The obvious jumping off points for comparison will be The Untamed and Word of Honor. Like those two earlier series, Blossom presents a fantasy world grounded in an alternate version of a recognizable version of the distant Chinese past. Like those earlier series, the emphasis on martial arts qualifies its genre as wuxia. Like those earlier series, the plot involves a dizzying number of rivalries, factions, dynastic jealousies, and family politics. Like those earlier series, all that razzmatazz can become overwhelming and confusing—and is mostly incidental anyway because these machinations merely provide a structural form through which the main characters pass. Like those earlier series, Blossom revolves around the relationship between two men, qualifying it as representing the danmei genre. Unlike those earlier series, Blossom shrugs away the need to cloak that relationship beneath a veneer of respectable bromance. Instead, it makes no secret of the fact that Jin Xiao Bao and Zong Zheng Huai En are smitten with one another.

All three source novels presented their central same-sex romance in an unambiguous manner; yet, only the adaptation of Blossom manages to transfer that frankness to television. Many will deem that success alone as a justification for extolling what Blossom has achieved. Rightly so; I shall not gainsay that point of view. Blossom can elude the strictest constraints of censorship because the production was financed by backers from outside the People’s Republic. Strictures banning the depiction of same-sex themes presented an obstacle this production team could surmount. As a result, the on-screen product had no need to rely on winking at the audience in the hopes they will understand the significance when two male characters stare into each other’s eyes. Wait a moment, and those stares may well evolve into a passionate kiss—or more.

The plot mostly makes no sense. Where Untamed and Word each had 30+ episodes to layer in the world-building, Blossom’s budget permitted only a dozen. Some pivotal plot points simply occur off-screen. For example, when wounded or injured characters finish one episode traveling toward help, the next episode often resumes the story with that injured party waking up in bed. How, exactly, their rescue was effectuated remains obscure. In another example, Huai En has jumped toward a river of lava to retrieve a magical flower as it blossoms. Imagine the potential in this set-up for adventure or mortal peril! Imagine also the CGI cost to generate a river of lava. We never actually see what happens in this exciting situation because the series deems it unnecessary to depict the actual retrieval of the crucial flora. Huai En is presumed dead; yet, in the next episode, he is simply there with the others having been successful in his mission. These sorts of plot holes definitely demarcate Blossom as an inferior product to the highly respected Word and Untamed. On the bright side, some of the early episodes convey an almost campy spirit of action and adventure, as if the filmmakers are leaning into their own limitations. At times, Blossom can be a hoot because of its narrative shortcomings. It is ridiculous, but—wink wink—it knows it is ridiculous.

For me, two specific criticisms detract from my overall impression of the series. First, the second half-dozen episodes failed to match the breezy vibe of the fist half-dozen. Much of the early entertainment value derives from following the bungling fool Xiao Bo as he bumbles his way through life. He provides romance, adventure, and comic relief all in one berobed package. The series loses its way when it sidelines Xiao Bo from the worldly action due to a poisoning. That fate relegates him to bed for an exorbitant number of scenes and deprives the series of its most entertaining character, who is shunted away from most action sequences thereafter. Petty jealousies between other berobed characters competing to nurse the patient, whining and sighing endlessly in his bedchamber, become repetitive and tiresome.

My second complaint is far more serious. Blossom has a disturbing tendency to depict its “romantic” scenes as non-consensual. If a viewer wanted to reject the entire series on the basis of these non-com scenes, I would certainly not defend the series. One might overlook these moments on the grounds that a series portraying a milieu whose social structure is rooted in hierarchy, patriarchy, servitude, and misogyny need not remain faithful to 21st century values regarding the merits of consent in sexual relationships. And yet…the folks making this series do live in a 21st century milieu, and so does the audience they hope to attract. They could have done better. They should have done better. Why would enemies shoot an aphrodisiac laced dart at an opponent? Wouldn’t poison work better? Why not just kill him with swords or arrows? The answer is that the aphrodisiac gives the writers an excuse to stage a scene where one overly amorous lead character can (violently) seduce the other lead character, with the justification that he was under the influence of this potion at the time. OK…maybe. But if the original circumstances of the poisoning make no sense, then neither does any result flowing out of that event. (Again, why not just kill him? How does making your enemy horny help you?) Furthermore, it would be possible that the second character—recognizing that his acquaintance is not his usual self—might volunteer to “help him out” rather than portray their encounter as a violent assault. That choice is on the writers, not on the patriarchal milieu. The other major example of sexual assault in this story follows a fit of jealous rage when one lead is trying to assert his control and mastery (owernship) over the other. This sequence is even less defensible. Again, other options would have been better choices for the 2020s.

In short, Blossom is a mess, but mostly it’s a fun mess. The attraction between Xiao Bo and Huai En makes no sense, but logic in romantic affairs has never been a prerequisite in the BL genre. Most BL fans will find Xiao Bo’s and Huai En’s continual striving to live life together to be quite satisfying. Afficianadoes of wuxia will likely not rank Blossom among the best examples of that genre, but its innate cheesiness makes it kind of fun. Those who object to scenes depicting non-consensual sexual moments will wish to steer clear.

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When Fluffy BL meets literary substance, good things follow

The 2022 series Plus & Minus (Taiwan) offers one of the stronger interpretations of the “friends to lovers” tropes that a BL connoisseur is likely to encounter in the ever-growing pantheon of BL series. The series pairs these friends with a delightful side couple. But the factor that distinguishes Plus & Minus from that BL pantheon is its ability to comment on the human condition generally, specifically on the emotionally fraught topic of how our romantic relationships succeed or fail. One could say there’s a cognitive dissonance in having a BL series, which usually focus on people falling in love, spend so much time pondering how relationships end. But full credit to the writers: that disconnect works poetically in this story. Plus & Minus merits watching for its literary attributes alone—treat the BL romances as a happy bonus in this instance.

“Fluffy” is a frequent descriptor of the BL genre. The term has both positive and negative connotations. On the plus side, “fluffy” bespeaks the cheery, hopeful romanticism that infuses many BL series and makes them a fun, pleasurable ride. On the negative side, “fluffy” connotes an absence of solidity or lack of substance. Fun and pleasurable, the typical BL series may be, but they seldom offer any meaningful insight into the human condition. Offering perceptive nuggets into humanity’s foibles and follies or our potentials and proficiencies is more typically a hallmark of fine literature or prestige film and TV productions. When present, such literary merits supersede any story’s specific points of plot and character to examine the generic human experience. Plus & Minus delivers both delightful BL fluff but also has some meaningful things to say about love and romance. That combination in a BL is rare, and it elevates Plus & Minus into a near-masterpiece.

The previous two paragraphs will suffice as an endorsement in favor of sampling this series. The rest—lengthy!—offers a more detailed analysis. In most reviews, I’d favor presenting my ideas in an essay format. But it seems to me that the title of this series warrants a wholly different approach. So please forgive the bullet pointed, pluses and minuses in this analysis of Plus & Minus. Note that the +’s outnumber the –‘s. Caution: some light spoilers lurk inevitably ahead.

+ The lead characters work as divorce lawyers, and that makes the series a prolonged meditation about why some relationships persist and others fail.

