The Furious: When Action Outshines Storytelling
There’s something undeniably thrilling about a film that grabs you by the collar and refuses to let go. The Furious, Kenji Tanigaki’s latest action extravaganza, does exactly that—but not in the way you might expect. Personally, I think what makes this film stand out isn’t just its jaw-dropping action sequences (though they’re undeniably spectacular), but the way it challenges us to rethink what we demand from an action movie. Is it enough to be dazzled by choreography, or do we need more?
Let’s start with the obvious: the action in The Furious is nothing short of extraordinary. From my perspective, it’s the kind of filmmaking that reminds you why cinema exists—to transport, to exhilarate, to leave you breathless. The stunt work is raw, brutal, and executed with a precision that feels almost otherworldly. Xie Miao, as the mute protagonist Wang Wei, delivers a performance that’s as physical as it is emotional. Watching him move is like witnessing poetry in motion, but with fists and blood instead of metaphors.
But here’s where it gets interesting: The Furious is a film that thrives on its action but stumbles in its storytelling. The plot, if you can call it that, is about as generic as they come. A mute handyman searches for his kidnapped daughter? It’s Taken with a kung fu twist. What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t necessarily a flaw—it’s a choice. Tanigaki seems to be saying, ‘You didn’t come here for the story; you came for the fight.’ And in that sense, the film delivers in spades.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how The Furious leans into its simplicity. It’s a film that doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. There’s no attempt to weave a complex narrative or explore deep character arcs. Instead, it’s a relentless, visceral experience that feels more like a video game than a movie. Each fight sequence is a level, each opponent a boss. If you take a step back and think about it, this approach is both refreshing and problematic. It’s refreshing because it’s honest, but problematic because it raises a deeper question: Can action alone sustain a film?
One thing that immediately stands out is the film’s visual style, which feels like a love letter to the Asian action films of the 80s and 90s. The narrow alleys, the neon lights, the hand-to-hand combat—it’s all there. But what this really suggests is that The Furious isn’t just a film; it’s a tribute. It’s Tanigaki’s way of saying, ‘This is where I come from, and this is what I love.’ That authenticity shines through, even if the plot feels like it was written on the back of a napkin.
The climax, a three-way fight in a police station, is the film’s undisputed highlight. It’s chaotic, brutal, and utterly mesmerizing. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the sequence feels almost operatic in its intensity. The fighters don’t just throw punches; they tell a story with their bodies. By the end, you’re not just exhausted—you’re exhilarated.
But here’s the thing: as much as I admire The Furious, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s a missed opportunity. In my opinion, the film could have been so much more if it had invested even a fraction of its energy into its characters. Wang Wei, for instance, is a compelling figure, but we know so little about him. A few scars and a head injury don’t make a backstory. What this really suggests is that even the best action needs a human core to truly resonate.
That said, The Furious is a film that knows its audience. If you’re here for the fights, you’ll leave satisfied. But if you’re looking for something more—a story that sticks with you, characters that feel real—you might walk away feeling a bit hollow. Personally, I think that’s the film’s greatest strength and its greatest weakness. It’s a masterpiece of action, but a missed chance at greatness.
So, is The Furious the best action film of the decade? From my perspective, it’s certainly in the conversation. But it’s also a reminder that action, no matter how spectacular, is only one piece of the puzzle. If you take a step back and think about it, the film is a testament to the power of physical storytelling—but also a cautionary tale about what happens when that’s all you have.
In the end, The Furious is a film that leaves you breathless, but also a little unsatisfied. And maybe that’s the point. It’s a film that challenges you to ask: What do we really want from our movies? Excitement, or something more? Personally, I’m still thinking about it. And that, I think, is the highest praise I can give.
