40 Best 2024 Foreign-language Movies to Watch

When the world gets dark– when something bad happens that makes you lose your faith in the world around you– it can be hard to think that art would be of any help. After all, a piece of paper with scribbles on it can’t undo the wrong that’s happened, or help out directly with the concrete, solidified systems and solutions to the world’s problems. Look Back even acknowledges the possibility of art harming its creators, but through the friendship forged by Fujino and Kyomoto, it also acknowledges the way art can save you and the people who share that love, through some of the most beautiful animation ever created.

The Seed of the Sacred Fig bravely takes on the increasingly violent patriarchy and theocracy in modern-day Iran. It follows a family of four—Iman, Najmeh (Soheila Golestani), Rezvan (Mahsa Rostami), and Sana (Setareh Maleki)—and reveals how the political can creep into the personal. Iman, the father, has just been promoted at work (he’s one step closer to being a judge), while his two daughters are budding revolutionaries. The educated girls see through the lies of state television and challenge their conservative parents’ ideas on government and religion. It sounds straightforward, but director Mohammad Rasoulof lets everything unfold subtly and sharply. By the second half, the film transforms into a slow-burn thriller as the family home becomes a microcosm of Iran itself. It’s a brave film helmed by even braver people. Rasoulof and his cast, who filmed in secret to avoid the film ban in Iran, had to escape to Europe after they were interrogated and sentenced in their home country. The Seed of the Sacred Fig can’t encapsulate the entirety of Iran’s troubles, nor does it try, but it’s a good place to start.

When two young brides are mistakenly swapped on a train, it’s a difficult situation, much more so when the brides in question are both veiled and wearing the same red bridal attire. This seemingly simple swap is the entire plot of Laapataa Ladies, but director Kiran Rao transforms this mishap into a hilarious, yet realistic, satire that challenges plenty of the norms enforced on women in the country. As Phool and Jaya switch places, the film understands where their respective mindsets come from– Phool having not learned much about the world, and Jaya having been jaded by it– but the film doesn’t stop there. It brings them to places that challenge those mindsets, and in turn, they challenge the people around them too, by actively making choices from the mindsets they had to hold to survive. Laapataa Ladies is what it says on the tin– Laapataa is the word for lost– but the sharply written characters, the witty dialogue, and the subtle social commentary make this charming love story one of a kind.

Though wordless and human-less, Flow might be one of the most charming films about humanity you’ll ever see. It follows a group of different-species animals who’ve formed an unlikely bond as they try to survive a massive flood. There’s a quirky lemur, a friendly dog, a majestic bird, a wise capybara, and connecting them all through its curiosity (and cuteness) is a cat. They go through an adventure of sorts as they look for high ground, but don’t mistake this for a Disney or Dreamworks picture. This independent Latvian film gets unapologetically bleak. And as adorable as it is, there’s also a sense of endless dread coming from the uncertainty of their future. The filmmakers aren’t afraid to show things like death and predation—this is a survival, post-apocalyptic movie after all—but without spoiling anything, it still has a gleaming sliver of hope. That Flow can make ideas like selflessness, cooperation, and community feel like instinctive, animalistic urges is inspiring, and maybe more than we deserve.

At the height of a military dictatorship in Brazil, forced disappearances were an unfortunately common occurrence. It was the government’s brutal way of weeding out perceived enemies, even though, more often than not, their accusations were baseless. I’m Still Here tells the true story of one such victim, Ruebens Paiva, but through the eyes of the wife he left behind. And so while it is crucially a political movie, I’m Still Here is also a heart wrenching tale of grief and resilience. It subverts expectations, too, by never being overly dramatic. Fernanda Torres commands her character, Eunice Paiva, with dignity and restraint. Though she barely voices it out, you can see the pain in her expressive eyes and her tensed muscles, in her strained voice and her determination to keep her five children afloat. Things happen matter-of-factly in the film, which adds to the sadness of the reality. Life doesn’t owe us explanations, and it can remain mysterious till the bitter end. Like Eunice, sometimes the best we can do is to hold on to what we know is true, and to never forget.

