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This review may contain spoilers
SO MANY HOLES
Lovely Runner had me at “time-traveling fangirl saves her idol,” but by the end, I was laughing through my tears, not always for the reasons it intended. Starring Kim Hye-yoon as Im Sol, a paralyzed superfan, and Byeon Woo-seok as Ryu Sun-jae, the doomed frontman of the fictional boy band Eclipse, this drama promised a swoony mix of romance, thriller, and time-loop shenanigans. It starts with Sol, whose life was upended by a childhood accident, clinging to Sun-jae’s music for solace, only to learn he’s spiraling into depression, a career-killing shoulder injury, and a gut-wrenching suicide in 2023. Then, poof, a magical watch drops into her lap, letting her zip back to 2008 to rewrite his fate. She dives into her high school days, armed with future knowledge, dodging a creepy serial killer, and trying to save Sun-jae from shady managers, overwork, and his own dark path. The setup is a nostalgic love letter to the early 2000s with flip phones, skinny jeans, and all, blending romance, comedy, and a dash of menace. The first half is pure magic: Sol’s fangirl fervor is adorable, Sun-jae’s brooding charm is catnip, and their chemistry crackles like a K-pop banger. Kim Hye-yoon plays Sol with a mix of pluck and pathos, while Byeon Woo-seok makes Sun-jae’s quiet pain achingly real. The supporting cast like Sol’s quirky family, Sun-jae’s bandmates, and Taesung, a sweet cop’s son, adds warmth, and the glossy visuals, paired with Eclipse’s catchy tunes, hit all the right emotional notes. But oh, how the mighty fall. By the end, *Lovely Runner* is a mess, tripping over its own time loops, drowning in plot holes, and leaving me chuckling at its absurdity while mourning what could’ve been. With weak worldbuilding, characters who forget who they are, and a narrative that feels like it was written by a committee of confused time travelers, I’m giving it a 6 out of 10: a bittersweet watch that’s equal parts charming and infuriating, like falling in love with someone who keeps forgetting your name.
The tragedy starts with the worldbuilding, or lack thereof, which is less a foundation and more a crumbling sandcastle. The magical watch that powers Sol’s time-hopping is a mystery wrapped in a shrug. Who owned it before her auction win? Why does her grandma act like she’s in on the timeline secrets, only to vanish into narrative limbo? The watch’s rules are a cosmic joke: it triggers at midnight one day, at Sun-jae’s death the next, or maybe when Sol’s feeling extra regretful, with a supposed three-attempt limit that’s more suggestion than law. It’s like the writers tossed a coin to decide how it works each episode, leaving me giggling at the sheer audacity. Sol’s time-freezing trick is even more maddening. She uses it to sneak into Sun-jae’s house or dodge his dad, but when she’s stuck in a kidnapper’s car, does she freeze time? Nope, she runs in front of it like a sitcom character. Or when Sun-jae’s stabbed and tumbling off a cliff, she’s got 10 seconds to act but just stands there, as if her superpower took a coffee break. These moments are so contrived I couldn’t help but laugh, but it’s a hollow laugh when you realize the stakes are supposed to matter.
The characters, bless their hearts, are a parade of missed potential. Sol’s arc is a tearjerker that never quite lands. Her growth, especially around her disability, happens mostly off-screen, leaning on sappy manipulation instead of depth. Kim Hye-yoon tries, but the script gives her little to work with, leaving Sol feeling like a plot pawn rather than a person. Sun-jae’s bandmates and family are reduced to background noise, their arcs so incomplete I half-expected them to wave at the camera and say, “We tried!” Taesung, the second lead, is a walking plot hole: suddenly Sol’s bestie in altered timelines, despite no prior connection in the original, and the show doesn’t even try to explain it, which had me snorting at its laziness. The serial killer, a taxi driver with a vendetta, is the biggest joke of all. His obsession with Sol, his random possession of her phone at a reservoir (maybe tied to a dead homeless guy, who knows?), and his motives are so vague that when he leaps off a bridge to end his arc, I cackled at the anticlimax. It’s like the writers said, “Eh, close enough.” Younger Sol’s behavior in resets, going from wallflower to cigarette-snatching brawler, feels like a comedy sketch gone wrong, with no bridge to her original shy self, making me laugh and wince at once.
