### A brilliant concept let down by its production
Phew. What a roller coaster.
I went into *Stand BI Me* with high hopes. Overall, I enjoyed the cast, even if some contestants tested my patience more than others, and they generally came across as sweet people. Most of my problems lie not with them, but with the production and its choices.
Yes, reality dating shows are entertainment. I understand there will be editing, manufactured tension and a need to make money. I’m watching, so apparently I am part of the demand while they supply the emotional chaos. Still, I think viewers can expect some care when real people’s emotions are involved, especially when the show centres a marginalized community.
From early on, I had the lingering suspicion that the production team wanted to find its next Junseong and Seongho from *His Man 2*. I’m still grateful that show gave us their relationship, but lightning does not strike on command. With Jinwoo and Seungho, it sometimes felt as though the editing was pushing us towards the same familiar storyline: one person is more invested while the other remains uncertain. I’m not saying their feelings weren’t genuine. The way those feelings were packaged simply didn’t always feel genuine.
One of my first alarm bells was the mixed-gender bedroom arrangement. Being bisexual does not mean ordinary boundaries around privacy suddenly disappear. These people were sleeping, changing and getting ready in those rooms. Why not offer arrangements the contestants had explicitly said they were comfortable with? Perhaps it was a cultural or format decision, but it felt strangely careless.
Then there is the absolutely wild idea that people should sort through their attraction, insecurities and emotions in one week. We got lucky with *His Man 2*, but one successful couple does not make seven days a reasonable relationship-development programme. A week barely gives me enough time to decide whether I like a new shampoo.
Because everything was so rushed, the format often made romance feel like a competition: choose somebody, secure their attention and “win” a relationship before leaving. The show also did little to help contestants move beyond their first impressions. More structured one-on-one dates, particularly between people who had not immediately chosen each other, might have allowed quieter contestants and unexpected connections to emerge.
Chaebe’s experience was a painful example. There is only so much repeated rejection a person should have to endure while cameras keep capturing it as entertainment. Instead of helping Chaebe explore other connections, the show seemed content to keep returning to that sadness.
Ironically, my favourite scenes were rarely the supposedly romantic ones. I loved the contestants playing Jenga, joking around in the kitchen, talking when everyone else had gone on dates and asking one another for advice. Those small friendship moments were warm, funny and deeply human. That was when the cast truly came alive.
This is also where I think the show missed its greatest opportunity. Some of the most meaningful reflections came near the end, when contestants spoke about how special it had been to live among other bisexual people and feel free to be themselves. I wanted much more of that. What was it like entering that bubble of acceptance? How did they feel knowing they would eventually return to a conservative society where some might still need to hide parts of themselves? What did bisexuality, love and partnership mean to them?
The show made their bisexuality its central premise, yet barely allowed them to discuss their lived experiences. It used bisexuality as the hook without exploring the people behind it.
The age distribution was another baffling production choice. Heejin and Yongkyu were in their thirties, Seungho was only twenty, and several others were in their early twenties. A ten-year age difference is not inherently wrong, but twenty and the mid-thirties can represent completely different levels of experience and entirely different stages of life, especially within a culture where age and hierarchy carry so much weight. When Heejin wondered who had realistically been cast for her, I completely understood. The arrangement felt unfair to both the younger and older contestants and, once again, seemed designed more for contrast and drama than compatibility.
I also think these production decisions contributed to some of the backlash against contestants such as Seungho and Hyeyeon. That does not excuse anyone’s poor behaviour or frustrating choices. However, when a format rewards relentless pursuit and treats leaving with someone as the ultimate victory, it inevitably shapes how contestants behave and how viewers judge them.
Maybe my mistake was wanting the show to be more human. I didn’t need everybody to leave as part of a couple. I wanted a show about attraction, friendship, timing, rejection, missed connections and sometimes realizing that loving yourself is the healthiest ending available. I wanted the production to treat bisexuality, and the people representing it, with more curiosity and care.
*Stand BI Me* was a groundbreaking concept for South Korean television, which is precisely why its shortcomings disappointed me so much. The cast deserved a format that viewed them as complete people rather than pieces in a week-long race to “win” a partner. I laughed, became invested and genuinely cared about them, but I finished the show feeling that production had been handed something remarkable and repeatedly chose drama over depth.