Only a few people in Dita’s house are related by blood, but you wouldn’t know that by how they move. They’re tight-knit but argumentative, loving at times but spiteful in other instances. In other words, they’re complicated just like any other family. Housekeeping for Beginners makes a compelling case for the validity—and at times necessity—of found families like Dita’s, who all found each other after being shunned by their race and sexuality. As in his previous works, Director Goran Stolevski paints a realistic and relevant portrait here, one tinted with striking pain and poignancy, bound to leave your heart aching long after the credits roll.

Grandparents are often depicted as innately loving, especially towards their grandchildren, so it’s a delight to see someone like M’s Amah, who is testy and tenacious, and quite proud to be doing her own thing even in her old age. She runs her house alone and sells congee in her neighborhood, and even when presented with the worst possible news, she refuses pity, only allowing M back in her life after he proves his motives are sincere. M, to his credit, is believably selfish and sensitive as a young school dropout. Together, the two and their crackling push-and-pull chemistry are a blast to watch. It’s tender, but never overly saccharine, and no matter how much you resist you’re sure to shed a few tears. How to Make Millions Before Grandma Dies may not have the most original plot (I’m sure you’ll be able to guess the ending just by reading the premise alone), but it’s thoroughly engaging, not only because of the two leads, but because of it’s relatable messages about family dynamics (especially Asian family dynamics), money, and legacy. The gentle, unobtrusive cinematography by Boonyanuch Kraithong makes it extra easy on the eyes too. I only wish the movie explored the misogyny of tradition more, instead of merely touching upon it (“Sons get the goods, daughters only get the genes” is such a brilliant line), but I suppose that would need a female writer/director at the helm.

While based on the Mononoke series, which is in turn, a spin-off of Ayakashi: Samurai Horror Tales, it might seem that Mononoke The Movie: The Phantom in the Rain would require some background reading for people new to the story. Thankfully, there’s no need to do homework for this beautifully designed masterpiece, as the Medicine Seller takes on a new case with every installment. 2024’s Phantom in the Rain (also known as Paper Umbrella) unfolds its world with ease, with doors opening and closing to a select few for a high-pressure, hierarchical imperial household. Immediately, the visuals are stunning, with traditional ukiyo ink and paper mixed with modern kaleidoscopic fill and movement, but even without the gorgeous art, the first Mononoke movie works with its eerie horror, intense sound design, and a compelling mystery driven by court intrigue and vengeful spirits.

Given the original real-life story behind it, perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising that The Girl with the Needle was so bleak. Serial killing, after all, is bad. But rather than focus on the historical killer, writer-director Magnus von Horn hones the camera to focus on one such mother that would have sought for help from Dagmar Overbye, on the circumstances that would have pushed them there, and the terror that they felt once they realized the truth. With gothic black-and-white shots, impeccable framing, and an excellent performance from Vic Carmen Sonne, The Girl with the Needle is harrowing and heartbreaking, especially with how it still remains relevant to our time.

All We Imagine as Light is a political film that has many smart and moving things to say about the loneliness of migrating from the country to the city, the double standards women face on the daily, and the ever-widening gap between the rich and poor. But thanks to director Payal Kapadia’s deft hands, these weighty themes don’t hit you like a brick in the face. Intertwined in the rich inner lives of the two Malayali nurses and the Marathi cook who lead the film, they come off as subtle and poetic, like everything else about the film. There’s a quiet power at work here, and it will entrance you till the end.

In the Dead Talents Society, ghosts haunting humans are less of a scare, and more a performance that can grant fame and fortune in the underworld. It makes for incredibly charming comedy. It affectionately satirizes East Asian horror in such a fresh way, comparing a ghost being remembered to today’s social media influencers, with views and validation directly tied to survival. However, as these ghosts scramble to scare unwitting humans, writer-director John Hsu resolves their need to be seen through the familiar path of fun and friendship, an approach that works with its offbeat humor and incredible performances. Dead Talents Society is very goofy, but it’s a unique horror comedy that won’t easily be forgotten.

