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Shoplifters (2018): The Stolen Family and the Theft of Belonging

There is a moment in Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Shoplifters (2018) that lingers like a slow exhale—a family, crowded on their cramped porch, listening to the distant sound of fireworks they cannot see. They tilt their heads upward, imagining the colors bursting over the Sumida River, their faces bathed in the glow of something just out of reach. It is a scene of profound tenderness, yet beneath it runs an undercurrent of absence, a reminder of all the things this family will never have. This duality—the warmth of connection and the cold reality of survival—lies at the heart of Kore-eda’s Palme d’Or-winning film, a story that dismantles the myth of family as sanctuary and exposes the quiet violence of a society that fails its most vulnerable.

At first glance, Shoplifters appears to be a simple tale of an unconventional household. In this film, the warm hues of family life unfold gently—almost deceptively—under the Tokyo sun. The film begins like a tender lullaby. A man and a boy, Osamu and Shota, return home after a casual shoplifting errand. Their small house is overcrowded yet brimming with life. There’s the tough but loving Nobuyo, the grandmother Hatsue, a young woman named Aki, and eventually, Yuri, a neglected girl quietly absorbed into the household after Osamu and Nobuyo find her outside in the cold. These strangers, sharing no blood, form what appears to be a loving, makeshift family. The scenes that follow are familiar in their intimacy: shared meals, whispered secrets, children at play. Many viewers, understandably, read the film as a tribute to the power of chosen families—those born not of biology but of care, circumstance, and mutual need.

Yet to view Shoplifters as merely a heartwarming tale of familial love is to miss the sharp blade beneath its velvet surface. Kore-eda, a filmmaker renowned for his ability to weave delicate human dramas into broader social critiques, is never content with surface-level sentimentality. In fact, the director has been unequivocal about his intentions: this is not a film about love, but about the failures of society. “Love is the surface,” he once said. “The real substance is inequality, injustice, and the structures that marginalize people.” What appears to be a celebration of found family is actually an autopsy—one performed with delicate hands, but no anesthesia.

The early parts of the film draw us in with the aesthetics of comfort. Kore-eda’s direction is subtle, graceful, immersive. A steaming bowl of noodles, a glint of sunlight through a frosted window, the quiet sigh of a child being tucked in—all become gentle strokes in a picture of domesticity that seems too fragile, perhaps too perfect, to last. He captures daily life not with drama, but with rhythms so ordinary they feel sacred. It’s in this softness that the film earns the trust of its audience. Yet, the warmth of these moments is always shadowed by an unspoken question: Why are these people together? The answer, when it comes, is as devastating as it is inevitable. 

The illusion begins to unravel when Shota is caught stealing. This seemingly small incident triggers a police investigation that unravels the family’s carefully constructed fiction. The authorities, representing the rigid structures of society, cannot comprehend a family built on something other than legal or biological ties—they have gathered like driftwood, assembling themselves into something resembling a raft, floating against the current of Tokyo’s invisible but ruthless hierarchies. To the police, the Shibatas are criminals—not just for their petty thefts, but for daring to redefine what family means. In one of the film’s most heartbreaking exchanges, a detective asks Nobuyo, "Do you think children can be stolen?" Her reply—"You mean, like kidnapping? Or like saving them?"—cuts to the core of the film’s moral ambiguity. In this moment, the title of the film takes on new meaning. Not only have these people stolen to live—they have stolen their very family. They have stolen names, affection, roles. They are not a family in the eyes of the state. They are, in bureaucratic terms, a fabrication. 

Yet, Yuri’s biological parents abused her. Shota was abandoned. Aki was discarded by a family that preferred her younger sister. In a world that has failed them so completely, is it theft to offer shelter, or is it the only act of kindness left? Their love—if we dare to call it that—has always been real, hasn’t it? Nobuyo’s gentle touch as she bathes Yuri, Osamu’s attempts to teach Shota life skills, Aki’s subtle acts of care—all these gestures ring true, no matter the legality of their foundation. Kore-eda complicates the moral lens through which we view these characters. He does not offer them as saints or victims, but as people navigating a cruel economy with the few tools they’ve been given: their bodies, their instincts, their capacity to nurture in spite of everything.

But then, just as we begin to reconcile ourselves to the family’s truth, the film turns colder. Hatsue dies quietly. Her death is not announced. There is no funeral. The family buries her under the house and continues to collect her pension. The absence of mourning is chilling. Even Aki, the most emotionally expressive, quickly rationalizes: “People grow old and die.” What should have been a rupture becomes merely an inconvenience—a loss of income.

Here, Kore-eda performs a devastating reversal. He has spent an hour building a cottage of warmth, only to burn it down in front of us. Slowly, unflinchingly, he reveals the calculations that underpin this family. Hatsue was allowed to stay because of her pension. Yuri was accepted because Nobuyo could not have children of her own. Aki remains because her sex work contributes income. Even Osamu and Nobuyo’s marriage is tinged with a shared past that is never fully disclosed but suggests guilt more than affection. Eventually, the family dissolves—Yuri returned to her abusive home, Shota placed in an institution, Nobuyo imprisoned—it is not with grand tragedy, but with quiet resignation. The system, inflexible and indifferent, reasserts its order.

It is in this unraveling that Shoplifters stops asking whether these people love one another, and starts asking: why are they like this? Why have they been left with so few options? The film’s gaze turns from its characters toward the structures that shaped them. A state that fails to protect a child from abuse. A system that forces women to sell their bodies while punishing them for it. A society that offers so little to its elderly that even their deaths must go undocumented.

And yet, Kore-eda is not interested in blame. He does not accuse. He observes, with painful precision. He shows how empathy from strangers—the grocer who forgives Shota, the brief hug from a deaf boy—offers warmth, but no solutions. These moments are moving, but fleeting. They do not change the family's fate. The warmth, like everything else in the film, is temporary. What lasts is the question: if our systems punish people for creating families outside the norm, then what options do they truly have?

In the film’s haunting final image, Yuri, now returned to her biological family, stands at a window, watching distant fireworks. Her face is still. We do not know what she is thinking. We do not even know if she remembers. But in the silence of that moment, Kore-eda plants his final question: was the love she received—stolen though it may have been—any less real than the one society now insists is rightfully hers?

