Drama Review: Answer Me 1997 (2012)

Grade: A+

Category

Coming-of-age comedy

What it’s about

A nostalgic, pop-culture-centric journey through the lives and loves of a group of friends from Busan, beginning with their senior year in high school in 1997 and carrying through today.

First impression

I laughed and cried my way through this drama’s first episode, sometimes simultaneously. Could this be South Korea’s My So-Called Life, with a side of nostalgia? I got goosebumps when I heard the modem in the opening credits, and started getting teary with happy memories by minute five. Answer Me 1997’s pop culture references mean nothing to me, but some things are universal—including passionate fandom. As I spent most of the late 90s following my then-favorite band around the country, this show might as well have been written about me as for me. (Tragically, though, my life story is lacking in handsome boys next door.)

Final verdict

As far as I’m concerned, Answer Me 1997 is the drama of the year, and quite possibly my second favorite Korean series of all time. It has everything you could ask for in a television show about growing up: it’s at once silly, funny, sweet, tender, and poignant. With its naturalistic vibe and impossibly endearing cast of characters, I knew from the beginning that I was destined to love AM 1997. But what I wasn’t counting on was its clever storytelling—each episode is a seamlessly interwoven narrative created from flashbacks and flashforwards. The backstories draw you into the characters’ lives and make you feel as if you’ve known them for years, while the action set in the present day forms a nifty series of mysteries about their adult lives.

Most impressive, though, is that the script and direction never get so bogged down in all this complicated plotting that they lose sight of the human emotion we’re actually watching for. Every relationship feels real, from the long-simmering love between feisty Shi Won and upstanding Yoon Jae, to the porn-hound bromance of the 1997four, to Shi Won’s turbulent relationship with her dad. And there’s one more kind of relationship that AM 1997 handles perfectly: fanhood. Shi Won’s passion for Kpop boy-band H.O.T. is just as moving as any of this show’s romantic or family moments.

My only gripes are minor. For one thing, the second half of AM 1997 didn’t quite realize the promise of the first. (Of course, the first half was so wonderful that I almost died of it, so maybe it’s a good thing the quality went down ever-so-slightly as the show progressed.) The fundamental problem was that as the story moved away from the growing-up years of its characters, the plot accelerated toward the territory of the standard Kdrama love-triangle. Throughout its final third I missed the everyday, universal insights of its first few episodes, as well as the thoughtful centerpoint provided by the early school and home settings. But my biggest sorrow is that we didn’t catch a glimpse of Shi Won’s reaction to the breakup of her favorite band, which should have been a huge moment for her character and by extension for the show. Instead, the script only acknowledged it in passing as part of a voice-over montage, wasting a priceless opportunity to explore the innerworkings of Shi Won’s soul. And Korean viewers may not have been ready to see who was driving that red sports car at the end of the finale, but I was. I hope it was the dreamy flower boy we all know the person in the passenger seat deserved.

But even at its least compelling, I can’t stress what a delight it was to watch Answer Me 1997. It’s a big-hearted drama that’s revolutionary in its tacit acceptance that love is where we find it. No other television show has ever made me laugh as often, or cry so much

Random thoughts

• Episode 2. As always seems to be the case in Asian dramas, this show’s characters act incredibly young for their age. My days of trading teen magazine centerfolds ended by the time I was thirteen, and by eighteen had been followed by fangirling just this side of Almost Famous. Answer Me 1997’s female lead and I could still have shared tips about how best to obsessively stalk beloved musicians, though—and I physically felt her pain upon discovering her friend’s secret poster collection.

—This is clearly one of those shows I’m going to have to read recaps to understand. I totally lost the plot at some point during this episode—all those complicated “4 hours earlier” narrative jumps threw me. (I did not, however, miss the scene at the sink. Hubba hubba!)

—WTF is up with these sheep noises?

—Why do I keep seeing a character wearing ear-buds? The rest of the technology seems time-appropriate (dig those cassette tapes!), but I swear white ear-buds weren’t available until after the introduction of the iPod in the early 2000s.

