Incomplete Reviews

Author: Ajay Rahul

Thug Life (2025): 5 Things That Went Wrong

Thug Life (2025) arrived on the heels of enormous hype — fuelled by a glittering announcement trailer, back-2-back promotional appearances by its stars all over the country, controversies over whether Kannada language came from Tamil and a debate over whether Dhee’s or Chinmayi’s rendition of “Mutha Mazhai” was superior.

Early footage hinted at a gripping father–son drama, but the film’s momentum sputtered badly once the story shifted to present day.

A still from Thug Life (2025), Silambarasan (Left) and Kamal Haasan (Right)

1. Miscast or Misused Hero

In the flashback sequences, Rangaraja Sakthivel (played by Kamal Haasan) makes a stylish, almost mythic entrance — black‐and‐white cinematography, cool shades, top notch de-aging and a confident bearing that recall his unforgettable truth‐to‐power performance in Nayakan (1987). Yet once the palette shifts to colour, this older Sakthivel speaks and behaves like a frail elder.

At the start, we meet Sakthivel as an aging syndicate boss who boasts that he doesn’t just survive death — he defeats it every time. After supposedly spending less than two years training in Nepal, after the betrayal — after the fall from the cliff with bullet in his body, he returns, having mastered martial arts in his twilight years and immediately dispatches one underling after another in brutal hand‐to‐hand combat. Seeing a septuagenarian transform overnight into a martial‐arts prodigy feels wildly implausible — and, for today’s audiences, downright cringe. A similar disconnect felt in Indian 2 (2024).

2. Awkward Subplot with Indhrani

When Sakthivel’s search for his found-son Amaran’s missing sister leads him to a brothel, the introduction of Indhrani (played by Trisha Krishnan), a strip‐dance performer, should have added emotional depth or suspense. Instead, it lands flat — and frankly awkwardly — because the film does not clarify whether Indhrani is the missing sister in the beginning; this red herring does not fit well. That narrative ambiguity might have worked if handled with subtlety, but here it only jolts the audience out of the story. For a brief moment, the real sister Chandra (played by Aishwarya Lekshmi) appears on screen — and her presence instantly outshines the awkward stripper–turned–love interest for Father and stepson.

Another still from Thug Life (2025), Kamal Haasan

3. Green‐Screen Overuse

After the triumphant, practical‐effects mastery of Vikram (2022) and reuniting with director Mani Ratnam after nearly four decades, fans of three generations expected nothing less than visual cinematic fireworks. Instead, many set‐pieces — most glaringly Sakthivel’s pre-intermission showdown in Nepal — are undermined by crude green‐screen backdrops. Rather than immersive action, viewers get a surreal, almost cartoonish tableau that betrays the film’s serious tone.

4. Disconnected Musical Score

A.R. Rahman’s compositions remain among Indian cinema’s greatest assets, but here his songs feel shoehorned in and at odds with the drama on‐screen. The background score often swells or cuts abruptly, mismatching the narrative’s emotional beats. And though the standalone tracks (“Mutha Mazhai” included) had chart‐topping potential, they rarely integrate organically into the film’s flow.

5. Underwhelming Antagonist Arc

Another huge disappointment is from Silambarasan TR; he played Ethi in Chekka Chivantha Vaanam (2018) has more reasons to turn against his own brothers than Amaran turning against Sakthivel in Thug Life (2025). His efforts including growing long hair does not elevate nothing in the film. His arc, betrayal against his father, taking over the clan lack the narrative weight needed to justify the family‐saga stakes, making his eventual showdown feel perfunctory.

Another still from Thug Life (2025), Silambarasan (Left) and Kamal Haasan (Right)

Finally:

Thug Life (2025) pinballs between high ambitions — a generational reunion of legends, a father–son epic, jaw-dropping stunts — and disappointing execution: erratic pacing, uneven sub genres, overused digital effects, underused cast and a score that never quite syncs.

It is easy to compare the characters of Thug Life (2025) with Chekka Chivantha Vaanam (2018). Watching Thug Life will make us think, do we still want to watch new films rather than revisiting old classics, as we have enough of films already to watch for the rest of our lives?

In Short:

Thug Life (2025) had the potential to be a new classic; instead, it feels like a cautionary tale of dangling promise.

