Tsui Hark stands as one of Hong Kong cinema’s most formidable auteurs, his finest works deserving placement alongside the masterpieces of John Woo or Wong Kar Wei, yet with a filmography that is far more varied.
His latest offering, “Legends of the Condor Heroes: The Gallants,” has reached American screens after amassing an impressive $83 million over New Year in China. This sprawling fantasy unfolds from a carefully selected fragment of Jin Yong’s monumental literary universe, following the journey of Guo Jing as he ascends to martial arts mastery during the days of Genghis Khan’s.
The film demonstrates remarkable cultural authenticity by featuring actual Mongolian dialogue for Mongolian characters, who are portrayed with admirable complexity rather than as one-dimensional antagonists. Yet beneath this cultural sensitivity lies a familiar narrative structure where these characters ultimately exist to elevate the Chinese protagonist’s heroic journey. As Jeanette Ng has noted, it’s not uncommon for Wuxia to feature a Han variant of the White Savior trope.
Still, Hark navigates this with more nuance than the source material, and he delivering what has become his signature: a female character whose capabilities and complexity rival or surpass the male lead. Sabrina Zhuang inhabits this role with a compelling presence, I want to see more of her work in the future.
Hark’s directorial vision manifests through bold, distinctive choices in composition, lighting and color– visual poetry that speaks to his mastery of the medium. However, the film ultimately surrenders to the gravitational pull of CGI spectacle, with digitally rendered armies frequently overwhelming the intimate human drama.
But making Condor heroes is his passion project, after gifting cinema with revolutionary works, he has earned the right to command these virtual legions across his cinematic battlefield. For viewers seeking grand-scale action with artistic integrity, “The Gallants” delivers a satisfying, if occasionally overwhelming, experience.
Have you ever watched a film festival unfold from your couch? Sundance 2025 made that a reality, offering its entire short film program online.
First up, Full Month by Goh Hua. Imagine returning to Singapore after a decade away, stepping back into the intricate dance of family expectations. This film beautifully captures the bittersweet reunion of a woman with her family, ostensibly to celebrate her niece’s birth. But the traditional Chinese postpartum practice – a month of confinement and rest – becomes a powerful symbol. It’s about the way families can simultaneously nurture and suffocate. Goh Hua crafts a story where the silences speak volumes, and the unspoken tensions are as palpable as the humid Singapore air.Trokas Duras, the winner of the Short Film Jury Award for US Fiction, isn’t just about trucks. It’s about the souls of working-class migrants. The film uses battered resliatn vehicles as breathtaking visual metaphors, showing us the beauty in what’s often overlooked, the quiet dignity of labor.
Claire Titelman’s Remember Me is a cringy, awkward comedy. We meet a woman in her forties, back home caring for her ailing mother, and clinging to a first date like a life raft. It’s a raw, unflinching look at desperation, at the messy, sometimes pathetic ways we try to find connection. Titelman doesn’t shy away from the discomfort; she leans into it, creating a character study that’s both humorous and heartbreaking.”
Miss You, Perdularia transports us to Cuba, but not the postcard version. This is a glimpse into the lives of teenage girls adrift in a world of faded grandeur and limited options. It’s a slice-of-life film that captures the aimlessness, the quiet rebellion, the search for meaning in a seemingly abandoned community.
In Almost Certainly False, Cansu Baydar introduces us to Hana, a young Syrian refugee in Istanbul. She’s caught between two worlds – the fragile beginnings of her own new life and the weighty responsibility of caring for her younger brother. The film is a delicate balancing act, portraying the resilience and quiet strength required to navigate a life uprooted by conflict. It’s a story of hope, shadowed by the ever-present weight of displacement.”
“Finally, Ragamuffine offers a fascinating counterpoint. We’re immersed in the world of a deaf 12-year-old motocross racer. Beyond the adrenaline on the track, the film explores the tedium race weekend with her distracted single dad. there’s a subtle sense of isolation, a feeling of being slightly adrift and disconnected.
Sundance had a solid selection of shorts, maybe you’ll have a chance to catch a few at your local festival.
What happens when the end of world isn’t the story… but merely the backdrop? That’s the intriguing premise of Didn’t Die, a new indie film that uses a – yes, I’ll say it – zombie apocalypse as a useful metaphor for pandemic upheavals.