The pacing and tone are where the show’s soul truly shines, or rather, stumbles. The first half zips along, balancing romance, humor, and mystery like a well-choreographed dance. But the second half? It’s like the show got stuck in a time loop of its own, repeating the same beats until I was begging for mercy. The endless cycles feel like a writer’s room prank, dragging the story into a slog that’s both exhausting and absurdly funny in its refusal to move forward. The tone is a disaster: slapstick comedy crashes into gut-punch drama, like a clown stumbling into a funeral. One minute, Sol’s chasing a goat in a goofy gag; the next, she’s sobbing over Sun-jae’s fate, and I’m left with tonal whiplash, laughing at the absurdity while craving coherence. The thriller subplot is a forced mess, like someone tossed a serial killer into a rom-com and hoped for the best. And don’t get me started on Sol’s baffling choices: she sees future visions (like tripping during that goat chase) but lies about them to Sun-jae, who already knows she’s from 2023, stretching misunderstandings into a sitcom-level farce that’s equal parts infuriating and unintentionally hilarious. The romance, initially so tender, gets buried under these repetitive loops, with too few intimate moments to keep the heart fluttering, leaving me chuckling at the irony of a love story forgetting its own spark.
The plot holes are the cherry on top, a laundry list of absurdities that make you laugh, cry, and question your life choices. Sol’s ability to walk in 2023 after erasing her connection to Sun-jae is pure nonsense. In the original timeline, he saved her from drowning post-accident, so without him, she should be paralyzed or worse, but the show just shrugs, tossing in vague butterfly effects like a bad punchline. The lottery ticket Sol gives her brother with 2024 numbers somehow wins across resets, even when those events are erased, which is so illogical I snorted. Her family’s move to dodge dangers like a fire or redevelopment is a head-scratcher. Some timelines show no burn marks on her mom, suggesting the threats aren’t consistent, and how Sol pulls it off repeatedly is anyone’s guess. Sol’s consciousness during time slips is a comedic riddle, is her past self on auto-pilot? She keeps skills like driving but needs triggers for memories, blurring whether it’s parallel universes or a single timeline, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the confusion. The timeline count, maybe five, from handicapped Sol to erasing links, is a chaotic mess, with returns flipping between morning and midnight like a drunk time traveler. The police arresting the killer is a farce: handcuffing him in front, not securing him in the car, and letting him escape for no reason other than drama, which had me giggling at the sheer incompetence. Sol writing a script about their romance after swearing to avoid Sun-jae is a contradiction: it jogs his memories, undoing her plan, and she’s somehow surprised, which is both sad and absurd. The watch’s random reappearance in timelines where they don’t meet, with no explanation of how Sun-jae gets it, is another laughable gap. These holes pile up, turning the story into a circus, equal parts exasperating and unintentionally funny.
In the end, *Lovely Runner* is a K-drama that woos you with its big heart and bigger dreams, only to trip face-first into a pile of its own plot holes, leaving you laughing through the pain. Kim Hye-yoon and Byeon Woo-seok are the saving grace, their chemistry a beacon in the storm, making those high school scenes and early romantic beats feel like a warm hug. The visuals, dripping with 2000s nostalgia, and the Eclipse soundtrack are pure joy, tugging at your heart even when the story doesn’t. Themes of regret, fate, and idol pressures could’ve been profound, but they’re lost in the shuffle, like a poignant line in a bad comedy sketch. It promises a masterpiece but delivers a messy love story that’s as frustrating as it is charming. I wanted to adore it, but I ended up laughing at its stumbles while sighing for what might’ve been.
The tragedy starts with the worldbuilding, or lack thereof, which is less a foundation and more a crumbling sandcastle. The magical watch that powers Sol’s time-hopping is a mystery wrapped in a shrug. Who owned it before her auction win? Why does her grandma act like she’s in on the timeline secrets, only to vanish into narrative limbo? The watch’s rules are a cosmic joke: it triggers at midnight one day, at Sun-jae’s death the next, or maybe when Sol’s feeling extra regretful, with a supposed three-attempt limit that’s more suggestion than law. It’s like the writers tossed a coin to decide how it works each episode, leaving me giggling at the sheer audacity. Sol’s time-freezing trick is even more maddening. She uses it to sneak into Sun-jae’s house or dodge his dad, but when she’s stuck in a kidnapper’s car, does she freeze time? Nope, she runs in front of it like a sitcom character. Or when Sun-jae’s stabbed and tumbling off a cliff, she’s got 10 seconds to act but just stands there, as if her superpower took a coffee break. These moments are so contrived I couldn’t help but laugh, but it’s a hollow laugh when you realize the stakes are supposed to matter.