June 11, 2025
The Second Act (2024) Review: An Inception-Level Parody of AI, Cinema, and Itself

Rating 3/5

A movie shows movie stars trying to be a part of a movie — through a movie.

Léa Seydoux (left) as Florence and Raphaël Quenard (right) as Willy from “The Second Act (2024)”

Quentin Dupieux, known for his signature brand of quirky, surreal humour, minimalist casts, and theatrical staging, returns with another delightfully absurd meta-film. In “The Second Act” (French titled: Le Deuxième Acte), Quentin Dupieux weaves two layered narratives — one about actors making a film, and the other exploring the off-screen lives of those same actors, who are also characters within the film itself.

The plot is deliberately layered and chaotic — probably on purpose. Two main storylines unfold simultaneously, folded into each other like a cinematic mille-feuille. It’s the kind of setup were keeping track of what’s “real” and what’s “in-film” is both part of the confusion and the fun.

Léa Seydoux plays an actress named Florence, who, within the film, is playing a character in a movie directed by Artificial Intelligence. Her in-film character is a woman hopelessly in love with a “man”, played by David; Florence, struggles to keep her acting career. David, also an actor within the AI-generated movie, is played by Louis Garrel. Louis carries both calm and composed yet always having a fear of being politically correct roles. Florence’s character is obsessive to the point of emotional suffocation — checking in on her “boyfriend” every 30 minutes. But the “man” is not attracted to her, doesn’t know how to confront her directly. So, he recruits his friend to intervene — played by Willy (who is played by Raphaël Quenard). The friend character is confused: why would his friend push away someone so in love with him? His skepticism builds into curiosity, and eventually, after some back and forth, he agrees to meet the girl.

Meanwhile, the girl brings along her “father” — a talkative banker, played by Guillaume. But Guillaume is also a fictional actor inside the larger narrative, played by Vincent Lindon. And mid-shoot, Guillaume gets offered a role in a Paul Thomas Anderson film — creating yet another meta-layer within the story. So, now we’re watching actors playing actors playing characters in a film directed by AI, with one of them being poached for another movie, all within a film.

Louis Garrel as David from “The Second Act (2024)”

What happens when all four characters meet? What happens when the actors playing these characters start bleeding into their roles, and their roles bleed into them? How the actors suffer from their own acting life and put up with other actors but aiming to finish playing their characters. That is all about of “The Second Act”.

Each of the lead actors takes on two personas, and they switch between them seamlessly and convincingly. The entire story takes place over the course of a single day, and within just a few hours. The costumes and makeup stay the same, the personalities shift quickly. The transitions aren’t there to trick the viewer or showcase cleverness — they’re there to highlight process. In a way, it feels almost like a documentary on performance.

Unlike most modern satires that lean into jittery handheld camera work and snap zooms (like from “In the Loop” or “Succession”), Dupieux stays true to his style. He uses clean, composed shots — often dolly-based — that give a strangely polished clarity to the chaos unfolding onscreen. It adds to the surrealism, creating the feeling that everything is controlled, even when what we’re watching feels entirely unhinged.

It may feel a bit confusing at first — since the first act only unfolds during the final act of “The Second Act”. The film opens with a waiter unlocking a café called “Le Deuxième Acte”, setting the stage in a literal sense. The location, like the script, is minimal yet loaded. The conversation-heavy satire unfolds within that confined space, as we’re gradually pulled into the absurdities of both the story and the filmmaking process itself. The dialogue is dense and layered — not necessarily philosophical or logical, but more about exposing the emotional chaos of each character — in a Quentin Dupieux’s humour.

Léa Seydoux (left) as Florence and Vincent Lindon (right) as Guillaume from “The Second Act (2024)”

What’s more fascinating is how different each actor is from the character they’re playing within the film. For instance, Guillaume, the character, is homophobic. But Vincent Lindon’s in-film actor reveals that he’s gay — adding tension between performance and identity, and again showing how messy and performative “truth” can be when filtered through art.

The film shows that AI has the potential in generating a film on its own, hires people, give the instructions and make decisions to cut actor’s fees because of their inabilities and faults. We are not too far away to this idea with rapid evolution of Generative AI (GenAI), Large Language Models (LLMs) and Agentic AIs. One of the most powerful scenes is subtle but chilling. The AI director refuses to accept feedback from the actors — no matter how sincere or insightful; whether the suggestions were good or bad, whether it’s a compliment or a doubt, the AI simply ignores it. Once the system has authority, it shuts out human emotion entirely. That’s when the satire hits hardest — not through slapstick or one-liners, but through a quiet reminder of what the industry might look like if AI becomes the ultimate auteur.