Guest characters seeking out the professional services of these barristers briefly enter into the story, offering our leads ample opportunity to discuss what makes some relationships fail while others succeed. In examining their clients’ failing relationship dynamics and helping those clients to navigate romantic disentanglement, Fu Li Gong and Cheng Ze Shou also must confront what leads two people to commit to one another in the first place. Friends since kindergarten, Li Gong and Ze Shou have a markedly close relationship themselves. Flashbacks (and lingering glances) make it abundantly clear that Fu Li Gong harbors a longstanding crush on his best friend. These office conversations about their clients’ reason to disentangle also serve as commentary to mirror the growing awareness of their mutual (?) feelings toward one another. (These are BL characters, after all. They are going to move from friends to lovers.) Adding another layer to the theme “why relationships fail and how do we deal with it?” is a subplot revolving around Ze Shou’s family. His mother abandoned her husband and two children when Ze Shou and his sister were quite young. Ze Shou bears a grudge, the sister seems prepared to let by-gones be by-gones, while Ze Shou’s father (as an abandoned spouse rather than an abandoned child) has issues specific to his own situation. Those issues build gradually from the start, then reach a head at a critical point in the story. I think this character backstory amplifies and accents the thematic elements introduced by having the leads work as divorce lawyers.

If Plus & Minus enters the class of “great BLs” whose stories and characters hold up over time, these conversations about the nature of long-term romances will be a chief reason why the series stands out from the pack.

+ Both the lead couple and the side couple are actual adults leading adult lives.

Lawyers, obviously, are older than high school age or college age students. Thus, Plus & Minus is a welcome addition to the growing trend of building BL plots around actual adults rather than kids. (To be fair, Taiwan has been good at this for a while.) Any BL fan who desires a reprieve from school-based series will appreciate the more adult outlook on offer here.

+ The three “guest couples” who become clients for 2-3 episodes each.

The writers did a good job of presenting married couples in different stages of marital collapse. The first relationship depicted was so toxic that no one would dispute divorce was necessary. The second couple really needed marriage counseling rather than divorce lawyers. And the third couple had simply reached the end of the line after a 30 year marriage. Li Gong and Ze Shou spent bits of two episodes coming to terms with the idea that sometimes relationships fizzle out and, simply, there is NO REASON why. (They did so while just embarking on their own adventure.) I found that sequence to be one of the more poignant discussions in a series that handled poignancy with aplomb.

Taiwan, as all BL fans ought to know already, is the one Asian country to ratify same-sex relationships with the privilege of marriage. Thus, it was gratifying that the second of the three couples happened to be a gay couple. (Happily, the one couple they saved from divorce was the gay couple.) The series does not belabor the fact that gay marriages fail just as straight ones do; rather, the lawyers just processed these clients the same as they would any other. Representation begets normalization, folks! Representation matters!

- The transition from friends to lovers was a bit too glib.

Fu Li Gong and Cheng Ze Shou have been best friends for over 20 years. One of them has had a semi-secret crush since at least adolescence. I’m not fully sure what triggered Li Gong to suddenly confess, which means the moment could have been portrayed in more dramatic, exciting fashion. When the confession did arrive, the moment felt anti-climactic. Then, the part where they shift from friends to boyfriends was too quick and way too easy. These two already have one type of deep connection, and the nature of that connection would seemingly make the conversion to lovers difficult. Such a profound change to an established interpersonal dynamic ought to have required either a sudden surrender to long-repressed passion and emotion (like a dam breaking) and/or a series of awkward exchanges as they try to recalibrate their customary interactions to accommodate their new, emerging dynamic. So, for me their actual conversion seemed a little too easy.

+ The transition from friends to lovers begins in the middle of the series.

Plus & Minus has 12 episodes, and the shift from friends to lovers begins just past the halfway point. (About the same time as the duo favorably resolves the divorce case for the gay couple, suggesting that the example of that same-sex couple might have triggered Li Gong’s abrupt confession.) Structurally, the series neither shifted them into romance mode too early nor waited so long that there was no time to investigate the transition.

I suspect a certain segment of BL fandom will find the lead couple’s progress to have been too slow. Such fans also likely will wail at how much time is wasted discussing divorcing straight couples. I, however, believe that the writers played this scenario exactly right. Yes, their romance is assuredly a slow burn, but I will argue that that pacing fits the story and characters. In a series that takes "the evolution of relationships from start to finish" as one of its themes, playing slow with the main relationship's beginning is an astute choice.

- Uncertainty about Cheng Ze Shou’s awareness of Li Gong’s crush.

At times it felt like Ze Shou was aware of Li Gong’s unspoken attraction. At other times, the series seems to hint that Ze Shou was aware of his own attraction to Li Gong. Notably, in both flashbacks to high school and in the present, he plants drunken kisses on his friend’s face. Li Gong neither reacts to these overtures (if they were overtures), nor does he push the issue when Ze Shou fails to remember these drunken kisses the morning after (if he really did forget). I dislike the “drunken kiss doesn’t count” gambit anyway, but if the writers wanted to play that card anyway, they should have made those moments matter by having consequences attached.

+ The side couple was outstanding.

Jian Ying Ze is a divorced man who owns a laundromat and occasionally has custody of his daughter. At some point prior to the series, our two leads handled his divorce case; subsequently, they became regular clients at his laundromat. Below the laundromat, is a dive bar that employs Yuki as a bartender. It’s also the watering hole favored by the lawyers; so, Li Gong and Ze Shou have personal connections to both Yuki and Ying Ze even before the latter duo meet each other. Yuki attracts female clients to the bar, who swoon over his long locks and beautiful face. A caretaker type, Yuki soon develops an interest in the broken human being who runs the laundromat. Their relationship takes flight much earlier than the lead couple’s probably to distract the audience from the fact Li Gong and Ze Shou haven’t figured themselves out yet. These two eventually sort out their issues. Like the divorce clients mentioned above, I think interacting with this nascent gay couple helps demonstrate to Li Gong and Ze Shou that same-sex relationships can work. The inevitable drama in their relationship feels a bit contrived, but not nearly at the level of Li Gong and Ze Shou.

- That time Li Gong and Ze Shou break up.

Ok, it’s a BL tradition that our lead couple must endure some sort of existential threat to their relationship, one that might even tear them apart so that the finale has something to do besides just exist. It’s just that the execution of this subplot is uncommonly stupid even by BL standards. Li Gong just spent 10+ years pining away for his best friend. He confesses. They get together. They profess eternal love and exchange versions of “I will always be by your side.” Then, two episodes later, for no reason that has been earned via character development or prior dialog, Li Gong initiates a break-up. The moment felt flimsy and forced when it happened—drama because a drama series has to have drama for the sake of having drama, right? Having seen the end of the series (the “why” gets explained after the fact), I still think that plot development feels indefensible. Egregiously so. I dropped the MDL score for this series a full point just for this bit.

+ / - The female side characters are a mixed bag.

On the bright side, the archetypal jealous female villain is absent. In place of that stock character is an array of other women orbiting our two lead couples. While Nikita, the bar owner, has a longstanding crush on Li Gong, she also recognizes that his heart is set on Ze Shou. After making her own confession, she even pushes him back toward Ze Shou after the idiotic break-up. (I liked that she took her shot, and that getting her feelings out into the open helped her.) Ze Shou’s sister seems aware the boys ought to be together before they do, and she supports them fully. The bar has a second female employee who remains on the fringes of the story. All three of these adult women feel underwritten as characters. The fourth female character is Ying Ze’s precocious daughter. I could nitpick how worldly she is for her tender age, dishing out sophisticated relationship advice to her emotionally damaged father, but I will overlook that. Her function in the story is to act as a muse for Ying Ze as he contemplates his failed prior marriage and the scary, scary business of starting over with someone new. She actually plays a pivotal role in helping both Yuki and Ying Ze negotiate their blossoming romance.

+ / - The two dads are a mixed bag.

