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A psychological drama about learning to love yourself first
A hoary aphorism declares, “You must love yourself before you can love another.” The makers of Boys Be Brave! attempted to build an entire BL series around this piece of wisdom. For the most part, they succeed. BBB is a character-centric tale. Internal worlds for the characters take precedence over action or story. The loose plot revolves around a trio of angsty young men, each battling his own unique demons. Each feels alienated from the world around him, and the series measures the steps each takes to repair the damage this self-imposed isolation has caused to their life and to their personality. The result is a series that prioritizes learning how to embrace one’s self in order to forge new connections with others. An emotionally intelligent script grounds the series, and the three lead actors convey these complex emotional beats efficaciously. Lacking any sensational plot developments or heavy skinship scenes, the series will likely fly under the radar of popular discourse. It is ideally suited for those who like introspective works heavy on character analysis and emotional complexity—and not, primarily, romantic emotion. Self-love is the main theme here. Romance flows from that.Kim Jin Wu is an academic overachiever whose success has come at the price of isolation from an inattentive parent and any vestige of a social life. Jin Wu lives alone and prefers online tutorials to interactions with fellow students. He moves within and amidst the bustling student life of his university, but is not really a part of it. He has a crush on Jung Ki Sub, which might be fine except he loathes Ki Sub as a person. He avoids a personal life through the device of an Ideal Partner Checklist. Since almost no one conforms to the qualities on the list, he essentially suppresses this whole part of his life.
Jung Ki Sub lacks any strength of personality, conforming his own behavior to please whoever is around him. He cannot—or will not—say no to anyone on any subject. This has resulted in an entirely different alienation, as people misconstrue his “blowing in the wind” behavior as betrayal, indifference, or inconstancy. Ki Sub suffers from an unspecified heart condition, which causes his heart to race. Dangerously, we presume, but the series never explains what the issue is, what challenges it causes him, or even resolves it in the end. Ki Sub’s penchant to agree with everyone seems to be a defense mechanism from childhood, designed to keep him calm and even-keeled in moments of stress. Avoid conflict, and the heart never beats dangerously fast. From the beginning of the series, Ki Sub insists he is incapable of liking anyone, though the reason why this should be so is never clear. One can infer that since liking someone leads to increased heart rates, maybe he, too, has suppressed this part of his life.
Choi Bal Geum is Ki Sub’s best friend, confidante, and muse. Where Ki Sub and Jin Wu attend university, Bal Geum has chosen instead to flit between a series of part-time jobs. Work allows him to keep afloat financially, though he is keenly conscious of his penury. Well before the events of the series, Bal Geum’s family tumbled from prosperity into pauperism. This lack of worldly worth induced a lack of self-worth in Bal Geum. Shame about being poor even led him to sacrifice (pre-series) an actual suitor because he deemed himself unworthy to offer love to others. He, too, is suppressing this part of his life.
The series commences when Ki Sub decides to move into the house of Jin Wu. Without first consulting Jin Wu, who will not appreciate this disturbance to his isolation. (Implausible? Sure. But it makes for a comedic opening set piece.) For reasons he himself may not fully grasp (I certainly did not), Ki Sub insists on co-habitating. Why? He wants to make himself into Jin Wu’s ideal type by following the check-list. Since Ki Sub has little sense of his own personhood, effacing his own personality to match Jin Wu’s expectations seems to him a reasonable solution. Certainly, that tactic jibes with a series so overtly concerned with portraying characters unable to love themselves. That angle also introduces another recurring theme: the foolishness of adhering to preconceived notions of “ideal types.” Having raised this concept, I rather wish the series had played with the idea more, particularly to demonstrate how rigid adherence to such a list constrains one romantic choices. In the finale, Jin Wu disparages the whole concept, but one wishes that insight had arrived earlier.
Meanwhile, back in the debut episode, Jin Wu wishes to evict the invader, from both his home and his heart. Ki Sub wants Jin Wu to accept him. On some very flimsy grounds, Ki Sub manages to get Jin Wu to a one-week trial period as roommates. He can then extend their co-habitation if at the end of that week, Jin Su asks Ki Sub to date him. The irony here is that both boys like each other already. But with one having convinced himself of the virtues of splendid isolation and the other having convinced himself that he is incapable of liking someone else, neither will admit the truth to the other. The series is largely about the process by which each comes to understand first himself, and only then to acknowledge the other’s needs. Along the way, Ki Sub even manages to effect (inadvertently) a rapprochement between Jin Wu and his distant father.
With respect to the side couple, Bal Geum’s self-imposed isolation from his troubles is disrupted when Ji In Ho, the suitor he rejected years earlier, suddenly reappears hoping for reconciliation. Their endearing subplot also becomes grounded in the quest to accept one’s self, something the series leaves unfinished for Bal Geum. (Perhaps displaying a Korean cultural attitude that self-worth derives from wealth? Or at least a disdain for the poor?) Ultimately, however, I felt these two were underwritten. Too much story potential, insufficient episode minutes available to tell it.
