Tag: 2020s

Hijack 1971 (하이재킹, Kim Sung-han, 2024)

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Newspaper-style Korean-language poster featuring a stock photo of a burning place and circular photos of the cast members in black and white.

When a passenger plane is hijacked and forced to fly to North Korea in 1969, the Korean Air Force pilot ordered to fire on it refuses. He recognises the pilot and realises there is something wrong. If there is a hijacker on board, he fears that that he may kill the pilot and crash the plane, killing everyone on board, and while his commanders remind him that the plane should be able to land on just one engine, he knows that if he hits the fuselage instead, the plane could blow up. Even if they land in North Korea, isn’t it better everyone survives?

Not according to some in Kim Sung-han’s Hijack, 1971 (하이재킹, Hijacking), inspired by a real life incident. Tae-in (Ha Jung-woo) is summarily dismissed from the air force for his insubordination while otherwise ostracised as the man who allowed the plane to reach North Korea. As he predicted, most of the passengers are returned home shortly afterwards, but 11 never see the South again including his friend the pilot, Min-su (Choi Kwang-il). Meanwhile, Min-su’s wife (Kim Sun-young) continues to face harassment for supposedly being a communist sympathiser. Now working for a commercial airliner, Tae-in also faces discrimination from his new colleagues who, ironically, don’t trust him to properly protect passengers. All their assumptions are tested, however, when a young man sneaks a bomb on board and threatens them to fly to the North apparently inspired by the previous case in which the hijacker was given a hero’s welcome for successfully kidnapping so many useful people.

What’s immediately obvious is how easy it still was to get a bomb on a plane. Yong-dae (Yeo Jin-goo) simply packs them into some tin cans and wraps them up like a picnic. When boarding opens, the passengers literally sprint past each other to get the best seats because they weren’t yet reserved, and when we see a passenger start smoking, we assume the stewardess will tell him not to yet she simply points out the ash tray in the arm of the seat and asks him not to drop ash on the floor or woman sitting next to him. One woman also delays the flight because she’s brought a live chicken with her to make a soup for her daughter whom she’s travelling to see because she’s ill. Tae-in scores an early win and the goodwill of (most of) the passengers by defusing the chicken situation and allowing the woman to keep it on the condition she has it on her lap for the duration of the flight. 

Letting the old lady keep the chicken signals Tae-in’s consideration for his passengers’ welfare and happiness, while the air marshal becomes so preoccupied with this minor breach of the rules that he fails to notice the suspicious behaviour of the hijacker. The presence of the air marshal, a precaution taken after the previous incident, also proves counterproductive when he’s injured when the first bomb goes off, allowing Yong-dae to steal his gun. Granted, this is a fairly minor flight from a provincial airport to Seoul so maybe no one really thought there was much need for advanced security, but they really are woefully underprepared for this kind of incident, especially after the pilot is seriously injured and can’t see well enough to fly alone, meaning Tae-in also cannot do very much to respond to the hijacker’s threats. 

But what we come to realise is that it’s really society that’s been hijacked by the extreme prejudice directed towards “communists” and the North. The passengers from the first plane were returned, but spent time in interrogation to make sure they hadn’t been turned. A newlywed passenger also remarks that a fisherman friend of his was abducted and the police haven’t stopped hassling him about being a spy ever since he got back. Yeong-do’s motive is that he faced constant and unwarranted harassment, including being scalded with boiling water as a child, because his older brother defected to North Korea. His mother later died when he was carted off to prison for being a supposed sympathiser, while other passengers on the plane are similarly worried that their families will starve if they end up in North Korea or are detained when they return. 

A minor subplot, meanwhile, explores the prejudice faced by an older woman travelling to Seoul with her son, who has become a prosecutor. She is deaf and unable to speak, but her son tells her to stop signing because it’s embarrassing him after noticing disapproving looks from another woman in hanbok across the aisle. The old lady had also taken her shoes off after getting on the plane as if she were entering someone else’s home signalling both her politeness and lack of familiarity with modern customs. Her son had repeated the stewardess’ instructions to put them back on, but addresses her like stranger when telling her not to sign. In a way, this casual prejudice is the same and directed at someone simply for being different. Even so, there’s something quite tragic about her son being ordered to tear up the prosecutor ID card she was so proud of. Eventually she swallows it herself to make sure no trace of it remains, telling her son not to worry she will always protect him even in North Korea though he has not done very much to protect her here.

Tae-in later does something similar when he encourages Yong-dae that they should all go on living to ensure no one else endures the mistreatment he has and we don’t end up with any more incidents like this. Though his behaviour is increasingly deranged, it becomes easy to sympathise with Yong-dae for enduring so much suffering for something that was really nothing to do with him while we’re constantly reminded that if the plane lands in North Korea everyone on the plane and all their relatives will also suffer the same fate. At least facing this disaster together eventually forces the passengers to set aside their petty prejudices and pitch in to save the plane so they can get home to their families even if it’ll take them a bit longer to get to Seoul. Though the outcome is already known to the home audience, Kim Sung-han keeps the tension high and defines heroism largely as compassion and selflessness in Tae-in’s continued efforts to ensure the safety of his passengers rather than playing politics or allowing himself to be swayed by those who think landing in North Korea is a fate worse than death.

