I’ve had the lyrics from the song Where do We Go from Here in my head the last few days. Fans of Buffy will know it from the musical episode “Once More, With Feeling.” It’s been a rough, sad week for the Buffy cast and fandom. Nicholas Brendon’s sudden death at only 54 came right on top of Hulu staking the hotly anticipated Buffy: New Sunnydale revival.

Where do we go from here, indeed?

Fans are understandably grieving. It feels like we’ve been robbed, especially after SMG’s Instagram post that a Hulu executive who wasn’t a fan of the original axed the revival. The Internet did its thing and identified him immediately. Rightly or not, he’s now the Big Bad in the fandom’s eyes. But maybe, just maybe, fellow Buffy fans, we dodged a bullet. Plenty of popular shows that were contemporaries of Buffy, like The X-Files, Charmed,and Heroes, were revived and fell flat. 

Yeah, it was amazing to see Scully and Mulder again, but did Season 11 do anything besides make The X-File’s super convoluted alien mythology even foggier? And worse, when Gillian Anderson declined to continue, the revival was dead in the water. Meanwhile, Heroes Reborn was a travesty – they retconned established mythology, killed Claire, the indestructible girl, and left half the original characters worse off. The Charmed revival rode on the original’s popularity, but was essentially reduced to the Power of point-three.

I loved all these shows. But I didn’t love any of their revivals. So maybe it’s a blessing that Buffy didn’t suffer the same fate. And we don’t even have to look at other shows to know that Buffy herself probably wouldn’t have wanted to come back. The series is plenty clear about what happens when people try to revive what should remain at rest.  

Since New Sunnydale’s cancellation, I’ve been thinking about the Season 5 episode “Forever,” when Buffy’s younger sister, Dawn, tries to raise their mother from the dead. Dawn was convinced that having a zombie mother was better than having none. But Buffy, with wisdom beyond her years, tells Dawn that they can’t do that; “Not to mum.” Sometimes, the best thing we can do for what we love is to leave it be. 

Buffy herself knows the pain of being forced to return. After Buffy sacrificed her life in the Season 5 finale, Willow brought her back from the dead. She was sure Buffy would be grateful and happy to live again. Nobody could understand why she seemed so changed, so depressed. Spike even said that “She came back wrong.” It was only later that they understood: Buffy believed she had been in heaven – “wherever I was…I was happy.”

Am I a bad fan for not wanting the revival? That’s been troubling me. Everyone else seems so universally upset about the cancellation. There was a time when I was desperate for the series to continue, convinced that seven seasons weren’t enough, that there were more phenomenal stories left to tell. See, Buffy wasn’t just entertainment – it was a work of art, deeply profound and philosophical. Even academia agrees – there’s actually something called Buffy Studies.

Sure, it was a 90s WB show about a teen girl killing vampires. But the genius of Buffy was how it used the supernatural as a metaphor to explore the horrors and hardships of growing up: loneliness, heartbreak, friendship, sexuality, addiction, depression, loss, even suicide. The writers treated these heavy topics with such humanity and humour. The original was both ahead of its time and also such a part of its time’s zeitgeist. It gave people hope, comfort and strength. 

Even in the capable hands of Chloe Zhao, there was no guarantee New Sunnydale would’ve succeeded in capturing all this. Plus, Buffy was brilliant because the writers could develop its season-long arc across 22 episodes. Would that work in today’s streaming age? Would an eight-episode season have afforded them that depth? I seriously doubt it. 

I love Buffy, both the slayer and the series, so much that I can’t bear for it to come back as anything lesser. Remember how the Scoobies tried replacing Buffy with the Buffybot after her death? It mimicked the original, but her essence was missing. Would New Sunnydale have felt like that? We’ll never know. And Buffy deserves better than to be brought back to life (again). I hope wherever she is, she’s happy.

The Buffy revival is no longer happening at Hulu.

The post The Buffy Revival Is Dead. Maybe That’s the Happy Ending. appeared first on Goggler.

That also means it can get tiring. Of course, seeing the same beats and themes is hard to avoid, but with about 15 direct screen adaptations of Sherlock Holmes since 2010, finding something fresh is difficult. How do you add another aspect to a widely beloved character? How do you continue to explore a dynamic as popular as Holmes and Watson?

High Potential does all of that and more. Based on the French-Belgian show HPI, it follows a cleaning lady who becomes a consultant to the LAPD due to her high IQ, analytical skills, and wide breadth of knowledge. Funny and heartfelt, High Potential is the kind of procedural that delivers more than it promises, using its format to weave an engaging, deep story without minimizing the crimes that surround it.

It also happens to have the best iteration of Sherlock Holmes in at least the last two decades.

The Sherlock Holmes of It All

Of course, there’s a reason why there are so many versions of this character. Sherlock Holmes is one of the first fictional detectives of his kind. Conan Doyle pretty much set up the trope for every detective that followed. Since his first appearance in 1887, Sherlock Holmes has gathered a following that has become the basis for superfandoms today.

His “brilliant-but-damaged” persona lends the perfect thing to latch onto in stories, a hook that adds to his charisma and depth, and stops him from becoming a “Gary Stu,” but still lends to his competency in his adventures. “He’s a genius, therefore he’s a bit strange,” as Mark Gatiss, co-creator of BBC’s Sherlock series, explains, becoming a force that works beside the main lines of justice due to his abilities.

Most adaptations follow this general characterization, as in the aforementioned BBC series, Robert Downey Jr. movies, or Elementary. Sherlock is a genius, but he’s socially inept. Often rude and struggling with his own issues, but continuously able to get down to the root of the mysteries he’s faced with.

