Colony (군체, Yeon Sang-ho, 2026)

“Can you handle the freedom to be an outcast?” asks the villain of Yeon Sang-ho’s zombie-esque drama Colony (군체, Gunche) who believes that tragedies are caused by “imperfect communication.” He may not be entirely wrong, but his instinct to destroy all traces of individuality and replace them with a hive mind might not necessarily solve the problem in the way he implies it will, especially as it transpires that everyone will effectively be pulled into his own consciousness.

To that extent, the “zombies” in this film are representatives of social conformity, but perhaps they could also be read as an AI army with “psycho” scientist Suh (Koo Kyo-hwan) as the prompter. His big idea is bringing about a second cognitive revolution that emerges from a desire to repair the body so that those who have developed a disability would be healed. This is also, it turns out, a byproduct of being inducted into Suh’s hive where humanity must start from scratch evolving all over again. But at the same time, it seems like members of the hive still need to actively share information rather than simply having access to it. Suh gives them commands by shaking his head, while the zombies often stop dead and stare at the ceiling with their mouths open as if they were uploading something to the cloud. At one point, they’re seen accessing a computer to get the location of a room where one of their targets is hiding which demonstrates how far they’ve evolved in their ability to use tools, but at the same time they already have members of the security team in their hive. One would assume that they would already be familiar with the building’s layout and so the closest zombies could just start making their way there. This communication is still “imperfect” and Suh may choose not to share what he knows with the others anyway.

Professor Se-Jeong (Jun Ji-hyun), however, has never been one to go along with the group. Her exasperated ex-husband (Go Soo) complains that she’s always doing things that make people hate her, but still cared enough for Se-jeong to try to set her up with another steady job before he moves to America with his current wife and child. Which is all to say, she is very much prepared to be an outcast in a society in which challenging the system or disrupting group harmony are often taboos. She’s disadvantaged in her career because she turned another professor in for exploiting his research staff and misappropriating funds, meaning that others don’t necessarily want to work with her. She will, however, stand up for what’s right even when others won’t.

The government, meanwhile, is portrayed as another kind of group think if one paralysed by indecision because, unlike Se-jeong, they aren’t prepared to be hated by the public for making a call they disagree with even if it’s the right thing to do. With the building sealed off, orders have been given not to harm any of the infected in case they can be saved when they retrieve the vaccine from Suh, but it quickly becomes clear that the victims are most likely braindead and cannot be healed. Nevertheless, the policeman who takes Suh into custody eventually begins shooting his own team members, sacrificing them to protect Suh, while rescue teams deliberately leave other survivors behind. “It’s a shame,” one of the officers in control laments after seeing Se-jeong dart into a storage cupboard when the rescuers retreat with Suh, making it clear they have no intention of going back for her even though she’s been helping them retrieve the vaccine.

Her best ally turns out to be another female scientist, her ex’s wife Gong (Shin Hyun-been). Though you might expect the two women to loathe each other, they in fact get along quite well and have some affection for each other that makes Gong increasingly unwilling to toe the government line and leave Se-jeong to be devoured by the zombies. They are at least willing to stand up for the scientific argument and do what’s right, even if it’s not going to be popular and will make them outcasts for the rest of their lives. Someone has to be willing to make these difficult decisions from a position of rationality, the film seems to say. Nevertheless, it also argues for a slightly less prejudicial, more equal world in championing other kinds of outsiders such as a woman who uses a wheelchair and finds an ideal fit for her skillset in the zombie apocalypse and an old man who proves to be far more physically adept than an ageist society gave him credit for.  “I guess we have a lot of work ahead of us,” Se-jeong admits acknowledging that it will not end just with the quelling of this particular zombie horde.


Trailer (English subtitles)

The Mouths (口に関するアンケート, Takashi Shimizu, 2026) [Fantasia 2026]

“Do you think the mouth is the source of the trouble?”  A survey asks at the end of Takashi Shimizu’s haunting horror, The Mouths (口に関するアンケート, Kuchi ni Kansuru Anketo). Assuming for the moment that we’re talking about the human mouth, they can indeed get you into a lot of trouble, but at the same time that trouble starts somewhere much deeper down, so perhaps it isn’t really the mouth that’s to blame either, rather its owner who unwisely chose to make their unspoken thoughts spoken. 

According to the editor of a mystery magazine (Tokio Emoto), that really might be the curse. We project our negative emotions onto an object and grant it a kind of supernatural power that might in other ways be entirely manmade. People have decided a creepy old tree in a cemetery is “cursed”, but it’s become fashionable among young people to challenge themselves by walking up to it. Though the tree once signalled good fortune, people soon started using it to curse others by voicing their petty resentments, but perhaps it’s putting all these dark thoughts into the tree that’s made it a kind of repository for human fear and loathing. All those we meet who went to see the tree took someone with them that they wanted to suffer, though they also of course ended up suffering themselves.

