Squid Game's Jo Yu-ri and Son Ye-jin to lead Netflix K-pop drama ‘Variety'
Directed by Kim Yong-hoon, best known for the hit series Mask Girl, the show is set in the high-stakes world of K-pop and is expected to blend glamour, obsession, and cutthroat ambition.
Jo Yu-ri, who rose to fame as a K-pop idol with IZ*ONE and solidified her acting credentials in Squid Game Seasons 2 and 3, will play Seung-hui — a passionate fan navigating the complexities of idol culture. Son Ye-jin takes on the role of Se-eun, a top entertainment executive struggling to rescue a failing idol group.
The series aims to explore the intricate relationships between industry executives, idols, and fans, reflecting Korea's evolving entertainment landscape. For Jo Yu-ri, this role marks a significant career milestone, allowing her to draw on her real-life experiences in the K-pop industry. Meanwhile, Son Ye-jin's return to Netflix highlights her continued dominance in both film and streaming, with additional roles in Scandals and Park Chan-wook's No Other Choice.
'Variety' is produced by CJ ENM Studios and UNU, marking another major collaboration with Netflix following successes like Squid Game, Kingdom, and Crash Landing on You. With top-tier talent both in front of and behind the camera, the series is positioned to become the next global K-drama phenomenon.
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Back in the mid-2010s, when the idea of 'binge-watching' was still novel, you could impress someone you met at a party by saying you watched Black Mirror. The streaming service Netflix had already changed how people rented movies—killing Blockbuster with the casual cruelty of convenience—but now, it wanted to change what people watched. By the time Stranger Things dropped in 2016, the game had already changed. The show, with its mix of Spielbergian nostalgia and synth-scored sci-fi, hit audiences like a cultural bomb. Kids dressed up as Eleven for Halloween. Adults argued over the ethics of what happened in the Upside Down. Netflix had hit a bullseye. And more importantly, it had found its business model: make people stay subscribed, not just for content, but for connection. Fast forward to 2025. Stranger Things is nearing its final season. Squid Game, the Korean thriller that became a global parable about class, is also wrapping up. And the streamer, now sitting atop a global empire of 270+ million subscribers, faces the kind of existential question that haunts legacy studios and tech giants alike: What happens when your biggest hits stop hitting? Shows like Stranger Things, The Crown, The Witcher, and Squid Game weren't just were global cultural events, they brought in millions of subscribers, shaped social media discourse, and most importantly justified Netflix's spendthrift content budget to nervous investors. The blockbusters that built the brand Stranger Things wasn't Netflix's first original hit—but it was the one that felt tectonic. House of Cards and Orange Is the New Black had kicked off the 'prestige streaming TV' era, giving Netflix credibility in awards circuits and pop culture columns. But Stranger Things was different. It had meme power. Fandom. Merchandising potential. It was a world that extended beyond the screen—and into Funko Pops, comic cons, and even retro-style video games. By the time Season 4 dropped in 2022, it had clocked over 1.3 billion hours of viewing — making it Netflix's second most-watched English-language series ever, only behind Wednesday. Kate Bush's 1985 track 'Running Up That Hill' became a Gen Z anthem nearly 40 years later, charting in multiple countries — a symbol of how a single show could ripple through pop culture, music charts, and fashion. Then came The Witcher, with its CGI monsters and Henry Cavill's brooding charisma. Adapted from Polish fantasy novels and games, the show became Netflix's answer to HBO's Game of Thrones—minus the incest and prestige polish. Though critically uneven, it made money globally. But nothing prepared anyone for Squid Game. Then came Squid Game. Released with minimal fanfare in 2021, the South Korean thriller became an overnight global phenomenon. Within 28 days, 111 million accounts had tuned in. It wasn't just the most-watched Netflix show in history at the time — it reshaped the perception of international content. It proved that language was no longer a barrier; if the story was good enough, audiences would follow. It tapped into a pandemic-era malaise: economic anxiety, social isolation, the sense that we were all playing some perverse, rigged game. Netflix reported that 142 million households had watched it in the first month. It became the platform's biggest show ever at the time, helping to stem a slowdown in growth and proving the viability of non-English language content in global markets. While Stranger Things and Squid Game were pop-cultural tsunamis, they weren't alone in making Netflix what it is. The