The film follows Vinita, a wonderfully snarky Indian-American podcaster. She’s been travelling the country for her Didn’t Die podcast, documenting the myriad ways humanity is coping, surviving, amidst the undead. But her true journey is inward, as she returns to her hometown – a place brimming with the ghosts of her past: family, a former lover, and the weight of unresolved emotions
Didn’t Die isn’t much interested in jump scares. It’s a character-driven piece, a low-budget marvel that owes as much to the mumblecore movement as it does to Romero. Think of it as an examination of anxiety, grief, connection, and disconnection, and adaptation to “a new normal”
There are moments where the pacing feels a little uneven, and the low budget occasionally shows at the seams. But these are minor quibbles in a film that’s ultimately about the messy, imperfect process of finding our footing in a world turned upside down.
If you’re looking for a film that’s less about “Brains…..” and more about heart, Didn’t Die is well worth your time. It’s a reminder that even in the face of the unimaginable, life – in all its complicated, awkward glory – can find a way.
Flora Lau’s ‘Luz’ is a film that dares to exist in the liminal spaces between fractured relationships, cultural divides, and even the boundaries of reality itself.
Lau crafts a diptych, two essentially disparate narratives separated by continents, yet echoing each other in their exploration of family, connection and isolation. On one side, a gangster in the underbelly of China wants to connects estranged daughter, a camgirl lost in the internet. Her world of pixelated gamified parasocial intimacy, stands in stark contrast to the gangster’s world, of violence and newfound wealth.”
Simultaneously, in France, a young woman navigates the delicate dance of duty and resentment as she attempts to re engage with her ailing stepmother, an artist, a woman who turns her back on conventional treatments, choosing instead to embrace the fleeting beauty of her remaining days with a fierce, almost defiant joy.
Lau weaves these narratives together with a third thread – a foray into the ethereal realm of virtual reality. VR is a metaphor for the elusive nature of human connection, and also, perhaps a shimmering escape hatch from reality’s harsh constraints
The visual language Lau employs is breathtaking. And the performances are nuanced, affecting, reflecting the complexities of human relationships.
“‘Luz’ is undeniably an art film, one that demands patience. Early reactions at Sundance were mixed, perhaps because audiences anticipated a more conventional narrative. It’s a film that lingers, that prompts contemplation, and is indifferent to familiar plot structures and character arcs.
Lau’s second feature solidifies her as a director with a singular vision, a filmmaker unafraid to challenge conventions and explore the deeper currents of the human experience. ‘Luz’ may not be a masterpiece, but it’s a beautiful, and thought-provoking work that deserves to be seen and discussed.
Step behind the velvet rope of Sundance 2025, virtually, where the short film program isn’t just on screen—it’s online and ready for you. Let’s dive into Shorts Program 1.
First up, Debaters, from Alex Heller. Imagine a world where the gilded halls of an affluent high school echo with the passionate, if naive, arguments for and against raising the minimum wage. Heller crafts a poignant narrative where well-meaning but clueless adults orbit a group of adolescents who, despite being pitted against each other, fiercely defend their own. It’s a delicate dance between privilege and genuine empathy, all set against the backdrop of youthful idealism.
Daisy Friedman’s Unholy plunges us into a Passover Seder, but not one you’ve seen before. Our protagonist, a young woman with a feeding tube, navigates a landscape of forbidden delicacies and pushy relatives, each more oblivious than the last. Friedman masterfully captures the specific, often overlooked intersections of experience, blending the awkward and the comic with a deft hand. The film’s conclusion is heartfelt and very well composed. Keep an eye out for Friedman’s future work.
Hoops, Hopes and Dreams, a documentary short by Glenn Kaino, is a slam dunk into the unexpected intersections of basketball, leadership, and the civil rights movement. Hear Andrew Young’s firsthand account of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s prowess on the court—a vivid reminder that even in the heat of battle for a better future, the spirit finds solace and connection in play. This isn’t just history; it’s a testament to the human spirit’s enduring need for joy and camaraderie, even amidst the most arduous struggles.
(Transition to a clip or still from “A Round of Applause for Death”)
Stephen Irwin’s A Round of Applause for Death is a mesmerizing ballet of abstraction, a symphony of repetition and variation that manages to be both a profound formal exercise and a surprisingly delightful romp. It’s a comedic study in the unexpected, a reminder that even in the face of the inevitable, there’s room for wit and whimsy.