At its best, the series conveys emotional intelligence and honesty. The writing resonates because the lads are easy to empathize with. That all four exercise initiative to overcome his own self-defined demons also makes them easy to root for. Their very agency helps defuse some of the self-loathing that permeates the plot. The weak points largely reflect the typical short-comings of K-BL series. In moments, the plot feels rushed and the character actions come from nowhere. Some resolutions come about too easily. Anyone accustomed to watching K-BL in eight-episode chunks under 30 minutes each will be familiar with that sensation. A subplot involving a female suitor for Jin Wu shifts from humorous (she appears to hit every characteristic on Jin Wu’s list just at the moment he opens himself to the possibility of pursuing Ki Sub) to stereotypical (for just a moment there, she comes across as the sort of conniving harpy standard in BL fare) to underwritten (turns out she was never evil, she’s just another in a long line of people disappointed by Ki Sub’s need to make himself desirable to everyone). She could have had a better arc (and a GL side-plot) by fleshing out how Ki Sub’s wavering loyalty to those interested in him affected others. Likewise, Jin Wu’s father exists only in flashbacks until suddenly dominating episode 7 in a way that makes one wish that dynamic had been better built up throughout the preceding episodes. On balance, however, the series works quite well. Boys Be Brave! will appeal especially to viewers who appreciate a series strong on emotion and short on story. Those with a strong empathetic caste to their own personality will revel in the swirling emotions of the tale. Viewers who prefer a story-driven series (action—in the bedroom or otherwise) may find the series tepid.
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Short. Sweet. Effective for what it is.
Multi-episode series with a cumulative runtime shorter than a feature film are remarkably review proof. After all, the web-drama format signals "abbreviated story telling ahead." Does one fault the absence of effective character development or the short shift given to developing a fully fleshed out plot? That would be unfair, eh? The viewer should understand, prior to pushing play, that such finer details will be sacrificed on the altar of brevity. Perhaps three questions are relevant: does the premise capture interest? Are the characters compelling despite being underwritten? Does the series maximize the time it does have in a satisfying way? Since only one hour of your life is at stake, this reviewer is comfortable answering in the affirmative to all three questions. As the BL genre thrives on generating "feels," I can also report that the appropriately handsome actors do convey an appropriately warm and fuzzy bond between their characters. Perhaps they achieved this union a bit too easily in story context, but the pacing for a union given 60 minutes of narrative time felt just about right. I'd summarize the plot, but that process would take me longer to compose than for you to watch. Just forge ahead. It is all a bit quick and convenient, but then these mini-Bls are the convenience stores of the industry. Quick and convenient, able to supply you, the consumer, with your basic needs. Perhaps while you're on the go and have a spare hour to kill. Just don't expect full-service character arcs or a wide selection of subplots. At an hour of your life, Our Golden Times is worth that much trouble.Could have been more? Yes. And maybe that is the hallmark of a successful mini-BL web drama. Leave 'em wanting more.
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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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When politics meets romance? Queer!
An over-the-top performance from Supanut Lourhaphanich headlines this comedic period piece that mixes standard BL rom-com with some rather unsubtle political messaging—expectedly, about gay rights; less expectedly, about structural inequality in society. The story presupposes a culture where anti-gay bias has hardened into tradition enforced by law. Dominant rom-com tropes include a body swap, a love triangle, and a second couple. As a bonus, the series also concocts a plot seldom associated with rom-com at all: a literal plot to overthrow a king. Steeped in the political principles that fueled the great liberal revolutions of the 18th and 19th centuries—equality before the law, abolition of hereditary titles, and the rights of a people to determine their own rulers—the plotting of the would-be revolutionaries fuels the sub-plots underlying the body swap, the love triangle, and the second couple. Without doubt, this mélange of story ideas unspooled by I’m the Most Beautiful Count counts as unusual for a BL series.The end result is a series that sometimes sparkles, sometimes meanders, and sometimes plugs political ideals. The action commences in the present day, in a country that resembles Thailand—but decidedly is not. (One suspects a plot about abolishing the monarchy in Thailand would have encountered legal challenges; hence, the invention of a fictional country.) For centuries, this country has criminalized those who "act in a manner inconsistent with their birth gender." The main character is Prince, a 21st century pop idol played to flamboyant perfection by Suppanut. Nut doesn’t so much chew the scenery as flounce his way through it. Poisoned at a nightclub for the temerity of public non-conformity to gender norms, Prince falls unconscious. His soul then travels into the country's distant past, where it inhabits the body of the recently deceased Woradet, son of a nobleman. The two souls converge in some netherworld, where Woradet challenges Prince to complete his life’s unfinished goals. These goals include achieving true love and inciting his country to revolution. So, you know, nothing too difficult. Prince quickly deduces that the anti-gay laws that constrain his own life originated in Woradet’s era. Can his actions prevent their enactment in the first place? This particular body swap therefore has the potential to change history if Prince can complete the tasks set to him by the late Woradet.
