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Park Chan-wook is widely regarded as one of the finest filmmakers working today. A versatile multi-talent, he has dabbled in a variety of genres, while leaving his own unmistakable authorial stamp on each. From the operatic revenge of 'Oldboy' and the rest of the so-called Vengeance Trilogy, to the melancholic machinations of 'Decision to Leave', and even the off-kilter eroticism of 'Thirst,' his films are united by an enduring fascination with obsession, violence and moral rot.

'No Other Choice' is another powerful entry in Park's ongoing exploration of human darkness. Based on Donald E. Westlake's 1997 novel 'The Ax,' it follows Man-Su, a manager at a paper company whose cushy life is abruptly derailed by unexpected unemployment. As months pass and job prospects evaporate, desperation curdles into a grim logic, leading him to conclude that eliminating his rivals may be the only way back to stability.

There is something of Ted Kotcheff's 'Fun with Dick and Jane' in the film's DNA, as Park leans into the dark comedy of middle-class collapse. Like Kotcheff's film, 'No Other Choice' treats unemployment as a destabilising force, with Park drawing considerable humour from the indignities that follow. The difference is that- where the Hollywood comedy offers catharsis- Park lets his jokes accumulate into something far more corrosive.

Violent without being gratuitous, funny without being forced, it is a masterclass in narrative writing. Some critics may point out obvious similarities to Bong Joon-ho's 'Parasite,' but the resemblance is largely superficial. Where Bong's film sprawled into a broad, allegorical portrait of class conflict, Park's is colder and more procedural, concerned less with spectacle than the methodical erosion of moral boundaries.

It is about a desperate man forced to commit acts he does not wish to commit, who sacrifices his morality for his family at a time where economic uncertainty reigns. A study in compromise, Man-Su's descent is neither sudden nor sensational; it is the product of incremental pressure, each small decision rationalised as necessary, each act pushing him further into a moral grey zone. Park traces this erosion of ethics with precision, showing how desperation can warp even ordinary, law-abiding people into committing acts they would once have found unthinkable.

Subtle physical motifs mirror this inner struggle. Man-Su's attempts to bend the trees in his greenhouse reflect his desire to control his fate, while his persistent tooth pain- echoing the bodily articulation of moral and psychological strain felt by Nick Nolte's character in Paul Schrader's 'Affliction'- gives tangible form to his mounting anxiety. Through these details, Park illustrates how pressure can corrode ethics, translating inner turmoil into a gripping, lived experience.

The film is also a sharp critique of middle-class precarity. Through Man-Su's struggle, Park highlights the cruelty of economic competition, where structural pressures leave individuals feeling there is no alternative but transgression. Crucially, Man-Su is seeking work in the declining paper industry, turning his job hunt into a grim exercise in scarcity rather than opportunity. As in Kiyoshi Kurosawa's 'Tokyo Sonata', the film exposes the quiet humiliations and psychological toll of searching for work in a competitive economy that has little left to offer.

Yet, these grim themes are never divorced from humour. The narrative intertwines dark comedy with moral tension, drawing laughter from the indignities Man-Su suffers and the increasingly elaborate lengths he goes to preserve his livelihood. The humour does not release the tension; it amplifies it, making each act of violent desperation feel simultaneously absurd and horrifying.

This incremental escalation- the chain of decisions that lead from minor ethical lapses to serious criminality- is central to the narrative's tension. Park's story is procedural in nature, demonstrating that moral collapse is not an abstract concept but a methodical process. By letting the audience inhabit Man-Su's thought process, the film creates a subtle complicity: we understand his logic even as we recoil from the consequences, making the narrative as intellectually gripping as it is viscerally unsettling.

Behind the camera, director of photography Kim Woo-hyung brings a strikingly naturalistic beauty to proceedings, using space and architecture to visualise Man-Su's growing alienation. Frequently stunning, the cinematography is patient and observant, allowing environments to speak as loudly as dialogue. Modern office blocks, factories and industrial sites are framed with crisp clarity, their glass and concrete surfaces reflecting a world of efficiency and progress that has quietly discarded those who can no longer keep pace.

