《超女》短評

叛逆但正面

很明顯，《超女》的女主人翁超少女(米莉艾高飾)與其他處於青春期的叛逆少女無異，喜歡喝酒，鍾愛夜生活，日常生活作息的規律混亂，但因她母親在生時跟她說的幾句話，要求她做好人，並幫助那些有需要的人，此母親的叮囑刻印在她的心底內，這使她願意向露西·瑪麗·諾爾(伊芙·雷德利飾)伸出援手，落力地幫助露西殲滅敵人。坦白說，米莉一點都不美，她作為超少女的特點在於她的才能，她偶然地獲得瞬間轉移的技能，一剎那間突然出現，又在另一刻突然消失，在其與敵方打鬥的過程中靈活運用，這讓她大顯身手，並把敵人打得落花流水。因此，雖然她的社會經驗比克拉克·肯特少，但這不表示她最終只能成為「花瓶」，在追尋敵人而欲斬草除根時，她依舊親自肩負滅敵的重任，盡力讓露西在安全的環境中尋找徹底破壞其一家的仇人。

因此，超少女天性叛逆，「愛蒲」愛玩，玩世不恭，其形象不算討好，本來不符合成為英雄的行為準則。這種普通人有明顯的缺點，卻需要負上救世的責任，此刻意的角色設計，明顯是為了拉近氪星人與普通人的「距離」。在日常生活中，我們面對失敗時，曾否怪責自己，覺得自己只是普通人，根本無法「做大事」？《超》的超少女直搗黃龍地滅殺敵人，正好表明堅毅的決心是其取得成功的不二法門，即使她曾有頹廢喪志的一剎那，遇上危難時，她會搖身一變，立即「化身」為真英雄。殘酷的現實經常「消滅」觀眾的幻想力，當我們以為自己很平凡，智商不算高，誤以為情緒智商沒有提升的可能性，自己只是普通的千百萬人中的其中一員時，殊不知影片內超少女提醒我們：不要小覷自己，在充分地發揮自己的才能之時，並修補過往的負面形象後，自己終有一天都可以成為英雄。

由此可見，超少女叛逆但正面的形象，在漫畫改編的超級英雄電影中不太常見。或許女性英雄具有積極的思想，無時無刻想改善自己，以及擁有助世救人的正面價值觀較討好，但這會使超少女與普通人的「距離」太遠，反而削弱了我們對她的代入感。氪星人到達地球後會擁有超能力，使其地位比地球人高，但倘若氪星人的品格太十全十美，沒有絲毫人性的缺點，這便會太「離地」，並違反了人類有善惡正邪多元性的特點。因此，《超》的超少女「入世」的意味重，我們在她身上尋找普遍青少年的影子，其實不太難。

曉龍

《反斗奇兵5》短評

傳統與電子玩具的爭戰？

毫無疑問，《反斗奇兵5》同樣圍繞傳統與電子玩具的爭戰而大造文章，現今的兒童只看著平板電腦玩電子遊戲，對傳統玩具失去興趣，已是不爭的事實。《反5》再次把此老掉大牙的主題搬上大銀幕，本來缺乏新意，其故事情節的發展亦在意料之內。幸好傳統動畫人物包括胡迪、巴斯光年、翠絲等表情豐富，生動活潑，淋漓盡致地演繹其鬥不過「莉莉平板」而覺得自己被忽視遭遺棄的內心世界，並把焦慮和不安的情緒表露無遺。事實上，傳統與電子玩具是否二選一的競爭者？它們可否同時並存？8歲的邦妮在同一時間內玩兩種不同的玩具，會否獲得更多的趣味？相對只玩一種玩具，她會否更享受玩樂的時光？影片提出了一種可能性，就是兩者同時並存，對她本身的成長及玩具業的發展都有莫大的裨益。

無可避免，傳統玩具在現今大部分兒童面前缺乏吸引力，因為它們只以固體的形態出現，變化不大，欠缺動感。而平板電腦卻能提供多姿多采的影像，兒童可觀賞美輪美奐的畫面，亦享受玩遊戲時講求速度及多變的官能刺激，別具動感，讓他們沉浸在虛擬世界裡，流動的影像更使他們彷彿身處另一空間內，其背後的神秘感及不可預測性，正好為他們帶來新鮮感，並刺激他們的好奇心。傳統玩具要戰勝平板電腦，實在談何容易。不過，如果他們想發揮自己的創意和想像力，傳統玩具依舊扮演異常重要的角色。因為傳統玩具可看見可觸摸，能成為自創故事中的人物，他們可先借助平板電腦的AI程式創作故事，繼而讓這些玩具演繹自創的故事。《反5》末段邦妮在同一時間內玩傳統與電子玩具，便是一次前所未有的體驗，亦是一次具前瞻性的嶄新嘗試。