Let Go follows the same structure as many modern family dramas. You can practically tell how it ends five minutes in. Its plot is thin and predictable, and in lesser hands, it would’ve been relegated to forgettable Netflix fare. But Josephine Bornebusch‘s strong direction, the actors’ realistic performances, and the script’s sharp insight into family dynamics save it from sentimental mush. Bornebusch, who also wrote and stars in the film, displays an excellent level of control here. Just when the film threatens to teeter into melodramatic territory, Bornebusch reigns it in and trusts her talented cast to do their magic. Their easy chemistry and quiet expressions of pain and delight are a delight to watch.

After the La Manada rape case in 2016, it was necessary to document this event, especially since the widespread national outrage and demonstrations managed to move the country to change the way Spain defines consent. You Are Not Alone: Fighting the Wolf Pack documents this arduous journey. While it’s done through the familiar Netflix true crime approach, there’s some respect given to the victim that hasn’t been given previously by the media. The film sticks to the actual verbatim words used by the victim, albeit edited for clarity, but they ensured that their words were not accompanied with photos or similar looking actors, keeping the truth of their words without risking their safety. While the documentary’s direction isn’t new, the outrage is still felt, as well as the genuine hope of a country that came together to ensure justice.

At first, you wonder, couldn’t this behind-the-scenes look at the making of The Boy and The Heron just be a DVD special? But a few minutes in, it becomes clear how rich the material is. It’s not just about Miyazaki and the making of a movie, it’s about him grappling with grief and transforming it into art. A surprising chunk of this documentary is about death. Miyazaki’s friends and colleagues are passing away, it seems, every month, and the only way Miyazaki can mourn and honor them is through his (their) art. The Boy and The Heron itself is a fulfillment of a promise Miyazaki made to his closest friend, Isao Takahata, or Pak-san, as Miyazaki lovingly calls him. It’s Pak-san whom he mourns the most in the movie, but almost everyone who’s passed makes an appearance both in the documentary and the film. The lines between the two are often blurred by Miyazaki, in his failing memory, and by documentary director Kaku Arakawa. Arakawa’s editing is chaotic, if not experimental. He cuts between reality and fiction—documentary footage and Ghibli clips—faster than you can make sense of it all. “I opened my brain way too far for this project,” Miyazaki claims, and you can feel the exhilaration and fear in every second of this brilliant film.

If given the outline of this film, it might be easy to just call it poverty porn. But there’s a genuineness to Mambar Pierrette that keeps this film from sliding into melodrama, a certain subtlety that captures the everyday life in Douala, Cameroon. Filmmaker Rosine Mbakam, who made her start through documentary films, brings her naturalistic style here, placing the titular seamstress front and center as she responds to each and every difficulty that comes her way. And as the flood comes, and so too her troubles, Pierrette Aboheu Njeuthat shines with a subtle charisma, a performance full of dignity for the titular single mother that carved out a life through her craft. Mambar Pierrette might have a familiar neo-realist story, but it’s done well due to its excellent balance.

We sacrifice so much for our dreams, so if it all fails, whether that be because of ourselves or because of extenuating circumstances, sometimes, a bit of perspective is needed to get back up. The Taiwanese-Japanese romantic drama 18×2 Beyond Youthful Days is centered on two young adults that meet in a karaoke bar in Tainan, one who hopes to pass the summer with some money, and the other hoping to fulfill her dream of travelling the world. It’s a familiar coming-of-age concept, but it’s done so bittersweet and beautifully as the adult Jimmy recalls each moment they shared while on the journey to fulfill their promise to meet each other after they reach their dreams. 18×2 Beyond Youthful Days doesn’t tread new paths, but the film’s way of depicting memories as well as the charming chemistry of the leads transforms the real life travelogue into a moving testament of the connections we form while travelling.

