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High-class soap opera

Bizarrely fluctuating between an exuberant reflection on young adult life in Hong Kong and a gory thriller, Nomad possesses an enchanting quality about it to the point it can be absorbingly disorientating. It manages to capture a brutal honesty of youth, from hairstyles to philosophies, but beneath its exterior lies a moody, elliptical meditation on alienation, desire, and a generation untethered from stable identity as the film's quartet of characters drift aimlessly together, going on dates, having sex, and vaguely contemplating the future. Unfortunately, its story is unfocused, playing more like an episodic series of skits filled with absurdist comedy, and, despite being relatively short, its pacing is exceptionally slow. Granted, the film is at least a looker; the photography and art direction are absolutely stunning, although Patrick Tam's actual direction is relatively messy, the super unsexy sex scenes filmed in choppy slow motion really hammer that home. His tone is one of impish confidence, never allowing his characters to fully succumb to the anxieties that pervade them. The sudden shift from languid romance to random acts of brutality in the final act feels almost like a wake-up call for the viewer, almost like the writers were trying to inject a bit of excitement to cap it all off. It really does just come out of nowhere, especially after wallowing in plenty of self-indulgent pretences for most of the thankfully short runtime. The performances from its cast are mostly solid, but the musical score tips over into pervasive, heavy-handed, if you would, rendering certain scenes ridiculous when they perhaps would have benefited from simple silence. As a cornerstone of the Hong Kong New Wave, it remains provocative, melancholic and stylistically bold, but all comes together as an ultimately disorderly and chaotic experience. Nomad certainly drifts through the motions, losing sight of what it really wants to be. It feels kind of cruel to have watched this after My Heart is that Eternal Rose, but I was expecting more than a high-class soap opera.

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Eurocrime with a jolt of Michael Mann's visual design

Given his more famous body of work and especially the title, you'd probably be expecting Men from the Gutter to be another one in a long line of incredible Lam Nai-Choi horror. It is not. Instead, trading the classical Shaw wuxia sheen for street-level desperation, it's an outstanding, gritty, hard-edged action thriller. One that gives a neon-lit glimpse into Hong Kong's grimy underbelly of smoke-filled gambling joints and roach-infested tenements filled with grubby, desperate lowlifes. It's all conceived in a way that combines elements of gritty Eurocrime with a jolt of Michael Mann's visual design. It crams a lot into its tight 88-minute runtime, with excitingly staged action that's rough, pragmatic and rather splat-tastic at points and all complemented by Lam Nai-Choi's own slick photography, intense direction and even a cool cod-Tangerine Dream electronic score. This isn't heroic bloodshed yet, but you can feel it forming in the margins. The characters are defined less by archetypes than by exhaustion. These are men with no illusions left; every alliance is temporary, every moral line negotiable with the cast selling that weariness well. Lo Meng and Jason Pai Pao deliver earthy, impassioned, and downright menacing performances that are far more morally ambiguous than the stoic archetypes they usually played, especially in the quieter moments where ambition gives way to fear or resignation. As a Shaw Brothers production, it's fascinating precisely because it doesn't feel like a classic Shaw film. The studio trappings are present, but the spirit belongs to what comes next. While Men from the Gutter may not be as iconic as what followed, it serves as a raw and compelling bridge between eras. A tough, unsentimental crime film that captures a moment when both its characters and its studio were fighting not to be left behind.

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It never rains on this mountain

Favouring quiet contemplation over combat, Raining in the Mountain unfolds like a moving scroll of exquisite paintings with mist drifting through mountain paths, rain tapping on tiled roofs, and robes gliding down corridors. From the opening moments, Hu signals that this will not be a tale driven by conquest or glory, but by impermanence, restraint and moral testing; its plot functioning less as a narrative engine than as philosophical scaffolding, the play-by-play almost akin to that of a heist film. It is a film of movement; action is deliberately muted, even anti-climactic. Fights dissolve into evasions; pursuits end in stillness. What matters is not who wins, but who renounces. In this sense, the film feels closer to a Zen parable than a traditional wuxia film, using genre expectations only to strip them away. Visually, the film is spectacular; Hu's command of space is incredible, with doorways framing moral choices, corridors becoming channels of fate, and the mountain itself seems to breathe alongside the characters. His editing creates a meditative tempo. Every gesture, glance, and footstep carries weight, as if the film itself were practising mindfulness. It may never rain on this mountain, but ultimately, for all its sedate visual beauty, Raining in the Mountain finds its deepest drama not in violence, but in the choice to let go.

