About a year ago, my TV watching habits changed dramatically.

For years, I listened to a tight-knit group of my Chinese friends talk about the latest East Asian dramas they were watching, the actors they liked. And for years, I steadfastly refused to cross over. I was already a rather varacious consumer of (Western) TV as it was, had a perpetually unread stack of books by my bedside, and had an even longer pile perpetually on hold at the library. There was no way I could make room for an entirely new category of television and still find time to sleep, work, eat, and spend quality time with my children and husband. It was a dangerous precipice, and I refused to tempt fate. What if I took a quick peak and fell in head first?! No thanks!

So after years - decades? - of resistance, I'm not sure what prompted me to take that “quick peak” after all.

Perhaps it was the fact that the same group of friends and I had also been bingeing on unsatisfying Hallmark holiday romance movies that winter. Or perhaps it was because I was hitting a wall with many of my Western shows: a number of the network dramas I had followed for years were no longer holding my interest, while the cable and streaming ones I was enjoying were either in between seasons or cancelled.

Whatever the reason, I decided out of sheer perverse curiosity to check out a show my friends were obsessing over that winter: a Chinese college romance drama called Love, O2O.

I thought it was ridiculous. The male lead’s ego needed deflating. The sexism was too much. I couldn’t stand the campus Mean Girls.

And yet.

I was entertained. I was fascinated by this rosy, yet superficial portrayal of college life in China, having taught at one many years ago. I finished the 30-episode drama rather underwhelmed, yet somehow intrigued enough to try another one.

This time, it was a newly released historical wuxia romance.

The drama was a revelation. There were so many elements that seemed to defy conventional tropes as I understood them at the time. It was funny, quirky, romantic, and the heroine was plucky and super smart. She could hold her own in a patriarchal world. The hero was dashing and romantic. The supporting characters and relationships were wonderful. I was obsessed.

But of course, the higher the ascension to perfection, the greater the fall: the storytelling collapsed towards the end in absolute, catastrophic, and melodramatic fashion. I was beyond incensed. To this day, I will rant unforgivingly about the last few episodes to anyone who will listen. (I learned later that bad, rush, or unsatisfying endings are not uncommon in Chinese dramas, but this one was, by all accounts, especially egregious.)

Despite my mixed introduction to C-dramas, I connected with them unexpectedly in a way I am not sure I ever did with even my most beloved Western films and shows. Beyond the imaginative storylines, it was perhaps the intangibleness of seeing individuals like myself on screen - not in a supporting role, but as the main protagonists, with their own romances, their own adventures, their own challenges to overcome - that kept me enthralled and coming back for more. I grew up watching the iconic 1980s TVB Hong Kong wuxia dramas based on Jin Yong’s Legend of the Condor Heroes with my parents - so I also loved the nostalgia and sense of familiarity many of these shows brought me.

But as my introduction to them attests, these dramas are far from perfect. Many contain some level of problematic content as well: a throwaway line that’s racist, sexist, homophobic, reinforces stereotypes, or pepetuates the stigma around mental illness, for example. On Asian drama streaming platforms like Rakuten Viki, where you can turn on audience comments as you watch, you sometimes see international viewers calling out racist or homophobic content. Progressive discussions around these issues have not entered mainstream consciousness in many parts of Asia at the same level they have here (and even “here”, these conversations often remain difficult and rife with conflict). I am hopeful the conversation will change eventually, but it is one that will definitely take time.

Still, for all their imperfections, I was officially hooked.

And the bonus points for many of these Chinese and Korean dramas? Like books, they end, and you can easily rewatch them or pick up a brand new one after. The lengths are more or less set: C-dramas are typically longer (24-70 episodes at about 45 minutes each), while K-dramas are shorter (mostly 16 episodes at 65-70 minutes each). There is no “writing in case a series gets cancelled”, or “writing in case we have another season of plotlines to work with”. Or worse, investing in a series that gets abruptly yanked off air (arbitrary Chinese censorship nowithstanding, of course). I don’t like saying goodbye to great stories and characters I love, but who wants to see once-favourite shows drag on indefinitely, each season becoming progressively disappointing or less interesting?

* * * *

There are shows we watch for their smart social critiques or gritty takes on life. And there are shows we watch to escape reality, that sweep us into a world of make-believe. I love both types of storytelling, but when it comes to Asian dramas, I find myself gravitating more towards escapism. (As a journalist and news junkie, having an outlet for escapism is probably healthy…! :P)

And so, a year and numerous K-dramas and C-dramas later, here I am, still watching. (I may have dragged my husband and kids in a little bit too *cough*). I still feel like a complete neophyte, so this blog is a way for me to hash out my random thoughts into the void. I hope you enjoy!

Be kind. :)

Falling over the precipice: How one show sent me tumbling into dramaland