In High Potential, Morgan Gillory (played by Kaitlin Olsen, best known for It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia) is the Sherlock character modified and made better. Of course, with an IQ of 160, she’s supremely intelligent, with a hyperfocused brain that’s a perfect asset to the major crimes department. She’s not a detective, though. Far from it. She gets her job at LAPD by happenstance after tampering with a crime board that she had access to only because she’s the cleaning lady.

Instead of being a functioning sociopath like most Holmesian characters, she’s deeply empathetic and kind. In nearly every episode, she shows a level of care for victims and their families that is direct and humanizing, using her power and abilities to help them because she wants the best for everyone. She can be abrasive and blunt, but ultimately, the coldness is replaced with a fun, almost quirky personality. And arguably, it makes her more interesting, and a clever way to reframe old tricks and explore things with a new lens.

Holmes-Watson Contemporaries

Sherlock is nothing without John Watson. The connection between the two (whether perceived as platonic or romantic) is in part why Holmes has stood the test of time, having a narrative foil and a confidant that steadies him. In fact, this parable is probably more directly adapted to the screen compared to the characters themselves. Shows like Bones, The Mentalist, and Castle (all three were airing around the same time, interestingly) depict the dynamic in their own way, but keep the “hot and cold” core of it steady.

Adam Karadec (Daniel Sunjata) is the lead detective of major crimes and Morgan’s Watson. The classic dynamic is twisted on its head with this duo — the detached, calculated character is Karadec, while the emotional, humanistic one is Morgan. They butt heads, especially in the beginning, with Karadec seeing Morgan’s lack of respect for authority as a hindrance. She’s much louder than him too, which takes him aback. In fact, rather than being socially inept, Morgan thrives with people and her connections, has three children, and ends up befriending some of the detectives in the police station. Often, she gets relevant information for cases by talking to ordinary people around the cases. So it’s not only her brilliance that makes her a good consultant, but also her humanity.

From London to Los Angeles and Beyond

All the major and minor inspirations High Potential takes from the British detective only emphasize how its differences make it better.

The gender switch plays into this especially. Sherlock Holmes was a man of privilege and class in Victorian England, which gave him the mobility to live a “bohemian” lifestyle outside social conventions. Morgan grounds the character type by being a working class single mom who, while aware of her abilities, has had it be more of a hindrance all her life until she gets hired by the LAPD. Because she didn’t colour inside the lines, she was vilified and didn’t get chances to show her potential, which is much more realistic, especially for modern audiences.

Morgan even visually contrasts with many Sherlock characters (as well as other characters in her show). Her eccentricities come out in her personality, of course, but they also show in her bright outfits, short skirts, and snazzy patterns, creating a different kind of image, not only for a Holmes iteration but also for a motherly character. She’s allowed to express herself loudly and unapologetically, which is a welcome change.

As a whole, High Potential injects something fresh into the already crowded “genius consultant” story. Morgan Gilloroy mixes the logical with heart; the order with chaos. Instead of making this about how opposing forces create friction, they work in parallel and almost blur the difference, turning its Sherlock Holmes character into a modern, maybe more believable figure. So, yes, undoubtedly the best version of it we’ve seen in a long while.

You can watch High Potential on Disney+.

The post High Potential Is the Best Version of Sherlock Holmes appeared first on Goggler.

One: Heated Rivalry is smutty! There is a LOT of sex, so if that’s not your speed, then this should be an easy skip. But it’s also not just smut. It’s so much more, and sex is used intentionally, a true example of what people mean when they say that it should “drive the story.”

Two: It’s about hockey, but not about hockey at all. Hockey is its focal point, sure, but the show is a romance. The real driving force is the connection and draw between its two main characters, Shane Hollander, played by Hudson Williams, and Ilya Rozanov, played by Connor Storrie. 

Three: It’s good. So good. Like lightning in a bottle good.

Built From the Ground Up

When it came to the show, I, along with original fans of the book, came in with all of the usual fears when it comes to adaptations. The series was created specifically for Crave, a Canadian streaming service with a relatively small budget for six episodes, and was shot over just seven weeks. This was not a big Hollywood production.

There was some anticipatory excitement, but also concerns as to how the main couple and their love story would be covered, especially considering the explicit nature of the novel. But the trailer drops, and it blows up. So much, that it caused HBO Max in the United States to pick it up for a wider release, even before its premiere.

This resulted in an almost overnight cultural shift; a show with humble beginnings being thrown into the fray of popular perception. The zeitgeist of which is symbolic of how art is best created when the people involved genuinely care.

When Love Shines Through

Everything In Heated Rivalry is so intentional. From the way it’s shot, coloured, acted — there’s a real sense of passion and artistry to it.

A lot of it can probably be attributed to the infancy of pre-production. Showrunner Jacob Tierney approached the author of the books, Rachel Reid, with his interest in adapting her work and Reid has since sung his praises and his care towards the story she wrote. Many agree that Tierney perfectly adapted the books into a TV show, condensing it into six episodes that felt satisfying, but still left them craving for more.

There is just no dead air within the show. Every scene works to compel rather than force your attention. There are so many instances of long shots that helped with building tension, creating a sense of being in the same room with the characters, and making you feel like you’re a part of it all. And in a story that is essentially about two characters and their burgeoning relationship, everything else should seem moot when they’re together. 

Of course, Heated Rivalry would be nothing without its two leads. The chemistry between Williams and Storie is what drives the show, and both actors possess a genuine (and wonderfully intense) understanding of their characters. There’s an electricity whenever both of them are on screen that starts off with a bang and keeps it there while developing into something deeper.

