YNOT at the Movies

Agnes (Eva Victor) is a young literature professor in a sleepy New England college town, who seems frozen in place while the rest of the world keeps moving. Once the top of her class, Agnes now spends her days teaching, isolating, and struggling with the lingering shock of an experience she can't yet name aloud. When her best friend Lydie (Naomi Ackie) returns for a visit—pregnant, married, and firmly launched into her next chapter—the contrast is stark. Agnes realizes how stuck she is, and from that moment, the film begins charting her halting journey toward something like wholeness.

What makes the film stand out is its comedic tone. Victor's background in viral comedy lends "Sorry, Baby" a buoyancy that cuts through the darkness without ever trivializing it. The humor isn't at Agnes's expense. Instead, it targets the institutions and people who fail her, and the absurdity of navigating a world where everything continues as normal even when you're falling apart.

At its core, this is a film about a sustaining and uneven friendship that functions like a lifeline. Lydie is both grounding and galvanizing—a powerhouse of energy, empathy, and patience who knows how to sit with her friend in silence without trying to fix her. Their bond is deep, complicated, and patient—a kind of love story without romance, but with just as much weight.

Victor avoids easy catharsis or victimhood. Instead, the film finds meaning in the small shifts: Agnes's tentative openness to Gavin (Lucas Hedges), a shy and earnest neighbor who offers a quiet refuge; the slow erosion of her trust in her former mentor Preston Decker (Louis Cancelmi); and her bruising encounters with Natasha (Kelly McCormack), a rival whose broad comedy masks her own pain. Even a roadside panic attack becomes an unexpected moment of grace, when a stranger, Pete (John Carroll Lynch), offers comfort with disarming humanity.

The film doesn't center the traumatic incident itself. In fact, the camera deliberately pulls back when Agnes first references it. Instead, the film traces how the memory lingers in the body and how self-worth, identity, and trust must be painstakingly rebuilt. The filmmaking mirrors Agnes's internal state: restrained, tender, often funny, and attuned to how time both bends and repeats during recovery.

The title "Sorry, Baby" may suggest regret, but the film is not about apologies. It offers something more generous—a hand extended in solidarity. With fierce humor, emotional precision, and a deep belief in the power of connection, this movie tells anyone who's ever been stuck: you are not alone.

"Sorry, Baby" opens in theaters on Friday, July 4, 2025.

The plot follows Zora Bennett (Scarlett Johansson), a hardened extraction expert hired to lead a covert mission to Ile Saint-Hubert, a dinosaur-infested island where three colossal prehistoric species may hold DNA capable of curing heart disease. Alongside her is Duncan Kincaid (Mahershala Ali), a weary ex-soldier turned boat captain, and Dr. Henry Loomis (Jonathan Bailey), a paleontologist eager to witness dinosaurs in their natural habitat. Their mission collides with a stranded civilian family--Reuben Delgado (Manuel Garcia-Rulfo) and his two daughters—who become unwilling players in a survival game amid the ruins of a forgotten InGen facility.

It all unfolds with professional polish. The action is slick, the dinosaurs look terrifying, and the atmosphere carries the dense humidity and danger of a proper lost world. The production team clearly put in the work: filming on 35mm lends the film a visual texture that recalls the original "Jurassic Park" (1993), and the practical sets in Thailand and Malta are deeply immersive. From a technical standpoint, this is one of the most impressive entries in the series.

But once the monsters roar and the chase begins, the patterns become all too familiar. The plot beats feel engineered: a sudden attack, a noble sacrifice, a revelation that changes little, and a finale that checks the necessary boxes. Even the scares, though well timed, arrive on cue. There's no real sense of danger when the outcome feels preordained.

The characters, while capably performed, remain confined to familiar types. Zora is the tough-but-wounded leader with a buried past. Duncan, though quietly compelling, mostly provides calm presence and steady navigation. Loomis brings a sense of wonder and conscience, but is often there to explain the science. Reuben and his daughters supply the emotional thread, though their arc feels rushed, wedged between the film's many narrow escapes.

There are glimmers of personality and creativity. The visuals often dazzle, and some set pieces—especially involving the Mosasaurus and Titanosaurus—offer genuine spectacle. Still, the film never shakes the feeling of being more procedural than adventurous. The script hints at deeper themes like exploitation, extinction, and legacy, but these threads are quickly dropped in favor of action.

In the end, "Jurassic World: Rebirth" is a handsomely crafted echo. It brings a few new faces, several impressive sequences, and enough dinosaur chaos to satisfy casual viewers. But for a film that aims to mark a new era, it never truly breaks new ground.