Shoplifters is a quietly ferocious film. It asks us to reconsider everything we think we know about love, care, family, and justice. It resists catharsis. It withholds redemption. And in doing so, it becomes something rare: a portrait of the human condition that does not beg to be understood or resolved, but simply witnessed. What we take from it—whether despair or clarity or hope—is left entirely up to us.

In the end, Kore-eda offers no answers. He only takes away our illusions, one by one, until we are left with the simple, unbearable truth: in a society that fails its most vulnerable, even love becomes a crime.

Before I Fall: A Story of Self Agency

What, or rather who, is the creator of change in our lives? This was the question running through my brain in the days after I watched the film “Before I Fall”.  

Samantha Kingston is a typical, popular, teenager– caught up in her social circle, dismissive of those around her, and blissfully absorbed in her seemingly perfect life. On Valentine’s Day, she wakes up happy, wrapped up in excitement about her relationship, or the number of roses they would get today, too distracted to notice the casual cruelty of her and her friends, whether it’s to her own family, classmates around them, or the boy who’s quietly loved her for years. This culminates at a party that night, where they have a tense (definitely an understatement) encounter with Juliet, the girl they’ve spent years bullying. They leave the party laughing– that is, until their car crashes. Surprisingly, Sam wakes up in her bed in the morning… only to find it’s Valentine’s Day again. And again. As the day continues to repeat over and over, as she desperately tries to solve how she can make it stop, we finally begin to see her look at her life as someone other than the one living it.

Often, we are so caught up in our lives that we forget that it’s not just something happening to us but through us. This is the disconnect the film chooses to explore, starting off with a focus not just on Sam, but the person she is within the bubble for her friends. The camera reflects this illusion: tight shots keep the girls centered, and the rest of the world blurs into irrelevance. The music is exciting, the dialogue effortless– it gives us the fantasy of teenage popularity, where life is simply fun. This illusion shatters the moment Sam is alone. The camera becomes still, wide, observant. As the world comes into itself, Sam, in contrast, becomes small. The scene at the party with Juliet is the turning point– both morally and visually. The girls' performance turns menacing, reflected by the harsh red lighting and pulsing music, their offhand cruelty no longer background noise we can ignore but a giant crack in our view. This moment reveals the cost of their behavior, on those that live outside their curated frame, particularly Juliet who is led to decide that life is no longer worth it.

As Sam relives the day, the camera subtly shifts. The once-tight shots now linger longer on her, who stands out with quiet hesitations and fractures in microexpressions. The film uses repetition to reveal. This culminates in Sam’s quiet but essential realization: that much of her life has been shaped by social scripts. When she decides that nothing matters, that the day will always reset, she gains freedom. With the barriers of expectation (and the consequences of not following through with them) lifted, she experiments. She chooses differently. The world finally opens up to her. 

This idea of a clearer self-perception is paired with a shift away from self-centeredness. Sam’s character arc is unique in that it’s rooted in observation. As the day continues to repeat, Sam becomes less of the protagonist of her story and thus able to recognize and appreciate the existence and richness of other lives around her. She uses her time not to work on herself as a traditional redemption arc does, but on what she had hurt in others, from the hurt of her family, the boy who had always seen her, or those her friend group had hurt. Her final act is one of selflessness. When Juliet, weighed down by years of pain, reaches a breaking point, Sam makes a choice. By putting herself in harm’s way and sacrificing herself, she offers Juliet a reason to believe her life matters. In that moment, Sam’s journey comes full circle when she chooses to make her final day not about herself as she had done for the years before, but about saving someone else.

While the movie portrays this day as a time loop, I began to view it as different pathways, a metaphor for the existence of agency. Even though everything starts the same– the scenes, the angle of the shot, the people in it– each day ends differently. Nothing changes, yet so much does, all because of the deliberate choices Sam makes.

When we watch movies, we awe at the unrealistic yet perfectly wild situations the characters find themselves in, stories of magic, fate or teenage love. It’s undeniably beautiful and exciting. We can’t help but wait, wishing for something like that to happen in our lives, to find ourselves on the other side of that screen. That’s what I love about this movie– how it translates the feeling of possibility. One seemingly ordinary day had the possibility to transform into a chance to mend relationships, repair years of hurt, discover true love, or save someone’s life–  it reminds us that our lives, too, are filled with unrealized potential. That we can create the stories we remain in awe of.

“What you do today matters. In the moment, and maybe into infinity.”

Burning (2018): A Fiery Exploration of Class, Desire, and Existential Hunger

Lee Chang-dong’s Burning (2018) is a film that refuses to be easily categorized. It begins as a quiet character study, morphs into a psychological thriller, and ultimately reveals itself as a searing critique of modern alienation. Adapted from Haruki Murakami’s enigmatic short story Barn Burning, the film transcends its source material, weaving a tale that lingers long after the final frame—not because it provides answers, but because it dares to sit with the unsettling questions of class, power, and the human hunger for meaning.

At its surface, Burning follows Lee Jong-su, an aspiring writer adrift in his own life. He is a man caught between worlds: between the rural poverty of his family’s failing farm and the distant promise of creative fulfillment, between his quiet infatuation with a childhood acquaintance, Shin Hae-mi, and his growing resentment toward Ben, the wealthy, inscrutable man who enters her life. The plot unfolds with deliberate slowness, each scene layering tension beneath seemingly mundane interactions. When Hae-mi disappears without explanation, the film shifts from a meditation on loneliness into something darker—an exploration of how power operates in silence, in glances, in the unspoken hierarchies that dictate who is seen and who is disposable.

The relationship between Jong-su, Hae-mi, and Ben is a study in shifting control. Hae-mi, vibrant yet vulnerable, exerts a fleeting dominance over Jong-su, drawing him into her orbit only to leave him stranded in her absence. Their intimacy is marked by hesitation—Jong-su’s hands hover uncertainly during their lovemaking, as if afraid to fully grasp what might slip away. And slip away she does, first to Africa, then into Ben’s world, where she becomes another object of his detached fascination. Ben, played with chilling precision by Steven Yeun, is the film’s most unsettling force. His wealth affords him an effortless authority, a way of occupying space that renders Jong-su’s existence small by comparison. He is polite, even charming, but his smiles never reach his eyes. When he casually mentions his habit of burning abandoned greenhouses—"plastic sheds that no one cares about"—the statement hangs in the air like a threat. Is it a confession, a metaphor, or simply another way for Ben to remind Jong-su of his own insignificance?