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A strikingly different sequel that swaps pulpy comic book excess and superhero bravado for a gritty post-apocalyptic, nuclear-ravaged wasteland, Heroic Trio 2 takes itself way more seriously than its predecessor, upping the sulky brooding and ultimately losing the fun. While I do respect the film for its ambition in going the complete opposite direction by adding an abundance of grungy, dystopian atmosphere and a fresh dose of anti-authoritarian attitude, it's all done with an oppressive bleakness that saps the mood right out of you. Despite such a dark setting, the film at least reunites Anita Mui, Maggie Cheung and Michelle Yeoh as the titular trio, however brief it may be, given they spend nearly the whole film apart from one another, a decision I still can't fathom. This is not a celebratory reunion; it's a story about disillusionment, fractured by trauma and moral compromise, where seemingly every key moment in the film needs to be punctuated by a pop song, usually sung by Anita Mui. The film does at least offer some rather impressive action, given that Tony Ching Siu-Tung shares Johnnie To's director's chair this time, it's blisteringly intense and stunningly executed. Unfortunately, their styles do not mesh very well together as the rest of the film struggles to juggle environmental themes, authoritarian politics and personal redemption, going way overboard with a veritable marathon of montage sequences. Even with the truly magnetic screen presence of its cast and relatively effective musical score in tow, it's difficult to recommend Heroic Trio 2; it's a truly bitter experience with too much emotional bullying, ending not with triumph, but with reckoning. You could tell they really didn't want to make another one after this, after all, you can't have another if your trio has become a duo.

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The closest Keita Amemiya has ever come to a kaiju film

I've been deeply neglecting the works of Keita Amemiya in recent years and figured that Iron Armoured Machine Mikazuki would scratch that itch. Serving as an update on the boy and his giant robot subgenre that gave us the likes of Tetsujin-28 and Giant Robo, the series plays around with plenty of tokusatsu tropes and mixes in elements from the big three, be they costumed heroes or giant kaiju. The cards are kept relatively close to the chest for the admittedly rather slow and childish first half, but dramatically reveal a darker, more introspective core amidst all the flashy heroics once the dust has settled. It combines late-Heisei tokusatsu aesthetics with psychological sci-fi and mythic symbolism, with Mikazuki, a mysterious iron giant born from human desire, blurring the line between weapon, god, and reflection of the human soul, resulting in a show that prides itself on emotional conflict, moral ambiguity and the consequences of wishing for power. The monsters aren't just external threats, they're manifestations of human obsession, fear and despair. There's an unmistakable ambition to the series, having originally been pitched as a one-and-done film before Amemiya and writer Toshiki Inoue retooled it into what it is today. Each episode has the scale and look of similar tokusatsu productions from around the same time, but with the added benefit of going against the Japanese norm and being shot in widescreen. You can thank the extremely large budget for that. It all lends a greater weight to Amemiya's incredible visual designs, half of which feel like they've been ripped right out of his '90s body of work. The direction is clean, the music extremely catchy, the writing engaging, and the effects work is to a rigorously high standard; even with the rough early 2000s CG work, it's thankfully rather unintrusive. While Iron Armoured Machine Mikazuki might be flawed, bleak and unapologetically slow in places, it's equally moody, haunting and deeply unconventional. It's the kind of series that lingers in your mind not because it was polished or popular, but because it dared to be strange, sombre and sincere in an era when few shows of its kind were willing to take that chance.

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More pop art than film

Caught in a very awkward disconnect that blends children's fantasy, pocket-sized kaiju and Takashi Murakami's unmistakable superflat aesthetic, Jellyfish Eyes struggles to find a stable footing and becomes so muddled at points that it is all but impossible to discern why anything is happening. The visual design is undoubtedly the film's strongest aspect, with each one of the weird and wacky creatures popping against the muted, almost sterile human environments, but the effects are so lacklustre and stiff that they all become this horrifying blend of adorable concept and nightmarish realisation. At times, the imagery feels closer to an art installation or a horror attraction than a children's film, undoubtedly thanks to the combination of Murakami and Yoshihiro Nishimura's backgrounds in their respective fields. The direction is passable at best, though the camerawork is downright hideous at points; it's clear Murakami has an acute visual sensibility, but a tin ear for expressing human emotion through drama. As a result, much of the film comes off as either insufferably saccharine or strangely out of tune, even with the bright colours. It wants to weave a tale of friendship and loyalty that also addresses humanity's propensity for destruction, but is more often than not let down by its failure to deliver any form of emotional clarity or dip below the candy-coating superficiality of it all. The pacing is slow, exposition-heavy and occasionally opaque, all delivered by a cast of child actors that scream more than they act, although the musical score was fine. Honestly, it's probably better to view Jellyfish Eyes as a failed experiment more than anything else, never fully cohering into a satisfying whole and would have undoubtedly worked better as the anime or horror film it was originally intended to be.