International trailer (English subtitles)

Blue Sun Palace (藍色太陽宮, Constance Tsang, 2024)

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“It’s funny how  quickly people you love become strangers,” a middle-aged man muses while talking about more than one thing at the same time. Those at the centre of Constance Tsang’s New York-set drama Blue Sun Palace (藍色太陽宮, lánsè tàiyang gōng) are all in a sense displaced and some of them by several levels while they try to accommodate themselves with the lives they’re living now along with their hopes and expectations for the future.

Didi (Xu Haipeng) and Amy (Wu Ke-xi) are old friends working in a massage parlour which has a large sign on the door stating that they do not provide sexual services. The two women huddle on a stairway, finding a private space of isolation that reduces the world to them alone. Didi and her sort of boyfriend Cheung (Lee Kang-sheng) do something similar as they dine in a restaurant and then retreat to a karaoke booth before Didi takes him back to the massage parlour where Amy absents herself to give them some room until awkwardly spotting Cheung leaving in the morning. It’s clear that the massage parlour is itself an isolated world where Mandarin is the only spoken language inhabited only by the female staff members who are all migrants from China. Didi appears to be the lynchpin of this community, keeping the parlour running and looking after the other women while they all seem to look to her for dependability and solidarity. 

Yet there’s a hovering tension between Didi and Amy who seems wary of Cheung, or perhaps merely jealous in an unspoken attachment to her friend, and also reminds her that they’re not supposed to have guests in their room. The exclusively male clients who are mainly though not exclusively non-Chinese men are also intruders in this space and as Didi tries to warn Amy pose a latent threat to them. A very tall man shortchanges them, but Didi stops Amy when she tries to chase after him. She tells her that it’s not worth it and she’ll just make the money up herself. It’s better to be safe, though it’s advice she doesn’t quite take to heart or perhaps lets her guard down at the wrong moment. The men treat them with thinly veiled contempt, perhaps believing they don’t really deserve to be paid in full or to be treated as fully human beings. A customer of Amy’s bullies her into giving him a happy ending and then refuses to pay, becoming violent when challenged but then apologising before running from the room. 

As an escape from the grimness of the Blue Sun massage parlour, Didi has a dream of moving to Baltimore to open a restaurant with Amy and be closer to her daughter who is currently being raised by her aunt. Cheung hadn’t known about the daughter when he idly fantasised about living in a little house by the sea with Didi and a big dog, though she knew about the wife and daughter who have now become strangers to Cheung. In any case, their fantasy was just that and so perhaps it didn’t really matter if neither of them was telling the whole truth. Baltimore seems to have taken on a mythical quality for each of them as a kind of longed for but unreachable paradise in which they might find happiness if only they could get there. 

But in the end, even these bonds are fragile and the community fractured by tragedy and economic realities. In Didi’s absence, Amy and Cheung develop a surrogate bond in their shared grief and loneliness but also remain at odds with each other, ultimately heading in opposing directions in which it seems as if Amy may be able to find new directions while Cheung is bound only for the blue sun of a shoreline in winter and a solitary cigarette. He says he doesn’t want to go back to Taiwan because he wouldn’t know who to be, though as Amy points out none of them know who they are here either. She at least may have found an answer, or if not, reaccommodated herself to a new reality but for others there’s only sadness and inertia along with the cold comfort of lost love and impossible dreams in a world of constant displacement.

Blue Sun Palace screens April 28 as part of this year’s San Diego Asian Film Festival Spring Showcase.

Trailer (English subtitles)

Sunshine (Antoinette Jadaone, 2024)

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“Don’t drag me into this,” a boy says after hearing that his girlfriend is pregnant, having already questioned if the baby’s really his. Miggy signals his lack of responsibility by directly asking Sunshine what “her” plan is, making it plain that she’s on her own and he does not see himself playing an active role in a predicament he essentially sees as nothing to do with him. Aside from Miggy’s father Jaime, who happens to be a protestant pastor, men are largely absent from Antoinette Jadaone’s Sunshine and even when they appear rigid figures of patriarchal control. 

Sunshine implies that she’s only in this mess because Miggy pressured her into unprotected sex, but she’s left to deal with the fallout on her own. Still in school, she’s about to take her last shot at getting onto the Olympic rhythmic gymnastic team but risks losing everything she’s worked so hard for if her pregnancy is discovered. Even when she goes to buy a pregnancy test, she’s asked for ID and judged by the woman behind the counter while it’s otherwise true that abortion is illegal in all circumstances in the Philippines, meaning Sunshine’s only options are finding and paying a wise woman for medicine to provoke a miscarriage. 

