DEVIANTE

Disappointed

I had been waiting for this series ever since it was announced. The hype was huge, and I’ll admit I got carried away with it too. Domundi usually delivers shows I find enjoyable — some more, some less — so I was expecting something special. Unfortunately, this turned out to be one of the biggest disappointments I’ve had in a long time.

From the very first episode, I felt something was missing: nothing truly engaging ever came through. The pacing constantly swung between rushed sequences and unnecessarily slow moments, and whenever the plot hinted at something promising, it was poorly developed, almost like a token gesture. It often felt as if the message was: “Focus only on the main couple, because they’re the real protagonists.” And yet, ironically, it was the second couple who stole the show for me.

Ramil and Paytai were, without a doubt, the best part of this series. I absolutely loved their story and followed every moment with genuine excitement, even though they were given far too little screen time. Meanwhile, the main storyline got lost in unnecessary detours and attempts to give depth to a plot that ultimately lacked logic and coherence. Even the entire tournament arc, which initially seemed to be the centerpiece, lost almost all of its value as the story went on, as if the only goal had become simply finishing the series.

The NC scenes between the main leads felt especially weak: slow, dull, and completely lacking in sensuality. They added nothing to the story and often seemed more like an obligation than a meaningful narrative choice.

The only moment that truly struck me was the march, when Jay suddenly began singing in the middle of the crowd: a powerful and moving scene. But the atmosphere was immediately broken by Khanin’s entrance. Jay is a character with great potential, and it was disappointing to see so little of him, as well as of his relationship with Calvin, which deserved much more attention.

Another major letdown was the princess. She could have added real depth and nuance to the story, yet she was reduced to little more than decoration, placed there just to fill space without any meaningful contribution to the plot.

All in all, The Next Prince felt like a wasted opportunity: a series with polished aesthetics and a capable cast, but without a coherent or engaging narrative. A real mishmash, as I once read in another review.

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I’m sharing the review I wrote in the non‑uncut version

I had been waiting for this series ever since it was announced. The hype was huge, and I’ll admit I got carried away with it too. Domundi usually delivers shows I find enjoyable — some more, some less — so I was expecting something special. Unfortunately, this turned out to be one of the biggest disappointments I’ve had in a long time.

From the very first episode, I felt something was missing: nothing truly engaging ever came through. The pacing constantly swung between rushed sequences and unnecessarily slow moments, and whenever the plot hinted at something promising, it was poorly developed, almost like a token gesture. It often felt as if the message was: “Focus only on the main couple, because they’re the real protagonists.” And yet, ironically, it was the second couple who stole the show for me.

Ramil and Paytai were, without a doubt, the best part of this series. I absolutely loved their story and followed every moment with genuine excitement, even though they were given far too little screen time. Meanwhile, the main storyline got lost in unnecessary detours and attempts to give depth to a plot that ultimately lacked logic and coherence. Even the entire tournament arc, which initially seemed to be the centerpiece, lost almost all of its value as the story went on, as if the only goal had become simply finishing the series.

The NC scenes between the main leads felt especially weak: slow, dull, and completely lacking in sensuality. They added nothing to the story and often seemed more like an obligation than a meaningful narrative choice.

The only moment that truly struck me was the march, when Jay suddenly began singing in the middle of the crowd: a powerful and moving scene. But the atmosphere was immediately broken by Khanin’s entrance. Jay is a character with great potential, and it was disappointing to see so little of him, as well as of his relationship with Calvin, which deserved much more attention.

Another major letdown was the princess. She could have added real depth and nuance to the story, yet she was reduced to little more than decoration, placed there just to fill space without any meaningful contribution to the plot.

All in all, The Next Prince felt like a wasted opportunity: a series with polished aesthetics and a capable cast, but without a coherent or engaging narrative. A real mishmash, as I once read in another review.

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When Abuse Disguises Itself as Love: the Disaster of Love Syndrome III

I grew up watching movies and TV series, falling in love with stories and, over time, with the psychology behind them. I’ve always sought works capable of digging into you, disturbing enough to haunt you even after watching, to unsettle you and keep you awake at night. I’ve survived Cannibal Holocaust twice, and I know how to recognize when a story really wants to hit hard.
Love Syndrome III, however, doesn’t belong to that category. It’s not disturbing, it’s not extreme, it’s not cruel. It’s simply annoying. And it is so because it does something I deeply hate: it takes violence and romanticizes it, turning it into a sick fairytale.

The annoyance I feel towards this series is the same I feel every time a story tries to convince me that “even a psychopath can fall in love if they meet the right person,” or that the victim, sooner or later, will bend until they realize that deep down they feel love for their abuser. These clichés are not only banal: they are dangerous, and Love Syndrome III is a toxic concentrate of them.


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A necessary premise

I know this isn’t the first part of the story, and that Love Syndrome III is the third chapter of a saga, drawn precisely from the third part of the novel. After finishing it, I looked for information about the story to understand how much was different and what the author’s true intent was. From what I could gather, the author of the novel wanted to portray two equally toxic characters, two damaged individuals destroying each other. There was no “good guy” or “bad guy”: they were two sides of the same toxicity.
The series, on the other hand, chose to turn it all into a romantic melodrama, simplifying the characters and turning the dynamic not into a war between two toxicities, but into the glorification of an abusive relationship disguised as love.

