oxenthi

Beautiful and engaging at its best, emotionally strong, but overreaches and stumbles

There is something deliberately ambitious about The Next Prince. From the very first episode, the series makes it clear that it does not want to be just another comfortable Thai BL set in sunny cafés. Here, romance is born under the weight of the crown, shaped by protocol, political disputes, and the constant watch of a kingdom that must decide who will rule it. The premise is simple and alluring: a prince raised far from his origins is forced to return and compete for the throne, while falling in love with the man who was meant only to protect him. What follows is a modern fairy tale that is luxurious, sometimes uneven, but hard to ignore.

Visually, the series is a spectacle. Few BLs invest as heavily in sets, costumes, and cinematography as The Next Prince. Every outfit seems designed to express power, tradition, or change, and every palace hall carries an almost theatrical sense of grandeur. The art direction turns the fictional kingdom of Emmaly into a believable, almost tangible place, while the cinematography supports this fantasy with elegant framing and surprisingly well choreographed action scenes. It is a production that understands the power of imagery and knows how to use it to create mood and impact.

At the heart of this world are Khanin, a prince torn between the life he lived and the destiny forced upon him, and Charan, the royal guard whose loyalty soon goes beyond duty. Zee and NuNew share a rare sense of intimacy, built not only through grand gestures but through silences, lingering looks, and a physical closeness charged with emotional tension. When the series leans into romance, it succeeds. The intimate scenes are filmed with care and sensitivity, avoiding vulgarity and aiming for a near solemn intensity, as if love itself were a political act.

The issue is that The Next Prince tries to say many things at once. There are succession battles, environmental concerns, reflections on gender inequality, family trauma, and ancient traditions being challenged by a younger generation. All of these ideas are interesting and powerful on their own, but the script does not always weave them together with the same precision it gives to the visuals. Some storylines appear promising but are resolved too quickly, while others linger longer than needed, resulting in episodes that feel more like transitions than true narrative progress.

The supporting characters highlight this imbalance. Ramil and Paytai, for instance, share an intense dynamic marked by obsession, emotional violence, and extreme loyalty, often rivaling the main couple’s impact. Calvin and Jay are introduced as hints of something greater but remain confined to suggestion rather than development. Ava, the only princess among the contenders, represents meaningful change within the kingdom, yet she is underused, fading from the story just when she could have deepened the debate about power and tradition. These are strong pieces on a board the script does not always know how to move.

The pacing also wavers. The early episodes are engaging, clearly establishing the world and its central conflicts. Midway through, however, the narrative loses momentum. Conflicts repeat, revelations land without the expected weight, and certain decisions feel overly convenient. Even so, moments of genuine dramatic strength remain. Scenes of grief, family confrontations, and small emotional victories remind us why it is still worth seeing the story through to the end.

Musically, the series reinforces its sense of grandeur. The soundtrack, with classical influences and recurring themes, enhances the epic tone and helps carry the emotional weight, even when the writing falters. There is a clear awareness that The Next Prince wants to be remembered as something bigger and more refined, almost a prestige BL, and that ambition is reflected in its technical choices.

In the end, The Next Prince is a work of contrasts. It is beautiful, engaging, and emotionally effective at its best, but it stumbles when it tries to handle more than it can fully develop. Still, its charm is undeniable. Between excess, well placed silences, and flashes of true inspiration, the series stands as an imperfect yet memorable royal romance, one that may not be entirely satisfying on paper, but lingers in the mind because of how it feels. A modern fairy tale that shines brightest when it chooses emotion over strategy.

Read More

A series that may have wanted to say more than it managed to organize

The Boy Next World enters the Thai BL universe with a tempting promise: to blend romance, fate, and the always appealing idea of parallel worlds. At first glance, the series seems eager to move away from the comfort of university settings and straightforward love stories, choosing instead a narrative where emotions cross realities, memories, and different versions of the self. The result is a drama that does not always explain everything it proposes, but that, interestingly, finds its strength more in what it makes us feel than in what it tries to rationalize.

The plot revolves around Phu, a sweet and introspective young man surrounded by protective friends, and Cir, a charismatic boy shaped by a strict upbringing and a mother who confuses love with control. When Cir appears claiming to be Phu’s boyfriend from another world, the series plays its main card: what if love were inevitable, able to repeat itself across any timeline? From that point on, the story flirts with fantasy, psychological drama, and melodrama, even if it does not always balance these elements with clarity.

This is exactly where The Boy Next World both stumbles and shines. The idea of parallel universes, while intriguing, is rarely explored with the depth it deserves. There are gaps, unfinished explanations, and subplots that seem to ask for more screen time. A sense of an unfinished story follows much of the journey, especially when family conflicts and unclear rules of this “in-between world” come into play. Even so, the script succeeds in turning confusion into atmosphere. The audience shares the same emotional uncertainty as the characters, never fully sure of what is dream, projection, or reality.

Where the series truly holds its ground is in the relationship between its leads. Boss and Noeul show a familiar chemistry, now more relaxed and mature. Boss portrays Cir as someone caught between tenderness and intensity, a character who watches, protects, and loves with almost silent devotion. Noeul, as Phu, delivers a fragile character without making him childish, someone learning how to desire while dealing with guilt and the fear of taking a place that may not truly be his. Even when the writing falters, their connection carries the story and gives truth to the most intimate scenes, both emotional and physical.

Visually, The Boy Next World knows exactly what it wants to convey. The cinematography works with distinct color palettes, small symbols, and costumes that help translate emotional states. Phu’s cardigans, for example, say as much about him as his silences. The soundtrack, while not groundbreaking, works as emotional glue, reinforcing the melancholic and romantic tone of the story. There is a clear aesthetic care that elevates the series and gives it a more mature feel than many contemporary BLs.