It’s the reactions of other women that Sunshine most fears from her otherwise supportive coach, whose ambitions also rest on her performance, to her best friend who does in fact shun her on her mother’s insistence, and her older sister who is caring for the whole family and seems to be a single mother herself having had a baby at a young age. Like a grim siren, Sunshine’s niece won’t stop crying as if echoing the alarm of her impending maternity and her own discomfort with it. It’s a network of women that she turns to for solutions if not for advice. There’s no one Sunshine can ask for that, because what she’s looking for is illegal. All she can do is stand outside the church and pray that God take mercy on her by allowing her to wake up from this nightmare. There’s something quite ironic when she’s told to ask forgiveness from God “the father” by a religious and judgemental female doctor as if laying bare the patriarchal and oppressive underpinnings of the entire society. 

Yet cast onto a surreal odyssey through Manila in search of solutions, Sunshine finds herself becoming the supportive presence she herself doesn’t have. While pursued by a very judgmental little girl who echoes her inner confusion by branding her a “murderer” and questions her decision making, Sunshine is approached by another little girl who appears to be heavily pregnant and is begging for money to see a faith healer whom she hopes will help her end her pregnancy. Despite her own experience, Sunshine asks her why she doesn’t ask her boyfriend for help but the girl explains that he’s not her boyfriend, he’s her uncle, so she’s even more powerless and alone than Sunshine is. No one’s going to do anything about the Uncle Bobots of the world, but they’re only too happy to criminalise and abandon a little with no one else to turn to. 

Realising that the girl was trying to abort her child, the male doctor at the hospital refuses to treat her knowing full well there is a possibility she may die. Only a sympathetic female doctor is later willing to help. Sunshine too almost dies after her first attempt at taking an abortion pill which she does all alone at a love hotel where the woman on the counter didn’t want to give her a room because people who go to hotels on their own are a high risk for suicide. When she does eventually find out, Sunshine’s sister is actually sympathetic and stands up to Jaime on her behalf when he makes a bid to take over her life and force her into maternity by getting Miggy to apologise and unconvincingly insist that he actually loves her and their baby while leveraging his wealth and privilege against her by recommending that she be cared for by his family doctor and the best hospitals at his expense. It does however provoke a degree of clarity in Sunshine’s insistence that she doesn’t want to be a mother and has no intention of becoming one while rediscovering herself in rhythmic gymnastics and making peace with her younger self. A sometimes bleak picture of young womanhood in the contemporary Philippines, the film nevertheless finds relief in pockets of female solidarity and the conviction that it doesn’t have to be this way for the younger generation who should be free to pursue their dreams and make their own choices about what they do with their bodies.

Sunshine screens April 26 & 30 as part of this year’s San Diego Asian Film Festival Spring Showcase.

I Did It My Way (潛行, Jason Kwan, 2023)

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“Oldies are still the best,” one bad guy tells another while listening to a retro pop song about the inability to distinguish good from evil, “life was simpler back then.” Jason Kwon’s I Did it My Way (潛行) is in many ways an attempt to recapture the action classics of the 90s starring many of the same A-listers though they are all 30 years older and in some cases really ageing out of the kinds of roles they’re accustomed to playing in these kinds of films. Nevertheless, the action is updated for the contemporary era in its unsubtle messaging that drugs and cyber crime are bad, while the police are definitely good and will always win.

Indeed, barrister George Lam (Andy Lau Tak-wah) is not a particularly sympathetic villain and is given little justification for his crimes save doing things his way. Cybercrime specialist Eddie Fong (Edward Peng Yu-Yan) isn’t terribly sympathetic either, but mostly because of his bullheaded earnestness. Chung Kam-ming (Simon Yam Tat-wah) asks him to work with regular narcotics cop Yuen (Lam Suet), but Eddie originally refuses, insisting that they formed their new cybercrimes squad because the “old ways” weren’t working, so it’s better that they keep their investigations separate, which is of course quite rude to Yuen especially as he goes on to add that Chung’s only asked him out of politeness and professional deference. Chung, however, reminds them that they’re all part of one big family and should learn to work together. 

One might think that a criminal enterprise is also a kind of family, but it’s shown to be illegitimate in comparison to that of the police. Yuen’s undercover agent, Sau Ho (Gordon Lam Ka-tung), has a family he’s trying to protect, as does Lam who is about to marry his much younger pregnant girlfriend. For them, family is also a weakness because it gives them a reason to be afraid not to mention something to lose. Beginning to suspect him, Lam uses Sau Ho’s wife and son as leverage, symbolically taking them hostage along with Sau Ho’s promised future that would allow him to emigrate for a life of freedom under a new identity. 

Like the song says, Sau Ho is also struggling to define his identity as an undercover cop caught between his original desire to fight crime and the criminal lifestyle he’s been forced to live which leaves him never quite sure what side he’s actually on. Lam claims he only started dealing drugs after his girlfriend was raped and subsequently developed depression but that’s too late for him to turn back and so he’s gone all in. There is a kind of brotherhood that arises between them that’s permanently strained by their positioning on either side of this line and the inevitability of confrontation. Fong promises to save Sau Ho, but he failed to save most of their other undercover officers, while Sau Ho and Lam pledge to save each other, though the act of salvation could mean different things to each of them while both torn between their respective codes and the natural connection that’s been fostered by their long years working together as part of the gang. 