What makes Burning so compelling is how Lee Chang-dong refuses to reduce its tensions to simple villainy or victimhood. Ben’s cruelty is systemic, embedded in the way he moves through the world, rather than in any overt act of malice. In one haunting scene, Hae-mi recounts a transformative experience in Africa, her voice trembling with emotion, while Ben’s wealthy friends listen with polite, vacant smiles. Later, when another working-class girl takes Hae-mi’s place at one of his gatherings, the scene repeats with eerie similarity. The rich remain untouched; the poor are interchangeable. Jong-su, meanwhile, is left to navigate a world where his anger has no outlet, where even his attempts to assert himself—questioning Ben, searching for Hae-mi—are met with the indifferent shrug of a society that has already decided he doesn’t matter.

Beneath this class tension lies the film’s most haunting theme: the idea of hunger. Early on, Hae-mi tells Jong-su about the Bushmen’s distinction between "Little Hunger" (the need for food) and "Great Hunger" (the search for life’s meaning). For Jong-su and Hae-mi, both hungers go unmet. They are financially precarious, yes, but their deeper tragedy is their yearning for something beyond survival—a connection, a purpose, a way to be seen. Hae-mi’s nude dance at dusk, bathed in golden light, is one of the film’s most arresting moments precisely because it captures this longing. She is reaching for something ineffable, a moment of transcendence before the darkness reclaims her. Ben, by contrast, suffers from a different kind of hunger. His wealth has insulated him from material want, but it has also hollowed him out. His hobbies—burning greenhouses, collecting women—are the actions of a man trying to feel something in a world that has left him numb.

The film’s ambiguity is its greatest strength. Did Ben kill Hae-mi? The evidence is circumstantial, a collection of implications that Jong-su—and the audience—must piece together. But Burning is less interested in solving a crime than in exposing the conditions that make such crimes possible. The final act, in which Jong-su’s simmering rage erupts into violence, feels less like a resolution than an inevitability. In a society that grinds the powerless into dust, what else is left but fire?

By the time the credits roll, Burning has seared itself into the viewer’s mind. It is a film about invisibility, about the people society overlooks until they vanish entirely. It is about the quiet violence of privilege, the way a smile can be a weapon, the way a man like Ben can destroy lives without ever raising his voice. Most of all, it is about the hunger that never fades—the desperate, unfulfilled need for something more. Lee Chang-dong offers no easy answers, no cathartic justice. Instead, he leaves us with the image of Jong-su, naked and screaming in the snow, a man reduced to his most primal self. It is a cry of rage, of grief, of recognition: in a world that burns the disposable, sometimes the only answer is to burn back.

In the Mood for Love (2000): Mirroring as the Language of Love

Wong Kar-wai’s In the Mood for Love (2000), set in the 1960s Hong Kong, is a film that lingers—not just in the mind, but in the soul. It’s a story of near-misses and unspoken desires, a visual poem about love that exists in the spaces between words, glances, and footsteps. At its core, the film is built around the concept of “mirroring”, a structural and thematic device borrowed from Liu Yichang’s novel Intersection. This idea shapes every frame, every interaction, and every emotion in the film, turning what could have been a simple tale of infidelity into a meditation on fate, memory, and the elusive nature of love itself.

The concept of “mirroring” or “intersection” originally refers to a pair of stamps printed upside-down relative to each other—a visual paradox where two images coexist but never align. In In the Mood for Love, this concept manifests in the lives of the two protagonists, Chow Mo-wan (Tony Leung) and Su Li-zhen (Maggie Cheung), who discover that their spouses are having an affair with each other. Yet, rather than focusing on the betrayal itself, Wong Kar-wai constructs their relationship as a series of mirrored movements, near-encounters, and emotional echoes.

In the opening scene, main characters Mrs. Chan and Mr. Chow are shown launching parallel lives. They inquire about renting rooms on the same day, then move in next to each other at the same time. When Mrs. Chan ascends the stair after buying wontons; Mr. Chow descends the same stair on his way out to buy wontons. Their lives feel bound, mirror images, but they are separated by their marriages to others, and by the rigid social conventions of 1960s Hong Kong, where friendships between men and women outside of marriage are frowned upon.

The film’s conversations also use intersections visually. Left alone in apartments with a shared wall while their spouses work long hours, Mrs. Chan and Mr. Chow gradually find each other.  Through an innovative reverse shot sequence at their first dinner, Wang builds the notion of their parallel experience, and suggests a tension between their distance and their mutual attraction.  As they speak of their lives, they are shown in opposing symmetrical over-the-shoulder shots, but something more than a simple back and forth happens as the camera pushes to Mr. Chow’s face and then back to that of Mrs. Chan increasingly quickly, before returning to the slower, normative speed. Their exchange, for all its restraint, feels urgent, each cut an emotional impact of contact and separation. 

The most impressive use of mirroring comes in their four role-playing scenes—when they begin reenacting how their spouses might have begun their affair, the role-playing becomes a hall of mirrors. At first, the reenactments are clinical, almost investigative—they’re trying to understand how love could form between two people who betrayed them. But as they repeat the scenes, something shifts. The rehearsals blur into reality. By the fourth scene, they’re no longer acting; they’re confessing. The imagined affair of their spouses becomes the real, unspoken love between them. Wong Kar-wai shows us love not through grand gestures, but through the quiet, unconscious repetitions of daily life. The more Chow and Su mirror each other, the more their emotions become entangled—until the line between imitation and truth dissolves entirely.

One of the film’s most haunting lines is Ms. Chan’s whispered question: “I wonder how it began.” She’s referring to their spouses’ affair, but the question lingers over her own relationship with Chow. How does love begin? Why does it fade?