The supporting characters move between charm and underuse. Friends steal scenes with lightness and humor, while the side couple sparks curiosity and affection but suffers from limited development. Cir’s family storyline is the most controversial aspect of the series. The controlling mother and the idea of “possession” can feel excessive and, at times, out of step with the tone the story aims to build. Still, these conflicts help reinforce the central theme: the struggle between imposed fate and personal choice.

In the end, The Boy Next World is a series that may have wanted to say more than it managed to organize. There are questionable narrative choices, missing explanations, and an ending that feels like it lacks one final emotional chapter. Yet there is also courage in taking risks, beauty in accepting what is unfinished, and sensitivity in treating love as something that endures, even when the world, or worlds, seem to fall apart.

It is not a perfect romance or a strict sci-fi story. Above all, it is a story about people who find each other again and again, in different versions of themselves, because love here seems to be the only constant. And perhaps that is enough for The Boy Next World to remain in memory as an imperfect, confusing, but surprisingly engaging experience, one that is not fully understood, only felt.

Read More

Trading light romance for a violent corporate drama of revenge, ambition, and broken family ties

The Wicked Game enters the Thai BL landscape as a risky invitation: trading the comfort of light romance for a dive into a corporate drama shaped by violence, revenge, and family ties eaten away by ambition. Instead of sunny campuses or shy first dates, the series places its focus on boardrooms, power struggles, and a past that refuses to stay buried. It is a bold and imperfect choice, but one that often results in something gripping and deeply engaging.

The story centers on Pheem, the rejected heir of a hospital empire whose childhood was brutally shattered by family betrayal. His return is driven not by longing, but by reckoning. What could have been just another revenge plot gains weight as each episode reveals how greed can turn siblings into enemies and parents into executioners. There is an almost tragic echo here, reminiscent of classic tales about dynasties that destroy themselves in the pursuit of power, and this heavy atmosphere carries much of the show’s emotional impact.

The series’ greatest strength lies in the way Pheem is written and portrayed. Offroad delivers a layered performance, shaping a character who is both cruel and deeply wounded. Every silence speaks as loudly as his most calculated attacks. Trauma is not merely mentioned; it shapes his gestures, his gaze, and his choices. Pheem is hard to love, yet impossible to ignore, and the show understands this well, using his coldness as a shield rather than an empty pose.

It is on this unstable ground that Than appears, played by Daou, as an almost luminous counterbalance. A former police officer, honest and emotionally open, he serves as the moral axis of the story and the viewer’s emotional anchor. The chemistry between Daou and Offroad is undeniable and perhaps the most consistent element of the series. Even when the script falters, the relationship between Than and Pheem keeps the narrative alive, fueled by tension, desire, and a constant sense of emotional danger. The romance is not comfortable, nor should it be, and that is precisely why it stands out.

The supporting cast also strengthens this web of conflict. Thanet, the father, embodies a toxic and cruel patriarchy, the kind that provokes instant discomfort because it feels painfully real. Risa and Chet move between victimhood and villainy, showing how the hunger for recognition can easily turn into cruelty. Even secondary characters, such as Jason or Chet’s bodyguard, carry a tension that suggests more depth than the script sometimes fully explores.

Not everything, however, works with the same precision. The series leans too heavily on gun violence, with frequent shootouts and an internal logic that stretches believability. Characters are shot, fall, and return almost unharmed, while the police seem to exist only as background figures. Uneven CGI and certain directorial choices weaken scenes that needed stronger impact. The ten-episode format also weighs heavily, as some characters and conflicts clearly needed more time to breathe.

The finale gathers many of these weaknesses. While it brings closure to the main arcs, it feels rushed and less emotionally charged than it promises. Some reunions call for more silence, more collapse, more release. Even so, the ending preserves the story’s tragic core, reinforcing the idea that wicked games rarely allow truly happy conclusions.

Taken as a whole, The Wicked Game is not an easy BL, nor a polished or perfectly balanced one. It is excessive, at times chaotic, but also intense, magnetic, and emotionally honest at its best. Carried by strong performances and a central chemistry that cuts through technical flaws, the series proves that the genre can flirt with darkness without losing its power to captivate. Imperfect yet memorable, it is the kind of story that leaves you exhausted at the end and, strangely enough, wanting to remember it.

Read More

A story about trust, shedding masks, and accepting that beauty and success don’t heal old wounds

Adapted from a webtoon and set in a university film program, Blueming follows Cha Si-won and Hyeong Da-un, two young men who, at first glance, seem to fit perfectly into ideals of beauty and success, while carrying deep fractures beneath that polished image. Rather than leaning on major plot twists, Blueming favors the everyday, silences, and small moments of awkwardness, building a romance that grows less from spectacle and more from the mutual recognition of vulnerability.

Si-won is a protagonist marked by insecurity. Once an overweight child, bullied in his youth and emotionally shaped by a complicated family relationship, he learned early on that being flawless was a way to survive. Da-un, by contrast, appears to have everything effortlessly: beauty, talent, an almost untouchable aura. The series, however, is careful to dismantle this impression. What gradually emerges is a young man just as lonely, raised at an emotional distance from his parents and accustomed to hiding emptiness behind a gentle smile. Blueming is less interested in who they seem to be and more in what they try to conceal, and it is there that it finds its strength.

The romance between the two avoids the genre’s most obvious formulas. There are no grand declarations, nor a chain of artificial conflicts. Affection is built through discomfort, misunderstandings, lingering glances, and the slow development of trust. For some, this restraint may feel cold or underwhelming; for others, it is precisely what lends the relationship its sense of truth. Blueming embraces the idea that intimacy is not born from excess, but from allowing oneself to be imperfect in front of another, and it sustains this choice with consistency.