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Exploring the darker edges of eeriness, sexuality, and bizarre, horror-esque art with unconventional layers of psychological deviance, Rampo Noir is challenging as it is horrifically disturbing, presenting the writer's fiction in radical ways, hoping to push boundaries but never quite succeeding. Partly due to the violent, sadomasochistic sex scenes that often crop up, but also because it's not always immediately clear what the filmmakers are trying to say, thanks to their ponderously slow approach. There's only so much time you can spend on artistically rotting corpses and auditory excess before you're going to annoy someone, but the film remains consistently refreshingly and cinematically striking with an unabashed eroticism and willingness to plunge into the dark realms of Rampo's work. Each director breathes life into their own respective take on the material, all have a unique visual style, which help draw you into their strange worlds, be it exploitation or arthouse; each segment carves its own identity, although, admittedly, some more to my taste than others, with the high points being the two segments that bookend the feature and, ironically, come from the two newcomers. Suguru Takeuchi delivers a full-on avant-garde experimental and introspective short, full of evocative imagery in what is a beautifully surreal and breathtakingly stunning, if bitterly short, dive into existential dread. Atsushi Kaneko, meanwhile, more well-known for his status as a mangaka, makes an impressive directorial debut with the finale, blending his usual sensibilities with a lush cinematic intensity and plenty of darkly comedic moments. That being said, the other two segments are far from a slouch. Adapting his third Rampo tale, Akio Jissoji's usual keen eye for composition and signature stylistic flourishes turn his short into a mesmerising fever dream. Hisayasu Satō, meanwhile, delivers a grimly gruesome tale, taking Rampo's work to its most grotesque extreme, containing mutilation and plenty of bodily fluids. It's presented with an unusual use of light and colour, as unsettling as it is provocative, a visceral commentary on physical and emotional dependency. Despite the mismatched feel of the whole affair, Rampo Noir's hallucinogenic approach to narrative and visuals is nothing short of invigorating.

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Taking punk to a whole new level and meticulously tailored to weigh on its audience, 964 Pinocchio is an exhausting watch; the constant presence of screaming, yelling, grunting and whining bears its own unique sense of torture. A raw, hand-tooled vision that unfolds with visceral and stomach-churning intensity, Shozin Fukui throws shades of disturbing, comedic, messed-up, revolting, and mesmerising at you all at once in a breakneck charge through a brutal and uncaring post-industrial netherworld. The filthy, grimy aesthetic and relentless wallowing won't appeal to everyone, as it screams in your face and refuses to apologise for any of its repulsive imagery. However, the film presents a compelling concept to you, delving into it wildly once you're settled in, bearing all the hallmarks of an endurance test, complete with frenetic editing and off-the-wall acting choices, with mental anguish far exceeding physical tolerance. What 964 Pinocchio lacks in polish or budget, it makes up for with a visual intensity matched only by the sheer, uncompromising determination, hysterical pacing and the utterly demented insanity of its soundscape. It has an undeniable charm, but what exactly that is, is for you to decide.

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Boasting a title only 90s Hong Kong cinema could conjure up, The Holy Virgin Versus the Evil Dead is both enticing and misleading, yet tenuously sums up the basic premise of what could be thinly labelled as a plot. Everything comes thick and fast. Opening with a Bond-esque title sequence, we are under little illusion of what to expect. A gratuitous mix of sex, violence and martial arts, the film is dumb, messy and loaded with excessive nudity, but if you can get past the cack-handed execution, you'll find yourself in for a wild ride. Director Lu Chun-Ku delivers plenty of bright colours and hyperactive camerawork with a vigorous exuberance to the proceedings that ensures the film never sits still long enough to be boring, no matter how confusing the story gets. The film just careens through a half-dozen genres, like a priest with a short attention span, delivering a delirious mess of supernatural sleaze, wire flying action and sexploitation horror; the balance is very askew. I don't think the filmmakers were inept, just horrifically misguided to the point of hilarity. The cast ultimately end up losing out to all the boobs and gore, so I don't really blame some of them for phoning it in. Donnie Yen, Ben Lam and Ken Lo do get the opportunity to show off, however fleeting it might be, while Sibille Hu is around for about ten minutes, mostly to complain and swear a lot. Ultimately, it doesn't matter what I say about The Holy Virgin Versus the Evil Dead, even if it doesn't contain any of the latter part of its title; it's worth the price of admission for said title alone. It's stupid enough fun to forgive its glaring shortcomings with enough stylistic flourishes here and there, plus copious amounts of boobage, to keep an otherwise low-budget production from falling apart at the seams.

