Asia

Best Asian films

If you’re looking for the best Asian films, there’s plenty to choose from. Asia holds approximately 60% of the world’s population, so it’s no surprise the continent has a wealth of great films. The continent hosts one of the world’s largest (if not the largest) film industries in India’s Bollywood, the most famous animation studio outside the U.S. in Japan’s Studio Ghibli, as well as the second largest film market in the world by box office receipts in China (second only to the U.S.).

But that’s not all. The Iranian art-house cinema scene is still booming despite government bans. Southeast Asia holds two of the most famous torch-bearers of the transcendental film movement in Apichatpong Weerasethakul and Lav Diaz. Plus, there’s South Korean, Bong Joon-ho, whose Parasite became the first foreign language film to win the Best Picture. And we haven’t even mentioned the growing film presence of the countries in Central Asia, the Arabian Peninsula, the Levant, and the Caucasus.

So scroll down to see some of the best Asian films. Or, if you know where you want to go, pick a country from the links below.

Afghanistan, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Bahrain, Bangladesh, Bhutan, Brunei, Cambodia, China, Cyprus, East Timor, Georgia, India, Indonesia, Iran, Iraq, Israel, Japan, Jordan, Kazakhstan, Kuwait, Kyrgyzstan, Laos, Lebanon,Malaysia, Maldives, Mongolia, Myanmar (Burma), Nepal, North Korea, Oman, Pakistan, Palestine, Philippines, Qatar, Russia, Saudi Arabia, Singapore, South Korea, Sri Lanka, Syria, Taiwan, Tajikistan, Thailand, Turkey, Turkmenistan, United Arab Emirates, Uzbekistan, Vietnam, Yemen

*We’re still looking for the best Asian films from countries without links. Send us your recommendations.

106

Should the Wind Drop – AFI Fest 2020

Should the Wind Drop is a timely cinematic introduction to the disputed territory of Nagorno-Karabakh. It’s a country that has suffered genocide and unending land disputes, which recently flared up with neighboring Azerbaijan (the country most of the international community places it within).

We enter the country with Alain, an airport inspector traveling from France. He, like most of us, arrives without much knowledge of the country’s history. He’s here to inspect the regional airport which has been shut down since the outbreak of war in the 1990’s. If it passes all his tests, it can be officially opened and both establish the country’s existence globally, and open it up for it’s residents.

We follow Alain’s transformation from an auditor “just doing his job” to a sympathizer of the independence cause. During his time there he meets a good portion of the population and slowly opens up to their way of life. He grows to sympathize with the optimistic airport operator, the TV host, and his taxi driver shown in his more open conversation with them. His connection to Nagorno-Karabakh peaks with a jovial drinking session with the local soldiers. It’s the one time he seems to stray from the commitment to his job and truly mix with the locals. His transformation serves us (the audience), as like him, we have probably come to this movie with little prior knowledge of the country and people. Whilst it seems foreign at first, we, like him, end the film with a connection to the place and it’s characters through his experiences.

As a result of it’s significance to the locals, the airport has become a symbol of pride and hope. It has the potential to free them from their landlocked prison and regional disputes and become recognized internationally. It also literally fuels the village as one little boy walks by the airport every day to fill up his water bottles to sell in the village. Everyone in the town is seen drinking his ‘magic water’. It symbolizes their faith in the airport and the modern world it will bring.

As a symbol of recognition, the movie itself is just like the airport. In being made and celebrated at international film festivals, it puts Nagorno-Karabakh on the map, finishing what the airport started.

Head to our AFI Fest Hub for more reviews and short films from AFI Fest 2020.

107

Twilight of the Warriors: Walled In (Hong Kong)

By Sebastian Torrelio

As a parallel to the community of the Hong Kong territory in the 1980s, the walls of Kowloon City, the one-time densest populated living area in the world, served opposing purposes. To keep out and to keep in; to bridge divides equally as to rupture connections. An endless inspiration in media as an enclave in which culture can evolve independently, featured in the spread that encompasses manga, video games, painting and literature, it now marks the second-highest grossing domestic film in Hong Kong’s history.

Raymond Lam’s Lok leads Twilight of the Warriors: Walled In, the first in a proposed (and greenlit) blockbuster martial arts trilogy by Soi Cheang. A runaway refugee, desperately seeking board and security, finds himself under the support and practical tutelage of triad leader Cyclone (Louis Koo). He bonds with a small cohort of three other younger generational action talents to defend the sanctuary of the Walled City from the threatened invasion of Mr. Big (Sammo Hung) in a series of combative and political face-offs that turn familial, and thoroughly personal.

Twilight of the Warriors kicks off with an initial fight that may be its best, a multi-various cat-and-mouse chase with Lok on the run using every possible element at his disposal – yanked metal rebar slams into wood, scaffolding wrenched apart with makeshift blades, human beings thrown into concrete like CGI monkey limbs. What could be easily mistaken for vibes is Cheung Ka-fai’s seamlessly done edit job, choreographed between cuts and music, a balanced display of frenetic weaponry language that spontaneously creates new words.

