When the Only Way Forward Is....Acting

Double is a tour-de-force of acting and writing for the small screen. Chiba Yudai and Nagayama Kento disappear into the roles of two struggling stage actors, a mentor and a mentee. The ten-episode script by Yoshida Erika, a co-writer of Cherry Magic, focuses on a period in the two characters’ weirdly co-dependent relationship when the career of the younger actor begins to eclipse that of his mentor. Chiba plays Takarada Takara, who begs to join a penurious theater company after randomly catching one of their plays on a rainy day. Nagayama plays Kamoshima Yujin, an established actor befuddled by the awkward oddball’s request to upend his life and join the troupe. Eventually seeing in Takara a potential for acting greatness, Yujin agrees to take him on. That summary accounts for the first episode, but the second leaps seven years forward in their relationship. By that time, Yujin has become not only Takara’s mentor, but also his closest companion, defacto manager, and personal warden. Chiba and Nagayama inhabit the inner and outer worlds of their characters, as Yoshida’s deft script plumbs the psyche and pathos of their friendship.

Episodes Two through Seven depict the deep connection between Yujin and Takara following those seven unseen years. Their bond fuses the professional and the personal. The duo block acting roles together. They study filmed works of famous actors. They occupy adjacent rooms in a ramshackle dwelling. Because Takara has some sort of reading impediment, Yujin steers their acting process. Because Takara evinces no interest in household chores, Yujin cooks and launders for both. Because Takara loses track of details, Yujin nannies him to ensure he arrives at his appointments. Mostly symbiotic, the dynamic contains dysfunction. When sent to auditions on his own, Takara becomes easily overwhelmed. To cope, he conjures an imaginary version of Yujin, and the specter proffers advice to fit the circumstances. It’s fair to say that both Yujins—the real one and the avatar—own considerable real estate between Takara’s ears.

Change disrupts the established pattern of their comfortable routine when Takara’s career begins to flourish. He secures flashy acting gigs in TV dramas, in commercials, and, most notably, in an arty film directed by a high-profile auteur. Meanwhile, struggling to survive between acting gigs, Yujin languishes as a short-order cook. Success splits the pair. Famous Director resents the unheralded Yujin (or the conjured specter of Yujin) influencing his actor’s on-film decisions. New colleagues question and undermine their closeness. A fresh, professional management agency whisks Takara away to a new living arrangement. On the strength of these novel outside influences, Takara begins to blossom into both a functioning, independent adult and an actor confident enough to make his own performative choices. He is evicting Yujin from his headspace.

The series’ title references two usages of the word “double” in the acting profession. Both usages allow Yoshida’s script to delve into the mental world of each lead character. In the process, Yoshida offers viewers a veritable seminar in performance studies. First, “doubling” is a rehearsal practice in which one actor rehearses their scenes with an actor who won’t actually play the part onstage. The substitute’s job is to double the performance of the absent actor, thereby enabling the scene partner to hone their own portrayal. The technique requires the double to understand the motivations not only of the character, but also of the actor whose performative choices they must emulate. A secondary usage of double, “double-casting”, refers to the practice of having two actors alternate performances in the same role. During their seven years in the theater company, Yujin often employed both senses of doubling as techniques to help teach Takara the craft of acting or to learn his lines in myriad plays. Doubling one another became second-nature by the time outside forces intervened in their dynamic.

Episode Eight features a second time jump, merely six months this time, a period in the pair’s lives when Takara’s success has led to the duo’s near complete estrangement. Having broken her characters apart, Yoshida’s script now must bring them back together ahead of the looming series finale. An instance of doubling, when Yujin fills in for Takara’s co-star in a new theater production, provides the catalyst for the duo’s reunion, both professional and personal. During that rehearsal, the play’s director marked not only Yujin’s own considerable talent as an actor, but also the way his portrayal of the part elevated Takara’s performance. Recognizing that ineffable spark between two performers, the director unceremoniously dumps the actor previously cast. Due to this play’s difficult subject matter, she also seizes Yujin’s addition to the company as an opportunity to reimagine her version of the production. Henceforward, Yujin and Takara will alternate roles. For the characters, the double-casting amounts to regression: having just attained independence, the two will once again become doubles to one another. The final trilogy of episodes explore the repercussions of the director’s double choices. Takara seems to value his fledgling self-sufficiency, and initially he resists the latter’s reinsertion into his life. How he handles the mental crisis created by this development drives the plot in those final three episodes. But is his emotional opposition to Yujin’s casting merely professional anxiety?

The dynamic between Takara and Yujin contains a subtle sexual tension that burbles beneath the surface for the first seven of the ten episodes. Takara’s attraction to Yujin (previously unspoken but implied a few times) erupts into the open in Episode Eight. That verbal outburst proved one-sided, and neither character dwells on the romantic tension in the penultimate episode. The issue ripples through the finale, but primarily as an accent to the character arc, not to flavor the story arc. “I want your everything. Your voice, your eyes, your hand, your foot, everything,” Takara confesses in the Finale. At first blush (and one wants to after hearing the raw, soul-baring need inherent to those words), Takara aims that confession at Yujin. But on consideration, flesh-and-blood Yujin was not there. The confession went to the conjured Yujin in Takara’s head, which means Takara really said that to himself. So it’s an open question whether Takara is asking something of Yujin in absentia or exhorting himself to get his act together. In context, the words come across less as an expression of romantic desire and more as a lost soul’s yearning for connection.

That any sexual attraction arises at all creates a temptation for some viewers to classify the whole series as BL; yet, Double frankly lacks most of that genre’s telltale tics. I cannot fathom the series even aspires to be seen as BL.* If Double never reads as BL, it likewise never reads as LGBTQ+. Its mostly-latent queer tensions never drive any story arc. For these reasons, the stunted gay storyline does not represent a betrayal of the queer sexual tension in the story or of the characters themselves. Queerbaiting, this story is not. Double does offer a beguiling exploration into the friendship bond between two men, a product of one’s need to find greatness and the other’s…need. Everything else, including the putative romance, proves incidental to the other business this series aimed to portray.

Yoshida’s strong focus on character makes Double compelling television. Watching Takara and Yujin—or Takara and Specter Yujiin—takes viewers on a journey that nearly fractures reality. While doubling during rehearsals, the actors explain their performative choices to one another and, by extension, to the audience. This recurrent doubling in Double offers ample opportunity for Yoshida to comment upon the theory and psychology of performativity, the psychology of friendship, the psychology of co-dependency, and the psychology of suppressed attraction. Those scenes where Yujin and Takara explain their acting choices to one another offer viewers a window into the characters’ innermost thoughts. This device of having the characters speak aloud what’s on their minds echoes an earlier series on which Yoshida contributed as screenwriter, Cherry Magic. In that series, two characters acquire the ability to read minds, allowing the inner thoughts of other characters to be shared with the audience via dialog spoken aloud. Double dispenses with Cherry Magic’s fantastical whimsy, replacing the wizards’ mind-reading with a masterclass on how actors create their portrayals. In both series, this added insight into how the important characters think during important moments helped make the characters vivid and memorable; their stories, plausible and impactful. Primarily a character study powered by a provocative script, powerhouse acting (especially from Chiba), and competent direction, Double achieves an echelon of thoughtful brilliance few other series can aspire to match.


Easter Egg: In episode 9, a poster for the play reveals the dates and venues for the performances in 2024. Make plans now!

*-- The class of BL fans who consume the genre just to watch a fluffy story wherein two handsome men kiss will want to skip this series. Double does not deliver what they seek. The class of BL fans who enjoy their same-sex romances accompanied by intelligent dialog, adult drama, or insight into the human condition will consider Double a mixed bag. If such fans can overlook the minimal same-sex romancing, then those other attributes will reward their dedication to watching. The class of BL fans who enjoy a quality drama because it's a quality drama will simply be pleased.

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Maybe I will fall in love without noticing....