Fu Li Gong’s father is the managing partner at the law firm that employs the two leads. Cheng Ze Shou’s working class father owns a restaurant. Let me acknowledge up front that I understand and accept that Asian parents often play an overt role in their adult children’s romantic choices. And, I understand and accept that the older generation may have little preparation to deal with same-sex romances. Thus, it’s not particularly surprising when Papa Cheng becomes an obstacle to the blossoming romance between his son and Li Gong. But too many series (not just BL!) rely on "parental interference" to create tension in the plot. I am bone weary of watching series where parental interference drives a wedge into the main relationship. If Papa Cheng had been more fully developed; if the interference had arisen from character or story context; if the series had telegraphed this development ahead rather than springing it on us; if this parental interference had felt fresh and original rather than cliché and convenient; if any of those, then I might not have minded. But his attitude felt like drama for the sake of drama. Other than that, Papa Cheng is actually a compelling figure as he insists to his bitter son that he should forgive the absent mother. His take on why relationships fail adds a contemplative element. But all that means his disapproval of Ze Shou and Li Gong felt inconsistent with his prior characterization.

Papa Fu is even less sketched out, but his support of the relationship proves pivotal. He is the one who tells Li Gong to pull his head out of his ass and go reverse the idiotic break-up before it’s too late. However, I think that speech would have been even more effective (and the character more interesting) if it had been delivered seven episodes earlier, before the CONFESSION. Papa Fu seems like the kind of dad who would have spotted his son's crush. He could have been a catalyst for the initial union rather than for the re-union. It was a nice grace note, however, that when Papa Fu offered to go talk to Papa Cheng on the couple’s behalf, Li Gong declined the offer in favor of taking care of his own business.

+ + + + + Effective use of cameo appearances from actors who appeared in other BL roles.

These cameos are pure audience service, of course, but BL afficionados will be absolutely delighted at the unexpected appearances of familiar faces, some of them (unofficially) playing familiar characters. There’s one + above for each BL series I counted.

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You've seen this before, but it's still fun

“Second Chance the Series” is a perfectly innocuous example of a Thai BL series. If you watch BL because they make you happy, this series will work for you. The various plotlines unfold in such by-the-numbers fashion that one could easily envision, standing open on the screenwriter’s desk, a dogeared copy of that famous reference guide So You’re Writing a BL Series? Formulaic it may be, but “Second Chance” entertains; it pleases; it delivers not one, not two, but three (THREE!) cute couples to cheer for. Predictability becomes both a strength and a weakness. Strength: the series delivers Exactly What Viewers Expect and Want from a BL. Weakness: the series possesses no traits that enable it to stand out amidst a crowded slate of series in a genre that is evolving rapidly beyond its traditional tropes.

To be clear, “Second Chance” is a good series. But a great series, it is not. The production delivers an entertaining result. The story and acting entertain sufficiently. The production values are unobjectionable. Well, save for the unfortunate instance when one character’s hair changed colors between scenes then reverted to the original thereafter. Lack of originality in the story supplies this show’s major flaw. The audience will have seen these story beats previously, probably in multiple instances. And that’s where the predictability undermines any claim to greatness. “Second Chance” aired in March and April—and already by this point in 2021, several of the year’s other series have dazzled and delighted viewers. 2021 is likely to go down in the annals of BL history as a transformative year, one that introduced genre-altering innovations in storytelling and series quality.

• Unlike “Manner of Death,” SC breaks no new ground in its setting or plot—it’s got both feet firmly entrenched in the standard-model story about high school students.
• Unlike “Lovely Writer,” SC has nothing much to say about BL as a genre—the story features boys falling for each other (and fujioshi girls cheering them on) without much introspection about what it all means.
• Unlike “Fish Upon the Sky,” SC wasn’t highly-anticipated due to a star-studded cast who earned their pedigree and their popularity acting in prior BL series—the actors offer typical levels of cuteness and charm, but none exudes attention-grabbing charisma.
• Unlike “We Best Love” [either season], SC didn’t take standard BL-couple tropes and rework them so they felt charming and fresh—the three featured couples tread the familiar, if comfortable, beats of the friends-to-lovers trope, a standard pursuit of a crush trope, and a younger-older trope (here, mostly not-cringey).
• Unlike “History 4: Come to Me,” SC will not require any trigger warnings—here, the boys’ methods of courtship raise no red flags. (Ok, that’s actually a good thing, but fans sniping at each other in message boards over H4’s narrative choices creates controversy that probably drives eyeballs to the series. So, again, nothing here to make the series stand out.)

And that’s just how this series stacks up against other 2021 series so far. Given the stratospheric expectations surrounding more than a few of the year’s yet-to-air productions, it’s likely that swaths of BL fandom will simply overlook this effort. By hewing so closely to the genre’s standard playbook, “Second Chance” will likely enrapture some portion of the genre’s devotees. Ultimately, however, this series will not likely linger long in memory. In 2021, being good is not good enough.

Story Synopsis
The story trails the romantic trials of three couples, TongFah/Paper (friends-to-lovers), Chris/Jeno (pursuing a reluctant crush), and Near/M (younger-older). TongFah, Paper, and Chris are close friends. Jeno and Near are other students at the same school, while M operates a game/coffee shop that serves as a hangout for the characters. From the first episode, it’s clear TongFah’s feelings for Paper have evolved beyond the friend stage, but it’s less clear how enthusiastic Paper is for this shift in their friendship. Jeno is being bullied at school by his ex-boyfriend, prompting him to sign up for MuayThai instruction. His mentor at the gym turns out to be Chris, who quickly determines to pursue his reticent classmate. Near, an avid gamer, has a part-time job at M’s café. It’s clear to viewers that M likes his young employee, but that Near is oblivious to the boss’s feelings. “Second Chance” is a bit of a slow burn, but by the end of Episode 3, all three couples seem to be inching towards acknowledging mutual attractions. By the end Ep 4, all three embryonic couplings have imploded. Yes, folks—they need a second chance!

Where “Second Chance” had the potential to deliver some originality to BL storytelling lay in its exploration of couples trying to reboot their relationships. I do not recall another BL series centered around the idea of redeeming a relationship that once had foundered. Unfortunately, such redemption would have required more time to unfold than the two episodes that remained in the series. Those last two episodes are the weakest two in the series, rushing through complications, reconciliations, and proms.

Typical of Thai BL series, “Second Chance” offers no particular comment on what it means to be gay in 21st century Thailand. Posters from queer cinema classics decorate the walls of TongFah’s bedroom, but that’s as close as the series comes to implying any of the lads extrapolates a personal identity from his romantic leanings. On the bright side, the writers eschewed using homophobic families as a source of conflict in the story. Boys falling for other boys is treated as a perfectly normal state of affairs in this tale, no complications from school authorities, the families, or from society writ large. Frankly, relief from those overused tropes about anti-gay attitudes is a big reason the meager plot of “Second Chance” succeeds in delivering a happy story—and after all, seeing happy stories that lead to boys kissing other boys is why many of us consume BL series in the first place.

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So much spoiled promise

Perhaps the first warning sign would be that today, the airdate of the final episode, the plot synopsis on this site continues to bear no resemblance whatever to the actual storyline that showed up. Perhaps the premise changed between pitch session and production but no one updated the plot summary? When it began airing, the My DramaList details announced 8 episodes--and indeed, Episode 8 is basically the finale to the first eight episodes. That was also the first day I saw the number of episodes had changed from 8 to 12--and episode 8 was so short one wonders whether elements of the "original" ending had to be cut to make room for the newly added episodes. The final four essentially begin a new story from scratch and aside from a few references, abandons the already-existing plotlines, characters, and actors. It even changes location by having the main character go on vacation for four episodes.