Hudson Williams’ Shane is so very internal, which can be easily portrayed in a book, with thoughts and feelings broadcast clearly to readers, but so much harder to do on film. Somehow, Williams’ performance supersedes that, without the need for a voice over. He has also talked about his faithfulness to portraying Shane’s autism, which treats the character as just human without infantilizing them, or making them into something more. 

Meanwhile, Connor Storie fools viewers as an American playing a Russian. He physically turns into his character, shifting his voice lower, and having his jaw go taut in a way that mimics native Russian speakers. He is as charismatic as he is grating, but never fails, even in the softer moments. At Ilya’s lowest, he performs a monologue completely in Russian, that apparently humbled the show’s dialect coach, after a particularly good take.

Heated Fans and No Rivalry

The discussion of the allure of M/M romance to non-queer men has been on the table since the beginning of the show. It makes sense, since the book and show have a fanbase of mostly women, which is arguably what’s made the show find such widespread success. And so the question remains, why are these women so interested in something centred entirely on gay men? The showrunner and actors have reached a general consensus. And it’s one that I agree with too. 

In a podcast episode discussing the show, Tierney notes how there’s a vulnerability with sex that women aren’t traditionally allowed without the possibility of violence. In a show like Heated Rivalry, the two leads are on an even playing field — they’re literally at the apex of their game, the best players in hockey  —  and they can explore intimacy as equals. They can be intimate without the cultural burdens of the patriarchy, which is especially evident as the show goes on and they fall in love.

Williams and Storrie discuss in their interview that the stereotypes within heterosexual romance mean that men usually aren’t portrayed as emotionally open. It’s almost as if they aren’t allowed to be, primarily because of the expectation of women’s roles in relationships. But in this dynamic, these men are forced to explore vulnerability, forced to show a side of masculinity that feels more “interesting and accessible,” which in turn makes the characters have dimensions that aren’t typical to them.

While Heated Rivalry joins a growing catalogue of queer content that has popped up within the past couple of years (some of them overwhelmingly well-received as well), I think that this one hits a specific place that others don’t. Other contemporaries like Our Flag Means Death, Interview With a Vampire, and Fellow Travelers may share similar aspects of smuttiness, but possess other elements that may turn off some viewers. Whether it’s because of the period/supernatural genre or (with Fellow Travelers specifically) the depressing story surrounding AIDs, I think there’s an element of joy Heated Rivalry brings that makes it an easier watch.

The closest comparison would be Prime Video’s Red, White, And Royal Blue. Another M/M romance novel adaptation that had its own cultural moment, and probably helped tremendously in getting Heated Rivalry greenlit.

With a second season on the way, and the finale leaving many fans crying for more, it’s safe to say that Hollanov (the characters’ official couple name) is here to stay. I hope that Heated Rivalry sets a benchmark for where romance adaptations can go in the future, and not just for gay relationships. Romance media deserves the same level of care and intentionality that other genres do, and this one shows us just how well the audience will respond when it’s done well.

The post Heated Rivalry Has No Right Being *This* Good  appeared first on Goggler.

In Pluribus, a space virus mentally “glues” human beings worldwide. After the Joining, eight billion people become a collective “We.” Calling themselves the Others, humanity now lives in happy harmony. Overnight, wars and racism vanish. For romantasy writer Carol Sturka (Rhea Seehorn), this new world is horrifying. As the sole North American individual left uninfected, Carol regards the Joining as the ultimate death of freedom and individuality. But is Carol’s disgust of the hive mind natural or culturally inherited?

Carol is certainly not the first person in fiction who responds with horror to a collective “We.” She likens the Others to the Pod People from Invasion of the Body Snatchers. That this is her primary frame of reference for her situation is telling. She automatically sees the Others as a threat because she draws upon her Western pop-culture heritage. Western narratives treat hive minds with fascination but also with universal suspicion, positioning them as invasive forces that erase individuality. 

In the 1956 film, and later remakes of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, the hive mind is presented as a hostile takeover of the self and society. Then there is the other infamous collective – the Borg of Star Trek. These cybernetic monstrosities spread like a plague through space, capturing people and assimilating them for their “biological and technological distinctiveness.” Even Charmed dabbled with hive minds in Season 7, with the Avatars and their goal of bringing universal peace upon everyone. 

The great thing about hive minds is that they are malleable motifs. They are open ciphers, allowing us to project the anxieties of the age upon them. For instance, the original 1956 Invasion of the Body Snatchers was about the Red Scare – the fear of communism infiltrating America. Meanwhile, the book it was based on, The Body Snatchers by Jack Finney, harkens back to the ancient Irish legends of changelings. Like changelings, Finney’s Pod People induce the uncanny horror of replicability, of realizing that anyone is replaceable. 

The Avatars of Charmed come closest to the peace-on-Earth Others of Pluribus. Exhausted by years of fighting evil, the Charmed Ones agree to help the Avatars remake the world into a utopia. Unfortunately, they discover later that the price of this utopia is that anyone who does not conform to the Avatar’s vision of perfection is killed. Just like Carol, the Halliwell sisters are forced to grapple with the moral conundrum of whether peace without free will is worthwhile or even genuine.

The beautiful thing about Pluribus is that Gilligan does not guide how audiences respond to the Others. This allows audiences to approach them with any interpretation. I’ve seen enthusiastic discussions online comparing the Others to ChatGPT. When Carol asks for their opinion on her Wycaro books, they offer bland, banal statements. They even manage to piss her off by equating her writing to Shakespeare’s. I’ve also seen great commentary on how the Others’ determination to “save” Carol by sharing their bliss resembles religious evangelism. 

