Wrath of Desire (2020)

A well-structured, controversial dark romance.

This is one of the dark-concept GL movies I found interesting. It reminds me of Black Swan and Thelma. The epilogue is rather bizarre, but it managed to pull the audience's attention right away. The moment it started, you knew that it was going to be full of angst, so brace yourself.

The main characters, Phoenix and Jade, are two women from different backgrounds. Phoenix is an openly gay artist who lives a free-spirited life, while Jade is a prosecutor and a Catholic fundamentalist. While Phoenix is keen to pursue a relationship with Jade, it’s not exactly possible. Then there’s Meng Ye, an androgynous man. Though this movie centers on the love triangle between them, there is no romance whatsoever in this movie. Only desire and pain.

This movie has an extensive theme that ranges from jealousy, possessiveness, sexual acceptance, one’s insecurity, and unhealthy conceptions of power and sex. It also explores the analogy between sex and gender. While the theme and the storylines are quite controversial and provocative, the director handles them brilliantly and conveys them through skillful cinematography.

In my opinion, ‘Wrath of Desire’ is not a perfect movie, and it may not be everyone’s cup of tea due to the taboo and dark elements it touches on, like BDSM, self-harm, cheating, grooming, and sex abuse, but it's a well-structured movie. It's a nice blending of reality, fantasy, emotions, and desire into a tragedy-packed story. If you like dark romance or something melodramatic, and if you can handle the triggers mentioned, it’s something to watch.

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A Lyrical Descent into Love, Power, and the Politics of Desire

This is a unflinching film that offers a rare cinematic treasure: a bold, erotic, and emotionally raw exploration of queer Asian identity, trauma, power, and love—one that unapologetically affirms the complexities of BDSM and chosen family along the way.

Directed with fierce precision and poetic grace, the film follows Phoenix Du—an androgynous, magnetic figure caught in the violent undercurrent of political scandal and personal survival. After killing a thug sent to silence her amid her mother’s presidential campaign, Phoenix lands in the crosshairs of Prosecutor Jade Liu. Jade, herself quietly tormented by a legacy of guilt, Catholic shame, and the suicide of her younger brother, seeks a harsh sentence—not entirely out of justice, but perhaps as a way to punish herself by proxy.

What follows is not a legal thriller, but a psychological and emotional collision. When Phoenix and Jade finally spend a night together, it’s not just a transgression—it’s liberation. Their chemistry is not merely sexual; it is elemental. Here, the film ventures fearlessly into the realm of BDSM—not as shock value or taboo, but as a framework of radical honesty, vulnerability, and consent. For queer audiences familiar with the often-invisible dynamics of control, pain, and trust, these scenes are not just erotic—they are sacred.

Phoenix’s hundreds of letters from prison are both love poems and survival strategies, wrapped in ink and longing. They serve as a vehicle of reclamation—for voice, for agency, and for queer eroticism that resists erasure. Her unwavering desire for Jade is never framed as obsessive or pathological—it is seen as powerful, tender, and deeply human.

Jade, however, takes a different path. Terrified of her own desires and seeking refuge in the familiar scripts of redemption and heterosexual respectability, she marries Meng Ye—a genderless man she once spared from the cruelty of the system she serves. Yet, Meng Ye is not portrayed as a consolation prize or a safe choice; instead, he becomes a mirror, reflecting back to Jade her own fragmentation and longing. Their marriage is complex—muted yet genuine—structured around compassion rather than passion.

For queer Asian viewers, Letters to Jade offers something rarely seen in mainstream cinema: a narrative where race, queerness, gender fluidity, and kink are not obstacles to be overcome, but the very heart of the story. The film resists clean resolutions and instead allows for a multitude of truths to coexist. There is pain here, but also pleasure. There is silence, but also the fierce, pulsing clarity of Phoenix’s voice, even from behind bars.

Visually, the film oscillates between stark institutional grays and lush, intimate lighting that feels like breath against the skin. The cinematography honors both the harshness of the world and the softness of the women navigating it. And the performances? Riveting. Phoenix Du’s portrayal is electric—part flame, part wound—while Jade Liu captures the quiet devastation of a woman split between duty and desire.

Letters to Jade doesn’t tie its loose ends into a neat bow, but why should it? Queer lives are rarely linear. What it offers instead is a cinematic space where longing can breathe, where power can be tender, and where love—no matter how unconventional—can still be redemptive.

For those who have ever felt like their desire made them unworthy, for those who know the ache of waiting, and for anyone who sees beauty in the complicated, Letters to Jade is not just a movie. It’s a prayer. A protest. A love letter.

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