或許玩具的未來並非只有平板電腦，雖然現時越來越多兒童沉迷於流動的虛擬影像內，但他們仍然需要摸得到的玩具所帶來的歡喜和愉悅。因為實體的傳統玩具會為他們帶來「陪伴」的感覺，不論虛擬影像多美麗多刺激，但由於其始終沒有實體的形貌，根本難以取代傳統玩具，遑論能扮演「陪伴者」的角色。因此，傳統與電子玩具之間不一定會發生爭戰，在可行的情況下，兩者其實可以並存。

曉龍

《龍之家族》

《龍之家族》——這部撼動全球的《權力遊戲》正統前傳，已於2026年6月21日挾著龍焰與鮮血，強勢登陸HBO與HBO Max。故事倒轉兩百年，回到維斯特洛仍由龍影籠罩的黃金年代，那時坦格利安家族尚未凋零，卻已在自己養大的烈火中，撕裂成一場血染鐵王座的家門悲劇。

情節骨子裡是宮鬥永恆的命題——誰配坐上那把利刃交錯的高椅？但這一次，繼承之爭不再只是陰謀密談，而是父命與母謀的正面對撞。韋賽里斯一世與元配僅得一女雷妮拉，他力排眾議，親手將繼承權交給這位女兒；然而第二任王后卻懷揣更熾烈的野心，暗中點燃三子之一的伊耿二世奪位之火。當國王的遺願化為廢紙，同血同脈的龍之家族便裂成兩派——「黑黨」與「綠黨」——彼此以謊言為盾、以龍焰為劍，不惜屠戮至親、獻祭性命，只為在鐵王座前證明誰才是「正統」。

更致命的是，血統的界線在此模糊——私生子們亦馭龍而起，以龍騎士之姿攪入戰局，讓這場內戰從宮廷蔓延至風暴洶湧的海峽，再直衝雲霄，化為巨龍之間的空中廝殺。首集即毫不留情地將戰場推至眼前，烈焰焚空、龍翼蔽日，那是劇集最直擊靈魂的開場白，也是觀眾無法移開視線的理由。

但不必擔心被龐雜的家譜淹沒——你無須熟記前兩季的每一條線索，也無須糾結於祖輩的婚盟與背叛。你只需知道：坦格利安統治維斯特洛的大半歲月，龍就是他們的權柄與象徵。每一頭龍都有其名，每一頭龍都屬於某位騎士，既是戰爭機器，亦是翱翔於君臨上空的皇家座駕。牠們棲息於龍穴那巍峨圓頂之下，血脈可溯源至伊耿一世渡海而來時攜帶的三顆龍卵；然而當龍群接連隕落，坦格利安也隨之凋零，直到《權力遊戲》的時代，僅餘丹妮莉絲·坦格利安一人，孤身擎起末代龍母的旗幟。

《權力遊戲》當年以交織的人性棋局征服世界，如今《龍之家族》第三季能否再燃那份令人屏息的追劇狂熱？且看龍焰之下，人心如何比火更灼人。

小浪

A Cinematic Love Letter That Redefines the Tearjerker

There is a moment in Dear You that encapsulates its quiet brilliance: an elderly woman, long estranged from the husband who left for Nanyang, learns the shattering truth of his fate. She does not wail. She does not collapse. She simply washes olives, murmuring that “he loved these.” It is restraint of this order—emotional, cultural, and cinematic—that elevates Lan Hongchun’s masterpiece far beyond the weepie it is often mistaken for. This is a film that earns every tear, and it has earned something far rarer: the embrace of a nation. I was in tears for much of the runtime—and so, visibly, was many  audience member around me at my screening, reaching for tissues in collective surrender. Not since Cinema Paradiso at the Cannes premiere have I shedded so much fears in the cinema.

The Humble Behemoth

By any metric, Dear You is a phenomenon. Made on a shoestring budget of approximately 14 million RMB, it has, at the time of writing (June 22, 2026), amassed a staggering box office gross exceeding 1.8 billion RMB. This “dark horse,” which opened with a meagre 1.6% screen share and a paltry 3.77 million RMB on its first day, has mounted one of the most spectacular commercial upsets in Chinese cinematic history, its success fuelled not by spectacle, but by the most potent force in storytelling: authenticity . With its theatrical run extended to June 30 and international release now underway, the film’s 9.3 Douban rating makes it one of the highest-scoring Chinese films of the past decade . The formula, however, is disarmingly simple: tell a true story, with real people, and tell it with integrity.

The Director’s Journey: From Journalism to Cinematic Phenomenon

That this film emerged from the hands of a non-科班 (non-professionally trained) director makes its achievement all the more remarkable. Lan Hongchun, a native of Shantou born in 1986, graduated from South China Normal University with a degree in Chinese Language and Literature, not film. His path to cinema was anything but conventional. After graduation, he contemplated becoming a Chinese teacher in his hometown, but a chance opportunity at Phoenix TV altered his trajectory. There, he spent six years working across various capacities—current affairs commentary, documentary production—and it was this journalistic apprenticeship that proved foundational. “Working in news taught me how to find stories,” he later reflected. “Documentary filmmaking taught me how to understand the love and sacrifice of ordinary Chinese people.”