• Episode 3. Five minutes into its third episode, I think it’s safe to say that this drama is going to be second only to Coffee Prince on my list of favorites. So sweet, so silly, so poignant and real. Once again tvN is to thank for a visionary show that’s about a thousand times better than it has any right to be.

• Episode 5. I honestly have very little to say about this show beyond declaring my love for it. Every episode makes me laugh until I wheeze and cry at least once. It’s humane to all its characters and full of acute observations about adolescence, that utter horror show that somehow manages to be shot through with miracles. The flashback portions of the story would have been enough for great viewing, but factor in the modern day, Clue-style mystery about which two characters are about to get married in 2012, and this is perhaps the most transfixing kdrama I’ve ever seen.

• Episode 6. I think I may have to drop Answer Me, 1997—not because I’m not enjoying it, but because it’s like Kdrama kryptonite. Every episode leaves me blubbering pathetically; I hardly ever cry when I’m watching dramas, but episode 6 required at least half a box of tissue. The romance stuff is cute, but Shi Won’s love/hate relationship with her blustery dad is breaking my heart into approximately a thousand pieces. Mom and Dad’s stormy marriage is also a killer—especially when Mom started calling that drama writer to beg for a reprieve, as if the writer were actually god. Like My So-Called Life, this is a show with room in its heart for all its characters, no matter their age group—even if they like Sechskies. (Of course, I have no idea who or what this “Sechskies” may be. Every time the name comes up I mentally fill in *Nsync.)

• Episode 8. I’m afraid Answer Me 1997 has used up the universe’s allotment of awesome for the next decade or so—as if one Yoon Jae wasn’t enough, now there are two? You wound me with your wonderfulness, AM 1997. [Finale note: But whatever became of Yoon Jae II? He disappears after an episode or two—more’s the pity.]

• Episode 9. “I’m buying them for my nephew,” eh? Thank God for iTunes—nowadays we can buy all the One Direction albums we want from the privacy of our couches. I have to say I’m a little squicked out by the turn the love story is taking. She’s too young for him, and his history with her family makes it even weirder.

• Episode 10. This fan rumble between the H.O.T. girls and their Sechskies counterparts is so epic it’s like a lost scene from the Lord of the Rings trilogy: The Battle of Kpops Deep. (With the female lead’s turncoat friend playing Wormtongue, of course.) I just hope everyone makes it out alive.

• Episode 13. I’m a bit confused about the length of this drama’s episodes—back when they first started airing, Dramabeans said they were 30 minutes each, and two were airing back-to-back in Korea. But I just watched a 55 minute episode on Dramafever, which is immediately followed by a 30 minute episode. I think DF messed up the episode breaks, which is just what a multi-layered drama prone to time skips doesn’t need. I guess that explains why the opening montage often shows up 25 minutes into the show, eh?

• Episode 16. This drama has uncovered something that could make me like Michelle Obama even more: If she’d spent the early 80s in the cutthroat world of fandom, trying to become president of Michael Jackson’s fan club. (It would have been good practice for being First Lady, right?)

More posts about Answer Me 1997
Favorites: Six Scenes from Answer Me 1997
The Time Traveler’s Drama: A Chronological Map of Answer Me 1997

Watch it

Drama Fever

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Shut Up: Flower Boy Band, for its relatable coming of age story

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There and Back Again: Of Kdrama and The Vampire Diaries

There are boobs everywhere.

That was my first thought when I took a break from my year-long Kdrama marathon last week to watch the third season of the American show The Vampire Diaries.

Because I’m an all or nothing kind of girl, falling down the Korean drama rabbit hole prompted me to almost completely abandon American television. I can’t say that I miss it, and from what I can tell it’s still plagued with the problems that prompted me to move on: never-ending series with no satisfying, long-term narratives; a preference for male characters and male viewpoints; and premises that are so busy being inoffensive to every demographic in the country that they’re too bland to truly appeal to anyone.

I even went so far as to drop my cable service, and have since been surviving quite happily on a diet of Drama Fever. But when the third season of the zippy teen series The Vampire Diaries arrived on Netflix, I knew I had to give it a shot.