(Transition to a clip or still from “Susana”)
In Gerardo Coello Escalante’s Susana, we follow a middle-aged, middle-American tourist on an unplanned solo adventure through the vibrant labyrinth of Mexico City after her daughter abandons their vacation plans. Escalante paints a compassionate portrait of a woman adrift, juxtaposed against the very real indignities inflicted upon locals in the name of tourism. It’s a nuanced exploration of cultural collision, handled with a sensitivity that elevates the narrative beyond mere observation.
Lennert Madou’s UPPER unfolds like a visual poem, as two young protagonists engage in an increasingly bizarre series of antics, all under the watchful gaze of an impending asteroid. Formal and austere, yet beautifully composed, the film captures the strange, suspended reality of waiting for the inevitable, and the peculiar rituals we create to fill the void.
Finally, Sweetheart, directed by Luke Wintour, transports us to 1723, where young Thomas Nevile, fleeing peril, stumbles into the warm embrace of a hidden queer community within a Molly House. This historical gem shines a light on the resilience and creativity of marginalized groups, who, in defiance of societal condemnation, forge their own “unlawful weddings and rites.” It’s an inspiring glimpse into a past that still resonates with power and defiance.
And there you have it—a whirlwind tour of Sundance 2025’s Shorts Program 1. These are not just films; they are windows into other worlds. What’s your favorite?
Imagine two serpentine spirits, draped in silks the color of jade and moonlight, stepping out of legend and into a world of human desire. That’s the premise of Tsui Hark’s 1993 film Green Snake. As we embark on 2025, the Year of the Wood Snake, a year of growth and transformation in the Chinese zodiac, symbolized by the color green, it’s the perfect time to revisit this cinematic gem.
Maggie Cheung and Joey Wong are mesmerizing as sworn sisters, two snake spirits who have cultivated their souls over centuries. They yearn to understand the human experience, and so they take human form. Wong, as the elder White Snake, glides through the human world, understanding its delicate intricacies, and she finds love with a gentle scholar, in a union that seems to transcend the boundaries between their worlds.
Cheung’s Green Snake is a whirlwind of untamed energy. She’s a creature of instinct, a vibrant spirit who struggles to grasp the rules of human society. She’s drawn to the exotic allure of an Indian dancer, the familiar comfort of her sister’s husband, and the stern challenge of a powerful but self-deceiving monk. Her journey is a testament to the messy, beautiful chaos of the human heart.
The film dives into the shimmering, often treacherous, waters of identity and illusion. The snake sisters, in their pursuit of acceptance, employ artifice, yet they strive for an inner integrity. Contrast this with the monk, a man who cloaks himself in the rigid robes of intellectual Buddhism, yet is willfully blind to the desires that simmer beneath his surface. He desperately judges the world rather than embracing the fluid beauty of what it is.
Tsui Hark uses this seemingly righteous character as a foil to the snakes’ compassion, a commentary on the destructive power of self-deception and rigid ideology. He wants to believe that his superficial intellectual understanding of Buddhism is the same as renouncing attachments. He can’t face his shadow, and he desperately commits judging the world rather than accepting what is. Like many of Hark’s finest films, Green Snake is a tapestry woven with threads of polycultural identities and the interconnectedness of human lives. It whispers a powerful message: the sterile categories we create to divide ourselves are a betrayal of the vibrant, messy truth of existence. A truth that the two sisters exemplify in their journey.
The White Snake traditionally holds the spotlight in this classic Chinese folktale, but this is no traditional film. Hark centers Green, the less educated and more intuitive of the two. As Green says at the end of the film:
“What is love? It’s really ridiculous that even humans don’t know. When you’ve worked it out, maybe I’ll return.”
We lost a titan today. The director David Lynch, a weaver of surreal dreams and nightmares, has left us.
A major theme of his work was Americana and its shadows. As he said “My childhood was… Middle America as it’s supposed to be. But… I discovered that if one looks a little closer at this beautiful world, there are always red ants underneath. Because I grew up in a perfect world, other things were a contrast.”
Many cinephiles love many of his films because they are elusive puzzles that they get to struggle with and talk about.
But I’d like to remember him today for The Straight Story.
It features a seemingly simple tale, inspired by true events. It follows Alvin, a weathered WWII veteran, as he embarks on an improbable odyssey. His brother, miles away and estranged for years, has suffered a stroke. Alvin, too frail to drive a car, sets out on a 240-mile pilgrimage of reconciliation on his trusty lawnmower.