What Airplane! did for disaster flicks...What Scary Movie did for scary movies, this witty Japanese confection does for the BL genre. Whether you translate the Japanese title as "Absolute BL" or as "A Man Who Defies the World of BL," this first-rate parody sends up the tricks of the trade. From enemies-to-lovers to secret crushes to falling into the arms of a drop-dead gorgeous guy who ambles past at precisely the right moment some other gorgeous guy needs to be caught, nearly every trope ever touted (or complained about) in a BL series finds its way into this project.

Indeed, the premise of the production is itself one of those tropes. If you've ever come away from a BL marveling that nearly every male character with screen time turns out to be gay, this story pokes its finger right into that wound: the protagonist one day realizes he's a side character ("mobu") in a BL world where all the men around him keep falling into love with one another--a fate he ardently wishes to avoid. He naturally reads every BL novel he can find so that he can identify and recognize stereotypical situations before they sweep him into a same-sex relationship. This mobu is terrified of becoming a main character so recognizing the tropes is paramount. For example, declining an invitation from the handsome latecomer to a karaoke gathering--"want to get out of here?"--is a must because that scenario would inevitably lead to a coupling. Later, he steps over a passed out (and winsome) man on the street because proffering aid to the stricken would, in a BL world, surely lead to romance. Amusingly, many of our mobu's efforts to sidestep a BL fate result in the side characters becoming couples instead. As with any well-constructed parody, one would probably require multiple re-watches to spot every gag stuffed into the story.

Many reviewers refer to the show as a "series," probably because the production's internal structure is divided into about 8 chapters which last about 15 minutes each. Since that essentially equals the runtime of a full-length movie, I prefer to think of Absolute BL as a one-off, unified work. Indeed, Absolute BL can easily be consumed in a single sitting. (All chapters aired together, so a serial presentation it never was.) Each of the eight vignettes sends up a different characteristic of the BL genre. The program is well acted, and the side characters who keep falling for each other embody clear genre stereotypes without ever trending into mockery. Absolute BL is an absolutely fabulous parody made by and for those who enjoy the genre. In fact, the last spoken line of dialog is squarely aimed at BL fans who constantly beg for more: "Don't miss the Season 2....[dramatic pause] if there is one."

I have to close this review by giving special commendation to the "theme song," which itself both sends-up and honors TV theme songs. This one is soooooo cheesy, it goes all the way past cringey and circles back around to charming. The cheese begins with the cast's wardrobe for the song, culled from the cheesiest fashion decade of the 20th century--yes, the 1970s. If the wardrobe was a startling--but effective--choice, having the cast members sing the song apes not only many OST music videos from actual series but also in some ways parodies the ubiquity of boy bands. Even the lyrics take a swipe at BL cliches, as two of the singers have lyrics that assert "Sometimes I fall in love with someone" and "maybe I will fall in love without noticing." Surely, (don't call me Shirley!), nothing is more absolutely BL than characters falling in love without even noticing.

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A BL where the BL is overshadowed by, you know, an actual story

Manner of Death is presently something of a unicorn: it’s a BL drama where the BL aspects are incidental to a primary story rather than driving the plot themselves. Hopefully, that’s a sign that same-sex relationships are shedding the novelty factor that called the genre into existence in the first place. In the future, perhaps Asian dramas can incorporate same-sex relationships into other storylines just as in real life the people engaging in same-sex relationships have other things going on. Things like jobs and crazy family dynamics, for example. In this case, Manner of Death incorporates those rather standard tropes from non-BL (melo)dramatic television premises into a murder mystery detective story that grows in complexity as the series proceeds. Along the way, the two leads fall for another. After all, it is still a BL—and a BL that features the legendary BL pairing MaxTul, here in their fourth series pairing as a couple.

As anyone conversant with the history of (US) television has already discerned from the title, the main plot of Manner of Death centers on a medical examiner who will get drawn into tracking down the killers of murder victims for whom he performed autopsies. Like his TV predecessors from Quincy, Crossing Jordan, and Bones, Dr. Bunnakit (Tul Pakorn Thanasrivanitchai) will occasionally go up against unhelpful relatives of the victim, police officers who refuse to believe murders took place, and obvious initial suspects who turn out to be a good guy. Or, because we are in BL world, he turns out to be a good guy to date. In what surely must qualify as a fresh take on the enemies-to-lovers trope, the most obvious suspect for the murder in Episode 1 is not only dashingly handsome but also manifests a surprising interest in the good doctor. Soon Dr. Bun and Tan (Max Nattapol Diloknawarit) agree to become partners—and that partnership isn’t limited to crime-solving.

Since the core story is a whodunnit, I will forego the usual plot synopsis. Suffice it to say that our two heroes face increasingly dangerous scenarios as they persist in trying to solve a crime that powerful figures in this rural town want to disappear without a full investigation. Towards the end this story becomes overly complicated, macabre, and dark. But don’t let that detract from the fun. Manner of Death offers two-fold pleasures for diligent viewers. First, trying to figure out who is behind the escalating series of crimes (side characters in this series have a limited life expectancy!) and also why. Second, watching one of the more hallowed couplings in the BL realm dig into new roles and fall in love with each other all over again. Er, I mean their characters fall in love with each other. Because I, like ,totally, understand Max and Tul are just actors. And that just because they are convincing and delightful as a couple it doesn't mean they themselves are a couple. Dammit.

Enjoy this pairing because all signs are that one or both of the actors will move on from acting to pursue interests outside the industry. To the detriment of BL storytelling, because Max and Tul have an ease with one another that elevates the productions they perform in. Their chemistry as scene partners is undeniable. That alone makes Manner of Death worthy of sampling.

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The rare sequel to surpass the original...but is it still BL?

Sequels in any genre seldom please fans at the same level as the original. BL sequels enjoy no immunity from this spotty track record. Usually, a lack of freshness accounts for a sequel’s dimmer reception. Something in their formula goes stale. To My Star 2 avoids the staleness trap because TMS2 abandons the original recipe that made the first season a winner. First, by opening the series with the Kang Seo Joon and Han Ji Woo having broken up, the latter now living in a rural village hours from Seoul. Then, in case this off-screen break-up failed to alienate loyal viewers enough, TMS2 also abandons the genre formula of what makes BL BL. Viewers with the patience to stick around despite these disappointed expectations will be rewarded with a series that works on its own terms. To My Star 2 is a well-acted, well-written character study about two people who must reckon with the legacy of emotional trauma in their past to move forward with their present love.

The BL genre’s signature qualities include depicting two men falling in love with another, sticking to fairly standard rom-com tropes, and understanding what the core audience for the genre wants to see. A typical BL series wraps those elements into a fluffy storyline geared to elevate the viewer’s serotonin levels. The first season checked all three boxes and charmed in the process. To My Star 2 strays from that tried-and-true formula. Rather than light-hearted rom-com, the series delivers angsty drama. Rather than depict two men further the romance established in season 1, season 2 opens several months after the couple de-coupled. In early episodes, they scarcely interact. By departing so markedly from the original’s feel-good mood the creative team behind TMS2 boldly carves out a new formula for success.

If TMS2 does not clearly read as BL, it also cannot easily be classified as LGBTQ+. None of the drama or emotional angst revolves around anyone’s sexual identity. If the script swapped out the same-sex couple for an opposite-sex couple, no modifications to the storyline would be required. Neither the past emotional trouble nor the reasons presented for the premature end of the pair’s relationship depends on internal or external homophobia or on sexual identity. In true BL fashion, these two guys just like each other without worrying about the pesky ramifications of being gay that distinguish LGBTQ+ fare. What remains, then, is a study in the fragility of human emotion, and a story with universal overtones. Pegging any series’ entire story arc to emotional traumas that took place in the distant past is a risky endeavor, and one might fairly complain that the writers fell short of concocting a story that fully explains the behavior and reactions of either Seo Joon or Ji Woo. Nevertheless, TMS2 delivers a compelling story about two people in pain. One because he considers himself unworthy of receiving love from his partner; the other because he cannot let his partner go.