To achieve Woradet’s mission, Prince must untangle the baggage of Woradet’s abandoned life. First up, sort out a love triangle between himself and two other noblemen. That this pair are the masterminds behind a plot to depose the country’s king and establish a republic only complicates the messiness of the romance since all three must work together to achieve their shared political aims. On the personal side, Prince must come to terms with the antagonism of Woradet’s father, who resents the disgrace of his son’s unmanly ways, and with the devotion of a personal slave, whose constant attention suffocates our transplanted 21st century hero. (Heroine. Hero. Either works.) The would-be revolutionaries soon gain a most unlikely ally: the very king they seek to dethrone. He has sought refuge in the countryside to escape the clutches of a nobleman who wants to use the youthful monarch as a puppet. This twist rather muddles the political intrigue since Woradet and his noble suitors end up simultaneously trying to preserve the king’s throne (against usurpation by the pretender) and to unseat the king from the throne (to bring about a republic founded on ideals of equality for all). The king soon establishes a rapport with Woradet’s slave that explains his sympathy for those seeking to abolish the monarchy. Though stunted in the telling, that relationship supplies the second couple.
I am the Most Beautiful Count amounted to a fun watch, but it will not go down as an all-timer. Mixing serious political theory with light romantic comedy yields a strange brew. While the series provides a level of escapist entertainment, neither the romance nor the political aspects of the series mount any great degree of sophistication. The viewer’s best approach is to enjoy the ride and not sweat the finer details. The actors seemed to have a ball making the show, and regarding it as a lark is likely the best way to enjoy it.
Two final notes, one theoretical and one cultural. The series does some adventurous things in the way it conceptualizes gender and sexuality. Obviously, we have the fictional country that criminalizes behavior that goes against the person’s birth gender. That very contemporary phrasing would have had no currency in the past, but it nevertheless sets up Prince’s mission to complete Woradet’s life. Original-flavor Woradet may have been obviously gay (and therefore a gender traitor), but Prince-as-Woradet minces and prances through life with such reckless flamboyance that Woradet’s near-and-dear notice the difference. So, while not rooted in any "real" historical place or culture, the series nevertheless demonstrates the fluidity between masculine and feminine. More substantively, it speaks to very real ways in which state power was used to marginalize queer people in the past. On the cultural side, the series highlights the difficulty in translating the Thai term khatoey. Various subtitles resorted to “trans woman,” “transgender,” “transvestite,” and “gay,” not to mention a couple instances where “khatoey” manifested in the subtitles as itself. Strictly speaking, these are discrete concepts. Only "transvestite" and "khatoey" actually predate the 20th century (in the meaning implied here). That khatoey works for any of the equivalents the subtitle writer resorted to (depending on context) illustrates how foreign notions of gender become when translating between cultures.
ADDENDUM
For several years, your author has maintained three lists of BL series on MDL. One highlights series that blur the boundary between BL and LGBT; one highlights series that implicate history in their telling; one keeps track of series that incorporate a body swap theme. Over the years, a handful of series have landed on two of the three lists. I am the Most Beautiful Count becomes the first to warrant inclusion on all three. Not because the series is brilliant. Rather, because it happens to feature themes that merit inclusion on each list.