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Kung Fu Cannibalism

Forgoing the psychedelic arthouse ambitions of his feature debut for down and dirty exploitation, Tsui Hark's We’re Going to Eat You is an unlikely and unsettling combination of a cannibal film fused with the slapstick of The Three Stooges. Although essentially humorous, the film can suddenly shift and present some genuinely unsettling scenes. The bloodlust and an appetite for human flesh being played for laughs is disturbing, but the sheer irreverence makes the overly sardonic tone so effective. The frenetic direction, editing and camerawork mix splatter, slapstick and mad martial arts choreographed by Corey Yuen to often impressive effect. However, the non-stop barrage of chases, hair-raising close calls and near-death escapes, a structure obviously indebted to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, grows tiresome and repetitive. Typically for a Hark film, characters frequently espouse personal philosophies, trying to make sense of an often chaotic universe. However, amidst the lunacy, the various plot threads never go anywhere. While We're Going To Eat You probably isn't the martial arts answer to Cannibal Holocaust; instead, it sets up a black comedy and then indulges in some morbid fun with a bit of kung fu thrown in for good measure, compensating for its lack of polish and coherence with Hark's boundless energy and everything-and-the-kitchen-sink attitude.

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Saved the best flying kicks for last

Everything about Episode Final feels significantly more dynamic, fierce, and exhilarating, clearly benefiting from its theatrical presentation with a dark, supernatural edge. The whole thing plays fast and loose with the show's rules, almost as if they shot themselves in the foot with Zolda's Giga Launcher by making a finale that debuted way before the series had even ended, one that turns up the bleak factor to maximum. Even the happier and more carefree moments come with a silver lining; knowing that the Rider War cannot be escaped, these people will have to die one way or another, and we can do nothing but watch. The result is a much more urgent narrative than what we saw in the show, and a slickly directed one at that, arguably the best-looking of the entire Ryuki saga, with Ryuta Tasaki once again in the director's seat, adding real flair to the film as the camera sweeps and dives around the impeccably choreographed action. Ryuga makes for a fantastic villain and feels like the true 13th Rider, a dark mirror counterpart to Ryuki, who takes no prisoners with sheer brutality. He's one of the major highlights here; another is unquestionably the franchise's first female Rider, Femme. While not as fleshed out as you'd like her to be, she is utterly adorable for all the time we spend with her, definitely helped by Natsuki Kato's enchanting performance. While Episode Final is undoubtedly going to leave you with more questions than answers in a lot of aspects, for me at least, it managed to provide an immensely satisfying end to Ryuki's narrative that didn't feel like a complete reset of the status quo. It makes for a heroic last stand as these characters resign themselves to their fate, yet still fight for all that's good in the world to the bitter end.

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The any % speedrun

Essentially, speedrunning Ryuki's original fifty-episode narrative over the course of a 50-minute runtime, 13 Riders had a lot of potential in crafting an engaging what-if companion piece to the TV show, even allowing kids to vote on the ending. Unfortunately, it all ends up as a wasted opportunity and definitely feels like it should be way longer than it is; most likely, it's a case of this being a primetime special that had to be welcoming to unfamiliar viewers. Little time is spent on fleshing out the narrative outside of the most basic of setups before we're flung headfirst into the special's plentiful action. Granted, all the action is incredibly well shot, thanks mainly to the direction of long-time tokusatsu director Ryuta Tasaki; however, the narrative is exceptionally hollow, with little justification given for the events surrounding said action. It just feels like an excuse to parade the last 3 Riders who didn't appear in the show for some reason in front of the camera. All three of whom do very little to leave a lasting impression, not from a lack of trying, but more from a lack of screen time, at least the cast are all still on form. Most egregious of all for me, at least, is that they got frigging Keiichi Wada to play Ryuki's original ill-fated host, before altogether dropping him less than a minute in. This would have been so much cooler had he been the main focal point of this special, seriously, Toshiki Inoue, I know you are better than this. Regardless of the ending you choose for 13 Riders, it still feels like an extension of the show rather than something entirely separate, a bit darker and more mysterious, but with just as much flair and humour, regardless of all the in-universe rule-breaking taking place.

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In the end, only one Rider can remain.

One of the more popular and highly regarded Kamen Rider shows, Ryuki, is an odd beast. Its fifty-episode length certainly feels unwarranted, but when combined with the show's complex depiction of justice and outstandingly choreographed action, it can make for immensely satisfying viewing. The humour doesn't always work and can even be detrimental to the tone the series is trying to maintain, especially given the high amount of emotional plot beats during the final stretch. Many episodes feel very meandering, focusing on a small cast of characters and emphasising the sillier elements; it all feels like a different show entirely, where the Rider Fight is merely an afterthought.