Phew. What a roller coaster.
I went into *Stand BI Me* with high hopes. Overall, I enjoyed the cast, even if some contestants tested my patience more than others, and they generally came across as sweet people. Most of my problems lie not with them, but with the production and its choices.
Yes, reality dating shows are entertainment. I understand there will be editing, manufactured tension and a need to make money. I’m watching, so apparently I am part of the demand while they supply the emotional chaos. Still, I think viewers can expect some care when real people’s emotions are involved, especially when the show centres a marginalized community.
From early on, I had the lingering suspicion that the production team wanted to find its next Junseong and Seongho from *His Man 2*. I’m still grateful that show gave us their relationship, but lightning does not strike on command. With Jinwoo and Seungho, it sometimes felt as though the editing was pushing us towards the same familiar storyline: one person is more invested while the other remains uncertain. I’m not saying their feelings weren’t genuine. The way those feelings were packaged simply didn’t always feel genuine.
One of my first alarm bells was the mixed-gender bedroom arrangement. Being bisexual does not mean ordinary boundaries around privacy suddenly disappear. These people were sleeping, changing and getting ready in those rooms. Why not offer arrangements the contestants had explicitly said they were comfortable with? Perhaps it was a cultural or format decision, but it felt strangely careless.
Then there is the absolutely wild idea that people should sort through their attraction, insecurities and emotions in one week. We got lucky with *His Man 2*, but one successful couple does not make seven days a reasonable relationship-development programme. A week barely gives me enough time to decide whether I like a new shampoo.
Because everything was so rushed, the format often made romance feel like a competition: choose somebody, secure their attention and “win” a relationship before leaving. The show also did little to help contestants move beyond their first impressions. More structured one-on-one dates, particularly between people who had not immediately chosen each other, might have allowed quieter contestants and unexpected connections to emerge.
Chaebe’s experience was a painful example. There is only so much repeated rejection a person should have to endure while cameras keep capturing it as entertainment. Instead of helping Chaebe explore other connections, the show seemed content to keep returning to that sadness.
Ironically, my favourite scenes were rarely the supposedly romantic ones. I loved the contestants playing Jenga, joking around in the kitchen, talking when everyone else had gone on dates and asking one another for advice. Those small friendship moments were warm, funny and deeply human. That was when the cast truly came alive.
This is also where I think the show missed its greatest opportunity. Some of the most meaningful reflections came near the end, when contestants spoke about how special it had been to live among other bisexual people and feel free to be themselves. I wanted much more of that. What was it like entering that bubble of acceptance? How did they feel knowing they would eventually return to a conservative society where some might still need to hide parts of themselves? What did bisexuality, love and partnership mean to them?
The show made their bisexuality its central premise, yet barely allowed them to discuss their lived experiences. It used bisexuality as the hook without exploring the people behind it.
The age distribution was another baffling production choice. Heejin and Yongkyu were in their thirties, Seungho was only twenty, and several others were in their early twenties. A ten-year age difference is not inherently wrong, but twenty and the mid-thirties can represent completely different levels of experience and entirely different stages of life, especially within a culture where age and hierarchy carry so much weight. When Heejin wondered who had realistically been cast for her, I completely understood. The arrangement felt unfair to both the younger and older contestants and, once again, seemed designed more for contrast and drama than compatibility.
I also think these production decisions contributed to some of the backlash against contestants such as Seungho and Hyeyeon. That does not excuse anyone’s poor behaviour or frustrating choices. However, when a format rewards relentless pursuit and treats leaving with someone as the ultimate victory, it inevitably shapes how contestants behave and how viewers judge them.
Maybe my mistake was wanting the show to be more human. I didn’t need everybody to leave as part of a couple. I wanted a show about attraction, friendship, timing, rejection, missed connections and sometimes realizing that loving yourself is the healthiest ending available. I wanted the production to treat bisexuality, and the people representing it, with more curiosity and care.
*Stand BI Me* was a groundbreaking concept for South Korean television, which is precisely why its shortcomings disappointed me so much. The cast deserved a format that viewed them as complete people rather than pieces in a week-long race to “win” a partner. I laughed, became invested and genuinely cared about them, but I finished the show feeling that production had been handed something remarkable and repeatedly chose drama over depth.