate is unyielding. The time and circumstances did change, but the outcome remained the same. Win II concludes that nothing he does will alter prior outcomes in any meaningful way. Win I’s lifelong regret was that Nut’s unanticipated death deprived him of any opportunity to confess his feelings. This time, however, Win can anticipate Nut’s demise. So, he strives to alter the small details—with the goal of making sure that in the time Nut II has left Win can reveal the unspoken confession from decades earlier (or is it the same year? Time is confusing!) but also to help Nut II realize the dreams that Nut I fell short of (like winning the band contest or having a girlfriend or defying his strict dad). In both timelines, the band’s prospects anchor the whole story. Absent the time travel elements, Rearrange really comes across as a standard-issue coming-of-age story about high school kids learning to mature. The bandmates’ messy personal lives feature crushes, confessions, rejections, unspoken feelings, parental conflict aplenty, and band rehearsals. Lots of band rehearsals. Fortunately, the soundtrack is pretty satisfying—and sounds convincingly like music from the late 1990s. Because Win has a general knowledge of how events turn out, he is haunted by (and the series with it) a sense of wistfulness as he awaits the inevitable. Any time Win II asks his (living!) father for advice (a normal thing for any kid to do, but a privilege middle-aged Win is overjoyed to rediscover), the wisdom imparted carries greater weight. With his middle-aged consciousness, 1997 Win II is better able to appreciate advice from his father than 1997 Win I had been. The series repeatedly wrestles with the question, “if life is short, what is the best way to spend our time?” That is heady material for a “simple” high school drama, but it elevates the emotional impact of Rearrange.

By contrast, Reset features a much more convoluted storyline, one that occasionally lapses into melodramatic lakorn territory. Armin II wishes to flourish in his career without the years of struggle he endured in the original timeline, and he wants to rectify mistakes with friends and colleagues. Knowing exactly how, when, and why the relationship with his best friend soured, he makes sure to nurture that relationship this time. That subplot is fairly soft and easy. Armin’s worklife provides the drama. If Rearrange was almost a standard-issue high school series, Reset is almost a standard-issue “wannabe celebrity” series. The travails of the modern day celebrityhood complicate Armin’s life. Public relations fiascoes, professional jealousies, and the need to keep romance out of sight of the press are all “wannabe celebrity” tropes that pop up in Reset. In his professional life, Armin II keeps meeting the same people Armin I knew previously and keeps receiving the same professional opportunities he received previously, but in many cases these encounters arrive years earlier than expected. Due to the nature of his last day in 2025, Armin brings his embittered feelings from mid-life back to his younger self. In the early episodes a desire for revenge animates his actions. Of course, this approach is problematic because in the new timeline the people Armin resents have yet to sin against him. Meanwhile, Armin II finds himself increasingly attracted to the head of his agency, TD, who Armin I had never met in person. TD has an uncanny knack to anticipate when and how Armin will encounter difficulty. TD would like nothing more than to dedicate all his spare time to promoting Armin, but a tropey “rich family/greedy stepmom/jealous stepbrother” subplot consumes a lot of screen time. Both this subplot, and the grandeur of the film career Armin is achieving bring Reset closer to the spirit of Thai lakorn. Those soap opera level trappings help establish the vibe of Reset, just as the band rehearsals keep Rearrange grounded in a high school world.

The titles of each series fit the characters’ circumstances as well as provide double entendre with “Do Over” or “rewrite.” On a film set, if a director wants another take of a scene, the actors and crew will reset the stage, returning to their original position. The title “Reset” thus reflects Armin’s profession. In music, a performer might adapt an existing song to better suit his own needs, changing the arrangement of the material. The title “Rearrange” thus reflects Win’s passion for music. And, of course, both words convey the idea of a “Do Over” life.

