The Wild Highs, Lows, and Absurdities of Being ‘K-Pop Idols’

Don’t worry if you’ve never heard of the stars at the heart of the new Apple TV+ docuseries K-Pop Idols. Though the six-episode series, premiering Aug. 30, presents itself as a 101 guide to the current Korean music scene, even K-pop fans might not immediately recognize the boy band CRAVITY, the solo artist Jessi, or the girl group BLACKSWAN—the latter of whom have less than half a million followers on Instagram.

These are, at best, the B- and C-listers of the K-pop world, presumably chosen for their willingness to grant access and/or their ability to speak English. While that initially seems like a hindrance for an insider’s look at K-pop, it eventually becomes the very thing that makes the series unique. After all, while there are no shortage of glossy documentaries that pull back the curtain on the tough life of world-famous pop stars, including Blackpink and BTS, there are far fewer that capture the experiences of artists who, frankly, might not have the talent, temperament, luck, or resources to make it at all.

In fact, though K-Pop Idols is dressed up with a sheen of “strive for your dreams” poptimism, the series sometimes plays more like an unintentional dark comedy than an earnest music documentary. After a primer that explains the K-pop terms and cultural norms newbies need to know, the series quickly delves into the juicier dramas of these up-and-comers. That includes a dinner party so disastrous that two members of BLACKSWAN stop speaking for six weeks—just one of many absurdities to come.

Another episode hypes up a big hero moment for CRAVITY, as the nine-person boy band perform their first live concert after debuting during the pandemic. Based on the enthusiastic crowd and the guys’ excitement, everything seems to go well. Then the filmmakers ask CRAVITY’s manager a softball question about what makes the group “extra special” and he deadpans that he doesn’t think they’re particularly special at all. Offscreen, someone from the record label asks him to at least give them a positive sound bite about the group’s potential to be special. The manager pauses, thinks about it, then suggests they ask someone else instead.

The contrast between the sweet himbo energy of CRAVITY’s young 20-something performers and their jaded management team is starkly hilarious, but it’s nothing compared to all the drama that unfolds with BLACKSWAN. While CRAVITY is the product of one of K-pop’s bigger entertainment companies, BLACKSWAN is a more makeshift affair run by a struggling music producer looking for one last big success before he retires. “Mr. Yoon” gambles that including international performers like Leia (a Brazilian-Japanese singer) and Fatou (a Senegalese-Belgian rapper) will be a shortcut to achieving worldwide fame. But the group’s roiling interpersonal dramas and ever-changing membership suggests that strategy comes with a cost.

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BLACKSWAN provides the series’ most interesting thread, and its most unsettling. Like most K-pop groups, the performers are subjected to intensive dance training, draconian diets, and restrictive contracts. Only instead of a pre-professional process that unfolds over multiple years, the teenage hopefuls are rushed through it in just six months and literally live at Mr. Yoon’s house while they train. Coupled with a Succession-like through line about Mr. Yoon’s apathy toward his adult son Philip, the heir apparent desperate for his father’s approval, the whole thing starts to feel like some sort of dark Christopher Guest mockumentary come to life.

Unfortunately, the series never quite settles on a cohesive point of view on its eclectic subjects. The show’s weakest thread tells a more conventional comeback narrative for solo artist Jessi, a Korean-American looking to relaunch her career after leaving the entertainment company founded by “Gangnam Style” singer Psy. She’s the most famous musician in the series, but also the least connected to the current K-pop ecosystem. So while she’s an engaging personality with some thoughtful insights into celebrity culture (particularly in regard to plastic surgery), her story feels disconnected from the rest of the series—like it’s imported from a solo doc she couldn’t get off the ground herself.

In the end, K-Pop Idols works too hard to put a feel-good spin on its uneasy stories, bookending the series with an unearned sense of optimism. Still, in simply pointing a camera at those desperate to make it in the cutthroat music industry, it shines a fascinating light on the absurdities of the pop-music machine—Korean or otherwise.

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