Arching a bitchy eyebrow at Anglo K-pop TV experiment Made in Korea
Back in 1994, the year of the metrosexual’s birth, and the height of boybandery, my agent sent the BBC (and, I think, ITV) my proposal for a series exploring whether a boyband could be manufactured from scratch, with the working title ‘Puppets on a String’.
We would follow the selection, formation, training, and marketing of a boyband, seeking advice from pop Svengalis, producers, and other experts. There would be audience participation in the form of phone-voting. A single would be released at the end of the series.
It was a televisual ‘social experiment’ before social experiments and reality TV were commonplace. And several years before Popstars, Pop Idol/American Idol, and X-Factor. The BBC considered my proposal, but eventually rejected it on the grounds that it would involve a lot of expense, with no guarantee that the single would be a hit. Innocent days!
Of course, the title was, anyway, too openly cynical. And I would have made a terrible Simon Cowell. I’m not camp enough. Honestly.
I also don’t own a record label.
I mention Puppets on a String now, because, thirty years on, I have been watching ‘Made in Korea: the K-pop Experience’ (produced by people involved in the X-Factor) about a UK wannabe boyband, assembled out of several hopefuls, who are schooled in the K-pop discipline that has conquered what’s left of the world of pop music – in the hope of grabbing some precious-metal discs for themselves.
Essentially a contemporary version of those docs you used to get in the Twentieth Century about joining the Royal Marines, five English theatre kids, [top, from left] Blaise (19), Dexter (22), Reese (20), James (23), and Olly (20), say tearful goodbyes to their families (which seem to be mostly doting mums and nans), and are shipped off to South Korea to be drilled in the merciless, mechanised musical warfare of K-pop’s heavy choreography battalions at SM Entertainment’s HQ in Seoul. For 100 long days.
K-pop giant SME has famously exacting standards. So, our boys attend intensive vocal coaching classes: singing charmingly while dancing energetically is tricky – especially when there are so many high notes to hit (a K-Pop characteristic). And gruelling dance and performance classes where they must learn to forget about their individuality and become “one unit”.
There is, naturally, a Drill-Instructor, in the immaculately groomed and clothed female shape of Hee Jun Yoon, a highly respected name in K-pop, who gives her brutal, if beautifully soft-spoken verdict on their performances that week (flanked by two assistants who never speak, just nod emphatically while she does), reducing some of our boys to tears.
I won’t be giving too much away if I mention that after being broken down, our boys are remoulded into the image that HJY is looking for, and there is the obligatory uplifting ending – and a mention in the credits that Dear Alice, the name the boys allegedly choose for themselves in the final episode, are currently recording an album. (‘Dear Alice’ is also the nearest any of them are allowed to mentioning the existence of girlfriends.)
This televised boyband assembly is of course, now a very familiar (structured) pop reality TV format. But the novelty here is the cultural dimension – how the spoiled English boys conform to regimented South Korean pop standards of presentation and singing and the almost feudalistic approach of their music business/machine. SME, who founded and led the system that made K-pop a worldwide phenomenon, maintains total control, orchestrating all aspects of their artists’ careers, including management.
Seoul may be a hub of consumerism, pop music and smartphones today, but it was a military dictatorship until as late as 1987 – and military service is still compulsory for young men. Hence part of the drama of Made in Korea is: how much of themselves these English lads are willing to sacrifice or modify to become successful? And can K-pop work with an A, for ‘Anglo’? AK-pop?
Blaise, at 19 the youngest and smallest of the group, the most charismatic and mature, and despite or perhaps because he’s one of the prettiest, also the most blokey. (Everything is relative, even with theatre kids.) Though this may be down to his strong jaw and big chin. He also sounds the poshest, but then none of them exactly sound street.
A dancer more than a singer, he has the lowest voice in the group: he struggles badly with the high notes, and the voice coaching trying to rectify it – especially the advice to speak in a higher voice.
There is an unspoken suggestion that his desire to hold onto his blokeyness (or dignity) is part of the problem. He is also criticised for his individualism and showing off when dancing. And for expressing his desire to get tattooed.