For what it’s worth:
LGBT Vibes: https://kisskh.at/list/3Dg6K6JL
Historical Settings: https://kisskh.at/list/3bgDRkJ4
Body Swap: https://kisskh.at/list/389KOMq4
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Morality, Violence, Justice: Re-evaluating Not Me 3 years Later
[Not Me aired from December 2021 – March 2022. This review was written in April 2025. Spoilers should be few; however, the review assumes most readers have prior familiarity with this series and its characters. Accordingly, it omits any detailed explanation of the plot. A goal of the writing is to explain why the series remains fresh three years after its broadcast run concluded.]When Not Me debuted in December ’21, it instantly became the most unusual BL series in the GMMTV catalog. Three years on, it retains that distinction. Edgy, dark, and violent, its vibe represented a stark departure from the light, fluffy romantic fare the company usually peddled. Prickly, stubborn, and hot-headed, its anti-hero protagonists represented an equally stark departure from the typical BL lead characters who ooze sweetness and light. In the customary GMMTV BL formula, the romance of the lead couple anchors the entire storyline, but I cannot say Sean-White fulfill this obligation. The couple is not a failure per se, but it is also not entirely convincing. Could have been stronger. Two other plot elements overshadow the Sean-White romance. First, White’s masquerade as Black, trying to solve the mystery behind his twin’s near-murder. Second, the gang’s crusade against entrenched social injustice. In fact, I think the Sean-White romance subplot feels forced. Yes, the duo do spend a lot of time sharing close quarters--and, yes, those scenes deliver the usual BL mushy moments. Even so, it feels like their relationship progresses because the writers understand many viewers came to see the actors: they want Off and Gun fall for each other. (Again.) Thus the flirtatious scenes begin to pile up in middle of the series even though the first part of the series has made perfectly clear these mismatched personalities have many layers of conflict. (Yes, I know enemies-to-lovers is a viable trope. But I'm not sure this series fully earned the transition from enemies to lovers, so much as the whole audience just accepted it by habit. I mean, it's Off and Gun, so of course!) Put another way, BL romance trades in sweet moments, but the passion between Sean-White reeks of a more combustible hate-love. The attraction of the bodies is clear. The attraction of personality, less so. One wishes the meeting of the minds had benefited from a deeper investment into character development in the earlier episodes. Aside from Sean's rage at the world and White's struggle to connect with a twin he no longer understands, we do not know enough about either character for their sudden coupling to make sense beyond youthful randyness: namely, forced proximity + young horny men + tension = lust. By contrast, the Dan-Yok relationship feels far more organic amidst the detailed worldbuilding. The furtive romance between would-be revolutionary Yok and Dan, a renegade cop with a secret alter ego that itself flirts with illegality, is a clever match of character types. Their story provides a sweet emotional center to the series that the Sean-White relationship never quite supplies. The Yok-Dan pairing strikes me as a natural outgrowth of the story. It never felt forced. This devaluation of the Sean-White BL arc does not diminish the series because Sean and White themselves are more focused on The Mission than each other (until the last two episodes, anyway). Only if the viewer arrived at the production expecting the usual romance-centric BL plot will the shortcomings of the Sean-White relationship rankle. Perhaps “BL” is not even the best way to classify this complex work, as the characters’ absorption in their self-appointed crusade to right the wrongs embedded into the Thai social structure always overshadows their interest in romance. Not Me may be better understood as a social commentary wrapped in BL packaging. But its masquerade succeeds on both level, social critique and romance alike.
That success owes to detailed worldbuilding by the writers and the director. This worldbuilding includes a rich array of support characters and a willingness to explore multiple sides to many issues. In particular, the series uses its university setting to good effect. Various episodes present legal theory and economic theory to set the stakes, delivered in the guise of the classroom. The power of the arts to effect change is also showcased here, with both dance and street art marshaled to articulate the message of protest. Speaking of protest, the legendary scene where White dances in jubilation under a giant rainbow flag remains one of the most iconic moments in the entire BL genre. Also, that scene provides one of the very few where explicit symbols of queer power work their way into this genre all about same-sex romance. My remaining concerns can be easily dismissed. Aside from a central romance overshadowed by the side couple, one might also fairly criticize the presentation of the fight scenes. Some of the action set pieces implausibly favor our anti-heroes, who by rights ought to be overmatched in direct conflict. They are after all, amateur vigilantes who train for battle in between classes. That they can repeatedly best professionals with years of experience is far-fetched. Nevertheless, providential victories in battle for main characters in action films is so routine this largesse can be overlooked.
One test of a classic is whether it holds up to repeat viewing years after the initial enthusiasm for its arrival has faded. This series aces that test. Indeed, Not Me improved with age. This time, knowing in advance not to expect the typical light, fluffy BL made me more receptive to the social criticism baked into the story. The lads in Black's gang see themselves as heroes crusading on behalf of the overlooked, the downtrodden, the forgotten. But the script also overtly questions that premise. In the face of the gang’s self-image as heroic, other characters question their assumptions. That they have chosen illegal (and violent) tactics to achieve their ends is not simply dismissed. In fact, the series carefully offers counterpoints to nearly every grievance the lads claim to fight against. This nuance forces viewers and characters alike to reckon with the gray areas of morality. Life, the script seems to insist, cannot be boiled down to black and white. And both Black and White seem to grasp this point. Eventually. It is this balanced approach to the issues that helps Not Me to withstand the test of time.
In the end, all its daring departures from the norm work to distinguish Not Me from the pack of repetitive first love plots that comprise most genre stories about students. Tight writing, thoughtful and coherent, combined with powerhouse acting to meet the challenges of this difficult script. Not Me remains excellent today.
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This essay cannot explain the film's title...who is the rebel?