I've seen a few other posts that, like this one, were written within hours of watching the last episode the same day it aired. Their criticisms echo my own, so I feel little need to pile on repetitiously. (Clearly, we all watched til the end...so something here did work for us!) But I will echo another prevailing sentiment in these reviews: the premise of this series was endearing. Somewhere in this hot mess is the makings of a delightful tale of romance. For whatever reason(s), this production was unable to deliver on the inherent promise of its premise. One thing they did right--so much so it's almost a novelty in Thai BLs--was that the main character is unabashedly, unashamedly gay from before the series starts. More of that is needed.

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A psychological drama about learning to love yourself first

A hoary aphorism declares, “You must love yourself before you can love another.” The makers of Boys Be Brave! attempted to build an entire BL series around this piece of wisdom. For the most part, they succeed. BBB is a character-centric tale. Internal worlds for the characters take precedence over action or story. The loose plot revolves around a trio of angsty young men, each battling his own unique demons. Each feels alienated from the world around him, and the series measures the steps each takes to repair the damage this self-imposed isolation has caused to their life and to their personality. The result is a series that prioritizes learning how to embrace one’s self in order to forge new connections with others. An emotionally intelligent script grounds the series, and the three lead actors convey these complex emotional beats efficaciously. Lacking any sensational plot developments or heavy skinship scenes, the series will likely fly under the radar of popular discourse. It is ideally suited for those who like introspective works heavy on character analysis and emotional complexity—and not, primarily, romantic emotion. Self-love is the main theme here. Romance flows from that.

Kim Jin Wu is an academic overachiever whose success has come at the price of isolation from an inattentive parent and any vestige of a social life. Jin Wu lives alone and prefers online tutorials to interactions with fellow students. He moves within and amidst the bustling student life of his university, but is not really a part of it. He has a crush on Jung Ki Sub, which might be fine except he loathes Ki Sub as a person. He avoids a personal life through the device of an Ideal Partner Checklist. Since almost no one conforms to the qualities on the list, he essentially suppresses this whole part of his life.

Jung Ki Sub lacks any strength of personality, conforming his own behavior to please whoever is around him. He cannot—or will not—say no to anyone on any subject. This has resulted in an entirely different alienation, as people misconstrue his “blowing in the wind” behavior as betrayal, indifference, or inconstancy. Ki Sub suffers from an unspecified heart condition, which causes his heart to race. Dangerously, we presume, but the series never explains what the issue is, what challenges it causes him, or even resolves it in the end. Ki Sub’s penchant to agree with everyone seems to be a defense mechanism from childhood, designed to keep him calm and even-keeled in moments of stress. Avoid conflict, and the heart never beats dangerously fast. From the beginning of the series, Ki Sub insists he is incapable of liking anyone, though the reason why this should be so is never clear. One can infer that since liking someone leads to increased heart rates, maybe he, too, has suppressed this part of his life.

Choi Bal Geum is Ki Sub’s best friend, confidante, and muse. Where Ki Sub and Jin Wu attend university, Bal Geum has chosen instead to flit between a series of part-time jobs. Work allows him to keep afloat financially, though he is keenly conscious of his penury. Well before the events of the series, Bal Geum’s family tumbled from prosperity into pauperism. This lack of worldly worth induced a lack of self-worth in Bal Geum. Shame about being poor even led him to sacrifice (pre-series) an actual suitor because he deemed himself unworthy to offer love to others. He, too, is suppressing this part of his life.

The series commences when Ki Sub decides to move into the house of Jin Wu. Without first consulting Jin Wu, who will not appreciate this disturbance to his isolation. (Implausible? Sure. But it makes for a comedic opening set piece.) For reasons he himself may not fully grasp (I certainly did not), Ki Sub insists on co-habitating. Why? He wants to make himself into Jin Wu’s ideal type by following the check-list. Since Ki Sub has little sense of his own personhood, effacing his own personality to match Jin Wu’s expectations seems to him a reasonable solution. Certainly, that tactic jibes with a series so overtly concerned with portraying characters unable to love themselves. That angle also introduces another recurring theme: the foolishness of adhering to preconceived notions of “ideal types.” Having raised this concept, I rather wish the series had played with the idea more, particularly to demonstrate how rigid adherence to such a list constrains one romantic choices. In the finale, Jin Wu disparages the whole concept, but one wishes that insight had arrived earlier.

Meanwhile, back in the debut episode, Jin Wu wishes to evict the invader, from both his home and his heart. Ki Sub wants Jin Wu to accept him. On some very flimsy grounds, Ki Sub manages to get Jin Wu to a one-week trial period as roommates. He can then extend their co-habitation if at the end of that week, Jin Su asks Ki Sub to date him. The irony here is that both boys like each other already. But with one having convinced himself of the virtues of splendid isolation and the other having convinced himself that he is incapable of liking someone else, neither will admit the truth to the other. The series is largely about the process by which each comes to understand first himself, and only then to acknowledge the other’s needs. Along the way, Ki Sub even manages to effect (inadvertently) a rapprochement between Jin Wu and his distant father.

With respect to the side couple, Bal Geum’s self-imposed isolation from his troubles is disrupted when Ji In Ho, the suitor he rejected years earlier, suddenly reappears hoping for reconciliation. Their endearing subplot also becomes grounded in the quest to accept one’s self, something the series leaves unfinished for Bal Geum. (Perhaps displaying a Korean cultural attitude that self-worth derives from wealth? Or at least a disdain for the poor?) Ultimately, however, I felt these two were underwritten. Too much story potential, insufficient episode minutes available to tell it.

At its best, the series conveys emotional intelligence and honesty. The writing resonates because the lads are easy to empathize with. That all four exercise initiative to overcome his own self-defined demons also makes them easy to root for. Their very agency helps defuse some of the self-loathing that permeates the plot. The weak points largely reflect the typical short-comings of K-BL series. In moments, the plot feels rushed and the character actions come from nowhere. Some resolutions come about too easily. Anyone accustomed to watching K-BL in eight-episode chunks under 30 minutes each will be familiar with that sensation. A subplot involving a female suitor for Jin Wu shifts from humorous (she appears to hit every characteristic on Jin Wu’s list just at the moment he opens himself to the possibility of pursuing Ki Sub) to stereotypical (for just a moment there, she comes across as the sort of conniving harpy standard in BL fare) to underwritten (turns out she was never evil, she’s just another in a long line of people disappointed by Ki Sub’s need to make himself desirable to everyone). She could have had a better arc (and a GL side-plot) by fleshing out how Ki Sub’s wavering loyalty to those interested in him affected others. Likewise, Jin Wu’s father exists only in flashbacks until suddenly dominating episode 7 in a way that makes one wish that dynamic had been better built up throughout the preceding episodes. On balance, however, the series works quite well. Boys Be Brave! will appeal especially to viewers who appreciate a series strong on emotion and short on story. Those with a strong empathetic caste to their own personality will revel in the swirling emotions of the tale. Viewers who prefer a story-driven series (action—in the bedroom or otherwise) may find the series tepid.

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This review aimed at folks deciding whether to watch or not. (Yes. Yes, you should. Worth it.)