One thing I really wish Gilligan had spent time exploring more is how a hive mind affects Carol as a writer. The sudden condensation of all opinions into one unitary mind would be devastating for human creativity. It brings sudden death to all new ideas, expressions, and originality. Likewise, Carol’s sudden, extreme isolation means she will never again have her words read by an independent mind. Artistic creation, that most human of activities, is a dialogue. So what becomes of creators when they lose someone to share themselves with? 

As I said, there is nothing original about Pluribus – and that’s okay. What Pluribus offers is more important than originality. It has energetically brought the hive mind concept back into mainstream discourse. Unlike perennial villains like vampires and aliens, hive minds arise only occasionally in pop culture. Yet whenever they do, they open an incredible range of c onversations. At least for now, the enormous popularity of Pluribus has united people, something rare in a time when our societies and lived experiences have never been more divided or isolated.

Season 1 of Pluribus is now streaming on Apple TV.

The post Pluribus and the Hive Mind appeared first on Goggler.

The moment in question is a dream sequence, a “what if” scenario in which Christopher Pike and Marie Batel experience the life they could have had, a long, and fulfilling life together, which feels as real as it was brief. In just 10 minutes, Strange New Worlds challenges us to reconsider fate, love, and the life we take for granted.

A Glimpse of the Future

Christopher Pike has long seen a vision where he was fated to be permanently scarred in a radiation incident with some cadets (as seen in Star Trek: The Original Series). Marie Batel, meanwhile, has been infected by an alien parasite and is about to be separated from Pike forever as she accepts her next call to duty.

As a parting gift, Batel gives Pike a glimpse into the life they might have built together had they outrun fate. Underscored by the haunting motif of someone knocking, this ten-minute montage is tender, bittersweet, and shadowed by fate.

We join Pike and Batel in celebrating their second wedding anniversary and commemorating the trials they survived together, before moving on to watching their young daughter Juliet grow up and then bracing for the fateful trip that would permanently scar him. As he prepares to leave, the knock on the door beckons him. Pike laments to Batel that he never knew he had so much to lose. 

Batel, however, answers the knock on her door to find Pike returned, unharmed. As he explains, he was fully prepared to face his fate, but it never came. Pike himself is lost, as the future he had spent years preparing to face is now gone, and the world is now a complete unknown to him. Speechless, they choose to continue living and face the future together.

Time flows in montage, with Pike and Batel celebrating family milestones and the quiet comforts of a well-lived life. Eventually, on her deathbed within the sequence, Marie tells him this life is a gift, before gently urging him to answer the knock on the door, where the episode resumes.

Emotional Core Versus Spectacle

Though the sequence is short, Strange New Worlds does what Discovery and Picard have struggled with: prioritising emotional resonance over spectacle. While Discovery leaned on galaxy-wide stakes and Picard on nostalgic callbacks, this sequence brings Star Trek to its baseline: relationships, mortality, and purpose.

The simplicity of this scene, and Strange New Worlds as a whole, allows us to feel the heart and soul of the crew of the USS Enterprise on their journey, not just find out their eventual fate. And if you’re a longtime Star Trek fan, you would have picked up on the fact that the legendary James T. Kirk would eventually captain the crew of the USS Enterprise – several members from the cast of Strange New Worlds would remain to serve under Kirk. 

Just like Pike in his vision with Marie, the show invites us to accept the destiny of its characters and to appreciate the journey that the series intends to bring us on along the way. It’s a reminder that Star Trek, at its best, isn’t just about phasers or warp drives; it’s about the human condition and the connections between its characters. 

The Journey Matters as Much as the Destination

Whilst this is ultimately an episode of Star Trek, the message is universal. It speaks to the feelings and moments that result from pondering what could have been.

Plus, this isn’t the first time Star Trek has explored the concept of alternate realities — Star Trek: The Next Generation’s “The Inner Light” featured Captain Picard living an entire alternate lifetime in the span of an episode. Like Pixar’s Up, we get a powerful reminder of the emotional power of glimpsing a life in miniature.

Overall, the message of appreciating the journey and not just the destination is a timeless message that keeps the show relevant and emotionally resonant with its viewers. After all, the best pieces of media are always the ones that not only entertain us, but also serve as apt reminders of what we should think and feel in our everyday lives. 

Strange New Worlds does this beautifully by honouring the legacy of Star Trek, reminding us that the boldest frontier isn’t necessarily out there amongst the stars, it’s in the lives we live every day and the journeys we take in our hearts.

The post The Journey, Not the Destination: Strange New Worlds’ Emotional Through Line in 10 Minutes appeared first on Goggler.

Peggy has always been a force of nature. She’s a writer, journalist, and social activist who champions the rights of African Americans and women. Peggy’s activism and ambition are admirable today, but in the 1880s, she was considered destabilising, even dangerous. For a woman and person of colour, Peggy contends with endless man-made social barriers. Yet in Season 3, she’s policed not by White society but by her future mother-in-law.

When Peggy’s love interest, William Kirkland, invites her to bring her family to meet his, the unspoken racial tensions within the Black community are forced to the surface. To the casual outsider, both families are respectable pillars of African American high society. But on a superficial level, the Scotts are far darker in complexion than the pale-skinned Kirklands. The differences in skin tone become a focal point for Ms Kirkland (Phylicia Rashad). She wears her paleness with pride and makes no secret of her horror for dark skin.

When Peggy’s parents overhear her publicly berating the nanny for allowing the grandchildren to get dark from playing under the sun, a family friend tries to minimize Ms Kirkland’s outburst as a “preference.” Peggy’s father, Arthur, however, wisely points out that these are “prejudices.” People like Ms Kirkland see skin tone as a signifier of the purity of one’s familial lineage, including whether or not your family carries the pride of freedom or the historical trauma of enslavement.

