Analyzing Netflix's My Idol: Your Idol is Human, Too!

The series My Idol recently premiered on Netflix, starring Choi Soo-young as Maeng Se-na and Kim Jae-young as Do Ra-ik. The show was created by Lee Gwang-young and Kim Da-rin.

The plot follows Maeng Se-na, a reserved and private person who also happens to be a brilliant attorney. Only her best friend knows her secret: she is a devoted fan of the Gold Boys, a quartet of young idols.

Se-na feels a special connection to the lead singer, Do Ra-ik. When Ra-ik becomes a suspect in a murder investigation, she steps in as his defense lawyer. As the legal battle intensifies and the investigation closes in, the relationship between fan and idol evolves into an intimate connection. In Se-na's presence, Ra-ik finally feels safe and begins to see himself as a human being again, rather than just a celebrity.

Critics are praising the series for moving beyond idealized romance. It uses a criminal case as a lens to examine the crushing weight of idolization.

Instead of portraying the protagonist as a stereotypical obsessed fan, the show presents her as a competent, complex, and credible professional. She is someone who can harbor deep feelings while still acting effectively as a lawyer. Among viewers, the title has earned high audience ratings on Viki and a strong score on IMDb.

The series truly succeeds by exposing the depression an idol feels when they are treated as a mere marketable product. This happens both within the industry and among the many fans who worship them without ever knowing who they truly are.

It does not take long for Do Ra-ik to realize he is no longer being judged as a man, but as a piece of packaging. Here, the fiction acknowledges the same societal mechanisms revealed in the real-life incident involving Chinese idol Ling Chao.

In reality, idols are often pushed beyond their limits. They are transformed into walking commodities and targets of a culture that frequently ignores the boundary between a person and a product.

One cannot discuss this without mentioning the recent episode involving Ling Chao, a member of the Chinese boy group ONER. He made headlines for striking a fan considered to be a sasaeng, which is a term used to describe obsessive fans who invade the private lives of artists. A video of Ling Chao pushing away a person who was surrounding and filming him at an airport went viral in late December 2025. This sparked a heated debate: on one side, many defended him by saying he was only protecting his personal space; on the other, some argued that any physical reaction against a fan is unacceptable.

This episode is revealing because it highlights the risks of a culture that consumes idols as if they were objects for personal use. In Ling Chao's case, social media quickly turned his personal stress into a public spectacle. There was extreme polarization and very little empathy for his human condition as an individual facing a mob and cameras shoved in his face. This follows the same logic as fansites, fansigns, popularity rankings, and endless tours: idols are expected to be perfect, accessible, and perpetually grateful, even when their privacy is violated.

In My Idol, this theme serves as the heart of the story. The series connects Maeng Se-na and Do Ra-ik through the thin line between professional defense and personal obsession. It also explores how the media, agencies, and fans build and often destroy an idol's public image. Do Ra-ik is not just a criminal suspect; he becomes a media case, a target for headlines, and the subject of fan theories that completely disregard his humanity. The media reflects and amplifies these unrealistic expectations and performance pressures.

The parallel with the Ling Chao incident is unfortunately very clear. In the real world, an artist can be reduced to a meme, a controversial clip, or a symbol of hate versus devotion within a matter of hours. Consequently, many are consumed by depression and other disorders, which can tragically lead to the loss of life.

The series My Idol exposes this relentless machine that rarely pauses to see the person: someone who is tired, isolated, and capable of making mistakes. It is a brutal reminder that when a living being is turned into a media product, they are expected to provide constant satisfaction. Their complexity as a person remains locked away. They are admired and consumed only as long as they play the part, and they are often discarded the moment they fail to meet the expectations of the public or the industry.

My Idol succeeds because of the chemistry between the protagonists and its portrayal of them as real, flawed people.

Se-na initially rushes to defend Ra-ik, but she is met with an idol who is broken, devastated, and furious. He is an idol who hurls resentment toward the fans who aggressively invade his life. She is startled by this and begins to doubt the person behind the fame. She wonders if the man she admired was real or just a persona, and she even feels conflicted about her own devotion to him.

On the other hand, we see a Ra-ik who is already at his breaking point. He has been harassed and has lost a friend in a very short time. This consumes him and leads to an explosion at a critical moment when he is expected to maintain his usual perfection.

The series is accurate here because it makes it clear that Ra-ik does not hate his fans or the career he worked hard for. Instead, he simply cannot endure the pressure, the constant expectations, and the inability to set boundaries for his own privacy.

Another strong point is the duality of the supporting character, prosecutor Kwak Byeong-gyeon, played by Jeong Jae-kwang. The prosecutor feels torn between making a name for himself by following his father's footsteps or acting with impartiality to ensure true justice.

This internal conflict is well-developed. It even leads the audience to feel a level of sympathy for Kwak despite his questionable methods throughout the plot.

Because the plot must maintain its pace and the suspense of the crime, My Idol misses the opportunity to dive deeper into Ra-ik’s psychology. His internal struggles are too significant for both him and Se-na to ignore as easily as they sometimes do.

The series provides good glimpses of the past and the sacrifices Ra-ik made to protect his image, but there was room to go further. It could have explored the inner workings of the industry more deeply to show how it erodes an idol's emotional health and personal relationships.

The relationship between Ra-ik and his ex-girlfriend, Hong Hye-ju, played by Choi Hee-jin, could also have been better developed. The reasons for their breakup felt somewhat superficial. The series tries to portray this failed romance as a major negative influence on Ra-ik, but it lacks depth.

The same applies to the protagonist’s mother, who sold her son to the industry at a young age and is portrayed as being motivated solely by greed. This character lacks development and a clear explanation for her behavior, which makes her feel like a caricature.

Despite these flaws, the show is excellent at exposing the emotional damage suffered by a person who must always appear perfect. They are forced to suppress their true selves to provide those who idealize them with exactly what they want: a perfect god.

It is worth more than just the price of admission. It invites a necessary reflection on how we consume idol culture, especially given the current global popularity of the Korean Wave.

It is sadly common to see headlines about the suicides of young celebrities who appeared to be doing well on the surface.

My Idol provides a clear look at how the machine that produces perfect stars actually operates. It shows how it crushes them with strict rules and forced silence.

This system is supported by a type of fanaticism that ignores an individual's right to privacy. It ignores the fact that, although they are idols, they are human beings first and foremost.

Have you ever stopped to think about how your favorite idol feels behind the scenes?

Rating: 3.5 out of 5