With 10 episodes approaching 30 minutes each, TMS2 has a total running time nearly double the original’s. The writers invested the extra time into world building. Support characters are more fleshed out than is possible during the curtailed runtime of the mini-BLs Korea is famous for. As with the original, the president of Kang Seo Joon’s talent agency plays an outsize role, both in his star actor’s messy personal life as well the messy professional life. With many episodes set in the rural village to which Han Ji Woo has retreated, various neighbors and villagers turn up to influence events. When Ji Woo rebuffs Seo Joon’s overtures for reconciliation, a subplot about a reality series that showcases struggling rural restaurants provides a convenient device by which the writers can inflict Seo Joon’s presence on the reticent restauranteur. To My Star 2 will never be confused with arthouse fare, but rather than simply trot out a fluffy story guaranteed to please BL fans who look for that, the creators instead developed a serious drama that allowed the two leads to become more than stock characters. The gamble was rewarded with a compelling piece of television drama.

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Lessons on Life, Love, and Letting Go

Moonlight Chicken is, arguably, the best BL series to come out of Thailand. If, that is, we regard it as BL at all. This series defies expectations associated with dramas from the BL genre many times over, while never quite betraying its roots as a BL drama. For a genre associated with same-sex romance, BL series seldom explore what being gay means to the characters, whereas that is the calling card for series in the LGBTQ genres. Rather than claim a confused sexual identity or espouse some version of “I don’t see gender,” Moonlight’s characters and themes are unapologetically gay. Where the typical BL series peddles an idealized courtship fantasy between virginal men aspiring to a meaningful first love (that will, obviously, last forever), this series focuses on men trying to recover from failed past relationships. The lead characters are neither virgins nor under the illusion that love will be permanent. Instead of two characters overcoming obstacles as they move toward something, this series centers on characters struggling in different ways to let go of their past. The shards of their broken prior romances comprise the obstacles to be overcome before they can contemplate moving on to someone new. Many of the support characters must also learn to let go of some event or person from their own past. These personal demons anchor their present and future. Moonlight Chicken is an extended rumination on the pain of letting go, rather than the straightforward courtship story many viewers might have expected. As a consequence its themes, characters, and plot obstacles will resonate to an audience both older and more conversant with life’s hiccups than the audience that consumes BL solely for the vicarious thrill of (re-)experiencing the bloom of first love. The fantasy elements of BL romances usually revolve around situations designed to infuse reliable doses of serotonin in the brains of viewers. Grounded in the rigors and mundanity of adulting, Moonlight Chicken eschews the fanciful for realism. Anyone who has been burned by love, struggled to make ends meet, or invested time in pursuing someone who is emotionally unavailable will relate to these characters.

At the center of Moonlight Chicken stand Wen and Jim, played by Mix and Earth respectively. The series marks the actors’ third pairing as the showpiece couple of a GMMTV BL series, after A Tale of Thousand Stars (2021) and Cupid’s Last Wish (2022). Wen and Jim showcase the actors’ emotional range better than their prior pairings, where the nature of the roles trapped those characters in a single lane. Here, Wen and Jim each have some emotional trauma to process—leftovers of events that unfolded before the two met—so that the actors have some real work to do. Before Wen and Jim can embark on a relationship themselves, each man must confront the emotional baggage he has carried from the past. Wen has recently left a relationship with Alan, who cannot understand why their relationship failed. Jim lost his lover twice. Once when he discovered that the man had a fiancée and a second time when an accident claimed the man’s life before he could choose which course to follow. In the five years since those events, Jim has never trusted another with his heart. That high wall effectively froze out Gaipa, whose mother runs the chicken stall that supplies the product for Jim’s restaurant. Rounding out the principal cast are a pair of high schoolers, whose incipient friendship blossoms into an incipient romance. Their tale provides a more traditional BL side story, to temper the angst of the main characters.

Steering the whole shebang was Aof, scriptwriter and director. His prior works often have moments where a semblance of queer authenticity crept into the BL proceedings. This go around, the studio allowed him free reign to represent an overtly gay sensibility. Another difference between Moonlight and most other BL series is that four characters—Wen, Jim, Alan, and Gaipa—are all out gay men, well-adjusted to and self-accepting of that identity. For these characters, being gay structures not just personal identity but also dynamics between themselves and their families, friends, co-workers, and lovers. It positions where they believe they fit within society, and what opportunities society offers and forecloses on that basis. Too often BL series believe having two men hop into a bathtub together suffices as a basis for “gay.” Moonlight Chicken understands the difference between gay-as-entertainment and commentary about gayness. In the later episodes, the series even gets a little preachy in its advocacy for accepting same-sex attraction as a perfectly ordinary type of human possibility.

The authentic queer sensibility emerges in the opening scenes of episode 1. A drunken Wen has patronized Jim’s late-night diner, only to pass out in a stupor. The type of person to take responsibility for the well-being of everyone around him, Jim stays with Wen until a friend can arrive to claim him. Because “plot requirements,” the friend never arrives. Instead, the two end up in bed that very night, after a carefully negotiated agreement that their sex was to be a no-strings attached one-night stand. They do not even know each other’s name. That sort of negotiation is quite common among gay men in real life but quite rare in BL. While exceptions exist, the standard BL character is shocked—absolutely stunned!—at the suggestion that two virile men could even contemplate a physical relationship outside of a genuine love. As everyone knows, sexual relationships cannot be consummated until after all the dramatic plot obstacles delaying courtship have been removed. Such thinking reflects the “good girl” standard, that very patriarchal prescriptive model of behavior that regulates the sexuality of single women. (Remember, BL originated as a genre written by women for women. That the sexual comportment of men sleeping with men in BL would resemble the expectations society foists onto women is unsurprising.) Moonlight Chicken favors the descriptive model—portraying how people actually behave in lieu of adhering to some moral standard. Even more than featuring four out gay men, that simple “no strings attached” negotiation helps make this GMMTV series the most authentically gay series ever to emerge from Thailand. That kind of queer authenticity, blended with the theme of letting go makes Moonlight Chicken a compelling drama.

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Misogyny, homophobia, domestic violence in a comedy, as comedy? Oh, no.

The creative team behind Strong Woman Do Bong Soon assembled all the ingredients necessary for a delightful screwball comedy. Fun wacky premise? Yes—a diminutive woman is born with the strength of your typical superhero. Of course, she wants to go through life without being noticed, so she must hide this gift. Charming and beautiful lead actors with good chemistry? Yes—but then we expect that from every K-drama at this point. A powerful man in need of protection? Yes—a CEO accustomed to being in charge must hire the Strong Woman to be his body guard. Naturally, their agendas clash to create comedic plot points. Villains appropriate to a screwball comedy? Yes—not one but two dysfunctional families and a group of inept mobsters are the comic foils to our two heroes. Action sequences in keeping with the screwball premise? Yes—at one point, the titular Strong Woman singlehandedly brawls with 30 mobsters and vanquishes them all in true cartoon-violence style. That is to say, it’s both funny and satisfying. Having assembled these ingredients, the creative team delivers a finished product that delivers on the promise of its premise. For much of the time, Strong Woman Do Bong Soon is a textbook example of what a viewer would want from a screwball comedy.

But this creative team was not content with the strong comedic elements they compiled. They must have concluded the story needed some drama too. So, to their wacky tale featuring cartoonish-feats of strength, leads squabbling with parents whose goals for their kids differ from the kids' own goals for funny, if typical, family conflict, and a half-hearted but light love triangle, this creative team threw into the mix the following additional and super-amusing ingredients: brutal, violent misogyny; kidnapping and torture; multiple ways to ridicule and demean gay men; and turning domestic violence into a joke. To say these elements do not mesh with the elements discussed in the fist paragraph would be to grossly understate the degree to which Strong Woman Do Bong Soon went off the rails as a series.

Once the viewer decides no longer to overlook the brutality of scenes that involve the stalking of women, the beating of women, the mental and physical intimidation of women after their kidnapping; once the viewer can no longer stomach the tired, cliched portrayals of gay men whose only purpose in the story is to make the point that being gay is disgusting and gross and to serve as the butt of jokes for others; once the viewer decides that domestic violence is never funny even if the perpetrator is the wife rather than the husband—well, once the viewer really reflects on those things Strong Woman Do Bong Soon ceases to function as an innocuous screwball comedy. At that point, it’s just an unwatchable mess.