At times of great societal turmoil, sometimes stars are born, not just to entertain the masses but to challenge the way things are done. Amar Singh Chamkila is one such star, and his music captivated all of Punjab in part due to his brash lyrics. His assassination remains unsolved, but director and co-writer Imtiaz Ali takes the event, and uses it to frame his life– the ways Punjab remembered him after death, the ways Chamkila showed his light as well as the ways he was limited by studio oversight and state censorship. The film isn’t a perfect contemplation of artistic freedom, nor is it the most comprehensive take on the singer’s life, but Ali’s direction challenges the way we view the artist and acutely recognizes the way stardom reveals the society’s conflicting desires.

While not having world-ending stakes or large-scale operations, Sixty Minutes just works as an action movie. Sure, the plot is familiar and a little far fetched, but the film maximizes the potential of its premise, with excellently choreographed fight sequences working in tandem with the cinematography to reflect the MMA fighter leading the movie. Each moment isn’t wasted, with the action escalating each time Octa finds out about the hidden information kept from him about the match he’s planned to skip, and the film easily keeps track of his journey through neon-lit stopwatch faces and maps. And when we (and Octa) feel tired from all the fighting, the film ends right on time after sixty (and twenty nine) minutes.

Set in the British colonial era, Captain Miller is more unapologetically violent than its counterparts, but it’s not mindlessly so. Sure, the film has plenty of spectacle with numerous battles between townsfolk versus British colonialists, some scenes having gruesome, gory deaths. But in between these battles is Dhanush as the central character, contemplating the oppression from his fellow countrymen, the dignity denied to him from both the colony and more privileged locals, and the choices he chooses to make in spite of this. It’s not a straightforward bad versus good anti-colonial film like RRR, and it may not be as emotionally compelling, but Captain Miller is certainly a unique take on British colonialism with all of director Arun Matheswaran’s signature style.

You would think that a movie about making soup for your friends and studying moss would be a strange mix, but there’s just something so beautifully delicate about the way writer-director Bas Devos links the lives of two immigrants in Brussels, with the contrast between the length of their stay, the things they make, and how long their work would last. It’s a slow burn connection, and with the pending move, it’s a fleeting one, but the runtime is just right to capture the quiet grace of their connection, the one they share as strangers in a stopping point from different places. Here is subtle and transcendent.

Invisible Victim may not be all that different from the plethora of true crime documentaries available on Netflix and other streaming platforms, but it is worth watching if only to see how misogyny continues to be rampant at best and deadly at worst. Despite being beaten, kidnapped, drugged, and eventually murdered by the superstar footballer Bruno, Eliza Samudio was still largely framed as the perpetrator in the public’s eye because she was deemed a slut. “She died because she was money hungry,” one fan said on social media. A reporter, meanwhile, asked Bruno, “How are you handling all the embarrassment coming your way?” as if the real crime was Eliza tainting Bruno’s glowing career, instead of Bruno ending her short life. The documentary succeeds in arousing the viewer’s anger, though it doesn’t offer anything particularly new to a well-known case apart from Eliza’s never-before-seen messages to her friend, which revealed her fearlessness and defiance up until her untimely end.

If you’re craving for the fast-paced fights, hand-to-hand combat, and insane stunts of Hong Kong action cinema, you might enjoy Twilight of the Warriors: Walled In. This novel adaptation has a gangster storyline we’ve seen before, but the action? Impeccable. The action sequences are unrelenting with its underground fighter protagonist stumbling into a convoluted web of alliances and enemies, so every moment feels thrilling, even during the quieter moments. The choreography is flashy, the stunts are great, and it’s all performed by some of the best action stars across generations. Admittedly, the occasional CGI can be a bit distracting. Still, Twilight of the Warriors: Walled In is a welcome throwback to Hong Kong action flicks.