Visually, the series is a small triumph. Hwang Da-seul’s direction turns Blueming into something close to an indie film, with natural lighting, delicate framing, expressive use of shadows, and a warm color palette that mirrors the characters’ emotional states. There is clear pleasure in playing with cinematic language, which feels especially fitting given that we are following film students, and visual metaphors such as the recurring notion of “the time between dog and wolf” enrich the narrative without tipping into pretension. Even with budget limitations, the result is elegant and memorable.

The performances follow the same line of subtlety. Kang Eun-bin delivers a Si-won who shifts between defensive arrogance and almost childlike vulnerability, while Jo Hyuk-joon crafts a quiet Da-un, at times perhaps too enigmatic. Here lies one of the series’ most frequent criticisms: it demands an attentive, almost active viewer. Not everything is explained, and not every motivation is made explicit. For some, this deepens realism; for others, it creates emotional gaps that make full connection more difficult, especially in Da-un’s case, whose story could have been further developed.

Another point that divides opinions is how the series approaches sexuality. Blueming chooses to treat it as a non-issue: there are no social acceptance conflicts or major external struggles. For many, this normalization feels liberating, a breath of fresh air within narratives often defined by queer suffering. For others, it comes across as overly idealized, almost erasing issues that are still very real. The choice works within the show’s intimate framework, but it leaves the sense that an additional layer might have further enriched the drama.

In the end, Blueming is less about romance and more about growing up. It is a story about learning to trust, shedding masks, and accepting that beauty and success do not heal old wounds. It is not a series made for everyone; those seeking constant intensity or explicit conflict may find it muted, even forgettable. But for viewers willing to settle into its calm, observant, almost contemplative rhythm, Blueming blooms into a sensitive portrait of youth’s quiet pains. A work that does not shout, does not rush, and perhaps for that very reason, remains.

Read More

A gripping emotional ride, slightly rough around the edges but hard to ignore

Thundercloud Rainstorm arrives as one of those KBLs that immediately demand attention. From the outset, the series presents itself with a dense atmosphere, shadowed cinematography, and a promise of emotional intensity that, in its early episodes, is fulfilled with rare conviction. There is a clear aspiration toward narrative, aesthetic, and emotional maturity, one that lifts the drama above the ordinary and explains why so many viewers were quickly drawn in.

The story revolves around Jeonghan and Iljo, two young men bound by ambiguous family ties, an unresolved past, and an attraction that never found room to exist openly. Its starting point, a relationship shaped by debt, shelter, and a visible imbalance of power, establishes a tense emotional game where affection and control stand dangerously close. This is a romance born out of line, fully aware of its own impropriety, and it turns that flaw into its central source of conflict.

The series’ greatest strength lies in its dialogue, particularly in the moments when outward silence gives way to inner turmoil. Jeonghan, a closed-off and emotionally repressed character, gains depth precisely when the narrative allows us access to his thoughts. Rather than relying on didactic explanations, Thundercloud Rainstorm trusts in words that carry weight, that reveal and sometimes wound. There are moments when a single confession, perhaps spoken too late, holds more power than any grand gesture.

Jeonghan, in fact, is the kind of protagonist who divides opinion, and that works in the drama’s favor. He begins as a harsh, possessive figure, at times frankly unpleasant, but gradually reveals himself as a true “loser in love,” someone incapable of handling his feelings without resorting to control. His journey from rigidity to emotional exposure is among the most carefully constructed arcs in the series. Iljo, by contrast, is more luminous but also more erratic. His passivity and poor decisions sustain much of the conflict, even if not always in the most organic way.

The chemistry between the leads is undeniable and keeps the drama afloat even when the script begins to stumble. Yoon Ji Sung and Jeong Ri U commit fully to their roles, delivering performances that balance vulnerability and desire without slipping into caricature. There is a constant sense of ease between them, an essential quality that makes their relationship, with all its excesses and gray areas, feel at least plausibly real. The result is an intensity that holds the viewer’s attention, even when narrative logic falters.

And falter it does. After an explosive beginning, Thundercloud Rainstorm seems to lose its sense of direction in the latter half. What was once focused anguish dissolves into repetitive misunderstandings, questionable choices, and subplots introduced without sufficient development. Some antagonists verge on the absurd, and certain conflicts are resolved too hastily, as if the series knows exactly where it wants to end up but lacks the time to properly build the road there.

There is also a deliberate discomfort in the way the series engages with unbalanced power dynamics. At times, this tension is provocative and narratively compelling. At others, the boundary of consent becomes too blurred to ignore. Thundercloud Rainstorm treats this moral ambiguity as an aesthetic choice, but it does not always manage to examine it critically, leaving part of its audience caught between fascination and unease.

The finale, while emotionally satisfying for many, carries the weight of revelations delivered too late. The clarification of the protagonists’ family connection, for instance, arrives as a narrative relief but also as a rushed solution to a dilemma that had sustained the entire story. Even so, the ending succeeds in seeking a circular closure, reframing earlier scenes and reaffirming the idea of a love that had always existed, even if misunderstood.

From a technical standpoint, the series stands out with confidence. The soundtrack is striking and carefully placed, the sound design is precise, and the direction shows a clear understanding of how to use bodies, glances, and silence as narrative tools. Visual composition and pacing work together to heighten emotional tension, often saying more through atmosphere than through dialogue. Even when the script feels excessive or unfocused, a consistent aesthetic care sustains interest and gives the drama a distinct, recognizable identity.

In the end, Thundercloud Rainstorm may not be as cohesive as it could have been, but it is difficult to overlook. Imperfect, provocative, and emotionally charged, it rests on the strength of its characters, the compelling chemistry of its central couple, and its willingness to take narrative risks. It is not a work meant to please everyone, and perhaps it does not want to, but it is undoubtedly one of the most talked-about and intriguing KBLs of 2025.