“The Second Act” is messy, brilliant, confusing, and strangely prophetic. It may not make you laugh out loud, but it will absolutely make you think twice about what comes after the first act. The humour maybe dry, self-aware, and always one step ahead. And while it might not be for everyone, it is unmistakably a Quentin Dupieux experience.

April 26, 2025
The Return (2024) Review: A Minimalistic Adaptation of a Mythical Journey

Rating: 3/5

This adaptation is more of a meditative experience—a grounded, realistic take on Odysseus’s return from Troy, far removed from the spectacle and fantasy. It’s not a film that seeks to impress with action or grandeur but rather reflects on time, loss, and the fragility of homecoming.

Directed by Uberto Pasolini, and starring Ralph Fiennes and Juliette Binoche as the king and queen of Ithaca, “The Return” doesn’t aim to surprise with plot twists. After all, this is a story that has been told countless times on the big screen and stage. Maybe that is exactly the challenge here—how do you retell a mythical story that everyone knows and still make it feel fresh and meaningful? Pasolini’s answer is to strip it back. No grand entrances. No gods. No monsters. Just man, memory, and the weight of time.

The story begins after the Greeks have won the Trojan War. Odysseus returns home to Ithaca decades later, unrecognizable and aged, both physically and spiritually. He is still a soldier, but no longer the man who left. He is a man who has lost and endured, and now must find his purpose again. For most of the island, he’s long dead, a ghost beneath the waves. But his wife, Penelope, has been fighting her own silent war for years, even after the war in Troy ended—a war of patience, loneliness, and quiet resilience. She has been holding the kingdom together while surrounded by men who want to take what little remains.

Everyone around her, including her own son, urges her to move on and choose a new king to marry from among the Suitors—men who circle her like vultures, each with their own ambition and agenda. They are less interested in love and more concerned with legacy, power, and on Penelope. And yet, she waits. Not because she’s certain Odysseus is alive, but because her faith is stronger than logic. She waits, hoping, resisting.

“The Return” is about what happens when Odysseus finally reappears. How does he confront a home that is no longer his in the way he remembers? A home in ruins, emotionally and morally. Can he reclaim not just his throne, but the trust of his people and the bond with his wife and son, who have all changed in his absence?

Ralph Fiennes and Juliette Binoche carry the film with quiet intensity, making us feel as though we’re watching the real Odysseus and Penelope. They settle effortlessly into their roles. Ralph, with his solid build for his age and weathered expression, perfectly embodies an older, war-worn Odysseus. It’s a tailor-made role that allows his subtlety to shine without needing grand gestures or loud declarations. Juliette, on the other hand, matches him in restraint. Her eyes speak volumes, even though her lines are few. There’s a quiet power in her presence, and she communicates so much with silence. Another standout is Marwan Kenzari as Antinous. His performance is equally nuanced, and he delivers with the same controlled strength as the English Patient pair, adding yet another layer of subtlety to the film.

One of the most striking aspects of the film is the camera work. Pasolini chooses to shoot characters up close—tight frames on weathered faces, tired eyes, and restrained emotions. It’s an unusual choice for a historical drama, where the tendency is to lean into wide, sweeping visuals. Here, the camera doesn’t care about grandeur—it focuses on truth, discomfort, and intimacy. These characters aren’t ancient gods or statues—they’re people worn down by time, grief, and loss. Still, the emotions are not overplayed. They remain grounded, and for some, maybe too grounded. That may be appealing to some, appalling to others.

The film is remarkably minimalistic. No CGI monsters. No elaborate fantasy elements. Just real locations, real textures, and a rawness that strips the myth down to its human core. The absence of spectacle is what makes the film unique. The minimalism in “The Return” comes through in every aspect of its production—fewer characters, limited set-pieces, and authentic settings that ground the story in something tangible. The entire film carries the pacing and aspect ratio of a neatly crafted high-budget Indie film.