After the critical and commercial success of Concrete Utopia, it makes sense for Lotte Entertainment to turn it into a franchise. Badland Hunters is a more action-focused spinoff, with that dystopian world looking like a wild, wild Seoul and Ma Dong-seok as its lone ranger. Compared to its predecessor, the commentary is scant, the plot is thin, and the only thing that connects it is the apartment. But even with the B-movie mad scientist plot, long-time stunt coordinator Heo Myung-haeng makes his directorial debut wildly entertaining, with solid action that doesn’t depend too much on CGI. Human reptiles aside, Badland Hunters is just so fun to watch.

It’s heartbreaking that the case of Maria Soledad is as gruesome as it is common. We’ve all heard of or know about a woman who was raped, strangled, and beaten to death for no other reason than her gender. But even though Netflix’s Breaking the Silence tells Soledad’s story well enough, with detailed research and in-depth interviews, it’s ultimately hard to tell it apart from the hundreds of other true crime documentaries the streamer has produced. A cynic would say that Netflix’s interests lie not in advocacy or justice, but in riding the true crime fad. But a more hopeful viewer will want to believe in the film’s truth and stance against femicide. If you’re the former, then Breaking the Silence won’t do much for you. But if you are latter, and I kind of hope you are, then this documentary will be heartbreaking, frustrating, and more importantly, inspiring.

Mystery films and whodunits have placed the rich and powerful in their crosshairs for generations now, and Murder Mubarak proudly follows in that tradition through a tried and tested formula. So while there isn’t anything particularly surprising here, the film nails the tone it needs, smartly placing the focus away from the central crime and poking fun at the entire ecosystem of privilege and ego that gets revealed in its wake. Unfortunately, the movie also doesn’t sustain this momentum till the end, as it abruptly stumbles toward its inevitable revelations without giving itself time to let the consequences breathe. When it’s all over, it actually feels like we don’t know many of these individual characters any better than the overall situation they’re in.

When it wants to be, City Hunter is a fun neon-lit buddy cop comedy that giddily and at times gorily takes us through the seedy underbelly of Tokyo. Leading man Ryo is charismatic, the perfect blend of cool and comedic, while leading woman Kaori is just as adept and charming. The film is also as fast-paced and seamless as you’d want any action-packed movie to be. The only problem City Hunter has is that, despite being a modern adaptation of the iconic ‘80s manga, it’s still stuck in a different century. The very first scene we get is that of Ryo ogling a woman’s breasts, which pretty much dictates the tone of the rest of the film. It’s all horniness and objectification—endless jokes at the expense of its female characters—which is a shame since Kaori is a badass lead. I’m not suggesting Ryo should magically transform into a woke and respectable man, scrubbed of all personality, just that the filmmakers should retain a smidge of control and refrain from fully surrendering to the character’s POV.

Two people with different thoughts on love discover a common ground: they’re both anti-romantics. Realizing they got off on the wrong foot, they spend more time with each other and bond over realistic ideas of modern love. At one point, Maria (Rosalie Thomass) and Karl (Laurence Rupp) even diss romantic comedies for their cheesy music and naive understanding of fate and destiny. Their conversations are engaging and thoughtful, even and especially when they oppose one another. But just when you think you’re watching something smart and novel, Maria and Karl fall into the same implausible trappings they claim to hate. Suddenly, the film turns soft and transforms into the romantic comedy it once criticized. If only it had pushed into anti-romance territory even further and allowed Maria and Karl to truly hash out their differences, thorns and tension and all, then this could have been a truly interesting romantic film. Instead, it’s a standard romantic comedy that’s worse off for pretending to be above the genre, even though it’s really not.

With an urgent subject and plenty of that trademark Netflix polish, Bhakshak is nothing if not watchable and consistently engaging. However, for all of its motivated performances and high production values, there actually doesn’t seem to be much that happens in the film by way of investigation or character development. Much of the plot seems to progress solely on inertia, or through conversations that only ever repeat the film’s themes. And with every new, intense scene of young girls being threatened or hurt at the hands of abusive men, it becomes harder to understand what these scenes are trying to tell us, especially when they keep the victims as voiceless as they are from the beginning.