His first foray into filmmaking came in 2012 with The Love of Swatow (《鮀戀》), an independent feature co-created with university classmates. But it was the “Chaoshan Trilogy” that would define his voice: the 2018 comedy Dad, I’m Sure I Can Do It (《爸，我一定行的》), the 2022 family drama Take Me to See My Mom (《帶你去見我媽》), and now Dear You. Each film marked a deliberate step forward. The first, made with “very elementary skills” and a documentary approach, proved that Chaoshan dialect cinema had commercial viability, earning 47 million RMB. The second became a professional “upgrade,” with two years spent refining the script to address technical shortcomings. “We’ve been learning by doing all along,” Lan says of his creative philosophy. “Each film should show some progress.”

The Art of “Learning by Doing”

Lan’s directorial approach is defined by a singular obsession: authenticity. Faced with a story set in an era he never lived through—his grandparents’ generation of Nanyang migration—he abandoned his previous reliance on personal experience and embraced a method he calls “field research.” For a full year, he and his team interviewed over 120 elderly overseas Chinese, collecting real qiaopi letters, photographs, and oral histories. “90% of the details and plots have real prototypes,” he asserts . In fact, the team visited nearly 300 overseas Chinese families, ensuring that nothing was invented: from the lyrics of the Hakka “Lai lai” soul-returning chant to the texture of a 1950s Thai classroom .

His handling of actors is equally revolutionary. “Empathy matters more than acting skill,” Lan insists. He cast only native Chaoshan speakers, spending nine months searching for the right faces. To coax truthful performances from his non-professional cast, he offered them “unlimited retakes” and even rewrote scenes to align with their life experiences. When filming the elderly Sogriu’s reunion scene, he “stepped back” as a director, using medium shots rather than invasive close-ups, allowing the sheer presence of the 84-year-old Wu Shaoqing to carry the emotional weight. This is direction born not of technical dogma, but of deep human observation.

The Qiaopi and the Director’s Unflinching Gaze

At the heart of this narrative lies the qiaopi (僑批)—the remittance letters and family correspondence that overseas Chinese sent home. In a world of digital ephemera, these physical documents are potent symbols of sacrifice, connection, and a love that must be articulated at a distance. Lan treats these letters not as narrative devices but as sacred artefacts. The film spans decades, following the life of Zheng Musheng (Wang Yantong), a man who travels to Siam (Thailand) to find work, leaving behind his wife, Sogriu, in Shantou. The epicentre of this quiet earthquake is the revelation that, following Musheng’s untimely death, the letters and money that continued to flow home for over forty years were not from him, but from a woman he once helped, the indomitable Xie Nanzhi (Li Sitong). This secret act of devotion turns a love story into a profound meditation on duty and shared humanity.

A Revelation: Li Sitong

Yet the most astonishing revelation of Dear You is Li Sitong, a finance student with no prior acting training, who delivers a performance that rivals—and in some ways surpasses—the finest work of seasoned professionals. As Xie Nanzhi, the woman who secretly sustains a stranger’s family for four decades, Li embodies a moral gravity that feels almost impossibly mature for a first-time performer. There is no actorly calculation in her portrayal; instead, she offers a raw, unvarnished humanity that is as sympathetic as it is formidable.

Watch her in the film’s defining sequence: when Nanzhi finally learns of Musheng’s death, Li does not reach for the expected register of grief. There are no histrionics, no trembling lips, no theatrical collapse. She simply stands in a doorway, her face a fortress of composure, and yet her eyes—those devastating, luminous eyes—betray an ocean of loss. It is a performance of profound interiority, one that communicates decades of suppressed love, loneliness, and quiet heroism through the subtlest shifts in expression. Li makes Nanzhi’s stoicism not a lack of feeling, but its most heroic expression.

What makes her portrayal so deeply sympathetic is its refusal to solicit pity. Nanzhi is a woman of formidable agency—she walks unbowed through fire, she shoulders the burden of another family’s survival, and she does so without ever seeking recognition. Li captures this paradoxical strength: a woman who is simultaneously steel and silk, whose sacrifices are so self-effacing that she becomes almost invisible in her own narrative. And yet, Li’s magnetic presence ensures that we never look away. She transforms what could have been a passive martyr into a quietly revolutionary figure—a woman who rewrites the rules of duty and love on her own terms.

In a film populated by remarkable non-professional performances, Li Sitong is the crown jewel. Her work here is not merely promising; it is fully realised, a debut of such staggering emotional intelligence that it redefines what we expect from untrained actors. One can only hope that this luminous talent continues to grace the screen.