While this grounded approach is admirable and adds authenticity, the emotional weight doesn’t always translate fully to the audience. That’s mostly due to the very same groundedness. Key moments—like when the old nurse realises the king has finally returned, or when the queen instructs her son to hand the bow to his father—are shot with poetic care. The lighting is soft, the staging is quiet, and the emotions are present, but they pass by too quickly. These are scenes that should have hit harder, that carried deep narrative weight, but they feel like gentle ripples instead of waves. Films of this kind often risk becoming too quiet, too introspective, and can feel less accessible to broader audiences. Yet, despite this, “The Return” still manages to hold attention—even if only at a low, steady throttle.

The score is subdued, and rightly so. This isn’t a sweeping, cinematic adventure. The music simply supports the emotions when needed, stepping aside when the atmosphere and the performances speak louder. It appears when it needs to, and disappears when it doesn’t—never overstaying its welcome or trying to manipulate the audience. Maybe Christopher Nolan’s upcoming Odyssey will offer a more mainstream, high-concept version of the same myth, packed with spectacle and wide appeal. But “The Return” gives us something else. It offers a slow, patient, and reflective look at a man trying to return—not just to a place, but to a version of himself that may no longer exist.

This isn’t for everyone. It’s not designed to be. But for those who appreciate quiet, grounded cinema that respects its source material while daring to reimagine it through a more human lens, “The Return” is a deeply rewarding experience.

April 16, 2025
Maaveeran (2023): Brilliant writing in a recent Tamil mainstream

Two men. Two voices. One driven by fear, the other by frustration. Both resisting. Both being led to a place they refuse to go—who reached where?

Our protagonist in this film is a coward—one who avoids confrontation at all costs, even when he is the victim or when his mother and sister face difficult situations, including harassment. Apart from his skill of being a coward 24/7, he is a comic artist, sketching for a daily magazine, struggling to find a permanent job. He needs to feed himself and two more mouths at home.

Sathya (played by Sivakarthikeyan) creates a fictional world for newspaper column where his sketched protagonist is everything he is not—a great warrior, a fearless leader who stands against the evil, fights for his own people, and embraces the courage to die for his land and for his community. An alter ego of Sathya emerges naturally and unintentionally as he sketches—only for daily wages. A reflection of the man he never wishes and wants to be, yet he showcases this better version of himself to the world through art. Only his love interest notices it and motivates him to become one. But did he become one?

Later, our cowardly protagonist is forced to confront his fate after an accident—when he decides to take his own life; he begins hearing a strange voice, the voice saves him from suicide, starts whispering instructions about the near future only in Sathya’s ears.

Fear consumes Sathya. Why him? Why this voice? He can’t stop questioning it. He just wants the voice to stop. But then, the voice tells him something terrifying—he is destined to sacrifice his life for his people. Now, Sathya doesn’t just want the voice to stop; he wants to survive.

A voice that saved him from death can lead him to die?

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A still from “Maaveeran” (2023)

The most fascinating detail in this story is that, just like the protagonist, the antagonist hears a voice too. Unlike Sathya, the villain knows who the voice belongs to and where it comes from—yet at some point, it becomes overwhelming for him. The one thing the hero and the villain have in common is neither fully understands the advantage the voice holds.

The hero’s battle with the voice occupies most of the film’s runtime, intertwined with a subplot of political corruption—housing developments forcing people out of their native lands, relocating them to poorly built high-rises, only to reveal that the structures are as fragile as a child’s Lego tower.

But the question remains: Is Sathya truly a warrior if he simply follows the voice’s commands, even if he gives his life for people he once never cared for? Or is real strength found in questioning it, in fighting against it until he understands why it led him here? Only when he breaks free from his selfishness, his cowardice, his unwillingness to stand for something greater, does he become what his mother always wished for—a brave young man. Only then does he prove to his sister that he can fight for her, protect her—not just for them, but for their community, for those who have no one else to fight for them.

Before the third act, both the protagonist and the antagonist lose their voices. One can’t bear the continuous humiliation of being stripped of his power in front of his employees. The other? Sathya still wants to stay selfish, still wants to care about no one but himself. And yet, despite their resistance, they both lose their hearing. The voices fall silent.

Both reach a state of neutrality—now fully accountable for their actions. Our hero suddenly realizes the impact of not listening to the voice, and this void makes him look closer at where he stands, understanding that the ship is about to sink. The antagonist, now free of commands and control, acts erratically, making foolish decisions that lead to his downfall sooner than expected. Sathya’s realisation may be cliché, but it’s unavoidable for a ‘rise of a hero’ story.