Read More

There is beauty in choosing to love, again and again, even when it leaves scars

Love in the Big City is not just a series; it is a state of mind. One of those rare encounters between a work and its audience in which fiction stops being a shelter and becomes a mirror. Released in 2024, the KBL, even though this label is not enough to fully contain it, presents itself as a queer coming-of-age drama that understands, from its very first minute, that loving in a big city is not romantic by nature. It is exhausting, contradictory, sometimes cruel. And yet, deeply human.

Set in Seoul, the series follows the journey of Ko Yeong, a young gay man who moves through life as if walking on exposed wires: driven by desire, fear, impulsiveness, and a loneliness that never fully goes away. He drifts through bars, clubs, other people’s beds, and conversations that make no promises about tomorrow. At first glance, he may seem like just another bohemian protagonist. But Love in the Big City quickly reveals that this constant movement is, in fact, a desperate attempt to avoid standing still with himself for too long.

The series’ greatest strength lies in its radical honesty. Here, love does not appear as salvation, nor as a final destination. It appears as experience, sometimes bright, sometimes devastating. Each relationship Ko Yeong lives through works as a distinct chapter in his emotional growth: the love that comes too early, the one that hurts in silence, the one that promises healing but also carries weight, the one that could have been, and the one that simply cannot last. There are no easy villains, nor absolute heroes. There are people, with very clear limits.

Nam Yoon-su delivers one of the most impressive performances in recent Korean audiovisual works. His Ko Yeong is contradictory without being inconsistent, selfish without ever losing his humanity. He loves poorly because he has not learned how to love himself, and the series never tries to soften this fact. On the contrary, it observes, with care and seriousness, how family trauma, social rejection, repeated losses, and living with HIV shape his view of affection, belonging, and the future. Nothing is treated as shock for its own sake; everything is absorbed as a natural part of life.

The direction, divided into blocks that follow different phases and relationships, reinforces this feeling of existential chapters. Each arc has its own rhythm and emotional tone, as if the series respects the idea that no one loves in the same way throughout life. The concise format of only eight episodes is used with precise intelligence: there is no rush, but there is also no waste. Every silence matters. Every scene stays long enough to hurt.

Visually, Love in the Big City carries a melancholic beauty. The cinematography turns Seoul into more than just a setting: the city pulses, watches, oppresses, and embraces at the same time. Neon-lit clubs contrast with silent rooms, empty streets speak to suffocating interiors. There is something almost lyrical in the way the camera follows Ko Yeong, as if it were always one step behind, respecting his intimacy while never leaving him.

Another fundamental pillar of the series is friendship. Mi Ae, his best friend and roommate, represents something many queer narratives try to show but rarely achieve: the strength of chosen family without caricature. Their relationship is built on everyday affection, small loyalties, mistakes, and constancy. When Ko Yeong’s romantic world falls apart again and again, it is within this friendship that the series finds its emotional ground.

This sense of belonging expands through his wider group of friends, who form a loose but vital network of support. They are not idealized or endlessly patient, and conflicts, misunderstandings, and emotional distance are part of their dynamic. Still, these relationships offer Ko Yeong moments of relief, laughter, and recognition, reminding him that intimacy does not exist only in romantic form. Together, they create a space where love is expressed through presence rather than permanence, and where being seen, even imperfectly, becomes a way to survive the city.

Love in the Big City also stands out for its precise social commentary. Without didactic speeches, it addresses structural homophobia, religion, feminism, abortion, prejudice against people living with HIV, and mental health as inseparable parts of the queer experience in a conservative context. Nothing is resolved easily. Some wounds remain open. And this is a gesture of respect: the series understands that not every pain needs to be explained, much less healed within the limits of a narrative.

Perhaps that is why its impact lasts for so long. It is not a work made for comfort, nor for light consumption. It is the kind that leaves the viewer slightly unsettled at the end, like someone who has just left an important conversation and still does not know what to do with everything they felt. The open ending is not a lack of answers, but coherence: life goes on, even when we wish it would pause to give us meaning.

Throughout its runtime, Love in the Big City reaffirms something simple and devastating: growing up means learning that love does not always save, but it always transforms. That loneliness is not the absence of people, but often the absence of acceptance. And that, amid loss, mistakes, and imperfect new beginnings, there is still beauty in moving forward, even without guarantees.

In the end, the series does not promise happiness. It promises truth. And perhaps that is exactly why it stands so strongly as one of the great works of contemporary queer audiovisual storytelling. Because loving, in the big city or anywhere else, is rarely easy. But as long as stories are told with this level of care, courage, and sensitivity, there will still be love, even if it hurts.

Read More

A song of love, growth, and second chances

From its very first episode, ThamePo pulls you in with a quiet confidence that feels almost disarming. At a glance, the premise might seem like familiar territory, a romance set against the backdrop of the entertainment industry, but the series wastes no time proving it has far more on its mind. What begins as a seemingly simple story quickly reveals layers of emotional depth, exploring love, ambition, self-doubt, and the complicated dance between who you are and who the world expects you to be. It’s the kind of narrative that reminds you how much richness can come from small moments handled with intention.

What elevates ThamePo is its warmth, a quality that threads through every episode. There’s a gentleness to the way the story unfolds, as if the series knows how heavy its themes can be and chooses, instead of dramatizing them, to hold them with care. Scenes are infused with tenderness, sometimes quiet, sometimes playful, always sincere. Even when the show dives into anxiety, guilt, or the crushing demands of fame, it never loses sight of its heart. It maintains a sense of emotional safety, the feeling that the series understands its characters and wants the audience to understand them too.

Much of that emotional connection comes from William and Est, whose performances anchor the entire narrative. Their chemistry is the kind that doesn’t need grand gestures to convince you; it lives in the subtle things. A look held for a beat too long. A silence that speaks louder than an entire monologue. A brush of a hand that carries more tension than any dramatic confession. Their relationship grows in the way real feelings often do: slowly, quietly, almost without permission. By the time you realize how deeply invested you are, the show has already wrapped its fingers around your heart. They’re the kind of couple who make you root for them instinctively, who can make you smile in one scene and leave you aching in the next.

