Reviews

This is an indie film, with inexperienced actors, an obviously non-existent budget and directors who are at least new-ish to the trade. I tend to be extremely lenient with films like these, because there's usually a lot of passion that went into making it, and stories are more often than not deviating from the mainstream.

So, yes, I don't mind the wonky audio quality or how the change between scenes is often less than smooth. I can focus on how the actors do their best (and mostly succeed) and on the interesting camera angles.

What I do mind is if the script is not good. You don't need a high budget to write a good script -- you need a vision. And I think this is where the weakness of this film lies.
The three stories are very good -- on their own. The shy and confused boys experiencing their first love feels very grounded in reality, the close-ups and the wonkiness of the camera work support the viscerality of the story. The second changes genres -- from slice-of-life to horror: And this, too, has interesting lighting and camera angles, and is quite well written, with somewhat of an open end even. And the third returns to a more sensitive topic, and this screenplay makes us feel for all three men in just twenty minutes.

In the last few minutes, the script tries to tie the three storiess together -- but ultimately fails. There's a theory in the comments on MyDramaList, but the mental twisting it requires to make it work (and even then there are too many details that just don't fit) makes me think that these originally were three seperate stories, maybe even sperate projects.
letterboxd lists three directors for this project, and the difference in styles in the three stories indicate that each one was directed by one director. I suspect that they only noticed at the end of their work that they maybe should try to make the stories into one, which is why things don't really fit together.

In my view, they did their project a disservice by doing so. Each of the stories is not bad on its own; this could have been a simple omnibus. Each of the stories shows a different age in life already (teenagers, young adults, adults). The Thai title เพราะรัก...ไม่สิ้นสุด "Because Love ... never ends" would make a perfect starting point for a journey through the stages of life; just choose some middle-aged actors for the third story, and you already have it.

The three directors chose to do differently, but I don't think it works well enough.



Was it good?
Each of the stories were not bad for an indie production. The whole doesn't make sense, unfortunately.

Did I like it?
If I pretend that the stories are independant from each other, then yes.

Who would I recommend it to?
To those who want to peek into the history of Thai gay cinema. Not to BL fans who are used to recent productions and want everathing to have the same production quality.

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What We Choose Not to Take

I rewatched this on Netflix recently, and it immediately took me back to those wuxia movies I used to watch with my dad. Half asleep, half understanding the plot, but fully absorbed in the feeling. That slightly dreamy, slightly melancholic atmosphere that sticks even when the details fade, firmly rooted in a different era of filmmaking.

Coming back to it now, I understand the story much better, but strangely, it still works in much the same way. It’s less about what happens, and more about what stays with you afterward.

The setup is pretty simple. Li Mu Bai, a legendary swordsman, decides he’s done with the martial world and asks Shu Lien to deliver his sword, the Green Destiny, as a kind of final goodbye. Of course, that doesn’t go as planned; the sword gets stolen, and suddenly this quiet exit turns into a chase that pulls everyone back into a world they were trying to leave behind.

That’s where Jen (Yu Jiaolong) comes in.

At first, she comes across as the familiar restless noble girl, dissatisfied with the life arranged for her. But the more you watch, the more it becomes clear that her struggle isn’t just about restriction, it’s about direction. She’s highly skilled, trained in secret, capable in ways she shouldn’t be, but that ability doesn’t stabilize her. If anything, it pushes her further off balance. It’s like giving someone wings before they’ve learned where to land.

Her dynamic with Shu Lien is one of the most interesting parts. Shu Lien sees right through her, sees both the potential and the recklessness, and tries, in her own way, to guide her. But Jen doesn’t want guidance. She wants freedom, without limits, without consequences. And the film keeps quietly asking: what does that kind of freedom even look like?

Meanwhile, there’s this entire undercurrent with Jade Fox, Jen’s mentor, who represents something darker: bitterness, resentment, someone who was shut out of the martial world and never really moved past it. You start to see how Jen could easily end up the same way, just with better sword skills.

And then there’s Li Mu Bai and Shu Lien.

Their story almost seems like it belongs to a different movie: quieter, older, heavier. They’ve known each other for years, clearly care about each other, and yet nothing ever happens. Not because it couldn’t, but because they chose not to. Honor, loyalty, timing, whatever it is, they let it pass. Watching their relationship feels like looking at a road not taken for too long.