The Hidden Moon is a macabre suspense thriller with a BL twist. The series mostly works. Early episodes shroud the story with supernatural elements that deliver a sense of foreboding. A palpable dread permeates the characters' interactions. Mysteries emerge that require sleuthing by our protagonists. Some of these unknowns pertain to Real World events while others transcend reality to seemingly touch upon ethereal planes. The series even broaches the Big Mystery: what happens when a person dies? Amidst all the paranormal uncertainty, a BL romance struggles to emerge. That subplot is almost an afterthought, however, as this series is a suspense thriller first; a romance, only to change pace between supernatural set pieces. That de-emphasis of the BL plot will disappoint viewers interested primarily in MM courtship. Their loss. If the idea of a slow-burn spooky ghost story appeals, the ten hours of The Hidden Moon will be worth the time to watch. If such fare is not your cup of tea, then you don't need to know the twisty turns anyway.

The writer of reviews must choose betweeen two variants of the form. One style pitches the text toward readers who have seen the material and cannot therefore be spoiled (full disclosures with double-barrel critiques). The alternative aims to reach those readers seeking out the review to help them decide whether to start watching. This group can be spoiled, so the reviewer should be circumspect (strategically withholding details and pulling punches in the criticism). To preserve the sense of macabre, to maintain the air of suspense, and to preserve potential thrills, this review will pursue the latter path. The production team behind The Hidden Moon mostly got right the macabre, the suspense, and the thrills. They do not deserve to have that effort undermined by a comprehensive debrief of every strength and weakness. So, this review will risk vagueness by imparting fewer details than customary. Indeed, I encourage anyone deciding whether to watch to avoid investigating specifics. The less you know about this one, the more you will enjoy it. With that disclaimer, onward with my purposefully vague critique.

The series opens with five young people arriving at an Obligatory Old House. An Old House with a reputation. An Old House that may be haunted. They have come to investigate these rumors. Before the first episode ends, the group begins to experience unexplained events themselves. (That's five time-worn tropes already! Happily, none of them is a BL trope!) Over the next several episodes, the team tries to uncover explanations for the unusual goings-on. The pacing proves uneven. Not all episodes are equally spooky. A couple in the middle really drag. Arguably, the early episodes suffer from a bad case of writers trying to create mystery by simply not explaining anything. That tactic led to characters confused and frustrated with their situation. This reviewer suspects many viewers will share that sentiment. Hooking the audience with juicy details might have been a better strategy. Unexplained phenomena may rightfully vex characters, but they alienate viewers when dragged through too many consecutive episodes. Fortunately, viewers who stick with the series will be rewarded. Three strengths save the series from the reliance on hoary tropes and the problems with pacing.

First, the creative team (cinematography, direction, lighting, editing, music) understood their assignment. Overcoming gaps in story logic, the vibe remains consistently tense--brooding and unsettled. The sense of macabre persists during the slow episodes, so that when the story recovers vigor, the suspense has never descended into farce or hokiness. Few viewers of The Hidden Moon will ever nominate the series as an exemplar of the macabre suspense thriller genre's best. But it is absolutely solid work.

Second, later episodes grow stronger. They deliver cogent story beats, unexpected twists, and better interactions among the characters. When the payoffs arrive from those unexplained mysteries of the early episodes, they prove worthwhile. Episodes 8-9 (penultimate) stand out in particular.

Third, the series has a time travel element unusual in the suspense genre. One member of the Thai Scooby Gang experiences paranormal weirdness in two timestreams. For unknown reasons, Khen is shifting between the past and present of the Obligatory Old House. In both timelines, an angry female specter targets him for special attention with the kind of ghostly violence that threatens Khen's life. Fortunately, one denizen of the 1910s timeline is able to intervene on his behalf. Mas is the handsome son of the homeowner. As Mas and the strange visitor from "another world" grow better acquainted, bonds of affection grow between them.

The dynamic between the two young men, separated in time by about a century, provides the BL storyline. Perhaps during episodes 6-7 the macabre even takes a backseat to the courtship. Nevertheless, the BL story remains mostly threadbare. The two would-be lovers, after all, recognize that living in two different worlds poses an insurmountable challenge to their future prospects. And veteran viewers of K-drama and BL alike are surely aware that ghost-human romance has little chance of achieving a happy ending. An undercurrent of "why bother?" haunts the scenes where Mas and Khen deepen their emotional bonds. Young love, inevitably, will persist against all admitted logic. And so it is with Khen and Mas. The BL tale adds some emotional heft to The Hidden Moon's endgame, and it is the duo's interaction that will restore balance to each universe. BL viewers who endure the suspense and supernatural shenanigans in the hopes of a romantic denoument suffused with happy endorphins will see their patience rewarded. Kind of. I'd say more...but spoilers.

In closing, The Hidden Moon isn't primarily a BL series. Rather, it is a supernatural thriller that tossed in a BL romance. Substitute a straight romance, and the underlying tale of macabre would require no alteration. In the final analysis, I'd argue that the series succeeds as a thriller even more than it succeeds as a romance. Full credit to the production team for that success, for I do not belive they worked from a lavish budget. But they deployed their resources wisely, resulting in a finished product that may well be an instance where the whole surpassed the sum of its parts. It is not a great series, but it is certainly very good. It is worth the ten-hour investment of your time to watch.

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Short. Sweet. Effective for what it is.

Multi-episode series with a cumulative runtime shorter than a feature film are remarkably review proof. After all, the web-drama format signals "abbreviated story telling ahead." Does one fault the absence of effective character development or the short shift given to developing a fully fleshed out plot? That would be unfair, eh? The viewer should understand, prior to pushing play, that such finer details will be sacrificed on the altar of brevity. Perhaps three questions are relevant: does the premise capture interest? Are the characters compelling despite being underwritten? Does the series maximize the time it does have in a satisfying way? Since only one hour of your life is at stake, this reviewer is comfortable answering in the affirmative to all three questions. As the BL genre thrives on generating "feels," I can also report that the appropriately handsome actors do convey an appropriately warm and fuzzy bond between their characters. Perhaps they achieved this union a bit too easily in story context, but the pacing for a union given 60 minutes of narrative time felt just about right. I'd summarize the plot, but that process would take me longer to compose than for you to watch. Just forge ahead. It is all a bit quick and convenient, but then these mini-Bls are the convenience stores of the industry. Quick and convenient, able to supply you, the consumer, with your basic needs. Perhaps while you're on the go and have a spare hour to kill. Just don't expect full-service character arcs or a wide selection of subplots. At an hour of your life, Our Golden Times is worth that much trouble.

Could have been more? Yes. And maybe that is the hallmark of a successful mini-BL web drama. Leave 'em wanting more.

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This essay cannot explain the film's title...who is the rebel?

Watching an unheralded short film is always a gamble. Quality can be erratic, especially given the prevalence of student films in the form. Rebel Heart is a short BL film (26 minutes) released by Iamzee Studios in October 2023. Since the closing credits list “Zee” as the scriptwriter, director, and OST singer, one conjectures this project is some kind of a self-financed production conceived by the studio’s namesake. Whether it is a student film or a vanity project, it displays the earmarks of films of that ilk: low budget, rough production values, and a less-than-professional feel. Every contributor listed in the closing credits is identified only by a single name. As of the date I watched the film, two weeks after its release, the MDL page for Rebel Heart contained a skimpy plot summary but absolutely no information regarding the cast, the director, or anyone else. Nothing that might speak to the pedigree within the film industry of the creative team behind the project. Deprived of any information that that might inform expectations regarding production value, actors’ ability, or director’s nous, I set the bar of expectation to "amateur." Despite that low level, I forged ahead with an open mind.