The severing of this connection is again part of the price for their involvement with crime, with Lam led to believe that his choices have ironically robbed him of the pleasant familial future he dreamed of, while Sau Ho is returned to the familial embrace of the police force. Chung is repositioned as a benevolent father who can save his men, while Eddie too is forced to reintegrate by working with the other officers to fight cybercrimes which often intersect with those of other divisions. While the film includes several action sequences, it also insists that the major battle takes place online between hackers and police computer specialists, dramatising these online fights with CGI to slightly better effect than 2023’s Cyber Heist but still struggling to move on from an outdated iconography of the web. Even so, it’s clear that crime never pays even if a policewoman asks herself if it’s really worth it on a trip to the police cemetery. The sun has come out once again, making the dividing line between good and evil clear if also reinforcing the paternalistic authority of law enforcement under which living life “my way” will never be tolerated.

I Did It My Way is available digitally in the US courtesy of Well Go USA.

Trailer (English subtitles)

Cloud (Cloud クラウド, Kiyoshi Kurosawa, 2024)

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“We wanted to make easy money,” a down-on-his luck reseller admits, “is life easy now?” Factory worker Ryosuke (Masaki Suda) rebels against capitalism by subverting it through buying low and selling high while repeatedly refusing promotions at his job in a textiles factory. Though it might seem that reselling is just a way to earn an income that seems almost passive but is actually fairly labour-intensive, it’s clear that Ryosuke is a young man dissatisfied with capitalistic realities and lacking direction in his life. 

Reselling has become a kind of game to him and like a gambler who plays to lose he’s hooked on the thrill of making a killing exploiting other people’s misery. He’s at once filled with pride and smugness over his apparent triumph over his society and consumed by self-loathing. His friend and fellow reseller Muraoka (Masataka Kubota) tells him that another acquaintance has been arrested for scalping concert tickets with both of them lamenting his foolishness in getting involved with something so risky. The implication is that their friend, Goto, must have been in real desperation to lower himself to such levels and they each fear they may someday end up in the same position. Muraoka laments that that kind of selling is a young man’s game and neither of them have the time or energy to spend all day queuing to buy stuff just to sell it on cheap. They are each, it seems, beginning to feel the increasing desperation of their age that they are running out of time and have little to show for their efforts nor any prospects for the future. 

But on the other hand, neither of them want to be locked into the grind or join the oppressive but secure world of the salaryman. In many ways, Ryosuke’s factory boss Takimoto (Yoshiyoshi Arakawa) represents the “correct” path of hard and honest work, though his own paternalistic conviction in meritocracy seems outdated in a man of his age whose formative years occurred during an era of economic stagnation. He talks to Ryosuke as if he’s a young man who wants to get on but lacks confidence, telling him that he has leadership potential and is wasted on the shop floor, but his language also has an edge of the uncanny as if he were trying to recruit Ryosuke into his own worker drone revolution. In any case, even if it might be true that Ryosuke lacks confidence and ambition, that isn’t the reason he refuses promotions, which seems to be another way of rebelling against capitalism. When he eventually quits, he suggests it’s because he’s sick of being told what to do and wants more autonomy over his life and finances.

He tells his girlfriend Akiko (Kotone Furukawa) that she should quit her job too, which she’s only too happy to do because, unlike him, she actively doesn’t want to work and only wants to spend money. When she said she was thinking of giving up her apartment, Ryosuke naturally asked her to officially move in but she refused because his place is too small and she has too much stuff. Akiko has already been corrupted by the same consumerist bug that’s driving Ryosuke’s reselling business, but neither of them can really afford this lifestyle in the city. Ryosuke’s bright idea is to move to the remote countryside where he’s able to rent a huge, though ominous-looking, property for a fraction of the price with the idea of also economically supporting Akiko who will revert to traditional gender roles as a housewife in charge of the domestic space and most especially the kitchen.

But freedom cannot be found simply by retreating from urbanity and the couple soon find themselves plagued by a pervasive sense of resentment. The locals are not particularly accepting of people from Tokyo and are also needled by their success which is something they feel they’ve been unfairly denied. When Ryosuke tries to report a smashed window, even the policeman hassles him and says he’s received a tip-off that Ryosuke is breaking trading standards regulations by selling counterfeit goods as the real thing. Reselling in itself is not illegal, if definitely dubious morally and incredibly cynical. Ryosuke doesn’t seem to like to think about that and tells his new assistant, Sano (Daiken Okudaira), that he tries to sell all the items as quickly as possible so he doesn’t have to worry too much about their authenticity. If they’re wanted they’ll sell, Ryosuke justifies but he might as well be talking about himself.