The action reflects all of this rather than distracting from it. The rooftop chase feels like Jen testing how far she can push her freedom. The famous bamboo forest scene isn’t just visually striking—it plays out almost like a conversation neither side knows how to resolve. Shu Lien stays grounded, controlled, rooted. Jen moves like she doesn’t want to be held by anything at all. It’s less about who wins and more about what each of them represents.

And then the ending.

Jen goes to Wudang Mountain with Lo, the one person who represents a different kind of life for her: simpler, maybe more honest. He tells her that story again, about the man who jumped off the mountain and had his wish granted because he believed. And she just… jumps.

And that moment can mean a lot of things. Maybe she believes in the legend. Maybe she wants freedom in the only way she can define it. Or maybe she’s just tired of not belonging anywhere: too wild for one world, too constrained for another. It doesn’t feel like a triumphant ending, and it's not meant to be. It feels more like someone finally letting go, even if we don’t know what that leads to.

What stood out to me most on rewatch is how little the film insists on anything. It doesn’t guide you through every emotion or spell out its themes. It leaves space, but that space can also create distance. Some moments feel intentionally understated, while others feel just out of reach, especially if you’re looking for a more direct emotional connection. Like a conversation that ends without a clear conclusion, but stays in your head anyway. The movie doesn’t meet you halfway; you have to go to it, and not every viewer will respond to that approach.

Visually, it holds up effortlessly. It’s more like it doesn’t age because it never tried to look trendy in the first place. Natural light, real movement, no over-processing. it feels closer to something you remember than something you just watched.

A strong 8.5 upped up to a 9, not just for the fantasic action or the layered story, but for the way it lingers around questions of choice, consequence, and what people leave undone.

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This movie should not be called an adaptation.

Absolute garbage of an adaptation. The fanfics writers can write a better adaptation script than whatever this production's writers did. I can list so many things that is wrong with this movie and English is not even my first language.

First of all - the adaptation itself. Rather than calling this an adaptation, this should be labelled as inspired by ORV. The characters are OOC and the world building isn't even the same. Where's the constellations? Where's my Uriel?! What's the point of the star stream with just dokkaebis and no sponsors?? The dokkaebis doesn't even appear much, minds you. I've read that someone said that this is literally alien train to Busan and I couldn't agree more.

Second of all - the actors itself. No shade for the actors but damn the lines sounds soulless. Maybe it's the problem from the script itself so that's not really their fault. But you can definitely see that most of the budgets went to hiring the cast instead. I rather they hire unknown actors to save the budgets and focus more on improving everything else when making this.

Lastly - the CGI. Oh my god, I thought it was AI at first. It was that bad. Though, I will blame it on the budget because I know that the VFX artists didn't get enough pay to do this shit. Although, if I don't know this is an adaptation, I would watch this garbage based on the action/fantasy/apocalypse genre alone. Yeah, I am that starved but you can see how much of a slop this adaptation is.

Well, that's all I can think of when writing this. I think I have more but as I write, the rage makes me forgot the contents that I want to add here. Thanks for reading my ranting and I think if you bothered to read all of this, maybe you should read the original ORV novel or manga instead of watching this movie. Unless you don't mind horrible storyline and massive amounts of plot holes (and all that I complained above) then it's your poison. hands-up.jpg

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The souls of the deceased return to the world one last time when their families come to say goodbye.

Heartwarming and heart-wrenching.

Fittingly, this film is dedicated to the memory of Ryōko Sasa (佐々 涼子), the author of the original novel, who passed way between the release of the series and the film.

If you enjoyed the series, you will love this. If you’ve never seen the series, I highly recommend watching it first, but I think the film stands on its own. Either way, make sure you have a box of tissues nearby.

The stories of the deceased are varied across multiple demographics, so it’s likely that anyone watching will be rocked by at least one of them. The subject matter is heavy and you’ll go on a roller coaster of emotions. Between the sad and uplifting moments there is some light comedy to break everything up.
You won’t notice the 139 mins runtime because the editing is done well and doesn’t linger on any one story for too long.

Yonekura Ryoko leads a great cast. Everyone including the Japanese and international actors did a great job of portraying the emotions of the characters.

Diegetic music is used well to aid in telling the stories and non-diegetic music is beautiful and understated.

I will rewatch this along with the series when I’ve forgotten enough about the stories and I’m in the mood to be punched in the gut again.