Watching an unheralded short film is always a gamble. Quality can be erratic, especially given the prevalence of student films in the form. Rebel Heart is a short BL film (26 minutes) released by Iamzee Studios in October 2023. Since the closing credits list “Zee” as the scriptwriter, director, and OST singer, one conjectures this project is some kind of a self-financed production conceived by the studio’s namesake. Whether it is a student film or a vanity project, it displays the earmarks of films of that ilk: low budget, rough production values, and a less-than-professional feel. Every contributor listed in the closing credits is identified only by a single name. As of the date I watched the film, two weeks after its release, the MDL page for Rebel Heart contained a skimpy plot summary but absolutely no information regarding the cast, the director, or anyone else. Nothing that might speak to the pedigree within the film industry of the creative team behind the project. Deprived of any information that that might inform expectations regarding production value, actors’ ability, or director’s nous, I set the bar of expectation to "amateur." Despite that low level, I forged ahead with an open mind.A short film has three basic jobs: to hook the audience right away via compelling character or an intriguing story, to sustain their interest long enough for some problem to be solved or examined, to deliver an ending that at the very least enables the viewer to walk away without concluding their time has been wasted. Rebel Heart checked one of those three boxes but whiffed on the other two. Though often shaky, the production value proved better than I expected. Grudgingly, I concede the film satisfied the minimal expectations I had. The story was messy, chaotic in the telling, and lacked the crispness one would expect from polished filmmakers. But if (and I do not KNOW the answer) those associated with Rebel Heart churned out a homemade or student film, then this result counts as a respectable effort--and rookies deserve our eyeballs and understanding. Who should watch? For starters, BL fans who regard themselves as completists can go ahead and track down this short film on YouTube. Rebel Heart will pass muster for a 30 minute investment of time. Others should proceed only if they seek it out full of goodwill for low budget results and full of tolerance for touches of messiness. Perfectionists will be frustrated.
The opening scene offered a solid start. High school student Lucas (Bug) speaks directly to camera. He will narrate chunks of the film via voiceover. His first comments lament the loneliness of being a third-wheel in his own friend group, and the resultant sense of not belonging that follows from that. Since almost all of us have at least a passing acquaintance with being a third wheel, these opening lines rather deftly draw the viewer to empathize with Lucas. Thus, Rebel Heart successfully hooks its audience within the first minute via their identification with lonely Lucas. The self-described Third Wheel then segues into a history of his friendship with Ben (Burdy) and Emma (Ami). Lucas and Ben met as high school freshman and became fast friends. The film was billed as BL, and Lucas rather clearly likes Ben as more than a friend. Fearing rejection if this crush broke into the open, Lucas did his best to conceal it. Ben’s feelings toward Lucas are a cipher at this stage, which makes sense because the point of view reflects Lucas’s understanding of their situation. The opening monolog provides a solid introduction to the lead character, and the central problem appears to be clear: how will Lucas resolve his sense of alienation? Since that is a universal theme for a high school-set story, the short film appeared to have launched itself successfully.
The arrival of new student Emma during Ben’s and Lucas’s senior year disrupted the duo’s routines. Emma, whose dialog is exclusively in English (whether spoken by her or to her), clearly fancies Ben, and her attentions account for the sense of exclusion endured by our suffering hero Lucas. Stolid wingman that he is, Lucas facilitates the putative couple’s chances to spend time alone together by removing himself from their company whenever Emma sidles up to Ben. Lucas clearly resents the loss of his closest friend’s sole attention, and via voiceover, he expresses the film’s central problem, “It hurts to see the person you care about the most choose someone else over you.” I think this premise provided Rebel Heart with a solid foundation to build a short film around. High school alienation stories have floated around forever, and coming out stories are nowadays commonplace. But their very ubiquity demonstrates confirms the appeal of these tropes. A small, compact story with seemingly minor stakes will still resonate with an audience if it is told well. With only twenty-five minutes to tell the whole tale, why complicate the narrative with unnecessary grandeur?
Unfortunately, the film abandons the viable love triangle premise within ten minutes. Rotating into the compact time frame arrives not one new story arc, but two. First, a montage/pastiche of boy-romances-boy-in-one-day scenes. Second, a preachy coming-out-to-family sequence that both extolls the virtue of loving queer sons and brothers and fails to track in internal logic. I shall omit the plot specifics of these replacement arcs, but the details include a confession by Lucas to Ben, a confession by Ben to Lucas, a kissing scene performed and filmed more convincingly than many BL series manage to do, a bizarre adventure in a mall (see Random Thoughts below for highlights), an angry, homophobic father rejecting his son over some photos he happens to have seen on his phone (from whom? of what?), a mother talking dad down from his bigoted dudgeon, a happy family reconciliation, and an outsider (Ben) interjecting himself into the Lucas’s family turmoil despite meeting them for the first time. (Wait, weren’t these guys best buddies for three years? The parents hadn’t previously met their child’s closest friend?) Oh, I forgot to mention the hitman. No, not an assassin. A bully hired to hit people. (You’ll have to watch. Spoilers.) That’s an awful lot to cram into fifteen minutes, and perhaps Rebel Heart feels overstuffed at the end. I finished the film with the sense that if the story had mined the pathos of the lonely kid for all the inherent potential in that initial Third Wheel premise, it might have told a thoughtful, touching story and still been able to inject some commentary on coming out and acceptance.
