Review Love Class (2022) BY Kate
Love Class is a series that leaves a unique impression—one that’s difficult to fully put into words. At first glance, it might seem like it falls short in many areas, burdened with awkwardness that permeates nearly every aspect of the show. The set designs sometimes feel off, the acting is uneven, and the writing struggles to find a steady rhythm. Even the directing gives off a raw, unrefined vibe. Yet, strangely enough, this very awkwardness lends the series an unexpected charm, making it oddly endearing in a way that kept me watching despite its flaws.
The show attempts to address several weighty themes within its short run—stalking, unrequited love, personal identity struggles, and coming out. I respect the effort to tackle these serious topics, particularly highlighting the difficulties faced by women who endure harassment and the dangers lurking behind seemingly innocent interactions. There’s also a subtle exploration of the anxiety and pain caused by gossip and rumors about one’s sexuality, which can be incredibly damaging, especially when someone is still figuring themselves out. Unfortunately, the series only skims the surface of these issues. It hints at complexity but never delves deeply enough to fully engage with their emotional weight. Still, in a genre where many BL dramas tend to paint a uniformly rosy picture—where everyone is either openly gay or accepting—the show’s attempt to offer a more nuanced, slightly less idealized portrayal feels refreshing, even if it’s only a brief glimpse.
What truly captivated me was the exaggerated and theatrical nature of Lee Ro Ah’s character. His dramatic responses to everyday situations were almost comically over the top. For example, when he told Yu Na that she had no right to worry about Ji Woo, it was a moment that made me laugh out loud—because of course she has the right; he’s her friend. Then, when Ro Ah refused to let Ji Woo confess his feelings, insisting that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, it felt absurd. The idea that someone only gets one chance in life to pursue love—and if they miss it, they’re doomed to loneliness forever—was so overblown it was almost laughable. The writing offered no real reason for Ro Ah’s rejection of Ji Woo; it came out of nowhere, making his actions confusing and frustrating.
The scene where Ro Ah claimed he was the cause of Ji Woo’s suffering left me utterly baffled. What suffering? What did he even mean by that? The show never establishes any real conflict or pain that could justify such a statement. The gossip about Ji Woo lasted barely a couple of days and didn’t really impact anyone long-term. Ro Ah’s belief that Ji Woo was heartbroken because of him felt entirely one-sided, an invention of his own imagination rather than a plot-driven fact. His denial of Ji Woo’s feelings as “just an illusion” was unintentionally hilarious. That entire moment became a comedic highlight, though I doubt it was meant to be.
Then there was the melodramatic exit Ro Ah staged when he abruptly left school just one month before graduation. It was such an over-the-top, emo gesture that I couldn’t help but appreciate the sheer audacity of it. It fits perfectly with his character’s flair for the dramatic, and oddly enough, it added a certain depth to the otherwise uneven storyline.
The subplot between the student and the teacher provided another layer of awkwardness, but in an entertaining way. It wasn’t inherently wrong—after all, the student is an adult, and the teacher only had a brief role—but watching a relationship expert struggle with the simple fact that a student liked him was painfully amusing. The final episode’s scene between them was so cringeworthy that it was unforgettable, blending discomfort with a touch of humor.
Acting was a mixed bag throughout the series. Some scenes felt genuinely natural and heartfelt, such as the lighthearted double date, where the chemistry among the four leads was delightful and convincing. However, when the tone shifted toward emotional or dramatic moments, the performances fell short. None of the tearful scenes managed to evoke real sadness or empathy from me, which was disappointing but somewhat understandable given the challenges of conveying authentic emotion on screen.
From a production standpoint, the series looked like a project created by aspiring filmmakers with clear potential but lacking full polish. There were moments of beautifully composed shots with thoughtful lighting and camera angles. Yet, those were interspersed with shaky footage and inconsistent quality that undercut the professionalism of the presentation.
Ultimately, my mind often urged me to stop watching because the show didn’t make much logical sense and was riddled with awkward moments. Yet, my curiosity—and perhaps a strange affection for the imperfections—kept me clicking “next episode.” There was a certain joy in witnessing this imperfect, quirky story unfold. Maybe it was the unpredictability, or the earnest if flawed attempt to portray complicated emotions and relationships that made Love Class enjoyable despite its shortcomings. All the things I found frustrating or odd ended up being the very reasons I found myself invested in the series. It’s not a flawless drama by any means, but it is a memorable one that lingers with you, awkwardness and all.