Kim makes particularly effective use of light, as well as spatial contrast, frequently juxtaposing rigid, contemporary structures with pockets of nature. Parks, woodlands and plants intrude upon the film's urban environments, not as places of refuge, but as reminders of a slower, vanishing world that sits uneasily alongside modern economic life. This tension between nature and modernity mirrors Man-Su's internal conflict: a man shaped by older ideals of loyalty, stability and hard work, now stranded in a system that no longer rewards them.

The visual attention to space carries through into Ryu Seong-hie's meticulous production design. Man-Su's house, in particular, becomes a crucial extension of the same visual logic and narrative themes- a place that should signify comfort and stability, instead symbolising the quiet strain beneath the surface of middle-class security. Neat, outwardly respectable and surrounded by plants, the home reflects an older promise of permanence, one increasingly out of step with the encroaching economic reality.

Further, Cho Young-wuk's score is sparse and judicious, underscoring Man-Su's mounting unease, while also amplifying its comedic edge (a scene in which three characters scuffle to booming music is a particular highlight). Kim Ho-bin and Kim Sang-beom's editing is similarly precise, favouring clarity and rhythm over urgency. Yet they still allow room for artful transitions that quietly bridge time and space. These moments of artistic elegance prevent the film from ever feeling mechanical.

Lee Byung-hun stars as Man-Su, conveying his desperation, moral compromise and simmering anxiety with remarkable restraint. Lee never overdoes it, allowing small gestures, measured expressions and even silence to carry enormous weight. Physical details- the way he flinches, tenses or nurses his persistent tooth pain- become expressive markers of his inner turmoil. Always a commanding presence on screen, he is once again superb, effortlessly anchoring the film with a performance that is as subtle as it is compelling.

Son Ye-jin does similarly fine work as Man-Su's wife, Miri. Their relationship forms the emotional heart of the film, grounded in genuine affection and mutual care. Miri is far from a passive figure; she is independent and capable, finding work long before Man-Su does and demonstrating agency within their lives. However, her instincts and choices also align with her husband's, reflecting a shared pragmatism and prioritisation of family. The chemistry between Son and Lee is undeniable, making their domestic life feel lived-in and real. Son plays her to a tee, conveying warmth, intelligence and quiet strength with effortless naturalism.

Their supporting cast do not let them down. Kim Seung Woo and So Yul Choi, as their children Si-one and Ri-one, respectively, both impress, demonstrating an emotional intelligence beyond their years. Yeom Hye-ran is hilarious as the disappointed wife of one of Man-Su's targets, while Park Hee-soon delights as an insidiously smug influencer. In addition, in the smaller role of Man-Su's second target, Cha Seung-won is quietly heartbreaking, bringing depth and nuance even with limited screen time.

Darkly comic, tense and engaging, Park Chan-wook's 'No Other Choice' is a masterclass in narrative precision. Meticulous cinematography, elegant production design and a stirring score mirror the incremental erosion of morality at the film's heart. Anchored by superb performances from Lee Byung-hun and Son Ye-jin, and buoyed by a sharp, versatile supporting cast, every element works in concert to illuminate desperation, compromise and the suffocating cruelty of modern life. In short, it's irresistible- you really have no other choice but to watch it.

Joachim Trier's films concern themselves with the quiet crises that shape a life. His work is marked by an unusual balance of intellectual rigor and emotional generosity: formally precise yet deeply humane, ironic without cynicism and always attentive to the small, decisive moments where lives tilt almost imperceptibly. Throughout his career, he has shown a deep attunement to the ways people try to make sense of themselves amid the shifting currents of memory and expectation.