Crown lent prestige and awards legitimacy. Bridgerton brought in the romance crowd with period drama and redefined inclusivity in costume storytelling. The Witcher pulled in fantasy lovers post-Game of Thrones. Money Heist (La Casa de Papel), a Spanish-language crime thriller, became a bankable brand globally, despite originally being a flop on Spanish TV. Even lighter fare like Emily in Paris, Outer Banks, or reality TV hits like Love is Blind and Too Hot to Handle drove viewership numbers and kept the content wheel spinning between prestige projects. Netflix had a machine: fund broadly, promote smartly, find a breakout, ride the wave, and double down. But as the biggest shows begin to sunset, the cracks in the model are becoming visible. The problem with blockbusters Unlike linear TV, which offered seasons year after year at regular intervals, Netflix binge-dumped content. Stranger Things seasons dropped two years apart. Squid Game took even longer to follow up. In between, Netflix relied on a pipeline of content to keep subscribers around — a gamble that became harder as competition intensified. Enter Disney+, HBO Max, Apple TV+, and Amazon Prime — all offering their own prestige fare, some with legacy franchises (Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones), others with buzzy new titles (Severance, The Bear, The Boys). Suddenly, Netflix was no longer the only game in town. Worse still, the streamer's own release model may have backfired. Releasing an entire season in one go made for headlines, memes, and cultural moments — but those moments were fleeting. Compare that to HBO's week-to-week strategy, which allowed Succession, Euphoria, and The Last of Us to dominate conversations for months. Netflix's shift from a growth-at-all-costs model to a more mature, revenue-focused one was inevitable. With subscriber growth slowing in North America and Europe, and saturation looming in mature markets, the company has introduced ads, cracked down on password sharing, and flirted with licensing content to others — all moves that would've seemed blasphemous five years ago. These aren't signs of desperation so much as maturation. But they do signal the end of a certain kind of Netflix era — the one defined by wild experimentation and blank-check funding for passion projects. Remember when Netflix gave the creators of Game of Thrones $200 million to make The Three-Body Problem? Or funded Martin Scorsese's $160 million The Irishman? Today, Netflix is far more surgical. And that could be good — or very bad — for riskier storytelling. So what does Netflix have coming up to replace its aging giants? First, there's the second season of Squid Game, a high-stakes gamble if ever there was one. Series creator Hwang Dong-hyuk returns, but can lightning strike twice? The sleeper hit had the advantage of novelty and zero expectations. Season two carries the weight of history. Then there's One Piece, the anime adaptation that shocked skeptics with its success. A second season is confirmed, and if it continues to grow, Netflix may have a long-running franchise on its hands. Wednesday, the gothic teen spin-off of The Addams Family, became the most-watched English-language series in Netflix history. With Tim Burton and Jenna Ortega returning for Season 2, it's arguably Netflix's biggest active asset now. Also in development are adaptations of The Chronicles of Narnia, fresh Avatar: The Last Airbender content (after a lukewarm start), and another round of The Witcher, albeit without Cavill. These all carry potential — but also risk. The 'middle show' crisis One of Netflix's quieter dilemmas is what insiders call the 'middle show' crisis. While top shows get massive budgets and marketing, and cheap reality shows get renewals because they're inexpensive to produce, mid-budget, quality series often fall through the cracks. Critically loved shows like Mindhunter, Glow, Archive 81, and 1899 were cancelled despite strong fanbases. The algorithm, it seems, doesn't reward slow builds. Netflix has trained audiences to look for the next big thing — but that leaves little room for cult hits to grow organically. This is where competitors are gaining ground. Apple TV+ is patient and prestige-focused, willing to let shows like Slow Horses or For All Mankind build over time. HBO has decades of reputation in nurturing quality. Even Amazon is doubling down on genre bets and global reach. Netflix, in contrast, sometimes seems caught in its own system: make everything available, see what pops, cut the rest. Is Netflix currently the place for prestige drama? Bingeable fluff? Global storytelling? True crime? Live events? The platform's breadth is unmatched, but with that comes dilution. Disney+ has Marvel and Star Wars. HBO has high-end drama. Prime has genre and scale. Apple has polish. Netflix… has everything, but stands for less. Yet there's a problem with lightning-in-a-bottle shows: they don't last