"A Japanese puppeteer's daughter gets caught up with criminals when their show crosses paths with a crime gang, led by Sugarman and his son Little Sugar." 

OUR MOVIE REVIEW:

John Maclean returns with a lean, meditative fusion of samurai discipline and Western grit in Tornado. Set in the British Isles in 1790, it blends the sparse poetic imagery of his debut Slow West with bursts of calculated, brutal violence. The film doesn’t shout its influences, but makes them quietly powerful—moody landscapes, silent standoffs, and sudden flashes of violence that feel sharp and decisive against the film’s shadowy backdrop. It’s a slow-burn thriller that moves with patience and confidence, never rushing to earn its place.

The film is beautifully shot, with striking visual compositions that lean into natural light and empty space. There's a worn, cinematic texture to the landscape—muddy fields, creaking floorboards, thick fog—and Maclean knows exactly how to let the world speak for itself. There isn’t much swordplay, but when it does hit, it cuts with precision and weight. The score moves in step with the visuals—subtle, haunting, and emotionally charged without being overbearing.

Performances maintain the film’s detached resonance. Kōki, as the samurai-trained Tornado, moves through the world like a storm: quiet, controlled, and lethal. She steals scenes not by volume but by presence. Tim Roth’s Sugarman broods over the landscape’s emptiness, his menace lingering in every frame. Jack Lowden’s Little Sugar carries a smoldering tension as the conflicted son—neither fully aligned with the violence nor innocent of it.

The film’s restraint may not be for everyone. Its lean 90-minute runtime translates to few emotional signposts—no angst-driven monologue, no grand revelations. Instead, it’s tone over exposition. But that control becomes the point: Tornado demands you lean in, to engage with posture, eye contact, the subtlest shifts in wind or gaze. And when the blade finally drops, it lands with authority.

In the end, Tornado isn’t flashy—it’s refined. A samurai Western hybrid that respects both camps, held together by striking visuals, purposeful violence, and keen performances. It’s a polished, slow-burning thriller that doesn’t demand attention but earns it over time—quietly securing its place among the year’s more quietly powerful discoveries.