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This review may contain spoilers
A legal drama that pleads its case but refuses a verdict
When I first pressed play on Beyond the Bar, my expectations were decidedly modest. Yet episode by episode, the series drew me in, not only through the depth of its performances, but also via the intriguing legal cases and the quietly simmering romance between its leads. The glances, the silences, the near-telegraphed complicity: all suggested a love story unfolding in slow motion.
To be clear, I would have had no qualms had the series chosen to forgo romance altogether. But once a narrative dangles breadcrumbs, once it invites us to imagine a possibility, it cannot simply turn its back on that promise. The ending, with its abrupt refusal to acknowledge what had been so carefully planted, proved a bitter disappointment. It is a peculiarity of certain K-dramas to veer into endings that feel closer to tragic Russian cinema of the mid-20th century, inconclusive, open-ended, almost wilfully opaque. Sometimes such ambiguity is refreshing, but here it felt like a betrayal of the emotional contract established between script and audience.
This unease was compounded by a certain narrative convenience. Many of the cases, while initially engaging, demanded a suspension of disbelief so great it verged on indulgence. Too often, courtroom conflicts seemed to echo the protagonists’ emotional states with uncanny precision, a structural coincidence that strained credibility. Moreover, the FL’s tendency to disclose work details to friends was ethically implausible, not to mention legally questionable in many jurisdictions. It jarred in the same way as imagining a psychiatrist recounting patient histories over drinks, or a head of HR casually relaying dismissal details at lunch.
Then there is the matter of communication, or lack thereof. The ML’s backstory with his ex-wife, in which a seismic personal decision was apparently never discussed, rang hollow. Are there marriages that implode in silence? Certainly. But the notion that a high-profile lawyer, whose career depends upon words and negotiation, would never articulate his grief or reasoning to his spouse felt dramatically thin.
The secondary couple, though popular with some viewers, barely registered for me, consistently overshadowed by the leads. The closing shot, marked with the cursive "Esquire," fails to deliver closure, leaving viewers with a lingering sense of incompleteness.
The series’ main flaw lies in the director’s uncertainty over the romance, which created a tonal imbalance and left a promise unfulfilled. Yet the leads’ compelling performances carry the drama throughout. Would I welcome a second season? Absolutely. Likely? Uncertain. The series offered the carrot, only to hand us a handful of weeds.
Beyond the Bar delivers strong performances and gripping storytelling, yet its open ending leaves a sense of incompletion. After investing in the characters and their journeys, one can’t help but wonder: can leaving a story unresolved ever truly satisfy the audience? In this case, the answer feels clearly… no.
To be clear, I would have had no qualms had the series chosen to forgo romance altogether. But once a narrative dangles breadcrumbs, once it invites us to imagine a possibility, it cannot simply turn its back on that promise. The ending, with its abrupt refusal to acknowledge what had been so carefully planted, proved a bitter disappointment. It is a peculiarity of certain K-dramas to veer into endings that feel closer to tragic Russian cinema of the mid-20th century, inconclusive, open-ended, almost wilfully opaque. Sometimes such ambiguity is refreshing, but here it felt like a betrayal of the emotional contract established between script and audience.
This unease was compounded by a certain narrative convenience. Many of the cases, while initially engaging, demanded a suspension of disbelief so great it verged on indulgence. Too often, courtroom conflicts seemed to echo the protagonists’ emotional states with uncanny precision, a structural coincidence that strained credibility. Moreover, the FL’s tendency to disclose work details to friends was ethically implausible, not to mention legally questionable in many jurisdictions. It jarred in the same way as imagining a psychiatrist recounting patient histories over drinks, or a head of HR casually relaying dismissal details at lunch.
Then there is the matter of communication, or lack thereof. The ML’s backstory with his ex-wife, in which a seismic personal decision was apparently never discussed, rang hollow. Are there marriages that implode in silence? Certainly. But the notion that a high-profile lawyer, whose career depends upon words and negotiation, would never articulate his grief or reasoning to his spouse felt dramatically thin.
The secondary couple, though popular with some viewers, barely registered for me, consistently overshadowed by the leads. The closing shot, marked with the cursive "Esquire," fails to deliver closure, leaving viewers with a lingering sense of incompleteness.
The series’ main flaw lies in the director’s uncertainty over the romance, which created a tonal imbalance and left a promise unfulfilled. Yet the leads’ compelling performances carry the drama throughout. Would I welcome a second season? Absolutely. Likely? Uncertain. The series offered the carrot, only to hand us a handful of weeds.
Beyond the Bar delivers strong performances and gripping storytelling, yet its open ending leaves a sense of incompletion. After investing in the characters and their journeys, one can’t help but wonder: can leaving a story unresolved ever truly satisfy the audience? In this case, the answer feels clearly… no.
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