And that’s a shame, because when the series wasn’t being actively misogynistic, insultingly homophobic, or miscasting a social problem for comedy, the rest of it was quite entertaining. This show was popular in its day—and plenty of fans continue to choose to overlook the issues I mentioned above, precisely because the screwball comedy ingredients actually deliver effective screwball comedy. But I cannot imagine people will watch this mess in the future and think it aged well.

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How to Wreck a Popular Franchise—Trigger Warning Edition

Trashing Consent in Sexual Relations and a Respected Franchise—all in one toxic package!

VERDICT

HIStory 4: Close to You has no redeeming qualities. I’d like to believe its lazy storyline, fetishization of gay relationships, and disregard for the virtue of seeking consent before pursuing sex will remain unsurpassed as a nadir for the genre. Given the warmth a substantial section of BL fandom has bestowed upon this toxic swill, however, I fear that filmmakers in the future may continue to believe that audiences will overlook the absence of consent as long as they cast handsome men in lead roles and contrive plot lines that lead those men to bat eyelashes at one another, smile warmly, and then kiss. It’s true, I think, that BL audiences like those things. Like them a lot. But it’s absolutely possible to create those moments without resorting to sexual assaults as technique for courtship. A writer need only put some effort into depicting wooing and warmth. Way more satisfying to observe than the rape of an unconscious victim. Any potential viewer who wishes to avoid the promotion of rape culture, ought to pass this series by without bothering to sample it.

And that criticism doesn’t even approach the other potentially toxic issue here, an incestuous affair between stepbrothers. Close to You is not the first BL series with a rape storyline. It’s not the first BL series with a sexual harassment storyline. It’s not the first BL series with a stepbrother incest storyline. But no other example comes to mind where a series is so unapologetic about all of those things. It’s as if the makers said, “Let’s bundle every trope, every plot device that has provoked backlash in the past and stuff them into this story as the main plot. Then, let’s see how far we can push those boundaries before people protest.” Sadly, many people think the fact the raped character accepts his stepbrother’s affections proves that such things are possible. Um, no. It proves that the writers can write any outcome they like, no matter how implausible, and people will think it’s charming. You know, as long as handsome men kiss.

Previous iterations of the HIStory franchise earned a great deal of goodwill in BL fandom. And not just the straight female segment of BL fandom. The earlier incarnations also appealed to gay male audiences who could see aspects of their lives in those stories. As a genre, BL sometimes gets accused of fetishizing gay lives for the entertainment of straight women. For me, the HIStory series largely avoided those pitfalls, as it told thoughtful and provocative stories. The thoughtfulness of those stories is certainly a reason I stuck around for this series long after it raised my hackles. I had faith the makers would somehow redeem themselves. In this instance, that faith went unrewarded. Close to You has sullied the venerable franchise so severely I’m not sure it can recover.

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Laughs. Redemption. Courtship. Serotonin. Kiss at the end. And hair product. Lots of hair product.

The awkward, halting, hesitant romance at the core of I Will Knock You should endear itself to any BL fan who likes their rom-com strong both in Rom and in Com. Appreciation for the 1950s greaser look and for bright floral patterns in wardrobe design will only enhance the appeal of this witty series. Where many BLs resort to some form of “love at first sight” to persuade viewers that the lead characters dig each other, affection between Noey and Thi develops slowly. Rather than manifesting with sparks of passion, these two young men with very different personalities take time to understand one another. Their mutual attraction snuck up on both of them, even if veteran BL viewers saw it coming much earlier. In this case, that observation is not a complaint: we know who the main characters are; we know it’s a BL; we know main characters in BL series will end up together. The characters know none of that, of course. The series does not rush them into romance, so that when realization dawns on Noey and Thi, their emotions fit the story and plot. Theirs is a bond born of affinity, friendship, and mutual trust rather than one sold to the viewer via lustful glances despite minimal interaction as human beings. BL fans who prefer shirtless muscle boys frolicking in bathtubs should seek their fix of pale porn elsewhere. Those BL fans who like compelling character arcs that highlight contradictory impulses within an individual’s psychology will relish the slow-burning romance offered here. Both these characters are discovering who their adult selves will be, and that process of growing up almost overshadows their incipient romance. By pursuing this character angle, I Will Knock You delivers a story of first love that manages to feel different (in a good way) from the rest of BL.

The plot manifests most of the trappings of the enemies-to-lovers genre. Noey is a wannabe gangster, still in high school. A lazy, unmotivated student, a bully, and someone who regards fighting as a first-line of confrontation, Noey leads a gang of young thugs whose primary purpose appears to be brawling with rival gangs and terrorizing students weaker than they are. He breezes through his life with bluster and bravado, but his bothersome behavior burdens his mother. At wit’s end, she hires Thi to tutor her wayward son. Unbeknownst to her, the two have already tangled. Thi had run afoul of Noey and his gang when the college student disrupted Noey’s pursuit of a girl. We first meet Thi tutoring a group of high schoolers who are fearful of Noey and his band of bullies. The meek college student clearly wants no part of confrontation, but he twice overcomes his instinctive cowardice to stand up to Noey in defense of his students. Because this is a comedy, Thi had no idea the new pupil he was hired to help was the exact bully who already had it out for him. By the time each of them discovers their new “working” relationship, neither wants to disappoint Noey’s mother, desperate for something that will get through to her lunkheaded son. That something, in true BL fashion, will be Thi. Unlike many Bls, however, Thi exerts his influence not through the mythical medicine of loving him so very much, but by inspiring Noey to become a better person: a better student, better brother, better son. Thi’s expectations that Noey can be better drive Noey to self-improvement. Noey’s character arc is thus mostly about redemption and reform, as the ballistic bully discovers depth in himself he never knew he had. In realizing his own potential in life, Noey also realizes it was Thi who sparked that renaissance. This epiphany resolves him to start courting the older boy. For a wannabe thug, Noey manifests a startling gentleness and flair for big romantic gestures. Noey’s persistence even extends to inducting a horrified Thi into his gang. Noey confidently assumes he bestows a great honor, but Thi and the other gang members each have different grounds to find this development rather alarming. The first quartet of episodes primarily establishes the characters while they do not get along; the next few episodes set forth the thaw in their tutor-student dynamic as they become acquainted; and the final quartet depict Noey’s pursuit of the reluctant Thi. The emotionally rewarding finale pays off not only the long-simmering romance but also a surprising number of minor plot points from earlier episodes. That attention to both big narrative arcs and small details alike makes this finale one of the stronger series-enders in the annals of BL series-enders.

The project was written and directed by Champ Weerachit Thongila, whose BL bone fides include having written and directed Kiss Me Again and having directed 2Gether (series and movie). With I Will Knock You he returns to the theme of a mismatched pair falling for one another. Here, however, the central romance feels more nuanced and emotionally rich than the earlier two. IWKY shares some DNA with the earlier projects. Like Pete and Kao, Noey and Thi start as enemies, commence a complicated friendship, then romance blooms late. Like Tine and Sarawat, Noey and Thi experience some shifting in the dynamic of who pursues whom and why. Also like Tine and Sarawat, Noey and Thi worry about how their respective friend groups will view their relationship. Like both earlier couples, when Noey and Thi finally acknowledge their attraction, that moment feels entirely earned by the story and plot. Unlike those earlier couples, Noey and Thi are not peers. Thi, in particular, has misgivings when the younger boy pursues him. As a result, he never commits to Noey while the younger boy is still in high school. The series lacks the kind of NC scenes that have become common in recent BLs. In fact, the only true kiss between the actors arrives in an extended post-credit sequence of the final episode that serves as an epilogue to the story. (A really, really enjoyable epilogue, to be fair.) Whether the absence of the customary kiss scene or the newfangled NC scenes was chosen because writer Champ felt waiting made the story stronger or because having a 17 year-old actor (Tar) limited the options available to director Champ seems irrelevant. Not having those elements within the story necessitated selling this romantic comedy through character and story development, and I think that effort was a success. Where IWKY really distinguishes itself from Champ’s earlier BL projects is the strong comedic element that infuses the plot, especially in the earlier episodes. Moreover, the styling of the Watphlu gang—wardrobe, hair, physical mannerisms—must surely reflect the sensibility of the person who both wrote and directed the series, and I found the greaser vibe of these characters incredibly fun to watch.