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In Greed We Trust

Most thrillers follow a predictable path, but The Stone pulls off a brilliant bait-and-switch. What starts off as a standard quest, slowly reveals itself to be a heist movie where the protagonists don't even realize they’re in a heist.
It's constantly flirting with the "urban legend" vibe, and it relies on the truth that in this world, religion isn't just faith—it’s a business, and everyone is a con artist.
The "truth" here is cynical: belief is just another commodity to be bought, sold, and stolen.

Instead of just tracking the plot, the movie focuses on the degradation of its characters. Ake’s journey is particularly brutal.
It’s pathetic, heart-wrenching, and entirely believable because the movie has done such a good job of isolating him.
On the other side, you have Sunthorn (The Amulet King) this mysterious and almost cartoonish figure, but also a terrifying parent. The psychology of this film is about how quickly "family legacy" can turn into a cage.

The director trusts his audience, which is always a treat. Dialogue is stripped back, the ambience and music do most of the heavy lifting. The sound design is phenomenal! There's that "sick-sick" harmonica/rock hybrid track that creates an almost train-like intensity at some point. It's amazing!
The cinematography is a trip. Visually, the film transitions from the vibrant, chaotic, colorful Pantip Ngamwongwan Market to a somber, high-contrast style as the trust dissolves.
One highlight? Probably this one action scene filmed from a top-down angle, its precision felt more like a piece of art than a standard action scene. The words masterfully slick come to mind.

This movie made me wince, gasp, and eventually, laugh out loud.
It’s visceral ; breaking fingers like breadsticks is not for the faint of heart. But there is a Machiavellian humor here that kept me from going insane. Like that glare Ake’s is giving the cop. That was perfect comedic timing.
The film is brutal, yes, but it’s the kind of trauma that comes from being truly engaged by a piece of art.

As a newcomer to Thai cinema, this film felt like a crash course in the "Amulet World." It’s fascinating how a small, portable object can become the center of gravity for an entire underground economy.
The film leans into the irony that these holy objects are surrounded by the most unholy people. It’s a powerful commentary on how religion acts as a tool. Some wield it for protection, others to manipulate, and some (like Ake) just get crushed in the middle. It’s a bold look at faith as a powerful, dangerous, and very real social construct.


Other appropriate headlines might include :
- Blessed, Conned, and Brutalized
- Faith, Fraud, and Fingers
- Amulet-World : From Market to Mayhem
- Who's Got the Biggest... Amulet?

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Mission Obvious

Mission Cross had a strong cast saddled with flatly drawn characters and action. It lacked what a sexy thriller that blatantly copied some Mr. and Mrs. Smith moments requires, at least a modicum of chemistry between the leads. I like both actors but it was hard to understand how they ever ended up--or stayed--married.

Detective Kang Mi Seon, aka The Crocodile, is less than thrilled with her school bus driver and house husband, Park Gang Mu. They’ve been married for a few years and her kindest compliment is that she could have done worse. She leads a team tracking down drug dealers and a missing CEO, and stumbles upon a secret government cover-up. Park Gang Mu works hard to make Kang’s day easier any way he can in the new life he has chosen. He is contacted by an old spy friend whose husband has gone missing. Though Park had given up his undercover life he is willing to come out of retirement to help old friends. The spouses unknowingly begin working on the same investigation from different angles.

The first hour of the film dragged for me as Kang’s team thought that her “wifey” was having an affair. Park’s instincts had definitely rusted as he never realized he and Jang Hui Ju were being followed and photographed by the bumbling detectives. He also never questioned anything. I kept hoping he and another spy were playing a con on the Big Bad, but nope. They were the ones being played by a patently obvious fake out. Made me lose all respect for them. The writing was painfully bland with no surprises. At least Kang was a competent police officer which was a nice change of pace.

The film didn’t become more engaging until the last 30 minutes and even then, the fights were badly staged. The Big Bad overacted. The fire fights weren’t shot very well. The cinematography and direction lacked a professional, polished look to them. Basically, given the cast, I was disappointed. This paint by numbers script had no depth or originality, no spark. Hwang Jung Min and Yeom Jung Ah deserved better.

19 April 2026

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“More than expressing myself, I destroy—in my own way.”

Within the highly prolific period of the so-called Nikkatsu Action—particularly between 1960 and 1962—"Youth of the Beast" (1963) stands as one of the most significant turning points in the trajectory of Seijun Suzuki.