A group of students sets out to see it full of bravado expecting a spooky night where nothing will actually happen, or at least nothing that they don’t make happen for themselves. But beneath the camaraderie, there are cracks in their relationship with what amounts to a complicated love square in which Tatsuya (Keito Tsuna) has started dating Shota’s (Rihito Itagaki) ex An (Ai Yoshikawa), but Shota wants her back. Mirei (MOMONA), meanwhile, whose name contains a sound that is associated with the supernatural, resents An mostly for disrupting the dynamics of the group and her relationships with both men though without really declaring any kind of romantic allegiance. An is not altogether a sympathetic presence and brands Mirei’s potentially psychic abilities as “lame”, but nevertheless falls victim to the tree, loses her mind, and then eventually disappears. 

The left-behind trio do their best to find her, but are really searching themselves questioning their relationships, desires, and what they really wanted out of visiting in the tree. Shota first heard about it from his colleague, Kawase (Tomoki Nishiyama). Who visited with a “friend” (Shoot Mori) who appears to be bullying him in the hope that he would get his comeuppance only for both of them to be left haunted, constantly fearing the reappearance of the tree’s animalistic woman who threatens to devour them. In some ways, the monstrous woman stands in for the dark heart of nature, seemingly in tune with cicadas and their strange humming, not different from An’s, which characterises a Japanese summer. The summer is also, of course, when this world and the other are at their closest.

Another question the survey asks is if you would share this story with a friend. Kawase, after all, shared it with Shota almost as if tempting him toward the tree, prodding him to act on his basest emotions. As the magazine editor says, perhaps the real villains are people like him who irresponsibly spread this kind of information and help to create urban legends that unwittingly draw people towards the darkness in their own hearts. He and a police detective (Shido Nakamura) nominally looking into An’s disappearance search for more concrete answers, but in the end come to no real conclusions wondering what it was these people saw in the tree that eventually took them to such a dark place.

Shimizu maintains the episodic structure of the source novel with several different chapters recounting the events from one person’s point of view in a theatrical monologue that at first seems as if it must be testimony for the detective, but later turns out not to be even if the detective listens to the stories they’ve recorded on his dictaphone. The survey also asks us why we think they recorded them themselves on their phones, which is a question often left unasked in genre films in which we gloss over these kinds of practical questions knowing that they do so as a storytelling device. Sooner or later they all declare that they have said all that they had to say, if as they were a kind of ghost in the machine about to dissipate as soon as the tale is told. But really, it’s the same question as why they talked to the tree. They needed some means of releasing all these dark thoughts, but releasing them didn’t really help. In fact, it seems to have made things quite a lot worse. Perhaps if they’d been able to talk to each other in a healthier way, there’d no be no need for cursed trees or the supernatural dread that comes with having transgressed on something no human is supposed to see. But then again, this darkness is a part of human nature as much as its part of a strange and arcane world. Perhaps it is your own mouth that will damn you in the end.


The Mouths screened as part of this year’s Fantasia International Film Festival.

When You Open the Door (とびらをあけたら, Eriko Katagiri, 2026) [Fantasia 2026]

Maybe mankind wasn’t really supposed to live indoors. Miki (Serena Motola) has a job at an architectural firm that mainly seems to involve drawing straight lines with a ruler and pencil. Her boss praises her for her “distinctive” drawing style. Yet Miki seems out of place at the office, as if her consciousness were somewhere else and only her body physically present. She is mostly silent, and does not accompany her colleagues when they all head off for lunch, preferring a solitary bun which in itself leads her to a strange destination. 

In Eriko Katagiri’s haunting drama When You Open the Door (とびらをあけたら, Tobira ow Aketara), it’s never quite clear how much is actually happening within an objective reality, and how much only inside Miki’s mind. She seems to be called back to the past and a childhood memory that is both comforting and nostalgic, but somehow ominous. Miki often appears to be slightly behind those around her, giving vague answers to questions after a long pause, such as when she tells her colleagues that the reason she’s late back from lunch is that she was bitten by a wolf. Her colleagues are confused, but they take what says at face value and set about trying to treat the “wound” though they can see no evidence of a wolf bite at the spot Miki points out. 

Nevertheless this “wolf bite”, echoing an incident in her childhood, seems to awaken something within her that has a deeper connection to the natural world. But this abrupt change in her character seems to worry her live-in boyfriend who explains that wolves are extinct in contemporary Japan. He takes her to a psychiatrist, but even he seems to entertain the idea that she is actually possessed by a wolf spirit. Meanwhile, this apparent possession introduces her to a community of older women, apparent devotees of an ascetic cult who howl at the moon in praise of “Toya-sama”. This secret society seems to offer her a refuge, a place where she can be supported by those like herself while communing with the natural world.