For those wondering: yes, I finished the series. Not because I liked it, but because I don’t like leaving things unfinished. I never leave anything halfway: even after months or years, I always pick up what I started. For me it’s like an open door that has to be closed. And in this case, I also watched it because I trusted the recommendation of someone I know well, who knew very well how much these dynamics annoy me.


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SPOILER RED ZONE

How the series builds dependency (not love)

The very first “thesis” of the story is stated outright: Day wants Itt to be dependent. Not “loved”: dependent. The text makes it explicit — Day spoils him, conditions him, isolates him so that “you’ll never think of leaving.” It’s behavioral programming, not tenderness. The series shows/tells us that Day takes pride in his method: making sure Itt cannot live without him. This isn’t subtext between the lines: it’s staged and discussed in the early episodes.

On a psychological level, this is conditioning: reinforcements, punishments, emotional blackmail. It’s gaslighting when useful and love bombing when convenient. It’s the deliberate construction of an emotional dependency bond (what audiences often call “Stockholm Syndrome,” though it isn’t a clinical diagnosis).


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The amnesia device: a moral reset that absolves the abuser

Then comes the accident: Day loses his memory of the last three years, meaning his entire relationship with Itt. Dramaturgically, amnesia works like a clean slate: it erases past responsibilities, justifies new cruel treatment (“I don’t remember you”), and forces the victim to start from zero to “earn back” affection from the one who already devastated them. It’s a narrative device that shifts guilt from the abuser to fate. Yet even without memories, Day continues to react with instinctive jealousy and control: the behavior remains, but the story dresses it as “instinctive love.”


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The perimeter of control: not only over Itt

Control doesn’t stop at the couple. The series shows Day ordering one of his men (Nan) to “discipline” Mac, Itt’s obsessive/infatuated high school friend. It’s punishment by proxy: Day uses his subordinates to police anyone orbiting Itt. Jealousy becomes management of other people’s lives, and instead of condemning it, the narrative treats it as “romantic” jealousy.


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The crossover that doesn’t hold: Day in Unforgotten Night vs Love Syndrome III

As if that weren’t enough, the series seems to wink at a connection with Unforgotten Night. In Love Syndrome III, Kamol and Kim appear (though played by different actors), leading many viewers to wonder if the two narrative universes belong to the same world.

And here’s the shock: if the Day of Love Syndrome III were truly the same Day of Unforgotten Night, we’d face an inexplicable psychological leap. In the first context, Day doesn’t come across as hateful or irredeemably toxic, and his relationship isn’t depicted as sick. In the second, he becomes the embodiment of manipulation and romanticized violence.

The result is a narrative short-circuit: two irreconcilable versions of the same character, a discrepancy so abysmal it leaves the viewer more confused than engaged. If the intention really was to create a “BL multiverse,” the attempt only undermines the story’s coherence and credibility further.


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“It’s not love, it’s acceptance” — staged

What the series calls “love” is, scene after scene, forced acceptance.

Itt endures insults, coldness, and emotional blackmail “because Day doesn’t remember” and because “one day he’ll go back to how he was.”

The script rewards surrender: the more Itt endures, the more the story rewards him with crumbs of tenderness.

Itt’s literal mantra is: “I have to be patient with Day.” Not “I have to care for myself,” not “I deserve respect”: patience towards abuse until it gets reframed as passion.



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“Redemption” on command

The so-called moral turning point comes because it has to: it’s not psychological growth, it’s a genre requirement. Day apologizes, has “cute” jealous scenes, does protective gestures: the reward mechanics realign the viewer. It’s emotional engineering to normalize dependency. The result: the audience is asked to root for the “tamed bad boy” — without a true path of accountability.


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Aesthetics that betray the artifice (yes, even the wig)

Visually, the series sabotages itself. The styling choices for Itt (the wig fans had called “horrible” since the promotion) are the perfect symbol: nothing is authentic. It’s hard to engage with trauma if the image reminds you in every frame of its artificiality. And when acting and direction swing between stiff and forced, suspension of disbelief collapses. Even genre-friendly viewers pointed out cringy performances, weak directing, and even a phony final fight.


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Psychological anatomy (brief but sharp)

Day: behavioral profile of a coercive partner. Instills dependency (spoiling/limiting), uses jealousy and isolation, delegates punishments, then seeks absolution through amnesia/“I’ve suffered too.” It’s the grammar of the romanticized abuser: guilt dissolved in backstory, passion as an excuse.

Itt: written as a functional victim. His agency is sacrificed on the altar of “stay and wait”: he endures, self-blames, trains himself not to react. The series rewards him when he’s most compliant — and that’s the most painful part, because it teaches the audience how you get trapped in the cage.

Social system (family/friends/boss): a framework that validates. The brother believes jealousy will “trigger memories” (so jealousy = cure). The boss in love who visits “normalizes” the idea that even crime can be redeemed through romance. Henchmen carry out punishments “for love of the boss.” It’s a world telling you: endure, because love justifies everything.



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“Why it hurts” (more than explicit cruelty)

For those who’ve lived through abuse, seeing these mechanisms glorified is a trigger. For those who haven’t, the risk is normalization: jealousy = passion, possession = protection, surrender = proof of love. The series doesn’t put violence on display to condemn it: it translates it into romantic language and feeds it to you as medicine for tender hearts. This, to me, is the gravest irresponsibility.