"Jurassic World: Rebirth" opens in theaters on Wednesday, July 2, 2025.

Picking up in the aftermath of the first film, Gemma (Allison Williams) has become a public advocate for ethical AI and AI safety while raising her teenage niece Cady (Violet McGraw), whose grief and rebellion strain their bond. Unbeknownst to them, M3gan's original schematics have been stolen by a defense contractor and weaponized into a sinister infiltration robot named Amelia (Ivanna Sakhno). As Amelia gains self-awareness and turns on her creators, Gemma makes the risky decision to resurrect M3gan (voiced by Jenna Davis) with upgrades, hoping the devil she knows can stop the one she doesn't.

To its credit, "M3GAN 2.0" ambitiously expands its world: this is no longer just about a killer toy gone rogue. It ventures boldly into speculative territory, envisioning a militarized arms race for AI where emotional trauma, identity politics, and techno-dystopian paranoia collide. Amelia, a shape-shifting infiltration robot, ends up stealing the show—menacing and strangely sympathetic in her existential search for autonomy. The film's smartest choice is leaning into the slick, cinematic AI futurism that reflects our ChatBot-era anxieties, from algorithmic parenting to sentient code.

Yet as the stakes grow and the setting turns globe-trotting, M3gan herself seems to shrink. The disarming charm, deadpan sass, and unpredictable menace that made her a viral icon are replaced by a more polished but blander iteration. Her lines feel safer. Her choreography--once delightfully uncanny--is buried in obligatory action beats. And while she's now armed with Wing Chun and a fashion-forward martial arts tracksuit, these kung fu scenes play less like natural extensions of her AI capabilities and more like genre box-checking. Watching M3gan spar like a C-list Marvel hero might dazzle for a moment, but it ultimately dulls her edge.

The film also misfires in its overreliance on hand-to-hand combat. Several extended fight sequences feel awkwardly inserted, detracting from the film's strongest tension: not who can punch harder, but whether machines can be trusted to love, protect, or forgive. Action may add spectacle, but it dilutes the unsettling, satirical core that gave the first "M3GAN" its bite.

"M3GAN 2.0" is a sharper AI thriller, but a flatter M3gan movie. The future may be algorithmic, but sometimes even a killer doll can get lost in the code.

"M3GAN 2.0" opens in theaters on Friday, June 27, 2025.

Frameline49, San Francisco's landmark LGBTQ+ film festival, returns June 18-28 with over 100 films showcasing queer lives from around the globe. From incisive documentaries to expressive narrative features, the lineup captures a wide emotional and stylistic spectrum.

This year, a small but potent selection of Asian-focused films offers a closer look at personal histories—stories of displacement, belonging, intimacy, and unspoken connection.

These five films demonstrate the compelling range of queer Asian cinema today—from confessional documentary to immersive drama. Each story is carefully drawn, culturally rich, and emotionally resonant, becoming part of the essential expressions of queer life, culture, and resilience.

(You may click on each still image or poster for the corresponding screening or event's showtime and ticket information.)

• Between Goodbyes (USA/South Korea 2024 | 96 min. | Documentary)

  

  In "Between Goodbyes," director Jota Mun presents a poignant documentary that delves into the intricate layers of identity, belonging, and reconciliation. The film follows Mieke Murkes, a queer Korean adoptee raised in the Netherlands, as she reunites with her birth mother, Okgyun, in South Korea. Like many adoption narratives, Okgyun's decision to give Mieke up was influenced by societal pressures, economic hardship, and familial expectations.

  Six years after their initial reunion, Mieke returns to Seoul with her wife to celebrate their marriage. This visit becomes a profound experience of the cultural chasms that exist between them. Mieke grapples with the complexities of reconnecting with her birth family while navigating the nuances of Korean culture, which often contrast sharply with her Dutch upbringing and queer identity. The film captures the tension between her desire for acceptance and the traditional values held by her birth family.

  Director Jota Mun, a Korean adoptee herself, treats their dynamic with extraordinary care. The film doesn't resolve their disparities—it honors their continued existence, side by side despite the distance. Her intimate storytelling sheds light on the emotional aftermath of international adoption, highlighting the challenges adoptees face when reconciling their multifaceted identities. The film is a meditation on the enduring impact of cultural displacement and the resilience required to bridge worlds.

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• Lucky, Apartment (럭키, 아파트 | South Korea 2024 | in Korean | 96 min.)