Wong Kar-wai tries to approach to the question in terms of what is not shown and another mirroring. The film utilizes the mirror twice to reflect the interlaced sexual appeal and desire of Chow’s wife and her lover.  The first occurrence appears in the bathroom scene, showing the reflection of silky pajamas on the bed, and the hazy lamplight conjures a sense of ambiguity along with the thick, red curtain and the layers and layers of clothing on the bathtub.  Later into the film, inside the bathroom where Mrs. Chow is crying, the mirror reappears but without showing her face.  The mirror image insinuates and symbolizes the undercurrent of desire, the reflection as unreliable as deception. Chow’s wife and Su’s husband are never fully seen—only glimpsed in reflections, heard through walls, or suggested by absence. In this case, the film employs mirrors as both literal objects and metaphysical constructs to reflect the illicit desire between Chow’s wife and Su’s husband while simultaneously obscuring it. Their infidelity is the ghost that haunts the frame, but Wang is less interested in the betrayal itself than in how its echo further mirrors back and shapes Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan’s relationship.

For Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan, the affair becomes a shadow script they unconsciously follow. Their initial interactions are marked by cautious curiosity, then by a performative reenactment of their spouses’ roles—as if by playing the parts of the betrayers, they might understand what their own marriages lacked. But in doing so, they inadvertently mirror the very intimacy they were denied. Their bond deepens not despite the betrayal, but because of it: the shared wound becomes the foundation of their connection. Yet Wong denies them catharsis. Their love remains suspended, unconsummated—a reflection of the affair that brought them together, yet one they refuse to fully step into. The mirrors in the film thus serve a dual purpose: they conceal the truth of the spouses’ infidelity, yet they also reveal the emotional truth of Chow and Su’s relationship. They are drawn together by the same forces that doomed their marriages, caught in a loop of desire and restraint.

Their love is defined by what isn’t said, what isn’t done. They never kiss, never confess outright, never cross the line into physical consummation. Instead, their romance unfolds in glances, hesitations, and the unbearable weight of things almost spoken. When Chow finally whispers his secrets into the ruins of Angkor Wat, it is not just a moment of catharsis—it is the ultimate act of mirroring. He speaks into a void, just as their love existed in the negative space of their lives.

In the Mood for Love is a film about what could have been. It’s about two people who almost loved each other, in a world that almost let them. The final “mirroring” is not between Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chen—it is between the love they shared and the love they lost.

Wong Kar-wai leaves the puzzle of love unresolved. Instead, he gives us beauty, longing, and the quiet ache of memory. And in doing so, he creates something timeless—a film that feels less like a story and more like a sigh.

In the end, In the Mood for Love isn’t just about love. It’s about all the ways love refuses to be defined. And that, perhaps, is why it still haunts us, decades later.

The Reality of Life in “Past Lives”

The scene opens in a dimly lit bar, sounds of soft conversation blending in with the clink of glasses. A group of three are in focus- two of them laughing, their bodies leaning toward each other in an effortless rhythm. The third sits stiffly, eyes darting between them, already given up on the pretense of a smile. A pair of strangers speculate about the nature of their relationship, asking the question “What are they to each other?”, the very question which sums up the film “Past Lives”.

“Past Lives” is the story of two people and the ways in which their lives intersect. Nora and Hae Sung’s story begins as childhood sweethearts as school children in South Korea, until Nora’s family emigrates to Canada. A decade later, they find themselves reconnecting online until they (particularly Nora) decide that their distance is too limiting of a factor, that they should instead focus on themselves. In the 12 years to follow, Nora meets Arthur, who she then gets married to. The final part of our story involves Hae Sung visiting Nora in New York after years of no contact, while the two characters wrestle with their past and connection.

I was struck by how real this movie felt, rooted in the raw, varied lens through which it depicts life and how people choose to view it.

Most romantic films start off with an ordinary set of characters who find themselves in a completely unrealistic scenario, the highs and lows eventually leading them to a happily ever after accompanied by the realization that they’re “meant to be”. For instance, we could take the classic “How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days” beginning with two seemingly normal individuals, each caught in their own work struggles, find themselves tangled in an absurd game trying to trick the other into either falling in love or walking away.

While “Past Lives” definitely maintains some elements of this foundation, it flips it on its head– rather than beginning with an ordinary setting that takes a wild turn, it has an almost idealistic premise– two children bound by a special, deeply felt connection. As they reconnect over the years, it isn’t circumstance or grand gestures that drive them together, but rather the weight of their own choices and the same unwavering sense of reality that ultimately pulls them apart. The typical dramatic conflicts are replaced with a more quiet, crushing emotional struggle, portrayed as lingering stares or microexpressions of hurt as they go about their daily life. 

It is made even more interesting through Arthur’s character, who, in a moment of both jealousy and vulnerability, highlights how great of a love story Nora could have had with Hae Sung, leaving Arthur to be the “American villain”. This movie does a great job at validating the existence of this relationship and the humanity of the “other guy”. Rather than having a clearly destined right and wrong person, viewers (including myself) are made to feel torn between Nora’s existing relationship and her potential with Hae Sung.

The way the film is shot places us into the role of onlookers- perhaps the speculative pair in the opening scene. For a romance film, music is surprisingly almost completely absent, with instrumental notes only emerging only at the most essential moments. Rather, we hear car horns, small hitches in breath or the lag of the zoom call, allowing life to feel unembellished. The film creates space for both the characters and the audience to simply exist, breathing in each moment. The only intentional directing was seen through framing choices, with characters often divided by physical objects, such as a handrail on a train, visually mirroring their emotional distance at the time. Empty space lingers in the frame, reinforcing a sense of possibility– but even though the characters are always free to move, their choices remain weighted by quiet hesitations.

To contrast the very logical, mature perspective of relationships, we are introduced to the idea of in-yun, a Bhuddist belief in how each of our interactions with others in our current life are a result of thousands of previous interactions with the same soul in our past lives. In a world that feels just like ours, constrained by reality, there’s an inherent sense of limitation, a bittersweet sadness that can make viewers lose hope. This allows us to cling to the idea of possibility provided by in-yun to give us a sense of control and meaning.

The film’s realism also challenges the notion that anything– people, relationships, or choices– are simply black and white. Neither character was perfect or completely flawed, ranging from Nora’s lack of emotional understanding and empathy, Hae Sung’s lack of open communication, and Arthur’s failure to understand cultural identity. It abandons the often over-emphasized idea that love alone is enough to sustain a relationship, enough to outweigh everything else. 