Some critical readings—often shaped by a rather rigid, auteur-driven perspective—tend to interpret Suzuki’s cinema as inherently pessimistic rather than programmatic, drawing on the ideas of another “outsider,” only seemingly distant, such as Jacques Rivette, who believed that cinema should strip the viewer of clichés and project them into a destabilizing, even unsettling dimension.

A strong idea, one that aligns surprisingly well with Suzuki’s aesthetic: a cinema that does not build, but dismantles, that does not reassure, but exposes. And yet, it is interesting to observe how the so-called B-movies of the late 1950s—apparently indebted to American hard-boiled aesthetics—would, in retrospect, prove to be among the most transformative moments of his career.

From an initially and inevitably imitative model, a gradual stylistic and cultural hybridization emerges, allowing Suzuki to introduce increasingly bold formal shifts: jump cuts not far removed from the lessons of the Nouvelle Vague (particularly Jean-Luc Godard), often eccentric widescreen compositions, sudden visual allegories, and an expressive use of color—elements that break away from the linearity of contemporary productions, which were generally more aligned with international trends (unsurprisingly, these were also the years in which Japan entered the aesthetic orbit of the James Bond phenomenon).

Within this framework, "Youth of the Beast" emerges as a work in which the hard-boiled matrix is not merely referenced, but fully absorbed and reworked. From its very first scenes, Suzuki introduces a key element through the play of reflections inside the nightclub.

Mizuno acts in front of a mirror that is far more than a simple visual device: it becomes a threshold. On one side, the gesture, on the other, the gaze. On one side, the action, on the other, its observation—as if it were already cinema within cinema.
And while all this unfolds, elsewhere—just a few meters away—the cabaret continues as if nothing were happening: music, bodies, lightness. Two planes coexist without ever truly touching, as if the picture itself refused to reconcile them. It is precisely within this disjunction that the first sign of a gaze already out of alignment begins to emerge, ready to fracture what initially appears perfectly readable.

Much of the film’s impact also lies in the magnetic presence of Jō Shishido, whose performance shapes a protagonist that seems to step directly out of the world of Raymond Chandler or Dashiell Hammett—filtered, however, through a distinctly Japanese sensibility.

Mizuno is, in every sense, an outsider private eye: a former policeman expelled for unorthodox methods, who inserts himself between two rival gangs in a structure reminiscent of a “servant of two masters,” only to reveal a far more personal objective—uncovering the truth behind his mentor’s death, too hastily dismissed as suicide. It is here that the picture fully descends into the territory of the bleakest noir.

The truth, far from restoring order, ends up eroding everything: it exposes, contaminates, destroys. And when the full picture finally comes into focus, what emerges is not justice, but a form of awareness that is irreparably compromised.

Suzuki builds this trajectory through a mise-en-scène that is violent, stripped down, almost brutal, yet constantly interrupted by visual insertions that resist any single interpretation: elements that seem to drift out of context, such as the yellow dust that invades the assault scene (and then the wind, an indispensable feature in the director's cinematic language), the sudden fall of the addicted woman, or abrupt eruptions of violence and sadism that oscillate between realism and abstraction.

These are images that do not explain—they suggest, unsettle, remain open. In this sense, the work does not simply tell a story; rather, it fractures it, distorts it, placing it under constant tension between narrative surface and something more elusive beneath it.

What emerges is a deeply corrupted world, permeated by a violence that spares no one. Within this universe, the portrayal of female characters takes on extreme contours, often tied to dynamics of manipulation, exploitation, and betrayal.
Seen through a contemporary lens, this aspect may appear problematic—but it can also be repositioned within the grammar of hard-boiled noir, where female figures often function less as causes of degeneration than as reflections of a world already compromised.

In this context, the protagonist’s so-called 'misogyny' appears less as a moral stance and more as the byproduct of an environment in which every relationship is contaminated.
Mizuno himself is neither a traditional hero nor a straightforward anti-hero. He operates according to a personal code—seemingly more stable than that of the other characters, yet far from irreproachable. In a world where everything is tainted, his position inevitably begins to crack: he is not detached from the violence that surrounds him, nor from its most ruthless logic.

