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The sun rises at the horizon
I’m not a big fan of period dramas because the history buff in me becomes an annoying companion. I notice costumes, props, language and whether people behave according to the period. The British have practically perfected this genre and set an unfairly high bar. Edge of Horizon takes place during one of Thailand’s great periods of upheaval, when an old social order was beginning to give way to something new. Fascinating history. Unfortunately, for much of the series I felt less like I was watching the dawn of a new age and more like watching the sun slowly kiss the earth goodbye.
This series was HEAVY. Misery piled upon misery accompanied by haunting music seemingly determined to squeeze another tear out of me. Happy moments were so few that when one appeared I wanted to put it in a glass case for safekeeping. I understand what the writers were trying to do, but emotional manipulation works better for me in a two-hour movie. Stretch it across an entire series and eventually my tear ducts begin demanding overtime pay.
But somewhere underneath all that sadness was a beautiful love story.
Phop and Tinn came from two different worlds separated not simply by wealth, but by class, title, family and the expectations of their time. Yet Inn and Ongsa made me believe these two belonged together. Their chemistry never needed fireworks. Sometimes it was simply a look, a touch, or Tinn staring through those enormous expressive eyes as if Ongsa had been instructed to break our hearts without saying a word. And then there was the music. That beautiful song sung by Ongsa, its melody returning again and again, became almost the heartbeat of their relationship.
Their love was forbidden, genuine and ultimately sacrificial. Phop wanted to change the world so that people like them might someday live as equals, while Tinn was willing to walk away from the privileged world into which he was born simply to live beside the person he loved. Ironically, the political story I sometimes found burdensome eventually became essential to understanding their relationship. You cannot separate their love from their time because the world itself had to change before their love could breathe.
And finally…the sun rose.
After spending episode after episode preparing myself for another tragic BL ending, the writers actually allowed these two to have something resembling happiness. Not reincarnation. Not meeting again in another lifetime. Not one lover staring wistfully toward the horizon remembering the man he lost. They survived long enough to discover that perhaps the world really could change.
Karen Carpenter once sang, “You and me against the world.” That could have been Phop and Tinn’s anthem. But by the finale, I realized the story was asking something slightly different: what happens when two people stop simply fighting the world and begin believing that the world itself can change?
Suddenly the title makes sense.
The horizon isn’t where the sun disappears. It’s also where the sun rises.
This series was HEAVY. Misery piled upon misery accompanied by haunting music seemingly determined to squeeze another tear out of me. Happy moments were so few that when one appeared I wanted to put it in a glass case for safekeeping. I understand what the writers were trying to do, but emotional manipulation works better for me in a two-hour movie. Stretch it across an entire series and eventually my tear ducts begin demanding overtime pay.
But somewhere underneath all that sadness was a beautiful love story.
Phop and Tinn came from two different worlds separated not simply by wealth, but by class, title, family and the expectations of their time. Yet Inn and Ongsa made me believe these two belonged together. Their chemistry never needed fireworks. Sometimes it was simply a look, a touch, or Tinn staring through those enormous expressive eyes as if Ongsa had been instructed to break our hearts without saying a word. And then there was the music. That beautiful song sung by Ongsa, its melody returning again and again, became almost the heartbeat of their relationship.
Their love was forbidden, genuine and ultimately sacrificial. Phop wanted to change the world so that people like them might someday live as equals, while Tinn was willing to walk away from the privileged world into which he was born simply to live beside the person he loved. Ironically, the political story I sometimes found burdensome eventually became essential to understanding their relationship. You cannot separate their love from their time because the world itself had to change before their love could breathe.
And finally…the sun rose.
After spending episode after episode preparing myself for another tragic BL ending, the writers actually allowed these two to have something resembling happiness. Not reincarnation. Not meeting again in another lifetime. Not one lover staring wistfully toward the horizon remembering the man he lost. They survived long enough to discover that perhaps the world really could change.
Karen Carpenter once sang, “You and me against the world.” That could have been Phop and Tinn’s anthem. But by the finale, I realized the story was asking something slightly different: what happens when two people stop simply fighting the world and begin believing that the world itself can change?
Suddenly the title makes sense.
The horizon isn’t where the sun disappears. It’s also where the sun rises.
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