It is immediately apparent that Twilight of the Warriors has two amazingly large graces, the second its inspiringly recreated production design work. Modeled after the original architecture, torn down in 1993, every lived-in detail about Cheang’s sets feel less as practical as they do authentic. Glances of printed copy, taped art and store shop advertisement go by while characters leap and fall between awnings and onto telephone wire, yet Cheang keeps a steady-enough alley-aligned view to give a sense of encampment that could never have been built overnight. The residents of Kowloon wear rags and garments in equal measure in a land where there is no outside, only the reconfiguration of value inside.

To make all of this out of Cheang’s aesthetic is entirely the point – to standalone, Twilight of the Warriors is book-ended by chapters of beginning and end to Lok’s journey, a sized-down epic that brings peasant into the coincidental alignment of civil royalty. This is the sort of drama that Westerners will easily align with Star Wars-types – a greater evil defeated, another protégé of said evil taking its place, the cycle continuing in formal ‘unrest’ fashion until the old guard is killed off, leading the way for a new guard to inhabit their trauma.

Tale as old as time, but for the modern Hong Kong (and broader Chinese) audience, Twilight of the Warriors hearkens to a stubborn desire, the kind that consciously fights in support of forgotten art. By the final climatic clash of Twilight, which draws on its protagonists to problem-solve their way out of a villain grown to American superhero-levels of untenable malevolence, Kowloon City has been in and out of beleaguered rule, torn between bureaucratic guards that all seek to support their own in a sanctuary bent keenly on living free from marginalization.

The cycle of evil self-perpetuates the cycle of good, as will the cycle of art and artists keep boosting Cheang and his contemporaries who want to put in the good effort to make an homage to cultural institution. Therein lies the philosophy of the once towering walled-complex – the sun never set on its story because it never organically rose there to begin with.

Seen at AMC Atlantic Times Square 14, Monterey Park

108

Perfumed Nightmare (Philippines) – A Revolutionary Comedy

Perfumed Nightmare Film Difficulty Ranking: 4

Honestly, I was a bit confused at the start of Perfumed Nightmare as the tone seemed a bit off. The film was made in 1977, but the black and white footage looks even older, so I was surprised to have the fourth wall broken a few times by the main character, Kidlat, after he pulls an increasingly larger toy truck over a bridge. The genre is also deliberately hard to pin down. It gives off the appearance of a stylish, amusing ethnographical film set in rural Philippines to disguise its strong revolutionary undertones. Don’t let anything put you off from watching this movie though as it’s a brilliantly unique and clever contribution to the Third Cinema movement.

From: Philippines, Asia
Watch: JustWatch, IMDb
Next: Black Girl, Breathless, Born in Flames

Perfumed Nightmare – The Breakdown

There are a lot of familiar elements in Perfumed Nightmare as it deliberately borrows from a mixture of well-known revolutionary film-making. The frenetic pace of the movie, with cuts across time and a fuzzy narrative voice that seems to be a half-second behind the images, feels a lot like Jean-Luc Godard’s iconic film, Breathless. The fast paced montages of Filipino and Parisian society, which meshes together a range of stock and new images showing the evolution of society towards modernization, borrows from Dziga Vertov’s influential Man with a Movie Camera. Both of these influences (each monumental to the development of European film) are referenced by the Director, Kidlat Tahimik, to stake a claim for Filipino film within the context of cinema and to also set Filipino film apart by reclaiming the medium’s portrayal of the Philippines.

One of the best things Kidlat Tahimik adds to the revolutionary film movement is humor. It both makes the film more enjoyable whilst also targeting the ‘Third World’s’ portrayal by ‘the West’ to reclaim it for the Third Cinema movement. One example of this is in the inventive use of dubbing, in which all of the film’s white characters, whether in the Philippines or Europe, are dubbed and made into comedic caricatures. One white person in the Philippines is turned into a bumbling, arrogant, imperialist, through the dubbing, whilst Kidlat’s French beneficiary is turned into a money obsessed businessman. Whilst it is fun to laugh at the dubbed characters, which makes the film an easier watch, the dubbing is also used to subvert the portrayal of Filipinos and other ‘Third World’ characters in Western film who are typically voiced and spoken for by white European/American directors. Instead, it’s the white characters that are spoken for in Perfumed Nightmare.

The film’s visual gags also serve a similar function. The shots of Kidlat filling up chewing gum dispensers in some ridiculous locations for his French beneficiary, whilst funny, also serves to make fun of capitalism. If chewing gum dispensers in cemeteries is the peak of Western progress, then capitalism and Western imperialism seems pointless. The humor is a welcome addition to an otherwise serious revolutionary genre. It makes the film easier to watch, but also backs up the central theme of Kidlat’s Charlie-Chaplin-esque journey chasing the American Dream; that life is better in the Philippines. Perfumed Nightmare mocks and rejects the progress of globalization, imperialism, capitalism, and everything the West stands for in favor of a celebration of Filipino life.