The ending, in this sense, is revealing. Mizuno does not simply expose the truth—he actively shapes its outcome, deliberately closing a cycle of violence that leaves no room for redemption.
It is precisely in this gesture—lucid, fully conscious—that the character’s ambiguity comes into focus: not a judge, not a savior, but someone who, while holding onto a personal moral line, ultimately shares in the same dark substance of the world he moves through.
What remains is a sense of emptiness, almost exhaustion—as if, once the mechanism has been revealed, there were nothing left to preserve.

In this regard, "Youth of the Beast" is not only a remarkably effective noir, but one of the most accomplished expressions of the internal tension that defines Suzuki’s cinema: an unstable balance between form and sabotage, between adherence to genre and its gradual dissolution.

An image that offers no foothold, seeks no redemption—and because of this, retains an extraordinary power even today.

9/10

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I came across this movie because of ding yuxi, I just recently became a fan and watched all his dramas. This movie is a beautiful tragic love story. But it was too short, fast paced and confusing . I was confused about the ending and ended up searching for the novel. I read the novel and I should say it made me understand the characters better but at the same time the movie plot was also very different from the novel with just a few similarities. I don’t think I have it in me to rewatch this movie even after reading the book. The actors were great I cried when they cried and all and the scene at the ocean and the wedding was beautiful.
Comparing the novel to the movie the novel was a roller coaster of emotions and the movie was just tragic and sad. But both had somewhat happy endings.

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What the hell did I just watch!?

This movie reminds me a lot of a Chinese film called “Love Story in London”. Both represent productions that destroy themselves by pouring money into filming abroad, but fail where it matters most which is the story.

With that said, I completely disagree with the above-8 rating of this show on MyDramaList. It’s completely illogical to me, maybe just reflecting mad fans’ love for the male lead. And it serves as proof for producers that even a stupid work can still be profitable if you hire a lead with a solid fanbase.

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Official Review
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There are basically 3-4 storylines in this movie:

1. The ML’s refugee life
2. The FL’s family problem
3. The FL's problem with mafia gang
4. The romance between the leads

And 3 out of 4 storylines are extremely problematic.

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🍅 The FL’s family problem
The movie tries to tell us that the FL had a deep bond with her mom since she’s extremely furious about the mom's euthanasia. But it never shows her relationship with either parent. Not before the mom’s death and not after.

The dad seems decent, reasonable and caring, but we barely see any real interaction between them. The FL gets involved with mafia gang and drugs, but her dad seems to be completely unaware. He seems to only label her as rebellious because of grief, which feels shallow.

Then at the end, when she suddenly has to flee the country because the mafia is chasing her, the dad isn’t even that surprised or concerned. He just helps her get a plane ticket and lets her go - alone. This is a wealthy, well-connected man with access to top lawyers, yet he makes no real attempt to properly resolve his daughter’s situation.

And the issue is simply that the FL is financially indebted to the mafia. So, why doesn’t her dad just pay it off and solve the problem, at least in one way?

Instead, it’s the ML who decides that she has to leave the country without turning back.

How does such a decisive solution come from a naive, inexperienced refugee applicant who barely knows the country, can’t even speak the language and has only just arrived?

Also, the FL holding onto anger for three years makes no sense. She’s not a child. Her mom made her own decision, yet the FL is enraged at her father and reacts by publicly destroying her mom's memorial ceremony like a kid throwing a tantrum even three years later. If the FL is this childish, how come the father feels at ease to let her go out of the country to an unfamiliar new place alone at the end? This only feels unconvincing.

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🍅 The FL's problem with the mafia

I have no idea why two mafia groups want the FL so badly. The only thing I can infer is that the leader of the first gang might have feelings for her, but there’s no real romantic behavior to support that. The only indication is him killing members of the other gang at the end to keep her with him. But then later, it turns out he’s just following orders from a higher-up to kidnap her to Germany.

So what is it exactly - what’s so valuable about the FL that makes her worth all this?

Honestly, this is just a mess. It’s illogical and full of contradictions. I don’t find any bit of the mafia storyline convincing at all. They’re not intimidating. They don’t act with any real urgency or seriousness, and they let the FL, who owes them money, slip away too easily.

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🍅 The romance between the leads

Their relationship doesn’t convince me at all.

There’s nothing clear about how their feelings develop. Especially for the FL, who is already drowning in her own problems and has teenage shallow hostile attitude toward life, including the ML, most of the time. There's nowhere in the movie showing that the uneducated, poor-look ML is attractive to her. So where does this “deep love” come from?