Her boyfriend’s desire to “cure” her is then perhaps an attempt to force her back into a more urban modernity and conventional femininity. Nevertheless, following the advice from the psychiatrist is in reality little different to the ascetic practice of the Itako spirit mediums who hid themselves away in caves without food and sleep in order to invite the wolf spirit in. His own lingering fear of abandonment seems to play a part in his isolation of her which also turns violent, while she in turn struggles with the decision of whether to open the door to whatever is waiting on the other side or spend her life in the comparative safety of a closed-off space.

But letting the wolf in, or perhaps out, also seems to return Miki more fully to the world. Though she is hungrier, devouring chicken drumsticks, she speaks less haltingly and has more to say. She seems to move with purpose and is no longer restricted to repeating conversations she’s had with others. Werewolves, a mother explains to her young son, look like people but eat human hearts. Perhaps this is what Miki has always been, but it’s not clear whether this is a largely metaphorical desire for human connection or romantic domination or a literally bloody act of dismemberment as implied by the fate of her childhood dolls.

Shadowy presences seem to pound on the walls of Miki’s consciousness requesting entry, and the film appears to take its cues from J-horror in exploring the pressing anxiety of darkened corners and lonely places while leaning in to darkness inherent in nature and things too ancient for us to fully understand. Even so, there is something quite captivating about the embracing of traditional female dance that brings about Miki’s transformation, engendering a liberation from the constraints of contemporary civility and acceptance of her authentic self as reflected back at her. Dream or reality, Miki’s consciousness seems to have undergone a change that leaves her happier, less alone, and more present if in what may be a purely subjective reality having learned to embrace her inner wolf.


When You Open the Door screened as part of this year’s Fantasia International Film Festival.

Break Free (オドレ!ヤクザ, Yu Nakamoto, 2026) [Fantasia 2026]

The yakuza as an institution has long been on the decline in Japan, if not on the brink of extinction, thanks to the various anti-organised crime laws that have come into play over the last few decades. The laws are so stringent that members of the yakuza are unable to open bank accounts, rent property, or even take out a mobile phone contract, making their daily lives almost impossible. Meanwhile, dwindling manpower and changing times have meant that the yakuza cannot make a living from its traditional lines of business and has to look for other ways to earn its keep.

It’s this very problem that’s plaguing the heroes of Yu Nakamoto’s warmhearted comedy Break Free (オドレ!ヤクザ, Odore! Yakuza!) who are all doing various other unsatisfying jobs such as working as takeaway delivery drivers, shopping mall mascots, or running low level romance scams online which seems like a more innocent nod to the reality that the actual yakuza’s main new line of business is scamming the elderly and vulnerable. Then again, most of them are really a little young to have joined the yakuza in its heyday and the film really takes place within the context of more recent straight-to-video yakuza movies. Though it makes frequent nods to the darker side of yakuza life, often for comic effect such as the silhouette of Kunio’s (Akio Fujii) colleague Yama (Shigeo Osako) beating a guy with a baseball bat appearing behind him as he shoots a dance video, our heroes are mainly good guys and hapless fools whose problem is that they can’t let go of their old lives nor can they adapt to the modern society.

The inability to get a legitimate phone is perhaps one reason why 38-year-old Kunio is completely unaware of social media and apps like “TikTak” that are dominated by dance videos. Another thing that yakuza really can’t do any more is harm a member of the public, which is why one slimy guy in a suit thinks it’s a good idea to try and show off to his girlfriend by taunting a yakuza knowing he can’t do anything to him. But Kunio unexpectedly fights back through the medium of improvisational street dance and goes viral for his pains. The clan begin to spot a new, less problematic line of business, but the plan is once again complicated by the fact that yakuza are technically banned from having accounts on those kinds of services as well appearing on television. Kunio, while still a yakuza, has to cosplay as one by pretending that the yakuza thing is just a gimmick to give his dance videos more of an edge. 

Deciding to hone his skills, he ends up in a dance class surrounded by little kids and run by a woman who used to be a backup dancer, but decided she liked teaching more and opened a school. In a way, this echoes Kunio’s journey. Marie’s decision to quit being a backup dancer wasn’t a moment of defeat but its opposite as she actively chose the kind of life she thought would suit her better. Kunio’s friend has already left the yakuza because he wanted to get married but didn’t want his girlfriend to become a gangster’s wife. He is still subject to some of the restrictions placed on yakuza so his life isn’t easy, but he makes a good living with his yakiniku restaurant and is very happy in his marriage. 