“Being real or fake doesn’t matter?” Sano asks him, just as Ryosuke’s online and offline personas start to blur. He’s unaware that there are people actively hunting him for selling them substandard goods and is later pursued by real life vigilantes acting like online trolls and planning to torture him to death during a livestream. Like many of Kurosawa’s heroes, Ryosuke is completely convinced that he’s the benchmark for normal and it’s everything around him that’s strange or unfair. As the internet once again invades the “real” world, or perhaps it’s more that Ryosuke’s living his online life offline, the increasing unreality of the situation makes us wonder if any of this is “really” happening or product of Ryosuke’s fractured identity as it finally collapses under the twin corruptions of capitalism and social media. “Please keep focusing only on making money,” his new guardian angel Sano tells him, “everything will be obtainable. Whatever you want. Even things that can end the world.” Flying through ironically heavenly clouds, Ryosuke reflects that the path to hell really is paved with gold and his Mephistophelian pact with hyper-capitalism may have damned him beyond all repair.  

Cloud is in cinemas from 25th April courtesy of Blue Finch Film Releasing 

UK trailer (English subtitles)

Striking Rescue (惊天大营救, Cheng Siyi, 2024)

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Once again set in a fictional South Eastern Asian nation largely inhabited by Mandarin speakers, Cheng Siyi’s action drama Striking Rescue (惊天大营救, jīng tiāndà yíngjiù) is a comeback vehicle for action star Tony Jaa who has mostly been relegated to cameos and supporting roles for the last decade or so. It’s also one of a string of recent films with a bee in its bonnet about the drugs trade, and a less obvious one about the powers of large corporations though in this case the fat cat turns out to be a good guy.

To begin with, we can’t be so sure about Bai An. A flashback reveals that his wife and daughter were just murdered in an apparent gangland killing, and now he wants revenge. After targeting a petty drug dealer, Bai An is told the man he’s looking for is He Yinghao (Philip Keung), the CEO of a phenomenally successful logistics business which has nevertheless been implicated for the smuggling of drugs. Something like this happened once before, but Yinghao is well connected and was able to make it go away just as he apparently has this time. Later he also reveals that his company is the only one that is exempt from customs checks, presumably because he’s bribed someone to make that happen.

We can’t really be sure about Yinghao, either. He doesn’t seem to know about the drugs but could be bluffing or attempting to shift the blame. His spiky teenage daughter Ting seemingly resents him for his authoritarian parenting and blames him for her mother’s death. She fires back at him that he behaves as if all problems can be solved with money, and she may have a point. After their convoy is attacked by drug gangs, Ting has no idea who to trust but continues to believe in her father’s innocence while unexpectedly teaming up with Bai, who wants to kill him, and trying to figure out what’s going on. The one thing she’s sure of is that she and her father really hate drugs because they caused her mother’s death, so if it really is him behind the local drugs trade then it’s even worse that she thought it would be. 

As the truth is gradually revealed, it allows both men to reclaim their paternity as Jaa becomes a kind of surrogate father to Ting. He attempts to protect her from this very dangerous world of drug dealers and criminals, though it may not have been all that far from the otherwise life of luxury she was used to leading. Her driver, Wu, had already taught her some martial arts skills for protection while she’s bullied by the thuggish boys at school who pick on her for being Yinghao’s daughter and a foreigner. But it’s Bai An who seemingly shows her what real fatherhood is like, which ironically causes her to reevaluate her relationship with Yinghao. He in turn is somewhat redeemed by his righteousness in the face of the gangsters as opposed to a snivelling new reporter picked up by Clay and forced to choose which son to kill before being killed himself.

Making Yinghao the hero may be a slightly awkward fit given that his business interests do not appear to be all above board which is one reason why he relocated here rather than stay in China where, the implication is, he wouldn’t have gotten away with it for so long. Indeed, the film ends with a series of title cards explaining that all of the wrongdoers, including Bai, were caught and punished. Nevertheless, as Bai later reminds us, it’s every man’s dream to be a hero to his daughter and both men have now a claim on “heroism”, at least in the eyes of the idealistic Ting. Though he could not save his own daughter, Bai steps in to protect Ting on several occasions. Fighting off hordes of thugs and one very weird female assassin, Jaa gets the opportunity to show off his martial arts skills once again while relentlessly pursuing his revenge and quest for answers about the death of his wife and child. But it’s also this defence of her that allows him to reconnect with his humanity and reclaim his image of himself as a father even while mired in his grief and anger towards a world full of corruption and betrayal.

Striking Rescue is available digitally in the US from April and on blu-ray from May 15 courtesy of Well Go USA.

US release trailer (English subtitles)

The Beetle Project (숙제, Jin Kwang-kyo, 2025)

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“Cousins should get along,” according to a North Korean soldier who’s just found out his son has been bullying his nephew, ironically by drawing a red line down the middle of their bedroom to make it clear that this interloper isn’t wanted in his territory. Red lines become a theme in Jim Kwang-kyo’s charming childhood drama The Beetle Project (숙제, Sugje) in which the pure-hearted goodness of a series of children knows no borders and sees only common ground between themselves and a North Korean boy who’s lost his pet beetle that he was keeping as a homework project.