Short films can seldom conceal the constraints of low-budget filmmaking, and Rebel Heart suffers in some technical aspects. Curious jump cuts reflect questionable editing skills and mask abrupt jumps in narrative direction. The audio mixing during street scenes swallowed the dialog in spots. Nevertheless, I am willing to tolerate such flaws from a production with clearly limited resources, and none of these problems become egregious. Director Zee did a good job of positioning his camera for each scene, and the mix of close-ups to longer shots was effective. If Rebel Heart is Zee’s fledgling effort, that strong opening at least suggests the director understands how to pinpoint universal themes in human experience and emotion. Recognizing value in the telling of a small tale and understanding when to let ambition expand scope and grandeur will be their next challenge.
Random thoughts:
• One nice touch: Lucas opens the film wearing a T-shirt reading “Love Sick.” Whether this slogan represents a subtle nod toward the 2014 series that launched the BL craze in Thailand or a subtle clue regarding Lucas’s inner head space, the shirt helps to frame the emotional stakes.
• One not so nice touch: Ben breaks up with Emma via text and then immediately blocks her. She absolutely earned the dumping on her own merits, but that is never a classy way to exit a relationship. Besides, a face-to-face telling off not only satisfies the demands of chivalry, such a confrontation delivers a much more satisfying jolt of audience satisfaction to boot. She does reappear, but the ensuing confrontation was disappointingly clunky in execution.
• Scenes set at Bangkok's big malls feel like a required element in the telling of a high school story, so perhaps it was inevitable Lucas and Ben traipsed through one on their big day together. The more curious events included trying on clothes only to flee in a full sprint from the store for no apparent reason and crashing a wedding reception while a random bride and groom sang of their love for one another. More traditional activities included a flirty stroll through the lobby of a muliplex cinema.
• The singing marital party certainly felt out of place. Since the credits list Zee as a singer, perhaps the director inserted himself into the picture? If so, confident move, Mr Hitchcock.
• Later, the boys navigate through a cinema lobby where the onesheet poster for the Barbie movie will forever situate this film's production in mid-2023.
• Aside from Emma, Lucas’s Dad also speaks only in English, and other characters speak to him only in English as well. I don’t have a point. It just stuck out to me.
• As did the slight southern drawl in Dad’s accent. The homophobia spewing out of Dad sounded more authentic with that regional twang. American gays will flinch in recognition.
• Ben addresses Lucas’s parents as Mr Evans and Mrs Evans. That politeness makes Ben the first kid since the 1980s who resorted to formal titles rather than first names with the (American) parents of his friend. As a child of the ‘80s myself, I kind of appreciated this touch.
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When actors confuse their character's desire with their own
The meaning behind the title of J-BL At 25:00 in Akasaka remains obscure (to me, at least), but the series itself delivers solid, if unspectacular, BL entertainment. Among the recycled tropes deployed here are secret crush, fake relationship, failure to communicate, BL-within-the-BL, and flirtatious co-workers who create misunderstandings between the lead characters. While none of those concepts suggest originality, the mixing and matching of these shopworn tropes imbues the series with a degree of freshness sufficient to elevate the final product. Building the series more around character psychology than story action likely blunted the potential “seen this” reaction from viewers, who get caught up instead in understanding the lead characters. They are compelling enough to hold our attention. Akasaka also offers yet another iteration of the “wannabe actor/singer/idol breaking into show business” plot. This version of that overused trope arrives complete with a full-scale BL series in which our lead characters have been cast as the romantic leads. This BL-within-the-BL is used to great effectiveness because it is grounded in the realism of “show business as job” rather than the histrionics of “show business as glamor.” A sprightly start in the first several episodes and a finale that pays off viewers’ patience with sweet couple moments bookend several middle episodes that laboriously ponder along in circles. The series may not linger long in anyone’s memory, but its strengths surely warrant watching.Shirasaki Yuki is an aspiring actor who lands his first major role in a forthcoming TV series adapting a BL manga. To his surprise, his co-star turns out to be onetime acquaintance Hayama Asami, now transitioning into acting after attaining fame and wealth as a model. Shirasaki begins the series intimidated to be paired opposite someone who has already achieved noteworthy professional success, albeit in a different field. Despite overlapping at the same university, with Shirasaki two years younger, the two are essentially strangers. Astute observers of Shirasaki's mannerisms will, as early as the premiere episode, suspect that that version of events may not be entirely true, but Shirasaki does not number among the astute. His lack of professional experience engenders such feelings of inadequacy that the character grapples with Imposter Syndrome for nearly the full ten episodes. He mopes his way through much of the series as he grapples with those feelings. (For someone who has supposedly just earned his big professional break, all this moping seems excessive.) Meanwhile, Hayama proves almost as depressive as he struggles to balance his prior romanticization of student-Shirasaki against the novice actor in front of him. When Shirasaki confesses that his own absence of any romantic history leaves him unsure how to approach the portrayal of his character, Hayama proposes the two spend quality time together in a “fake” relationship. This attempt to “get into character” lets the series depict Shirasaki and Hayama in numerous couple situations that will also come up in the rom-com story they are playing in. Later, Shirasaki will grapple with the confusion of whether a growing attachment to Hayama is real or is merely a reflection of his character’s attraction to Hayama’s character.
