아이돌아이
ENA, Genie TV, Netflix, 2025, 12 episodes
Genres: romantic comedy, thriller
Directed by Lee Gwang-yeong 이광영
Written by Kim Da-rin 김다린
In contrast to its moderate domestic reception, the series titled
Idol I has gained
outstanding popularity among international audiences. This is due to its
subject matter, and even more so to the unusually realistic portrayal of that
theme, which made everyone who has been even slightly touched by the
Hallyu wave sit up and
take notice.
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| Idol vs. real person (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
However, let us first stop at the strange English title, whose spelling and
interpretation are quite confusing and present a serious challenge to those
translating into other languages based on the English version.
Idol I simply means
"Idol/Star Me"—it contains no comma, nor perhaps a "+" sign that would aid in
a more accurate understanding. Consequently, it is written in all sorts of
ways; I have seen it as
Idoli,
Idol 1, or simply
Idol, and in Hungarian,
it is translated as
Ideál
(Ideal).
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| (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
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| Kim Jae-young (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
Tracing the original Korean title, however, we find a quite brilliant piece of
wordplay that is, unfortunately, impossible to reproduce in another language:
아이돌아이 (ai-dol-ai).
I suspect that the English title was meant to be a phonetic transcription of
this, as the sound of
Idol I (sometimes
written as I Dol I)
corresponds to it exactly. The original title is a contraction of two words:
아이돌 (aidol) and
돌아이 (dolai). The
first means idol/star, while the second refers to a "crazy" or "obsessed"
person. The latter is slang and is also used in expressions regarding fans who
have lost control—those who are "mad" or "crazy" about their adored star.
Thus, the Korean title says "idol + a person who is not all there/a maniac,"
and it does not reveal to whom the latter refers—it can be understood to mean
the star just as much as the fan. Koreans can perfectly grasp this subtle
blurring; furthermore, the first Korean syllable of
idol,
아이 (pronounced: ai),
means "child," thus evoking the notion of youth or childishness as well.
Additionally, the star in the series is named
Do Laik (도라익), so
the name, when pronounced, is almost the same as
돌아이 (dolai). While
the name should technically be transcribed as
Do Raik, I use the
Laik spelling because
it appears that way on the drama’s poster. The essence, therefore, is that we
are dealing with a star and a somewhat unhinged, out-of-control person; the
latter could be the star himself, or someone who is crazy for him.
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| Choi Soo-young as lawyer (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
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| Choi Soo-young as fan (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
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| (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
First, we get to know the female protagonist. Maeng Sena (Choi Soo-young) is a ruthless criminal defense lawyer whose sour, humorless discipline makes even her colleagues feel uneasy. For some reason, this attractive woman in her thirties always takes on the toughest cases; we later learn the reason for this. She became a lawyer because of her father, who was convicted of murder despite denying his guilt until the very end. He eventually committed suicide in prison, and Sena constantly postpones the application for a retrial because she is afraid to face the situation. What no one knows, however, is that Sena leads a double life: as soon as she steps out of her workplace, she reverts into an almost-teenager who is crazy about a group called Gold Boys, or more precisely, its musician-singer, Do Laik (Kim Jae-young). She is a prominent member of the band's fandom and follows the exact formula that those familiar with K-pop recognize regarding how fanbases operate. I did not write "almost-teenager" by accident, as common sense would dictate that a mature woman with a responsible job could not be this immature: her apartment is papered with her favorite posters, everything is covered in merchandise (bought for serious money), she must live in sync with every event in the online space, and most of her free time is taken up by casting likes and votes to increase or confirm her favorite's popularity, writing supportive comments, and engaging in "insider" chats on private platforms.
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| Kim Jae-young (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
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| Kim Jae-young (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
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| Kim Jae-young (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
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| (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
In the opening frames, we see a star stepping right before the eyes of
his fans, yet remaining utterly unreachable; his appearance is flawless, his
procession nearly haloed in glory. But suddenly, the image shatters. The idol
is slammed to the ground, pulled down by a crazed fan (sasaeng) who managed to break
through the security line. Do Laik stands up and walks on with an angelic
smile. Later, we see him in his dressing room in a state of hysteria,
resisting a performance he deems beneath him, while completely frazzling the
nerves of the staff members preparing him—who, for their part, make no secret
of their opinion of him.
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| Sasaeng vs. idol (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
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| Sasaengs vs. idol (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
But is this young man truly such an arrogant prick? We learn that he was raised in a state of constant deprivation of love by his mother, a singer in bars who had completely gone to seed. He was plucked from that life as a small child by the head of his current agency—or more accurately, his mother sold him when his talent became apparent. Laik has lived in the entertainment industry ever since, as a child actor and musician. His band is successful, yet he longs to show another side of himself (let’s call this the compulsion for artistic self-expression), but the audience refuses to accept him as a solo singer, no matter how good his work is. They cling to conventions, fearing the dissolution of their beloved group. Laik feels responsible for his bandmates and must know how to handle the fans, all while sensing that the agency is manipulating both him and the other members for its own interests.
The long years spent in the grip of professional expectations have taken their
toll; the pressure to conform weighs on him, while his life and personality
become subordinated to these demands. He is infinitely lonely, and the air is
literally running out of his personal living space because aggressive,
unsolicited meddlers and blackmailers break in everywhere—partly in the form
of the infamously reputed
sasaengs (stalker fans),
and partly as voyeuristic "journalists" breathing down the neck of the tabloid
press. Do Laik’s nervous system is beginning to give way; he is plagued by
panic attacks and must even hide the fact that he requires medication. Except
for a single friend, there is no one left he can trust, and it is with this
very friend that tragedy strikes: he is found dead in Laik’s apartment. Laik
was home, but remembers nothing of what happened.
