The 68th San Francisco International Film Festival
The 68th San
Francisco International Film Festival (SFFILM) returns
April 17-27, 2025, with 150 films from more than 50
countries. This year's festival features 11 World Premieres,
10 International Premieres, 10 North American Premieres, and
6 US Premieres. But what truly defines SFFILM 2025 is its
commitment to emotional storytelling and global
perspective.
Similar to last year, there is a remarkable presence of films
through the lens of Asian and Asian American filmmakers at
this year's festival. Here are a few samplers.
(You may click on each still image for the corresponding
screening or event's show time and ticket information.)
Isle
Child (USA 🇺🇸/South Korea
🇰🇷 | in English/Korean | 88 min.)
Based on his short film "Si,",
writer-director Thomas Percy
Kim expands his story into a tender and emotionally
layered debut feature "Isle
Child." It follows Si Miller
(Ethan
Hwang), a Korean American teenager whose comfortable
life in Massachusetts is shaken when he learns that his
South Korean birth mother is terminally ill. Though raised
by his loving adoptive parents, the news stirs questions
of heritage and identity that Si has never faced
before.
Kim handles the subject of transracial adoption with
restraint and emotional intelligence. Rather than hinge
the drama on trauma or rejection, the film charts a
subtler course, focusing on the emotional ambiguity that
surfaces when a young person begins to feel untethered
from the life they thought they understood.
Ethan
Hwang's performance is quietly riveting and conveys
Si's outward confidence and inward vulnerability with rare
subtlety, capturing the emotional turmoil of a young man
caught between two worlds. The film's terrific
cinematography paints a vivid portrait of Si's journey of
self-discovery, visually framing his world as both
familiar and suddenly foreign.
"Isle
Child" is a delicate, beautifully realized
meditation on family, identity, displacement, and the
universal yearning to understand where we come from and
where we belong to. It's one of the must-see world
premieres at SFFILM 2025 and marks Thomas Percy
Kim a major new voice to watch.
Happyend
(Japan 🇯🇵/USA
🇺🇸/Singapore 🇸🇬/UK
🇬🇧 2024 | in Japanese | 113 min.)
The writer-director Neo Sora's
"Happyend"
is a subtle and intimate examination of friendship,
identity, and the quiet forces of control that shape
everyday life. Set in a near-future Tokyo, the film
follows two high school boys, Yuta (Hayato
Kurihara) and Kou (Yukito
Hidaka), whose once unshakable bond is tested by both
personal tensions and broader societal pressures.
Yuta and Kou's friendship feels effortless at first: a
deeply rooted connection forged over years of shared
habits, private jokes, and unspoken understanding. It's
the kind of closeness that seems destined to last. But
when a seemingly harmless prank prompts their school to
implement an invasive surveillance system, the balance
between them begins to shift. What begins as a shared
rebellion slowly exposes a growing rift--between risk and
caution, belonging and otherness, complicity and
resistance.
Sora renders their evolving relationship with sensitivity
and restraint, capturing the subtle ruptures that mark the
end of adolescence: a hesitation before speaking, a
silence that stretches too long, a feeling that someone
you once knew so well is starting to drift out of
reach. The film is especially attuned to the specific
challenges Kou faces as a non-citizen in Japan—a status
that makes him more vulnerable to both institutional
scrutiny and social exclusion. His growing awareness of
the injustice he faces contrasts sharply with Yuta's
relative indifference, whose position as a citizen shields
him from the same stakes. This imbalance quietly but
decisively alters the dynamic between them.
Rather than dramatizing the painful process of growing
apart, the film lets these tensions accumulate in the
background, creating a portrait of disconnection shaped as
much by social realities as by emotional change. The
distance between the boys isn't just the result of
growing up, it's a reflection of the structures that
privilege some while marginalizing others.