Anchoring the entire series is a star turn from Tar Atiwat Saengtien. He inhabits Noey with a startling range. Tar pivots from fierceness to gentleness in the blink of an eye. Somehow, even when Noey blusters at his fiercest fierceness, one can still sense an uncertain, naïve kid lurking somewhere beneath the bravado. When Noey courts Pam and, later, Thi, Tar imbues the character with a suaveness copied from old movies and a confidence rooted in his own self-belief. It’s a funny performance, but a scene later, and the viewer can see that Noey’s confidence is largely a facade. When Tar plays Noey as a wounded soul, the performance elicits nothing but sympathy for a character who is, let’s face it, mostly a putz. Initially, I found off-putting the character’s penchant for intimidating those around him. The unsavory behavior from a lead character detracted from my enjoyment of the series until I realized somewhere about Episode 3 or 4 that I was riveted to the screen every time Noey was center stage. Thi watched Noey closely from a sense of self-preservation, constantly alert for danger warnings in the volatile kid’s behavior. I, however, watched Noey closely because Tar kept spinning the character in new and different ways. It was fascinating to try to figure out who the character truly was—which I think is the point: he himself was sorting through models of adulthood and trying to land on the one that fit. While my judgment at this writing may still be clouded by euphoria of the outstanding finale episode, I must deem Noey one of the most compelling BL protagonists ever devised. The vision for the character may belong to Champ, writer and director, but it is Tar who executed that vision.

I shall conclude this review by noting that I think IWKY may be one of the most Thai series I’ve yet seen. That is to say, I think only someone familiar with decades worth of Thai pop culture can fully appreciate all the Easter Eggs writer/director Champ stuffed in. I had the distinct sense much content was going right over my head. Noey, for example, had an unlikely fixation with old movies and vintage music—especially the kind of sappy romantic stuff of which BL is a contemporary iteration. (His courtship of Pam in ep 2 includes a hilariously bad song and dance number of an absurdly old tune. Loved the 1940s radio microphone, though.) The character's affinity for nostalgia is apparent to anyone, but only someone conversant with the old posters that adorn the walls of Noey’s bedroom can hope to figure out what subtle messages are being conveyed by the inclusion of those specific references. Likewise, Noey’s connection to his local temple needs unpacking for us foreigners. The gang’s name “Watphlu” seems to incorporate the Thai word for temple (wat), which probably is no coincidence. Right? Stuff is happening here. I’m sure of it. I just need a Thai person to explain to me what it all means.

Oh. One reference I absolutely did get. On several occasions in the later episodes, Noey and Thi almost share their first kiss. That the kiss never quite materializes works for this particular series and for these characters. The five-year age gap between the high school freshman and the college student is a gap too wide for comfort. So, Thi’s insistence that they wait worked for this series. But no one who makes BL has forgotten the wrath of fandom when 2Gether concluded its ballyhooed run with a paltry high-five, least of all the director of that series—who is also the director of this series. On multiple occasions, the two actors lean toward one another, their lips about to connect. Only for some last minute intervention to interrupt the inevitable moment when the two young men succumb to the attraction they both clearly felt. These repeated fake-outs seem certain to induce eye-rolls and anguish from veteran BL fans. Clearly, Champ knows exactly what his audience wants, expects, and demands. He just wasn’t giving us that. Finally, the post-credits epilogue begins a series of time jumps to show how the characters’ lives fared. The final sequence in that series depicts Noey’s college graduation. At last, Noey and Thi stand upon an equal footing. They seize the occasion to deliver a cathartic smooch for viewers. Overlaying this glorious moment we hear a voiceover from Thi, “I hope that will make everyone happy.” And that line must indubitably represent a sly reference to the backlash over the infamous “high-five.” Now that, my fellow BL enthusiasts, is how you do an Easter Egg.

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A Different Flavor of Magic..yet, still peak Cherry!

Cherry Magic: The Movie provides a salient reminder that the medium of film works differently than the medium of television. Even when two projects share a title, and a cast, and one story flows directly from the other, each filmed drama should be judged according to criterion appropriate to its medium rather than from a direct comparison of one to another. And, if the progenitor project happens to rank among the most widely acclaimed, most exemplary examples of its genre ever produced, then the potential for backlash against the sequel project loom large. Cherry Magic: The Movie is a fizzy, frothy rom-com that is almost achingly sweet. It even sneaks in one of the most pro-gay marriage subtexts I've encountered from any Asian gay film or BL television series. Yet, most of my fellow reviewers on this site have harped on the ways in which the film disappointed them. That disappointment likely reflects the near-universal esteem in which fans hold the 12-episode 2020 television series Cherry Magic. If those fans expect the 2022 film sequel to deliver the same magical mix of charm and whimsy, then they will register disappointment when they see the film. But don't fault the film for underdelivering--instead fault the fans for their unrealistic expectations. If, instead, fans allow the motion picture to exist as its own creation, with expectations appropriate for the medium of film, then they will likely appreciate that Cherry Magic: The Movie succeeds on its own merit.

This film Cherry Magic picks up the story from that television series Cherry Magic. As a film, the sequel lacks the runtime to lavish attention to beloved side characters--all your favorites are present, but they don't do much. Also, the sequel lacks the space to delve into the office romance angle that made the series stand out amidst a sea of BL dramas about campus life. Also, it has no chance to build romantic tension across three months worth of once-weekly hour-long episodes because it has to wrap up all its business in under two hours. Shorn of these qualities better suited to the serial narrative of episodic TV, the film has only Kurosawa and Adachi to work with. Their palpable chemistry still anchors the story, but there's not much story to speak of. Newcomers to the Magic might find that off-putting, but most fans of the series won't mind because they came for Kurodachi in the first place. We might divide the film's plot into three phases. An initial phase reacquaints us with how the couple came to be and with the influence of Adachi's wizardry on that relationship. A secondary phase relocates the mind-reading wizard to distant Nagasaki. There, he must learn to read his boyfriend's thoughts without actually touching him. An accident highlights the fragility of same-sex relationships as social constructs when Kurosawa can get no information about Adachi's well-being because no one recognizes the validity of their relationship. The movie's third phase thus concerns their efforts to come out to important people in their lives, most notably their respective families. This aspect of the story generates great good will and warm feelings--traits BL genre stories thrive on--but does so by delivering a decidedly LGBT-genre message about the value of coming out and of being accepted by family, by friends, and by employers.

This writer deems the 2020 Cherry Magic to represent the pinnacle of BL greatness. That is to say, no other episodic BL story succeeds as a television project the way the original Cherry Magic did. Expecting any sequel to live up to that standard is unfair. Indeed, Cherry Magic: the Movie will not be in contention for any list compiling "Best Movie" ever made. But before I watched, I accepted that that standard was unrealistic--the TV series set a bar so unreasonably high that expecting a repeat of that wizardry was never a realistic expectation.* The 2022 movie delivers what a sequel should: fans can revisit beloved characters to see how their story progressed. It delivers also what a film should: a story that breezes along quickly in an easy to follow way. It delivers what a rom-com FILM should: nicely packaged romantic moments that move briskly from one to the next. It over-delivers on BL by infusing the film with a hard-to-miss commentary regarding the importance of having family and society recognize queer relationships. Subtly, it endorses the idea of gay marriage. For a country that at this writing still does not authorize same-sex marriage equality, that ending has a decided political bent. For all these reasons, Cherry Magic: The Movie succeeds as a movie. Enjoy it as one.

*--Sidenote: I write this review on the exact same day in November 2022 that GMMTV has announced a Thai adaptation of Cherry Magic. That's very brave of them--because judging that finished product against the 2020 original...sounds like a fair proposition to me. Which means, let's hope the enduring popularity of TayNew can still deliver, because lest you missed my opinion above, the series GMMTV now seeks to emulate happens to be the pinnacle of BL creativity. Good luck living up to that, lads! 'Cause if you fall short, the critics will come with the long knives and the tart reviews.