What I didn’t realize was how bizarre it would feel to actually watch an American program again. In a way, it was like coming home after a long absense: the characters spoke my language both literally and figuratively, spent their time in homes and towns that weren’t so different from my own, and interpreted the world around them from a vantage point a lot like mine. For a white-bread American like me, one of the greatest appeals of Kdrama is that it’s completely exotic, a window into another world. But that’s a two edged sword—it never lets me forget my outsider status. When I watch Korean shows, everything needs to be decoded and interpreted: there’s nothing I know or understand inherently, from the finer points of interpersonal relationships, to popular desserts, to the formulation of toothpaste.

However otherworldly The Vampire Diaries may be, the exact opposite is true. When someone made a reference to pop culture, I knew exactly what they meant. When the gym was being decorated for a school dance, I flashed back to doing the very same thing during my own high school years. And when a character became a vampire, I didn’t have to Google the word to see what it meant; I just knew, because vampires—unlike gumihos, for example—are mythical creatures that I’ve been familiar with for decades.

I knew I had learned a lot about Asia from my Kdrama daze, but I now see that I’ve also learned a lot about America. As a white, middle-class Northeasterner, I never suspected what it might be like not to be represented in the culture that surrounds me, or how amazing it could feel to suddenly see a version of myself on my television screen. (Well, myself if I were suddenly young, beautiful, and prone to drinking human blood. But you know what I mean.) With an entertainment industry so thoroughly dominated by one racial and ethnic group, I bet America is full of citizens are visitors to their own national culture just as I am a visitor to Korean culture.

Having gotten used to how things are done on Korean television, it was an interesting experience to spend some time with a show that was actually created with me in mind. Here are some specific contrasts I noticed.

The Kdrama crouch, as demonstrated by Eun Chan from Coffee Prince.

TV tropes. The Vampire Diaries featured a surprising number of Kdrama-friendly elements, including an epic love triangle and multiple scenes of loving ointment application. Mostly, though, it was standard American fare—which felt oddly alien to me after a year of Kdrama.

For one, there wasn’t a single piggyback scene, even though quite a few of TVD’s female characters were carried around by their male counterparts. (This was always done “bride style,” with the girl resting in the boy’s outstretched arms, one of his forearms under her knees and the other behind her back.) Piggybacks were always a shock when I first started watching Korean drama, but nowadays they don’t even make me blink an eye. It’s funny to consider, though, how ridiculous piggyback rides would seem on an American show: good luck not laughing as you try to imagine Stefan, TVD’s dreamy male lead, carrying his girlfriend around on his back. (Maybe this has a little something to do with the fact that he’s is a supernaturally strong vampire, but still.)

While I can’t say that I missed the piggyback rides all that much, there was one classic Kdrama move that I actually found myself wanting to see: the crouch, that quintessential gesture of self-comfort that involves a character stooping down and wrapping their arms around themselves. The American equivalent is probably covering your face with your hands, but that’s nowhere near enough dramatic for the most traumatic scenes TVD had to offer. Even though it’s something I’ve literally never seen a single American do on television or in real life, I found myself rooting for The Vampire Diaries’ heroine to do the crouch several times—as if it would make both her and me feel better.

How American heroes dress versus...

...Lee Min Ho as Korea’s most
fashion-forward action hero. Guess we know
smiling is out of the question, whatever the
continent.

TV Togs. To an American eye, Korean fashions for either gender are shockingly feminine. When I first started watching trendy Kdrama it was hard to get used to how the men dressed: It would be unthinkable for the male lead in an American action show to wear raspberry jeggings and transparent v-necks, but that’s exactly the kind of outfit Lee Min Ho’s character favored in City Hunter. Returning to U.S. television after a year away, I see that the opposite is true here: our go-to clothes have a masculine flair, no matter our gender. The girls in The Vampire Diaries tend to wear no-nonsense jeans with t-shirts and flats, and only accessorize with the simplest jewelry. If her pants had been a size larger and her hoodie zipped up another few inches, Elena, the show’s heroine, could have been wearing Eun Chan’s wardrobe from Coffee Prince.

