Someone ought to study how well Oxygen the series can put you to sleep. For music, it has a strange a-melodic harp motif like a music box lullaby. Then, as if they’re made from model magic clay, characters and performances are formed into shapes rounder and softer than reality—effortlessly restrained into gently starched expressions. Restrained by what though? Maybe by time passing slowly across emotional distances. Not even the comedic side couples or the dramatic moments of violence seem to escape the dream-like haze of the series’ tone. That is, until Gui’s sobs, some of the rawest sounds I’ve heard in my BL watching, tear through the fluff. Then the calm returns. A tired embrace after a long ceremony. Time keeps moving.
Whether you enjoy the series or not might depend on how much you agree that grief feels like a small cloud floating alone in a blue sky, or on how fragile a glass of milk can seem to you. At any moment, a careless elbow or timid grip could leave it shattered, spilled, its tiny act of care lost. Would tears well up in your eyes?