Luckily, the beetle is discovered by best friends Ah-ram and Jae-hoon who decide to finish the boy’s homework for him in the hope that they will somehow be able to get the beetle back to him. Of course, that’s easier said than done given that Lee Chul-min lives in the North so it’s not like they can they just pay him a visit to give it back. The irony is that the beetle only came to them because of a flood that was partly caused by the North’s sudden opening of its floodgates prompting calls for greater co-operation across borders to prevent potential tragedies such as these. 

Meanwhile, we discover that Lee Chul-min is experiencing a degree of familial discord as his younger brother Chul-kyu is resentful of the fact he’s been sent to the city to study in a better school while he’s been kept at home and is forced to work in the fields with his mother. The film’s depiction of North Korea is largely utopian in which the repressiveness of the regime is barely felt aside from the occasional presence of soldiers and a degree of foreboding in the threat that the growing feud between the boys poses to a carefully balanced order. Chul-min’s cousin Chul-ju is also resentful that he now has to share everything including his room and has been bullying Chul-min because of it, though Chul-min is a stereotypically good boy who puts up with everything without making a fuss and makes sure to tell his mother what a good time he’s been having in the city where they get to eat ice cream every day when it’s hot.

Both sets of children deeply care about the fate of the beetle and what’s best for it, only to become a political football that’s picked up by a shady conglomerate Ah-ram’s journalist father Jin-kyu tried to expose for a food contamination scandal only to have to make a humiliating retraction on air when the station is ordered to back off. Hooked on the PR potential, they try to use the beetle, and Ah-ram, for their own ends, while the family simultaneously becomes the target of scammers promising they can help return the beetle for a small fee, and rightwing trolls who harass them for being North Korean collaborators. When one of the other kids damages the beetle’s enclosure. Ah-ram and Jae-hoon find themselves drawing another red line to keep them out only to later think better of it.

Disappointed by the adults around them, including Jin-kyu who is still struggling to deal with the death of his wife and his changed relationship with Ah-ram whom he sent to live with her grandmother in the country, the kids decide they want to send the beetle back by themselves and hand it straight to Chul-min. Jin-kyu ends up getting involved with an online insect enthusiast group who unbeknownst to him are all children and strangely led by a little girl who for some reason talks like a middle-aged farmer’s wife. In any case, it’s very much children doing it for themselves and realising that they have a lot in common despite the border between them. Ah-ram is worried that Chul-min will get into trouble for losing his homework and probably misses his beetle while she herself is also still processing her mother’s death for which she blames herself and adjusting to her new life in the country where she’s supported by her forthright schoolteacher who can’t resist resorting to colourful language whenever she encounters “injustice”. In its way, the beetle becomes a kind of symbol for Korea itself with the children promising to meet again as adults so they can find out what happened to it while wishing the best for “Beety” and vowing to look after it together. Charming and wholesome, the film is a gentle advocation for a spiritual, if not necessarily literal, reunification and a sense of solidarity among the younger generation dedicated to doing the right thing in a world in which adults call lies “flexibility” and think one beetle is no better than another.

The Beetle Project screened in Chicago as part of the 19th edition of Asian Pop-Up Cinema.

Rainy Blue (レイニー ブルー, Asuna Yanagi, 2025)

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“You never know when it will end,” Aoi mutters to a concerned teacher. “The streaming period, and my life.” Asuna Yanagi’s Rainy Blue (レイニー ブルー) is a semi-autobiographical tale of a young woman figuring out how to live in the world while immersed in cinema. Her father may insist that she look at the reality, but Aoi’s world is already quite surreal even as she pours all her efforts into writing screenplays and watching films but otherwise floundering for direction.

To begin with, Aoi isn’t interested in cinema She just gets sent to see a film as punishment after getting caught setting off fireworks on the school roof because a local cinema has a special retrospective dedicated to actor Chishu Ryu who attended the same high school though probably 100 years previously. Despite scoffing at the idea and chuckling that everyone in the cinema is “old” while even the usher double checks to make sure she’s in the right place, Aoi is captivated by Ozu’s filmmaking and becomes a true convert to cinema to the extent that it completely takes over her life. She becomes the only member of the school’s film club, or as she’s find of reminding people “society”, and regularly turns up late after staying up all night watching movies. 

To that extent, Aoi’s film obsession may not quite be healthy in that it leads her to make some questionable decisions with unintended consequences, such as getting arrested for “stalking” people after following them around as research for her screenplays. She also finds out that one of her old friends, who is also her father’s favourite example of a “good” daughter, is into compensated dating and in reality perhaps just as lost as she is. Aoi’s father no longer understands her and has become authoritarian and unforgiving. He regularly berates and shouts at her while making no real attempt at communication. He simply asks why she can’t be “normal” and concentrate on going to uni like the other girls while complaining about how “embarrassed” he would be if she doesn’t go because it would reflect badly on him as a parent. 

