K-pop’s upbeat music and imagery contrasted with rigorous training systems for its artists makes stories about the “dark side” of the industry irresistible.
Apple TV+’s new six-part docuseries “K-Pop Idols” does a good job balancing the narrative, touching the darker aspects of strict beauty standards and a fanatical pursuit of perfection as well as its joyous flipside: dreams realized against near-impossible odds.
Pulling back the curtain on an often mysterious and misunderstood genre, the series gives glimpses into why fans around the world continue to be captivated by K-pop’s fandom, high-octane performances and stimulating cross-cultural experiences.
Not only are the brutal schedules, endless rehearsals and interpersonal dramas of its stars a focus, but so are their inner lives: their drives, fears and ambition. They are humanized as artists in their own right as opposed to robots in a moneymaking machine.
The series, which premiered Friday, is produced by Boat Rocker Studios’ Matador Content, with several veteran producers on board, including Emmy-winning executive producer Todd Lubin, who captured the precarious pop star life with “Billie Eilish: The World’s a Little Blurry.” Rounding out the large team are co-executive producers Chris Kasick of “Citizen Sleuth,” Bradley Cramp (“Lord of War”), Elise Chung (“Bling Empire”), Jack Turner (“War Game”), Eric Yujin Kim (“Undoing”) and Sue Kim (“The Speed Cubers”).
Each roughly 40-minute episode moves among three storylines. Cravity, a nine-member boy group, struggles to find its footing after debuting during the pandemic. Jessi, a talented industry veteran, dreams of finding an agency that can take her to the next level. Rounding out the cast of the show is the global girl group Blackswan, whose dramatic arc underscores several serious issues, such as mental health of trainees and artists, the fairness of contracts and, as K-pop becomes more diverse, holding companies accountable for cross-cultural training and sensitivity.
Of the three artists profiled, only Cravity is managed by Starship, a subsidiary of one of the five major South Korean entertainment agencies. Considering how carefully K-pop agencies safeguard their artists’ career trajectories and reputations, many of the most candid moments captured are startling in their rawness.
“K-pop is not known for being the most open,” said producer Cramp, interviewed via Zoom alongside fellow producer Turner. “We wanted to create a global show that was appealing to Western audiences in particular who weren’t familiar at all with K-pop. So [the companies] knew that part of that was opening up their world a little bit more than they would do if this was a show that was in a South Korean or Asian-only market.
“When it came to the labels’ involvement,” Turner said, “we discussed very carefully what we would shoot ahead of time, and the trust grew and they were present at certain shoots, but they were not involved in the edit. And in every case [they] have not seen the series yet.”
That trust paid off not only in dramatic scenes but also in darkly humorous moments. When asked on camera what makes Cravity “extra special,” one of its managers flatly states, “Nothing,” as group members need to work on basic skills and practice more. When an off-camera voice from the agency tries to encourage a positive reframing, he deadpans: “I’m just being honest.”
In another quirky moment, two South Korean members of Blackswan (during the series, three of the four original members are replaced) share their delight in being able to stay out past curfew to go drinking in the South Korean city of Busan now that they are released from the clutches of their contract. It’s these little gems of bluntness contrasted with tender moments of vulnerability that make the series resonate with authenticity.
Each storyline follows the artists as they prepare for a significant performance — a clever way of ensuring resolution while uniting the three very different storylines thematically, especially because so many of the issues brought up are worthy of deeper exploration.
In place of academics or industry experts, every episode relies on interviews with fans, mostly outside concert venues. This, the directors said, was by design, keeping the narrative focused on the fan-artist connection.
“K-Pop Idols” took four years to make, with principal filming taking place between 2021 and 2023. In a follow-up conversation over email, the directors said one of the greatest challenges while shooting over such a long period was “splitting the crew, racing around Seoul to cover multiple shoots at the same time,” noting that the K-pop industry moves much faster than those in the West and keeping up the differing groups’ schedules was challenging.
Production also followed its subjects across Europe and the U.S., with the core crew including a mixture of Korean Americans and locals. While local interpreters were essential to facilitating communication between artists and labels, at times members of the production team worked as important cultural liaisons between the American production and the South Korean artists and agencies. “First A.D. James Yoo,” the directors wrote, “was probably one of the most instrumental in this regard. On one occasion, James was translating over the course of a four-hour dinner with one of the labels.”
“K-Pop Idols” opens with Jessi, a magnetic R&B singer and rapper in her 30s (the series uses her song “What Type of X” in the intro) getting ready for her first solo tour as an independent artist after having parted ways with Psy‘s (of “Gangnam Style” fame) Pnation label.
Jessi has never fit neatly into a box. Raised in New Jersey, she represents a subset of Korean American hip-hop and indie performers who find themselves caught between two cultures: at times at odds with the more conservative Korean societal norms and woefully underrepresented in their home country.
“I like being confident in my body,” Jessi said while choosing outfits for a tour in Episode 1. “But in reality, I get a lot of backlash for it. If you want to be a K-pop idol, like, there’s a specific look: pale skin, feminine, like girly, conservative, very petite skinny girls.”
After so many years in the business, Jessi craves success on her own terms, only to find out how hard it is without an agency’s support to navigate things as mundane but essential as booking hotels and lining up stylists during a busy festival season.
Sometimes, what an agency’s support looks like can be problematic, as with Blackswan, which sees its midsize agency trying to grapple with a falling out between two members and all the ensuing issues.
Blackswan’s storyline also has some of the more cringe-worthy moments of the series, courtesy of company Chief Executive Yoon Deung-ryong. Two of the new trainees brought into the group — young but over 18 — were temporarily housed in his private residence outside Seoul.
Without much context, it doesn’t sit well, just as his casual suggestion that a member with depression should up her medication seemed at best a misguided joke and at worst dangerous.
There’s an interesting K-drama-like subplot with Yoon’s son Philip, whose eagerness to prove himself worthy to take over the family business and win his father’s approval almost matches his dad’s outsize opinion on his contribution to K-pop and fixation on securing his legacy.
But the real stars remain the resilient women who make up Blackswan’s lineup, both past and present, in particular Belgian-Senegalese Fatou Samba. Samba — who sings and raps in fluent Korean — as the only original member left was tasked with uniting a new group composed of Gabi Dalcin from Brazil; Sriya Lenka, India’s first K-pop idol; and Florence Smith, known as Nvee, who is biracial and from the U.S.
When asked during a Zoom interview about protecting their mental health, Dalcin is emphatic. “I think it’s something that should be shown to every company,” she said, referring to the series. “Sometimes it will be hard for the artist to say, ‘I need help.’ It’s the company’s job to make sure that the artist is OK.”
The role friends, family and bandmates play in helping the artists maintain a sense of normalcy is also a recurring theme, with mothers of the idols making appearances throughout.
Allen Ma is a Taiwanese American and one of the nine members of Cravity, who at the series’ outset are compared with popular labelmates Monsta X. Ma left his Hacienda Heights home in Southern California before graduating high school to make it in South Korea as a K-pop idol. He couldn’t have done it without the support of his mother and brother, and although he isn’t the only member featured in “K-Pop Idols,” his story serves as a lens through which to view the sacrifices all the members make.
One of the most moving scenes occurs when Cravity comes to Los Angeles to perform at KCON 2022. Before the seminal concert, Ma is reunited with his proud mother, who hasn’t seen him in the flesh in three years. Clutched in her embrace at the small apartment he grew up in, he instantly melts from an idol adored by fans into a son adored by his mother. In that moment, it all seems worth it.