When Ms Kirkland discovers that Arthur was a former slave from the South who gained emancipation, her worst fears about Peggy are confirmed. She cannot allow her son to marry a dark woman descended from slaves. Ms Kirkland proudly declares that all her family were born into freedom in the North and her ancestor “fought” in the American Revolutionary War (he just played the bugle!). For her, family heritage and freedom are inextricably, almost genetically interlinked. 

Colourism, which Ms Kirkland openly practices, is an insidious branch of racial discrimination. Although simplistic, the dichotomy between dark and light skin tones among people of the same ethno-racial background associates those with lighter skin with positive values like purity, beauty, intelligence, and industry. While they may still face racial discrimination, light skin African Americans have more access to advantages. And for a historically oppressed society, any advantage over your fellow brethren tends to be jealously guarded. 

The history of colourism in America has very dark origins. (No pun intended.) Light skinned African Americans were often the product of rape between White slave owners and their Black slaves. During the time The Gilded Age is set, slavery laws in the South meant that enslaved people were property. Since slavery was inherited on the mother’s side, the system enabled White slavers to literally increase their property by raping the Black women they owned, and siring children into slavery.

Since descendants of such violence could pass for White, they often enjoyed more opportunities in life. For people like Ms Kirkland, light skin means proximity to Whiteness, and white equals right and might. Such thinking justifies White supremacy. If even the African Americans prefer lighter skin, can anyone really be racist? Colourism is destructive because it teaches the discriminated to internalise their own “inferiority.” As civil rights activist Nannie Burroughs said, “Many Negroes have colorphobia as badly as the white folks have Negrophobia.”

Peggy and her family are not just dark. They bear the visible and invisible weight of everything Ms Kirkland is desperate to ensure will never touch her family: the violence and trauma of slavery. Ms Kirkland is willing to erase the black stain of her people’s collective history from her personal heritage. On a more macro-level, the United States often engages in a similar forgetting. Season 3 of The Gilded Age starts important – if uncomfortable – conversations about colourism that are as vital now as in the nineteenth century.

The Gilded Age is now streaming on HBO Max.

The post The Gilded Age and the Insidiousness of Colourism appeared first on Goggler.

Without missing a beat, the guy character’s inner monologue reveals that the question alone is enough to get him aroused, so he sets a pillow on his lap. You think: “WTF?” Now all this happens in under ten seconds. So… what else are you supposed to do except keep watching. Right?

(Yes, the example above is an actual advertisement I’ve gotten for one of these English duanju.)

Suddenly, you’re ten minutes in, hooked, and yelling at your phone screen because every thing about this is so dumb! Then, just as the story reaches its climax, the advertisement ends. You get irritated because you want to know what happens next. So, you take the plunge and download the app that has the full series.

You’re instantly paywalled. US$20, or you don’t get to know if the popular guy gets the nerdy girl. Damn. (He does, obviously. He always does.)

 Are you going to pay up, though?

So What Are Duanju? Where Do They Come From?

Like the name suggests, they’re micro dramas. 

Each episode is anywhere between a minute and three, though they usually lean on the shorter side. One series might range from 50 to about 100 episodes, which in total can’t be more than one or two hours of content.

They’re also made natively for short-form video platforms like TikTok, which means everything is viewed in portrait mode. It’s content made to scroll.

While it’s only in the past year that these micro-dramas have gained major relevance on TikTok, they originated in China around 2018, not long after the platform was established. It’s been raking in millions of dollars ever since, with an estimate that by 2027, the industry will be worth $13 billion.

… and Why Are They So Addictive?

The thing that draws people into these bite-sized dramas isn’t just the format. It’s the capital “D” Drama. They’re low-quality soaps that hinge directly on our human inclinations towards pathos and catharsis. 

In other words, they appeal directly towards our ape-brain desire to find a dopamine hit every chance we get and drop anything that doesn’t immediately appeal to that. Unfortunately, the public perception that our attention spans are getting shorter and shorter continues to ring true.

The majority of these dramas use well-worn tropes and fantasies to create stories that rival the likes of Wattpad werewolf fanfiction and low-quality rehashings of the Cinderella tale. They are story beats that viewers know and recognize, and yet can’t help but get hooked on because you just have to see how it plays out.

Add in some vulgarity and violence, and you have a recipe for TikTok success. 

The Good: Dopamine Factory

From there, it’s easy to see how this format has hit it big. It’s easy, breezy, and something you don’t have to get too invested in. Even if you find yourself initially hooked, it’s easy to scroll away without any consequences because the end is predictable. (Good triumphs above evil, the jilted woman gets her revenge, etc. etc. etc.)

It’s an easy escape that typical viewers find comfort in when they don’t have the capacity for anything more. As Nadia Khomami simplifies in The Guardian: “The common appeal for all of them is escapism; […] when life feels overwhelming.”

The Bad: Depressingly Low Quality

There’s little to no quality in almost any aspect of these dramas. 

The scripts are as surface-level as they can get, with barely any depth put into them. The focus is usually on the melodrama or the scandal, sometimes with repeating beats just to drive points home. Nuance doesn’t exist, and characters don’t have personalities — even main characters get shafted with just being “good” and nothing else. 

This doesn’t help even the best actors in these shows. It’s hard to take anyone seriously when there’s nothing to take from a flimsy script. It’s that, or the wooden performances from the actors — it’s typically the side characters, but sometimes even the leads phone it in.

It’s hard to look past the very low production value too. These micro dramas skim by doing the bare minimum, with a very obviously threadbare budget that they don’t even attempt to stretch out. There’s little effort to conceal it, with a vibe of “whatever, this is enough” that is genuinely depressing, especially when it becomes apparent that the people producing these shows seem to know what they’re doing. 