In 1998, Armageddon was the louder, more bombastic, more action oriented film. Deep Impact came across as a work grounded in human emotion, its screen time dedicated to showing how the characters prepared for the possibility of death by lethal falling space rock. Where Armageddon almost assaulted the viewer with IMPENDING DANGER, Deep Impact was almost contemplative by comparison. A similar disparity in mood separates Reset and Rearrange. Borrowing soap opera-level trappings from Thai lakorn, such as trope-driven character and story arcs and over-the-top acting styles, Reset comes across as the more brash of the two 2025 series. It had a larger cast— featuring numerous well-known BL actors and many many more background extras in “big” scenes; its filming clearly had more money for its own sets; for movie-within-the TV show sets; for wardrobe; and for location shooting. Its finale featured not only an action-oriented set piece but the chief villain becomes almost comically evil before suffering an only-on-TV mental breakdown. The finale went full lakorn! Meanwhile, Rearrange had a palpably small-potatoes feel by contrast. Location shooting seldom ventured beyond the band’s rehearsal spaces or the member’s homes. Most exterior locations seemed to be parks, which presumably were cheaper spaces to rent than actual places of business. Background extras were either few in number or non-existent, even when a scene was set in an area you’d expect to find other humans, like a restaurant or campground. Wardrobe? High school uniforms and casual clothing sufficed for most episodes. Only a couple of concert scenes required a large cast of extras, and those were scaled to be “just enough to do the job” rather than all-out. Rearrange did what it could with the budget it had. Its biggest accomplishment may be the OST, which features a number of original songs. Rearrange may have been quieter and smaller, but I don’t think those qualities hurt it.

In closing, Reset and Rearrange manage to avoid feeling redundant or repetitive despite sharing a nearly identical premise and despite one series starting mere weeks after the other ended. Each approaches the conundrums of being “gifted a second chance at life” in a different manner. Do Win (Rearrange) and Armin (Reset) get a happy ending in their second turn at being human? You may as well watch. If you read this far, you know you’re tempted.

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Should a young actor prioritize his career? Or his love life?

Like the first season, the second outing for At 25:00 in Akasaka delivered solid, if unspectacular, BL entertainment. In fact, in every respect other than the romantic, it is an improvement. The new season continues the story of actors Shirasaki Yuki and Hayama Asami from the point where they enjoy the professional fruits arising from the success of the BL series in which they starred. Though lacking an equal measure of the humor and sweetness that made their S1 courtship memorable, with regard to character development and world-building the sequel proves more compelling than the original. That assessment especially holds for the viewer who wished to see the story dive deeper into the characters. The series takes the time to plumb the psyche of our aspiring actors and lovers, at the expense, perhaps, of deepening their relationship. Accordingly, the viewer who consumes BL to wrap themself up in cuddly moments will be more likely to regard the follow-up as a let down, given that the burgeoning romance established at the end of S1 takes a backseat in S2 to the main characters’ burgeoning careers.

We become reacquainted with Shirasaki and Hayama as the duo navigates how to sustain a clandestine romance that, if publicly known, might be detrimental to their careers. Determined, nevertheless, to cohabitate, this series takes the pretense of the fake relationship from S1 and delivers the real thing in S2. This go around, the test will be whether their cozy domestic life can withstand the pressure imposed from working apart. Just as the characters’ commitment to each other has become serious, so too does the subtext. That is certainly a fair outcome in a series that has centered itself around the characters’ professional development. Yet, it also leeches away much of the joy for the viewer who came to watch the couple bond.

The second season elevates Shirasaki and Hayama from aspiring actors to seasoned professionals ready to take the next career step. Originally cast as co-stars in a BL series, the duo make their TV avatars’ fictional relationship real during S1. Season 2 dispenses with the ploy of the BL-within-the-BL by splitting the pair’s professional endeavors apart. Hayama’s movie career takes off when he is cast in a film, while Shirasaki lands a lead role in a stage play helmed by an auteur director. I wrote of S1 that Shirasaki’s character, new to professional acting, suffered from Imposter Syndrome. S2 perpetuates this theme in most unvarnished fashion: his theater character is a literal imposter, having stolen someone else’s name and life. Shirasaki strugles to discover the right notes to play the emotional trauma presented by this challenging new role. As in S1, his professional insecurity provides much of the tension to S2. Shirasaki imagines himself inadequate when compared to Hayama (who absolutely does not regard their dynamic as competitive in the same way), and that note is perhaps overly wooden in the script. Overall, Shirasaki’s self-doubt is a drag on the plot. Playing out this thread certainly holds back the series’ romantic beats, a frustration that will exacerbate discontent with the sequel for a portion of the audience.