The pun of the English-language title refers to Kunio’s efforts to “break free” of the moribund yakuza world through the power of break dancing which not only reconnects him with the unfulfilled desires of his late brother but offers him a path to discovering his true self as he realises that in dance he’s finally found something he actually wants to do. Thanks to an unexpectedly supportive new community around him from Marie at the dance school to a pint-sized aspiring idol and veteran influencer Ririko, Kunio begins to see new possibilities for the future, but the yakuza proves harder to escape than one might first expect. Whether he can ever really “break free” remains to be seen, but even while otherwise imprisoned, dance can be liberating. Trading heavily on the incongruities of its concept, the film is nevertheless warmhearted and sympathetic of its gangster heroes who find themselves cast adrift in a world that no longer has much place for them.


Break Free screened as part of this year’s Fantasia International Film Festival.

Trailer (no subtitles)

Kiss Me My Ghost Friend (啵me之我的青春住了鬼, Chen Ta-pu, 2026)

A young director finds himself unwittingingly bonding with a ghost after agreeing to stage a performance in a disused theatre in Chen Ta Pu’s romantic dramedy, Kiss Me, My Ghost Friend (啵me之我的青春住了鬼, bō me zhī wǒ de qīngchūn zhù le). The theatre in question turns out to be haunted, not just by its past and legacy but by young woman betrayed in love whose story dovetails neatly with the tale he has been asked to tell.

To that extent, Jim is also haunted though only by the spectre of his father, a once prominent playwright who has become a recluse. His Bo-Chuan was to be a new and revolutionary kind of theatre updating traditional opera for a new age. It was, however, never staged and following the death of his grandfather, Jim’s mother wants to have the ASI theatre torn down. Jim is less than keen on accepting the job, in part because he is embarrassed by his privilege and prefers to keep the fact that he has a financial safety net in coming from a wealthy and prominent family secret, and because he does not really want to reckon with his family legacy.

The irony is that Jim’s previous show was an interactive ghost experience set in a disused building. Unfortunately, it failed to find an audience and the last performance had to be cancelled. After a year with no success, Jim’s theatre troupe is forced to disband and he’s dumped by his girlfriend, formerly the troupe’s lead actress. He wanted to explore the meaning of life through a ghost story, but laments that the audience just wanted entertainment. He has no idea that Shi is a ghost and originally believes her to be the assistant managing the theatre, but it’s true enough that she has a connection to the story of Bo-Chuan, not just in her involvement with the original production but the ways in which it mirrors her own life as a woman left in limbo, haunted by the spectre of lost love.

Bo-Chuan too waited 18 years for the man she loved to return, though while alive Shi had her doubts about the story. She thought this tale of love and sacrifice was too old-fashioned and bound to destructive patriarchal mores. If it were her, she says, she’d spend the 18 years looking for value in her life rather than waiting around for man. She and Jim’s father decide to change the end of the play, but still, Shi became a lonely ghost trapped in the theatre that itself became a relic of the past. Though she can no longer play a leading role, helping Jim stage another Bo-chuan with an ending of his own allows her to restore the theatre to what it once was, purifying it of its evil spirits and overcoming her romantic trauma.

Jim too gets a second chance at his artistic career having previously decided to give up the theatre after his repeated failures. Though a potential romance with Shi never gains traction, she does however lead him towards artistic fulfilment in the acceptance of his legacy as his father’s son as they finish the play together. The other members of Jim’s troupe too all come to accept Shi even after realising that she is a ghost. They too had all be financially inconvenienced by Jim’s failure, though unlike his girlfriend his troupe chose to stand by him and return for this gig in an apparently haunted theatre which nevertheless offers huge financial rewards. Unlike Bo-chuan, Ying Ying wouldn’t wait, but her place is quickly taken by Shi who patiently teaches Jim’s actors how to work with this more classical material. Though Jim’s mother may want to tear the theatre down because it reminds her of a past she’d rather forget and symbolises her guilt, in the end it becomes a place of healing that allows all to move on from the past while giving Jim’s theatre troupe a new place to belong along with a brighter artistic future rooted firmly in the past.


Kiss Me My Ghost Friend screens as part of this year’s New York Asian Film Festival.

Trailer (Traditional Chinese / English subtitles)

Street Kingdom (ストリート・キングダム 自分の音を鳴らせ, Tomorowo Taguchi, 2026)

Tomorowo Taguchi is probably best known to international audiences for his starring role in Tetsuo the Iron Man, but he started his career as an illustrator and theatre actor while also active in Japan’s underground punk music scene as a member of the band Bachikaburi. For the last few decades, he’s been a fairly ubiquitous presence in mainstream Japanese films as a jobbing actor turning up in small supporting roles in all sorts of unexpected places, but Street Kingdom (ストリート・キングダム 自分の音を鳴らせ, Street Kingdom: Jibun no Oto wo Narase) is a look back to the early years of the punk movement and the creation of Telegraph Records.