With "3670",
director Joonho
Park offers a layered and emotionally honest story
about entering a new life—and the risks of letting
yourself be seen. The film follows Cheol-jun
(Cho Youhyun), a North
Korean defector trying to establish himself in Seoul, as
he cautiously begins to explore the city's gay scene. It's
his first real taste of personal freedom, and it comes
with uncertainty, desire, and moments of quiet joy.
Cheol-jun meets Yeong-jun (Kim
Hyeonmok), a magnetic and popular local who frequents
the convenience store where Cheol-jun works. At first,
Yeong-jun is simply a friendly presence, gently
encouraging Cheol-jun to step outside his comfort
zone. But their friendship deepens in unexpected
ways. Yeong-jun, despite his charm, carries his own
doubts—especially after failing to enter
university. Though he's drawn to Cheol-jun, he hides his
feelings, believing he doesn't measure up. As Cheol-jun's
feelings grow, Yeong-jun begins to pull away.
Chou
Youhyun as Cheol-jun and Kim Hyeonmok as
Yeong-jun in 3670
The film captures this shifting emotional terrain with a
mix of intimacy and rawness. There are dramatic
confrontations, charged moments when vulnerability meets
frustration, but they're grounded in character. Park
skillfully reveals how two people can mean a great deal to
each other while still holding themselves back, and how
unspoken love can be just as painful as rejection.
Kim
Hyeonmok delivers a remarkable performance as
Yeong-jun. His portrayal is charismatic and subtle,
balancing confidence with deep-seated insecurity. Kim
makes Yeong-jun feel real, lived-in, and unforgettable.
"3670"
is both a personal story of queer longing and a window
into a very specific emotional world: one shaped by class,
culture, and the quiet negotiations we make to protect
ourselves.
The Botanist
(植物学家 | China 🇨🇳 2025 | in
Kazakh/Mandarin | 96 min.)
In her assured debut feature, "The
Botanist," writer-director Jing Yi
crafts a visually poetic and emotionally restrained film
set in a remote Kazakh village in China's Xinjiang
region. The film follows Arsin (Jahseleh
Yesl), a 13-year-old Kazakh boy
with a deep fascination for plants and scientific
observation. His quiet life, shared with his grandmother
and older brother, unfolds in rhythm with the landscape
and traditions that shape his everyday world.
Arsin's most meaningful relationship is with Meiyu
(Ren
Zihan), a Han Chinese girl around his age whose family
also lives in the village. Their friendship is gentle and
curious, built on shared games, nature walks, and a quiet
intimacy that hints at something deeper. The cultural
differences between them are acknowledged but not dwelled
upon—what matters most is their sense of closeness,
which grows as naturally as the environment around them.
When Meiyu learns she'll soon be leaving for boarding
school in Shanghai, the impending separation introduces
the idea of divergence—between childhood and adolescence,
between tradition and modernity, between those who leave
and those who stay. Arsin, whose imagination and love of
nature serve as emotional anchors, must face the slow
realization that the life he cherishes may not hold the
people he loves forever.
With understated performances and a dreamlike structure,
"The
Botanist" evokes a deep emotional world
without forcing drama. Its quiet strength lies in what's
left unsaid. Through Arsin's
perspective, Jing Yi
captures the subtle tension between rootedness and change,
and the fleeting beauty of a connection formed in a world
just beginning to shift.
Cloud
(クラウド | Japan 🇯🇵
2024 | in Japanese | 124 min.)
In "Cloud,",
the acclaimed writer-director Kiyoshi
Kurosawa delivers a sharply focused and unsettling
portrait of a man drifting through the mechanics of modern
life, only to find himself in over his head. Yoshii
(Masaki
Suda) is a quiet, meticulous online reseller whose
sham business takes a turn after he upsets someone in the
business.
What begins as a study of routine and detachment gradually
builds toward moments of violence that, while not entirely
expected, feel disturbingly plausible. Kurosawa doesn't
shock for the sake of surprise—instead, the
intensity emerges naturally from the characters' shifting
dynamic and the slow erosion of boundaries.