I praised S1 for prioritizing the workaday aspects of show business over the glamor. S2 maintains this emphasis on the craft of acting by once again embedding numerous scenes of the characters rehearsing for acting gigs. One of the treats for viewers in S1 was watching as Shirasaki and Hayama created their TV characters from rehearsal to finished product, even as their secret fake relationship developed in parallel into a secret real one. Similar epiphanies pop up in the sequel, as each character brings real life experience to the creation of a new role while also bringing insight from work back home to sustain the romance. One significant difference: this process now operates with a layer of remove since the pair no longer work together. As noted, Shirasaki’s problems occupy the lion’s share of screen time. Hayama’s issues burble into the open only late in the proceedings, which is rather a shame as I find his character more compelling. I’d have been happy to explore his inscrutability earlier and oftener. In episode 9 each actor is exhorted by his respective director to bring deeper emotive beats to the performance. In that fashion, this directorial note mirrors the formula that made S1 a good watch because it ties the disparate subplots back together: what happens at home informs creative choices at work; what happens in the creative process at work informs the home life.

Fans come to sequels to reexperience aspects of the original they enjoyed. Season 2 of At 25 in Aksaka provides ample callbacks. Returning from Season 1 are the co-stars from the faux BL, Sakuma Hajime and Yamase Kazumo. These two continue to operate as sounding boards for our lead characters, especially in their approach to their career choices. The camaraderie they built last year as co-stars grows here into friendship not rooted in work. Meanwhile, Kuroki Keita is a newly introduced character in S2, cast opposite Shirasaki in the play-within-the-BL. This figure might have been written as a source of dramatic tension by making him either a career rival or a love rival. (Shirasaki, after all, has a track record of falling for his co-star, a point Yamase humorously makes to Hayama as they commiserate at a bar.) Instead, the writers not only eschew both obvious tropes, they opted to describe a collaborative dynamic between Kuroki and Shirasaki. That choice freshens the plot and adds a great deal of warmth to the proceedings that the series might otherwise have lacked. The way all three support characters and the two leads trade advice on their shared craft makes this series an exploration into the profession of acting. In that aspect, it seems to me that S2 exceeds S1. In fact, not since Double in 2022 has any series about actors offered such an extensive seminar on theories of performativity. Another recurring plot element in S2 is the use of a secret to inject charm. In S1, Hayama’s preexisting crush on Shirasaki supplied the secret. Here, the duo’s clandestine relationship serves the purpose. The actors’ respective managers know the truth, but for al 10 it remains invisible to others around them. (Count that as another tired trope avoided. I am so weary of BL series about entertainers where simply having a relationship creates story tension.) Well, perhaps not completely invisible. One suspects Yamase knows the true score, but he allows the pair the illusion of maintaining their secret.

The most important element in a BL sequel is the romance between the main characters. One reason BL sequels seldom outshine the original is that watching two people court one another is inherently more fun than watching two people undertake the serious labor required to sustain an ongoing committed relationship. My first paragraph reflects this reality, having pronounced S2 less fun and less sweet than the progenitor. Having several times in this review remarked on how the script stunts the growth of the Hayama-Shirasaki romance, I wish to conclude by praising how this version of the story introduces its own brand of sweetness. These two communicate regularly. They look out for each other. They are alert to signs that their partner feels distress. Perhaps such moments are less thrilling than the pursuit inherent to courtship; yet, these are the very comfort actions by which committed couples stay committed. A recurring example of “comfort” arises from the simple salutation with which Hayama greets Shirasaki when the latter returns home from rehearsal every day: “Welcome home.” These words signal to the stressed out Shirasaki that he is safe, that he can relax, that he is loved. This greeting is a small touch in a big series. Yet it warmed this jaded old reviwer’s heart. May we all be so lucky as to have someone welcome us home every day.