A short film has three basic jobs: to hook the audience right away via compelling character or an intriguing story, to sustain their interest long enough for some problem to be solved or examined, to deliver an ending that at the very least enables the viewer to walk away without concluding their time has been wasted. Rebel Heart checked one of those three boxes but whiffed on the other two. Though often shaky, the production value proved better than I expected. Grudgingly, I concede the film satisfied the minimal expectations I had. The story was messy, chaotic in the telling, and lacked the crispness one would expect from polished filmmakers. But if (and I do not KNOW the answer) those associated with Rebel Heart churned out a homemade or student film, then this result counts as a respectable effort--and rookies deserve our eyeballs and understanding. Who should watch? For starters, BL fans who regard themselves as completists can go ahead and track down this short film on YouTube. Rebel Heart will pass muster for a 30 minute investment of time. Others should proceed only if they seek it out full of goodwill for low budget results and full of tolerance for touches of messiness. Perfectionists will be frustrated.

The opening scene offered a solid start. High school student Lucas (Bug) speaks directly to camera. He will narrate chunks of the film via voiceover. His first comments lament the loneliness of being a third-wheel in his own friend group, and the resultant sense of not belonging that follows from that. Since almost all of us have at least a passing acquaintance with being a third wheel, these opening lines rather deftly draw the viewer to empathize with Lucas. Thus, Rebel Heart successfully hooks its audience within the first minute via their identification with lonely Lucas. The self-described Third Wheel then segues into a history of his friendship with Ben (Burdy) and Emma (Ami). Lucas and Ben met as high school freshman and became fast friends. The film was billed as BL, and Lucas rather clearly likes Ben as more than a friend. Fearing rejection if this crush broke into the open, Lucas did his best to conceal it. Ben’s feelings toward Lucas are a cipher at this stage, which makes sense because the point of view reflects Lucas’s understanding of their situation. The opening monolog provides a solid introduction to the lead character, and the central problem appears to be clear: how will Lucas resolve his sense of alienation? Since that is a universal theme for a high school-set story, the short film appeared to have launched itself successfully.

The arrival of new student Emma during Ben’s and Lucas’s senior year disrupted the duo’s routines. Emma, whose dialog is exclusively in English (whether spoken by her or to her), clearly fancies Ben, and her attentions account for the sense of exclusion endured by our suffering hero Lucas. Stolid wingman that he is, Lucas facilitates the putative couple’s chances to spend time alone together by removing himself from their company whenever Emma sidles up to Ben. Lucas clearly resents the loss of his closest friend’s sole attention, and via voiceover, he expresses the film’s central problem, “It hurts to see the person you care about the most choose someone else over you.” I think this premise provided Rebel Heart with a solid foundation to build a short film around. High school alienation stories have floated around forever, and coming out stories are nowadays commonplace. But their very ubiquity demonstrates confirms the appeal of these tropes. A small, compact story with seemingly minor stakes will still resonate with an audience if it is told well. With only twenty-five minutes to tell the whole tale, why complicate the narrative with unnecessary grandeur?

Unfortunately, the film abandons the viable love triangle premise within ten minutes. Rotating into the compact time frame arrives not one new story arc, but two. First, a montage/pastiche of boy-romances-boy-in-one-day scenes. Second, a preachy coming-out-to-family sequence that both extolls the virtue of loving queer sons and brothers and fails to track in internal logic. I shall omit the plot specifics of these replacement arcs, but the details include a confession by Lucas to Ben, a confession by Ben to Lucas, a kissing scene performed and filmed more convincingly than many BL series manage to do, a bizarre adventure in a mall (see Random Thoughts below for highlights), an angry, homophobic father rejecting his son over some photos he happens to have seen on his phone (from whom? of what?), a mother talking dad down from his bigoted dudgeon, a happy family reconciliation, and an outsider (Ben) interjecting himself into the Lucas’s family turmoil despite meeting them for the first time. (Wait, weren’t these guys best buddies for three years? The parents hadn’t previously met their child’s closest friend?) Oh, I forgot to mention the hitman. No, not an assassin. A bully hired to hit people. (You’ll have to watch. Spoilers.) That’s an awful lot to cram into fifteen minutes, and perhaps Rebel Heart feels overstuffed at the end. I finished the film with the sense that if the story had mined the pathos of the lonely kid for all the inherent potential in that initial Third Wheel premise, it might have told a thoughtful, touching story and still been able to inject some commentary on coming out and acceptance.

Short films can seldom conceal the constraints of low-budget filmmaking, and Rebel Heart suffers in some technical aspects. Curious jump cuts reflect questionable editing skills and mask abrupt jumps in narrative direction. The audio mixing during street scenes swallowed the dialog in spots. Nevertheless, I am willing to tolerate such flaws from a production with clearly limited resources, and none of these problems become egregious. Director Zee did a good job of positioning his camera for each scene, and the mix of close-ups to longer shots was effective. If Rebel Heart is Zee’s fledgling effort, that strong opening at least suggests the director understands how to pinpoint universal themes in human experience and emotion. Recognizing value in the telling of a small tale and understanding when to let ambition expand scope and grandeur will be their next challenge.

Random thoughts:
• One nice touch: Lucas opens the film wearing a T-shirt reading “Love Sick.” Whether this slogan represents a subtle nod toward the 2014 series that launched the BL craze in Thailand or a subtle clue regarding Lucas’s inner head space, the shirt helps to frame the emotional stakes.
• One not so nice touch: Ben breaks up with Emma via text and then immediately blocks her. She absolutely earned the dumping on her own merits, but that is never a classy way to exit a relationship. Besides, a face-to-face telling off not only satisfies the demands of chivalry, such a confrontation delivers a much more satisfying jolt of audience satisfaction to boot. She does reappear, but the ensuing confrontation was disappointingly clunky in execution.
• Scenes set at Bangkok's big malls feel like a required element in the telling of a high school story, so perhaps it was inevitable Lucas and Ben traipsed through one on their big day together. The more curious events included trying on clothes only to flee in a full sprint from the store for no apparent reason and crashing a wedding reception while a random bride and groom sang of their love for one another. More traditional activities included a flirty stroll through the lobby of a muliplex cinema.
• The singing marital party certainly felt out of place. Since the credits list Zee as a singer, perhaps the director inserted himself into the picture? If so, confident move, Mr Hitchcock.
• Later, the boys navigate through a cinema lobby where the onesheet poster for the Barbie movie will forever situate this film's production in mid-2023.
• Aside from Emma, Lucas’s Dad also speaks only in English, and other characters speak to him only in English as well. I don’t have a point. It just stuck out to me.
• As did the slight southern drawl in Dad’s accent. The homophobia spewing out of Dad sounded more authentic with that regional twang. American gays will flinch in recognition.
• Ben addresses Lucas’s parents as Mr Evans and Mrs Evans. That politeness makes Ben the first kid since the 1980s who resorted to formal titles rather than first names with the (American) parents of his friend. As a child of the ‘80s myself, I kind of appreciated this touch.

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This review aimed at folks deciding whether to watch. (Yes. Yes, you should. Worth it.)

The Hidden Moon is a macabre suspense thriller with a BL twist. The series mostly works. Early episodes shroud the story with supernatural elements that deliver a sense of foreboding. A palpable dread permeates the characters' interactions. Mysteries emerge that require sleuthing by our protagonists. Some of these unknowns pertain to Real World events while others transcend reality to seemingly touch upon ethereal planes. The series even broaches the Big Mystery: what happens when a person dies? Amidst all the paranormal uncertainty, a BL romance struggles to emerge. That subplot is almost an afterthought, however, as this series is a suspense thriller first; a romance, only to change pace between supernatural set pieces. That de-emphasis of the BL plot will disappoint viewers interested primarily in MM courtship. Their loss. If the idea of a slow-burn spooky ghost story appeals, the ten hours of The Hidden Moon will be worth the time to watch. If such fare is not your cup of tea, then you don't need to know the twisty turns anyway.

