
THE FURIOUS: A Blazing Return to Pure Action Glory
For a decade, the gold standard of hand‑to‑hand combat cinema has remained Gareth Evans’ The Raid and its staggering sequel. Countless imitators have tried to match their breathless, bone‑crushing intensity — and almost all have failed. Now, along comes Kenji Tanigaki’s directorial debut, The Furious, and it does something remarkable: it doesn’t just salute those masterpieces; it stands shoulder to shoulder with them. This is high‑octane, edge‑of‑your‑seat filmmaking of the purest order. Make no mistake — The Furious is already one of the greatest action films ever made, and easily the year’s best.
Tanigaki is no stranger to choreographic brilliance. As the longtime action collaborator of Donnie Yen (the Ip Man series, Flash Point, Twilight of the Warriors: Walled In), he has spent decades refining a style that blends explosive power with balletic precision. For his first feature as director, he assembles a dream team of Asian action royalty: Xie Miao (the legendary child star of New Legend of Shaolin), Joe Taslim (The Raid), Yayan Ruhian (The Raid), Joey Iwanaga (Enter the Fat Dragon) and Brian Le. Together, they unleash a 114‑minute adrenaline tsunami that traces its lineage directly to Tony Jaa’s Ong‑Bak, the Raid films, and even the golden‑era Hong Kong classics of Jackie Chan, Jet Li, and Donnie Yen — only more explosive, more relentless.
Watching The Furious, one cannot help but feel a profound sense of nostalgia — not for imitation, but for an era when Hong Kong cinema went international and changed the game forever. Those 1980s and 90s masterpieces from Jackie Chan, Jet Li, and Woo-ping Yuen didn’t just entertain; they influenced generations of action filmmakers and fighters around the world, from the Wachowskis to Quentin Tarantino, from MMA champions to YouTube stunt teams. The Furious carries that torch unapologetically. There is no ironic distancing, no shaky-cam apology for the violence. Just pure, honest, world-class choreography staged in full view of the camera. And here is the remarkable truth: this time, it is a hard act for Hollywood to follow. For decades, Western studios have tried to reverse-engineer Hong Kong’s magic — often with mixed results. But The Furious operates at a level of physical literacy and risk-taking that most mainstream Hollywood action films have either forgotten or abandoned. This is the real thing Hollywood simply cannot keep up.
The film’s narrative is lean and visceral. Xie plays Wang Wei, a mute repairman whose young daughter is snatched by a child‑trafficking ring. With no voice but unwavering will, he tears through the corrupt underbelly of a Southeast Asian city, joined by a journalist (Taslim) haunted by his own missing wife. The villain, played with icy depravity by Iwanaga, treats kidnapped children like disposable commodities — a horrifyingly realistic nod to a crisis that plagues the region. The Furious never preaches, but its message is clear: the trafficking of children is a silent epidemic, and the film’s fury is a righteous scream against it.
Yet the story is merely a clothesline for the action. And what action it is by choreographer Kensuke Sonomura . In the climax the film delivers a five‑way combat sequence that will be studied for generations. Confined to a police station, Wang Wei faces four distinct martial artists, each representing a different philosophy of violence. Taslim’s Pencak Silat and Judo is all low, serpentine brutality — sudden sweeps and joint‑locks that flow like poison. Ruhian, also Silat‑trained, fights with wild, unpredictable angles, striking from blind spots. Iwanaga, the film’s Japanese villain, brings a chilling hybrid of Karate (in the style Kenneth Lo Wai Kong of the Jackie Chen stunt team) — crisp, linear strikes. His style is brutally efficient: no wasted motion, just cold, calculated dismantling of his opponents. Brian Le, known for his viral martial arts short films and his breakout role in Everything Everywhere All at Once, unleashes a powerful blend of Taekwondo and Tricking — lightning-fast spinning kicks, acrobatic flips, and fluid, unpredictable footwork. His style is the most visually spectacular of the five: explosive, high-flying, and deceptively lethal. And Xie Miao himself anchors the chaos with a hybrid brawler’s grit — no single style, just pure survival instinct.
The choreography is a conversation of clashing forces — every block, every elbow, every desperate takedown filmed with crystalline clarity. No shaky cam. No quick cuts. Just bodies moving at impossible speed, colliding with sickening impact. It is an instant classic, a scene so electrifying that audiences audibly gasped at my screening.
The Furious makes no claim to intellectual subtlety, nor does it need to. What it delivers instead is something rarer: a concentration of physical power and choreographic rigor that reminds us why we fell in love with action cinema in the first place. Every body becomes a weapon, every fight a dialogue of explosive clashing forces. There are no lazy shortcuts, no CGI crutches — just sweat, bone, and the unrelenting will of performers at the absolute peak of their craft. In an age of weightless spectacle and digital armies, this film is a true spectacle — an action epic earned through sweat, blood, and staggering physical rigor. We are already aching for the sequel or different version of the current one.
Elven Ho