The Young Wife: Zhong Sisi

It would also be remiss not to single out Zhong Sisi (鐘思思), who plays the young Sogriu. Zhong stands as a fascinating bridge—a trained actress whose performance is so deftly understated that she blends seamlessly with her untrained counterparts. She has no theatrical grandstanding; instead, she inhabits the young wife with a palpable ache that is all the more wrenching for its quietude. Her Sogriu is a woman of few words, but her eyes speak volumes—whether watching her husband depart from the village gate, clutching their child in the aftermath of a fire, or receiving letters she cannot read, her face a fragile mirror of hope and quiet desperation. Zhong captures the specific agony of a woman left behind: not the grand gestures of melodrama, but the mundane routines of survival that mask a lifetime of waiting. Her performance is a masterclass in interiority, and it provides the emotional foundation upon which the elderly Sogriu’s devastating later scenes are built.

The Elderly Wife: Wu Shaoqing’s Devastating Truth

And then there is Wu Shaoqing. If Zhong Sisi provides the foundation, the 84-year-old Wu Shaoqing delivers the earthquake. A grandmother from Jiedong who had never acted before, Wu brings to the elderly Sogriu a lived-in authenticity that no amount of training could manufacture. Her face, weathered and etched with the topography of a hard life, becomes the film’s most eloquent canvas. When she finally learns the truth about her husband—that the letters and money she cherished for decades came not from him, but from a woman she never knew—Wu does not perform grief; she releases it. Her tears are not actorly; they are the tears of a woman who has lived this loneliness, who has spent a lifetime waiting for a ghost. The scene is almost unbearable to watch, not because it is melodramatic, but because it is so achingly real. Wu’s trembling hands, her quivering voice, the way her body seems to fold in on itself—every gesture is a testament to a lifetime of silent endurance. At the film’s premiere, she choked back tears, saying, “At 84, I finally have my own name… I am no longer anyone’s daughter, wife, mother, or grandmother.” That confession is not promotional material; it is the soul of the film laid bare. Wu Shaoqing does not act—she simply is, and that is what makes her performance one of the most devastatingly truthful ever committed to screen.

A Subtle Script and a Cinematic Soul

The script, co-written by Lan, is a masterclass in restraint. It does not rely on contrivance or overwrought dialogue. Instead, it finds its power in the spaces between words—in the weight of a letter, in the silence of a woman standing unbowed in a fire (a symbol of Chaozhou women’s stoic bravery), in the melancholy metaphor of the kapok tree, which blooms without leaves, representing a love that is always present but perpetually out of reach. It is a deeply cinematic film, utilising these visual motifs to build a world rich in cultural symbolism, from the “soul-returning” melody of the “Lai lai” chant to the tradition of wearing white at funerals. The film is not just a story but a spiritual history of the Teochew people.

Verdict

Dear You is an epochal film. It is a reminder that the most resonant stories are often the most specific, and that the grandest emotions can be found in the most humble of gestures. It is a near-perfect synthesis of direction, performance, and cultural memory. The fact that this intimate, regional film has become a nationwide phenomenon, connecting younger generations to the forgotten legacy of the Nanyang diaspora, is a testament to its universal power. It is a film that will move you, not through manipulation, but through a profound and aching recognition of the human condition. Prepare to weep, but also prepare to be healed.

Elven Ho

《給阿嬤的情書》影評

《給阿嬤的情書》這部影片以「情義」作為核心敘事視角，串聯起三段羈絆：鄭木生與葉淑柔之間相守等待的夫妻情義，謝南枝與鄭木生之間共患難相互支持的情義，之後轉化為謝南枝與葉淑柔（阿嬤）之間素未謀面卻歷經十八載跨越山海的情義。

電影在人物塑造和角色刻劃方面頗具巧思，導演透過阿嬤兩個兒子以及一眾配角自私複雜的人性，鮮明地反襯出男主角及兩位女主角的純樸和堅忍品性，讓整個故事有血有肉、有情有義，亦使導演的人物選角極具說服力。

在敘事方面，導演巧用伏筆營造出觀眾的主觀錯覺，誤以為木生在南洋發財之後拋棄原配、另組家庭。直到後來木生與謝南枝懸念關係真相的揭開，以及謝南枝艱苦的堅持，強烈的劇情反差直擊人心，牢牢抓住觀眾的情緒起伏，令人動容。

這部由「全素人」出演、全程採用潮汕方言拍攝的低成本影片，在當下影視行業強調大預算、大明星和大特效的今天，非常生動地用口碑印證了行業最質樸的創作真諦：一部優秀的影片，貴在真誠由心出發、講好故事，唯有深耕內容，才會擁有公認的市場價值與藝術價值。

從這個角度而言，《給阿嬤的情書》，亦是寫給影視行業的一封箴言之書。

林懷李

《給阿嬤的情書》短評

人性的善

除了犯罪片，中國內地的電影幾乎都以歌頌美善的人性為主軸，《給阿嬤的情書》亦不例外。這齣電影的故事情節源於真人真事，但實在難以置信，影片內謝南枝(李思潼飾)在泰國經營一間旅館，其後收留了鄭木生(王彥桐飾)，在多次接觸後，他倆成為了好朋友，彼此對對方有情有義。他讓她有機會跟隨狄功(陳欽勤飾)讀書識字，改變了自己一生的命運。在日常生活中，於相處的過程內，她深入地認識和了解他，覺得他樂於助人，見義勇為，是難得一見的大好人。即使她得悉他早已結婚，沒有機會成為他的愛人，她仍然樂意與他接觸，因為她覺得他是潮州男性的好榜樣。