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"We are on our way to change the future." Ep 8 (Finale) @ 51:05

[Note: I minimized the spoilers as much as possible, but it turns out analyzing body swaps is difficult without getting into the details.]

Humans beware when gods start to show favoritism. Divine favors are apt to cut in multiple directions. A quartet of Japanese high school students learn this lesson when a local shrine god takes an interest in their affairs. Here, the titular deity in the gender-swap BL “Favoritism of the God” answers the prayers of Yashiro and Kagura, each of whom sought a fresh start as someone else. The god (“kamisama” in Japanese) obligingly switches their souls after each falls into a coma following an accident. The main cast also includes two friends: Kenta, the boy who rejected Yashiro when he confessed (“but I like girls!”); and Rin, a girl who found Yashiro’s personality irritating when he was a boy but later finds herself confused to be attracted to “her” once Yashiro’s persona lands in Kagura’s body. Over the remaining episodes, the foursome contemplate whether attraction to another person owes more to the personality or to the corporeal meat sack that houses the soul. Is the body “just a container?” ponders Rin in Ep 7. In ep. 2, Yashiro, now in a female host body, worries the just-completed switch means abandoning characteristics that made Yashiro Yashiro. This existential conundrum, spooling out over the series’ eight episodes, elevates “Favoritsim” from the small collection of other BL-body swap stories. The series rewards thoughtful viewers with thoughtful dialog.

At a particular moment in the story, the titular deity finds itself observing (from above, naturally) the interactions among the four high-school aged humans in whose lives it has recently taken an active interest. Unimpressed by the quartet’s efforts to resolve conundrums both mundane (does my crush reciprocate my interest?) and supernatural (how can I get my soul back into its original body?), the god’s sapient canine companion volunteers an acid summation of human exertion: “As usual, they’re wasting their time on things that don’t work. Well, I guess that’s what we call ‘youth’.” Like most BL series, youthful attempts at love, awkward yet endearing, comprise most of the plot. Rather than drive the series forward as with a typical BL, here the BL plot informs gender-swap high jinks that arise when the Yashiro and Kagura sort out the nuances to the performance of their new gender. Both stories take a backseat to the real achievement of this series: a prolonged, thoughtful discussion about the role of sex and gender in shaping our romantic attractions. The BL story and the gender-swap story entangle one another, developing in tandem, but each retains hallmarks of their own genre. The BL story follows the beats of a run-of-the-mill friends-to-lovers track, modulated by both some GL subtext and even some hints at bisexuality. The fact that two of characters swapped bodies and genders blurs the boundaries between all those categories. The gender swap story includes familiar beats from that genre, including the inevitable scene of trying to figure out the proper etiquette for using the unfamiliar gender’s bathroom. New pronouns (and names) must be remembered.

After several months elapse with Yashiro acclimating to his new life as Kaguro, the full implications of the divorce from his past-self reach crisis level when the “real” Kagura reawakens in Yashiro’s body. To everyone’s surprise, she is delighted to abandon her old life and has no intention of reclaiming her old body. Eventually, she, too, wants to reverse the kamisama’s favor. The series remains comfortable with ambiguity. Rin lands firmly on the notion that personality matters the most when it comes to attraction. In ep. 7, she admits to Kenta that she loved the current (Yashioro) version of Kagura. Kenta replies by insisting he wanted Yashiro to return to his original body. Belatedly, he’s accepted he can reciprocate his friend’s crush, but not in his current female body. Kenta wants Yashiro as a guy.

Kamisama hears their prayers to undo his prior favoritism with sympathy. Alas, rules prevent him from granting more than one wish per human (Kagura and Yashiro) or granting wishes to others (Kenta and Rin) that are not about themselves directly. Any further analysis (I have thoughts!) would spoil the ending; so, I will refrain. But the epigram that opens this critique reminds us all that gender equality and equality of sexualities are not goals that will achieve itself. Individuals must take action in their own lives.

The central lesson Favoritism offers: be yourself. The only authentic way to win over other people is to present yourself is to be honest to who you truly are. Swapping bodies failed to resolve the dilemmas Kaguro and Yashiro faced. Their “dishonest” faces created more difficulties instead. “My life is mine alone to live for the rest of time,” notes Kagura, as part of the denouement. (ep 8 @ 38:12) This series should stand the test of time and out of its Japanese context. The ideas considered here resonate everywhere.

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Still waters run deep...

Perhaps the biggest disappointment in the Japanese BL Old-Fashion Cupcake is that the dessert shop tour undertaken by the two leads never actually led to the consumption of an onscreen cupcake. Frosted pastries tend to rivet my attention; so, the assorted confections that paraded past onscreen enhanced my enjoyment of this modest Japanese BL. In the style of most limited-run BL series (few episodes, brief episode length), Old-Fashion Cupcake focuses almost exclusively on the dynamic between two men. Here, these are co-workers Nozue and Togawa. Approaching 40, Nozue is so content with his life that he rebuffs his company’s every effort to promote him into higher management. His life has settled in nearly every respect, but he’s comfortable. Approaching 30, Togawa is so smitten with his boss that he pushes Nozue to re-examine want he expects from both his professional and personal life. Togawa’s initiative drives the story forward, as the two men attempt a “de-aging” regimen that consists of hitting up dessert shops across Tokyo.

As the two men become better acquainted outside the workplace, the burgeoning friendship confuses each of them, albeit for different reasons. Togawa has harbored a crush on his boss for years, and the increased sociality between them magnifies his feelings until a halting, apologetic confession pours from his lips and into the startled Nozue’s ears. The moment will resonate with anyone who ever confessed their own feelings to a long-term crush, but especially with those who confessed to someone of the same sex. For his part, Nozue has for so long ignored the stirrings of emotion from his heart that he initially fails to understand his attraction to his young subordinate. When Togawa, who believed Nozue was repulsed by his confession, reduced their interactions in order to shield his own heart, Nozue felt the younger man’s absence so keenly that he belatedly accepted his boss’s offer to promote him—a promotion that would remove Togawa from his direct supervision. That move would clear the decks for them to move forward with their relationship by removing any office impropriety from the equation.

Old Fashion Cupcake joins a prominent list of inventive Japanese BL series. It is a worthy addition. The variation here is the focus on an older couple. The seniority gap, both in age and at the office, plays a prominent role in shaping their dynamic. The conversations between the two friends during their sugar-fueled “de-aging” sessions provides far more introspective character development that BL usually delivers. And their awkward visits to one another’s cramped apartments hint at both the bleakness of living alone (even when one believes themself to be content) and at the smoldering tension between them. Here, the intended sense of “smoldering” is the idea that a fire burns somewhere, it’s just hidden from sight. Old Fashion Cupcake is a compelling tale of how two people redefine a longstanding dynamic as acquaintances to let some of that fire into their placid, plodding lives.

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Thoughtful and compelling character study...with a few flaws

Definitely a worthwhile series, albeit with flaws. Below, I outline three sharp criticisms where I think the writing stumbled. None of these missteps is fatal to the story or characters. Definitely a case of falling short of potential greatness rather than a series that misfires on every level. Throughout, the acting, directing, and writing (script/diaog) are mostly high quality. These flaws owe to writing (story structure, story choices) that I believe undercut this series' chance to rank among the all-time greats.

Three criticisms:

1. The high school era was more interesting than the adult era.
-- First: Two boys wounded by family, stuck in unpleasant circumstances. Finding their way toward solace by finding their way toward one another. That is a damn good premise for a BL romance. And our young protagonists had a good thing cooking, too. Enough character, story, and emotion introduced in eps 1-2 to sustain a whole series. Instead, the writers chose a time jump prior to working through all that potential. Second: Two adults wounded by their past. Placing obstacles in the way of their own solace. That is a less satisfying premise for any romance, BL or otherwise. And our older protagonists induced this viewer to contemplate in multiple episodes whether these two humans belonged together at all.
--overall, the bipartite storytelling does work. And yet. Because the later episodes prove far less compelling than the earlier episodes, the result is a series where both timelines underperform the potential baked into the characters and story. Again, to reiterate: not fatal flaws! Still a compelling series.

