‘Aema’ (2025) Netflix Series Review - A Bold Ride through 1980s Chungmuro’s Wild Side

When Netflix announced Aema, I was curious, but cautious. A story about the creation of South Korea’s most infamous erotic film in the 1980s? It sounded like the kind of material that could either collapse into cheap parody or be elevated into something clever and cutting. What the show delivers is neither exploitative nor sanitized—it’s a daring, satirical, and deeply entertaining look at an industry that thrived on glamour while being riddled with sexism and hypocrisy. It’s also, unexpectedly, very funny in its own unruly way.

The central conflict rests on the shoulders of Jung Hee-ran, played with icy brilliance by Lee Hanee. She is already a star when the story begins, a glamorous and sharp actress who knows her worth and refuses to bend to the whims of the men who control the studio system. Her refusal to strip for the camera—though treated by her colleagues as stubbornness—comes across as an act of survival and defiance. When she is abruptly replaced, the film pivots to Shin Joo-ae, a nightclub dancer portrayed by newcomer Bang Hyo-rin. Joo-ae is younger, hungrier, and far more willing to take risks. She sees in this controversial film an opportunity to climb out of obscurity and cement herself in the spotlight. What follows is a tense push and pull between these two women, and their relationship becomes the beating heart of the show.

While their dynamic anchors the series, the surrounding circus of filmmaking is what gives Aema its sharp bite. There’s the sleazy producer Gu Joog-ho, brought to life by Jin Seon-kyu, whose mix of comedic vulgarity and ruthless pragmatism makes him the perfect villain for this world. He starts as the kind of man you laugh at for being so over-the-top, but gradually his influence darkens, exposing the power structures that allow such men to thrive. Then there’s the rookie director, Kwak In-woo, played by Cho Hyun-chul, who staggers through the chaos with a mix of panic and misplaced hope. He is not evil, just spineless, caught between his ideals of art and the brutal demands of commerce. Watching him fumble his way through production is equal parts hilarious and tragic.

The tone of Aema is one of its biggest achievements. It doesn’t settle into one genre but constantly shifts gears, and that unpredictability is part of its charm. One moment you’re laughing at the absurdity of a scene where actors struggle to film a supposedly intimate moment under the least intimate circumstances imaginable, and the next you’re hit with a sobering reminder of how little control women had over their own image at the time. The humor is sharp, sometimes abrasive, and yes, at times it can feel exaggerated. But that exaggeration feels intentional, like a spotlight turned too bright, forcing us to notice what was always there but often ignored.

What impressed me most was the way the show treats its women. Rather than turning Hee-ran and Joo-ae into caricatures of the icy diva and the eager ingénue, it gives them dimension. Hee-ran’s barbed wit hides a vulnerability that seeps through in quieter moments. Joo-ae’s enthusiasm occasionally tips into naivety, but she is never pitied—she is shown as resourceful and fiercely ambitious in her own right. Their rivalry could have easily been written as catty or petty, but instead it evolves into something layered. By the end, there is an undercurrent of recognition, even reluctant respect. This is not a story of women tearing each other down, but of women navigating an environment designed to pit them against one another.

Of course, not everything lands perfectly. At six episodes, the show occasionally struggles with pacing. Some stretches linger a bit too long on comedic side plots, and the momentum dips just when you expect it to rise. There are also a few moments where the production polish falters—some oddly staged scenes and shaky visual effects that distract from an otherwise immersive recreation of 1980s Seoul. These are minor blemishes in the bigger picture, but noticeable enough to keep the show from being flawless.

Still, the writing is consistently sharp. Lee Hae-young, who both wrote and directed, knows how to balance satire with sincerity. The dialogue sparkles with quick comebacks and sardonic jabs, yet never loses sight of the emotional core. When Hee-ran dryly declares, “Only the strong survive,” it’s not just a quip but a thesis statement for the entire show. Strength here doesn’t look glamorous. It looks messy, exhausting, and sometimes humiliating. And that makes it all the more compelling.

Another strength lies in the way Aema captures its historical setting. The smoky bars, neon-lit streets, and cramped studio offices feel alive, not as nostalgic backdrops but as pressure cookers. The show doesn’t shy away from highlighting how censorship, politics, and a male-dominated system shaped what could or could not be shown on screen. It’s a behind-the-scenes drama that doubles as cultural commentary, reminding us that art is always entangled with power.

There is also a surprising tenderness in how the series explores female solidarity. The turning point between Hee-ran and Joo-ae is not a dramatic monologue but a simple shared glance, an acknowledgment that they are both fighting the same uphill battle. In that moment, the show achieves something rare: it makes space for women to be complicated, flawed, ambitious, and resilient without reducing them to archetypes.

For all its satire and bravado, Aema is ultimately a story about survival in a hostile system. It’s about the compromises artists are forced to make, the indignities endured for a shot at glory, and the small victories that keep them going. The fact that it manages to tell this story with humor and style, without losing its bite, is what makes it worth watching.

If I had to sum it up, I’d say Aema is bold, funny, and sometimes uneven, but always engaging. It is not a neat or comfortable watch, and that’s exactly why it works. It embraces its rough edges, just as its characters do, and in doing so, it becomes something more than a period drama or a satire. It becomes a vivid, unpolished portrait of ambition colliding with reality.

So, would I recommend Aema? Absolutely. It’s a show that entertains while refusing to flatter its audience with easy answers. It makes you laugh when you least expect it, unsettles you when you think you’re safe, and leaves you with characters who feel messy in the most human way. It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. Like its namesake film, it knows exactly what it is: provocative, imperfect, and unforgettable.

Final Score- [8/10]
Reviewed by - Anjali Sharma
Follow @AnjaliS54769166 on Twitter
Publisher at Midgard Times