It’s almost like turning over a profit matters more than any value or substance.

The Ugly: Soulless and Money-Minded

That leads to maybe the most sinister thing about these TikTok duanju. There’s no soul in it. No matter how much effort that actors and producers try to put into it, ultimately, it never feels right. The format as a whole feels empty and money-grubbing. Because that’s all it is at the end of the day. Money.

Of course, money is important in any aspect of the entertainment industry; it’s how things keep spinning, how things get made. But with these micro dramas, it’s more about quantity than any level of quality. Hook people in, make them pay, and get millions in returns.

It’s probably why they rely on shock value and tropes so heavily. Why there’s no risk or passion in the storytelling, and why they don’t spend more to make them look better. Profit matters more than anything else.

Founder of short drama company Luckyshort, Reeves Deng, basically admits to it, saying: “What we are essentially doing is to bring people pleasure — at lower costs and higher frequencies.”

It’s also right there in the subscription models. Using the freemium model to give viewers just enough episodes for free, usually where it gets “juicy”, and then locking away the rest behind a paywall. 

As of writing this article, the largest English-language short drama app, DramaBox, has over 100 million downloads. And while it’s possible that many, if not the majority, don’t end up paying for the dramas once they have the application, there have to be at least thousands, if not millions, that do.

So, Is This the Future of Entertainment?

The CEO of ReelShort believes as much, saying that they “see mini dramas becoming a dominant form of entertainment, potentially even outpacing the traditional film market in a few years.” ITV even names them ‘TV for the TikTok Generation’ in their video exploring these short dramas. 

And if any part of those statements is true, then where does that leave high-quality, landscape aspect-ratio, film and TV? 

Does the TikTok generation not deserve good, meaningful entertainment? Do they not need movies that can change lives, or TV episodes that they think about for days after? Is that not the beauty of good media? 

There’s no way to know if we’ll be ditching movie theatres and big screen TVs for micro drama verticals on our phones in the next ten years. But if duanju are fated to be the future of the industry, then what does that say about how we consume our entertainment? About the messages we want to see portrayed?

Is it really so hard to sit down and watch a good film in a theatre? 

Or are we doomed to paying US$20 to watch the nerdy girl and the popular guy get together (again) through 50 one minute long episodes and nothing else? 

The post The Epidemic of TikTok Short Dramas: Why? Just… Why? appeared first on Goggler.

South Korea is one of the world’s great economies and a poster child for hyper-capitalist neoliberalism. But in its early decades, modern South Korea’s economic development was guided by the state, which fostered ties between the government, banks, and corporations. Thanks to the disastrous 1997 financial crisis, the nation became more openly neoliberal, including embracing neoliberal practices like free market liberalisation and deregulation. Even the social and private spheres could not escape the domination of neoliberal pressures.

For the average South Korean citizen, this shift meant learning to play the games of the marketplace. Neoliberalism crept into all levels of daily life. Work, shopping, fitness, dating, and family relationships transformed into arenas where everyone must compete, not just to succeed, but to survive. People internalise neoliberal values like hard work, competitiveness, self-reliance, strategy, and enterprise. These values might seem natural and even noble, but in hyper-capitalist societies, they can create cut-throat, winner-takes-all behaviours.

Squid Game shows how seemingly benign children’s games are embedded with neoliberal ideologies and how they are further enforced in the participants’ behaviours. The games Gi-hun and the other 455 players must play are familiar to them, but on the island, the games’ true neoliberal nature becomes terrifyingly deadly. The very structure of these games, the reward system, rules, and penalties, compels players to actively embrace neoliberal mentalities like self-reliance, craft, and backstabbing. 

One of my favourite games on Squid Game is Mingle. Players are spun on a giant carousel, then forced to quickly form groups in pre-determined numbers. Those who fail are gunned down. The game’s design intentionally inflicts the cruelties of neoliberalism. First it encourages players to cooperate, like when Gi-hun and Hyun-ju’s teams combine forces. But soon they are torn apart when team numbers are whittled. In Mingle, neoliberalism corrodes solidarity; players are rapidly forced to hyper-fixate on individualism in order to win. 

Unsurprisingly, the most hated characters each season are the entrepreneurs. In Season 1, businessman Sang-woo betrayed Ali. In Season 2, crypto trader Myung-gi is the consummate neoliberal player. During “Hide and Seek,” he goes on a killing spree. What makes Myung-gi despicable is that he kills other players, not to win or survive, but to maximise his economic earnings. Myung-gi has so internalised the logic of neoliberalism that any morality or compassion is short-circuited in favour of financial hyper-competitiveness.   

Even between games, neoliberalism influences the players’ behaviours. After each game, players can vote to take the prize money and leave, or stay to play. Squid Game critically exposes how democratic practices like voting are largely embedded with neoliberalism, which coerces people’s choices. Against all sanity, most players keep voting to play. They are so indoctrinated by the neoliberal desire for financial freedom from debt that their natural self-preservation and empathy are overridden. 

Recent political events have proven how robust South Korea’s democracy is. Notably, on Squid Game, players are given red and blue tags after voting, which are the colours on the South Korean flag. Although the squids ensure that the voting is fair and unrigged, the voting system, based on the illusion of meritocracy, is deeply flawed. Gi-hun and the others who vote to leave are constantly held captive by the majority vote. When the will of the people is neoliberal, everyone is hostage to the game. 

In social species, young ones play. Yet games are never innocent or neutral. Playing games teaches what a culture values most: in neoliberal societies, that means respecting the rules and striving to win. In Squid Game, neoliberalism becomes life or death in children’s games. I’m not surprised the winner was the baby. Although the baby is set for life financially, it’s a grim reminder that the baby’s entire existence is marked by neoliberal forces. 