2. That was the most preposterous time jump any BL series has ever foisted off on viewers.
--12 years? Really? To Be clear, the idea that high school sweethearts reconnect in their early 30s is not a problem in itself. Indeed, one could easily build a whole series around that premise as well. But during the intervening decade, the two individuals ought to have lived some life, grown into new people. Even if the reunion rekindled dormant feelings, the vibe should feel like two near-strangers starting fresh--because none of us at 30 is the same person we were at 18. Characters ought to adjust to Who Are We Now? Here, it is as if both characters have been in stasis since high school. Pining away for one another yet not reconnecting. Apparently (and we must surmise, for the writing reveals very little about how the two protagonists spent their decade apart), neither of them moved past the other. No intervening romances to provide the sort of life experience 18 year Olds didnt have. They do not reunite as older, wiser versions of their younger selves but as emotional cripples stunted in growth at 18. No more savvy about love at 30 than as callow teens. I am all for reigniting the lost flames of a youthful passion. But not for wasting the entirety of one's 20's waiting for something that did not work out. And after 12 years apart, trying to pick up where you left off? No no no. So to be clear: my gripe here isn't the exorbitant length of this time jump. It is for the illogical way in which the writing fills in the gaps.

Note 1: The series hired two actors roughly 25 years old to play the same characters at age 18 and age 30. While that tactic of "splitting the difference" does work visually in the sense these actors can believably play either age, it is nonetheless jarring to see "Twelve Years Later" pop up on screen and have the actors look as if no time has passed. (The make up folks dyed Dad's hair gray. Effort!) As much as I admire the performances of these actors, I think a time jump of this magnitude warranted recasting the parts because that would have emphasized the natural growth humans experience in transitioning from impulsive but callow youths to responsible adults. Here, the actors' non-aging just added to my sense that these two characters got stuck in high school.

Note 2: The obvious BL story that comes to mind with a comparable time jump is His The Series and His The Movie (Japan). That production team did re-cast the TV actors for the movie sequel. The film plot also depicts the rekindling of a dormant romance, one also spoiled by one party abandoning the other. But those characters had to work to rebuild trust, with no expectation of resuming where they left off. In that telling, their present-day situations mattered more than the shadows of the past. His (film) is one if the best "gay men overcome obstacles to create family" stories I have seen from any continent or any decade. Playing the time jump effectively is one reason why. The missing and unseen years had an impact on the characters that added depth to that story.

3. The fraud subplot was unnecessary.
--Sometimes writers fall victim to a temptation to layer additional challenges into their story. ("What new horrors can I inflict on these characters to ratchet upthe stakes?") Often, simpler is better; editing, warranted. Here, the fraud adds nothing to the character. His story was already compelling. Indeed, it may have become more poignant if every detail stayed except the fraud. Dreams shriveled (like a raisin in the sun) are a basis for tragedy. Explore that concept without destroying the character's moral character. If his personal demons had driven him to suffer in silence rather than to overt criminality, a compelling emotional journey is still at hand. Criminal fraud, in fact, makes any character less sympathetic even if his motives are well-explained, which these were not. Adequately explained and justified--yes. But "adequate" falls short of "well-", just as I rate Let Free falls short of elite status. The character had many burdens already, and this self-inficted gaffe demeans everything he hoped to do.

In summation, Let Free is a very good series. Certainly, worth one's time to watch. And the ending eventually proves sweet and affirming. Flaws in story structure undercut the bid for greatness, as does the too common penchant to withhold information from the reviewers via editing. Here, flashbacks in the penultimate and finale to the high school timeline fill in missing information help us to understand why each character behaves as he does after the time jump. But honestly, the middle episodes would have been far less frustrating if those details had been in the open earlier. Handled properly, the romantic story would play as a tragedy rather than the stunted, slow-burn mystery tale we got.

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Uplifting. Emotional. Claustrophobic.

Thai Cave Rescue is about as review-proof as any series could be. All the screenplay had to do to be compelling was to approximate aspects both awe-inspiring and frightful of this ripped from the (global) headlines true story. Anyone who remembers the events that transfixed the world with horror and hope over nearly three weeks in 2018 will appreciate the drama's success at recreating not only the life-and-death stakes but also the roller-coaster emotions inspired therefrom. Anyone unfamiliar with those events will be gripped by the Netflix series' six-episode blend of claustrophobic peril, engineering ingenuity, and sheer human guts. Thai Cave Rescue recounts the adventures of the Wild Boars youth soccer team when 12 players and their coach become trapped in a cave. An early, out-of-season monsoon storm--missed by weather forecasters--generated run-off floodwater that submerged the cave entrance. Rescuing them required herculean efforts by the Thai government, and crowdsourcing problems to a watching world.

The series isn't perfect, but whatever its shortcomings in story, pacing, and editing, I think its signature success is not the narration but the emotion. The series captures the mood of those days.* Hope shifted to despair, cycled back to hope only to be again displaced by pessimism and angst, rising like the irrepressible flood waters that made rescuing the kids so very perilous. Watch the series for the emotional wringer born from NOT KNOWING as much as to learn what transpired. Each episode toggles between the plight of the boys in the cave, the hand-wringing of parents trapped outside and unable to do anything for their kids, the dedication of an international cadre of rescuers who problem solve each new challenge as it develops, and the growing fascination of a worldwide audience who found these events more compelling than the actual World Cup that unfolded in parallel. Thai Cave Rescue delivers riveting drama, plenty of pathos, and the happy ending you all recall from real life.

The child actors playing the trapped soccer team turn in decent performances, a requirement not always met by young performers portraying "children in danger" stories. Seeing how these kids reacted to their prolonged confinement provides a fascinating study in human psychology and resilience. Among the adults, I'd single out two performances. First, the actor playing the provincial governor did an outstanding job as the nexus between families, rescuers, and government inertia. The character tied together the disparate plot threads outside the cave. Second, as the team's coach Beam anchors the entire drama. His character, Coach Aek, could have been a villain (and Beam plays Aek as fully aware of that judgment) but emerges as the chief hero. He kept the boys alive and calm with no food and water for ten days until rescuers located them. As the "rescuers" have no clue how to safely extract the lost boys, Aek's role as caretaker extends another full week in the darkness. Beam infuses his portrayal with a mix of stoicism and compassion, even as the coach suffers through his own personal crisis of guilt for having led his charges into peril. The talented young actor passed away in March, just days after shooting wrapped. Fittingly, Thai Cave Rescue's last piece of storytelling, injected into the Finale's end-credits is a tribute to Beam.

*--This Netflix production is the third re-telling of these events released in Summer 2022. For those who prefer a documentary retelling of these events, see THE RESCUE, streaming on Disney+. For those who want a shorter, feature film, focusing more on the international cave divers, see the Ron Howard film THIRTEEN LIVES, streaming on Amazon Prime. Each production emphasizes different elements and contains bits of the stories omitted by the others. Of the three, Thai Cave Rescue is the most well-rounded, most balanced with the different arcs of the events, and most focused on the Thai part of the story.

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Rak Diao is worth your time provided that you [drowned out by canned laughter]

Rak Diao is a vexing show to review. Heck, it’s a vexing show to watch. This series has the most intrusive laugh track I have ever encountered. (Note: I grew up watching U.S. sitcoms that routinely overused the device, but Rak Diao’s artificial laughs are other-level.) The canned laughter not only sounds unnatural, but the sound editor seemed under the impression that every line of dialog warranted hysterical guffaws to sweeten the comedy—irrespective of whether the writers were attempting a joke or not. The sound team was apparently paid per interjection because the corny sound effects that plague most Thai dramas infest Rak Diao like flies at a dump. Sound editing should have nothing to do with the quality of a series in terms of acting, writing, direction; yet, I’ve chosen to lead this review by addressing these issues up front as a courtesy to those in the viewing audience who quit watching Asian shows in frustration because they cannot tune out such artificial noises. Rak Diao is not a series you all should even bother to start, as the vexing bonks, bops, and laughter assault the senses in an unrelenting barrage. For everyone else, Rak Diao delivers a compelling BL plotline that manages to save the series from some inane (and vexing) plot choices in the early episodes.