Another big difference between clothes on American and Korean television is what’s seen as immodest: When TVD’s girls wore skirts, they were all mid-thigh or longer. On the other hand, “cleavage city” is probably the most accurate way describe their shirts—the show’s per-episode Wonderbra budget must be greater than the GDP for most small nations. In contrast, Kdrama skirts are little more than glorified belts, but its actresses hardly ever wear shirts that reveal much more than a sculpted clavicle. This brought to mind a funny quip I read about girls in Korea on ex-pat blog post: “[they] tend to dress like a pilgrim on top and a pole dancer on bottom.”

Cheesy product placement. Neither Korean nor American TV is immune to this (especially when it comes to cell phones, for some reason). The Vampire Diaries seemed less indulgent than most recent Kdrama, although toward the finale it did have some dialogue that amounted to little more than “Look at this amazing app!” I wonder, though, if Korea’s lack of commercial breaks actually strengthens the impulse to bury product placements in dramas. Big was a particularly tragic example—huge chunks of its script existed solely to name-drop the store the female lead shopped at or pitch the latest brand of camping equipment. In contract, when TVD airs on American TV every episode includes at least 15 minutes of commercial interruptions. This feels less like the show selling its soul for money than having a character shill the latest phone on screen. Commercial breaks, as annoying as they may be, allow for a clear line between content and commercial.

“Wait...I don’t remember him?” I watched the first two seasons of The Vampire Diaries last summer, which only made this season’s sprawling storyline all the more difficult to follow. This is a show chock full of countless characters and so many reversals of fortune that I could have used a scorecard to keep everyone’s motivations straight. And yet, the only CliffsNotes provided were 30-second “previously on” clips at the beginning of each episode. People may say that Kdramas are dumbed down by never-ending repetition of scenes in flashback form, but I sure could have used some of the same in TVD.

Image from The Vampire Diaries Quotes on Tumblr

Snark. One of the things that drew me to Kdrama early on in my obsession was its complete lack of snark. Even the nastiest Korean characters tend to be genuine, earnest, and sincere compared to what we Americans expect, and all that good-naturedness was a refreshing change. But after a year of Kdrama, the opposite was true: the breezy insults of The Vampire Diaries’ second male lead were like a breath of fresh air. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as a bitter sentiment well expressed, and this show has snark to spare.

Sex as a recreational activity. I had forgotten how much American television differs from Korean drama on this front: Even in high school series like The Vampire Diaries, sex is something that’s expected in pretty much every romantic relationship. In Kdramas, it’s marriage that’s expected—if characters ever get around to actually having sex, it’s almost always after they’ve agreed to tie the knot. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing wrong with either approach, but it was a culture shock to see how lightly physical intimacy was treated by TVD’s characters. (I guess as werewolves and vampires they don’t have mundane concerns about unplanned pregnancies and STDs the way humans do, but this divorce between sex and marriage has occurred in almost all American entertainment, as embodied by The Vampire Diaries’ contemporaries over at Gossip Girl.)

Brain cell use. There’s an oft-quoted statistic about watching television involving less brain activity than sleeping. Maybe that’s true when you’re watching Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, but whoever originally said it should scan the brain of an English speaker trying to read the speedy subtitles and follow the manic camera work of a show like Queen In-hyun’s Man; I think it’s safe to say they’d be lighting up like a game board on the Price Is Right.

Not having to focus on reading subtitles did allow me to appreciate The Vampire Diaries’ finer details, like the subtle reactions on characters’ faces. And I caught up on some light reading, too—following the action required so little attention that I knocked off several weeks’ worth of my Entertainment Weekly backlog while watching. But television that I didn’t have to read was also kind of boring; when I watch Kdrama, it’s like the video and script are pieces from two separate puzzles that I’ve gotten the knack for putting together on the fly.