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Another still from “Maaveeran” (2023)

Sathya overcomes his fear, his shell. He stands up for his people. And he almost dies saving them. In the end, he becomes a great warrior—but not because of the voice. Because of himself. The voice has served its purpose. Sathya now understands: he may not have been chosen one, but he has found his purpose. He was always a warrior, buried under layers of fear, voluntarily blinding himself to the corruption around him. He just needed to see it and the voice aided him to muster up his courage.

In the end, Sathya saves his people by nearly dying, like what the voice predicted—but he hears nothing, not his mother, not his people, not anything. He loses his hearing—except the voice. He and the voice become a single entity. Beyond its subtlety, this is a perfect setup for a Marvel Studios-esque superhero origin story.

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Another still from “Maaveeran” (2023)

Apart from the underwhelming female lead, who only exists to serve a romantic song, and the subjective comedy track around the faulty housing project, the soundtrack and cinematography stand taller than those poorly constructed government buildings meant for the poor.

The writer of the film is a National Award winner for his debut feature—a sharp, satirical socio-political comedy-drama. In his second film Maaveeran, he doesn’t falter in creativity. Perhaps the box office numbers and general reviews didn’t match the expectations, but for a mainstream film, this is a brilliant piece of work that received only an average response—too subtle, too intelligent to be fully appreciated by a broad audience. Few online communities keep appreciating this film—maybe we still need to wait for this to become a classic or maybe not.

You don’t always need complex screenplays packed with unimaginable twists placed at unpredictable moments in a known film’s runtime. A well-crafted, entertaining, old-school cat-and-mouse, hero vs. villain, or rise-of-a-hero story can still be brilliant in the mainstream space.

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April 6, 2025
Oppenheimer (2023): Curiosity and the Cat—Who Kills Who?

“Theory will only take you so far” this quote from the film gives me an idea that it is a fusion of one’s limited knowledge and boundless curiosity.

Rewatching Oppenheimer, I discovered what I had missed the first time—blame it on the long narrative or my own ignorance, it was not easy to digest what I consumed in my first time viewing of Oppenheimer in 2023. The film, based on the book American Prometheus, is not just about the man who invented atomic bomb—it’s about his internal contradictions, his insatiable thirst, and the cost of his ambitions—I see this as his “curiosity”.

Oppenheimer is undoubtedly one of history’s most complex—and perhaps controversial—figures. But his brilliance and his relentless curiosity knew no bounds; those sleepless nights in the prologue, during his learning phrase, didn’t know what his curiosity was about to leash when it would get the whole flesh and bones.

It is shown to us that Oppenheimer was a fast learner. He could master a new language in weeks just to deliver a technical and scientific speech in it to native speakers—apart from attracting others with his impressive scientific brain, he continued to impress his peers with other skills too. I may not share his level of intellectual prowess, but I was able to recognise his drive for the innovation, the same way General Leslie Groves did in the movie, played by Matt Damon.

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Curiosity as a Double-Edged Sword

Maybe it is because a historical and scientific drama about an invention—almost all the characters beyond having their own interest, all seek some sort of “curiosity”. The curiosity in exploring what Oppenheimer is doing in Los Alamos; whether or not Oppenheimer was being a spy to American rival nations; how was his relationship with Jean and how she died. One after the other, these curious questions made the movie more gripping and engaging even for a rewatch and made me think more about “curiosity” in general.

I didn’t just learn passion or innovation can be both inspiring and destructive from Oppenheimer (2023), but innovation is inspiringly destructive itself. We pursue our creative ambitions with such intensity that they consume us one day. Oppenheimer’s inability to rest, his compulsion to push forward, is something beyond my understanding. There are nights when my ideas won’t let me sleep—when the desire to create overrides everything else. But where does that pursuit lead? When does ambition become self-destructive? When does a creator become the villain for his own innovation and to himself? Even the greatest scientific minds the Earth ever seen may not answer to this.

Strauss, Teller, and the Cost of Curiosity

While Oppenheimer is dealing with his scientific curiosity, Lewis Strauss is seeking his own downfall, perhaps his self-destruction out of his own curiosity. Almost, during the testing, as soon as the bomb detonated, the audience’s expectations in the Cinemas would have left their bodies too—purpose of most of the audience might have been fulfilled seeing the bomb goes off. But the film still had one fresher act to unfold—the cold war between Strauss and Oppenheimer.