Scripted by Kankuro Kudo, most of the names in the film have been slightly altered to reflect the fictionalisation of the narrative and so we follow Yuichi Hibiki (based on Yuichi Jibiki and played by Kazunobu Mineta), a struggling photographer who feels lost in an increasingly consumerist Japan. Like many of his generation, he spent his formative years in the student movement and is looking for a way to fill that void following the movement’s collapse in the wake of the Asama-sanso Incident. Japan’s economy had improved quite markedly by then and many former student protesters simply moved on into more mainstream lives as regular salaryman men and women, much as Yuichi’s friend has done by joining a record label and becoming obsessed with Pink Lady, the epitome of the disposable contemporary pop music topping the charts and making them money. Inspired by Yuichi, the friend later also jacks in his corporate career and becomes a punk rocker because he too discovers he wants more than the emptiness of a salaryman existence.

After a trip back to his family pig farm, Yuichi’s epiphany comes after hearing the Sex Pistols on the radio, though he is dismayed to find out that they have already broken up. Nevertheless, he determines to go Tokyo and find the real Japanese punk as opposed to that imported from New York or London. It’s inside this world that finds freedom outside of the Japanese mainstream as an independent artist, vowing to create a Street Kingdom with Momo (Ryuya Wakaba), the lead singer of influential band Tokage, and zine publisher Sachi (Riho Yoshioka). An out-of-touch journalist at one point tries to offer them expensive champagne and shames the band members for still living at home with their parents, and there is something a little bit incongruous about Momo’s lovely mother asking him what he wants for his tea before he goes off to play one of his anarchic gigs. But in another way, this is exactly the essence of punk in the sense of domesticity, friendships and solidarity that existed between the members of this community.

It all only begins to go wrong when the music labels start getting involved and commercial decisions conflict with artistic ones. Yuichi becomes a de facto manger because he’s a “decent” sort, which is to say he’s a bit of a square existing to one side of the movement which is a designation he resents at times, but also allows him a more privileged position of guiding it. He’s the one who advises they quit on a high after their “Tokyo Rockers” multi-band tour threatens to get too big and provoke rivalries and discord in what had been a fairly non-competitive, collegiate scene. He also helps Momo overcome some of his artistic conflicts by starting a parallel indie label so they can release songs the label rejects, such a nonsense tune about fish and pollution that the suits deem “too political”. What he can’t fully help with, however, is Momo’s descent into depression and drug abuse when the label pushes the band into debt, refuses to help financially after their band members are involved in a crash while on tour, and finally suggests they were only really interested in Momo as a potential solo artist doing more mainstream pop. Nevertheless, it’s Yuich’s friendly intervention encouraging Momo to get his act together that finally convinces him that something has to change.

To that extent, the film may be a fairly sanitised and nostalgic exploration of the director’s youth, but it’s also an advocation for dancing to one’s own tune which, it argues, has not necessarily become any easier in an age when anyone has access to the tools to become an artist. The punk spirit lives on in those who are prepared to be fully themselves in a culture that can be oppressively conformist and as the film would have it, the greatest legacy of the punk rock era was the sense of community between young people who wanted to build their own utopia which is something that in itself will never die.


Street Kingdom screens as part of this year’s New York Asian Film Festival.

Trailer (English subtitles)

The Brightest Sun (時には懺悔を, Tetsuya Nakashima, 2025)

Tetsuya Nakashima’s more recent films have often dealt with more controversial subjects. His latest, Brightest Sun 時には懺悔を, Toki ni wa Zange wo), adapted from the novel by Bunzo Uchiumi and delayed from last year due to allegations made by an actress on World of Kanako that nude footage was used without her consent, is not so much a film about disability as the taboo of parental selfishness or a sense of disconnection from one’s biological children.

Nevertheless, the way the film approaches it subject matter may seem insensitive to some in that it often reduces the existence of disabled children to a burden that must be born by someone and preferably by a biological parent. Though rookie detective Satoko (Hikari Mitsushima) raises the issue of the child’s subjectivity and quality of life, others struggle to see him as anything more than an object for which someone must accept responsibility. This is doubly true for her reluctant partner, Satake (Hidetoshi Nishijima), who has taken to drink and is riddled with guilt over his ambivalent feelings regarding his own disabled son who has since passed away. His wife (Ko Shibasaki) has fallen into depression and is living in a psychiatric facility while he is seemingly incapable of caring for their teenage daughter who has become resentful of both parents, feeling as if they were unable to care for her because all their attention went to her brother while she too now feels guilty that she did so little for him and left his care entirely to her mother.