His newest, 'Sentimental Value', sits comfortably within this body of work. Nuanced and touching, it follows film director Gustav Borg's relationship with his estranged daughters Nora and Agnes. After their mother's funeral brings the fractured family back together, old wounds, unspoken resentments and lingering affections resurface.

It is a subtle drama, saying a great deal without ever labouring its point. Trier uses the narrative to engage with a range of themes, not least the messy dynamics of familial life, generational and inherited trauma and the tension between creative ambition and emotional truth. As ever, he is less interested in resolution than in the uneasy processes by which people attempt to understand one another and themselves.

Trier's narrative, written alongside Eskil Vogt, favours conversation over confrontation, finding its drama in half spoken grievances, withheld affection and the uneasy rhythms of family interaction. Beneath these exchanges lies the quieter legacy of the past: the emotional patterns shaped by Gustav's own childhood losses and the subtle ways those patterns have drifted into the lives of his daughters.

Trier is also alert to the tensions between art and intimacy. A film Gustav is trying to make alongside Nora becomes a kind of emotional fault line, a reminder of how creativity can both illuminate and distort personal relationships. For Nora and, to a lesser extent, Agnes, participating in his work offers the possibility of connection, but also the risk of being drawn back into patterns they have spent years trying to escape. Trier treats these dynamics with characteristic delicacy, allowing the contradictions to sit side by side rather than forcing them into neat thematic conclusions.

Kasper Tuxen's cinematography extends this delicacy into the film's visual language. His images are characteristically unshowy, favouring natural light, soft contrasts and a gentle, observational camera that seems to hover at the edges of conversations rather than impose itself on them. Close ups arrive sparingly but with purpose, catching the flicker of doubt or longing that passes across a face before a character can suppress it.

Interiors are framed with a quiet warmth, while outdoor scenes carry a faint, melancholy openness, as if the landscape itself were absorbing the family's unresolved tensions. The family house itself becomes a living canvas; the beating heart of Trier's narrative. Tuxen's work never strains for symbolism; instead, it creates a visual atmosphere in which the film's emotional undercurrents can surface without fanfare (barring one moment, an unnecessary, overt nod to Ingmar Bergman's 'Persona').

Further, Jorgen Stangebye Larsen's production design reflects the film's emotional subtlety, favouring lived in spaces shaped by accumulated habits rather than overt aesthetic choices. Although some scenes seem to drag, Olivier Bugge Coutte's editing generally comes as a boon to proceedings, letting scenes breathe and conversations unfold with natural hesitations, while transitions slip by with the quiet logic of memory. In addition, Hania Rani's score, alongside an eclectic soundtrack, adds a restrained emotional undertow without ever overwhelming the drama.

The performances are uniformly strong, anchored by Stellan Skarsgard's layered and disarmingly vulnerable turn as Gustav. He plays the character not as a tyrant or a martyr, but as a man who has learned to rely on charm and avoidance, carrying old wounds he has never fully examined, with flickers of vulnerability surfacing only when he's too tired to suppress them. Renate Reinsve delivers an acting masterclass, bringing a taut, restless energy to Nora, capturing both her longing for connection and her instinctive recoil from the emotional traps she recognises all too well.

Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas, meanwhile, offers a more understated but no less affecting performance as Agnes, whose calm exterior is less a sign of certainty than a way of keeping her own doubts at bay. Together, they create a believable dynamic, each performance attuned to the film's delicate balance of affection, frustration and tragic history. In addition, Elle Fanning and Anders Danielsen Lie, in smaller roles, round out the ensemble with a quiet assurance, adding texture without ever drawing focus from the central trio.

Joachim Trier's 'Sentimental Value' is a beautifully observed drama that reaffirms his place as a sensitive chronicler of the human connection. Strongly acted and beautifully shot, the film is hard to fault. Attentive to the small, often uncomfortable moments through which people attempt to reconcile with the baggage they carry, it is measured, humane and quietly affecting; never sentimental, yet rich in value.