The insult in front of audience is a just a fuel to Strauss’s pre-existing curiosity; the curiosity of how scientific minds work—especially for a non-technical person that would make them feel inferior. His obsession with uncovering Oppenheimer’s private conversation with Einstein—his unrelenting curiosity that they might have talked about him—leads to face the trial that goes out of his control; his calculated moves now become subject to question—Strauss bomb didn’t go off like the one Oppenheimer built for three years.

While we talk about obsession over a subject—I still want to address the interest and obsession as a “curiosity”; as all part of one large spectrum. The movie showed the lack of curiosity could also play a role as a factor which would help in a character’s defeat. It was Edward Teller’s curiosity about hydrogen bomb.

In the film, it is shown to us that all the scientists involved in the Manhattan project including Oppenheimer barely showed any interest in Teller’s idea—even ridiculed his vision. The amalgamation of embarrassment and curiosity of a person has the potential to steer towards a man’s ruination—sounds familiar?

Like Strauss, Teller’s impact on Oppenheimer is huge. At some point, Oppenheimer agrees to meet every week an hour to discuss about Teller’s recent finding about Hydrogen bomb—Not that Oppenheimer was interested in it but he needed Teller to bring his creation into this world, not Teller’s. This Oppenheimer’s disinterest in Teller’s curiosity cost him a valuable ally—someone who could have defended him during the security clearance hearings. Had Teller’s curiosity acknowledged, he might have spoken in Oppenheimer’s favour, helping to clear his security clearance and secure the recognition and accolades he deserved for his contributions to his country—after all Oppenheimer’s innovations are only meant to save America, make America proud and stronger; instead of getting bad reputation among his fellow Americans.

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What Ifs and the Nature of Curiosity

Curiosity is not just about discovery—it also fuels betrayal. The hypothetical questions are always unavoidable and unreasonable to even think about, but this comes from “my curiosity” to think and couldn’t stop pondering about the consequences of a lot of “what ifs”.

What if Einstein had stopped and spoken to Strauss instead of walking past him? What if the scientific community had embraced Teller’s ideas, altering the course of history? The film suggests that circumstances, more than inherent evil, push individuals toward choices they might not have otherwise made. Strauss’s obsession, Teller’s resentment, and Oppenheimer’s blind spots all stem from their own curiosities, and ultimately, their downfalls are shaped by them.

Beyond the external betrayals and conflicts, Oppenheimer delves into the internal cost of curiosity. The film presents a man haunted by the consequences of his creation, a mind unravelling under the weight of guilt and recognition. His famous words, “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds,” take on a new meaning as he realises the lasting impact of his own work. It is not just about the immediate destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but the precedent he set for future wars. The arms race begins, the Cold War looms, and Oppenheimer is left staring into the abyss of what he has unleashed.

Conclusion: The Inevitable Cycle of Creation and Destruction

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His moral struggles, and his ultimate isolation from the community paint a picture of a man who could no longer control the consequences of his own curiosity. Once his sleepless nights for the “curiosity” to discovering a new world leads him to an innovation that man-kind ever seen; and in the end, the same curiosity gives him sleepless nights of resentments and guilt.

Oppenheimer’s story is one of contradictions: a man who sought knowledge but unleashed destruction, a patriot who was cast aside by his own country. The film illustrates how curiosity, when left unchecked, goes out of control, can be both inspiring and ruinous. The same force that drives us to create can also lead to our undoing. In the end, self-destruction is not just a consequence of ambition—it is an inevitable creation of mankind itself, starts from “curiosity”.

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March 29, 2025
Brief History of a Family (2024): A Slow-Burning Mystery Rooted in Jealousy

Rating: 3.5/5

Lin Jianjie makes his directorial debut with “Brief History of a Family”, a suspenseful and emotionally charged drama that explores the fragile complexities of human relationships. When Yan Shuo (Played by Sun Xilun), a troubled young boy, finds refuge in the home of his classmate Tu Wei (Played by Lin Muran), it sets off a series of quiet yet devastating emotional shifts within the household.

Beneath the surface of this slow-burn drama lies a subtle and an intricate commentary on China’s policies on abortion, birth control, and familial bonds.