***

Ultimately, the thing I missed most in my foray back onto U.S. soil was the everyday slant of Korean storytelling. There was nothing homey or real-life about the Vampire Diaries; it completely ignored the necessities of day-to-day life. We never saw a character eat a full meal, or do laundry, or pay a bill. The show’s fantastical subject matter has a lot to do with this, but the same is true of almost all American television, which takes place in a magical land that exists outside of the earthy, mundane demands of the real world.

As crazy as it sounds, by the time episode 22 of TVD rolled around I missed the down-to-earth feel of Korean dramas. Sure, their plots tend to be built from one insane improbability after another—chaebol/poor woman romances, girls pretending to be boys, birth secrets, fits of contagious amnesia—but their feet are still on the ground.


(P.S.: Look who’s back online! In particular, make sure you check out the K-drama Hub section of the page, which includes interesting overviews and updates about a lot of currently airing and upcoming shows.)

(P. P.S.: I’m still regularly updating the list of Kdrama links I posted a while ago, if you’re looking for things to read.)

Drama Review: 9 End 2 Outs (2007)

Grade: B-

Category
Light romantic melodrama

What it’s about
This drama’s marketing would have you believe that it’s a romantic comedy about best friends falling in love while sharing an apartment, but in truth 9 End 2 Outs is a light melodrama revolving around five longtime friends looking for professional and romantic success while coming to terms with their hard-earned adulthood.

First impression
Reasons why I expect to like this show: (1) It aired in 2007, the year of perfect dramas, (2) Its female lead is a wannabe writer who works at a publishing house, (3) It features a noona romance, (4) There will eventually be cohabitation, and (5) Second lead Lee Tae Sung is a dreamy cream-puff of a boy. Reasons why I expect to dislike this show: (1) It’s a sports drama, and I hate sports dramas (and sports).

Final verdict
Although it’s a fine, low-key show, 9 End 2 Outs left me largely unengaged. It does have a lot going for it, though, including a large cast of compelling characters played by a group of likable actors. Best of all, it wisely does more with its running time than dwell on histrionic fighting and never-ending moves from the shared living space. In contrast with the narrow focus of most cohabitation dramas, 9 End 2 Outs fleshes out its central plot with workplace storylines and multiple romances for each of its leads, and also makes good use of their close circle of high-school friends.

On the down side, the thoughtful female lead suffers from the curse of all wannabe writers: her self-obsessed navel-gazing makes her obnoxious. Add to this a male lead who’s a sensitive playboy but never really achieves any emotional depth, and you’ve got a recipe for a mediocre romance. Plus, their screen time comes at the expense of the show’s most relatable characters, all of whom are relegated to economically sketched supporting roles. If they’d been given more time, 9 End 2 Outs would have been enriched by the starry-eyed fangirl love of the female lead’s arch-rival, the growing pains of her married friends, and the charming almost-romance shared by her hardworking single-girl friend and her chubby office manager.

At its heart, 9 End 2 Outs (whatever the hell that may mean) is a show about becoming an adult that happens to include a number reasonably well-executed romantic subplots. It has an appealingly mellow, realistic vibe and some real insights into the difficulties of sharing a living space and allowing friendship to become something more, but never quite manages to become essential viewing.

(P.S.: Beyond a few belabored baseball metaphors and one character’s dream of playing pro ball, this is not a sports drama. Hooray!)

Random thoughts
•  I’m gratified to see that the median age for pathetic Kdrama spinsters has risen a bit since this 2007 drama. Its heroine is just turning 30, while in most of today’s dramas the age of the afflicted is closer to 35.

• Episode 7. For me, the female lead can really make or break a rom-com. If I find her unlikable or annoying, I’m bound to pick at the rest of the show until I dislike it, too. This drama’s heroine is in danger of bringing on just that response: no matter how much people around her are suffering, all she wants to do is bemoan her horrible lot in life—even if said horrible lot involves being well-fed and well-clothed, having a decent job, and being loved by her family and friends. It’s always a pity party of one with her; in spite of being 30, completely immature. That’s one thing Dal Ja’s Spring did well: its female lead acknowledged that she’d learned a lot as an adult and had grown into a capable manager of her own life. Nan Hee, on the other hand, is completely incapable of dealing with even the slightest bump in the road. She’s cowering in terror at the thought of a high schooler snatching away her young boyfriend, when as an adult woman she should be more than up to the task of keeping him. And should she keep him? I would argue no—throughout the show, everyone is always talking about whether he’ll continue to be faithful as she ages. Well how about whether she’ll want to be faithful after those chocolate abs disintegrate into middle age spread and all that’s left is someone she has nothing in common with? She’s too smart to be happy with a husband who’s barely capable of abstract thought and has a fourth-grade reading level. [Finale update: I’m happy to report that as the show continues, Nan Hee mostly gets her act together.]