Link to my review of S1: https://kisskh.at/profile/8984637/review/369133

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Monsters are unnatural. So are queers. And that's the point of the story.

The eight episodes that comprise Lover Merman rely on recycled plot and character beats to unspool the series’ three romances. Any Regular Viewer of BL will have encountered the story elements dozens of times over. Much of the time, Lover Merman feels like a retread. Still, over reliance on tried and true BL narrative elements guarantees Merman can become a guilty pleasure for many. Producers enhanced that potential by securing the dulcet tones of Boy Sompob to sing the title track. His pipes always add value. Yet amidst this sea of unoriginality, the series manages to deliver an allegorical angle whose emotional and intellectual wallop counts as a genuine surprise.

Two principal romances carry the narrative. Later, a guest side couple pop-up for a few episodes. None of these relationships introduce anything innovative or remarkable for the BL genre. The relevant dramatis personae hail from a familiar catalog of BL stock characters: the “bi-curious playboy” (Phurich), the “wise voice of reason” (Phana), the “naïve youth in need of instruction or protection” (Nava), and the “intern who falls for the boss” (Ping). The guest side couple supply the umpteenth example of a “step-/adopted brother romance” (but we shall leave their story aside for the rest of this review). To introduce a jealousy-riven triangle, the writers throw in another stock type, the “unrequited crush guy who forgot for years to confess his attraction to his friend lest such confession ruin the friendship” (Prapai). When the object of the unrequited crush (Nava) inevitably encounters a new suitor (Phana), the last persona morphs into a variation on the theme: “jealous guy with unrequited crush who has been permanently friend zoned before he could confess.” To be more accurate, in this case he morphs into “psychotic, homicidal jealous guy who refuses consignment to the friend zone.” Of course, in the annals of Thai BL even “jealous homicidal maniac” counts as a stock character.

The setting on a Thai island offers mild relief from the predictable. The island is the sort of place where locals subsist by catering to the tourist trade. The Regular Viewer of BL has seen their fair share of these locations, too, but any show that sets itself away from Bangkok and away from a university campus can feel fresh by default. In this instance, Merman utilizes well the resort setting. A beachfront bar co-owned by Phana and Phurich serves as the central hub of action. The other characters either work there or pass through it frequently. Daily workplace interactions yield romantic sparks—let the standard-issue BL tropes commence! The stock characters’ efforts to court one another, bed one another, and build relationships with one another play out replete with all the false starts, misunderstandings, and failures to communicate that the Regular Viewer of BL will expect to encounter. Like any BL series, the writers leaven these melodramatic moments with an assortment of cuddly scenes, sudden kisses, and promises to “take care of you forever.” Naturally, anytime someone utters a version of that last quote, the Regular Viewer of BL will feel their stomach convulse in anxiety as they anticipate the imminent onset of some fresh melodrama liable to cut “forever” down to “we’re over.” On account of just how predictably the series assembles its tropey elements, Lover Merman should not merit a review. Except for one teeny tiny twist.

Perceptive as the Regular Viewer of BL tends to be, many can deduce this twist from the title. Surprise, surprise! Some of the characters happen to be mermen. The island has long been a place where merfolk and humans mingle. In story context, the merman culture exists right alongside the human. On land, at least, it is impossible to discern which people are not the same as which other people, their point of difference invisible to the eye. We might say, they can pass. The small handful of humans aware of this secret society fall into two categories: those who accept the merfolk despite the difference, and those who want to eradicate them because of the difference. The merfolk choose to remain hidden so that they can live their lives unmolested by humans who believe they should not exist. We might say, they are closeted. The worldbuilding stew concocted around the merfolk establishes a poisonous degree of anti-merfolk bias and legacies of frequent human-on-merman violence. Because contemporary audiences are well-steeped in franchises whose plots revolve around biases against non-humans (vampires, werewolves, extra-terrestrials), many viewers will perceive this storyline as nothing more than the latest example of monster-of-the week narrative storytelling in action. And, to be fair, this description probably suffices to explain the dramatic tension invested into the Phurich-Nava-Prapai triangle. “You can’t fall for a human! He will never accept you because you’re different!” is the standard refrain in such tales, and a merman-specific take on that thinking clearly frames the trinagularity. Accordingly, Merman’s recycled fantasy elements mightnot merit a review either. Except for one teeny tiny meta-twist.