The film begins with Yan Shuo hanging from a monkey bar, an emblematic display of his perseverance—before explaining his other traits to us. His perseverance is quickly shattered, leading him to fall and we get to see Tu Wei, he comes closer to Yan to help. The mystery of who threw the ball that led to Yan’s fall lingers in the air, subtly setting the tone for the film’s underlying tensions.

Wei’s parents are not rude but hold subtle judgments about Yan’s behaviour when they first meet him. His mother views him with a friendly curiosity, while his father believes he lacks proper manners. Their wealth has a clear influence on Wei’s behaviour—his father is deeply invested in his future—like any Asian parent, going so far as to wake up early before work to stand in line for his son’s study-abroad enrolment. However, Wei himself is more interested in spending his leisure time playing video games and watching online videos. On the other hand, Yan’s leisure activities and his relationship with his father remain unseen. The only details we learn about him are those he chooses to share with Wei’s parents.

Yan arrives at Mr. and Mrs. Tu’s house to spend the night after his father, once “again” drunk—beats him “again”. The bruises on his body immediately evoke sympathy from Wei’s mother. When a single drop of water from the ceiling falls onto Yan’s hand, Mrs. Tu instinctively reaches out, momentarily mistaking it for a tear. In that brief yet profound moment, she offers silent comfort—an unspoken display of her deepest maternal instincts. Initially, Wei’s father is unimpressed by Yan’s lack of refinement, particularly during their first dinner together. However, the father’s perspective changes as he begins to recognise Yan’s ambition. Meanwhile, as Yan settles into the household—after Yan’s father has died, subtle power shifts begin to unfold.

When given Wei’s clothes to wear, Yan rejects them, chucking them back at Wei—an early sign of his resistance. Wei is confused and asks what else he has to wear for the night; Yan replies directly, asking for the T-shirt Wei is wearing. A subtle symbolisation of Yan’s encroachment on Wei’s space and identity in Wei’s home.

Yan helps out Wei’s mom in the kitchen with the cooking; Wei’s mom now loves Yan as much as she cares for her own son. Yan is being praised by Wei’s father and even going further by defending him; The three goes to a trip together, Wei is not part of “the three”. These actions gradually plant the seed of jealousy in Wei’s heart, turning what began as an act of kindness into an unspoken battle for acceptance.

The film resists easy conclusions, mirroring the complexities of real-life relationships. Its layered storytelling makes it essential to watch until the very end to grasp its full meaning—much like a puzzle that only reveals its picture when fully assembled. While it shares thematic similarities with Saltburn, this film carves its own path, offering an emotionally rich narrative without relying on shock value or vulgarity— instead embracing the deliberate pacing of a slow-burn family drama.

Moments of brilliance are scattered throughout the film, seamlessly woven into its mix of genres. One particularly striking scene unfolds when Wei’s parents bring out a birthday cake. The camera composition initially leads the audience to believe the celebration is for Wei, yet his sombre expression tells another story. Perhaps he is simply saddened by the growing attention his parents now shower on Yan. But in the next moment, the truth is revealed—the cake is for Yan, not Wei. It is Yan’s birthday, not his. Once a reserved couple who barely smiled during dinners, Wei’s parents are now laughing and celebrating—not for their son, but for his classmate, soon be a step-brother; because Wei’s parents want to adopt Yan. The shift is unmistakable, and in Wei’s expression, we don’t just see sadness—we see the raw, unfiltered jealousy of a 16-year-old watching his place in the family slip away.

The film’s seamless blend of drama and thriller creates an ever-shifting focus on the characters, which at times may reduce viewer engagement. Yet, this unpredictability adds to the film’s intrigue, particularly surrounding Yan’s character. As the mystery deepens, unsettling questions are unavoidable: Is Yan the killer? Did he have a hand in his father’s death? Is his integration into the Tu family intentional, a calculated move rather than mere coincidence? Is he a parasite slowly embedding himself into their lives? And perhaps the most haunting question of all—will he kill Wei too in the end? These lingering uncertainties intensify the film’s tension, making it impossible to ignore. Comparisons to Saltburn inevitably arise, while the film’s themes and execution in the beginning also hint at the possibility of China’s “Parasite”.

Slow-motion sequences paired with intensifying scores elevate otherwise quiet moments, adding depth and tension. The cinematography is top-notch. The film feels like an intimate view through a microscopic lens, closely examining the family’s dynamics. Similarly, Yan observes the family through his own lens, shaping his perception of them.

March 29, 2025