Perhaps it’s not surprising that Aoi retreats into cinema to escape, but it’s also true that she finds a more supportive paternal presence in the guy at the cinema who turns out to have been a classmate of her mother’s. There’s a kind of poignancy in Aoi and her sister’s moment of confusion on realising that their mother was interested in films but they rarely watch them at home because her father doesn’t like them, while her mother rarely has time to go alone. Aoi’s love of cinemas as mediated by an old script she finds in the club room is also a way of connecting with her mother as a potentially more supportive parental figure in contrast to her father’s hardline authoritarianism.

But then, in her love of cinema Aoi is absolutely certain and she’s no reason why she should hide it from anyone else. Her best friend at school is rather bafflingly played by 43-year-old film director Hirobume Watanabe who dresses in a pre-war school uniform complete with student’s cap and little round glasses that make him look strangely like a Studio Ghibli character. Usami is an otaku with a love of anime he thinks he’s kept hidden despite having several anime badges on his backpack and is too afraid to be out and proud about it because he knows he’ll be bullied, which he eventually is when Aoi enters a deeper moment of crisis and more or less abandons him and the school. Watanabe also appears as a weirdly inspirational film director who has a go at an audience member at a q&a who asks him why his film is so nihilistic only for him to turn the question back on her and angrily insist that film can illuminate the way forward for those like Aoi who feel themselves to be lost. 

Thanks to all these strange adventures, her various friendships, and even her father’s animosity, Aoi eventually figures out what she wants to do with her life and gains the courage to go after it no matter what anyone else might say. Set in the picturesque environment of rural Kumamoto, the film’s gentle, laid-back aesthetic belies the storm at its centre and the rainy blue that surrounds the heroine until she too finally finds her way through the labyrinths of cinema.

Rainy Blue (レイニー ブルー, Asuna Yanagi, 2025) screened as part of this year’s Osaka Asian Film Festival.

Original trailer (no subtitles)

Brush of the God (カミノフデ ～怪獣たちのいる島～, Keizo Murase, 2024)

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High schooler Akari (Rio Suzuki) couldn’t care less about something as “uncool” as tokusatsu movies and the fact her recently deceased grandfather once made them makes it even worse. Though they had once been close, Akari harbours a degree of resentment towards her grandfather, Kenzo (Shiro Sano), whose behaviour even in earlier years could be somewhat intimidating. Holding Kenzo responsible for the scar on her mother’s arm, Akari wonders out loud why a public memorial event is even necessary when they’ve already had a funeral, and why her mother isn’t just throwing all this useless rubbish out rather than hold an exhibition honouring a man she believes harmed her.

“Useless rubbish” is largely what Akari thinks of Kenzo’s legacy, embarrassed by his connection to otaku culture which has a social stigma attached to it that a teenage girl in particular would find embarrassing. Sullen and grumpy, she looks on with sadness mixed with irritation when some of her classmates charge off without her to go look at make-up and is rude to a young man from her class who’s come to attend her grandfather’s memorial event because she wouldn’t be caught dead talking to a nerd. In a way, it’s some of these social attitudes that Keizo Murase’s Brush of the God (カミノフデ ～怪獣たちのいる島～, Kami no Fude ~Kaijutachi no iru Shima) wants to deconstruct, recovering a memory of the classics of the genre as a world of boundless creativity and goodness that was as much about overcoming obstacles as it was creating visions of marauding dragons wreaking havoc on the modern world. 

This is Murase’s first, and sadly only film as he passed away at the age of 89 in 2024 and was already in his late 80s when the film was made. Prior to that, he’d been a legendary figure in the tokusatsu industry working as a suit sculptor, prop maker, and stunt man. His self-cameo laying flowers at his own stand-in’s memorial service echoes the meta-quality of the film which he’d first come up with while working on Mighty Peking Man (in the movie Revenge of the Might Primate) in Hong Kong and subsequently reworked to take place in Japan just as Kenzo does in the film. At heart, it’s a tribute to classic kids special effects adventure movies in which Akari must reclaim the fond memories of her grandfather in order to save his interior universe and legacy which is now in danger of being forgotten while even she herself wanted to junk the whole thing. 

She does so in the company of Takuya (Takeru Narahara), the classmate she’d hardly even noticed because of his nerdiness but is also primed to be another kind of inheritor of Kenzo’s mantle as represented by the Brush of the God, a magical paintbrush that allows the wielder to create in reality anything that they can imagine much as Kenzo and Murase had done when they created their monsters and the means to beat them. Reminiscent of that of Nobuhiko Obayashi, Keizo’s world has a retro aesthetic that is at once both artificial and fantastical making it clear that the children have been sucked into a world of imagination on the invitation of the mysterious Mr Hozumi (Takumi Saito) who offers them a copy of Keizo’s unproduced script and asks them to save his universe from destruction at the jaws of a mystical dragon. 

