Dystopia With Depth and Distortion

Read Time:5 Minute, 29 Second

MOVIE REVIEW
The Fin
–

Genre: Sci-fi, Drama, Dystopian
Year Released: 2025
Runtime: 1h 25m
Director(s): Syeyoung Park
Writer(s): Syeyoung Park
Cast: Pureum Kim, Yeji Yeon, Goh-Woo, Youngdoo Jeong, Joowon Meng
Where to Watch: shown at the 78th Locarno Film Festival

RAVING REVIEW: There’s something eerily quiet about the apocalypse in THE FIN. Syeyoung Park’s second feature sidesteps the usual dystopian fiction in favor of something leaner, stranger, and far more introspective. It’s less concerned with world-ending spectacle and more focused on the quieter collapse — the slow erosion of individuality, compassion, and trust in the name of progress. In this post-war, unified Korea, an ecological disaster has already happened. All that’s left is the cleanup crew — and the exploited mutants called Omegas, who were never given a choice.

The film’s main story follows Sujin, a newly recruited government worker tasked with tracking down fugitive Omegas. She’s quickly drawn to Mia, one such escapee working at a crumbling fishing simulation shop. The world they inhabit is one of decaying facades: fake oceans, artificial leisure, and neon distractions masking a deep societal rot. Yet what emerges isn’t a simple story of rebellion or awakening. Instead, THE FIN peels back Sujin’s unspoken fears and contradictions, framing her descent into uncertainty as both deeply personal and painfully symbolic.

There’s a fascinating discord between the plot and the film’s thematic undertone. Sujin’s transformation — or perhaps her unraveling — is triggered not by grand revelations but by accumulated moments of discomfort. It’s in her hesitant interactions with Mia, in the oppressive silence of her bureaucratic environment, and in the moments of normalcy that the story gains its tension. Mia, in contrast, feels almost ghostlike — not passive, but drifting through a world that treats her as if she were invisible. She’s burdened, yes, but not broken. The film resists making her a symbol of rebellion; she’s simply trying to survive in a place that wants her gone.

Park’s choice to build his dystopia with repressed textures rather than flashy production design is both a budget-conscious decision and an artistic one. The world is suggested, not shown in full. It’s felt through grimy walls, flickering fluorescents, and sudden cuts. The use of real-world locations — including rapidly disappearing fishing shops — roots the film in a discomforting familiarity. This near-future Korea is not unlike the present: brutal in its efficiency, hollow in its purpose.

The filmmaker’s visual strategy stands apart from glossy sci-fi traditions. Inspired by vérité methods and driven by limitations, Park crafts a film that feels rough, spontaneous, and tactile. Imperfections are embraced — underexposed shots, handheld shaking, and inconsistent lighting — all of which add to the film’s lived-in quality. If a perfect shot composition is what you crave, this isn’t the film for you. But if you’re interested in how imperfection can become a character of its own, there’s something to admire here.

There’s also a meta-layer to how the film examines systems of control. The unified Korea depicted here isn’t just post-capitalist — it’s post-illusion. Propaganda, in this world, is no longer loud. It’s a quiet, ambient hum woven into daily routine. Sujin doesn’t scream against the state; she simply starts to feel hollow, disoriented, unsure of who to trust. The real horror is emotional — the loss of certainty, the erosion of meaning, the realization that the structures around you were always more fragile than you thought.

The performances are understated. Pureum Kim’s portrayal of Sujin offers a delicate portrayal of doubt blooming into dread. Yeji Yeon’s Mia, meanwhile, moves through the film like someone already outside the reach of state control. There’s an elegance in her detachment, a lightness in her presence that gives the film its weight. Their chemistry isn’t traditional — it’s uneasy, observational, and full of quiet implications rather than dialogue-driven development.

Where the film falters slightly is in accessibility. For all its strengths, THE FIN is not built to guide the viewer through its metaphor. It demands a kind of interpretive participation that may leave some audience members disconnected. There’s a distance to the storytelling that could be mistaken for emotional coldness — a side effect of its deliberately muted tone. Still, in its refusal to pander, THE FIN carves out a unique space. It’s the kind of film that doesn't care if you like it — it just asks that you sit with it. And maybe that’s the most radical thing about it.

For viewers looking for emotional catharsis or resolution, this won’t be an easy watch. However, for those open to ambiguous storytelling, low-key science fiction, and political allegory conveyed through mood rather than message, Park’s sophomore effort presents a haunting, deliberately uncomfortable journey. The dystopia here isn’t built on fire and fury — it’s built on quiet compromise, on the things we accept to keep functioning, and the cost of looking away.

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[photo courtesy of GOLD RUSH PICTURES]

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