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Method note (on the “facts” of the Love Syndrome world)

Within the franchise and fan discussions circulates — and the series winks at — a backstory of kidnapping/rape as the origin of Day/Itt’s bond, an element made even more explicit in the spin-off movie and novel materials. Even when the TV season tones it down or moves it to flashbacks/backstory, the point remains: the core is violent, and the story uses it as a romantic spark.


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Technique and packaging (for fairness)

Cast & setup: Lee Long Shi (Day) and Frank Thanatsaran (Itt) lead a 2023 drama produced as a 12-episode miniseries, with amnesia as the main engine.

Writing & editing: reinforcement structure (cruelty → affection → jealousy → affection), punitive subplots (Mac/Nan) to reiterate systemic control. A finale that simulates “growth” but in fact rewards surrender.



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Closing (no discounts)

Love Syndrome III isn’t “raw”: it’s manipulative in the worst way. It uses amnesia to wash away abuse, cross-series fanservice to legitimize universal redemption, and romantic language to teach you that suffering is proof of love.
It’s not love: it’s acceptance, dependency, annihilation.

A handbook of romanticizing abuse disguised as a love story.

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Adorable, almost as much as the original movie.

I didn’t watch this film so much for the story, but mainly for the two lead actors: very young, yet already capable of standing out with truly remarkable past projects. Seeing them together again was a pleasure, even though this time — unlike before — I didn’t feel the need to take their love story too seriously. In fact, the romantic side stays mostly in the background: it’s relevant to the plot, of course, but only up to a point. It’s not the beating heart of the film, and that’s perfectly fine. Overall, I don’t consider it on par with their previous performances, but it’s still an enjoyable and emotional watch. I laughed a lot, even more than with the original version — and that’s a rare thing.

The ending, however, felt a bit restrained to me: it lacked that emotional peak that could have given the story more strength.

That said, I’m not a fan of constant comparisons, and I honestly think this is a successful film. If you’re looking for something light, funny, and capable of making you laugh while still offering a touch of emotion, this is definitely a great choice.

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Critical Analysis (with SPOILERS)

Capsule (spoiler-free)

180 Degrees Longitude Between Us isn’t your typical love story: it’s a chamber drama about desire, grief, and responsibility. Three people confined to a house—Mol, Wang, In—and a theatrical direction (spaces, thresholds, silences) that refuses easy consolation. The series doesn’t deny feeling: it acknowledges it and then places it within ethical boundaries, choosing a coherent, adult ending. If you’re looking for wish-fulfillment, you may be taken aback; if you’re looking for emotional truth, it will be hard to shake.

SPOILER ALLERT!!!

1) What it’s really about (beyond the ship):

This series isn’t a “failed love story”; it’s a chamber drama about desire, grief, and responsibility inside a triangle of mother–son–father’s friend (Mol, Wang, In). Its form is theatrical (few characters, long scenes, use of thresholds and mirrors), a choice that forces us to sit inside the cracks of these relationships instead of anesthetizing them with editing or hand-holding music. That formal setup is the author’s statement: an intimate piece with actors mostly enclosed in interiors, dense dialogue, and a deliberately slowed tempo.

Core thesis: desire isn’t denied; it’s acknowledged and then placed within boundaries. The aim isn’t romantic gratification but to break a cycle of role confusion and inherited guilt that has everyone trapped.

2) The dangerous knot: when BL meets the ethics of boundaries:

A lot of BL fandom is trained to look for wish-fulfillment (the couple “should” end up together). Here, however, Wang/In is ethically problematic due to asymmetry (age/experience), affective position (In is the late father’s best friend, the site of unresolved grief), and a family system still collapsing in on itself. The series doesn’t demonize desire; it shows how destructive it would be to act on it while ignoring context. That’s what some “romance-first” viewers experience as frustration; in fact it’s a lesson in boundaries.

" Let’s name it clearly: consent alone isn’t enough when there is structural asymmetry (history, roles, grief). The text stages this and honors it in the ending. "

3) The three arcs—no sugarcoating:

- Wang — from enmeshment to subjectivity:
Wang enters In’s house seeking truth about his father and a place of his own in the world. His bond with Mol is enmeshed (closer to a symbiotic couple than mother–son), and the desire for In begins partly as escape from the maternal orbit and as a mirror for an idealized father. The series has him name desire, accept it, and not use it to plaster over grief. That’s maturity, not renunciation.

- In — from nostalgia to the limit:
In is the adult frozen in the past—his youthful love for Wang’s father suspended in amber. Wang and Mol shatter the sanctuary: temptation is real, the tension is palpable (the series is famous for how it crafts unconsummated tension), but In chooses the boundary. Not because he doesn’t desire, but because he understands that embracing desire and stopping is the only way not to turn it into appropriation.

- Mol — from control to letting go:
Mol concentrates power and fragility: a charismatic but controlling mother, willing to bend the family narrative rather than lose Wang. She risks being read as “the antagonist,” yet she has a true arc: she sees the unhealthy system, releases her grip, and accepts that loving a son means not owning him.

4) Why the ending is “right,” not “sad”:

Many wanted Wang and In together. The ending rejects that shortcut and chooses the correct roles: Wang exits the enmeshment, In doesn’t “inherit” the father’s place, Mol relinquishes control. No one “wins” in the rom-com sense; each heals a part. It’s an ethical ending: it acknowledges the feeling and contextualizes it; it doesn’t punish love—it centers responsibility.