But ThamePo doesn’t rely solely on its leads to build emotional resonance. The other members of MARS, the idol group around which the story orbits, are more than background figures; they’re an essential part of the show’s soul. Each character has a distinct arc, complete with insecurities, ambitions, and personal battles that enrich the main storyline. Their friendship feels lived-in, full of banter, tension, affection, and the unspoken understanding that comes from sharing countless hours of rehearsals, stages, and dreams. Their dynamic is one of the show’s strongest assets, creating the sense of a world that extends beyond the central romance.

The series also approaches the idol industry with an honesty that feels refreshing. It exposes the pressure to maintain a flawless public image, the fear of disappointing fans, the emotional exhaustion of constant scrutiny. Yet it does so without cynicism. Instead of painting the industry as inherently cruel, it highlights how easily the pursuit of perfection can erode individuality. It shows the toll of being watched, judged, and expected to embody an ideal, while still recognizing the beauty and passion that draw artists to the stage in the first place.

On a technical level, ThamePo is a visual and auditory standout. The cinematography is crafted with precision: delicate framing, soft lighting, and a color palette that enhances the emotional temperature of each scene. The show knows how to linger, not unnecessarily, but intentionally, letting the audience fully absorb the feeling of a moment before moving on. The soundtrack is equally thoughtful. Every song seems chosen not just to complement the scene but to deepen it, adding an emotional undercurrent that stays with you long after the episode ends. The MARS songs are genuinely catchy, but more importantly, they help ground the narrative in its musical world, giving authenticity to the characters’ careers and dreams.

Ultimately, what makes ThamePo so unforgettable is its ability to comfort. It’s a series that feels safe to return to, even when tackling difficult themes. It’s light without ever becoming shallow, emotional without slipping into melodrama, and introspective without feeling heavy. At its core, it’s a story about second chances, about forgiving yourself, about choosing love even when it scares you, about finding your place in a world that constantly tries to shape you into something else.

And when the final episode fades out, ThamePo leaves you with that rare kind of warmth: the sense of having witnessed a story that was honest, tender, and deeply human. The kind of story that lingers, not because of plot twists or shock value, but because of the quiet truth it carries. The kind that reminds you why we fall in love with stories like this in the first place.

Read More

A story shaped by rivalry and affection, brushed with the soft shadow of the supernatural

Head 2 Head slipped into the Thai BL landscape without fanfare, almost quietly, yet with a peculiar ability to linger. At first glance, it presents itself as another familiar university-set enemies-to-lovers story. As the episodes unfold, however, the series reveals a gentler, deeper ambition: to speak of love as a conscious choice, of futures weighed down by uncertainty, and of the quiet terror of losing someone before learning how to hold on. It is a story shaped by rivalry and affection, brushed with the soft shadow of the supernatural.

Its premise is modest but steady. Jerome and Jinn grow up locked in competition, children of close families who, without intent, allow shared warmth to harden into rivalry. Time moves forward, yet the pattern remains. As university students in the same program, they continue circling each other through taunts, challenges, and sharp words that often mask something more tender beneath the surface. The narrative shifts when an accident forces proximity, and fractures entirely when Jerome begins to see Jinn’s future in his dreams, visions of loss, injury, and the looming presence of death. What once felt like youthful noise gradually settles into something heavier and more deliberate.

The series finds its strongest footing in the space between its two leads. Sea and Keen do not rely on grand romantic declarations; instead, they let silence, timing, and restraint carry the weight. Jerome and Jinn move around each other like celestial bodies, drawn together by forces they barely understand. Their arguments feel charged, their distance temporary, their returns inevitable. The evolution from rivalry to intimacy unfolds without rupture, allowing love to emerge not as a twist, but as a quiet realization.

When Head 2 Head darkens its tone, it often does so with surprising restraint. Jerome’s visions are not shocks meant to jolt the viewer, but slow accumulations of dread. Fear does not scream; it lingers. It settles into glances held too long, words left unsaid, and the suffocating weight of knowledge carried alone. Jerome’s silence becomes its own form of sacrifice, revealing that the true threat is not fate itself, but the loneliness of believing one must face it alone.

Some of the series’ most resonant moments arise when it allows emotion to breathe. The hospital scene following Jinn’s injury stands as one of its most quietly devastating passages. Here, love is stripped of fantasy and examined as responsibility. There is no glorification of martyrdom, only a fragile plea: that loving someone should not mean losing oneself. In moments like these, Head 2 Head steps beyond genre convention and touches something achingly human.

Music plays an essential role in shaping this emotional landscape. The soundtrack does not merely accompany the narrative; it echoes it. Each song feels like a private confession, mirroring the characters’ inner lives. “Turns Out It’s You” captures the emotional arc of the central couple with disarming honesty, while the solo tracks deepen the sense of internal conflict and longing. It is a score that listens as much as it speaks.

The supporting cast adds texture to this world, particularly through Van and Farm. Their storyline carries a rougher, more uneasy tone, exploring insecurity, emotional imbalance, and the quiet damage of self-sabotage. While the performances, especially Java’s, bring sincerity and emotional weight, the arc occasionally overstays its welcome, pulling focus from the main narrative. Even so, its presence signals a willingness to portray love not as ideal, but as fragile and, at times, deeply flawed.

On a technical level, Head 2 Head wavers. The direction excels in intimate exchanges and emotional warmth but struggles with pacing, particularly in its latter stretch. While earlier episodes take time to sit with discomfort and ambiguity, the final arc feels noticeably rushed. Conflicts that once unfolded with patience are resolved with surprising ease, as if emotional knots carefully tied over many episodes were suddenly undone in a single motion. The effect is less cathartic than disorienting, giving the impression that hard-won tensions dissolve almost by narrative convenience rather than emotional inevitability.