Perceptive as the Regular Viewer of BL tends to be, many missed this one: while the merfolk subplot yields familiar tropes about “monsters among us,” it also doubles as an allegory for the second-class citizenship endured by queer people. Yes, Lover Merman—a series chock full of gay characters—has a lot to say about anti-gay bias and homophobia, even though no literal anti-gay bias or homophobia ever manifests to spoil the mood of happy courtship that suffuses the gay romancing. Queers on the island are simply accepted as part of the social fabric. Instead, the hate is reserved for the merfolk. The clever way the show presents these biases in action isn’t simply dramatic, it is outright allegorical.

The slings and arrows of second-class existence that effectively renders the mermen as Other, mirrors the kinds of hostility that rendered queer people as Other. In particular, it resembles the kind of existence led by many gay men and lesbians in the middle decades of the 20th century, before the dawn of the gay pride era. In those years, a thriving queer subculture might exist in urban areas, but it was largely invisible to respectable folk living in the same areas. Keeping one’s sexuality secret was actually possible. Among the comparative points:

• Mermen live among regular people but no one can tell just by looking.
• Mermen marry human brides without the latter having any clue of her husband’s true nature. It can be quite the nasty shock when the truth emerges.
• Young mermen may themselves not realize their difference until the onset of adolescence.
• Parents have no preparation with how to deal with a monster child. Disowning a monstrous child seems logical to them.
• Ah, “monster.” Literally true here (look up the definition of “monster” if you doubt this. “Literary monster” not the regular dictionary definition). Monsters are reviled because they are unnatural. The word “unnatural” was often used to describe queerness in mid-century culture. (This condemnation has not entirely disappeared, of course!)
• Children disowned may chose to disappear forever from home, whether by seeking out greener pastures elsewhere (err, bluer seas?), or by suicide.
• The mermen sub-culture thrives, but out of sight from those not in the know.
• Some humans accept the monsters with grace while many more believe the stereotypes. Bigotry in society is real.

Without question, the mermen storylines represent the underwater breathers who dared not speak their name. Much of the weight of allegory manifests via Ping, the intern stock character. Ping fears rejection by his family for being different. “All this time, I saw myself as a monster,” asserts Ping (e 7 21:00) in one of many instances the monster analysis is explicit. This type of internalized contempt for his own identity represents another stock character, but this one is found not in fiction but in history: the self-loathing homosexual. Prior to the pride era, when no counter-narrative existed to the dominant cultural belief that queerness was either a sin or a sickness, such self-perception was common among gay men and lesbians. Here, the writers want the audience to empathize with Pring, and they build out his plight effectively. So effectively, that many viewers perceive only the injustice of treating the monsters differently. To be fair, the mermen rank among the protagonists in this tale; so a surface level reading of Ping’s story works to explain how so many missed seeing the allegory. For those conversant with queer history, however, the coded aspects of the merfolk plot prove hard to miss.

For all its reliance on tropes, curtailed character arcs, and underexplained plot twists, Lover Merman ends up supplying, in the form of allegory, one of the more potent statements against anti-gay bias any BL series has delivered. And that is the aspect that inspired this review. If a series that resonates queer authenticity appeals to you, then Lover Merman will be worth the time to sample. Just understand that while waiting for the clever allegorical parts to manifest, the actual BL portions will serve up a lot of stuff you can see coming from miles away. But at least the boys are pretty to look at. In that way, at least, Lover Merman is absolutely in line with the genre as a whole.