5) Film language: how form makes the ethics legible:

- Space: the house is a fourth character; thresholds, frames, mirrors become visual lines that separate/approach.
- Time: long takes force us to “stay” with consequences; no anesthetizing edits, no guiding score.
- The 180-degree “line”: the title resonates with the cinematic rule; respecting the line becomes a metaphor for the boundary—you can approach, but you don’t cross. The mise-en-scène doesn’t just illustrate; it argues. Its visual grammar is what makes the final choice feel truthful.

6) Where it may rub (and why that’s intended):

- “It’s slow and talky.” True; that’s the price of ethical precision.
- “No catharsis.” There’s no applause; there’s a hard-won peace instead.
- “A BL without wish-fulfillment.” Yes—and that’s its political strength: it shows that setting a limit can be a form of love.

7) Anchor scenes:

- The first admission of desire: the text treats it as truth to honor, not a green light.
- Confrontations within the house: bodies reaching and stopping; thresholds left uncrossed.
- The farewell: not “no to love,” but yes to responsibility. All three exit the house intact.

8) Why it matters—also politically:

In a BL market that often sells immediate gratification, 180 Degrees is almost a counter-genre: it shows that placing a boundary can be a form of love. It’s a discourse on informed consent, asymmetries, grief, and respect for roles—exactly the areas where fandom sometimes prefers a fairy tale to reality. That’s what makes it—for me, and for you—one of the most honest and necessary series of recent years.

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The Weight of Beauty

It’s not just a Korean rom-com: it’s a cruel fairy tale disguised as a musical. Hanna sings like an angel, but no one really sees her. Her voice fills the stage, the crowd cheers… but the idol in the spotlight isn’t her. It’s someone else lip-syncing, while Hanna stays hidden in the shadows, crushed under the weight of her own body and broken self-esteem.

The scalpel becomes her magic wand. She’s reborn as Jenny: beautiful, thin, flawless. Finally, she has the body for her voice, the face for her talent, the smile that opens doors. But the film never lets you fully enjoy this transformation: behind the glitter, the same sharp question lingers — if they love you now, do they really love you? Or just the mask you wear?

What’s left is not the usual romantic comedy. It’s a light punch to the gut — it makes you laugh, but leaves a bitter aftertaste. It’s the kind of movie that has you singing “Maria” at the top of your lungs, then staring at your reflection wondering how much of you is real and how much was built just to be liked.

It’s not perfect: there are clichés, easy laughs too. But if you let it in, 200 Pounds of Beauty hits deep, especially for anyone who’s ever felt “too much” or “not enough.”

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Anatomy of a Romanticized Trauma (Worse in adaptation, but certainly better than the series)

After the series I thought the worst was over. And yet no: Love Syndrome: The Beginning takes the toxicity of Love Syndrome III and turns it into a 90-minute film that is neither a true prequel nor a sequel, but an operation of “alternative reconstruction.” A sort of “what if” disguised as an official movie. A product that, on paper, could have remedied the mistakes of the series. In practice? Not only does it not correct them: it condenses them, amplifies them, and sells them as great cinema.

= A film that doesn’t clarify, but complicates

The title suggests a return to the origins, but in reality the film is nothing more than a romanticized re-cut of the same dynamics already seen: Gear/Night on one side and Day/Itt on the other.
And while the first couple has moments of real tension and palpable attraction, the second repeats the same toxic pattern without any filter. It’s as if someone had taken the most violent and problematic scenes from the series, lined them up one after the other, and said: “Here’s the cursed love you’ve all been waiting for.”

SPOILER RED ZONE

Day and Itt: trauma as spectacle
The relationship between the two is not built: it’s thrown at the viewer in crude scenes, without context, without progression. The film doesn’t show why or how the two should love each other: it just insists on Day’s obsession and Itt’s surrender, in a visual loop of violence disguised as passion.

The scene of total control
Day decides for Itt, strips him of autonomy, isolates him. There are no nuances: the message is clear, “you are mine.” And instead of treating this as the lowest point of the relationship, the film decorates it with a romantic aesthetic. Soft lighting, languid close-ups, background music. It’s emotional pornography of dependency.

Gear and Night as a decoy
Their story is more interesting, more sensual, more authentic. But it only serves as a distraction: the counterpoint that makes the brutality of Day/Itt’s relationship even more evident. The viewer is forced to compare, and every time the toxic relationship emerges more sick and more forced.

= Psychology reduced to clichés

Day: still the classic romanticized abuser. The film gives him more aesthetic space (heroic framing, “protective” gestures), but psychologically nothing changes. It’s still control, jealousy, manipulation. Just better packaged.

Itt: doesn’t grow, doesn’t react, doesn’t reclaim his voice. He endures. His surrender is total, and the film sells it as loyalty and patience. It’s the very negation of a character’s autonomy.

Gear and Night: the only glimmer of authenticity, but used as contrast and filler.

= Why it hurts even more

If the series was slow and diluted, the film is a concentrate. In 90 minutes you get no break: you’re bombarded with toxic dynamics without respite, without critical context, without even the pauses that let you reflect. It’s a compression that brings not intensity, but nausea.

And above all, the psychological impact is devastating:

If you’ve experienced abuse, it’s a constant trigger, packaged as a love story.

If you haven’t, you risk normalizing it: you learn that love = jealousy, possession, submission, total surrender.

= Conclusion

Love Syndrome: The Beginning is not a prequel, not a clarification, not a useful addition. It’s the same toxic story from the series, compressed, polished, and served as if it were the “true” heart of the saga.
A film that offers neither redemption nor reflection, but just another celebration of abuse as passion.

