All pain, no purpose
Don't get me wrong, I love stories that hurt. The kind of pain that moves you, that pulls something raw and human from inside your chest. The kind that lingers because it means something. But My Dearest isn’t that kind of suffering. It doesn’t ache, it exhausts. It mistakes constant heartbreak for depth, and pain for meaning. The result is not catharsis, but fatigue.
My Dearest presents itself as an epic love story, but fails to deliver even the foundation of genuine emotion. The romance, supposedly the heart of the series, is built not on fate or impossibility, but on endless misunderstandings and self-inflicted wounds. There is nothing truly keeping these characters apart except pride, miscommunication, and poor writing. The series confuses chaos with complexity, turning what should have been a grand passion into a frustrating cycle of stubbornness.
The main couple’s relationship lacks depth because the show never explores what they actually mean to each other. His love for her seems obsessive but hollow; her rejection of him feels more like ego than conviction. After so many cycles of rejection and emotional distance, even their final moments of surrender lose credibility. I expected to feel intensity, but by that point, there’s only exhaustion. There is no forbidden love here, only two people trapped in an emotional loop created by their own choices and by the script’s inability to move forward.
Beyond the romance, My Dearest collapses under the weight of its own ambition. It floods every episode with wars, separations, political conflicts, deaths, and even two cases of amnesia, but rarely develops any of them with coherence or consequence. It mistakes the quantity of events for narrative depth. The double amnesia arcs are the perfect example: two identical shortcuts that erase everything the characters supposedly learned, just to start over again. Instead of evolution, we get erasure. Instead of consequence, we get convenient reset buttons.
The story is full of unresolved arcs and gaps. Subplots begin with intensity only to vanish without explanation: the father’s violence, the trauma of captivity, the political backdrop that starts strong and then dissolves into nothing. Time passes inconsistently; years of war look like days. Characters don’t age, emotions appear and disappear without trace, and the editing makes it feel like scenes are stitched together without the connective tissue that gives them meaning. Everything happens, but nothing truly matters.
Visually, My Dearest is magnificent. Every frame looks like a painting, every performance is delivered with sincerity. But that beauty only makes its flaws harder to ignore. It’s the illusion of grandeur, a work that believes pain equals depth, that noise equals feeling. Beneath all that splendor lies a hollow core, a drama that keeps reaching for greatness but never finds its soul.
In the end, My Dearest is not the story of a love destroyed by fate, but of a script destroyed by its own excess. It’s not emotionally tragic, it’s narratively tragic. A series that had everything it needed to be art, but chose spectacle over substance.
My Dearest presents itself as an epic love story, but fails to deliver even the foundation of genuine emotion. The romance, supposedly the heart of the series, is built not on fate or impossibility, but on endless misunderstandings and self-inflicted wounds. There is nothing truly keeping these characters apart except pride, miscommunication, and poor writing. The series confuses chaos with complexity, turning what should have been a grand passion into a frustrating cycle of stubbornness.
The main couple’s relationship lacks depth because the show never explores what they actually mean to each other. His love for her seems obsessive but hollow; her rejection of him feels more like ego than conviction. After so many cycles of rejection and emotional distance, even their final moments of surrender lose credibility. I expected to feel intensity, but by that point, there’s only exhaustion. There is no forbidden love here, only two people trapped in an emotional loop created by their own choices and by the script’s inability to move forward.
Beyond the romance, My Dearest collapses under the weight of its own ambition. It floods every episode with wars, separations, political conflicts, deaths, and even two cases of amnesia, but rarely develops any of them with coherence or consequence. It mistakes the quantity of events for narrative depth. The double amnesia arcs are the perfect example: two identical shortcuts that erase everything the characters supposedly learned, just to start over again. Instead of evolution, we get erasure. Instead of consequence, we get convenient reset buttons.
The story is full of unresolved arcs and gaps. Subplots begin with intensity only to vanish without explanation: the father’s violence, the trauma of captivity, the political backdrop that starts strong and then dissolves into nothing. Time passes inconsistently; years of war look like days. Characters don’t age, emotions appear and disappear without trace, and the editing makes it feel like scenes are stitched together without the connective tissue that gives them meaning. Everything happens, but nothing truly matters.
Visually, My Dearest is magnificent. Every frame looks like a painting, every performance is delivered with sincerity. But that beauty only makes its flaws harder to ignore. It’s the illusion of grandeur, a work that believes pain equals depth, that noise equals feeling. Beneath all that splendor lies a hollow core, a drama that keeps reaching for greatness but never finds its soul.
In the end, My Dearest is not the story of a love destroyed by fate, but of a script destroyed by its own excess. It’s not emotionally tragic, it’s narratively tragic. A series that had everything it needed to be art, but chose spectacle over substance.
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