What to Watch Next

There’s a few places you can turn to next after watching Perfumed Nightmare. The most obvious place to go would be to watch more revolutionary films from the Third Cinema movement such as Ousmane Sembene’s Black Girl or Sarah Maldoror’s Sambizanga. You could also brush up on your European film history, which Kidlat Tahimik subverts in this film, by watching Breathless or Man with a Movie Camera. Obviously both of these film movements have plenty more examples than the four listed above, so please don’t limit your exploration to these four movies!

109

Joyland – AFI Fest 2022

Immerse yourself in the patriarchy embedded in a traditional family in Lahore, Pakistan with Joyland. Don’t let the upbeat title mislead you. Whilst there are some warm moments in Haider’s queer coming of age story, his awakening is framed as a privilege of his gender. The women are all victims of the patriarchy whether they’re within the family house or outside it.

Despite being confined to a wheelchair, the grandfather is still the head of the household consisting of his two sons and their wives, as well as his eldest son’s many children. Haider, the youngest son, holds the focus of the first half of the film as he transitions from a house husband supporting his wife, to a husband seeing other women and turning his wife into a house-wife. The focus on Haider is representative of the patriarchal society he exists within. The audience initially sympathizes with him because he’s looked down on by the men of his family for his assumption of traditionally female role. Because of this set up, his queer coming of age is celebrated as it feels like he’s finally able to come out of his shell. The focus on his budding romance with his boss are some of the happiest moments of the film. However, in the second half of the film, his queer coming of age is framed as his male privilege.

Whilst Haider is out finding himself, his wife, Mumtaz, has been forced by Haider’s family to resign from her dream job and assume the domestic responsibilities expected of a wife. Simultaneously her narrative is overshadowed by Haider’s. Her screen time slowly diminishes as Haider’s grows. Even her star entrepreneurial scene from the start of the movie – in which she uses phone flash-lights to complete her job during a blackout – is hijacked by her husband when he pulls the same trick for his crush later in the film. Mumtaz’s repression by the patriarchy is represented in the empathy and upbeat scenes that are given to her husband, at the expense of hers.

Joyland is a technically faultless film – something you’d expect from a Cannes winner – and captures the dynamics of the patriarchy in Pakistan perfectly. However, whilst its Queer Palm win promises a progressive or unique portrayal of Queerness, Joyland doesn’t really stretch any boundaries here. Haider’s relationship with Biba, the only queer relationship in the film, is sacrificed for a melodramatic finale. Her role, whilst played brilliantly, mostly exists to be the exotic temptress for Haider’s macho-turn.

Head to our AFI Fest 2022 Hub for more reviews from AFI Fest 2022.

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No Bears – AFI Fest 2022

Despite a 20 year ban on making or directing movies imposed on him in 2010, Jafar Panahi continues to make films. No Bears is the fifth feature film Panahi has made since the ban, and is probably his most political. The not one, but two films in No Bears are an attack on the hypocrisies of censorship and freedom of movement.

Now that Panahi has proved the house arrest and ban on film-making cannot stop him from making films, he’s been encouraged to make something even more inflammatory – an almost direct critique of the government and of laws against the freedom of movement. In No Bears, Panahi deliberately flaunts all of the rules that have been imposed on him. Firstly, he’s directing one film, and starring in another, breaking his filmmaking ban once again. Secondly, he shows he can make films from wherever he wants – he’s relaxing in a rural village near the border and directing his film crew in another country, as well as making a film in the village where he is staying. Thirdly, he’s creating new filmmakers – both in his cameraman shooting his film in Turkey and in the people he hands off his camera to in the village. Lastly, he also shows he can go wherever he wants. He goes right up to the Turkish border as if it’s nothing. All of these things deliberately flaunt his power in spite of the government’s restrictions on him. He proves that they’ll never silence him from making films, whether that’s in Iran or outside it, with him behind the camera or having inspired someone else.

On top of this, Panahi also sets up two films within No Bears to criticize the government and the culture is has fostered. One is a film within a film, following the story of a couple in Turkey that have finally found fake passports on the black market to leave the country. This narrative highlights the discrimination in freedom of movement – granted to certain people because of birth lottery, and hidden from others. The other follows Panahi himself, as he works on this film from a rural Iranian village along the Turkish border. The longer he stays, the more entangled he becomes in the backward customs of the town. This narrative serves as an analogy for the hypocrisies of the Iranian government and censorship committees. Just as they imposed filmmaking bans on him instead of looking to solve the problems he highlights in his films, the villagers choose to make him a scapegoat for their own feuds.

For a film that holds no punches in attacking censorship and freedom of movement, Panahi’s latest is a joy to watch. It’s filled with a dry humor that pokes fun of the establishment whilst retaining a serious message. Just as much as this, No Bears is also a testament to the filmmaking drive of Jafar Panahi. No matter how many restrictions are imposed against him, he’s continued to make films and inspire others. We hope he, and the Iranian filmmakers imprisoned with him earlier this year will be released and the filmmaking bans rescinded.

Head to our AFI Fest 2022 Hub for more reviews from AFI Fest 2022.