At times, the film is critical of this tendency to force women to accept full responsibility for childcare while men remain otherwise absent from the domestic space, but seems to walk this back in the closing moments. In any case, Satake’s rejection of his son is mirrored in that of Tamie’s (Haru Kuroki) husband who openly declares that it would have been better if Taku had not been born, blaming Tamie for giving birth to a disabled child. His embarrassment makes plain a lingering stigma towards disability or difference in the wider society, as if having a child he sees as imperfect reflects badly on him personally. Tamie, meanwhile, seems as if she may have been suffering from a kind of post-natal depression and is clearly affected by her husband’s resentment along with her own inability to bond with the baby. Though she witnesses her child being kidnapped, she does nothing to stop it with implication being that perhaps she is glad to be relieved of the burden. 

Satoko too has become estranged from her young daughter who struggles with the trauma of witnessing her stab her abusive husband. The implication is that this resentment is born of having seen through her mother and realised that she did not do this out of a desire to protect her, but merely out of selfish rage. The fact is that her desire to protect Shin/Taku is a displacement activity. Everyone’s actions are to one extent or another a vicarious attempt to atone for something they are otherwise unable to address in their own lives. 

This appears to have been true for the man whose murder they are supposed to be investigating, Yonemoto (Jiro Sato), who is said to have been the worst of the worst. Someone who really was “better of dead” as Satoko puts it, though we never really find out why exactly everyone had such a low opinion of him and the detective company itself does not actually seem as sleazy as one might expect. Satake suspects he may have planned to blackmail Tamie, who has since remarried and has two step-children, over the discovery of her son, but in fact he was apparently quite moved by the tender care the kidnapper provided to Shin/Taku all these years and though knowing that he should turn him in, wanted to ensure the child would continue to be well cared for. 

This is apparently where Yonemoto found the redemption centred in the Japanese title and explained in an opening title card. Satake similarly is forced to face his complicated emotions towards his son and family, trying to do the best for Shin/Taku as means of assuaging his guilt much as Satoko shifts her maternal anxiety onto Tamie. The film’s conclusion seems to undercut the idea presented by the policeman that blood ties may not be that important, having witnessed the care and devotion the kidnapper showed to a child that was not his by blood and had complex needs, in its concerted efforts to force Tamie to accept her maternity. Nevertheless, the film does its best to extend sympathy and understanding to all, suggesting that the best thing to do in this situation might have been to leave well alone, but for various reasons that won’t be possible. Opting for a noirish aesthetic, Nakashima abandons his pop aesthetics for something a little more subdued but maintains his fast-paced editing style, drip-feeding us the mystery while pondering the nature of the bonds between parents and their children.


The Brightest Sun screens as part of this year’s New York Asian Film Festival.

Trailer (no subtitles)

Bird of Paradise (媽樣年華, Wu Chui-yi, 2026)

Feeling trapped in her marriage to a dull and patriarchal husband, a middle-aged woman finds a new lease on life after taking up pole dancing in Wu Chui-yi’s lighthearted drama Bird of Paradise (媽樣年華). Having lived only for her husband and son, Yeun begins to crave self-fulfilment, yet knows that her new hobby won’t go down too well with her family and is forced to keep it a secret even as her newfound confidence begins to grow.

After realising she’s actually taking the same class as her teenage son’s crush Shan, Yuen ends up using a different name at the studio further compounding the fracturing of her identity and echoing her assertion that pole dancing allowed to see another version of herself that was beautiful, amazing, and free. Ironically, Shan seems to have a lot of the confidence that Yuen has lost and perhaps bears out the advice she receives from a supportive shop assistant that the projection of beauty is largely a matter of conviction. Believe yourself to be beautiful, and others will too. 

Her husband Ming-lam, however, who happens to be Shan’s high school teacher, constantly tries to suppress the new version of herself that she’s becoming. He complains that she’s getting “further and further out of line” by coming home later in the evenings, dismissively telling her that if she wants to gossip, play mahjong, or talk K-dramas with her friends she can do that in the afternoons. Yuen’s making the “wrong” breakfast and going out of sync with the meal calendar seems to signal the beginning of her rebellion as she begins to look for new sources of fulfilment when Ming-lam rejects unscheduled intimacy and otherwise treats her as little more than a glorified housekeeper. Despite criticising her for neglecting her household duties, he later suggests her life is easy with only the need to put a cloth round every now and then as he otherwise provides her with a materially comfortable life while entirely rejecting her emotional needs.

At the school too, Ming-lam is a strict disciplinarian who runs the morning outfit patrol and tells the children off for minor uniform infractions while making his son pretend they aren’t related. During their careers survey, Shan quips that her plan is to marry a wealthy man, and Ming-lam criticises her for a lack of ambition in wanting such an “empty and meaningless” life despite being exactly the one to which he’s condemned his wife not entirely to her will. Shan later turns this criticism back on him, telling Yuen that his need for control over his students is probably a means of compensating for a dull life that he internally resents. 