The writer of reviews must choose betweeen two variants of the form. One style pitches the text toward readers who have seen the material and cannot therefore be spoiled (full disclosures with double-barrel critiques). The alternative aims to reach those readers seeking out the review to help them decide whether to start watching. This group can be spoiled, so the reviewer should be circumspect (strategically withholding details and pulling punches in the criticism). To preserve the sense of macabre, to maintain the air of suspense, and to preserve potential thrills, this review will pursue the latter path. The production team behind The Hidden Moon mostly got right the macabre, the suspense, and the thrills. They do not deserve to have that effort undermined by a comprehensive debrief of every strength and weakness. So, this review will risk vagueness by imparting fewer details than customary. Indeed, I encourage anyone deciding whether to watch to avoid investigating specifics. The less you know about this one, the more you will enjoy it. With that disclaimer, onward with my purposefully vague critique.

The series opens with five young people arriving at an Obligatory Old House. An Old House with a reputation. An Old House that may be haunted. They have come to investigate these rumors. Before the first episode ends, the group begins to experience unexplained events themselves. (That's five time-worn tropes already! Happily, none of them is a BL trope!) Over the next several episodes, the team tries to uncover explanations for the unusual goings-on. The pacing proves uneven. Not all episodes are equally spooky. A couple in the middle really drag. Arguably, the early episodes suffer from a bad case of writers trying to create mystery by simply not explaining anything. That tactic led to characters confused and frustrated with their situation. This reviewer suspects many viewers will share that sentiment. Hooking the audience with juicy details might have been a better strategy. Unexplained phenomena may rightfully vex characters, but they alienate viewers when dragged through too many consecutive episodes. Fortunately, viewers who stick with the series will be rewarded. Three strengths save the series from the reliance on hoary tropes and the problems with pacing.

First, the creative team (cinematography, direction, lighting, editing, music) understood their assignment. Overcoming gaps in story logic, the vibe remains consistently tense--brooding and unsettled. The sense of macabre persists during the slow episodes, so that when the story recovers vigor, the suspense has never descended into farce or hokiness. Few viewers of The Hidden Moon will ever nominate the series as an exemplar of the macabre suspense thriller genre's best. But it is absolutely solid work.

Second, later episodes grow stronger. They deliver cogent story beats, unexpected twists, and better interactions among the characters. When the payoffs arrive from those unexplained mysteries of the early episodes, they prove worthwhile. Episodes 8-9 (penultimate) stand out in particular.

Third, the series has a time travel element unusual in the suspense genre. One member of the Thai Scooby Gang experiences paranormal weirdness in two timestreams. For unknown reasons, Khen is shifting between the present and past of the Obligatory Old House. In both timelines, an angry female specter targets him for special attention with the kind of ghostly violence that threatens Khen's life. Fortunately, one denizen of the 1910s timeline is able to intervene on his behalf. Mas is the handsome son of the homeowner. As Mas and the strange visitor from "another world" grow better acquainted, bonds of affection grow between them.

The dynamic between the two young men, separated in time by about a century, provides the BL storyline. Perhaps during episodes 6-7 the macabre even takes a backseat to the courtship. Nevertheless, the BL story remains mostly threadbare. The two would-be lovers, after all, recognize that living in two different worlds poses an insurmountable challenge to their future prospects. And veteran viewers of K-drama and BL alike are surely aware that ghost-human romance has little chance of achieving a happy ending. An undercurrent of "why bother?" haunts the scenes where Mas and Khen deepen their emotional bonds. Young love, inevitably, will persist against all admitted logic. And so it is with Khen and Mas. The BL tale adds some emotional heft to The Hidden Moon's endgame, and it is the duo's interaction that will restore balance to each universe. BL viewers who endure the suspense and supernatural shenanigans in the hopes of a romantic denoument suffused with happy endorphins will see their patience rewarded. Kind of. I'd say more...but spoilers.

In closing, The Hidden Moon isn't primarily a BL series. Rather, it is a supernatural thriller that tossed in a BL romance. Substitute a straight romance, and the underlying tale of macabre would require no alteration. In the final analysis, I'd argue that the series succeeds as a thriller even more than it succeeds as a romance. Full credit to the production team for that success, for I do not belive they worked from a lavish budget. But they deployed their resources wisely, resulting in a finished product that may well be an instance where the whole surpassed the sum of its parts. It is not a great series, but it is certainly very good. It is worth the ten-hour investment of your time to watch.

Citeste mai mult

Strip away plot, character development, drama. Leave only the sweet moments. That is We Are.

If someone asked this avid BL watcher to identify a series that he deemed “peak BL,” I would have to give serious consideration to We Are. This 16-episode series from BL-factory GMMTV follows two distinct friend groups of college students as the groups come together. (Make your own pun there.) Despite a real kicker of a testy first encounter, Peem and Phum are clearly destined to fall for one another. As Peem and Phum grow closer, their previously discrete friend groups blend into one joyously happy group of pals. Yes, folks, that simple premise may well qualify as the exemplar of a BL series. It strips away any semblance of storytelling to deliver a series of vignettes: slice-of-life vignettes, really, that double as a testament to the easy-going college life many older folk recall as a golden era of fun, happy days. The series boils these scenes down to the most basic tropes, tricks, and tics that distinguish BL from other genres. Boys fall for other boys. Side character boys pair up with other side character boys. No one ever finds it surprising when boys fall for other boys. The net result is a series that delivers a progression of scenes that serve no narrative purpose beyond inviting viewers to watch these boys merrily pair off. Most such scenes yield maximum impact in the area of warm and fuzzy response. Since the series is a product of the GMMTV assembly line, it also features an OST replete with fizzy music performed by the cast members. To watch any episode of We Are guarantees coming away feeling happy and bouncy—what is more BL than an endorphin rush?

We Are is peak BL because about all it offers is the characteristics outlined above. The writers sheared away extraneous concerns. Such as, for instance, a proper plot. Or complex character development. Or contrived drama arising from such reliable genre staples as jealous women, prolonged disharmony arising from (comedic) miscommunication, or parental resistance to the heroes’ dating choices. (Honestly, does anyone miss these elements?) Even the rich boy x poor boy motif is mostly absent here, aside from a contrived “be my slave” storyline that sets in motion the whole shebang. (Peem isn’t truly poor, however, just unable to pay that particular bill.) In the absence of these customary genre artifacts, We Are serves a steady diet of treacly moments between boys smitten with one another: scene after scene, episode after episode.

Frankly, it works. The series delivers the endorphins BL viewers expect, and it does so consistently. Only the most demanding viewers—the ones who want food for thought to accompany their sweet confections—will lament the gaping hole where dramatic or thematic complexity would normally appear. We Are aspires to none of those trappings, so to fault it for those absent elements would be churlish. Likewise, I could observe that a low-budget Vietnamese series like Under the Oak Tree (whose 10 episode-run aired concurrently with the final ten weeks of We Are’s sixteen-episode broadcast period) features a quartet of male characters who individually exude more queer authenticity in any one episode than We Are’s eight leads can muster across sixteen episodes and four same-sex couples. But what would be the point of such complaint? GMMTV mass produces BL series because straight girls lap up watching cute young men fall for another, not because the studio cares to make a statement about being young and queer in present-day Thailand. Making an entertaining BL series does not require any of the four couples anchoring We Are to represent some grand point about what it means to be gay. The winsome actors need only to mug at one another at the appropriate moment to send viewers into a swoon. (Just to be clear: old, jaded gay men enjoy swooning when young men fall for one another just as much as the target audience of young straight women.) We Are delivers exactly what it promises: sweet moments between young men falling in love. This reviewer will cite no fault for succeeding in that endeavor.

