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Century of Love and the charm of being deliberately old-fashioned
There is something deliberately old-fashioned about Century of Love, and precisely for that reason deeply appealing. In a landscape crowded with school and university BLs, the Thai series chooses a romance that stretches across a century, flavored with mysticism, melodrama, and a generous dose of lakorn-style excess. The premise is both simple and grand. San, a man condemned to live for one hundred years while waiting for the reincarnation of his lost great love, sees his fate unravel when that love returns not as a woman, but as a young man named Wee. From there, the series unfolds as a story about time, loss, and the difficult art of learning how to live in the present.
The opening is, without a doubt, one of the narrative’s strongest elements. The foundational tragedy, which includes an interrupted love, a pact with the goddess, and prolonged suffering, is presented with emotional clarity and dramatic weight that immediately draws the viewer in. There is an almost antiquated romanticism in the idea of someone waiting a hundred years for another person, and the series embraces this concept without irony. San’s pain feels believable. He is a man hardened by time, surrounded by memories and by the certainty that love, for him, has always meant loss.
Daou builds this protagonist with an intriguing mix of rigidity and vulnerability. His San is cold, gruff, and often morally outdated, which makes sense for someone shaped by values from another century. The series could have explored the internal conflicts created by this clash between past and present more deeply, especially regarding sexuality, but there is still a clear arc of transformation. When San begins to open up, it is not because the script demands it, but because the weight of solitude becomes unbearable. Offroad, in contrast, brings a completely different energy to Wee. He is bright, impulsive, sometimes overly naive, yet essential in breaking down San’s emotional defenses. The chemistry between them is undeniable and carries much of the series, even when the writing falters.
The central relationship, however, is also where some of the show’s weaknesses emerge. The development of the romance shifts between moments of strong emotional tension and hurried narrative leaps. At times, San moves from rejection to attachment too quickly, as if important moments of shared experience were left offscreen. In other instances, once the couple is finally established, the story seems more interested in rituals, chases, and external threats than in allowing the relationship to breathe. Even so, when the series gets it right, through glances, silences, and restrained intimacy, it delivers genuinely touching scenes.
If romance is the heart of the story, the supporting characters are its warm soul. San’s found family, especially Ju, Chu, and the ever-present Tao, brings humor, affection, and humanity. They prevent the series from sinking entirely into melodrama and add lightness to its heaviest moments. The female characters, in particular, avoid easy stereotypes. They are not merely romantic obstacles, but complex figures who are practical, ambiguous, sometimes selfish, and sometimes unexpectedly supportive. Even when they cause chaos, they are rarely disposable.
The antagonists, on the other hand, represent the weakest point of the script. Overly caricatured, underdeveloped, and at times unintentionally comical, they function more as narrative devices than as real threats. They lack depth and clear motivation, while convenience often takes their place. The same can be said of some worldbuilding elements. Mystical rules appear and disappear as the episode requires, coincidences accumulate, and important questions are left unanswered. The series openly asks the viewer to suspend logic, and those who accept this pact are likely to enjoy it more.
Visually and technically, Century of Love is uneven. There are strong aesthetic ideas, especially in the past sequences and sacred spaces, but the execution suffers from limited CGI, overuse of slow motion, and a soundtrack that does not always match the tone of the scene. Still, the pacing rarely drags. Even when it leans too heavily on repetition, particularly flashbacks, the series maintains a sense of emotional urgency that encourages viewers to keep watching.
In the end, Century of Love is neither polished nor narratively flawless. It is chaotic, excessive, and at times illogical. Yet it is also sincere in its ambition to speak about love that endures through time, the burden of living trapped in the past, and the courage required to choose the present. Between unexpected laughter, genuine tears, and questionable decisions, the series finds its charm precisely in its imperfections. It does not portray an idealized love, but a stubborn, noisy, deeply human one, and perhaps that is why, despite everything, it lingers.
The opening is, without a doubt, one of the narrative’s strongest elements. The foundational tragedy, which includes an interrupted love, a pact with the goddess, and prolonged suffering, is presented with emotional clarity and dramatic weight that immediately draws the viewer in. There is an almost antiquated romanticism in the idea of someone waiting a hundred years for another person, and the series embraces this concept without irony. San’s pain feels believable. He is a man hardened by time, surrounded by memories and by the certainty that love, for him, has always meant loss.
Daou builds this protagonist with an intriguing mix of rigidity and vulnerability. His San is cold, gruff, and often morally outdated, which makes sense for someone shaped by values from another century. The series could have explored the internal conflicts created by this clash between past and present more deeply, especially regarding sexuality, but there is still a clear arc of transformation. When San begins to open up, it is not because the script demands it, but because the weight of solitude becomes unbearable. Offroad, in contrast, brings a completely different energy to Wee. He is bright, impulsive, sometimes overly naive, yet essential in breaking down San’s emotional defenses. The chemistry between them is undeniable and carries much of the series, even when the writing falters.
The central relationship, however, is also where some of the show’s weaknesses emerge. The development of the romance shifts between moments of strong emotional tension and hurried narrative leaps. At times, San moves from rejection to attachment too quickly, as if important moments of shared experience were left offscreen. In other instances, once the couple is finally established, the story seems more interested in rituals, chases, and external threats than in allowing the relationship to breathe. Even so, when the series gets it right, through glances, silences, and restrained intimacy, it delivers genuinely touching scenes.
If romance is the heart of the story, the supporting characters are its warm soul. San’s found family, especially Ju, Chu, and the ever-present Tao, brings humor, affection, and humanity. They prevent the series from sinking entirely into melodrama and add lightness to its heaviest moments. The female characters, in particular, avoid easy stereotypes. They are not merely romantic obstacles, but complex figures who are practical, ambiguous, sometimes selfish, and sometimes unexpectedly supportive. Even when they cause chaos, they are rarely disposable.
The antagonists, on the other hand, represent the weakest point of the script. Overly caricatured, underdeveloped, and at times unintentionally comical, they function more as narrative devices than as real threats. They lack depth and clear motivation, while convenience often takes their place. The same can be said of some worldbuilding elements. Mystical rules appear and disappear as the episode requires, coincidences accumulate, and important questions are left unanswered. The series openly asks the viewer to suspend logic, and those who accept this pact are likely to enjoy it more.
Visually and technically, Century of Love is uneven. There are strong aesthetic ideas, especially in the past sequences and sacred spaces, but the execution suffers from limited CGI, overuse of slow motion, and a soundtrack that does not always match the tone of the scene. Still, the pacing rarely drags. Even when it leans too heavily on repetition, particularly flashbacks, the series maintains a sense of emotional urgency that encourages viewers to keep watching.
In the end, Century of Love is neither polished nor narratively flawless. It is chaotic, excessive, and at times illogical. Yet it is also sincere in its ambition to speak about love that endures through time, the burden of living trapped in the past, and the courage required to choose the present. Between unexpected laughter, genuine tears, and questionable decisions, the series finds its charm precisely in its imperfections. It does not portray an idealized love, but a stubborn, noisy, deeply human one, and perhaps that is why, despite everything, it lingers.
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