It’s not love. It never will be. It’s acceptance, dependency, annihilation.

The same sick fairytale, but in a useless, toxic “director’s cut” version.

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When Abuse Disguises Itself as Love: the Disaster of Love Syndrome III

Ed. Note I’m reposting the same review here in the uncut version, since the difference between the two is almost nonexistent.

I grew up watching movies and TV series, falling in love with stories and, over time, with the psychology behind them. I’ve always sought works capable of digging into you, disturbing enough to haunt you even after watching, to unsettle you and keep you awake at night. I’ve survived Cannibal Holocaust twice, and I know how to recognize when a story really wants to hit hard.
Love Syndrome III, however, doesn’t belong to that category. It’s not disturbing, it’s not extreme, it’s not cruel. It’s simply annoying. And it is so because it does something I deeply hate: it takes violence and romanticizes it, turning it into a sick fairytale.

The annoyance I feel towards this series is the same I feel every time a story tries to convince me that “even a psychopath can fall in love if they meet the right person,” or that the victim, sooner or later, will bend until they realize that deep down they feel love for their abuser. These clichés are not only banal: they are dangerous, and Love Syndrome III is a toxic concentrate of them.


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A necessary premise

I know this isn’t the first part of the story, and that Love Syndrome III is the third chapter of a saga, drawn precisely from the third part of the novel. After finishing it, I looked for information about the story to understand how much was different and what the author’s true intent was. From what I could gather, the author of the novel wanted to portray two equally toxic characters, two damaged individuals destroying each other. There was no “good guy” or “bad guy”: they were two sides of the same toxicity.
The series, on the other hand, chose to turn it all into a romantic melodrama, simplifying the characters and turning the dynamic not into a war between two toxicities, but into the glorification of an abusive relationship disguised as love.

For those wondering: yes, I finished the series. Not because I liked it, but because I don’t like leaving things unfinished. I never leave anything halfway: even after months or years, I always pick up what I started. For me it’s like an open door that has to be closed. And in this case, I also watched it because I trusted the recommendation of someone I know well, who knew very well how much these dynamics annoy me.


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SPOILER RED ZONE

How the series builds dependency (not love)

The very first “thesis” of the story is stated outright: Day wants Itt to be dependent. Not “loved”: dependent. The text makes it explicit — Day spoils him, conditions him, isolates him so that “you’ll never think of leaving.” It’s behavioral programming, not tenderness. The series shows/tells us that Day takes pride in his method: making sure Itt cannot live without him. This isn’t subtext between the lines: it’s staged and discussed in the early episodes.

On a psychological level, this is conditioning: reinforcements, punishments, emotional blackmail. It’s gaslighting when useful and love bombing when convenient. It’s the deliberate construction of an emotional dependency bond (what audiences often call “Stockholm Syndrome,” though it isn’t a clinical diagnosis).


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The amnesia device: a moral reset that absolves the abuser

Then comes the accident: Day loses his memory of the last three years, meaning his entire relationship with Itt. Dramaturgically, amnesia works like a clean slate: it erases past responsibilities, justifies new cruel treatment (“I don’t remember you”), and forces the victim to start from zero to “earn back” affection from the one who already devastated them. It’s a narrative device that shifts guilt from the abuser to fate. Yet even without memories, Day continues to react with instinctive jealousy and control: the behavior remains, but the story dresses it as “instinctive love.”


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The perimeter of control: not only over Itt

Control doesn’t stop at the couple. The series shows Day ordering one of his men (Nan) to “discipline” Mac, Itt’s obsessive/infatuated high school friend. It’s punishment by proxy: Day uses his subordinates to police anyone orbiting Itt. Jealousy becomes management of other people’s lives, and instead of condemning it, the narrative treats it as “romantic” jealousy.


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The crossover that doesn’t hold: Day in Unforgotten Night vs Love Syndrome III

As if that weren’t enough, the series seems to wink at a connection with Unforgotten Night. In Love Syndrome III, Kamol and Kim appear (though played by different actors), leading many viewers to wonder if the two narrative universes belong to the same world.

And here’s the shock: if the Day of Love Syndrome III were truly the same Day of Unforgotten Night, we’d face an inexplicable psychological leap. In the first context, Day doesn’t come across as hateful or irredeemably toxic, and his relationship isn’t depicted as sick. In the second, he becomes the embodiment of manipulation and romanticized violence.

The result is a narrative short-circuit: two irreconcilable versions of the same character, a discrepancy so abysmal it leaves the viewer more confused than engaged. If the intention really was to create a “BL multiverse,” the attempt only undermines the story’s coherence and credibility further.


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“It’s not love, it’s acceptance” — staged

What the series calls “love” is, scene after scene, forced acceptance.

Itt endures insults, coldness, and emotional blackmail “because Day doesn’t remember” and because “one day he’ll go back to how he was.”

The script rewards surrender: the more Itt endures, the more the story rewards him with crumbs of tenderness.

Itt’s literal mantra is: “I have to be patient with Day.” Not “I have to care for myself,” not “I deserve respect”: patience towards abuse until it gets reframed as passion.



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“Redemption” on command

The so-called moral turning point comes because it has to: it’s not psychological growth, it’s a genre requirement. Day apologizes, has “cute” jealous scenes, does protective gestures: the reward mechanics realign the viewer. It’s emotional engineering to normalize dependency. The result: the audience is asked to root for the “tamed bad boy” — without a true path of accountability.