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A genre mix that serves both genres well--supernatural chills and romantic thrills

Khemjira stands out in at least two notable ways. First, it is the rare Thai BL series that prioritizes storytelling over couple moments. In service to that mission, the series musters a large company to tell the tale of the main couple; yet, a wide swathe of this ensemble plays little to no role in encouraging the blooming romance. Instead, they supplement the otherworldly angles of the supernatural story that entwines the leading men. Second, and perhaps more impressive, Khemjira is also the rare supernatural series whose phantasms deliver a genuine sense of menace. Goofy comic relief ghosts, they are not. Victims of tragic endings to incite viewer empathy, they are not. These specters threaten doom; danger looms where they appear. Light romantic comedy, Khemjira is therefore not. If there is a third notable achievement it may be the panache with which the makers blend the expected sinister chills of one genre with the expected warm, fuzzy thrills of the other. That few such genre hybrids manage this feat attests to its difficulty.

The title character, college freshman Khemjira, fears a curse on his family will result in his own early death. Following some near-miss accidents on campus in ep 1, his best friend, Jet, redirects a volunteer student break trip toward his own hometown, small and rural. Will the local shaman be able to help avert Khem's doom and neutralize the curse? Surely it helps that the aforesaid Local Shaman, Peem, proves to be young and handsome. Viewers quickly ascertain that the winsome young shaman has a connection with Khem’s family. Indeed, adolescent Peem first met young Khem years prior. (Ever seen a K-drama? Any K-drama? Then, you know what it portends for the main characters' future when an episode establishes they first met as children.) In this case, the destiny implied in the trope "destined lovers" also combines with the sense of destiny implied in the reincarnation trope. Two reincarnation tropes, in fact, as a third student on the trip, Charn, turns out to have been connected in a past life to Jet. These two meet as strangers but feel an immediate spark. Over several episodes, Charn and Jet realize that spark emanates from an unfinished romance in their prior lives (as women). Those “older souls” also connected to prior incarnations of Khem's and Peem's souls. That earlier coupling, likewise star-crossed, supplied story fodder for one of the ghost-of-the-Week episodes. On a recurring basis these soul bonds explains why Jet and Charn feel compelled to take extraordinary efforts on behalf of Khem. All three same-sex relationships (main couple, side couple, and flashback GL side couple) have some chemistry. The romances in Khemjira manifest palpable spirit.

Chiefly, the romances work because they flow from events in the ghost story. Rather than developing romance between shaman and student as the engine to drive the story forward, momentum stems from the need to address the deadly curse hanging over the student's head. In the first few episodes, the series follows a format we could dub "supernatural threat of the week." Early episodes center around Peem’s attempts to exorcise spooks and demons via his shamanistic magic. The group of students is caught up in that effort. Thai BL is replete with examples of college students undertaking a service trip to rural areas during a school break. These boondoggles comprise a veritable genre staple. Such endeavors typically depict students in bucolic acts of mundane service. Perhaps they paint a school or plant some trees. Khemjira is the only series where the service entails eradicating poltergeists in and around the rural village. (The villagers seem quite blasé about the level of wraith activity in their immediate environment. Perhaps their ubiquity explains why a family of shamans chose that village to make a living.) Using a threat-of-the-week format also ensures tension and foreboding inflect the series’ tone rather than silliness (from ineffectual ghosts) or lightness (from treacly romance). By the time the series reveals its true villain, inevitably a vengeful spirit with a grudge against Khem’s family that spans generations, Khem, Jet, and Charn have determined a prudent respect for Khem's safety dictates they remain in the village with the shaman. Peem’s attempts to reverse the curse dominate the series' second half.