The show attempts to address several weighty themes within its short run—stalking, unrequited love, personal identity struggles, and coming out. I respect the effort to tackle these serious topics, particularly highlighting the difficulties faced by women who endure harassment and the dangers lurking behind seemingly innocent interactions. There’s also a subtle exploration of the anxiety and pain caused by gossip and rumors about one’s sexuality, which can be incredibly damaging, especially when someone is still figuring themselves out. Unfortunately, the series only skims the surface of these issues. It hints at complexity but never delves deeply enough to fully engage with their emotional weight. Still, in a genre where many BL dramas tend to paint a uniformly rosy picture—where everyone is either openly gay or accepting—the show’s attempt to offer a more nuanced, slightly less idealized portrayal feels refreshing, even if it’s only a brief glimpse.
What truly captivated me was the exaggerated and theatrical nature of Lee Ro Ah’s character. His dramatic responses to everyday situations were almost comically over the top. For example, when he told Yu Na that she had no right to worry about Ji Woo, it was a moment that made me laugh out loud—because of course she has the right; he’s her friend. Then, when Ro Ah refused to let Ji Woo confess his feelings, insisting that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, it felt absurd. The idea that someone only gets one chance in life to pursue love—and if they miss it, they’re doomed to loneliness forever—was so overblown it was almost laughable. The writing offered no real reason for Ro Ah’s rejection of Ji Woo; it came out of nowhere, making his actions confusing and frustrating.
The scene where Ro Ah claimed he was the cause of Ji Woo’s suffering left me utterly baffled. What suffering? What did he even mean by that? The show never establishes any real conflict or pain that could justify such a statement. The gossip about Ji Woo lasted barely a couple of days and didn’t really impact anyone long-term. Ro Ah’s belief that Ji Woo was heartbroken because of him felt entirely one-sided, an invention of his own imagination rather than a plot-driven fact. His denial of Ji Woo’s feelings as “just an illusion” was unintentionally hilarious. That entire moment became a comedic highlight, though I doubt it was meant to be.
Then there was the melodramatic exit Ro Ah staged when he abruptly left school just one month before graduation. It was such an over-the-top, emo gesture that I couldn’t help but appreciate the sheer audacity of it. It fits perfectly with his character’s flair for the dramatic, and oddly enough, it added a certain depth to the otherwise uneven storyline.
The subplot between the student and the teacher provided another layer of awkwardness, but in an entertaining way. It wasn’t inherently wrong—after all, the student is an adult, and the teacher only had a brief role—but watching a relationship expert struggle with the simple fact that a student liked him was painfully amusing. The final episode’s scene between them was so cringeworthy that it was unforgettable, blending discomfort with a touch of humor.
Acting was a mixed bag throughout the series. Some scenes felt genuinely natural and heartfelt, such as the lighthearted double date, where the chemistry among the four leads was delightful and convincing. However, when the tone shifted toward emotional or dramatic moments, the performances fell short. None of the tearful scenes managed to evoke real sadness or empathy from me, which was disappointing but somewhat understandable given the challenges of conveying authentic emotion on screen.
From a production standpoint, the series looked like a project created by aspiring filmmakers with clear potential but lacking full polish. There were moments of beautifully composed shots with thoughtful lighting and camera angles. Yet, those were interspersed with shaky footage and inconsistent quality that undercut the professionalism of the presentation.
Ultimately, my mind often urged me to stop watching because the show didn’t make much logical sense and was riddled with awkward moments. Yet, my curiosity—and perhaps a strange affection for the imperfections—kept me clicking “next episode.” There was a certain joy in witnessing this imperfect, quirky story unfold. Maybe it was the unpredictability, or the earnest if flawed attempt to portray complicated emotions and relationships that made Love Class enjoyable despite its shortcomings. All the things I found frustrating or odd ended up being the very reasons I found myself invested in the series. It’s not a flawless drama by any means, but it is a memorable one that lingers with you, awkwardness and all.
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Kate
Love Class (2022)
수업중입니다
6.0
6.0
6.0
7.0
6.0
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