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| (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
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| (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
Though the description of this preparatory ground was long, all of it is necessary to understand why Idol I is an important drama, which effectively kicks into gear at this point. Do Laik is accused of committing the murder, and there is no lawyer who believes in his innocence. Sena watches the image of her idol crumble before her eyes, which finally prompts her to apply as his defense attorney. However, the meeting with the idol soon turns out to be a disillusionment; the terrified, frustrated star erupts with a confession that he hates his fans. Sena experiences this as a slap in the face and leaves her "prince," who has collapsed into the ruins of her dreams. When she later learns that Laik will be left without a defense in the upcoming trial, her legal conscience speaks up, and she takes his case after all.
From this point on, I will not share the further developments; instead, I will write about how the various genre elements intertwine in the drama and what they result in. From the preceding, it is clear that the drama starts with a hard-hitting opening in the first episodes, sparing no segment or player in the entertainment industry and stripping away their masks one by one. In the following episodes, the broken and vulnerable Laik and Sena are moved under the same roof, where two processes unfold simultaneously: the step-by-step uncovering of the actual events, and the stages of two people coming closer to knowing and understanding each other. Of course, this is not without friction; the necessary trust between them occasionally hits rock bottom. The most critical among these is the moment when Sena’s hidden status as a fan is revealed to Laik, who flees in disillusionment, feeling that even the last person to whom he tried to show his true self has deceived him.
While the investigation holds the thrills of a thriller, the preparation for
the trials places us in a legal drama, and the convergence of the two
protagonists could be a drama burdened with heavy psychological elements—yet,
it turns into more of a light rom-com. This diversity, however, does not
benefit the series as a whole; after a while, it is difficult to maintain the
tension of the crime story during the romantic segments, where the drama
increasingly sags after its promising start. This is mostly because the two
threads require different viewer temperaments, which are not always present in
every viewer simultaneously. Naturally, the thriller and the legal aspects are
built on rational, logical foundations, while the emotional story—instead of a
realistically portrayed romantic drama—reaches for the clichés of melodramas.
Even if done with restraint, it is enough to turn reality into a fairy tale,
albeit a beautiful one.
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| (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
The most critical turn occurs in the concluding phase of the drama, when
Sena—having already secured Laik's love—is placed back into her initial "fan"
status. This cannot be justified from the perspective of either emotional
development or logic, as by then we find the obsession, which initially seemed
merely strange, to be irredeemably infantile. Although this solution is
flawed, we realize why it was chosen only when we understand that the creators
wrapped a serious message into the end of the drama: a kind of guideline
regarding "acceptable" fandom and the normalization of extremes.
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| (Author’s screenshot from Idol I.) |
For constant consumers of
Hallyu products—fans of
the music and dramas—as well as their discerning critics, the current
landscape we repeatedly encounter is becoming increasingly thought-provoking.
While the "dream factories" of Korean agencies spare no expense in inventing
and building a star's image, the media practically sears these positive masks
of integrity onto them. Based on moral conventions, they are then ruthlessly
held accountable for conforming to that image, and any perceived or real
deviation is punished by domestic society with a campaign resembling a
witch-hunt—a pressure to which economic players and power organizations have,
until now, reacted servilely. With the all-seeing toolkit of the internet, the
fate of artists is now followed by global attention, including the series of
tragic events occurring among them. With the worldwide expansion of
Hallyu, this complex
phenomenon is coming into increasingly serious conflict with (let us call it
collectively) Western, much more permissive thinking. The most important
question is not which perspective is right or wrong, but that the personal
rights entitled to artists should be upheld in every case, and individual
lives should not be the playthings of business interests or pathological
social "entertainment." At the time the series was released, the first
precedent-setting lawsuit was already underway, in which an actor did not
surrender to this ruthless public amusement but, in a highly unusual move,
entrusted the attacks ruining his private and professional life to the
judgment of the law. It was also the first time that global fan clubs
mobilized on his behalf, acting exactly as if each were a civil rights
organization. In this light,
Idol I perhaps seems
more important than its actual content, as it acts like an exclamation point
that cannot be ignored.
Therefore, it is not actually essential how cohesive or consistent the drama is as a series. It is very watchable, holding much excitement and emotion; at the same time, it could be much better. But there is no need to worry; the possibilities inherent in it will be more thoroughly explored in upcoming dramas, because the subject is certainly worth continuing, and self-reflection does no harm to either K-pop or K-dramas.
As for what is undeniably the most magical element of Idol I: the two lead actors. It is as if Kim Jae-young was divinely created to play this agonizing character who traverses heaven and hell. He shines when we see him as an idol; his trembling and terror are heart-wrenching, yet he can also be playful and affectionate, like a sweet little puppy. Choi Soo-young might seem too young for a ruthless criminal lawyer, too old for a childishly-souled fan, too kind for courtroom repartee, and too hard for romantic cooing—yet she stands her ground authentically in every situation. What is characteristic of both of them is their clear gaze, the innocence and sincerity radiating from their entire beings—and this is what makes them such a beautiful pair, whom it is simply a pleasure to watch.