If Red Ollero’s first special on Netflix doesn’t have the most consistent laughs or the most original punchlines to make, it still serves as a good introduction for users of the platform to crass, everyday Filipino humor. Whether due to editing or Ollero’s writing itself, there are a number of times during his set when he stays on a topic for far too long without adding much insight to it or building on things he’s already said. But as the special goes on, there’s still something to be taken from how Ollero treats the mundane with an almost hyperfixation. Intentionally or not, he sketches out an absurd view of ordinary life in the Philippines with the self-assurance of someone who doesn’t care whether you’re grossed out or not.

With expired film stock, seemingly random shots, not much dialogue, and virtually no plot, there is little to recommend It is Night in America for casual viewing. It is definitely experimental, and as director, editor, and sound designer Ana Vaz presents these shots of animals and urban landscapes, it doesn’t feel like it’s meant for entertainment. But there’s a curiously poignant tone, with the blue tint darkening the cityscape, in their eyes. Night falls for these creatures, who once had a home in this city, and all they can do is survive. É Noite na América isn’t quite the eco-horror it proclaims to be, but its moody and trancelike direction is an interesting approach to the nature documentary genre.

Boxer starts and ends with a reminder about Communist Poland and how difficult that time was for the country. “This is dedicated to the Polish immigrants who fled in the ‘80s, this story could’ve been real,” the intro reads. So one would expect just that, a film about the grit needed to succeed under an authoritarian state and the specific struggles immigrants go through as they assimilate into a new nation. Disappointingly, however, The Boxer is simply about a boxer, one so obnoxious and unlikeable that I wondered till the end why he was characterized in such a way. Are we supposed to root for this guy? If I was a Polish immigrant in the ‘80s, I’d be offended that he—a selfish, misogynistic, racist, power-hungry, violent man—was representing me. The Boxer could’ve done itself a favor by not pretending to be a film about migrant workers because it isn’t that at all. Instead, it’s a formulaic sports drama that doesn’t even redeem its hero. To his credit, Director Mitja Okorn seems to remember sometimes what the film stands for, and so the best parts are when it displays the discrimination Jedrzej and Kasia go through as non-English speaking European immigrants. But those moments are few and far between. What Okorn should’ve done to really save the film is make Kasia the lead. She is the only one who makes sense throughout the movie, and it’s her parts that are the most compelling. Sports movies starring an egotistical athlete are a dime a dozen, but to focus on the athlete’s partner and recognize their sacrifice and input? Now that’s exciting.

There have been plenty of excellent films that tackle plenty of themes all at once, but Saindhav feels like a bunch of unrelated ideas strung together as an excuse for cool action set pieces. We’re first presented with the idea that violent video games are being used to recruit children for terrorist groups, but in response to this is a pretty violent protagonist that does over-the-top killings complete with explosions. His justification is that he’s doing it for money for his sick daughter, whose treatment is exorbitantly expensive. Both of these ideas should be discussed, and the cast tries to make the best of it, but Saindhav just combines these ideas to justify the glorified violence they’re supposedly critiquing.

With stunning art, an exciting heist, and a steamy romance between a good girl detective and bad boy billionaire, Art of Love could have leaned into the sleek and campy tension of the original 2005 Mr. & Mrs. Smith. There’s some of it here, with the investigation bringing up her previous, sensual memories of the romance that was, and Esra Bilgiç and Birkan Sokullu looking so, so gorgeous dressed in the most stylish outfits. But the film mostly plays out in generic Netflix fashion, with the characters replaying dated clichés, and not actually dealing with the emotional betrayal that should have marked Güney’s abandonment. Art of Love is at least beautiful to look at.