When they suddenly start having sex, it completely caught me off guard because there was no buildup at all. The ML also seems decent in bed, as if he’s experienced, which doesn’t match his background of having no education while living with his mom his whole life.

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🍅 The ML’s refugee life

I'm already tired of all the disarray in this film, so let me not go too deep into this. Just that the process and details aren’t accurate while the tone of this film is realistic.

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Things in this movie are just too illogical. They try to juggle 3-4 storylines but never really commit to developing any of them properly. It feels like the writing team brainstormed a few random ideas, then didn’t bother to shape them into something coherent or at least filter out the weaker ideas.

In the end, it just comes across as a number of half-baked plots forced together onto one plate

𓂃 ✦ 𓂃

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Why Chinese Wuxia Outclasses Modern Action Films

Western action often asks, “How can we keep you excited?” Chinese wuxia often asks, “How can movement itself carry meaning?”

Watching Blades of the Guardians is not just another wuxia film, it feels like a full-scale revival of martial arts cinema at its highest level. Exceptional fight choreography that Western films will never match: long, fluid sword fights with real weight and timing, emphasis on physical skill, rhythm, and spatial clarity. Large-scale battles (desert ambushes, duels in storms) feel organic, not like CGI-heavy spectacle. Here, every hit is readable and meaningful, almost like dance choreography with lethal consequences. The desert combat feels grounded and creates a level of tension many Hollywood blockbusters no longer achieve; you can feel the danger instead of just seeing effects. The film’s landscapes, deserts, ancient cities, war-torn borders are not just backgrounds; they function like characters. Sandstorms become battle arenas. Fire and dust shape the rhythm of combat. The cinematography leans into mythic, almost legendary imagery, which paradoxically feels like art rather than violence for the sake of it.
Blades of the Guardians offers visible technique and training, clear fight geography, real impact in every strike, emotion tied directly to combat, and a respect for martial arts as an art form, not just spectacle. It feels “more real,” “more intense,” and even “more cinematic” than most Hollywood action films today. It leans fully into what wuxia does best: honour, betrayal, survival across impossible landscapes, and combat that feels like storytelling itself. It is not just an action movie, it is a reminder that cinema action can still be handcrafted, elegant, and emotionally charged at the same time. If Western action represents controlled spectacle, Blades of the Guardians represents chaotic poetry with blades.
I loved it because the wuxia approach stays intimate even when the scale is large. It feels like watching internal codes of life and death being tested in real time. In contrast with the peak of modern Western action design, fast, engineered, and globally oriented, Blades of the Guardians represents a more traditional, almost philosophical approach to action, where movement itself carries meaning beyond plot function. That is why they feel so different to watch, and I loved it. One is built like a high-speed machine; the other feels more like a crafted ritual.
The Chinese wuxia approach won me over because it treats action as expression rather than logistics. In wuxia, and in Blades of the Guardians, a fight is not just a way to move the plot forward, it is the emotional and narrative moment. You feel character, history, and philosophy inside the choreography itself. The pacing is slower, but that slowdown is intentional: it allows tension, body language, and spatial awareness to become part of the storytelling. Instead of cutting away from complexity, it leans into it. The rhythm is carefully balanced, with moments of wit and humour that lighten the intensity without breaking immersion.
There is also a stronger sense of visual clarity and craftsmanship. The choreography is designed so you can actually read what is happening: footwork, distance, weapon control, rhythm. That creates a different kind of engagement. You are not just reacting to explosions or edits; you are following a physical conversation between characters.
Western blockbusters often build tension through external stakes: preventing a global disaster, stopping a bomb, outrunning time. It’s exciting, but it’s structural. Chinese martial arts cinema often builds tension through internal codes, honour, loyalty, betrayal, destiny, sacrifice. That makes even smaller moments feel heavy, because the conflict is not just physical but moral and personal.
There is also a philosophical layer that I find richer. Wuxia traditions often come from ideas about discipline, balance, fate, and the meaning of violence itself. The action is not just spectacle; it is connected to identity and worldview. That gives the film a kind of depth that feels less common in many Western action franchises, which are often more focused on momentum and entertainment efficiency, and for which is the reason I don’t go to the cinema anymore. Blades of the Guardians has artistic depth, visual readability, emotional weight inside action, and choreography as storytelling. I highly enjoyed it.

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