As viewers, we still find ourselves wishing they would cast aside their responsibilities for the sake of love, only to be reminded of how, in reality, we would likely hesitate in the same way. In a scene when Arthur asks Nora if this is what she wanted, if their life together was her dream, it echoes the universal experience of watching idealism fade with adulthood. We learn to find fulfillment in different ways, in practical choices rather than fantasies. But the film asks whether that is truly the right approach, if it’s right to stop ourselves from pursuing what we truly desire. This is the choice Nora and Hae Sung eventually make, deciding to say goodbye.

This is where in-yun offers a sense of reassurance. The bittersweet ending can be seen as an acceptance of fate, where their lives, shaped by everything that came before, were always destined to unfold this way, as Nora believes. Alternatively, you could align with Hae-sung's perspective, viewing it as just a step to an eventual “meant to be” in their next life.

In this way, “Past Lives” reflects the complexity and uncertainty of life through how people navigate choices, fate, and longing in their own ways.

Two Ways To Build a World

The idea of unknown, hidden worlds has been a point of fascination for audiences, captivating viewers with an imagined alternate of how natural and societal elements might be built. But what is it, exactly, which intrigues audiences, and how do filmmakers and writers approach building these novel worlds? It seems that there are two primary elements when portraying such worlds: visual elements and design, and storytelling/ plot.

The Avatar and Black Panther franchises both explored underwater worlds in their second films, yet adopted vastly different approaches. Avatar: The Way of Water uncovered a new environment within the moon of Pandora, an extension of a world and society already loved and appreciated by viewers. Black Panther: Wakanda Forever depicted the existence of a secret underwater civilization coexisting within our modern world, with an awareness of how the reality of our current world might affect theirs.

Avatar embraces its other-worldy elements, drawing in interest through creating an idealistic, fantastical society and a physical world with dream-like elements. Most prominently, it does this through the skillful use of lighting and  color. Such tools come together to create an ethereal quality– viewers are encaptivated by the idea of a paradise-like world, with all of its beauty. Despite its unfamiliar constructs and settings, such as the Na’vi and the various creatures depicted, it bridges reality and fantasy just enough to habituate the viewer into the setting. Nature has a large part to play in grounding the viewers and invoking an appreciation for the portrayed setting, through the sacred connection the Na’vi have with the flora and fauna surrounding them.

This sense of a peaceful, serene setting is extended using the society and other inhabitants of the world. Through depicting the unique ability of the Na’vi to connect with one another and the world around them, it integrates the characters (and therefore, the viewers) as a part of a larger system and community. This plays into the human need for connection and belonging, which is what truly draws in the viewer. This, along with the peaceful, harmonious community involving each other and the external world they occupy. Other than the occasional incident, the movie rarely displayed discontent, suffering or threat within this world– unlike ours. This distinctly separates it from the negative emotions we associate with the human experience. 

All together, this is what played the key driver of the plot- the existence of a pure, untouched world which appealed to viewers and created the perfect emotional attachment- resulting in horror when it’s tainted by the humans. Viewers see a world they want to live in, be a part of, until it’s ruined by being forced to grow closer to the world we live in today. The film portrayed this through a clear visual contrast, with the humans introducing darker tones, elements and a loss of saturation. In order to have audiences root for the characters and share their loss as the plot unfurls, it was essential to create the perfect world.

In Black Panther, the setting remains conscious of its existence within our modern world, not free from its effects. This is a stark difference between the two, with Avatar having you separate the two while Black Panther forces you to acknowledge how another world might fit into ours. This is evident in the set design, which incorporates much of the physical structures and materials we use today. Lighting was another major point of differentiation, in which this world utilised a singular, artificial light source that led to much of the world left in shadows. Rather than integrating with the flora and fauna around them, we saw primarily man-made structures and empty space, lacking the aesthetic appeal of Avatar in favor of a more realistic approach.

The movie also introduced us to the inhabitants of this world– the very human looking creatures that were once humans themselves. Surprisingly, this almost closeness creates an uncanny effect of sorts, failing to form the same connection the Na’vi had with viewers. Perhaps this is rooted in our sharp awareness of the capability of darkness within our own, making it hard to be as sympathetic or trust them to share the innocence and moral goodness we associate with the Na'vi. This, however, played perfectly well into the plot. While it helped viewers build a rudimentary and temporary connection to them, helping us understand Talokan’s perspective, it wasn’t enough to abandon our connection with the humans that play as the movie’s protagonists and the world they are trying to protect- creating a complexity which works perfectly within the plot.

This leads me to the reason for the filmmakers to utilise such an approach to the world’s depiction. At the end of the day, as a Marvel movie within the superhero genre, the emphasis of the movie lies on the plot, hero and the action. While the world-building showcased a backstory for the audience to help sympathize with the villain and witness his emotional duality, in the end, the classic distinction between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ must be made– there can only be one victor, the hero. And so, this world wasn’t shown as peaceful but rather had its own problems, and therefore kept us from falling in love with it as much. In this case, the world building served as a technique to draw viewers in for the plot rather than the world itself.

I find it fascinating how these two films handled a similar idea so vastly differently, yet in a way that works perfectly within the context of their plot and genre. Every choice was made with a distinct awareness of their goals for the film, and how to use the connection their audiences inevitably make within the world to their advantage. So, the next time you find yourself particularly drawn to an imaginary world within a film, ask yourself what it is about it which enchants you the most– perhaps it's the paradise you never dreamed to imagine, another world within your own, or way it makes your reality seem a little more magical!

Cocaine to London: What Comes Next... The End

This post will be my final post in the fun self-exploration and retelling of my filmmaking process that has been this blog. In the six posts I have made before this one, I have explored the sometimes inspiring and sometimes depressingly stressful moments that can arise in the pre-production process and while the process has not yet finished, it is nearing the end, the transition into the production phase of Cocaine to London.

See, just ten minutes before beginning to write this post, I sent in my request to the JHU-MICA film cage, reserving the equipment that will be used to film my short film in just over a month’s time. In two days I will have my last camera test with my camera team, refining and perfecting the last of the complex, handheld shots that we will have in the film. All of our actors have been officially casted. Our shooting schedule is due in a week. Everything that we began over two months ago is finally reaching its end. To celebrate this moment, I would like to explore what comes next: the last few elements of pre-production I have to do and what I should begin to expect from the production and post-production of the film. 

