Review: K-Pop Idols Shines a Harsh Light on the Good and Bad of the K-Pop Industry

I wasn’t prepared for what I saw in K-Pop Idols going in. I knew it would be an inside look into the K-pop industry, and my own experiences in the music industry told me that there would probably be some frustrating moments, but I didn’t expect to cry as much as I did.

K-Pop Idols follows three distinct performing groups over the course of about a year — Blackswan, CRAVITY (which I’ll be stylizing as Cravity from here on), and solo performer Jessi. These three groups are about as different as they could be, each with different angles, stories, and positions in the industry.

Cravity’s story here is the simplest to wrap your head around, so that’s where we’ll start. Cravity had a bit of an unfortunate start in the industry. The group worked extraordinarily hard to get to the point where they were ready to debut, and then COVID-19 hit, and everything was put on pause. A sad performance in front of an empty amphitheater marks the beginning of their journey, and that’s a pretty devastating way to start anything.

Cravity was founded under the banner of Starship, an entertainment company that had previously had huge success with a group called Monsta X. This history means that Cravity is constantly compared to Monsta X throughout the documentary, in a way that almost borders on cruel. Higher-ups at the company don’t think Cravity’s got what it takes, but they’re stuck in a sunk cost fallacy here, and there’s no clear way out. Is Cravity lagging behind because it’s not as good as Monsta X? Is it because they debuted at the worst time possible and couldn’t capitalize on it? Is it because they’re aping Monsta X too closely? It’s hard to say for sure, but either way, it’s a tough position to be in.

That pressure filters down to the members of the group, too. They push themselves to exhaustion to learn and perfect dance routines in time for performances, and there’s little time to do much outside of that. There’s pressure to stay thin, to keep up, to be friendly 24/7, to never complain. It’s hard to watch, but it comes with a payoff when they do finally get to debut on-stage. Once that performance is over, though, it’s back to the grind. It never ends when you’re a K-pop idol.

Jessi is a little different. She’s done the idol thing, didn’t really vibe with it, and struck out on her own as a solo artist with little in the way of representation. Everything she does, she has to do herself. That’s a lot to take on, and when she does outsource things, it blows up in her face. An early moment has her crying in the streets outside of a hotel after her booking agent messed up reservations, barely a day before a show.

While she does eventually get some sleep, it’s not enough, and a high-energy performance just isn’t going to happen. Jessi, though, is a people pleaser, and her fans mean the world to her. So she goes on stage with just a couple of hours of sleep under her belt, almost has a breakdown mid-performance, and gets real with her fans. It’s a touching, deeply affective moment, and one that we wouldn’t see from most in the industry — Jessi is a free agent, so she isn’t under harsh watch 24/7. She can say what she wants, and sometimes just showing humanity is the best path forward.

And finally we come to Blackswan, the international girl group made up of members from all over the world. There are so many threads here that it’s hard to know which ones are worth discussing. All of them, though, are upsetting. Blackswan is a hotbed of turmoil, and it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever watched.

The addition of two new members to the group, Gabi from Brazil and Sriya from India, should be a joyous occasion, but it’s not. Instead, we see Gabi struggle daily, forced to obsess over her weight and adhere to a strict diet despite being one of the healthiest-looking people I’ve seen in my life. Sriya gets off a little bit easier, but these two women are told that only one will be a final member of Blackswan. Despite living together, eating together, training together, building a friendship together, they’re forced to compete — ultimately for no good reason.

Things aren’t any easier among the existing members. After a moment of weakness and a misunderstanding, Fatou, the group’s rapper and eventual leader, and Leia get into a feud, and Leia gets bullied and excluded socially from the group. When every waking moment is working with a group, what happens when you get excluded? For Leia, what happens is a deep spiral into depression. I’ve been there, it sucks, and watching somebody so talented and so kind be set down that path is horrible, especially when it’s all the result of a misunderstanding after Leia felt a bit homesick.

All of this ultimately boils down to Mr. Yoon, the owner and CEO of DR Music, Blackswan’s entertainment label. Yoon is a tough, and often cruel, leader, demanding perfection and refusing to budge. The way he treats these women is terrible, and while he says it’s because he knows they’re capable of more, you get the sense that he’s more interested in growing the company’s profile and, with it, his profits.

His son Philip, set to take over the company someday, proves that Yoon isn’t just a harsh manager, but a harsh dad, too. Philip joined the company solely to spend more time with a largely absent father, and despite that step forward to build bridges, Yoon doesn’t believe he has what it takes. It’s made more apparent in a particularly poignant moment late in the series, when Yoon’s daughter is asked if he’s a good father, after which she breaks down into tears.

These stories, while distinct, are all connected. There are parallels between each of the three, and K-Pop Idols paints a picture of a harsh, cutthroat industry that churns through people as fast as it pumps out hits. It’s brilliantly shot and presented, and one of the best documentaries I’ve seen in years. I was excited for their triumphs, crushed by their failures, furious at those at the top, and most importantly, enraptured from start to finish.