In place of a proper side couple, Akasaka has the two characters in the faux-BL, portrayed by Shirasaki and Hayama. These avatars of the “real” characters become a pseudo-side couple because many scenes for the drama-within-the-drama are staged for our benefit. We either witness the production on set or we join Shirasaki and Hayama as they watch their scenes back during the TV broadcast. As our leads struggle to articulate their connection to one another, the process of rehearsing and performing for the TV series sheds insight into their growing bond. Two fellow actors in the TV show also contribute to the character development. Sakuma Hajime is the most veteran actor in the troupe, and he offers insight into the craft of acting and the price of celebrity. He functions to make the main characters think even more about the way actors root performance in their own emotional intelligence. Joining the company of actors halfway through, Yamase Kazumo plays a love rival in the fake series. Ditto, for the real actors. Yamase’s flirtatious interactions with Shirasaki, both on- and off-camera, stir jealousy in Hayama. His behind-the-scenes attentiveness further discombobulates Shirasaki, who can scarcely process his burgeoning attraction to one co-star. The new character's casual, off-hand approach to sex contrasted sharply with Shirasaki and Hayama, each of whom seemed to overthink everything. The scenes featuring Yamase injected a jolt of energy into some of the series’ more languid episodes, rescuing many scenes from lapsing into the somnolent. The presence of Yamase provides another example of the series using the fictious TV production to both mirror the main story and to amplify its emotional beats.
At 25:00 in Akasaka does far more character building than the typical BL series. While this approach also accounts for the slow-burn to the Shirasaki-Hayama pairing, viewers who enjoy a studied character psychology in their dramas will appreciate the result. Likewise, the worldbuilding is fully realized, with the show-within-the-show attaining a more prominent function within the plot than any other such series since Lovely Writer. Where that series played with the connection between an author’s emotional state and the worlds he creates on paper, this series plays with the connection of actors creating their performance. Both stories succeed in creating a meta-narrative that not all shows-within-a-show manage to pull off. Ultimately, the series is too slow-slow burn for greatness. It wears its thoughtfulness like a burden. The middle episodes, in particular, prove circular and slow. Akasaka narrowly falls short of this genre's elite series; yet, it surely numbers among the many, many BL series that deliver solid entertainment and the satisfaction we BL fans all feel when two young men—finally!—recognizing they like one another.
Note: each episode includes a brief tag following the credits and “scenes from the next episode.” Some merely replay a significant moment from earlier, while a handful offer a new interpretation of that prior scene. The scene chosen for the finale episode proved an especially well-chosen final view of our lead characters.
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Strip away plot, character development, drama. Leave only the sweet moments. That is We Are.
If someone asked this avid BL watcher to identify a series that he deemed “peak BL,” I would have to give serious consideration to We Are. This 16-episode series from BL-factory GMMTV follows two distinct friend groups of college students as the groups come together. (Make your own pun there.) Despite a real kicker of a testy first encounter, Peem and Phum are clearly destined to fall for one another. As Peem and Phum grow closer, their previously discrete friend groups blend into one joyously happy group of pals. Yes, folks, that simple premise may well qualify as the exemplar of a BL series. It strips away any semblance of storytelling to deliver a series of vignettes: slice-of-life vignettes, really, that double as a testament to the easy-going college life many older folk recall as a golden era of fun, happy days. The series boils these scenes down to the most basic tropes, tricks, and tics that distinguish BL from other genres. Boys fall for other boys. Side character boys pair up with other side character boys. No one ever finds it surprising when boys fall for other boys. The net result is a series that delivers a progression of scenes that serve no narrative purpose beyond inviting viewers to watch these boys merrily pair off. Most such scenes yield maximum impact in the area of warm and fuzzy response. Since the series is a product of the GMMTV assembly line, it also features an OST replete with fizzy music performed by the cast members. To watch any episode of We Are guarantees coming away feeling happy and bouncy—what is more BL than an endorphin rush?We Are is peak BL because about all it offers is the characteristics outlined above. The writers sheared away extraneous concerns. Such as, for instance, a proper plot. Or complex character development. Or contrived drama arising from such reliable genre staples as jealous women, prolonged disharmony arising from (comedic) miscommunication, or parental resistance to the heroes’ dating choices. (Honestly, does anyone miss these elements?) Even the rich boy x poor boy motif is mostly absent here, aside from a contrived “be my slave” storyline that sets in motion the whole shebang. (Peem isn’t truly poor, however, just unable to pay that particular bill.) In the absence of these customary genre artifacts, We Are serves a steady diet of treacly moments between boys smitten with one another: scene after scene, episode after episode.