在木生於搶劫事件中搏鬥時墮河身亡後，南枝感恩圖報，繼續代替他寫信給他在中國的妻子葉淑柔(王曉慧飾)，隱瞞他已去世的事實，不單在金錢上資助淑柔和她的一家，還假裝他在泰國有安穩的工作和生活，藉此撫慰淑柔心底內被迫與木生長期分隔兩地時忐忑不安的心靈。南枝對木生及淑柔的愛，並非單單朋友之間的情，亦非陌生人彼此毫無瓜葛的關係，這是一種潮州人互助互愛的情，沒有計算，從不計較，亦沒有任何特殊的條件，單單同一族群的情，已足以解釋南枝願意無私地幫助淑柔的原因。

在文化研究的理論中，曾經出現了流散(diaspora)的概念，就是一個人即使身處異地，仍舊對自己的故鄉有強烈的歸屬感。在《給》內，木生長期身處泰國，但經常掛念遠在中國的淑柔，對祖國依舊有濃厚的感情。就是這種「身在異地，根在祖國」的心態，讓這齣電影獲得中國內地的民眾支持，並以低成本製作卻獲得票房上鉅額的收益。一直以來，尋根都是遍佈世界各地的中國人的老話題，影片內木生對淑柔、南枝對淑柔，其心繫對方的愛，藏著自己對祖國的一份情和義。執筆至此，不禁想起每逢中國國內發生水災、地震等天然災害時，海外華僑都會出一分力，捐款至內地，這種「血濃於水」的情，就是《給》的核心。片末淑柔在老年時從中國第一次坐飛機到泰國探望南枝，當時南枝已經腦退化，對過去發生的事剩餘的記憶不多，但淑柔依舊對南枝抒發自己的感恩之情，淑柔看著南枝、回憶往事的一剎那，讓觀眾「百般滋味在心頭」。這段情節最能觸動我們的心靈，因為這是屬於潮州人的回憶，亦是屬於中國人的歷史故事。

《給阿嬤的情書》電影觀賞會順利舉行！由香港影評人協會主辦， 特邀各協會會員共同觀賞溫情佳作

大會嘉賓包括全國人大代表鄺美雲太平紳士、立法會議員范凱傑、香港江蘇婦女聯合總會張心瑜會長、 資深藝人馮素波， 香港政協青年聯會常務副主席陳志豪， 香港青年會主席鄭瀚衍、香港青年會副主席陳兆聰，香港江西青年會會長何聲暢等。

作為香港影評人協會會長， 我感到非常高興， 活動籌委主席團由香港影評人協會副會長、江西青年會會長何聲暢帶領下, 執委香港影評人協會秘書長鄒娟  、香港影評人協會常務理事何宇翔順利而成功地完成工作, 新一屆的理事會亦順利登場。

感謝多位各界青年領袖親臨現場，與青年會員們一同執手觀影、共話光影背後的溫暖與感動。電影情節溫暖人心，現場氣氛溫馨熱烈。感謝各位嘉賓與會員的踴躍參與，讓本次觀影活動圓滿落幕！期待下一次活動再與大家相聚！

何緯豐博士

香港影評人協會會長

電影觀賞會現場

香港影評人協會理事與嘉賓合影

新一屆香港影評人協會理事

日本導演是枝裕和自編自導的話題新作《再生家族》（日文片名《箱の中の羊》），以「AI復活」技術切入日常生活，審視人與機器之間的界線，進而探討一個深刻命題：失去親人之後，仿生人能否承載人類的悲傷？導演以其敏銳的社會觀察視角，搭配溫暖筆觸描繪小人物面貌，刻劃親情與人性，最終呈現出一部輕盈而略帶傷感的電影詩篇。本片亦是是枝裕和繼《怪物》後，第八度入圍康城影展主競賽單元。

故事設定於近未來的日本社會。一對喪子的年輕建築師夫婦——妻子甲本音音（綾瀨遙飾）與丈夫甲本健介（大悟飾，同時也是工程公司第二代老闆）——為了撫平兩年前孩子過世所帶來的內心傷痛，借助AI再生科技，迎來了一個外型、語調甚至記憶都與兒子一模一樣的仿生人形機器人，試圖重組破碎的家庭，重拾往昔的日常生活。然而，這個仿生機器人真能達成他們的心願嗎？