• Episode 14. I know as much about baseball as my cat knows about long division, but I’m pretty sure that 16-inning games are very, very rare. Or maybe even impossible.

Watch it
Drama Fever
Good Drama

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Coffee Prince, Episode 1: A Fangirl Recap

Like most Kdrama obsessees, I turn to recaps for a number of reasons. I’m out of my element in dramaland, so they can be invaluable when it comes to interpreting what’s on my television screen. Recaps are also a great way to appreciate little details and subtleties I may have missed in beloved shows. And when I’m not sure if I want to watch something, I often browse comment sections to see if the drama is really worth my time.

As such, I’ve always been both grateful for and intrigued by people who write recaps. It’s clearly a long, incredibly involved process, from watching the show to writing the summary to getting the images to preparing personal commentary about the episode. On top of the time commitment involved, relevancy demands the recaps get posted quickly—and appear twice a week. That’s genuinely insane.

And yet, the Kdrama community is full of amazingly dedicated recappers, both those posting on big collaborative sites like Drama Beans and personal blogs like Mad Dino’s Asylum and Adverse Effects.

I’ve always wanted to give recapping a try myself, but know that I don’t have the gumption to do it regularly. So I thought I’d come at it from another direction: during my recent re-watching of Coffee Prince, I set out writing a recap of the first episode. As expected, it took hours and was actually a lot of fun.

But five thousand words and a mere twenty minutes of running time later, I gave up: It was just too much work. On the one hand, recapping forced me to see the show with fresh eyes, and really unpack all its many pleasures. On the other hand, it pulled me out of the story and prevented me from enjoying the narrative flow. I also suspect that recapping a show you’ve practically memorized from beginning to end is a really different experience than recapping something that’s currently airing—I knew exactly where all the puzzle pieces fit, and could evaluate them in context of the entire series.

Admittedly, what I ended up with was closer to a swooning analysis than a true recap. But if writing it has taught me anything, it’s that the lazy and long-winded should never, ever try to recap.

Here are the results of my first (and probably only) attempt at it.

A Post That Is Not Really a Post

I’ve gotten in the habit of posting every Tuesday and Thursday, but for some reason my drama-watching cycle is a bit off this week. This means I haven’t finished the show I would normally post a review for today, so out of guilt I instead give you an extremely short list of thoughts to ponder.

• I’m a huge lover of the music site 8tracks. And guess what came up this afternoon while I was innocently listening to a playlist tagged study? That would be the song “Crystal Flower” from the Goong soundtrack, buried among a huge clutch of sweeping instrumental soundtracks from random Western movies.

• Here are images outlining why I both love and hate Drama Fever.

Love: It’s sassy and sometimes snarky, as when its employees savaged Big during a recent blog podcast. See also:

Hate: Couldn’t they have waited for the body to be cold before they started running this advertisement on Google AdWords?

• Today is To the Beautiful You day. And there was much rejoicing!

• Also exciting? The premiere of Nice Guy sounds as if it was actually pretty good.

• Would the song titles on the Coffee Prince OST show up correctly on my car’s radio display if I had bought a Hyundai instead of a Honda?

Copyright and Other Dilemmas

Image from Donnapie @ Tumblr

When I graduated from college ten years ago with a degree in English, I only knew one thing: I wanted to spend the rest of my life working with books. So far, I’ve managed to do it—but with each passing day, it becomes less and less clear whether my industry will still exist by the time I’m ready to retire. And two reasons why book publishing is on such shaky ground are the erosion of copyright enabled by the digital revolution, and the lack of respect it breeds for the services my employer and I provide.