A screwball comedy following two crass female cops sounds, well, nice. But without a compelling mystery, believable chemistry, and funny jokes, Nice Girls fails to live up to its name. The crime that drives the movie’s plot feels flimsy and Disney-esque, a formula of a mystery you’ve seen a hundred times before. The chemistry between Leo and Melanie seems nonexistent. Yes, they’re capable actors who do especially well in their action scenes, but together, they fail to create a memorable spark. And then there are the jokes, which I want to believe are lost in translation instead of just plain unfunny. They feel dated in their observations but current because of the context (they’re often racial or political), but they never seem to land. None of the other parts of the film seem to. It’s a great idea—not since Spy have I seen such a valiant attempt at a female crime-busting duo—but it ultimately fails to deliver.

When a plot is centered around women learning about self-respect, it’s usually a cliche, but it can be a fun and harmless story that we can enjoy, if it has enough heart. Still Fabulous has this general plotline, with a raunchy twist in the form of a porn star guardian angel, but the way the film plays out just misses the mark. There are fun moments, but Maddalena doesn’t do the work to find the things about herself that she actually likes about herself, possibly because the film isn’t as interested in her as it is with Valentina Nappi. Instead, even when the message is to love and appreciate one’s body, they have a body double for the stunning Diana del Bufalo, and even when it’s pointed out to her how she depends on external validation, the film ends with a relationship to validate Maddalena. Pensati Sexy sabotages itself the same way Maddalena does.

There’s a unique boarding school charm in Melodate, as the philosophical Melody is able to turn the dorm around through the sheer force of her personality. It’s the type of charisma plenty of school girls would want, the kind that creates Queen Bees that can change the entire status quo, for better (by changing clearly dated rules) or for worse (by bringing her whole dorm to a bar). Therefore, her clear antagonist is dorm administrator Mrs. Rasti, who happens to be Melody’s boyfriend’s mom. To its credit, the film doesn’t demonize either Melody or Mrs. Rasti, and there’s an interesting exploration on how much freedom should these children have, and how much control parents and authorities should have over their kids, but the way these topics are handled are illogical, inorganic, and convoluted, especially when they add in Nadia’s storyline.

With actual, real life married couples killing each other after lottery wins, the premise of Kill Me If You Dare had plenty of potential. The situation alone makes people wonder why that unexpected windfall kills the love between a married couple. The film instead is less interested in examining that journey, and more interested in using the premise as a way to contrive ungrounded, pointless suspicion towards each other, when they could have easily talked about things, like adults. But even with the silly suspicion, there’s no charm, comedy, or chemistry to find endearing in the couple– all we’re given is that they’re married, Piotr aggressively skimps for the mortgage, and Natalie has a dream for a café that doesn’t make sense considering we never see her make coffee. Kill Me If You Dare just feels lazily assembled, with no interest in being romantic or comedic.

From the Ashes is based on the real life fire tragedy, but upon searching, Netflix hasn’t mentioned which exact fire it was talking about. It’s possibly inspired by the 2002 Mecca girls’ school fire, with the strict all-girl’s school, the closed gates and unattended cigarette, but the film starts off with a disclaimer saying that the characters and certain aspects of the story are fictional. One would think, with the freedom the film granted itself through fiction, the film would dare to critique certain controversial aspects of the tragedy that needs to be talked about – like the implications of emergency services being hindered due to modesty, or whether the media speculation was fair, or even the lack of safety regulations that the school administration failed to implement. Instead, most of the film plays out like an investigation, seemingly placing blame on fictional students, you know, the victims, for being the reason one fictional student wasn’t able to escape. Sure, it’s all fiction, but this is just not right.

When life imitates art unexpectedly, it can be thrilling, exciting, and maybe even dangerous. As dissatisfied wife Gokce finds an unpublished novel, we hoped that her eventual escapades would be similarly riveting, but sadly, Ashes isn’t thrilling. Part of it is because the first half is just dedicated to pretty images that don’t even feel particularly steamy, but mostly this stems from the fact that Ashes hasn’t formulated a coherent plotline for the manuscript Gokce was reading, so all the twists and turns in the second half feels more randomly tossed, than carefully set up as a surprise.