Suda
anchors the film with a restrained yet compelling
performance. His character doesn't undergo a dramatic
transformation but reveals an unsettling capacity for
control and misjudgment as tension simmers beneath his
composed exterior. The relationship with his assistant
becomes the emotional core, not in romantic or sentimental
terms, but as a study in power, ambiguity, and tension.
Cloud is a film about the quiet slipperiness of moral
boundaries, made all the more disturbing by how ordinary
its world feels. Kurosawa's control of tone and pacing
reinforces the sense that in this world, violence doesn't
feel like a rupture—it feels like a possible outcome
of inaction.
Winter in
Sokcho (Hiver à Sokcho | France
🇫🇷/South Korea 🇰🇷 2024 | in
Korean/French | 104 min.)
Adapted from Elisa Shua
Dusapin's award-winning novel, Koya
Kamura's "Winter in
Sokcho" is a quiet, contemplative film about
proximity, distance, and the emotional limbo of mixed
identity. Set in a coastal town in Korea, Sokcho, during
its off-season slumber, during its off-season slumber, the
film follows Sooha (Bella
Kim), a young Franco-Korean woman working at a small
guesthouse, whose routine is disrupted by the arrival of
Yan Kerrand (Roschdy
Zem), a French comic artist researching his next book.
Koya
Kamura builds the film around visual stillness and
subdued rhythms. Snow-draped streets, dim interiors, and
long, quiet takes heighten the sense that life is
paused—or perhaps suspended in translation. There's a
tension between what the characters express and what they
hold back, communicated through glances, silences, and
brief, sometimes awkward exchanges.
Bella Kim
conveys Sooha's internal conflict with impressive
subtlety, hinting at a longing to connect but also a
reluctance to expose too much of
herself. Roschdy
Zem's performance leans into quiet observation; his
Yan remains at a remove, not cold but
cautious—curious, yet unsure how to engage beyond
surface impressions.
"Winter in
Sokcho" isn't about resolution or emotional
breakthroughs. It's about living between two languages,
two cultures, and the moments when we feel closest to
someone just as they begin to drift away.
The Dating Game (USA
🇺🇸/UK 🇬🇧/Norway
🇳🇴 2025 | in Mandarin | 92 min. | Documentary)
In "The Dating
Game," director Violet Du
Feng examines China's male-focused dating industry
through the lens of a weeklong coaching bootcamp led by
dating instructor Hao. In a country with a significant
gender imbalance—tens of millions more men than
women—Hao's business promises clients a shortcut to
connection, attraction, and, ultimately, a girlfriend.
Instead of genuine emotional growth, however, the camp
delivers scripts: tactical conversation starters,
"push-pull" psychological techniques, and curated personas
built for impression management. Hao instructs his clients
to treat dating as a formula—a matter of timing, control,
and self-presentation. The film observes this process with
steady, sometimes troubling detachment, showing men
repeatedly performing these strategies on unsuspecting
women in public spaces.
The three clients featured differ in background and
demeanor. One is quiet and reserved, another more eager
but socially inexperienced, and the third seemingly more
confident yet still awkward in practice. Rather than
diving deep into their inner lives, the film focuses on
how they engage with Hao's lessons—and how little
those lessons seem to help. Hao's wife appears briefly,
offering a limited female perspective on the work he
does. But the film largely avoids interrogating the
broader emotional or ethical consequences of his methods.
A brief but jarring segment on virtual dating, where women
maintain emotional relationships with AI-generated
boyfriends, is introduced late in the film. While
intriguing, it feels disconnected and underdeveloped,
adding a side note about the emotional isolation cutting
across gender lines without tying it back to the main
story.
By the end, none of the men leave transformed, and the
effectiveness of Hao's coaching is dubious at
best. "The Dating
Game" captures a curious slice of modern
China's dating landscape but stops short of delivering
insight or critique. Instead, it quietly raises a more
unsettling question: Is Hao a sincere teacher, or just
another opportunist capitalizing on widespread loneliness?