Yet Ming-lam is really just a depressing embodiment of an outdated idea of masculinity and an obsession with middle-class properness and respectability. He tells Yuen he just wants her to be a “normal wife”, which is to say subservient to him and confined within the domestic space. He genuinely thinks he’s helping his pupils by keeping on the straight and narrow without considering that he’s stifling their the creativity and individuality. When Shan practices her pole dance at school, he sees it only and lewd and bans it in part for “giving the boys dirty thoughts.” He can’t see that Shan dances for herself and resents Yuen’s growing confidence along with her desire for an identity outside of wife and mother. 

Yuen’s free-spirited mother Feng Mei too decides to look for fulfilment alone rather than relying on a man to accompany her to fulfil her late husband’s wish to take her up in a hot air balloon. Though Ming-lam’s sudden change of heart may seems improbable, Yuen’s transformation also reminds him of the romantic young man he once was and that his wife’s happiness is the most important thing. It is not for him to decide what sort of happiness she might want, but only to support her in chasing it. Yuen’s newfound self-confidence begins to improve the world around her, making her home a brighter, airier space rather than one ruled by oppressive routine and encouraging others to be more of themselves too rather than being confined by social expectation or the desires of others.


Bird of Paradise screens as part of this year’s New York Asian Film Festival.

Trailer (Traditional Chinese / English subtitles)

Ip Man: Kung Fu Legend (宗师叶问2, Li Liming, 2026)

Ip Man returns once again to fight injustice in colonial Hong Kong as a corrupt fixer tries to intimidate the local Martial Arts Society out of its headquarters in order to open a Western-style boxing gym. Ip Man: Kung Fu Legend (宗师叶问2, zōngshī Yè Wèn) is technically a sequel to 2019’s Ip Man: Kung Fu Master, though only in that it is directed by Li Liming and stars Dennis To Yu-Hang in the title role.

This outing for the folklore hero has a little more story to it than most as Ip Man returns to Hong Kong from Foshan to open a martial arts school to find himself a little less than welcome given that interest is martial arts is declining, schools have closed, and the last thing many of those remaining want is more competition. In order to be accepted by the local Martial Arts Society, Ip Man has to pass three trials, though it’s clear the current head, Hong, has begun to veer from the path of righteousness as he deliberately makes things difficult for Ip Man and even tries to cheat before the trial is interrupted by the arrival of the real villain, Pike, a corrupt British businessman valued by the colonial authorities who are dependent on his money to fund their election campaigns. 

Thus the enemies Ip Man is fighting are the forces of imperialism and capitalism as represented by Pike. Realising that they share a common enemy, Hong eventually teams up with Ip Man to defend the dock workers led by Ip Man’s friend Jinsong whose livelihoods are under threat if Pike manages to take over the port. Martial artists and workers are the foundation of the Chinese people, Hong intones while pledging to reject foreign influence in fear that allowing the British in will only lead to a total takeover. His underling, Yihu, meanwhile feels differently and tries to persuade Hong to work with the British believing that he would still be able to maintain management of the Zhonghua building. The fact is that the society is broke and can no longer support its members. Yihu’s mother is seriously ill and needs expensive medical treatment that the society can no longer fund while he also feels resentful and under valued by Hong after being passed over for promotions and generally ignored.

Yihu’s resentment and sense of inferiority make him the perfect target for seduction by Pike after which he undergoes a total personality transformation in becoming a rather flamboyant gangster with a fashionable haircut and sunglasses which generally seem to be used as a symbol of evil within the film. A crazed henchman sent after Ip Man who uses meat hooks as weapons also wears distinctive sunglasses and is driven by greed rather than righteousness. He tells Pike that his initial investment only covers knocking off Ip Man, which he has so far failed to do, and that taking out Yihu once he’s served his purpose is going to cost extra. 

Nevertheless Pike seems to have half the police station under his thumb though we only ever see Chinese officers. Though the first is pragmatic, he also tries to mitigate Pike’s influence while female officer Mei attempts to directly oppose it even while told that Pike is effectively above the law. She is also battling entrenched sexism as her superior advises her going against Pike might be doubly dangerous as there are already those who do not like the idea of women serving in the police force and may use her obstinacy as a reason why they shouldn’t. The martial arts world, by contrast, is depicted as much more egalitarian with the first of the masters Ip Man is asked to fight a woman skilled in unarmed combat. Likewise, when Ip Man eventually opens his school, two little girls excitedly ask to join so that they too can protect their community with their fists if necessary. 

IP Man subversively suggests that one might have to use their fists for justice. But at the same time, there is an awkwardness involved in that Mei and the police force that has resisted corruption become justice’s arbiters at the same time as she commits what might actually be an extrajudicial execution even if in self-defence. Nevertheless, the encroaching forces of capitalist imperialism have been beaten back with Ip Man installed as the leader of the Martial Arts Society. Though the film’s most impressive action scene may be its first as Ip Man faces off against a female master while trying to keep a candle alight, its does its best to live up to the expectations of its name while paying homage to classic fights from the franchise’s history.