Comedian and writer Neal Brennan once remarked "there's nothing worse than trying to be funny and not being funny." Countless supposed comedies have tried too hard and failed even harder, aberrations like the disastrous spy spoof 'Leonard Part 6,' 'Son of the Mask' and the irredeemable 'Movie 43.' Torments to sit through, they stand as monuments to the painful truth that laughter cannot be forced.

Christopher Cain's 1997 effort 'Gone Fishin' is one such disaster; a generic comedy so unfunny it's a wonder it made it past the first table read. It follows bumbling buddies Joe and Gus, fishing enthusiasts who embark on their dream trip to Florida. On the way, they run afoul of a charming conman, befriend two feisty young ladies and leave a trail of chaos in their wake. However, instead of reeling in laughs, the film hooks nothing but groans and awkward silences.

A comedic calamity, the narrative contains no surprises; nothing builds and nothing lands. Instead of crafting humour from character or situation, screenwriters J. J. Abrams and Jill Mazursky rely on tired shtick that was outdated in the 1950's. It's astonishing how much talent is squandered here- Abrams, Academy Award winning cinematographer Dean Semler, producer Roger Birnbaum- yet the finished product is so flat and lifeless it seems like no one involved particularly cared.

Playing like a Three Stooges knock-off, the film has no momentum whatsoever. Lazily edited and burdened with an irritatingly upbeat score from Randy Edelman, it offers only clumsy gags and dead air. You feel every second of its 94-minute runtime. Even Semler's cinematography, which brought such grandeur to 'Dances with Wolves', is utterly uninspired, reducing Florida's landscapes to dull backdrops, as lifeless as a faded postcard.

Limping from one predictable pratfall to the next, the film leaves its talented cast stranded in material that is as uninspired as it is unfunny. One can only wonder what Joe Pesci, Danny Glover, Rosanna Arquette and Willie Nelson were thinking when they signed on. What on earth could possibly have seemed appealing about this trainwreck of a project?

Originally intended as a vehicle for the late, great John Candy and Rick Moranis, one can almost picture the two of them elevating the material with their natural chemistry, superb improvisation and impeccable comic timing. Candy's warmth and chaos, paired with Moranis's neurotic wit, might have given the story some spark, some charm; something that 'Gone Fishin' completely fails to deliver.

Joe Pesci is a dab hand at comedy. From 'My Cousin Vinny' to 'Home Alone', he effortlessly blends manic energy with precise timing, turning even the simplest line into something memorable. However, as Joe, he misfires, overacting wildly like a cartoon character stranded in a live-action world. Danny Glover fares no better in the role of Gus, reduced to reacting to slapstick setups with the kind of forced expressions that make you wince rather than laugh.

Their supporting cast makes little to no impression whatsoever, drifting through the film like ghosts in a sandstorm. As the free-spirited girls the two meet along the way, Rosanna Arquette and Lynn Whitfield barely register, while Nick Brimble's conman is about as menacing as a sleeping duckling. Gary Grubbs tries to inject some energy into proceedings as a slimy boat salesman, as does Maury Chaykin as an over-friendly waiter; but their efforts are in vain.

Bizarrely, Oscar winner Louise Fletcher turns up for all of two seconds as a waitress, getting nothing to do, seeming disappointed and going uncredited. Further, practically defining a "blink-and-you'll-miss-it" cameo, is Willie Nelson, delivering his lines with the dazed detachment of a man who's enjoyed a little too much of Willie's Reserve.

In his review of the Joan Rivers helmed flop 'Rabbit Test', Roger Ebert noted that "before anything else, movie comedy has to feel funny; we should sense from the screen that the filmmakers themselves are laughing. We don't this time." Such is the case with Christopher Cain's 'Gone Fishin'. Every gag feels staged, every pratfall forced. The result is a flat, joyless comedy that not only fails to amuse but also misses the most basic requirement of its genre: to make the viewer laugh. In the end, in trying so hard to be funny, 'Gone Fishin' flounders.