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Aesthetics that betray the artifice (yes, even the wig)

Visually, the series sabotages itself. The styling choices for Itt (the wig fans had called “horrible” since the promotion) are the perfect symbol: nothing is authentic. It’s hard to engage with trauma if the image reminds you in every frame of its artificiality. And when acting and direction swing between stiff and forced, suspension of disbelief collapses. Even genre-friendly viewers pointed out cringy performances, weak directing, and even a phony final fight.


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Psychological anatomy (brief but sharp)

Day: behavioral profile of a coercive partner. Instills dependency (spoiling/limiting), uses jealousy and isolation, delegates punishments, then seeks absolution through amnesia/“I’ve suffered too.” It’s the grammar of the romanticized abuser: guilt dissolved in backstory, passion as an excuse.

Itt: written as a functional victim. His agency is sacrificed on the altar of “stay and wait”: he endures, self-blames, trains himself not to react. The series rewards him when he’s most compliant — and that’s the most painful part, because it teaches the audience how you get trapped in the cage.

Social system (family/friends/boss): a framework that validates. The brother believes jealousy will “trigger memories” (so jealousy = cure). The boss in love who visits “normalizes” the idea that even crime can be redeemed through romance. Henchmen carry out punishments “for love of the boss.” It’s a world telling you: endure, because love justifies everything.



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“Why it hurts” (more than explicit cruelty)

For those who’ve lived through abuse, seeing these mechanisms glorified is a trigger. For those who haven’t, the risk is normalization: jealousy = passion, possession = protection, surrender = proof of love. The series doesn’t put violence on display to condemn it: it translates it into romantic language and feeds it to you as medicine for tender hearts. This, to me, is the gravest irresponsibility.


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Method note (on the “facts” of the Love Syndrome world)

Within the franchise and fan discussions circulates — and the series winks at — a backstory of kidnapping/rape as the origin of Day/Itt’s bond, an element made even more explicit in the spin-off movie and novel materials. Even when the TV season tones it down or moves it to flashbacks/backstory, the point remains: the core is violent, and the story uses it as a romantic spark.


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Technique and packaging (for fairness)

Cast & setup: Lee Long Shi (Day) and Frank Thanatsaran (Itt) lead a 2023 drama produced as a 12-episode miniseries, with amnesia as the main engine.

Writing & editing: reinforcement structure (cruelty → affection → jealousy → affection), punitive subplots (Mac/Nan) to reiterate systemic control. A finale that simulates “growth” but in fact rewards surrender.



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Closing (no discounts)

Love Syndrome III isn’t “raw”: it’s manipulative in the worst way. It uses amnesia to wash away abuse, cross-series fanservice to legitimize universal redemption, and romantic language to teach you that suffering is proof of love.
It’s not love: it’s acceptance, dependency, annihilation.

A handbook of romanticizing abuse disguised as a love story.

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Bright, Breezy, and Delightful

A Business Proposal is the quintessential 2022 K-rom-com: adapted from the webtoon (The Office Blind Date), briskly paced, packed with gags, and powered by a lead couple that grabs you from their disastrous blind date (which is great for the story). It’s a series that knows exactly what it wants to be: sparkling entertainment, without pretending to be dramatically profound beyond its scope.

- Plot in two lines (no spoilers):

Shin Ha-ri agrees to stand in for her friend on a blind date with the goal of getting rejected; opposite her sits Kang Tae-mu, a young CEO determined to marry quickly and get it over with. Thanks to that initial mix-up, a fake relationship kicks off—soon colliding with the workplace and with real feelings creeping in beneath the facade.

- What works (objectively):

1. Chemistry & comic timing: Kim Sejeong’s timing is spot-on; Ahn Hyo-seop plays the “aloof/rigid” contrast that gradually melts in a natural way. The secondary couple (Seol In-ah & Kim Min-kyu) isn’t mere garnish: they inject energy and often steal the scene.
2. Direction & pace: tight episodes, lively editing, zero dead weight. Many rom-coms drag; here the short run (12 eps) keeps it snappy.
3. Physical comedy & visual gags: the show uses facial expressions, micro-reactions, and controlled slapstick well, without tipping into full cartoon.
4. Trope management: fake dating, contracts, hidden identities, “grumpy x sunshine”—they’re clichés, yes, but the script orchestrates them with craft and polishes them just enough to feel fresh.

- Where it wobbles (without sinking the ship)

1. Workplace-romance ethics: there’s a hierarchy (CEO/employee). The show treats it in a romantic, glossy key without really problematizing it; if you want a serious take on power and boundaries, this isn’t the one.
2. “Light” conflicts: obstacles and misunderstandings resolve quickly and painlessly; the emotional stakes remain medium-low by design.
3. Product placement: visible and frequent (part of the commercial package); if it bothers you, it’ll pop out of the frame now and then.

Themes (without pushing beyond the genre):

The series brushes against family expectations and class/image (family name, “useful” marriage), but doesn’t truly open those files: it uses them as framing to legitimize romantic choices. Consistent with the goal: comfort rom-com rather than social critique.

Performances:

1. Kim Sejeong (Ha-ri): natural charisma, musical comedy sense (eyes/voice/timing), and a non-syrupy warmth in serious beats.
2. Ahn Hyo-seop (Tae-mu): starts rigid, gradually finds tender shades without losing the “CEO” imprint.
3. Seol In-ah & Kim Min-kyu: the secondary couple delivers an excellent comedic-romantic counterpoint; many memorable moments come from them.

