This review may contain spoilers
A World Full of Promise, Undone by Its Own Storytelling
*Minor (vague) spoilers ahead - generally safe to read*
At 32 episodes, Feud ends as it began - full of poetic potential, but ultimately undone by its own execution. It’s not that the show lacks ambition. On paper, it’s beautiful: a world steeped in tragedy, misunderstandings, and emotional weight. But in practice, it’s a slow, emotionally distant experience marked by uneven pacing, missed opportunities, and frustrating narrative choices.
The first 20 episodes are particularly dull - scattered, muted, and emotionally inert. Characters drift through plotlines that feel more like ideas than lived experiences. The central romance between Bai Jiu Si and Ah Yue never finds its rhythm; moments that should be heart-wrenching barely register. Even side pairings that briefly hinted at emotional sparks are left to fizzle out without real development. The story wants to evoke tragedy, but rarely allows its characters - or the audience - to feel it.
Then came a mid-series shift, where Feud briefly showed signs of the story it could have been. Motivations became clearer, emotions deeper. The cast - particularly Bai Lu and Joseph Zeng - were finally allowed to stretch into more expressive territory. And they can act. You see it in the vulnerability, the heartbreak, the restrained intensity. But it comes far too late. After 20 episodes of emotional distance, the connection had already frayed. I watched them cry, ache, and rage - and remained unmoved. Not because they lacked skill, but because the writing had waited too long to let them feel like people.
It’s almost like the show was written by Bai Jiu Si himself: calculated, cold, and overly careful. A story about great pain, told like it’s afraid to feel too much.
As Feud moved into its final stretch, it continued to offer glimpses of emotional weight - but most of those moments felt unearned or awkward. Major revelations were dropped, but they landed without impact. There was a late attempt to reframe the male lead’s past in a more sympathetic light. It added nuance, yes, but didn’t really address the emotional damage. Especially for Ah Yue. The story seemed more interested in saying “he suffered too,” than in allowing actual healing. What we got instead was deflection - a narrative dodge rather than emotional payoff.
Then came a jarring twist: Bai Jiu Si is reduced to a childlike state for a chunk of the finale. Perhaps it was meant to evoke innocence or purity of feeling, but in practice, it stripped him of agency and shifted the dynamic into something maternal. Ah Yue, who had already suffered so much, was now tasked with caring for someone emotionally incapable of reciprocating. Even she questioned it: “Do I really treat him like a child?” And the show gave her no answer - only obligation. Their dynamic remained lopsided to the end. He finally regains his memories in the final confrontation, but by then, too much had been left unresolved. There are apologies and tears, but not much clarity. Not much growth. They forgive each other because they must - because the plot requires it - but the emotional work isn’t done.
The final battle, spread across multiple realms, offers spectacle and revisits several side characters. Some get a rushed shot at redemption, others simply reappear for symbolic closure. A newly introduced villain - presented as the mastermind all along - finally takes center stage. But the lack of earlier foreshadowing dulls their impact. Their motivations are explained, but feel like late-game patches, not threads carefully woven through the narrative.
The second leads, Zhang Suan and Ling Er, had real potential - individually and as a pair - but their presence has remained passive and disconnected. Ling Er, in particular, felt like a character constantly struggling against the limitations of her script. Instead of evolving, she’s mostly left drifting: waiting on others, shadowing the second male lead without much agency, and locked in repetitive confrontations with a one-dimensional parental figure. She’s endured plenty on paper - yet somehow contributed very little to the actual story. And yet, thanks to a grounded performance, she remained one of the easiest characters to root for.
Zhang Suan, meanwhile, is refreshingly unproblematic for a second male lead. His unrequited love is quiet, steadfast, and never intrusive. His character never forces a romantic arc where there is none - which is rare in this genre - but it also means his storyline feels underbaked, with little resolution or payoff. Like so many other elements in Feud, it simply... stays flat.
What surprised me most by the end was the sheer number of unfulfilled love stories. So many characters loved someone silently, or let them go, or died without ever saying what they felt.
In the end, Feud is a story that tries to be about the cost of misunderstood choices, of love buried beneath duty, of pain carried too long without resolution. The concept is beautiful - poetic, sorrowful, even mythic. But the execution is buried under flat pacing, underdeveloped arcs, and a script that prioritizes narrative control over emotional truth.