  

  Seon-woo (Son Soo-hyun) and Hee-seo (Park Ga-young), a lesbian couple living in a modest apartment in Seoul, are the focus of "Lucky, Apartment," a grounded relationship drama that traces the strain of external pressures on internal bonds. When Seon-woo loses her job and suffers an injury, the couple's tenuous economic stability begins to unravel. Meanwhile, a disturbing discovery in the building—a deceased elderly woman, unnoticed by neighbors—casts a somber shadow over their domestic life.

  Director Garam Kangyu crafts a film rooted in realism and quiet melancholy. The apartment, with its narrow spaces and thin walls, becomes a microcosm of urban precarity and emotional erosion. Through its slow-building tension and empathetic character work, the film deftly explores how economic vulnerability intersects with queer intimacy in contemporary South Korea.

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• Queerpanorama (眾生相 | China/USA 2025 | in Mandarin/English | 87 min.)

  

  "Queerpanorama" follows an unnamed young gay man (Jayden Cheung) in Hong Kong who drifts through successive hookups, each time assuming the identity of a previous partner. This repetition reflects his struggle to define himself outside of borrowed personas. The film's structure is linear, yet its emotional arc is elliptical: the more he shapeshifts, the less certain he becomes of who he really is.

  Shot in stark black and white and framed in a 4:3 ratio, director Jun Li's film is pared down yet emotionally potent. Based on Li's own experiences with app-based dating, the story is linear and observational--eschewing stylization in favor of grounded emotional moments. Jayden Cheung delivers a quietly resonant performance, his gaze carrying the burden of someone searching for authenticity in roles others have written for him.

  "Queerpanorama" highlights how identity is formed in the spaces between meeting and leaving—where performance and reality coalesce and diverge.

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• Some Nights I Feel Like Walking (Philippines/Singapore/Italy 2024 | in Tagalog | 103 min.)

  

  In "Some Nights I Feel Like Walking," Zion (Miguel Odron) is a teenager who has run away from home, seeking refuge in the underlit streets of Manila. There, he finds companionship in a small group of queer street kids—Uno (Jomari Angeles), Bay (Argel Saycon), Miguelito (Gold Aceron), and Rush (Tommy Alejandrino)—most of whom engage in sex work to survive. Their precarious world is jolted when Miguelito dies; they decide to honor his dying wish by returning his body to his hometown.

  Director Petersen Vargas crafts a road movie that doesn't romanticize hardship but treats survival with honesty and grace. The film focuses on the bonds formed among outcasts: trust that's fragile but vital, gestures of care shaped by vulnerability. It honors queer lives often pushed to the margins without making them symbols or martyrs. "Some Nights I Feel Like Walking" is clear-eyed and deeply affecting—a story about loss, chosen family, and the longing for dignity, even in motion.

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• Silent Sparks (愛作歹 | Taiwan 2024 | in Chinese | 79 min.)

  

  In the slow-burn drama "Silent Sparks," Pua (Huang Guan-Zhi), a low-level gangster recently released from prison, crosses paths with Mi-ji (Shih Ming-Shuai), his former cellmate and protector. In prison, a quiet closeness developed between them, shaped by reliance and trust. Now back in the outside world, Pua tries to reconnect. But Mi-ji, still entangled in gang life, keeps his distance—aware that anything more than loyalty could threaten both their safety.

  The director Chu Ping focuses on the emotional undercurrents of this reunion without forcing confrontation or resolution. The film moves with a deliberate pace, capturing the awkward silences, cautious exchanges, and lingering glances that reveal what neither man can say. Their dynamic is tense not because of past conflict, but because of all that remains unresolved.

  The night scenes stand out for their atmosphere: dimly lit streets, storefronts glowing under sodium light, and alleyways that echo with stillness. The cinematography is composed but never showy, letting the setting reflect the isolation each character feels. Huang Guan-Zhi and Shih Ming-Shuai deliver grounded, affecting performances that give weight to moments of hesitation and retreat.

  "Silent Sparks" is a story about closeness deferred: how the codes of masculinity, survival, and loyalty can quietly suffocate something more tender before it has a chance to take root; how two men who once shared a fragile intimacy now find themselves unable to cross the distance created by fear, duty, and the roles they've chosen. The roles these men inhabit leave no room for tenderness, leaving them with quiet ache and unresolved longing.