As for pre-production, much of my work now is in directing my actors and making sure they are fully prepared for the shoot that is to come. The main aspect of this element is organizing and leading table reads for my actors where we can go over the script and the required nuances of each character, together. Now because all of my actors are in different locations, some as far as New York, and because my script is quite long, these meetings will have to be over Zoom and spread across multiple meetings. I am very excited for this process, though, as it is the first indication of what the final product, the final performance will be. I will be able to hear my work finally be read aloud by the people who will actually be the characters, the first time that the script will truly be brought to life.

From there, all that is left is working with my camera team and production team to confirm the remaining nuances of the shoot from making sure that we all fully understand the shots to officially preparing the food pick-up situations and more… the tying of the final loose ends.

The shoot dates for Cocaine to London.

And then… it is filming time. My shoot will be a 7 day production with an added 8th prep day at the start. Based on the rough draft shooting schedules we have now and the total shooting length we have for the film, it will be a long shoot. It will also be a hard shoot at times. Whether it be the film’s inclusion of musical elements, or the difficulty of some of the very emotional acting performances, there are a lot of aspects of the shoot that can go wrong. I can’t say I’m not nervous, but by doing this blog series, I have learned all I can really do is make sure that I am fully aware of everything I need to do and make sure I give the entire crew the amount of information they need to feel just as comfortable. I trust everyone on the cast and crew and know that as long as we are all on the same page, we can overcome the difficult elements of this shoot.

Once the shoot is done, it is on to editing. I will work with our local production service building Digital Cave for color grading and color correction. We will hire a sound mixer and editor to create the best digital scoundscape of the film possible (a very important part of the film). And then, in early April to late May, Cocaine to London will premiere at Studio North’s Premiere Festival at the Parkway Theatre. There, this year-plus long journey will finally reach its climax. The work I have spent so long on will finally see the big screen.

Before I submitted this blog post, I looked back through the other six I had written. Seeing it all laid out, the entire process, it really put into perspective just how quick it all felt. It really does feel like just yesterday that I sat down, struggling with writer’s block, and crafted the first draft of what would ultimately become Cocaine to London. It was not always a great time, but right now, seeing this pre-production phase being almost completed, I can’t help but feel happy and proud. I know it is just a short film, but it is my first short film and the first time, maybe ever, that I have put this much effort into something. I don’t know how it will turn out, but all I can do is keep going and put as much effort into it as I can.

For now, I wait.

Cocaine to London COMING SOON!

Until some next time…

                        Devin

Afire (2023): An Egoistic Writer’s Late Awakening

In the melody of Wallner's “In my Mind,” Christian Petzold's Afire opens with a tracking shot of receding trees, as a car is in motion. Through the glass window, the film shows Leon, a writer in his 30s, dozing in the passenger seat, his face bathed in the fading green and yellow, unaffected by the changing world. He is self-absorbed, but the soothing scenery suggests a kind of redemption. A world like poetry awaits his discovery. “Something’s not right,” his friend Felix says, pulling Leon from his reverie. “It’s misfiring.” Leon insists that he hears nothing. He is awake but inattentive to his surroundings, reminiscent of a dreamlike state. Finally, the car breaks down on the way to the holiday home.

An extreme long shot shows Leon sitting on a fallen tree with the luggage when Felix checks the path. The forest becomes overpowering. The shriek of birds prompts Leon to turn his head, peering deep into the woods, but he finds no anomalies. It's only when he hears the whir of helicopters that he stands up and examines his surroundings. “Felix,” he calls, frightened by his friend’s “hello” from behind. Enraged, Leon punches his friend; he is egoistic and proud, but the encroaching danger—later revealed to be a forest fire—alongside his friend’s trick indicates that he is not invincible. From the humming dryer and the dispersed lingerie upon arrival that indicates the presence of an unexpected housemate (Nadja) to Felix’s persistent invitation to go swimming, Leon can no longer engage with writing, his pride at risk.

Caspar David Friedrich - Moon Rising Over the Sea. Flickr, by Miguel Velasquez (2022).

A pivotal moment that challenges Leon's ego is when, during dinner, Nadja’s friend Devid, a lifeguard, recounts a one-night stand interrupted by a delivery man who threatened to “spray [him] gay” if he did not accept a rug. Nadja, acquainted with the tale, sporadically erupts in laughter, refills Leon’s glass, and dispels bugs for Devid. Felix, however, is drawn to the story with his brows furrowed. Devid asks Felix to smell his shirt, which he claims still contains the smell of the spray. When Felix lowers his head, Devid gives him an unexpected kiss. An amateur storyteller not only commands the screen for five minutes but physically performs the love that he wants the audience to experience. Jealous, Leon, the real writer, interrogates Devid about his job as a lifeguard, which angers Felix. The three friends leave the table and go for a swim; only Nadja turns her head back and asks, “Aren’t you coming?” But Leon is too stubborn to take this second chance. “My work won’t allow it.” Alone, Leon covers his face with his hands. “I’m such an arsehole,” he murmurs.

He is always late to epiphany. At the beach, Nadja chastises Leon for not noticing that his publisher Helmut has been admitted to an oncology ward. “You see nothing,” she says. Leon watches her back as she leaves. A jump cut fast-forwards to Leon burying his face in his hands, which mirrors his fragmented, distressed mental state. When he lowers his hands and looks up, the distant forest emits a large plume of smoke and fire, finally melting away his sense of self. He runs back to the house, informs Nadja to leave, and asks for forgiveness. “From the very first moment, I was in love with you,” he says, confessing his vulnerability. But this time, Nadja does not give him a second chance as the police arrive to report Felix and Devid's deaths in the forest fire. Ryuichi Sakamoto’s “Andata” plays in the background, soft like funeral music, grieving for the two pairs of lovers. 

Akseli Gallen-Kallela, Scandinavian, Finnish, Burnt Forest 1904. Flickr, by Asar Studios (2015).

