Something Happened in Bali (Memories of Bali here in the Philippines) is intense. PJ Harvey Rid-of-Me, heart imploding intense. Self-destructive in 20 episodes. Green-eyed everyone of the four leads; jealouosy imprint in every strand, every curve of the story arch. Couples switch and swing, with each one refusing to let go. Who doesn't want to have it all? If looks could kill, this would be a massacre staring fest and a literal massacre in the end. (With apologies to the recent turn of events in Bali, God bless their souls.)
In contrast to the primal melodrama, the revelations are whispered in bed.
Confessions of love. The burden of regret. The beginning of lies. The end of lies. Almost always darkly lit, under the covers, their backs turned. In the last few minutes of the finale, we hear the last confession, murmured, crumpled like the sheets.
The restrain makes the damage more painful. More echoing. And really, this is how most things end. Not with swelling music or grand declarations. But with sobering silence.
Over beer and nachos a Friday ago, this happened. Fuck Hollywood. Fuck adaptations. Let's talk and fight over Asian movies at Korean Bug. Let the biting begin.