Feud could have been something moving. Instead, it’s something frustrating - a story full of feeling, told by a show afraid to feel.
At 32 episodes, Feud ends as it began - full of poetic potential, but ultimately undone by its own execution. It’s not that the show lacks ambition. On paper, it’s beautiful: a world steeped in tragedy, misunderstandings, and emotional weight. But in practice, it’s a slow, emotionally distant experience marked by uneven pacing, missed opportunities, and frustrating narrative choices.
The first 20 episodes are particularly dull - scattered, muted, and emotionally inert. Characters drift through plotlines that feel more like ideas than lived experiences. The central romance between Bai Jiu Si and Ah Yue never finds its rhythm; moments that should be heart-wrenching barely register. Even side pairings that briefly hinted at emotional sparks are left to fizzle out without real development. The story wants to evoke tragedy, but rarely allows its characters - or the audience - to feel it.
Then came a mid-series shift, where Feud briefly showed signs of the story it could have been. Motivations became clearer, emotions deeper. The cast - particularly Bai Lu and Joseph Zeng - were finally allowed to stretch into more expressive territory. And they can act. You see it in the vulnerability, the heartbreak, the restrained intensity. But it comes far too late. After 20 episodes of emotional distance, the connection had already frayed. I watched them cry, ache, and rage - and remained unmoved. Not because they lacked skill, but because the writing had waited too long to let them feel like people.
It’s almost like the show was written by Bai Jiu Si himself: calculated, cold, and overly careful. A story about great pain, told like it’s afraid to feel too much.
As Feud moved into its final stretch, it continued to offer glimpses of emotional weight - but most of those moments felt unearned or awkward. Major revelations were dropped, but they landed without impact. There was a late attempt to reframe the male lead’s past in a more sympathetic light. It added nuance, yes, but didn’t really address the emotional damage. Especially for Ah Yue. The story seemed more interested in saying “he suffered too,” than in allowing actual healing. What we got instead was deflection - a narrative dodge rather than emotional payoff.
Then came a jarring twist: Bai Jiu Si is reduced to a childlike state for a chunk of the finale. Perhaps it was meant to evoke innocence or purity of feeling, but in practice, it stripped him of agency and shifted the dynamic into something maternal. Ah Yue, who had already suffered so much, was now tasked with caring for someone emotionally incapable of reciprocating. Even she questioned it: “Do I really treat him like a child?” And the show gave her no answer - only obligation. Their dynamic remained lopsided to the end. He finally regains his memories in the final confrontation, but by then, too much had been left unresolved. There are apologies and tears, but not much clarity. Not much growth. They forgive each other because they must - because the plot requires it - but the emotional work isn’t done.
The final battle, spread across multiple realms, offers spectacle and revisits several side characters. Some get a rushed shot at redemption, others simply reappear for symbolic closure. A newly introduced villain - presented as the mastermind all along - finally takes center stage. But the lack of earlier foreshadowing dulls their impact. Their motivations are explained, but feel like late-game patches, not threads carefully woven through the narrative.
The second leads, Zhang Suan and Ling Er, had real potential - individually and as a pair - but their presence has remained passive and disconnected. Ling Er, in particular, felt like a character constantly struggling against the limitations of her script. Instead of evolving, she’s mostly left drifting: waiting on others, shadowing the second male lead without much agency, and locked in repetitive confrontations with a one-dimensional parental figure. She’s endured plenty on paper - yet somehow contributed very little to the actual story. And yet, thanks to a grounded performance, she remained one of the easiest characters to root for.
Zhang Suan, meanwhile, is refreshingly unproblematic for a second male lead. His unrequited love is quiet, steadfast, and never intrusive. His character never forces a romantic arc where there is none - which is rare in this genre - but it also means his storyline feels underbaked, with little resolution or payoff. Like so many other elements in Feud, it simply... stays flat.
What surprised me most by the end was the sheer number of unfulfilled love stories. So many characters loved someone silently, or let them go, or died without ever saying what they felt.
In the end, Feud is a story that tries to be about the cost of misunderstood choices, of love buried beneath duty, of pain carried too long without resolution. The concept is beautiful - poetic, sorrowful, even mythic. But the execution is buried under flat pacing, underdeveloped arcs, and a script that prioritizes narrative control over emotional truth.
Feud could have been something moving. Instead, it’s something frustrating - a story full of feeling, told by a show afraid to feel.
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