And the music continues to the montage narrated by Helmut based on Leon’s new book dedicated to Felix and Devid. Leon, the author, no longer owns his writing; instead, Helmut, the dying patient, becomes the unlikeable narrator, indicating a sense of redemption for Leon’s ignorance. Starting from a piglet burnt to death, the camera slowly tilts to reveal the forest reduced to stumps and ashes. The voice-over laments, “By the time they realized, it was too late. The fire was already around them.” The film cuts to a scene at the morgue. A close-up shot reveals two dark hands intertwined. Nadja weeps while Leon restrains his tears. Only the voice-over gives him a sense of interiority. “Instead of crying, he thought of the image of the lovers in Pompeii.” His friends die, yet in their passing, they teach Leon about love that goes beyond the self and life. The montage ends with Nadja leaving and Leon visiting the beach. At night, he sits down in the sand and looks at the glowing sea. It is a bit late, but the sea is forgiving.

Pompeii Sitting Man. Flickr, by Andrew Malone (2014).

Cocaine to London: A Week of Breakthroughs

During my last post, I hated filmmaking. I am happy to report that things are looking up! I would like to take this post to update you all on our progress, primarily with the results of our Seed&Spark campaign as well as all of the meetings and decisions made over the last few weeks (I had a very busy Thanksgiving break). While this whole process is still extremely stressful, time-consuming and bothersome, these steps forward are reassuring. I can feel my second wind coming and I am very excited.

To begin, you’ll remember that we began our fundraising campaign through Seed&Spark and after a few days of filming a promo video and many more days of filling out all of the necessary text boxes on the site itself, we launched it to the public. Well, I am happy to announce that after a month of that site being up, we obliterated our goal of $3500! I am very grateful for support from my circle and even some complete strangers and am excited to put their contributions to good use. The extra money that we were able to raise also allowed us to tweak our budget sheet, giving us much more leeway for elements like craft services (food), production design and post-production elements. Again, I am very thankful to everyone who contributed and promise we will use your generosity well!

Our fundraising announcement photo posted on our Instagram! @cocainetolondon

With this big step completed, we were able to get the ball rolling on many other aspects of pre-production. For one, with this tweaked budget sheet being more or less set in stone, I was able to start messaging and meeting with the many departments and get their aspects of the pre-production phase started. Most notably, I am talking about the PD and costuming departments, who I was able to have meetings with, giving them their total budget so they can start shopping for the many necessary props and outfits which bring my script’s world to life.

On top of meeting with these departments, I also began meeting with my lighting department and my assistant director. This is because, at around the same time that the Seed&Spark came to a close, me and my camera team were able to finish our first draft of the shot list for the film! This is perhaps an even bigger moment than the Seed&Spark completing because while money is cool and all, it cannot compare to the creative milestones. After five weeks and about 12 hours of reading through the script and visualizing shots, we had created an outline for the film. The whole short film had been made, compiled together in a mess of Zoom sketches and incomprehensible hand-written notes… but it was there… in 69 meticulously planned shots.

This moment allowed us to begin creating everything we needed for shooting from the official Google Sheets based shot list to our shooting schedule (which is currently in the process of being built). It also made the entire shoot that much more imaginable. There are a lot of small things that go ignored in the grandiose discussion of set life, from where the cast and crew will relax between shots, to where to set up the video village (a location where the crew can watch the shot as it is being filmed) to how best we can have the crew multi task to finish the day quicker. With this shot list done, I was able to more easily visualize all of these gears in the giant mechanism that is making a film, fleshing the whole process out in my mind and making me much more confident in the feasibility and enjoyability that is possible on this set.

A sneak peek of our beautiful shot list!

Finally, we had another major breakthrough in the last week, this time in the casting department. You’ll remember, I was quite stressed out last post regarding our casting as we were having a very hard time casting our lead. I’m happy to report that with a lot of perseverance and a lot of cold DM’s on Instagram, we were able to secure many applicants and officially cast our protagonist! I am so happy with the person we picked, both for Viv (the lead) and for the recording engineer who we were able to recast successfully. Officially finding these two people leaves us with only one more character left to cast and a big weight off of our shoulders. Just like with the budget and the shot list, all of these breakthroughs help make the entire shoot so much more imaginable. I can see it, just over the horizon.

This does not mean we are in the clear. There are still a lot more things we have to do, but the ball is rolling on all of them and we are still within the schedule that we had created for ourselves so long ago at our first producer meeting. All I can do is keep it moving and look forward to the future, a topic I would like to explore in my next, and perhaps, final post, but we’ll deal with that when we get there.

 

Until next time…

                        Devin

The Return (2003): The Killing of a God-like Father

Green water ripples like a kaleidoscope, accompanied by a low, raspy melody that hints at the ocean's hidden secret. So begins Andrey Zvyagintsev’s The Return. Below the surface, the camera navigates the desolate seabed, revealing ancient coral reefs before settling on a sunken rowboat, its prow tied with a rope. Underwater, the boat is no longer visible to the world, yet the rope suggests its reachable presence, akin to the knowledge of God through faith. Built around days of the week, the film starts on Sunday, the weekly memorial of Jesus’s Resurrection. Two brothers, Andrei (14) and Ivan (12), alongside their friends, challenge each other to leap into the sea from a diving board. In an overhead shot, the two siblings stand on the board, their presence diminished by the vast ocean. Andrei follows suit, but Ivan steps back, fearing heights and the water suggestive of God. Likewise, when their father returns home after 12 years, the two brothers respond differently: Andrei is accepting while Ivan is skeptical, if not fearful, of this stranger’s appearance. So for Ivan, part of growing up is to come to terms with the unknown, whether the father, the ocean, or God.

Mantegna, Lamentation over the Dead Christ, ca. 1483; Brera Gallery, Milan. Flickr, by Richard Mortel (2019).

In fact, the father is like God, appearing out of nowhere. When the mother announces the news, she simply says, “Your father’s sleeping,” as if his existence does not need to be confirmed. When Andrei gently pushes the door open, the two brothers see their father lying on the bed with the sheet covering him from the waist down, his head slightly tilted, similar to Andrea Mantegna’s The Lamentation over the Dead Christ. Andrei, like the mourners in the painting, is close to tears as Ivan hastily searches the attic, sifting through a dusty box. He discovers an illustrated Bible concealing an old photograph of his father. A close-up shot juxtaposes the foreground family photo with the sacrifice of Isaac, Ivan’s doubt overpowering faith. At dinner, after asking the mother to pour the brothers some wine, the father proposes a fishing trip with his sons. The Ichthys standing for “Jesus Christ, Son of God, Our Savior” in ancient Greek further highlights the father’s God-like presence.