Ultimately, humans are… born to play. The show’s ending reveals that the game has been exported to America. And the fact that Squid Game-inspired shows like Squid Game: The Challenge exist in the real world proves that viewers have learned nothing. In fact, like the players who kept voting to stay, viewers are clearly hungry to keep playing.

All seasons of Squid Game are now streaming on Netflix.

The post Squid Game and Neoliberalism appeared first on Goggler.

When Squid Game first aired, it didn’t instantly click to me as a global sensation. For someone who grew up with Kaiji and has a deep love for Alice in Borderland, it felt perfectly in my lane, but also just another Friday night. What was undeniable was how sharply its identity rang out. This was something made with clear intent for South Koreans, and by extension, for those of us in Asia who share some cultural proximity. It wasn’t just another dystopian thrill ride, because beneath the blood-soaked games and catchy jingles lay a biting critique of South Korea’s capitalist society: a stark reflection of what people are driven to when the system is rigged, and debt becomes their only identity. There wasn’t a blatant attempt to beg for international attention, it existed entirely and beautifully on its own terms. 

Flash forward to a week later and everyone was talking about it. All of a sudden, “Squid Games” had become something bigger, louder, and practically inescapable in day-to-day conversations. But somewhere in all of that noise, the important conversations the show invited were getting drowned out. Instead, online spaces were flooded with a trending TikTok sound mispronouncing Jung Ho-yeon’s name, people dressing up in green tracksuits for Halloween, the comeback of the classic Dalgona Candy, and the “Red Light, Green Light” jingle playing on loop. The hype kept growing, but all of it was built on material rather than the message. Before long, Squid Game had become a costume, a trend, and even a meme. 

Don’t get me wrong, as someone who spent years begging others to give Asian film and television a chance, I’m grateful for the love Squid Game has received, and the doors it has opened for its cast and creators. That, however, doesn’t mean that it hasn’t come with a particular kind of sting. Because so much of the appreciation it’s garnered feels, at times, painfully surface-level, like a celebration of its aesthetic rather than its substance. It’s ironic that in an age where access to information (no ‘”s”!) has never been easier, we’re still grappling with a widespread media illiteracy problem: a reluctance to engage with stories on their own cultural terms.

Take, for instance, how so many people remain oblivious, and are so comfortable, with calling the series “Squid Games.” It might seem trivial, a slip of the tongue — but if you’ve actually watched the show with care, you’d know Squid Game refers to one specific Korean childhood game played in the final episodes of Season 1. The other games have their own names: Ddakji, Jegi, Gonggi… “Squid Games,” as a title, or as shorthand for the series, simply doesn’t make sense. And while I’m not here to be a party pooper, that small inaccuracy hints at something larger: a willingness to consume without context, to enjoy without understanding, even though Squid Game is quite literally one of the most culturally rooted shows ever.

That same detachment shows up in other ways too — like being perfectly literate but still opting for the painfully awkward English dubbing over the original Korean audio with subtitles. Which I’d argue, is one of the reasons why many still struggle to distinguish between Asian languages. It makes me wonder: do people actually know what this show is about? Or is it just a mash-up of colored jumpsuits, jarring deaths, and meme-able quotes for them? 

Yet, I can’t even stay mad about people adding an s to the title anymore, because frankly, Netflix seems to fully embrace this plural form. How else do you explain the shift from a sharp critique of capitalism to a growing cinematic universe that somehow features Cate Blanchett, and a reality competition show where contestants reenact these deadly games for… profit? I’m all for creative freedom, truly, but it raises an important question: why do we need this? Isn’t there already an abundance of dystopian media out there? Is the new Sunrise on the Reaping announcement not enough for Americans? 

Even within the Korean series itself, it’s worth asking whether more really means better. It’s understandable that director Hwang Dong-Hyuk accepted Netflix’s offer to develop further seasons — it would’ve been silly for him to turn down so much money. And while Season 2 had its moments, especially the deeper look into the pink guards and their secret operations behind the games, much of the rest of it fell flat, leaving a bitter aftertaste by the time Season 3 rolled around.

The new characters lacked the resonance and weight of those from Season 1, where each arc felt purposeful and reflective of the show’s central critique. In contrast, the newer storylines (have I mentioned the baby?) feel directionless, as if, like Jun-ho, they seem to be forever stuck on that boat: unmoved, and unable to move anyone else.

If you’ve been online recently, you’ll know I’m not alone in this sentiment. Much of the discourse around the latest season is filled with disappointment — and rightfully so. Hwang undoubtedly had something urgent and powerful to express in 2021, and he delivered it masterfully. Yet, today, that clarity has become increasingly blurred. Because when you openly admit to writing in a game with the hope that its jingle would trend online (re: the jumping rope game in Season 3), you’re no longer trying to send a message. You’re simply chasing virality. 

The news of an American spinoff being officially in development only deepens that disappointment. “Perhaps David Fincher could redeem it,” says someone, somewhere, in a quiet corner of the Internet. And sure, Fincher is capable of great things, but for me, even his name attached to the project doesn’t quite salvage what’s already been lost.

This isn’t new. Time and time again, we’ve witnessed this strange inevitability — whether it’s film, television, or even now, matcha — that anything successful and distinctly Asian gradually gets absorbed by the west. Maybe it stems from a desire for validation, but it’s honestly… a little tragic.

Why is it so difficult to let something Asian simply exist and be celebrated as it is? Why does it need a Hollywood stamp to be seen as “legitimate?” Even though the spinoff is meant to be an “expansion” rather than a replacement, it still feels like the original has slipped from the hands of its original creators. We’re watching this unfold in real-time — and chances are, we’ll see it happen again, and again… and again.

