Twelve Minutes of Pure Chaotic Brilliance

MOVIE REVIEW
Shrimp Fried Rice
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Genre: Comedy, Short
Year Released: 2025
Runtime: 12m
Director(s): Dylan Pun
Writer(s): Dylan Pun, Michael Turk
Cast: Jeff Yung, Marty Stelnick, Jenna Phoa
Where to Watch: shown at the 2025 Fantasia Film Festival

RAVING REVIEW: SHRIMP FRIED RICE weaponizes weird into a full-blown, puppet-powered battle royale between crustacean and rodent. In just twelve minutes, Dylan Pun’s wild short manages to cram in more laughs, ingenuity, and full-blown madness than many feature-length comedies even attempt. It’s a culinary chaos warzone where egos boil over, loyalties flip like flapjacks, and the rice isn’t the only thing being fried.

It’s not easy to describe SHRIMP FRIED RICE without spoiling what makes it such a fun surprise. The setup feels simple at first—something to do with a controlling chef, a tense rivalry, and a cooking competition spiraling into madness—but it quickly unfolds into something far more unpredictable. What you expect to be a punchline becomes a full-on punch to the senses, thanks to a cast of characters you absolutely wouldn’t believe unless you saw them for yourself. The centerpiece is an aggressively confident, pint-sized culinary tyrant with a mouth that could out-swear a sailor, and he’s only the beginning. Voiced with an unforgettable charisma by Marty Stelnick, the character teeters on the line between parody and power trip—and somehow pulls off both.

Pun, who co-wrote, directed, and edited the film as well, doesn’t just dip into absurdity—he cannonballs into it. This is the kind of short that feels like a meme came to life, ran off the rails, and then rewired itself into something legitimately poignant. Pun, a Chinese-Canadian filmmaker with a background in commercial and narrative work, infuses every scene with rowdy energy and sharp precision. The influences are evident—think the surreal kitchen chaos of IRON CHEF crossed with the live-wire unpredictability of WHO FRAMED ROGER RABBIT?—but the voice is unmistakably his. You’ll laugh at the absurdity, but there’s a precision in how it’s all stitched together that reveals just how deliberate the chaos is.

At the center of it all is Jeff Yung, here, he plays Dave—a man caught in a bizarre partnership he never signed up for. Yung’s performance is a masterclass in restraint, grounding the escalating madness with just enough realism to keep the stakes feeling real. The tension in his eyes, the simmering discomfort beneath his deadpan delivery—it all adds up to something unexpectedly heartbreaking, even as you’re laughing.

And then there’s the rival. Without naming names, let’s just say there’s another character with equally strong culinary instincts and a complicated past with our main “chef.” Their rivalry brings heat to the kitchen in every sense. When their competitive fire ignites, the result is a crescendo of insults, sabotage, and showmanship, all filtered through one of the most outrageous cooking contests ever staged on screen. There’s a theatricality to it that borders on operatic, but it’s never played for cheap gags.

Beyond the kitchen madness, there’s a much deeper dish being served. Pun draws heavily from his personal experience growing up in an immigrant household that emphasized humility and keeping a low profile. That internal conflict—between self-erasure and self-expression—plays out in subtle yet powerful ways. You can feel it in the way certain characters scream for attention, while others shrink into their assigned roles. Even the idea of one person pulling the strings of another takes on a different meaning when viewed through the lens of cultural survival and assimilation.

That duality—loud on the surface, meaningful underneath—is what elevates SHRIMP FRIED RICE above novelty. It would’ve been easy to make this a simple gag short, riding on the absurdity of its premise. Instead, the film finds something deeper and more thoughtful beneath the chaos. It’s a commentary on identity, creative ownership, and who gets to be in charge of the story, all wrapped in a package that’s colorful, fast-paced, and frequently hysterical.

The technical craft on display is impressive. Pun’s editorial sense keeps the momentum relentless, cutting between confessional moments, physical gags, and rapid-fire dialogue with ease. Jeff Lurie’s original score gives the chaos a catchy backbone—playful when it needs to be, foreboding when you least expect it. It’s a rare short that can feel this densely packed yet still breathe.

Most importantly, the film never winks at the audience. It owns its weirdness. The premise may be ridiculous, but there’s never a moment where it tries to distance itself from that. Instead, it digs deeper. There’s a kind of bravery in that—embracing absurdity without irony, and trusting that the audience will find the heart inside the madness. And they will.

SHRIMP FRIED RICE might run just twelve minutes, but its bite lingers. It’s a short that delivers laughs, unexpected depth, and an experience that defies simple description. Whatever you’re expecting—it’s not this. And that’s exactly why it works.

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[photo courtesy of SIMPLE SYRUP]

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