So it’s perhaps unsurprising that I’m torn when it comes to fansubs. On the one hand, I love them—they’re for the people and by the people, and often far, far superior to the official subtitles. (See, for example, my fawning discussion of the differences between the subtitles on Coffee Prince’s DVD and the ones created by WITH S2.) On the other hand, I see why the networks and their sanctioned international outlets don’t appreciate fansubs. They’re companies just like the one I work at, and they need to make money to survive. When fansubs are easily available, the dramas’ makers lose control of the product they’ve invested in and are less able to recoup the money they’ve spent.

And when that happens, everybody loses: When you can’t find a decent book to read in ten years because everyone’s self-publishing unedited crap on Amazon, don’t come crying to me. I’m going to be too busy working swing shifts at McDonald’s and falling out of America’s ever-dwindling middle class.

But my sympathy for the makers of Kdramas doesn’t mean that I wasn’t horrified to realize that two of my favorite Kdrama sites disappeared earlier this week: MySoju and DramaTic (z”l). There’s some interesting discussion of what happened on last Friday’s Dramabeans open thread (see the posts starting at 35). Presumably, both sites fell victim to complaints about the legality of their subtitles. (Here’s a site that confirms that Drama Fever filed a cease and desist suit against Google, probably as owner of YouTube.)

I’m as guilty of watching illegally streamed video as the next person, but I only do it when I want to watch something that’s not available from a legitimate source. I happily pay my Drama Fever annual fee (a bargain at twice the price) and am also about to pony up so I can use Hulu Plus on my Roku.

Because I’m a mental midget when it comes to techy things like getting subs and video from different sources and making them work together, watching downloaded dramas isn’t the slightest bit of a temptation for me. This means my relationship with DramaTic has largely been as a reader of commentary—he kept me real. It’s easy to get lost in fangirlish OTP obsessiveness and lose light of things like a show’s objective quality and actual, qualitative merit. DramaTic never did that, and although our opinions differ on a lot of fronts (e.g, I ♥ trendies), the context and sense of history provided by that site have made me an infinitely better, more informed viewer of Korean drama.

I can see filing copyright complaints against My Soju: it is to Kdrama what crack dens are to the real world. But DramaTic? Its owner was only posting translated text files, not video. The ugly truth, though, is that both the words and images that make up our dramas belong to their copyright holders, and they can file suit about abuses against either.

The question is, Why should they? A rising tide lifts all boats. Thanks to fansubs, these dramas reach passionate international viewers the television networks themselves aren’t prepared to exploit—and those international viewers do things like buy DVDs, soundtracks, and ridiculous tchotchkes. (You certainly would not find a replica of the necklace Jun Pyo made for Jan Di in my jewelry box. No, you certainly would not.) When someone fansubs a show, it’s a giant advertisement for not just sixteen (or twenty or a hundred) hours of television—it’s an advertisement for an entire genre. Maybe even an entire nation.

This crackdown on grass-roots support for their product is even worse in light of its fundamental hypocrisy: Guess who subbed the show I’m watching on Drama Fever right now? That’s right…WITH S2. That fansub site is credited at the beginning of each and every episode of 9 Ends 2 Outs—and a lot of other shows that Drama Fever continues to stream. They’re benefiting every day from the efforts of some fansubers, yet they turn around and file copyright claims against others. On what planet does that make sense?

In a lot of ways, this reminds me of the state of American popular music in the early 2000s. As that point, it seemed likely that peer-to-peer file trading would wipe out traditional record labels, and maybe even the music industry itself. But after a lot of regrettable fighting against the people they should have been courting—music lovers around the world—the music industry was saved by one thing: the convenience and accessibility of iTunes. Back in the day, I used Napster and Limewire and Pirate Bay just like every other college kid. But now that it’s so incredibly easy and affordable to buy from legitimate sources, why would I bother to download things illegally? 

With the help of its sales network, the music industry made itself indispensable not by crushing the people who loved their product, but by finding a way to work with them. That’s what Drama Fever should be doing right now: providing a service so good, universally accessible, and complete that fansubs wouldn’t be necessary.