The characters, bless their hearts, are a parade of missed potential. Sol’s arc is a tearjerker that never quite lands. Her growth, especially around her disability, happens mostly off-screen, leaning on sappy manipulation instead of depth. Kim Hye-yoon tries, but the script gives her little to work with, leaving Sol feeling like a plot pawn rather than a person. Sun-jae’s bandmates and family are reduced to background noise, their arcs so incomplete I half-expected them to wave at the camera and say, “We tried!” Taesung, the second lead, is a walking plot hole: suddenly Sol’s bestie in altered timelines, despite no prior connection in the original, and the show doesn’t even try to explain it, which had me snorting at its laziness. The serial killer, a taxi driver with a vendetta, is the biggest joke of all. His obsession with Sol, his random possession of her phone at a reservoir (maybe tied to a dead homeless guy, who knows?), and his motives are so vague that when he leaps off a bridge to end his arc, I cackled at the anticlimax. It’s like the writers said, “Eh, close enough.” Younger Sol’s behavior in resets, going from wallflower to cigarette-snatching brawler, feels like a comedy sketch gone wrong, with no bridge to her original shy self, making me laugh and wince at once.
The pacing and tone are where the show’s soul truly shines, or rather, stumbles. The first half zips along, balancing romance, humor, and mystery like a well-choreographed dance. But the second half? It’s like the show got stuck in a time loop of its own, repeating the same beats until I was begging for mercy. The endless cycles feel like a writer’s room prank, dragging the story into a slog that’s both exhausting and absurdly funny in its refusal to move forward. The tone is a disaster: slapstick comedy crashes into gut-punch drama, like a clown stumbling into a funeral. One minute, Sol’s chasing a goat in a goofy gag; the next, she’s sobbing over Sun-jae’s fate, and I’m left with tonal whiplash, laughing at the absurdity while craving coherence. The thriller subplot is a forced mess, like someone tossed a serial killer into a rom-com and hoped for the best. And don’t get me started on Sol’s baffling choices: she sees future visions (like tripping during that goat chase) but lies about them to Sun-jae, who already knows she’s from 2023, stretching misunderstandings into a sitcom-level farce that’s equal parts infuriating and unintentionally hilarious. The romance, initially so tender, gets buried under these repetitive loops, with too few intimate moments to keep the heart fluttering, leaving me chuckling at the irony of a love story forgetting its own spark.
The plot holes are the cherry on top, a laundry list of absurdities that make you laugh, cry, and question your life choices. Sol’s ability to walk in 2023 after erasing her connection to Sun-jae is pure nonsense. In the original timeline, he saved her from drowning post-accident, so without him, she should be paralyzed or worse, but the show just shrugs, tossing in vague butterfly effects like a bad punchline. The lottery ticket Sol gives her brother with 2024 numbers somehow wins across resets, even when those events are erased, which is so illogical I snorted. Her family’s move to dodge dangers like a fire or redevelopment is a head-scratcher. Some timelines show no burn marks on her mom, suggesting the threats aren’t consistent, and how Sol pulls it off repeatedly is anyone’s guess. Sol’s consciousness during time slips is a comedic riddle, is her past self on auto-pilot? She keeps skills like driving but needs triggers for memories, blurring whether it’s parallel universes or a single timeline, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the confusion. The timeline count, maybe five, from handicapped Sol to erasing links, is a chaotic mess, with returns flipping between morning and midnight like a drunk time traveler. The police arresting the killer is a farce: handcuffing him in front, not securing him in the car, and letting him escape for no reason other than drama, which had me giggling at the sheer incompetence. Sol writing a script about their romance after swearing to avoid Sun-jae is a contradiction: it jogs his memories, undoing her plan, and she’s somehow surprised, which is both sad and absurd. The watch’s random reappearance in timelines where they don’t meet, with no explanation of how Sun-jae gets it, is another laughable gap. These holes pile up, turning the story into a circus, equal parts exasperating and unintentionally funny.
In the end, *Lovely Runner* is a K-drama that woos you with its big heart and bigger dreams, only to trip face-first into a pile of its own plot holes, leaving you laughing through the pain. Kim Hye-yoon and Byeon Woo-seok are the saving grace, their chemistry a beacon in the storm, making those high school scenes and early romantic beats feel like a warm hug. The visuals, dripping with 2000s nostalgia, and the Eclipse soundtrack are pure joy, tugging at your heart even when the story doesn’t. Themes of regret, fate, and idol pressures could’ve been profound, but they’re lost in the shuffle, like a poignant line in a bad comedy sketch. It promises a masterpiece but delivers a messy love story that’s as frustrating as it is charming. I wanted to adore it, but I ended up laughing at its stumbles while sighing for what might’ve been.
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