OST & Look:

Catchy OSTs—no instant classics, but they do the job for a bright tone. Polished styling, luminous palette, cinematography that “dusts” every setting: the aesthetics are clean and consistent with the promise of lightness.

Personal impression:

I had fun—not because it reinvents the genre, but because it keeps its promise: lively, well-acted, with chemistry that holds even when the script chooses the easy road. If you’re looking for moral complexity or grounded realism, this isn’t it; if you want a well-packaged romance, it hits the mark.

Conclusion:

A Business Proposal is an efficient, sparkling rom-com: it lines up the tropes, polishes them, snaps them together with pace, and serves them with leads in great form. It isn’t deep, but it doesn’t pretend to be—and in its lane, it plays like a frontrunner.

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Beyond the office rom-com: guilt, responsibility, and the growth of Cher (and Gun)

- What it seems vs. what it really tells:

On paper, it looks like a classic GMMTV rom-com: bubbly intern, stern CEO, glossy office. In reality, the moment the story steps outside the workplace and takes us into Cher’s past and hometown, it becomes something else: a tale of undeserved guilt, chosen responsibility, and the weight of other people’s judgment. The love story is there—and it works especially in the second half—but it’s a means, not the end.

- Cher: from “class clown” to someone who carries the weight (SPOILERS):

The emotional core is Cher’s storyline with the girl from his village he once loved, and her younger brother. Back home, many people despise him; they see him as partly responsible for a tragedy that happened to her. In truth, Cher isn’t at fault—and yet he chooses to shoulder part of the stigma to protect her younger brother, who would otherwise be crushed by it.
This choice rewrites the character: behind the chatty, sunshine persona stands someone who absorbs other people’s hate, acts as a lightning rod, and takes on burdens that aren’t his—simply to avoid leaving someone he cares about alone. That’s where the series stops being a workplace game and becomes a portrait of moral responsibility. If you focus only on the “cute couple,” you miss this—and that’s a pity, because it’s the backbone of Cher’s arc.

- Gun: control, shame, silence… and then a choice:

Gun isn’t just “the boss.” Early on, he copes with his position through control and silence: being a gay CEO in an environment full of scrutiny makes him fear judgment, hide, and keep things quiet (he even manages his insomnia with Cher’s ASMR before letting him truly into his life).
The turning point happens outside the office: when Gun follows Cher into his world, he listens, puts himself at service, and shows up for him and his family. That’s where he moves from distant superior to present partner. He doesn’t “save” Cher; he stands with him—and that difference is huge.

- The relationship: it breathes once it leaves the office:

Inside the company, their relationship is ethically thorny (boss/intern is slippery terrain no matter what). Outside, the center of gravity shifts: in the village and through family crises, they meet as equals. Cher drops the perpetual-performer act and allows himself to be vulnerable; Gun lowers his guard and learns to follow, not only lead.
Even the romantic rhythm makes sense from this angle: the steps forward and backward, the decision to pause so Cher can finish university and then come back on clear terms (“let’s be together—but not as ‘the boss and his intern’”) read as narrative coherence, not whim.

- Why the “village” plot isn’t filler:

Some dismiss it as a detour that “steals time from the couple.” I see the opposite: it gives the couple meaning.

1. It explains why Cher behaves the way he does (the smile as armor).
2. It forces Gun out of his habitat and makes him choose the person over the role.
3. It shifts the theme from romantic fantasy to everyday choice: caring, shouldering, staying even when it’s uncomfortable.

- Where the show stumbles (let’s not pretend it doesn’t):

1. Tonal whiplash: the jump from office gags to “small-town pain” is abrupt; some will find it uneven.
2. HR fantasy: the workplace boundaries are often ignored and remain unrealistic.
3. Side plots: a few corporate/office threads are weak and take oxygen away just when Cher’s personal story deserves more space.

Conclusion!!!

A Boss and a Babe isn’t “the series of the century,” but it’s far more than a fizzy rom-com. When it looks into Cher, it speaks of internalized guilt, chosen responsibility, and protection; when it looks into Gun, it speaks of social shame and the courage to show up.
If you stop at the cute office moments, you miss the point. If you accept the unevenness and look beneath the gloss, you’ll find a quietly powerful heart—and that’s what stayed with me.

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An Original and Mysterious BL — Imperfect but Memorable

“609 Bedtime Story” is a series that blends romance, mystery, and fantasy in a way that feels quite original for the Thai BL landscape. The premise is already unique: two young men, Duan and Mum, begin to connect through an inexplicable link that happens every night, at the same time — 00:09. From this bond, suspended between dream and reality, unfolds a story that moves across fate, time, and love.

Narratively, the series stands out because it doesn’t rely only on romance, but intertwines elements of thriller and time travel. This makes the plot more complex compared to the usual university rom-coms many BL viewers are familiar with. Some episodes are engaging and well-constructed, while others get slightly lost in confusing explanations or sudden twists. Even with these imperfections, it’s clear that the show aimed to deliver something more ambitious and different.

The directing and cinematography are polished, with an atmospheric style that matches the mysterious tone of the story. The soundtrack supports both the tense and intimate moments, enhancing the contrast between reality and the dreamlike dimension.