If We Are has any particular claim to genius, it would be the depiction of a friend group. Arguably, Peem’s and Phum’s respective friendship networks attain more significance throughout the 16-episode arc of the series than any one of the four relationships it portrays. In that sense, We Are departs decidedly from “peak BL.” In this genre, the lead couple’s friends are seldom more than ornaments to the main couple’s story. Here, the various couplings function ornamentally to the larger circle of friends. More specifically, We Are’s secret sauce stems from inviting the viewer right into the friend group. They have slumber parties. They have drinking parties. They stage surprise parties. They have victory parties to celebrate myriad triumphs. They go together to a theme park. They travel to a volunteer service camp. They travel from Bangkok to Chiang Mai for more excursions. In the finale, they travel to a beach resort (which, in true BL fashion, is owned by the parents of a group member). After all that togetherness, any viewer would have to work hard not feel as if Peem’s friends are also their own friends.

Much of the credit for the effectiveness of a BL series where friendship outshines romance must rest with the director, New Siwaj Sawatmaneekul. In the absence of a proper plot with a through-storyline, New succeeds in getting the viewer to invest in following the friend group’s passage through their college experience and, for most of them, the onset of first love. As best friends do, these buddies routinely adjust their interactions to suit a moment. On a moment’s notice, they can alternate from razzing one another, to supporting each other in moments of insecurity. They are as apt to call one another out as to root for one another. In many episodes, the friends verbally express how important the friendships are, how happy they are to know each other. Their conviviality seems believable because the actors are totally at ease with each other. GMMTV famously recycles its performers. Sometimes repetition can work against a series, but here the performers’ familiarity with one another from earlier projects pays off with a friend group whose bonhomie feels genuine, almost palpable. “Every day is a memory, precious and true,” proclaims the first line of the theme song. And, frankly, that sentiment explains both what We Are aspires to be—a depiction of precious memories about a precious time in life (college)—and why it succeeds—because the friendships feel true.. Precious? Absolutely.

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When actors confuse their character's desire with their own

The meaning behind the title of J-BL At 25:00 in Akasaka remains obscure (to me, at least), but the series itself delivers solid, if unspectacular, BL entertainment. Among the recycled tropes deployed here are secret crush, fake relationship, failure to communicate, BL-within-the-BL, and flirtatious co-workers who create misunderstandings between the lead characters. While none of those concepts suggest originality, the mixing and matching of these shopworn tropes imbues the series with a degree of freshness sufficient to elevate the final product. Building the series more around character psychology than story action likely blunted the potential “seen this” reaction from viewers, who get caught up instead in understanding the lead characters. They are compelling enough to hold our attention. Akasaka also offers yet another iteration of the “wannabe actor/singer/idol breaking into show business” plot. This version of that overused trope arrives complete with a full-scale BL series in which our lead characters have been cast as the romantic leads. This BL-within-the-BL is used to great effectiveness because it is grounded in the realism of “show business as job” rather than the histrionics of “show business as glamor.” A sprightly start in the first several episodes and a finale that pays off viewers’ patience with sweet couple moments bookend several middle episodes that laboriously ponder along in circles. The series may not linger long in anyone’s memory, but its strengths surely warrant watching.

Shirasaki Yuki is an aspiring actor who lands his first major role in a forthcoming TV series adapting a BL manga. To his surprise, his co-star turns out to be onetime acquaintance Hayama Asami, now transitioning into acting after attaining fame and wealth as a model. Shirasaki begins the series intimidated to be paired opposite someone who has already achieved noteworthy professional success, albeit in a different field. Despite overlapping at the same university, with Shirasaki two years younger, the two are essentially strangers. Astute observers of Shirasaki's mannerisms will, as early as the premiere episode, suspect that that version of events may not be entirely true, but Shirasaki does not number among the astute. His lack of professional experience engenders such feelings of inadequacy that the character grapples with Imposter Syndrome for nearly the full ten episodes. He mopes his way through much of the series as he grapples with those feelings. (For someone who has supposedly just earned his big professional break, all this moping seems excessive.) Meanwhile, Hayama proves almost as depressive as he struggles to balance his prior romanticization of student-Shirasaki against the novice actor in front of him. When Shirasaki confesses that his own absence of any romantic history leaves him unsure how to approach the portrayal of his character, Hayama proposes the two spend quality time together in a “fake” relationship. This attempt to “get into character” lets the series depict Shirasaki and Hayama in numerous couple situations that will also come up in the rom-com story they are playing in. Later, Shirasaki will grapple with the confusion of whether a growing attachment to Hayama is real or is merely a reflection of his character’s attraction to Hayama’s character.

In place of a proper side couple, Akasaka has the two characters in the faux-BL, portrayed by Shirasaki and Hayama. These avatars of the “real” characters become a pseudo-side couple because many scenes for the drama-within-the-drama are staged for our benefit. We either witness the production on set or we join Shirasaki and Hayama as they watch their scenes back during the TV broadcast. As our leads struggle to articulate their connection to one another, the process of rehearsing and performing for the TV series sheds insight into their growing bond. Two fellow actors in the TV show also contribute to the character development. Sakuma Hajime is the most veteran actor in the troupe, and he offers insight into the craft of acting and the price of celebrity. He functions to make the main characters think even more about the way actors root performance in their own emotional intelligence. Joining the company of actors halfway through, Yamase Kazumo plays a love rival in the fake series. Ditto, for the real actors. Yamase’s flirtatious interactions with Shirasaki, both on- and off-camera, stir jealousy in Hayama. His behind-the-scenes attentiveness further discombobulates Shirasaki, who can scarcely process his burgeoning attraction to one co-star. The new character's casual, off-hand approach to sex contrasted sharply with Shirasaki and Hayama, each of whom seemed to overthink everything. The scenes featuring Yamase injected a jolt of energy into some of the series’ more languid episodes, rescuing many scenes from lapsing into the somnolent. The presence of Yamase provides another example of the series using the fictious TV production to both mirror the main story and to amplify its emotional beats.

At 25:00 in Akasaka does far more character building than the typical BL series. While this approach also accounts for the slow-burn to the Shirasaki-Hayama pairing, viewers who enjoy a studied character psychology in their dramas will appreciate the result. Likewise, the worldbuilding is fully realized, with the show-within-the-show attaining a more prominent function within the plot than any other such series since Lovely Writer. Where that series played with the connection between an author’s emotional state and the worlds he creates on paper, this series plays with the connection of actors creating their performance. Both stories succeed in creating a meta-narrative that not all shows-within-a-show manage to pull off. Ultimately, the series is too slow-slow burn for greatness. It wears its thoughtfulness like a burden. The middle episodes, in particular, prove circular and slow. Akasaka narrowly falls short of this genre's elite series; yet, it surely numbers among the many, many BL series that deliver solid entertainment and the satisfaction we BL fans all feel when two young men—finally!—recognizing they like one another.

Note: each episode includes a brief tag following the credits and “scenes from the next episode.” Some merely replay a significant moment from earlier, while a handful offer a new interpretation of that prior scene. The scene chosen for the finale episode proved an especially well-chosen final view of our lead characters.

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