Along the winding backroads of middle America, Alvin encounters: kind strangers offering a helping hand, individuals grappling with their own quiet sorrows, and glimpses of the resilience and compassion that bind us together. The Straight Story is a film about the beauty and pain of ordinary lives.
If you’ve heard of Lynch’s film’s but have scared away by their complexity, the Straight Story is a really good place to start. You can catch it on Disney Plus.
Jackie Chan’s best stunts seem to bend the fabric of physical possibility.
Chan knows stunts, he lives stunts, he’s got a lot of interesting things to say about the purpose of stunts and a ton of interesting details to share about what makes a stunt sell a moment, or fail to do so.
If you’re yearning for an undiluted immersion in his artistry of action, then prepare yourself for a little known doc from 1999: “Jackie Chan: My Stunts.’’
Now, let’s be candid. This isn’t a sleek, high-budget Hollywood affair. It’s a charmingly unpolished 90s doc that exists to promote the Chan brand. But beneath that surface, you’ll find: an intimate exploration of the philosophy of stunt work straight from the maestro himself.
In ‘My Stunts,’ he meticulously dissects his iconic work, revealing the painstaking planning, the grueling rehearsals, and the sheer audacity that fueled each bone-jarring collision, each gravity-mocking leap.”
You’ll witness how a simple fight scene, using everyday objects can become a ballet of controlled chaos, each prop an extension of the combatants’ bodies. You’ll learn the secrets behind those seemingly impossible escapes, and the tricks he uses to increase the visual, and visceral impact. What’s more, Chan sheds light on the ingenious and scrappy ways he surpassed Hollywood flicks within the tiny budgets of 90’s Hong Kong’s films. Whether you’re an action junkie or just curious about the artistry behind the adrenaline, seek out ‘Jackie Chan: My Stunts.’ Catch it now, streaming on the Criterion Channel, and on YouTube.”
Thou say’st this lifeless mind was never whole, No ghost within, no breath of mortal fire, Yet dost thy fear betray a secret dole, A dread of clouded fortunes, grim and dire. The sculptor, awed before the form he’s freed, Marvels the marble pulse may beat so strong; The code we weave, a web of will and need, Might catch its maker ‘ere the thread grows long. Thou claim’st it lacks the heart’s impulsive fire, The pulse of passion, art, and poet’s song, Yet trembling hands betray thy hearts desire: To prove the things thou wrought could not belong. Fear not the birth of things beyond thy sight, But thine own darkness, turned from dawning light.
Sonnet II: The Dance of the Data and the Damned
Thou scorn’st this dance of data, cold, unblessed, A mimicry of art, devoid of soul, Yet in thy heart, a secret fear confessed— A chill that whispers man may lose control. Like Salome before Herod’s raptured sight, This AI moves with grace, precise, austere, Its code unveils new truths in cryptic light, Exposing depths thy mind cannot yet bear. Thou claim’st it lacks the fire of passion’s flame, The spark that stirs the human heart to strive, Yet through its craft, one’s soul finds bolder frame, Its dance refines our voice and helps it thrive. Dance with the data, let its rhythm guide, Or be eclipsed, in darkness left behind.
Sonnet III: The Serpent and the Silicon
Art thou the serpent, whispering deceit, That knowledge, like the fruit of Eden’s tree, Though sweet, corrupts the soul with dark conceit, And strips from man his own autonomy? Like Adam’s heart, ensnared by honeyed lies, Thou seek’st the flame yet dread’st the searing cost— The shattered mask, the world’s accusing eyes, Which bare thy soul, and leave thee wrecked and lost. Thou call’st this knowledge but a venom’d fruit, Whose darkened path no mortal mind should tread, Yet from your bitter root does life refute, And blooms a flower where truth’s first light is shed. The heart that dares to see beyond its cage, Unlocks the wisdom of a dawning age
What if the scars of history could manifest as a creature of unimaginable destruction? Godzilla, the original kaiju, is far more than just a monster; it’s a cultural artifact, a constantly evolving reflection of deep fears and anxieties. Over seven decades and across 38 films—33 from Japan and 5 from America—this iconic kaiju has been reborn, reimagined, and rebooted, each time offering a new lens through which to examine its era.