As for the cast, Ohm Thitiwat (Duan) and Fluke Natouch (Mum) carry the series with intensity. Their performances make even the surreal situations believable. The chemistry between them is strong, working well in both the romantic and dramatic scenes, which keeps their relationship at the heart of the story.

Personally, I found 609 Bedtime Story to be a bold attempt: not always perfect in its writing, but admirable in its effort to stand out. It surprised me to see a BL that tries to go beyond the usual formula, combining different genres. It’s not a light watch — it requires attention and the willingness to get lost in its unusual plot — but for viewers looking for something different, it’s definitely worth it.

In conclusion, “609 Bedtime Story” is a half-successful but fascinating experiment, remarkable for its originality. Not every detail is perfectly explained, and some parts feel confusing, but it remains a memorable series thanks to its courage and the intensity of its lead couple.

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Love it!!!

This is exactly the kind of extra content I love watching. I’ve always been a fan of behind-the-scenes footage, and this special gave me everything I usually look for: funny moments, bloopers, and a closer look at the cast when the cameras aren’t strictly focused on the story.

Unlike the main series, this is not about plot or character development — it’s about atmosphere. We see Bright, Win, and the rest of the cast being themselves: laughing between takes, making mistakes, and sometimes struggling to keep a straight face during filming. It’s charming because it humanizes the actors and shows how much fun (and sometimes how much chaos!) went into creating the show.

Technically, it’s very simple: just a collection of clips and interviews edited together. But for me, that’s exactly the point of a behind-the-scenes feature. It doesn’t need polish or depth — it’s meant to make fans feel closer to the people behind the characters.

Personally, I enjoyed it a lot. I found myself laughing out loud more than once, and it made me appreciate the effort and chemistry of the whole cast, even more than the scripted scenes sometimes did. For someone like me who has always loved watching BTS specials, this was pure fun from start to finish.

In conclusion, “Still 2gether: Behind the Scenes” is a delightful bonus for fans — not essential, but absolutely entertaining if you enjoy seeing the cast in their natural element. If you, like me, love behind-the-scenes content, this one is definitely worth it

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Just My Personal Opinion — Neither Negative nor Positive, Please Respect It

“2gether: The Movie” is a cinematic adaptation of 2gether: The Series and Still 2gether, condensing the entire story of Tine and Sarawat into about two and a half hours. It includes a few new scenes and bridging moments, but for the most part it retells the same plot already seen in the series.

The film follows the couple’s journey: from their fake relationship that starts as a joke to their everyday life as an official couple. The structure feels like a large recap, which comes with both strengths and weaknesses. On the one hand, it makes the story more compact and smoother, cutting out filler and secondary episodes; on the other hand, it sacrifices much of the context and little moments that originally gave the characters more breathing room.

From a technical perspective, the directing and cinematography are consistent with the original production, without much innovation. The added scenes are nice — especially those designed to give a more definite closure — but they aren’t enough to make the film feel like a truly new experience. The soundtrack remains one of its strongest elements, with Kan Goo and other familiar tracks immediately bringing back the atmosphere of the story.

Bright and Win deliver the same performances that viewers already know. If some people felt their chemistry was lacking in the series, the film doesn’t really fix that: the compressed storytelling gives even less time for emotions to develop naturally. They remain charismatic, but overall the result feels more like a “best of” than a new chapter.

Personally, 2gether: The Movie felt more like a product made for fans who wanted to relive the story on a big screen than a standalone film with its own strength. It’s pleasant, it makes you smile, and it does provide a clearer sense of closure, but it doesn’t add much for those who have already seen both series.

In conclusion, “2gether: The Movie” works as a celebration and summary of the phenomenon the series once was, but it doesn’t have the narrative weight to stand as an independent film. It’s a light, nostalgic bonus that will mostly appeal to viewers already fond of Tine and Sarawat.

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Just My Personal Opinion — Neither Negative nor Positive, Please Respect It

“Still 2gether” is a special sequel made as an epilogue to 2gether: The Series. Released only a few months after the main show, its goal was to give fans a little more time with Tine and Sarawat, showing them as an official couple navigating their everyday university life.

The plot is extremely simple: there are no major conflicts or twists, just short and light episodes focused on the couple’s daily relationship. The struggles are minimal — small jealousies, minor misunderstandings, and interactions with the music club and cheerleading club. The overall tone stays consistent with the original series, but feels even “softer” and almost free of tension.

From a technical perspective, the production keeps the same quality as the main series: straightforward directing, fresh university settings, and an easy pacing. The soundtrack remains a highlight, with Kan Goo and other familiar songs reinforcing the sense of continuity.

Bright and Win reprise their roles without difficulty, and while they seem more comfortable with their characters, the spark that could have added depth to this sequel still feels missing. The chemistry between them, for me, was not fully convincing, and in a story that relies almost entirely on the couple, that limitation becomes more noticeable. The supporting cast is largely sidelined, serving more as background presence than true subplots.

Personally, Still 2gether didn’t feel necessary. It plays more like fanservice than a real continuation of the story: it entertains, it makes you smile, and it delivers some sweet moments, but it doesn’t bring anything new or essential. If you already loved 2gether, you’ll likely enjoy this extra; but if the first series didn’t win you over, this sequel might feel even less substantial.

In conclusion, “Still 2gether” is a pleasant and light epilogue, but lacking in real depth. It doesn’t harm the main series — in fact, it extends its positive atmosphere — but it remains little more than a bonus treat for the fans.

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