Dexter has the weakest voice of the group, at least when dancing, and is regularly chastised by HJY in forthright terms: “Listening to the playback I find myself wondering, what is that awful sound? – And it’s you, Dexter.” He gets over-excited, poor love, when performing and tends to shout. His quest is to overcome his sensitivity to criticism and master his excitability.
Olly, a lead vocalist, is the worst dancer of the five – self-consciously stomping about. His buddy James, a confident dancer and stylish dresser, implores him to dance in the mirror, looking at himself the whole time. Brave Olly forces himself to do this, despite the palpable awkwardness and internal cringe, and admits afterwards: “I feel like a part of me has died.”
There is a strong suggestion that all these lads are unused to direct criticism, at least when not sugared with praise, and that the direct South Korean approach is a shock to the system. I don’t know how true this is, but it’s certainly part of the show’s AK-pop shtick.
Made in Korea is entertaining if not compelling viewing – I found myself fast-forwarding sometimes. But I’m not the target audience. Relatedly, I have never found boybands terribly sexy. (OK, with the possible exception of Blue.) But these lads, while pretty in a suitably bland way, seem hand-picked for their lack of sexiness. Even after watching several episodes, I struggled to tell some of them apart.
I suppose ‘cute’ is what stands in for ‘sexy’ in many boybands. (See also teen-girl targeted spayed homoromance Heartstopper.) Even when boybanders, particularly in K-pop, are the subject of intense and explicit ‘shipping’ narratives from fans – which K-pop stars play up to with homo-flirtatiousness.
Maybe this was why we were offered a glimpse of a cute bromance between northerners Olly (from Sunderland) and James (from Huddersfield): “we just clicked straight away”. They play a game of “hot or not”, in which they rate everyone in the band, including themselves, as “hot”.
You don’t for a minute think they are shagging. And nor do you particularly suspect that any of the band members are gay (my gaydar is terrible, but I get no strong readings on any of them). Instead, you get the general, and of course very much managed, impression that they are all waiting to meet the right girl.
In fact, the “bromance” between Olly and James and their “hot or not” quiz is the nearest thing you get to any clue that these young chaps might have, y’know, lusts. Although the lads go out drinking in Seoul’s bars and nightclubs, you never seen any of the usual, um, consequences of this kind of behaviour.
As well as a sense of humour, and an almost familial resemblance, Olly and James share a strange ritual of ice baths in their underpants. During one of these ice baths you – or rather, I – can see that they also have very similar, soft, slightly saggy bodies. And before you accuse me of body-shaming – being the father of spornosexuals as well as metrosexuals it’s my job, however reluctantly and painfully, to notice these things. Particularly since HJY didn’t.
In another scene, as part of their team-bonding and general soaking up of Korean culture, all the boys have to Sumo wrestle with one another. It’s then, in their loincloths, that I noticed that none of them appear to work out. And one of them, Blaise, the dancer, looks a bit more Sumo than you might expect: he’s carrying a lot of puppy fat. Which is fine, really it is.
Except one of his mates refers to him as “totally jacked”. Which caused me to arch a bitchy eyebrow.
I’m not saying they should go to the gym – lord knows there are enough young guys clogging my locker room mirror already – I just find it curious that they don’t. Five young pretty guys in a TV boyband, who have loads of clothes, wear make-up (but not as much as K-pop stars), and are working so hard on making themselves saleable in every way, don’t appear to think their bodies are part of the package.
And nor, apparently, do the people pulling their strings.
It may be down to the target demographic and the ‘cute’ instead of ‘sexy’ thing again. Pretty androgyny is the default K-pop boyband look, and a six pack or biceps or even just muscle tone are perhaps too explicitly, insistently male. And not so huggable. If any of the lads had shown spornosexual rather than just metrosexual tendencies they probably would not have been selected for the AK-pop treatment.
Come to think of it, the only visual clue that these smooth, officially single, doe-ish young chaps have been exposed to testosterone and the firm, jutting, uncomfortable urgencies that implies, is Blaise’s big chin.
Made in Korea is available on BBC I-Player. Or you can watch this less “structured” Hits Radio interview below, in which Blaise mentions his mum spotted a shorts-wearing Tom Daley at the supermarket, even though he was incognito, wearing a hat and hoodie, telling Blaise “I recognised his calves”.