forever. Stranger Things is bowing out with its fifth and final season. The kids have grown up. The charm of '80s nostalgia is wearing thin. Squid Game's creator, Hwang Dong-hyuk, always intended it as a critique of the very systems that made it a commercial juggernaut. Even The Witcher has lost its lead actor, Cavill, and faces declining buzz with each season. So what is Netflix doing to prepare for life after its flagship titles? The answer, predictably, is a little of everything. But whether it sticks is another question. The franchise factory approach In recent years, Netflix has shifted strategy. Rather than hope for breakout hits, it's trying to build franchises intentionally. That's meant spinoffs (like Stranger Things: The First Shadow, a prequel stage play, and potential animated series), sequels (Extraction 2, Enola Holmes 2), and universe-building (The Witcher: Blood Origin, though critics would rather forget it existed). It's also meant poaching talent and IP from traditional Hollywood. Deals with the Duffer Brothers (Stranger Things creators), Shonda Rhimes (Bridgerton, Inventing Anna), and Ryan Murphy (Dahmer, The Watcher) were meant to lock in brand-name storytellers. But results have been mixed. Shonda's Bridgerton universe continues to deliver, especially in international markets. Murphy's shows rack up views, but rarely become cultural events. Netflix has also bet big on international hits — Korean dramas, Japanese anime, Indian thrillers, Spanish heist sagas (Money Heist was a phenomenon). In 2023 alone, Netflix spent over $1 billion on Korean content. It's a smart hedge: local-language shows with global appeal often deliver better ROI than expensive American productions. But is any of it iconic? Does it break through the noise like Squid Game did? Not quite yet. Algorithms don't create magic Netflix's advantage, and maybe its Achilles heel, is its data. It knows what people watch, when they stop, what thumbnail makes them click. This has led to a model of commissioning content that feels more like market research than art. The result is a sprawling catalogue of 'good enough' shows: entertaining, formulaic, and largely forgettable. Think of the dozens of crime thrillers, rom-coms, and reality dating shows that get a weekend spike, trend for two days, then disappear into the abyss of the 'More Like This' section. Critics call this the 'content treadmill.' It's not about making hits. It's about making enough to keep churn low and engagement high. But this risks turning Netflix into a utility — like cable TV — rather than a tastemaker. In contrast, HBO (now Max) still tries to brand itself as a curator. Apple TV+ has a leaner slate but wins Emmys. Disney+ rides the strength of 80 years of IP. Netflix has volume, but volume doesn't inspire devotion. Live sports, ads, and the YouTube pivot In 2022, Netflix launched an ad-supported tier. 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If this all sounds like a pivot toward being a hybrid of YouTube, cable TV, and Xbox — it kind of is. One thing Netflix still lacks is its own massive IP universe. Disney has Marvel. Warner has DC. Amazon has The Lord of the Rings. Netflix's biggest assets (Stranger Things, Squid Game, Bridgerton) are original, but don't have the longevity of 60-year-old comic book characters or fantasy epics. It tried to fix this by spending lavishly. The $200 million The Gray Man franchise (with Ryan Gosling and Chris Evans) was meant to be the next Bond. It didn't quite land. The $450 million acquisition of Knives Out sequels promised a new detective franchise—only for the second film, Glass Onion, to burn hot and fast, then disappear. When you don't own the underlying IP, you don't own the future. And Netflix, for all its streaming dominance, is still renting its place in the culture. What next? The question isn't just what shows come next—it's what kind of company Netflix wants to be. Does it double down on prestige? Go full global? Turn into an interactive tech platform with games and live events? To survive post-Stranger Things, it might have to do all of the above. Already, Netflix is releasing more reality TV (Love Is Blind, Too Hot to Handle), more animated fare (Arcane, The Dragon Prince), more docu-series (The Tinder Swindler, Beckham, American Nightmare). It's diversifying, not in the name of art, but insurance. But the real answer might lie in how it nurtures the next wave of talent. The next Squid Game won't be found by an algorithm. It will come from some obscure writer in Seoul, or Karachi, or São Paulo, with a story that cuts through noise and speaks to this chaotic, collapsing, post-pandemic world. The hits of Netflix's past were surprising, risky, plain weird even. BoJack Horseman, Dark, Sex Education, Russian Doll. The next era of Netflix might require less strategy and more instinct. Because you can build a business on data. But culture? That still takes vision.