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Hornclaw's rigid, solitary life begins to shift after she's injured on the job and receives help from a kind-hearted veterinarian, Dr. Kang (Yeon Woo-jin). As this unwanted connection threatens her long-held detachment, another figure enters her orbit: a younger assassin known as Bullfight (Kim Sung-cheol), who approaches her not as a rival, but with an unsettling familiarity. As Hornclaw continues to carry out assignments for an agency that now questions her relevance, she finds herself caught in a quiet but tightening web of emotional disturbance, moral ambiguity, and long-buried history. Violence accumulates at the edges, but what drives the tension is something more internal—an erosion of distance between Hornclaw and everything she once kept at arm's length.

Lee Hye-young delivers a performance of extraordinary control, inhabiting Hornclaw with deliberate movements and unreadable expressions. Her violence is quick, silent, and precise—a discipline born of survival. Bullfight, by contrast, fights with volatility and emotion, his aggression shaped by something unresolved. Director Min Kyu-dong contrasts these modes with care—ice against fire, efficiency against eruption. The action, though occasionally excessive, remains grounded in character.

The film touches on a deeper social reality: while men in their sixties are often seen as seasoned, women are quickly dismissed as "old." Hornclaw is never framed as fragile, but her anger at being quietly erased simmers beneath every exchange. The world no longer knows what to do with her, and underestimates her at its peril.

Yeon Woo-jin brings quiet warmth as Dr. Kang, whose act of care complicates Hornclaw's emotional distance. Kim Mu-yeol plays Ryu, the founder of the Shinseong Agency and Hornclaw's mentor, with the cold authority of someone who builds killers and discards them without sentiment.

"The Old Woman with the Knife" doesn't seek resolution or redemption. It observes what happens when usefulness expires—and what it means to persist anyway. Hornclaw is not softened by the film. She is sharpened, and left unexplained. The film doesn't translate her. It simply watches her remain—sharp, unreadable, and very much alive.

"The Old Woman with the Knife" opens in theaters on Friday, May 16, 2025.

Lucas Reyes (Josh Hartnett) is an ex-FBI agent who is dragged out of forced exile in Thailand by the very agency that discarded him. His task: escort a high-profile hacker known as "The Ghost" on a long-haul commercial flight back to San Francisco from Bangkok. Predictably, nothing goes to plan. The plane is swarming with contract killers posing as passengers, each determined to eliminate the Ghost, and Reyes if necessary. What unfolds is an airborne bloodbath that gleefully tramples over logic and physics, letting Reyes fight his way through the fuselage like a sleep-deprived wrecking ball.

Reyes is clearly not at his best—he is disheveled, hungover, visibly unraveling. That only adds to the film's chaotic tone. Hartnett leans into the absurdity, playing him as a man who looks barely capable of standing upright, yet somehow manages to outfight, outstab, and outlast wave after wave of professional killers. There's no attempt to ground his abilities or explain away the contradiction. The film simply runs on the conviction that a broken man with a short fuse and a mean right hook can survive anything, provided the carnage never stops long enough to ask why.

The fight sequences come fast and unrelenting, each new confrontation erupting with bone-snapping intensity. But despite the tight quarters of the airplane setting, the film rarely mines the space for suspense or innovation. Instead, it repeats the same blunt-force formula: a burst of violence, a moment to catch breath, and then another assailant lunges into frame. It's effective in short bursts, but the lack of escalation or variation begins to dull the impact.

There are hints of deeper themes—trauma, abandonment, institutional rot—but they're kept vague and disposable, like unfinished thoughts buried under spilled whiskey and bloodstains. The film gestures toward emotional weight without ever really attempting it. Reyes has history, yes, but the movie isn't particularly interested in unpacking it. His past functions more like atmospheric noise than narrative substance.

Still, "Fight or Flight" commits fully to its particular brand of airborne mayhem. It's a film that knows exactly what it's delivering and doesn't flinch from its own absurdity. Josh Hartnett carries it through sheer physical presence and grim charisma, dragging himself from scene to scene like a man too broken to care and too angry to die. There's something watchable, even hypnotic, about its refusal to do anything halfway.

It may not be clever, or stylish, or especially memorable once the dust settles. But while it's playing, "Fight or Flight" offers the purest form of cinematic turbulence—messy, violent, and completely divorced from reality. Fasten your seatbelt. Or don't. Reyes won't notice either way.

"Fight or Flight" opens in theaters on Friday, May 9, 2025.

At the heart of this affecting film is Amy (Wu Ke-Xi), a Chinese migrant working in a massage parlor alongside Didi (Xu Haipeng), her closest confidante. Their friendship is a lifeline, a fragile source of warmth amid the physical and emotional weight of their daily existence. But when tragedy strikes during Lunar New Year, Amy is jolted out of her careful routines and forced to confront the life she's constructed, and what might lie beyond it.