Ip Man: Kung Fu Legend is released on Digital, 4K Ultra HD, Blu-ray & DVD July 14 courtesy of Well Go USA.

Trailer (English subtitles)

Dear You (给阿嬷的情书, Lan Hongchun, 2026)

Flat broke and under pressure from a loan shark, Hiou-u (Zheng Runqi) decides there’s only one thing to do. Track down his no-good grandpa who apparently abandoned the family and became rich in Thailand to demand his share of the inheritance. Of course, by the end of the film, he’ll have realised the error of his ways and grown up a little, much like the protagonist of Thai megahit How To Make Millions Before Grandma Dies, by which Lan Hongchun’s tear-jerking melodrama Dear You (给阿嬷的情书, Gěi Āmà de qíngshū) is clearly inspired. It even features Usha Seamkhum in a small role as the older Lamgi at the film’s conclusion. 

Shot almost entirely in Teochew, the film is, in other ways, a tale of distance and diaspora which in some ways suggests that a Chinese citizen never really leaves “China” but continues to exist within it even while abroad. Though most of the film takes place in Thailand, it is largely unconcerned with the political and social situation of the nation in the mid-1950s or with the wider geopolitical realities of the era. Remaining largely within the Teochew community, it does not really explore the complicated position of the Chinese community in Thai society either, preferring to focus on their poverty and rootless as the source of their marginalisation. After eloping with a young woman from a wealthy family, Den Bhagseng (Wang Yantong) is forced to flee leaving his three children behind to avoid being drafted into the KMT during the Chinese Civil War. After arriving in Thailand he is unable to return home firstly because of the difficulty of doing so once the Communist regime gained power, though the film also skirts around this, and secondly because he sends almost of all the money back to his wife Sogriu (Wu Shaoqing) meaning he never manages to save enough for his return passage.

The film largely revolves around the qiaopi remittances, letters sent home to family declaring that the sender was safe and often including money. Aside from the sentimental dimension, these letters also reinforce the diaspora community’s ties to the Mainland and the inclusion of several real letters at the film’s conclusion seems intended to act as a mild suggestion that perhaps those living abroad could also send more of their money home, while the film’s themes of yearning and homesickness also seem primed to encourage those living away to return or at least put in a call to their loved ones before it’s too late.

But on the other hand, the fact that the letters were never written by Bhagseng, as he was largely illiterate, but firstly by a series of scribes and then by a heartbroken Lamgi who pens the heart wrenchingly romantic verses that bring so much comfort to Sogriu adds a note of poignancy while perhaps undercutting their sincerity. That these are, in effect, a series of love letters exchanged between two women, though mediated through the absent figure of a man, leads the film an unexpectedly queer undertone complimenting the accompanying messages of female solidarity. Though Sogriu originally harbours resentment towards Lamgi mistakenly believing her to have been Bhagseng’s mistress, she later gains respect for realising not only all that she did for them but they way in which she continued to honour Bhagseng’s memory.

Once of the reasons that the family had believed Bangseng had become rich was that there were several schools with his name on them, leading them to conclude he had sponsored them in some way. This turns out not to be case, but was rather a kind of tribute to his role within the local community having convinced Lamgi to allow a Chinese school to operate within her inn during a time in which the language was actively suppressed. Bangseng had shouted at her, pointing out that these children will be condemned to a life of poverty and exploitation if they, like him, cannot read and write. He also argues that without knowing how to read, write, and speak Chinese, they will lose their cultural roots and connection with the Mainland. This seems to already be true of Lamgi who did not herself know how to read Chinese and felt disconnected from Chinese culture having grown up in Thailand. After learning with the children at the inn, the necessity of writing the letters also encourages Lamgi to become fully literate. The ability to read and write not only allows her to earn an income as a single woman by running her own business and later becoming a teacher, but also reinforces her Chinese roots and sense of cultural identity. 

While it therefore presents a bittersweet tale of a love lost and then regained when the truth is revealed, the film also subtly issues a message to the diaspora community about the importance of their links to the greater Chinese community and responsibility towards the Mainland. Repeated references are made to the need to support each other in a foreign land with the Teochew community determined to protect each other against an often hostile environment in which they face exploitation and discrimination, while Lamgi’s sense of responsibility toward Sogriu could also be seen the same way as she willingly takes on the need to provide for Bangsen’s family despite her unrequited feelings for him. Nevertheless, what the film offers most is a sense of catharsis in its tear-jerking tale of young lovers separated by forces outside their control and symbolically reunited through the emotional truths contained within the letters.


Trailer (English / Simplified Chinese subtitles)