Underneath all that noise, Rak Diao is uneven: cringey and dull at its worst; sweet and satisfying at its best. The series takes its time to find its footing, but with a 15-episode run, it had the luxury of time. The last half-dozen episodes are quite good (when you can hear them). In the opener, Rak and Diao meet randomly on the street and instantly dislike one another. The audience knows Diao is on his way to a job interview, and anyone who ever watched Any Sit-Com Ever knows Rak will turn out to be the interviewer. When Diao returns home, convinced this opportunity won’t pan out, his elder sister mollifies his chagrin with a piece of good news: she’s managed to rent the spare room at their house to a pair of brothers, who will move in that same day. As anyone who has ever watched Any Sit-Com Ever knows….hmmm, I bet you, Gentle Reader, can finish that sentence yourself. And that’s the set-up for the whole series: a solid premise both for a BL series and for a sit-com. The two men dislike each other, until they don’t. Rak is the boss at work while Diao, as landlord, rules the roost at home. They take turns provoking one another until feelings bloom. Given how much energy each devotes to annoying the other, all that attention transforming to romantic sparks was inevitable. The BL aspect is one the series’ best assets, particularly after the two enemies begin to comprehend their emerging attraction. For those who consume BL for the fluffy love story, the emotional resonance of this late arc overcomes many of the series’ more shaky elements.

The weakest aspects of Rak Diao are the supposed comedy and the character building. Humor depends on sensibility and cultural cues to a greater degree than does drama or action or thrillers. But even allowing that some humor will get lost in translation, I found Rak Diao notably unfunny in most episodes. All great situation comedies (or individual episodes thereof) succeed when the “sit” portion appears to be grounded in some plausible reality. The “com” follows as viewers relate to the universal human element and to the characters caught up in that crazy situation. (Any person who ever worked an assembly line job knows the seemingly simple task includes built-in pressure to keep pace with the conveyor belt; so, when the beleaguered Lucy and Ethel start stuffing chocolates into their mouths and clothes, the moment remains rooted in a reality familiar to viewers. That episode is iconic 70 years after it was filmed because it earns the hysterics from being true to life and true to the characters.) Situation comedies flail when the “sit” and the “com” fail to connect, or when the audience cannot sympathize with the characters. The writers of Rak Diao generated some truly bizarre “sits,” but they often forgot about the “com” altogether. It was if they thought dumping Rak and Diao into an awkward situation sufficed for laughs on its own. There are exceptions: the episode with the fortune teller was genuinely funny, in part because in this instance the “com” derived from the characters reacting to the “sit.” Their reactions felt more grounded than most of the contrived sit-com plots. For me, that was the episode where Rak Diao found its footing.

The most glaring liability in Rak Diao is Diao. Here, I mean primarily how the writers wrote the character. The actor playing the part was the weaker of the two leads by far, but his performance perked up noticeably in the last episodes. Not coincidentally, that’s when the writers gave him good material to play. In any event, “inexperienced actor” was never the character’s problem. Being an insufferable human being was his problem. Immature at home and unprofessional at work, his asshattery drove most of the conflict between himself and Rak. But, seriously, why would anyone, let alone the even-keeled Rak, ever crush on such a self-centered jerk? You’d just want to crush the creep instead. If we take a step back, and look at Diao’s character arc as a whole, the entire series could be understood as depicting Diao’s journey from callow child into responsible adult. In that regard, it’s worth pointing out that the later episodes rely on the emotional resonance created by Diao’s slow realization of his attraction to Rak. The BL portions of this situation-comedy, especially in the final half-dozen episodes justify the time viewers need to invest in the early episodes.

I recommend Rak Diao…but expect to find it a frustrating, vexing ride until it begins to deliver.

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Come for the food porn, come for the Off-Gun magic, but not much else sparkles here

Cooking Crush was a steady series. Steady, but also safe. Starting with the casting, the story, and the characters, Cooking Crush evinces a startling shortfall in artistic ambition. You, the veteran viewer of innumerable prior BL series, have seen this sort of tale before. Continuing with the writing, directing, and editing, Cooking Crush likewise innovates no fresh way of conveying a BL storyline. You, the veteran viewer of innumerable prior BL series, have witnessed countless episodes that look, sound, and feel like these episodes look, sound, and feel. While the ingredients may lack freshness, the recipe cooks up a final product that surehandedly delivers solid, dependable BL comfort food. That is to say, if you crave plain, simple fare that still hits the spot, Cooking Crush suffices for that purpose. If you hoped for a BL meal thatmight deliver something special, memorable, or different, then Cooking Crush will not be to your taste.

The series marks the return to BL of the hallowed Off-Gun pairing, veritable Pillars of BL Shipping. Their previous project, Not Me (2021), featured dark themes and a level of social criticism atypical of BL fare. That series impressed viewers with its depth and complexity despite the bleak tone and socially conscious messaging. Reportedly by request of the actors, this new project aimed far lower, and the result is an utterly conventional BL. The series will most likely satisfy BL fans in search of a reliably sweet, romantic story, one told without any of the social criticism or genre blending that have become commonplace in recent years. Cooking Crush is very much a BL series in the mold of pre-2020 BL productions. Perhaps that is all it ever needed to be to be considered a success. By contrast, it will not much satisfy BL fans desperate to see the genre evolve.

Cooking Crush is not a bad series. Lukewarm praise? Surely yes; yet, that tepid analysis is more than can be said of several other recent series released by formula-factory GMMTV. If Cooking Crush delivers no significant highs, it also avoids any significant lows. It just plods along in predictable blandness until the requisite 12 episodes have been counted down. En route it delivered sweet moments and dramatic moments. It had a main couple and a side couple. It had pesky parents and supportive parents. Its supporting cast offered familiar favorites and a charming newcomer. It avoided the hyper-dramatic penultimate curse episode (hallelujah!) and likewise avoided any huge, gaping holes in story logic (glory hallelujah!). Given the dizzying illogic some of those more overtly ambitious recent series foisted on viewers in search of compelling plot twists, I choose to regard the absence of ambitious plotting as a virtue. A simple story needs no great leaps in logic! And sometimes, simple is all we need. Mind you, this story was so insubstantial I doubt the story framework offered sufficient space for plot holes to form. Ambition in plotting was traded for safety in plotting. Unsurprisingly, given the studio’s reliance on formulaic storytelling, but few scenes or episodes exuded natural progression of human relationships. Characters start to feel attracted to each other because the storyboard says it is time for that "twist." The plot just moves along in a way that always seemed calculated—sweetness, followed by tension, followed by a fresh dose of redemptive sweetness. Cooking Crush was manufactured as a star vehicle for the Pillars heading the cast, and the story felt manufactured to win audience approval. There’s nothing wrong with that. But there’s nothing exciting with that either. The series was conceived to be a safe project for all involved. It delivered exactly that—BL comfort food. And absolutely, positively nothing more than that.

Off and Gun continue to manifest tremendous chemistry. (Fans of this ship absolutely should enjoy the series.) But in some ways, I don’t think their prior history helped this production. They are almost too comfortable with one another. The series never cultivated any palpable sexual tension, in part because we viewers are so accustomed to seeing Off and Gun together. The pairing of Doc and Chef seemed inevitable, just as soon as sufficient numbers of sponsor products had been placed on screen. By design, Cooking Crush was never intended to challenge the actors' performative skills the way their prior pairing had; yet, the blandness of this script may have overcompensated. Off and Gun are always engaging, and their bonhomie draws the viewer into the cozy warmth of the narrative. Still, in Cooking Crush the actors seem to glide through their scenes by relying on muscle memory rather than inspiration. To be fair, the flatness of the script, which crafted familiar, monotonous character types patterned from an overused and worn-out template, offered the duo precious little opportunity to demonstrate any growth in their craft. Nevertheless, I depart Cooking Crush with a firm sense that perhaps the time has come when the Off-Gun pairing has reached a point of diminishing returns.

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