編劇兼導演是枝裕和透露，《再生家族》的創作構想源於他對「以科技讓逝者重現」這一現象的關注。2024年春天，他讀到關於中國「復活產業」興起的相關專題報導，該議題引發了社會廣泛討論。同年秋天，他更結識了一位該產業的從業者，從而意識到類似發展亦有可能在日本出現。是枝裕和認為，科技進步的速度遠超想像，而技術與人心價值之間的落差，正是他孕育這部作品背後真正的創作命題。

在探討這個議題時，導演採取了與西方截然不同的視角，一個充滿東方藝術哲學思想的視角。要理解此一視角，首先需要了解中西繪畫風格背後的文化邏輯差異。西方繪畫強調寫實逼真，其內在邏輯在於：現實世界是上帝創造的，當人創造的作品愈逼近真實，就意味著人的能力愈接近上帝，因而受到敬仰。相比之下，以中國為代表的東方繪畫邏輯則截然不同：宇宙處於不斷運行變化之中，「一生二，二生三，三生萬物」；描繪「萬物」的本質，才是真正的真實。創作者需透過外在表象，洞察物質背後運行的變化規律——即「天道」。因此，東方藝術更注重物質背後的「意」，這既是創作者對宇宙萬物運行規律的理解，也是「道」作用於人類一切行為、潛藏於最原始動機之中的痕跡。作品是否「像」並非關鍵，彰顯出的「意」——即創作者內在的投射——才是作品的靈魂所在。

於是，影片中所展示的仿生機器人，完全具備父母的某些特徵——例如記憶與相貌。然而，他／它依然並非如大家所期望的那般全然真實；但正因如此，他／它恰恰是父母內心深處意念的投射。透過對話，他／它能夠幫助父母釋懷心中潛藏的心結與最原始的動機。在某種意義上，這個仿生機器人就是人類與自身內心對話的具象化體現。

仿生人也許在不久的將來真能進入我們的生活。屆時，你所期待的「他／她／它」，究竟會是什麼樣的存在？

《再生家族》〉已於6月18日在香港上映。

Toy Story 5

Thirty years after Pixar’s groundbreaking original, Toy Story 5 arrives not with the fanfare of a conquering hero, but with the quiet anxiety of a franchise pondering its own obsolescence. It is a surprisingly fitting theme for a series that has, in many ways, mirrored the journey of its audience from childhood to adulthood. While it may not recapture the flawless magic of the original trilogy, this latest installment, directed by Andrew Stanton, is a charming, emotionally resonant addition that places Joan Cusack’s Jessie firmly in the spotlight as it confronts the 21st-century threat of technology.

The film finds Bonnie (now eight and voiced by Scarlett Spears) struggling to connect with her peers in a world where children are glued to Lilypad tablets. In a move that will feel agonizingly familiar to parents, Bonnie’s well-meaning parents introduce one into her life, and the device (voiced by Greta Lee) quickly commandeers her attention, leaving her toys, led by a distressed Jessie, feeling abandoned. This premise is a natural evolution for a series that has always been about the fear of being replaced. Jessie, who carries the scars of being left behind by her first owner Emily, is the perfect emotional anchor for this story. Her journey back to her original home is genuinely moving, allowing the film to revisit its own history in a way that feels organic rather than nostalgic. The use of Randy Newman’s “When She Loved Me” is enough to guarantee a tear or two, adding another layer of complexity to what could have been a simplistic narrative.

How does it compare to its predecessors? The first two films remain untouchable classics, their blend of invention and heart setting a bar that few sequels—this one included—can ever hope to clear. Toy Story 3 delivered a staggering emotional crescendo that felt like a perfect farewell, while Toy Story 4 functioned as a thoughtful, almost philosophical epilogue for Woody. Toy Story 5, by contrast, is a leaner, more intimate affair, but it sometimes buckles under the weight of its own ambitions. A bizarre but delightful diversion involving a shipwrecked crew of “upgraded” Buzz Lightyear toys provides comedic relief, yet its narrative necessity is questionable. The film also struggles to balance its ensemble; while Woody (Tom Hanks) and Buzz (Tim Allen) are present, their roles are noticeably diminished in favor of Jessie, and one cannot help but miss the electric chemistry of the duo that defined the franchise’s golden years. The film lacks a definitive “Let’s-freaking-go!” moment between the two iconic friends, and that absence is keenly felt.

Still, the film’s handling of its central theme is surprisingly nuanced. It doesn’t simply preach that technology is bad; it acknowledges its benefits while exploring the anxiety of childhood in a screen-saturated world. A powerful visual gag of a room full of people—adults and children alike—oblivious to the toys moving around them because they are fixated on their screens, is classic Pixar: sharp, funny, and pointed. The introduction of Smarty Pants, a piece of obsolete tech voiced with manic energy by Conan O’Brien, adds another poignant layer, reminding us that obsolescence is a universal condition. There is a quiet melancholy running through the film, a sense that these characters are no longer the center of anyone’s universe, and it is this melancholy that gives the film its unexpected weight.