This haste is felt most sharply in how conversations and consequences are handled near the end. Where silence and avoidance once carried meaning, resolutions arrive too quickly, smoothing over fractures that seemed to demand deeper reckoning. The supernatural thread, though emotionally potent, also suffers here; without clearer internal rules, its final function leans toward a near-magical solution, weakening the sense of risk the series so carefully built earlier on.

Even with these shortcomings, the series leaves a lasting impression. Sea offers a layered portrayal of Jerome, balancing softness with restrained despair, while Keen gives Jinn a vulnerability that quietly breaks through his volatility. Together, they anchor the story, transforming simple exchanges into moments heavy with meaning, ensuring that even when the narrative stumbles, the emotional core remains intact.

In the end, Head 2 Head is neither flawless nor revolutionary. What it offers instead is sincerity. It understands comfort not as escape, but as recognition. Though its final steps may falter in their haste, the journey itself remains tender and thoughtful. The series closes not with perfect resolution, but with a lingering warmth, the sense of having shared something intimate and fragile, and the quiet wish that the story had trusted its own patience just a little longer.

Read More

A story about second chances, rebuilding gently, and loving someone deeply enough to cross lifetimes

Some shows win us over with their story, others with their visual charm, and a few ones with a kind of chemistry that feels almost alive, something that slips through the screen and lands right in the viewer’s chest. Reset, the Thai BL led by Pond and Peterpan, belongs to that last category. The premise may sound familiar: a man is given the chance to go back in time and fix the mistakes that led him to a tragic end. However, Reset isn’t interested in complicated sci-fi; it wants to talk about love, and it does so with such clear sincerity that resisting it becomes almost impossible.

The setup is simple, almost deceptively so: Armin, an actor undone by the people closest to him, is given a second chance to rebuild himself after a “reset”. On this new path, he crosses Tada’s orbit once more, a CEO who could have easily been just another cold, unreachable archetype; but he isn’t. Tada moves differently, at his own rhythm. He loves through details and bold gestures alike; he observes before speaking; he protects long before admitting it out loud. He is the kind of character who quietly restores one’s faith in romance, perhaps the series’ greatest triumph.

And if the story draws its strength from the bond between its leads, it’s the cast that gives this connection its heartbeat. Pond and Peterpan deliver one of the most natural, luminous chemistries Thai BL has offered in recent years. There is something unpretentious, almost magical, in the way they lock eyes, respond instinctively, improvise without forcing the moment. Pairing Pond, an experienced actor who rarely repeats co-stars, with Peterpan, a newcomer whose emotional openness is genuinely disarming, results in a duo that glows. It’s the kind of dynamic that makes the audience forget they’re watching fiction at all.

The series also succeeds beautifully in placing romance at its emotional center. Every confession, every small act of affection, every quiet moment between them is crafted with almost artisanal care. The more intimate scenes avoid empty explicitness, and instead, lean into emotion, guided by a direction that understands how to balance sensitivity and poetry. Reset handles these moments with such grace that the result often feels unexpectedly, dazzlingly romantic, the kind of tenderness that wells up not from sadness, but from the sheer beauty of witnessing love portrayed with such honesty.

But Reset isn’t carried by its couple alone, and the show knows it. Veynai, Tada’s secretary, could easily have faded into the background, yet he never does. Loyal, softhearted, and always precise, he brings warmth to the workplace and lightness to the drama. He becomes emotional support when needed, but also a steady presence that enriches the world around the leads. And alongside him stands Janine, Armin’s manager, who steals scenes with the same ease he protects his artist. Grounded, intuitive, and fiercely devoted, Janine adds heart to Armin’s journey, offering both guidance and genuine affection. His presence rounds out the emotional core of the series.

Of course, Reset isn’t without flaws. The first half, responsible for building the mystery around the reset and the threats surrounding Armin, falters. The pacing hurries where it should breathe and lingers where it should move on, creating a sense of imbalance that slightly blurs the emotional throughline. Some plot threads feel introduced only to be abandoned later, and the tonal shifts between suspense and romance aren’t always as smooth as they could be, making the early episodes feel less cohesive than the story ultimately deserves.

But the biggest issue is undeniably Thiwthit, the antagonist. Tada’s brother, reworked into the main villain for the adaptation, becomes the show’s weakest link, not only because the writing stretches his motivations thin, but because the performance never fully lands. Emotional moments that should feel tense or unsettling often come across as exaggerated or disconnected, pulling the narrative away from its intended weight. His scenes can be genuinely difficult to sit through, creating spikes of discomfort that clash with the emotional subtlety the rest of the series works so carefully to build.

Still, there is something almost generous in the way the script resolves its heaviest conflicts at the very beginning of the final episode, giving the entire last chapter over to what truly matters: peace. Reset understands the value of letting the audience exhale with its characters, without rushing to tie every loose thread. It’s rare to see a series treat its ending as a quiet celebration rather than frantic damage control; and that choice elevates its finale to something tender and deeply emotional.

And what a finale it is. The hospital scene, the proposal, the lucky necklace carrying whole lifetimes of meaning, and the quiet certainty that their love survived time itself, literally and metaphorically. Armin and Tada finish their journey hand in hand, exchanging words that brush the edge of poetry while never losing the everyday warmth that makes them real. Their happiness feels genuine, almost radiant, and the show embraces it without irony or hesitation. It stands as one of the most moving proposals ever portrayed in a BL drama, a closing chapter that lingers long after the final frame.

In the end, Reset succeeds because it keeps its heart exactly where it should be. It refuses to drown itself in complicated time-travel theories. It answers what needs to be answered and leaves the rest suspended in mystery, the way life often does. Its heart lies not in changing the past but in choosing how to live when given the chance to begin again. And Armin, retracing his steps, finds exactly what had been missing: a love steady enough to guide him back, honest enough to ground him, and strong enough to transform him.