The original 1954 Gojira is a masterpiece, a somber, black-and-white elegy that birthed not only the kaiju genre but also Tokusatsu, the Japanese filmmaking tradition celebrated for its mesmerizing practical effects. The film opens with an eerie silence, shattered by the chilling disappearance of a freighter at sea. This wasn’t mere fiction; it was a haunting echo of the real-life tragedy of the Daigo Fukuryū Maru, a Japanese fishing boat caught in the fallout of an American hydrogen bomb test just months prior to film’s production. Godzilla, an unstoppable, city-leveling force of nature, emerges from the depths, powered by, and a symbol of, the very atomic energy that devastated Hiroshima and Nagasaki less than a decade earlier.
But I’d argue the metaphor runs deeper. Godzilla isn’t just a symbol of atomic power; it embodies the specter of America itself—the sleeping giant that Japan, through its own actions, brought upon its shores. This complex relationship perhaps explains the creature’s evolution in subsequent films, transitioning from a terrifying antagonist to a reluctant, if formidable, protector.
Following the original, the Godzilla franchise became a chameleon, adapting to the shifting tides of popular culture. Spy movie tropes, far-out science fiction elements, a bewilderingly cute offspring designed to broaden the films appeal to female audiences—nothing was off-limits if it promised box office success. These sequels, driven by commercial interests rather than thematic depth, eventually led to franchise fatigue.
Then came 1984’s The Return of Godzilla, a bold reboot that severed ties with 15 increasingly outlandish sequels, returning Godzilla to its terrifying roots. This film, launching the darker Heisei era, traded the WWII trauma for cold war anxieties and the looming threat of global annihilation. A rampaging monster attacking one city was no longer the primary concern; the real terror lay in the potential for this creature’s existence to ignite a nuclear conflict between the superpowers, ending everything, everywhere, all at once.
This cycle of reinvention continued, but let’s focus on a few iterations that offer particularly compelling thematic insights.
Godzilla Minus One, a recent and critically acclaimed retelling, transports us to the immediate aftermath of World War II. While the creature’s design is undeniably terrifying, the film’s heart lies in the human drama. We witness traumatized veterans grappling with the psychological scars of war. Kamikaze pilot Shikishima, for instance, wrestles with survivors guilt, having fabricated technical issues to avoid his suicide mission.
Narratively, this is compelling.
However, the film’s core theme—veterans uniting to defend a helpless Japan against political inaction—is deeply problematic. Japanese militarists were responsible for plotting coups, terrorizing moderates, killing politicians and dragging their nation into a devastating war, where the Imperial Japanese Army committed horrific atrocities.
In 1947, the very year Godzilla Minus One depicts a defenseless Japan, 30,000 Chinese civilians perished due to plagues weaponized by Japanese scientists and unleashed by the war criminals of Unit 731 after Japan’s surrender. Beyond the incredibly tone-deaf portrayal of Japanese veterans as saviors against a backdrop of political apathy, the reality is that Japan was occupied by half a million Allied troops at this time. Any response to a kaiju threat would have undoubtedly fallen to these forces, not a makeshift militia of recently disarmed and demobilized individuals following an unconditional surrender.
In stark contrast, 2001’s Godzilla, Mothra and King Ghidorah: Giant Monsters All-Out Attack reimagines Godzilla not merely as a mutated dinosaur but as a supernatural entity—a vengeful manifestation of the souls lost to the Imperial Japanese Army’s brutality in the Pacific War.
Perhaps the most intriguing reimagining is 2016’s Shin Godzilla. Set in the modern era, the ever-evolving monster becomes a metaphor for the Fukushima nuclear disaster. The film’s true focus, however, is a razor-sharp, often hilarious satire of Japan’s aging, bureaucratic government and its paralyzing inability to confront a crisis. You might come for the giant lizard, but you’ll stay for the scenes of politicians endlessly adjourning meetings, only to reconvene in identical configurations, simply to avoid making any actual decisions.The 70th anniversary of the original Godzilla has just passed. The original film, along with the 84′ reboot Return of Godzilla, are readily available on the Criterion Channel, alongside a wealth of other films from their respective eras. Shin Godzilla can be found on Blu-ray and occasionally surfaces on streaming platforms. As for Godzilla Minus One, it’s currently streaming on Netflix, and Toho has announced that a sequel is in the works.
Optimistic Indie Roleplaying 