As an English-speaking North American viewer, I know I’m incredibly lucky: Korean networks will do practically anything to get their dramas into my hands and on my TV. The potential market here is huge, and just like the purveyors of Kpop, they want a piece of that pie. But for that to happen, they need to realize that biting the hand that feeds them isn’t going to help.

Imagine how much time someone like DramaTic’s webmaster invested in the many, many hours worth of subs he made available at his site. Instead of having websites like his removed from the Internet, the Kdrama Overlords should thank whatever God they pray to every day for their dedicated fans. 

I honestly believe there’s a way for everyone to win here—why not find it?

Review: 12 Men in a Year (2012)

Grade: C+

Category: Urban rom-com

What it’s about

After breaking up with her longterm boyfriend, Na Mi Ru—a reporter at a women’s magazine—finds herself forced to write a column about dating men of each Western astrological sign. The extensive, “hands-on” research required could ruin her reputation and leave her single forever—or introduce her to her true soulmate.

First impression

A light and airy take on contemporary urban life, this show splits the difference between the zaniness of Queen In-Hyun’s Man and the candid naturalism of the original I Need Romance. I could do with a less love-obsessed heroine, but props to tvN for staying away from the safe, comfortable dramaland of the big networks and keeping it real(ish).

Final verdict

Overall a fun, involving watch, this show is at its best when it’s following Mi Ru on her quest to meet and date men from each of the twelve astrological signs. It creates a slew of amusing characters, breezes into their lives for an episode or two, and them leaves them behind. Unfortunately, though, 12 Men in a Year has a lot in common with its female lead: it sucks when it comes to building a lasting relationship. All too often the show’s boundary-breaking central plot and great supporting cast (especially Tanya, the quirky best friend), are downplayed in favor of the abrasive, unlikable female lead and her cold-as-ice relationship with her ex-boyfriend. Unlike so many Kdramas, though, 12 Men in a Year keeps you guessing until the very end about where Mi Ru’s heart truly lies. (And as an added bonus, it’s a smorgasbord of toothsome male actors.) The finale was almost what I needed to overlook 12 Men’s  sins, but it didn’t quite hit the necessary notes: I wanted more passion for the written word and a stronger sense that the women involved had triumphantly shrugged off the shackles of the status quo. Instead, the closing felt a little half-hearted and route.

Random thoughts

• Episode 2. Now that was a good reason to wail “otokae” and dance impotently around. This show is a funny, youthful-but-mature change of pace. How did it fail to get noticed when it was originally airing?

—Newsflash, sweetie: You’re an alcoholic, and you deserve to be fired.

• Episode 5. So the column the female lead is writing seems to be a two-page spread consisting of 150 words’ worth of easy platitudes and trite clichés. I can see why the reading public is eating it up...or maybe not.

• Episode 6. Pinch me—I think I’m dreaming. Either that, or I just watched an episode of a Korean drama about (1) a woman’s right to enjoy physical intimacy and (2) a woman’s right to say no to said intimacy if she so chooses. I guess another possible interpretation is that the finale is the show’s way of reminding us what happens when girls step out of line and misbehave...but we’ll just pretend the last ten minutes didn’t happen, shall we?

• Episode 8. As far as I can see, this show only has two weaknesses. Unfortunately, they’re big ones: Neither lead has any charm, grace, or depth, and when you put them together, they’re like a black hole where chemistry goes to die. On the bright side, the supporting cast is wonderful—especially the female lead’s no-nonsense best friend and police-officer mom. Plus, the plot is diverting fun: when it’s focusing on Sophia’s column, it’s zippy and entertaining. If only the lead actors and characters had been worthy, 12 Men in a Year could have been a truly great drama.

• Episode 15. Wait. So Tanya actually owns some sort of home tattooing device? That’s not a great way to spread hepatitis or anything.

Watch it

Kimchi Dramas

Drama Crazy

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Both I Need Romance and I Need Romance 2012, for their candid, believable take on modern love