The result is a BL that, even with its imperfections and despite its missteps, emerges as one of the year’s most memorable, standing just a step behind Khemjira in both impact and emotional resonance. A story about second chances, about rebuilding gently, and about loving someone deeply enough to cross lifetimes. Reset isn’t just beautiful, it’s deeply felt. The sort of series that settles softly in the heart and glows there for a while, reminding you of why romance, when done with care, still matters.

Read More

The unexpected charm of a sweet story

Only Boo arrived quietly, almost as if asking for permission before stepping in, but it quickly became one of GMMTV’s most talked-about and beloved BLs of 2024. What seemed at first like just another school romance turned into a surprisingly mature series, balancing lightness and sensitivity with themes that go far beyond the usual teenage clichés. There’s something honest in the way the story deals with love, dreams, and responsibility, and maybe that’s why it resonated so strongly with viewers.

The strongest part of the show is the main couple. Moo and Kang are opposites that simply work: Moo is outgoing, sweet, and determined, while Kang is shy, reserved, and realistic. Their dynamic never feels forced. The show builds their relationship in an organic, almost everyday way that makes every gesture meaningful. Moo lights up the screen with his effortless charm, and Kang brings balance with his quiet steadiness. They complement each other in a simple but remarkably effective way.

Throughout the episodes, Only Boo manages to evoke that same warm, comforting feeling that shows like My School President delivered so well. It’s the kind of story that hugs you, makes you smile without realizing it, and turns romance into something genuinely tender. It’s not a copy, far from it, but it shares the same heart: a narrative that feels good, which is rare.

The series also shines by avoiding the typical rush into romance. Kang refusing to date Moo right away so he could prioritize school is a rare decision in this genre and shows how much care went into the characters’ growth. The breakup, which divided a lot of fans, follows that same logic. It’s painful, yes, but coherent for where both of them were in life. Moo needed to stand on his own without relying on Kang’s approval for everything, and Kang needed to realize he wasn’t responsible for every choice Moo made.

The time apart works as a turning point, even if some plot decisions stretched the drama a bit more than necessary. This is actually the biggest flaw of the final stretch. Episodes that could have deepened the conflicts end up stuck in the usual BL slow-burn tropes, only to be resolved in a rush in the finale. It’s nothing that ruins the experience, but it’s enough to leave the sense that certain elements deserved more space, especially the secondary couples, who only get to breathe near the end.

Even so, the young cast carries the show with freshness. Sea and Keen are one of GMMTV’s best recent pairings, delivering chemistry, naturalness, and surprisingly solid performances. Moo in particular stands out, vulnerable without losing his sparkle and sweet without being infantilized. Kang grows at the right pace, finding a balance between caring and respecting boundaries. Among the supporting cast, Potae and Payos are charismatic, and TaeYos works well as a quieter counterpoint, even if underused.

The OST adds to the atmosphere beautifully, soft, warm, and comforting, helping shape that cozy Sunday vibe that so many viewers mentioned. Only Boo is the kind of series that softens your week, turning small moments into scenes full of affection and creating a sweet little universe even when the plot leans into hurt and growth.

In the end, Only Boo stands as one of 2024’s nicest surprises. It isn’t a perfect series, but it’s sincere, charming, and heartfelt enough to secure a special place among the year’s releases. It’s the kind of BL you finish with a gentle smile and a sting of longing, wishing for just a few more episodes with these characters.

GMMTV nailed the casting, the chemistry, and the overall tone. And if there is one certainty after the final scene, it’s that Sea and Keen still have a lot of great work ahead of them. Until then, Only Boo remains a little refuge, a story that doesn’t try to reinvent the genre but delivers beautifully on its promise to enchant and remind us that sometimes that is exactly what we need.

Read More

Love that breaks all the rules

Bad Buddy is one of those series that you finish with a silly smile on your face and an empty feeling in your chest because it’s over. It’s the kind of story that sticks with you, not just because of the plot or the characters, but because of the way everything is handled with so much care, sensitivity, and love. Directed by Noppharnach Chaiwimol, or simply P’Aof, this work stands out as one of the most genuine and revolutionary BLs from GMMTV and honestly, one of the best ever made.

The premise seems simple: two boys from rival families who grew up hating each other, but end up falling in love. A classic “enemies to lovers,” right? But Bad Buddy takes this cliché and breaks every stereotype. Here there is no submission, no “husband and wife” role, and no toxic love disguised as passion that many dramas still insist on romanticizing. What the series delivers is a balanced, mature relationship built on communication and respect. Pat and Pran are two characters who tease each other, challenge each other, but above all understand each other and that is beautiful to watch.

Ohm Pawat and Nanon Korapat, who play the main couple, are simply flawless. The chemistry between them is tangible, so natural that many times it doesn’t even need words. There are moments where they say everything just with a look, a subtle smile, or the silence that fills the scene. It’s rare to see such sincere and expressive acting, where every touch and glance carries more emotion than any love speech. They can be intense, funny, and incredibly tender, and that makes Pat and Pran more than just a BL couple; they are a real couple, alive, with flaws and dreams, fears and courage.

P’Aof’s direction is another high point. Every scene seems to have been thought out with heart. The cinematography is light, the settings are symbolic, and the editing gives space for the viewer to feel, not just watch. There is an absurd delicacy in the choice of shots, pauses, and metaphors that run through the whole narrative. One example is episode 11, where Pat talks about “quitting the bar,” a metaphor for the breakup. These subtleties make Bad Buddy an almost poetic experience, where everything is there for a reason, and every detail has weight.

The soundtrack deserves special mention. There are only three original songs, but each has an important emotional role in the series. “Just Friend” marks the first episodes, symbolizing Pran’s suppressed feelings. “Secret” represents Pat’s awakening and recognition of love. And “Our Song,” used in the final episodes, is practically the couple’s anthem, the celebration of the love that faced the world and won. Each track appears at the exact moment, and it’s impossible to hear them without remembering the scenes that made you cry, laugh, or just sigh.