It's difficult to buy into Shinji's antics at the start, but thankfully, it seems the writers realised this and gave us a second Rider to follow right from the get-go with Ren. They make for an intriguing double act early on, with Shinji's carefree attitude contrasting heavily with Ren's more personal involvement in the big battle royale. The problem arises when nearly every character introduced, even the small one-offs, has their own arc and journey, which leaves many of the leads fighting for screentime; it makes the series feel cramped when it has a whole other dimension to explore.

As this show features a whopping ten Riders to keep track of, with some having a greater impact than others, it can be a challenging follow. Some turn up and leave just as quickly as they are introduced, while others stick around for a lot longer. Imperer and Scissors are examples of the former more than the latter. Their ultimate deaths are also a mixed bag, with Scissors' demise only there to serve as a warning to the fate that will befall the rest of the cast, while Raia's death is utterly soul-destroying, signalling a change in direction for the rest of the run.

Production-wise, it feels very much of its time; the reliance on CG ultimately dates the show quite severely, but the direction usually more than makes up for it with the musical score being generally delightful to listen to, even if it's somewhat repetitive. The cast all do a great job with the material, bringing a range of different levels of energy to their roles. It's hard to single out any standouts when they are all good.

Honestly, I think Ryuki is just alright in the end. The mystery regarding the Kanzaki siblings doesn't do a lot for me, especially when it's plainly evident that Shiro is the big bad from the moment he's first mentioned. Still, when the show is focused on each Rider and their individual goals, I was hooked. It's a show where I wish the core elements were just a bit more consistent because it had all the potential to be a winner, especially with its brutal gut-punch of an ending. Still, I did enjoy watching the show, and am looking forward to checking out Dragon Knight one of these days.

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They work hard for the money.

There is a bouncy '50s feel to Tsui Hark's lightning-paced blue-collar comedy, Working Class. One that represents a communal place of camaraderie and bright, day-glo dreams with an abnormal amount of political hubbub amid the four-colour fun. It may be a relatively straightforward comedy, but the film still exhibits Hark's incredible ability to add something to even the most well-trod narratives, showing us how life can be pretty unrighteous and hard to get through, but that man can find the meaning of life even in the most imponderable and trivial places and really be happy. The performances are hilariously exaggerated, as are most of Teddy Robin's ridiculous sunglasses and the bottle of baby oil used to keep an often-shirtless Sam Hui out-glistening his dry-looking castmates, while the romance between Hui and the always stunning Joey Wong is adorable. The best thing is getting to see Tsui on screen... he is such a cool guy, oozes charisma and intelligence, while his direction is as scattershot and screwball as ever, with some very well-handled comic scenarios that manage to move from cliché to humour, all brilliantly underscored by a not-so-subtle and incredibly catchy Canto-synth cover of Donna Summer's She Works Hard For The Money. Those expecting innovation may be disappointed by Working Class, but the film is ultimately a dazzling little gem in Hark's impressive filmography, one that's guaranteed to leave a smile on your face.

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Possesses a cultural specificity and an incisive understanding of people

Rich with local detail, Chicken and Duck Talk serves up plenty of slapstick, overacting and situation comedy thanks to its satirical look at Hong Kong culture and its robust understanding of its locals. The conflict between ingrained cultural institutions, such as the Hong Kong-style café, and corporate chains like McDonald's has long been an issue in Hong Kong, and the film smartly satirises that situation. Be it the reactionary tactics that are exaggerated business strategies, using fast, cheap imitation as a way to give the business an edge. Or writer and star Michael Hui's pragmatic, penny-pinching ways are an exaggeration of the Hong Kong people and the film's local pride, whether appropriate or inflated. Ordinary people can be lousy, and the emotions they operate from are so basic that it's easy to understand and even sympathise with them. People are naturally difficult, and Michael Hui captures that reality clearly and with self-deprecating humour. While the film has mostly good intentions and a very moral heart to it, it does slip up on occasion with some questionable production values, lacklustre direction, generous overacting and dated humour. That being said, Richard Yuen delivers a suitably funky score which includes not-so-subtle riffs on both the classic James Bond theme and, bizarrely, Streets of Fire. I can't believe I even caught that. Qualifying as an accurate, if exaggerated, primer on the daily lives and ingrained values of Hong Kong and its people, Chicken and Duck Talk is imbued with a generous amount of energy that's difficult to hate, even when it's got sit-com style family conflicts, sudden introductions of sentimentality or mild cases of xenophobia.

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