An array of secondary characters serve a clear purpose to the story. They pop in and out when necessary. Especially well-crafted figures were an old village woman and two very young ghosts. The old lady aids Peem-as-shaman by contributing her own considerable magic to supplement his combat with otherworldly forces, but she also plays a grandmotherly role to Peem-as-person. There the magic stems from sage advice, tender affection, and an occasional home-cooked meal, ministrations also extended to Jet (who grew up in the village) and Khem (the newcomer in danger). Meanwhile, the boy specters add an infectious childlike whimsy that leavens the series' darker moments. Peem-as-Shaman uses the duo as intermediaries betwixt the worldly and otherworldly realms. He also apparently had used them as babysitters for young Jet, who bonded with his childhood playmates despite the fact they were not, technically speaking, alive when he played with them. Their endearing manner of literally "popping in and out," as a physical POP, must be seen to be appreciated. For the most part, the rich panoply of side characters contribute to a perception that the writing staff had a clear command of their tale's convoluted permutations.

Notwithstanding this praise, Khemjira (the series) has some mentionable flaws. One side character, introduced in the penultimate episode, felt truly out of place. That character felt so extra(neous), one speculates Domundi had contractual or publicity motivations to rope that actor into the show somehow. Despite maintaining a suspenseful atmosphere most of the time, the plot occasionally feels sluggish. A few episodes feature sequences whose exorcism from the storyboard might have reduced bloat. (For example, a love rival for Peem, smitten with Khem; a love rival for Khem, smitten with Peem; shenanigans at a rural country fair; arrogant bullies among the college students.) In addition, the writers might fairly be knocked for taking too long to explore the origins of Khem’s family curse; likewise, the romances progress along a similarly protracted timeline. But these are minor complaints. Considering the level of intricate plotting necessary to tie together the story’s disparate threads, the writers can be forgiven these minor pacing issues.

Khemjira will, in some respects, always be linked in memory with its contemporaries from 2025, The Next Prince and Revamp. The latter's association, coincidental, reflects both chronology and genre. For ten weeks Revamp and Khemjira overlapped broadcast runs, even sharing Saturday as their mutual broadcast day. Bigger coincidence, they aired finales on the exact same Saturday. Many viewers would have experienced the two series in lockstep. Yet, their more salient connection is genre. Each aspired to tell a compelling love story which simultaneously entangled mortals with supernatural beings. Khemjira got the tricky formula right; Revamp failed that test. By contrast, the link to the former required no coincidence at all. Both Kehmjira and The Next Prince sprang from the creative and production teams at Domundi. Indeed, they are production siblings: the two series gestated in pre-production simultaneously; filming blocs overlapped; they made it to air within months of each other. But The Next Prince always was the studio's Favored Child. Being second-fiddle may have saved Khemjira: perhaps executives who might have interfered with creative choices concentrated instead on The Next Prince and its high-profile cast. At the final analysis, both Revamp and The Next Prince disappointed, in part, because their plots too often catered to their popular leading men's shipped pair rather than the characters. That outcome reeks of executives interfering with creatives. That the business model for Thai BL relies on couple pairs for financial prosperity is no secret. The resulting tendency to write toward couple moments (as opposed to character moments) practically ensures that many series, even decent ones, will serve up an emaciated plot—if the story bothers with plot at all. Series like Perfect 10 Liners and We Are managed to subsist by stringing together a pastiche of warm, fuzzy moments. Viewers overlooked their anemic storyboards. Meanwhile, Revamp and The Next Prince received no such grace, and they have become instant lessons in the ignominy that faces series when they choose to stint on fidelity to worldbuilding and character development. Whatever the reason, the makers of Khemjira managed to create a series built around story and character rather than relying on sweet moments between a shipped couple. They got right the worldbuilding. That, more than any other factor, made Khemjira a fun watch.

Khemjira therefore overcame several obstacles on its way to success: the tendency of ghost stories to descend into comic hokeyness; the challenge to blend seamlessly two genres while doing justice to each; being an afterthought in its own company; the challenge to create, then sustain, a vibe that exuded baleful danger; and the tendency of the Thai BL industry to prioritize couple moments over story quality. The creative team and actors navigated these shoals to deliver a series that runs far more than it plods.

[Note: I dinged the rewatch value solely because I believe any suspense thriller works best the first time. On any rewatch, the viewer knows what is happening and why. That awareness leeches some of the atmosphere.]

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