Church of the Most Holy Rosary, Tullow, County Carlow, Ireland. Wikimedia Commons, by Andreas F. Borchert (2013).

But the father, from forcing Ivan to call him “Dad” to engaging in street justice, is like Matthew’s Jesus, a violent revolutionary who supposes, “I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father (Matthew 10:34-36).” Without faith, Ivan is like the doubting Thomas who questions his father’s past and intentions. On the first night, Andrei and Ivan lie side by side in the tent. Andrei has his eyes closed when the still-awake Ivan initiates a conversation about their father's remark that he once had too many fish. “Where could that have happened?” Ivan asks. Andrei nonchalantly responds, “In the north, maybe.” Ivan shrugs off Andrei’s elbow as if to shake off his brother's faith. “He’s just lying,” Ivan concludes. “He could be a gangster. He could slit our throats.” As the father becomes more abusive and authoritarian, Ivan, in the next tent scene, promises that he will kill their father if he touches him. The frustrated Ivan then opens the journal and writes down his promise, foreshadowing its happening. Next to him, Andrei, head down, can only watch with concern like a helpless disciple.

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas. Wikimedia Commons, by Sailko (2016).

In a fight with his father, Ivan, holding a knife, cries, “I could love you if you were different, but you’re terrible.” The father tries to approach and reason, but Ivan drops the knife and runs away. He climbs up to a watchtower and threatens to jump down if the father follows him. Close to executing his unrealized jump, Ivan, however, witnesses his father's fatal fall from the ladder. Echoing the diving scene, the film shows an overhead shot of the dead father on the ground, with a fallen log beside him. The doubting Thomas finally senses Jesus’s wounds. In the end, the two brothers witness their father's body descending into the ocean, along with all the rights and wrongs. The identity of the father, whether perceived as God or the Devil, becomes inconsequential when Ivan calls out, “Dad,” finally conquering his fear or lack of faith. But this achievement is not a result of taking a heroic leap but of enduring the agony that defines the adult world.

Cocaine to London: Casting

In my previous blog post, I discussed me and my producers hitting a major milestone in the pre-production phase: launching our Seed&Spark page and beginning to fundraise for our project. It was a moment that took a lot of planning, hard work and energy out of me and while I wish I could say that it was met with a moment of peace and bliss… I would be gravely lying.

See, the reality of the situation is that finishing the Seed&Spark process gave me a weird feeling; an odd, unexplainable mix of adrenaline-fueled excitement and dread. Dread for how much more had to be done and how time had already ticked so far away. At this point we were already almost three months into the pre-production process and I was very proud of the progress, we still had a lot more to go. At this point, the excitement of first starting the process was starting to wane and all of our work ethics were going along with it. Also, classes were starting to ramp up in intensity and I knew this would affect everyone’s availability. So immediately the next day, fueled by both excitement and fear, I began on the other major aspect of the pre-production process: the casting.

In our initial meeting, my producers and I were able to create the Backstage page for the film and even before I finished the Seed&Spark, I finished up the necessary requirements for this page as it seemed easier and I wanted to make sure that we got started on casting as early as possible. The requirements for a Backstage account, are similar to See&Spark in some ways as they require elements like a logline, a list of genres, shoot dates, etc. However, with it being a casting site, most of the preliminary information is relative to the characters of the film. I had to explain each character, giving the applicants information about their physical features such as gender and race (if applicable), their required talents such as singing, playing guitar, yelling (all of which are very relevant to my script) and also just information on the character’s headspace so that the actor can give the best performance they can.

The homepage to our Backstage listing!

It is this ability to give a performance that is why we chose to use Backstage for this process. The other major aspect of creating our Backstage listing is the inclusion of Sides for each character. Sides are a small section of the script that the site shows to all applicants which allows them to record a virtual audition video to see both their acting skills as a whole, but also their synergy with the role itself. Luckily, I found that my script gave each character a lot of really big, important moments that require strong acting that I could send for each role. While the script would change throughout this process, rendering some of the Sides outdated, they still helped show the actor’s ability to portray the character and I was able to cast multiple people based on these Sides.

However, it is not all smooth. We were successfully able to cast two of our characters very easily in the antagonist and his father (the lead singer and drummer of the band respectively) but the other roles turned out to be much trickier. For one, there was a character of a Camera Guy who we successfully casted and then was sadly written out of the script a month later. We had to sadly tell the actor for the camera guy that his role had been cut which was disappointing considering his acting ability, but it did give us practice in giving people bad news, a reality we will have to become accustomed to. At the same time, we casted the role of the recording engineer, however recently learned that the timing would no longer work for her as she would have to travel a long way for the shoot and with the actor’s strike recently lifting, she did not want to miss out on opportunities in her own area. This also turned out to be okay in the end as luckily we had a lot of applicants for this role and are currently in the process of interviewing two more possible actors for the role.

A still from our first Zoom casting interview!

The most worrisome aspect of this casting process, an aspect that has still not been solved, is casting our last two characters: the mother character and her daughter… who is the lead of the film! Part of the worry is my own pickiness, with this lead having a lot of tough scenes that do not work if the performance is not as perfect as it could be, but one of the major issues with this casting was the amount of skills our lead needs to have. From playing the bass to playing the acoustic guitar to singing to being able to scream, we were already casting a shallow net made shallower by the fact that we wanted them to be within the area due to our struggling budget.

Now, usually I end these posts with a shift to how we learned from the experiences we completed and how they gave me excitement for the film, but the reality is… this casting process has really been pissing me off. I will instead end this post by speaking to the world of the Internet and requesting that if anyone is at all interested in filling our remaining roles or knows of people who would be, to message this email: [email protected]. Shameless plug, I know, I know, but we are getting desperate and why not use every platform I have.

Thank you in advance and sorry for the non-optimistic ending. Maybe next week, I’ll be less annoyed by the filmmaking process. Anyways, thanks for reading.

 

Until next time…

                        Devin