The script is also surprisingly smart. It doesn’t need forced plot twists or caricatured villains. Even the secondary characters are treated with respect and lightness, like the couple Pa and Ink, who completely avoid the idea of female rivalry that ruins so many other stories in the genre. In Bad Buddy, women are not used as tools to generate jealousy or drama, and that is such a relief.

The ending is exactly what the story deserved. No tragedies, no melodrama, no unnecessary suffering. Pat and Pran choose love, even if it means living part of it in secret. And that’s not cowardice, it’s a conscious choice of those who have already suffered enough trying to please others. They understand that their relationship only concerns themselves, and that message is powerful. It’s about protecting love without hiding from yourself.

Bad Buddy is an ode to the freedom to love. A series that shows true love doesn’t need to be loud or perfect, it just needs to be sincere. It makes you laugh, cry, fall in love, and believe again that love can really be beautiful and light. So, I have to say thank you, P’Aof, Ohm, Nanon, and the whole team for this masterpiece. Bad Buddy is not just a series, it’s a feeling, and it will keep warming the hearts of those who watched it for a very, very long time.

“You may think that someone like me cannot change the world, but I want you to know that this world cannot change someone like me either.”

Read More

First impression: an intimate first step into love and hesitation

The first episode introduces the series with a delicate and engaging tone, clearly focused on building atmosphere before any major narrative turning point. The story leans into sensations: glances that linger a little too long, silences heavy with meaning, and a soft yet constant emotional tension that settles in from the very first minutes. The dynamic between Minato and Wataru emerges naturally, supported by a tender and convincing chemistry that quickly draws the viewer in.

Visually, the episode stands out for its clean, cinematic aesthetic, with careful cinematography that enhances the intimate and comforting mood. The unhurried pacing works in favor of the story, allowing the bond between the characters to be established with sensitivity and attention to detail. As an opening chapter, it precisely fulfills its role of introducing the series’ world and laying the emotional groundwork of the narrative, sparking curiosity and leaving a lingering promise of a deep and captivating emotional journey.

Read More

First impression: a quietly emotional drama shaped by loss, silences, and a lingering calm

Cat for Cash opens with the kind of softness that knows exactly where it wants to land. The first episode quickly breaks any expectation of loud fantasy or goofy comedy; what we get instead is a quietly emotional drama, warmed by recent loss, meaningful silences, and a strange, comforting calm. Yes, there are cats, and yes, there is a subtle supernatural touch, but the real heartbeat of the story lives in its human connections: unresolved grief, inherited debt, and the almost desperate need to keep something alive when everything feels one step away from falling apart.

A lot of this emotional pull comes from First and Khaotung, who feel completely in sync. Their chemistry isn’t showy or forced; it grows in the small things, in lingering looks, shared pauses, and moments where silence says more than words ever could. The bond between Tiger and Lynx forms naturally, without rushing, letting each interaction carry real weight. It’s the kind of connection you feel before you can fully explain it, turning simple scenes into something intimate, heavy, and deeply human. The supporting cast matches this tone effortlessly, creating a world that feels lived-in and real, with the cats acting less as comic relief and more as emotional anchors.

On a technical level, the series is just as careful. The direction leans into a warm visual style, with thoughtful framing and cinematography that favors closeness and intimacy. The soundtrack knows exactly when to step back and when to pull you deeper in, lifting quiet moments into something that almost hurts in the best way. Even the fantasy element, which could have easily felt silly, is handled with restraint, adding to the emotional texture instead of breaking it.

If there’s one small concern early on, it lies in the pacing. The premiere packs in a lot and moves fast in places, which might raise questions about how the story will breathe over the season. Still, the overall feeling is undeniably positive. Cat for Cash feels like a rare kind of BL, one that offers comfort, understands pain without exploiting it, and treats tenderness as its greatest strength. By the end of the first episode, it’s clear this isn’t just a show to watch, but an emotional place to come back to when the world feels a little too heavy.

Read More

First impression: a youthful romcom built on exaggeration and carefully crafted awkwardness

Duang with You presents itself from the very first episode as a youthful romcom built on exaggeration and carefully crafted awkwardness. The series leans into physical humor, heightened reactions, and the charm of love at first sight to introduce Duang, an impulsive, intense, and emotionally unguarded protagonist whose immediate fixation on Qin shapes much of the opening narrative. The tone is light and at times noisy, making it clear that subtlety is not the goal here. Instead, the show embraces excess as its chosen language.

The character dynamics work best when the story leans on its groups of friends. These trios play a central role, commenting on events, interfering when needed, and speeding the story along, giving the episode momentum even if it occasionally feels rushed. Between Duang and Qin, the bond is built more on contrast than depth. Duang’s expansive energy meets Qin’s almost enigmatic quiet, creating a simple yet effective tension that feels familiar to the genre. There are hints of future layers, though the premiere seems more interested in suggestion than in full development.

From a technical standpoint, the series remains faithful to its intentions. The direction favors a fast pace, an ever-present soundtrack, and visual choices that flirt with a cartoony aesthetic. The balance does not always hold, as excess can become tiring and the humor does not always land, but there is consistency in the visual and tonal approach. Duang with You does not aim to reinvent the BL romantic comedy. It chooses instead to work within familiar formulas, relying on the cast’s charm and easy audience identification.

By the end of the episode, the impression is of a functional opening that prioritizes mood and character introductions over deeper conflict. The series positions itself as light entertainment, meant to be enjoyed without heavy emotional demands, yet still leaving room to grow. What remains to be seen is whether, in the episodes to come, the story will find the space to move beyond its initial charm and turn simple likability into lasting emotional engagement.

Read More