Will this be the last? Toy Story 5 doesn’t feel like a definitive conclusion. The central message of the film is not that play is dead, but that it can co-exist with technology. It advocates for a balance, suggesting that the “age of toys” may not be over after all. This is a franchise that still has plenty of life left in it. It may not be as groundbreaking as its predecessors, but Toy Story 5 proves that these beloved toys still have the power to make us laugh, reflect, and feel deeply.

Elven Ho

Chen Sicheng’s Chamber Piece: A Director Unshackled

Chen Sicheng has built a career on maximalism. From the dizzying Detective Chinatown franchise to the glossy psychological thriller Lost in the Stars, his name has become synonymous with high-concept, high-budget spectacle. Yet Being Towards Death, a small-budget chamber drama set in a terminal ward, is a startling anomaly. It is as if the director, tired of his own formula, has stripped everything back to bare walls and authentic human noise.

Compared to the intricate plotting of Detective Chinatown 1900 or the heavy suspense of Lost in the Stars, this new film feels radically lightweight. There are no car chases, no overseas locations, no murder mystery. Instead, we get a suicidal young man (Jiang Long) finding reluctant purpose among a motley crew of loud, boisterous cancer patients. The shift is seismic. Chen’s usual industrial production gives way to raw, almost vérité observation. The result is flawed but fascinating: a meta-narrative where the patients decide to make a film, allowing Chen to openly mock his own cinematic tics while searching for genuine pathos.

This retreat into a single room aligns Being Towards Death with two rich traditions of Asian cinema. Like Taiwan’s Dear Ex or The Victims’ Game, it sits in the uncomfortable space between comedy and trauma. However, it lacks the meticulous slow-burn atmosphere of Taiwanese auteurs like Chung Mong-hong. Chen is louder, more chaotic, more willing to risk sentimentality.

More interesting is its divergence from Korean chamber dramas such as Breathless or Hope. Korean cinema often weaponises cramped spaces—the gritty rooftop, the claustrophobic gosiwon—to heighten social critique and class rage. Chen’s hospital room feels less like a critique of society and more like a sanctuary from it, a place where death is imminent but life is excessively, almost irrationally, celebrated. Where Korean films might punish you with despair, Chen offers redemption without irony.

The film is not without flaws. Its tonal shifts can feel jarring, and the supporting cast sometimes leans too hard into caricature. Yet Being Towards Death proves Chen Sicheng can be vulnerable without the safety net of special effects. It is messy, sentimental, and surprisingly sincere—a minor work from a major director. Its raw energy and willingness to sit with messy, dying souls makes it the most honest film Chen has ever made. It is not a masterpiece, but it is a necessary rebellion against the soulless logic of the blockbuster. And in that small, cluttered hospital room, Chen finally finds something he has long chased: a heartbeat.

Elven Ho

《再生家族》短評

療癒心靈創傷的科技

當AI能夠成為人類的好朋友，甚至是知己時，我們難免會想：AI機器人何時會代替人類？甚至取代已去世的家人，藉此療癒我們的心靈創傷？《再生家族》的導演兼編劇是枝裕和嘗試提出一種可能性，就是當我們擁有一個與AI機器人差不多一模一樣的小孩時，我們會否視它為真人，與對待在世時的真人一樣，全心全意地愛它和照顧它？很明顯，影片內甲本音音（綾瀨遙飾）的兒子甲本翔(桒木里夢飾)去世後，她受到很大的打擊，當與他接近完全相同的AI機器人在她面前出現時，她已按捺不住自己，濃濃的母愛使她分不開他與AI機器人，當它電量不足而停止運作時，她才醒覺它不是他，它只是代替了他的機器人。她向它灌注自己原本對他百分之百的感情，覺得它以他的身分「重生」，正好暗示她十分掛念他，不捨得他這麼年輕便離開人世。故她以它取代他，其實是人之常情。

無可否認，以AI陪伴人類，療癒大家的心靈創傷，是世界電腦科技發展的大趨勢。當我們有疑問時，問AI；當我們感到孤單寂寞時，找AI聊天；當我們掛念已去世的家人時，找AI幫忙，根據家人過往的照片和短片生成關於去世者的傳記式影片。這就像《再》內極像甲本翔的仿真機器人，其思想和行為的相似度甚高，除了欠缺了一點點人性，無需吃飯喝水，不會發脾氣，亦不會有豐富的內心世界外，它與他基本上完全一樣。初時甲本音音視它為他，因為它的外表及表面的行為「矇騙」了她，讓她以為它就是他，在短時間內它的出現確實療癒了她失去他的心靈創傷。不過，當她與它相處日久，就會發覺它始終是它，他始終是他，它永遠不會成為他。影片中後段內當她提出不再留它在家中時，其實她已「清晰地」察覺它不是他，如果它離開，確實可讓她逃離幻夢，重返現實。