I’ve always believed this: when something is already complete, adding more doesn’t enhance it… it dilutes it. We don’t need endless adaptations and spin-offs in different languages to turn a once-meaningful narrative into a franchise-shaped product. Which, considering the context of Squid Game, is the funniest irony of all. 

There is no “s” at the end of Squid Game. And that’s precisely the point.

All seasons of Squid Game (no “s”!) are now streaming on Netflix.

The post Dear Netflix, Squid Game Does Not Have a Double ‘S’ appeared first on Goggler.

Let me take you back. It’s 2001. Buffy the Vampire Slayer was coming to an end and superhero movies like Bryan Singer’s X-Men ensnared audiences, laying the groundwork for Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man in 2002. While mutants and vigilantes were captivating the audience’s attention, movies featuring Superman were left in a state of development limbo.

The last live-action Superman was Dean Cain in Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman. The most recent big-screen outing for the Big Blue Boy Scout was 1987’s much maligned Superman IV: The Quest for Peace. After years trapped in development hell, Superman felt like a relic of an idyllic past and certainly irrelevant in the post-9/11 reality that the world had just entered.

Enter a new show on The WB (that was later rebranded to The CW), portraying a fresh-faced Tom Welling as a young Clark Kent — years before he dons the famous cape, as he wrestles with identity, teenage life, and his Kryptonian destiny.

Little did anyone know the impact Smallville would have on both the Superman mythos and the shape of superhero television in the 21st century.

Reinventing and Respecting Superman 

While past Superman iterations focused on his adventures as a near-godlike being, Smallville made the brave call to showcase a more vulnerable side as Clark figures out his place in the world.

This Clark Kent is in high school. He struggles with chemistry and teenage love while saving his town from foes infected by Kryptonian meteorites — all while grappling with the burden of his alien heritage.

Despite featuring arguably the most famous superhero, Smallville is, at its heart, a coming-of-age drama. Tying into this, the show’s creators, Alfred Gough and Miles Millar, introduced a guiding principle: “No Tights, No Flights.” Smallville explores universal teenage themes — identity, morality, and social change — through the lens of arguably the most iconic pop culture figure.*

That is what makes Clark’s story so accessible to us as opposed to being the Man of Tomorrow.

*It’s also important to note that Warner Bros. also had an unofficial mandate for many years that restricted the use of certain major characters like Superman and Batman on television — especially in live-action — while they were being featured in major film projects.

A Grounded Superman for the Modern Day

At its core, Smallville is a story about a boy growing up to be the man he was destined to be. The show leaned into slow-burn storytelling as the Kansas farm boy gradually shaped into the Man of Steel over time.

While the wider world-building felt contrived at times (with the Justice League being active before Clark even dons his costume), Smallville doubles down on the emotional journey of how Clark Kent becomes Superman rather than rushing to the end.

In contrast, Zack Snyder’s Man of Steel, a divisive and admittedly thought-provoking take on Superman, took a different approach by focusing on Superman’s brooding isolation and the conflict between his ideals and the reality of his challenges.

For all of its trademark CW melodrama, Smallville impressively stays focused on a Superman who grows wiser, stronger, and remains ever hopeful through every challenge, whether personal or heroic. That character arc, the insistence on emotional sincerity over angst, gave Smallville a staying power that very few superhero shows match.

How Smallville Connects the Past and the Future

Smallville was well-respected by the superhero community, with former Superman Christopher Reeve guest appearing in a few episodes as Virgil Swann. This effectively passed the baton to Tom Welling as the spiritual successor to the cape.

Following the conclusion of Smallville’s 10-season run in 2011, the show served as the blueprint of what eventually became known as the Arrowverse as devised by Greg Berlanti and Marc Guggenheim. This sprawling shared TV universe took inspiration from the episodic format, emotional storytelling, and character growth that Smallville showcased.

Even beyond the CW, shows like Gotham and Daredevil owe a quiet debt to Smallville. Their focus on the formative years of a famous superhero, grounding them in real-world dilemmas and charting the evolution of their character over multiple seasons, has developed into a trusted storytelling model.

Even BBC’s Merlin — with its young protagonist hiding his extraordinary gifts from a world that is not prepared for him yet — seems to have taken cues from Smallville’s long-form mythology.

By focusing on the emotional depth and the character behind the myth, Smallville raised the bar for what superheroes could be in a modern pop culture context. It showcased that icons could always be made compelling by making them vulnerable.

Lessons for the Future

Tom Welling’s portrayal remains one of the most relatable and memorable takes on Clark Kent. In fact, Tom Welling and Michael Rosenbaum (who portrayed Clark’s friend-turned-mortal-enemy Lex Luthor) have continued the legacy with their rewatch podcast called Talkville.

Welling’s portrayal, however, was by no means invincible. He stumbled and made mistakes, but he never gave up or lost hope. Despite never donning the cape and conspicuously avoiding flying, fans had faith in the superhero that he would one day become.

Fast forward to today, in a media landscape crowded with dark reimaginings and revisionist takes, Smallville stands as a testament to the sincerity of character and to the growth that comes from facing challenges head-on.

As James Gunn seeks to reinvent Superman for a new generation, we should look back and remember the lessons that Smallville taught us long ago: The best superheroes aren’t perfect — they’re the ones who keep trying no matter the odds. In doing so, they inspire us to always do the same.

Click here to check out our think piece on why the world needs (James Gunn’s) Superman.

You can watch all 10 seasons of Smallville on Prime Video. James Gunn’s Superman opens in Malaysian cinemas on Thursday, July 10.

The post No Tights, No Flights: How Smallville Reinvented the Superman Mythos appeared first on Goggler.