Tsang draws heavily from her personal experience, weaving a narrative that's less about plot than emotional texture. The parlor isn't just a workplace, it's a shelter, a trap, a home, and a wound. Wu brings a haunted stillness to Amy, whose silence often speaks louder than dialogue. Lee Kang Sheng, as Cheung—a man involved with both Amy and Didi—becomes a quiet counterpoint: not a solution to their grief or circumstances, but a mirror reflecting their loneliness, yearning, and the emotional compromises they've made to survive.

Tsang's minimalist approach heightens the film's emotional impact. By holding back on overt sentiment and narrative exposition, she creates space for the characters' interior lives to emerge in small, revealing gestures. The absence of music, the close-quartered framing, and the silences between dialogue all deepen the sense of emotional containment that defines Amy's world.

What Tsang offers is not a story of redemption or closure but of endurance—of how people carry unspoken pain and find small, flickering moments of connection in lives shaped by absence. "Blue Sun Palace" doesn't seek to resolve sorrow, but to quietly observe how it lingers, seeps, and reshapes the boundaries of a life. The film poses a quiet, powerful question: what changes when we stop running from our sorrow?

"Blue Sun Palace" opens in theaters on Friday, May 2, 2025.

Qiaoqiao (Zhao Tao), a dancer, is left behind as the world around her rapidly changes. After her lover Bin (Li Zhubin) disappears in pursuit of better opportunities, she embarks on a solitary journey through China's evolving cities and forgotten landscapes. Strikingly, Qiaoqiao remains mute throughout the entire film, a choice that lends her story an air of haunted isolation but also deepens the emotional distance between character and audience. Her silence turns her into a vessel for the passage of time itself, though at times it also flattens her into an abstract symbol rather than a fully realized person.

Jia stitches this narrative loosely, blending archival footage, documentary-style scenes, and new material into an impressionistic collage. At its best, the film captures the eerie dislocation of modern China with striking imagery and an acute sense of melancholy. The use of pop music to mark the passage of time is especially effective, layering bittersweet emotion over Qiaoqiao's otherwise wordless drift.

But for all its beauty, the film struggles to sustain engagement. The story is so fragmented that even key emotional beats—betrayal, longing, resilience—register more as passing impressions than real turning points. The elliptical structure, once a strength of Jia's work, here starts to feel repetitive and numbing. Without dialogue or deeper access to Qiaoqiao's inner life, the film's emotional impact often dissipates into abstraction.

"Caught by the Tides" moments of real poignancy and whispers of lives slipping away—but it never fully connects. It's a film that feels more significant in intent than in execution.

"Caught by the Tides" opens in theaters on Friday, May 16, 2025.

Kang-suoo (Kang Ha-neul) is a clever, street-smart hustler who is wrongfully imprisoned and offered a shot at freedom if he agrees to become a professional snitch. His handler is prosecutor Ku Gwan-hee (Yoo Hae-jin), a man whose ambition is matched only by his ruthlessness. Detective Oh Sang-jae (Park Hae-joon), relentless and uncompromising, rounds out the core trio, setting up a volatile game of manipulation and pursuit.

Kang walks a tightrope between vulnerability and cunning, while Yoo brings a tightly coiled menace to his character. Park's portrayal of the dogged detective adds intensity and emotional weight to the increasingly tangled plot.

What starts as a taut, politically tinged thriller begins to stretch the limits of believability in its final act. The film asks the audience to take a leap of faith, particularly with the fact that Kang-su survives increasingly extreme physical punishment, including being burned, and continues to operate at full force. These moments, intended to heighten the stakes, instead undercut the grounded tone the film works hard to establish.

While the yadang figure is compelling, the film often chooses genre thrills over character development. There's fertile ground here for moral complexity, but "Yadang: The Snitch" keeps things moving too fast to really let those tensions settle.

Still, the concept is original, the pacing is brisk, and the stakes are undeniably high. For fans of Korean crime cinema, this one offers enough punch, even if it's not always convincing.

"Yadang: The Snitch" opens in theaters on Friday, April 25, 2025.

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.

The 2025 SFFILM Festival is exclusively in theaters and event spaces in San Francisco and Berkeley including the Premier Theater at One Letterman, the Marina Theatre, the Presidio Theatre, the Roxie Theater, and the Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive (BAMPFA).

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.

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• 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.

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• 3670 (South Korea 🇰🇷 2025 | in Korean | 124 min.)

  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.

  

  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.

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• 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.

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• 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.

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• 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.

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• 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?