Frankly, it works. The series delivers the endorphins BL viewers expect, and it does so consistently. Only the most demanding viewers—the ones who want food for thought to accompany their sweet confections—will lament the gaping hole where dramatic or thematic complexity would normally appear. We Are aspires to none of those trappings, so to fault it for those absent elements would be churlish. Likewise, I could observe that a low-budget Vietnamese series like Under the Oak Tree (whose 10 episode-run aired concurrently with the final ten weeks of We Are’s sixteen-episode broadcast period) features a quartet of male characters who individually exude more queer authenticity in any one episode than We Are’s eight leads can muster across sixteen episodes and four same-sex couples. But what would be the point of such complaint? GMMTV mass produces BL series because straight girls lap up watching cute young men fall for another, not because the studio cares to make a statement about being young and queer in present-day Thailand. Making an entertaining BL series does not require any of the four couples anchoring We Are to represent some grand point about what it means to be gay. The winsome actors need only to mug at one another at the appropriate moment to send viewers into a swoon. (Just to be clear: old, jaded gay men enjoy swooning when young men fall for one another just as much as the target audience of young straight women.) We Are delivers exactly what it promises: sweet moments between young men falling in love. This reviewer will cite no fault for succeeding in that endeavor.
If We Are has any particular claim to genius, it would be the depiction of a friend group. Arguably, Peem’s and Phum’s respective friendship networks attain more significance throughout the 16-episode arc of the series than any one of the four relationships it portrays. In that sense, We Are departs decidedly from “peak BL.” In this genre, the lead couple’s friends are seldom more than ornaments to the main couple’s story. Here, the various couplings function ornamentally to the larger circle of friends. More specifically, We Are’s secret sauce stems from inviting the viewer right into the friend group. They have slumber parties. They have drinking parties. They stage surprise parties. They have victory parties to celebrate myriad triumphs. They go together to a theme park. They travel to a volunteer service camp. They travel from Bangkok to Chiang Mai for more excursions. In the finale, they travel to a beach resort (which, in true BL fashion, is owned by the parents of a group member). After all that togetherness, any viewer would have to work hard not feel as if Peem’s friends are also their own friends.
Much of the credit for the effectiveness of a BL series where friendship outshines romance must rest with the director, New Siwaj Sawatmaneekul. In the absence of a proper plot with a through-storyline, New succeeds in getting the viewer to invest in following the friend group’s passage through their college experience and, for most of them, the onset of first love. As best friends do, these buddies routinely adjust their interactions to suit a moment. On a moment’s notice, they can alternate from razzing one another, to supporting each other in moments of insecurity. They are as apt to call one another out as to root for one another. In many episodes, the friends verbally express how important the friendships are, how happy they are to know each other. Their conviviality seems believable because the actors are totally at ease with each other. GMMTV famously recycles its performers. Sometimes repetition can work against a series, but here the performers’ familiarity with one another from earlier projects pays off with a friend group whose bonhomie feels genuine, almost palpable. “Every day is a memory, precious and true,” proclaims the first line of the theme song. And, frankly, that sentiment explains both what We Are aspires to be—a depiction of precious memories about a precious time in life (college)—and why it succeeds—because the friendships feel true.. Precious? Absolutely.
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When the history in a series overwhelms the romance...you get Shine.
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 consummate professional 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 a high-achiever 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 fictional bugaboo that focuses their energy is a power plant project construction contract awarded by the army to the company owned by Tanwa’s father. 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. (At some point, nearly all the adult characters challenge the students’ beliefs, but their objections represent the “establishment.” Victor’s Dad’s cynicism about the communist leanings of the student protestors springs from his own disillusionment with Soviet Communism; so, his warning 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.) Victor becomes the viewpoint character for the student protestors. In fact, I would argue, that he may actually be the most important character in the whole story. Victor’s 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. Their marriage, at least on his end, is in name only. Flashbacks make clear he was maneuvered into the arrangement, because a prior romance with a male film star would have disgraced not just himself, not just his family, but (more importantly to the commander) 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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