There is real love and affection for this era which has now all but passed that valued practical effects and rejoiced in finding unexpected solutions to practical problems and creating a world which was often simpler than expected in which there were monsters who were bad but could be beaten or otherwise were good and could never be vanquished. Along with recovering more positive memories of her grandfather whom she realises to have misunderstood, a tortured artist who loved them in his own way, she regains a sense joy and creativity that had otherwise been lost to her with Takuya remarking that she seems much more lively in the midst of their adventure than she ever had at school. He meanwhile is very much in his element, but though he’d dreamed of becoming a tokusatu hero is effectively reduced to a damsel in distress whom Akari must then save by reawakening her imagination. Warmhearted and wholesome, the film is an advocation for this world of lost charm and childhood adventures powered by egg boxes, garden hoses, and the boundless potential of creativity. 

Brush of the God screens in Chicago 13th April as part of the 19th edition of Asian Pop-Up Cinema.

Trailer (English subtitles)

Revolver (리볼버, Oh Seung-uk, 2024)

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Everyone is always making promises to Su-yeong, but promises don’t count for very much in this world of infinite duplicity. Reuniting director Oh Seung-uk with The Shameless star Jeon Do-yeon, Revolver (리볼버) takes place in a world of corrupt cops and criminal gangs where no one can be trusted and every relationship is transactional. Like the barrel of a revolver, allegiances shift and rotate as Su-yeong attempts to navigate these turbulent waters while well aware that she is completely alone and has only her quest for vengeance and justice to sustain.

It’s by a broken promise that’s she’s been betrayed. After having become lowkey involved in police corruption to help her lover Captain Lim (Lee Jung-jae), former policewoman Su-yeong agreed to take the fall for the squad. They promised her that she’d only lose her job rather than go to prison and that she’d be allowed to keep the apartment she’d just bought, get a 700,000-dollar payout, and a new job working for Eastern Promises security division. Only in the police station does she realise she’s been tricked as they slap a drug trafficking charge on her and hand down a two-year sentence. Predictably, once she gets out, no one’s there to meet her except a gloating prosecutor and a random woman she’s never met before, Yoon-sun (Lim Ji-yeon), who says she was a friend of Lim’s. He’s since been found dead in a suspected suicide, though that matters less to Su-yeong than the fact he gifted her apartment to someone else and has since died in mysterious circumstances. 

The funny thing is that Yoon-sun, who is working both with corrupt cop Dong-ho (Kim Jun-han) and the gang led by Grace (Jeon Hye-jin), actually has some sympathy with Su-yeong and disproves of the way she’s been treated. After all, they could have just paid her her money like they said they would. Well used to navigating these waters, Yoon-sun appears to be playing her own game and keeping her options open yet it seems genuine when she tries to help Su-yeong which isn’t to say she wouldn’t betray her if she absolutely had to but right now she doesn’t. There is something quite poignant about the sense of female solidarity that arises between them, even though they are romantic rivals, as women who’ve both been let down by this patriarchal society. Su-yeong is rightly fed up with it and she’s going to get her money and her apartment no matter what if only to make sure they don’t win. Yoon-sun has chosen complicity as her chosen means of survival, but may be silently rooting for Su-yeon to break the both of them out of this repressive system.

To that extent it’s ironic that the former detective’s main weapon is a retractable baton, as if she were trying to enact justice though she herself is a compromised figure having at least been on the fringes of the corruption if perhaps not at the heart of it. Then again, all of the police appear to be corrupt so perhaps it’s more that she’s no better than the world that surrounds her and well aware that promises mean nothing and no one can be trusted. Lim seemingly broke a number of promises to her but may have tried to make it right in the end, while she’s also the victim of a vendetta by grudge-bearing cop Dong-ho (Kim Jun-han) whose romantic overtures she once turned down leaving him with a desire to destroy her completely. Top bad guy Andy (Andy) also appears to be a figure of compromised masculinity, playing the rabid dog but having no other backing than his ambiguous relationship with Grace who may have offed a female rival to solidify her grasp over the criminal enterprise. Violently beaten by Su-yeong, he too vows revenge to reclaim his masculinity but is ill equipped to achieve it. 

Despite being disregarded as not a proper detective, Su-yeong patiently follows all the clues and plays a long game to track down the source of all her misery while really her dreams had been small, owning a nice apartment and sharing it with Lim. On her release from prison, she tells the guard that her parents are dead and she has no friends or relatives signalling her aloneness in a vast world of betrayal but also her resilience and refusal to back down in her ironic fight for “justice” which is simply making sure those who’ve wronged her honour their promises and she gets what she’s owed. The occasional bouts of dark humour such as the absurdity of the final confrontation scene lend a touch of surreality to Oh’s purgatorial world of constant mistrust. “Live as if you were already dead,” a defeated Andy ineffectually screams as he vows vengeance and insists Su-yeong hasn’t heard the last of this. But Su-yeong has been living like she’s dead all along and now, finally, might be alive once again. 

Revolver is available digitally in the US courtesy of Well Go USA.

International trailer (English subtitles)