但當甲本音音放手讓AI機器人離開時，她的丈夫甲本健介（大悟飾）反而想留住它，覺得它真的可充當他們的兒子，醫治他們過往的心靈創傷，並維繫他倆彼此的感情。事實上，它的出現，讓他倆重拾一家人的感覺，這是其他人/東西難以取代的。故現今的科技不再是冷冰冰的死物，很多時候，它有情有義，有愛有溫度，甚至能「進入」人類的心靈深處，片末兩夫婦在是否留它在家中的問題上有多番的掙扎，這就是最佳的證明。

曉龍

《給阿嬤的情書》Dear You

另一個尋找他鄉的故事

中國人從來都有一個「飄洋過海」的詛咒。剛過世的King Sir鍾景輝旁白的著名片集《尋找他鄉的故事》正是訴說著無數此等華人血淚史。我家祖輩也曾是飄洋過海謀生，他去得更遠，秘魯。故事中的主人翁只身處區區南洋，何足掛齒？但以國內電影而言，可以拍出以往海外華人的辛酸史亦屬罕見，還有整齣戲以「方言」潮汕語為對白，更是突破。

由於不便劇透，只能談一下技術。無疑劇本的鋪陳不錯，說故事技巧佳，有懸念，讓觀眾不斷地追看下去。以「情書」來訴說故事的戲不少，多為愛情；此片卻超越了愛情，以更高層次去訴說一種情，並錯綜交代祖輩的辛酸，是一種頗特別的方式，導演要很有心才做得到。既有情味又彰顯歷史痕跡，相當感人。

撇開部份不濟的素人演員，男女主角都表現優秀，配樂亦悦耳悠揚，一首鄧麗君的印尼語歌《南海姑娘》(原來是另一位歌手陳佳唱的)正合小鄧那些年…。潮汕人原來早在清朝已「移民」暹羅(泰國)，潮州人在泰國的影響力從古至今絕不能小覷，電影復刻暹羅的舊情、舊物、舊貌亦見心思，尤其街道招牌與書信中的文字，令我更愛正體字。

二十年的情書秘密叫人唏噓，隱藏著的一份情誼教人錯愕。為何中國人都像輪迴一樣地「飄洋過海」？為甚麼都要海外的親屬寄錢回鄉呢？他們不是已經很苦嗎？難道家鄉人更苦？

多謝電影給我看到問題的癥結所在。

陸凌綠

《一個部門的誕生》短評

對過度制度化的嘲諷

2014年，CUT有線電視的話題一度成為當時的新聞焦點，事至如今，《一個部門的誕生》的創作人再次拿著此話題大造文章，讓CUT台昇華至脅持人質事件，保留了銀河映像嘲諷時弊的風格，其誇張核突的笑料，「有血有淚」的情節，不難使身為小市民的香港觀眾產生共鳴。影片內「K仔」(戴玉麒飾)為了成功CUT台，親自到「開心電視」的客戶服務中心處理，但之前他曾多次致電，卻仍未成功，直至該中心在下午五點收工的一刻，他終於情緒大爆發，在地上拾獲李仲波(麥沛東飾)在警員休班期間掉在地上的配槍，並以該中心的客戶為脅持的人質。這種把小事化為大事的編劇技巧，讓日常生活的小事變為荒誕驚人的大事，對一般人來說，像CUT台這類瑣事可能不值一提，但對創作人而言，瑣事可以成為嚴重事件發生的源頭，《一》由一個簡單的訴求變為較複雜的開槍及死亡事件便是其中一例。

命運的巧合，使上述突發的事件偶然地發生，以CUT台為由脅持人質可能有點小題大做，但有相關經驗的觀眾都會明白「簽約易，CUT約難」所帶來的纏擾和痛苦。山姐(梁雍婷飾)初時覺得「K仔」提出的要求十分荒繆，及後她親自到不同部門處理，必須經過眾多繁複的手續，才能成功CUT台，始明白他極端的做法有一定的緣由。很明顯，影片內「開心電視」在客戶服務方面有過度制度化之弊，管理層為了維持訂戶的人數，保留一直以來的廣告收益，不惜創造CUT台繁複的行政程序，希望現有的訂戶即使對該電視台的節目諸多不滿，依舊嫌麻煩而不再堅持CUT台。這種為了生存而不尋求改善節目質素的消極做法，終導致難以想像的嚴重事故發生。

由此可見，慘劇的出現並非一蹴而就，其實像滾雪球一樣，從小事開始，越滾越大，終導致大事發生。《一》內對現實的強烈嘲諷的確令觀眾會心微笑，影片內李仲波遲了超過五個號碼而必須重新排隊，這亦道出了未擁有特權的普通人的辛酸。像《一》這類悲喜劇，以慘事為情節的主軸，放大這些事後，有相關經歷的觀眾會捧腹大笑，因為影片內的他/她，就像現實中的自己。電視台不良的制度及程序，受害的不單是訂戶，經常被訂戶用粗言穢語問候的客戶服務員同樣是受害者。故處於不同崗位及擁有不同身分的香港觀眾看此片時都會產生共鳴，其實不太奇怪，亦合情合理，因為這是人之常情。

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