Kuei
Jack Kao
Kuei
Overview
Michael and his right-hand man Scorpion, who find themselves embroiled in their father Ko's turf war against rival gangs in Taipei, setting off a conflict between old and new generations of gangsters. The film is the latest installment in the Gatao franchise, following the narrative of a young successor trying to expand his power while navigating the volatile underworld.
Trailer
Trailer [Subtitled]
Cast
Reviews
✦ AI-generated review
The Weight of Blood and Asphalt
If cinema is a mirror reflecting the anxieties of its time, then the gangster genre is often where that reflection is darkest, distorted by violence but clarified by loyalty. In *GATAO: Big Brothers*, director Jui-Chih Chiang does not merely add another chapter to Taiwan’s most successful criminal franchise; he orchestrates a requiem for the old guard. While Western audiences might rush to compare this to *The Godfather* or *Infernal Affairs* due to its dynastic struggles, such comparisons do a disservice to the specific, suffocating humidity of Taipei’s underworld. This is not just a film about power; it is a film about the terrifying inertia of legacy, where sons are not born but carved out of the sins of their fathers.
Visually, Chiang abandons the glossy, high-octane sheen that often plagues modern action cinema. Instead, he favors a grounded, almost claustrophobic aesthetic. The lighting is often low, casting deep shadows that seem to swallow the characters whole—a visual metaphor for the moral ambiguity they navigate. The camera lingers on the texture of a cigarette burning down, the grime of a street market, and the sterile coldness of a hospital room. The violence, when it erupts, is not choreographed for applause but for impact; it is messy, desperate, and devoid of glory. The sound design complements this, stripping away overbearing scores in favor of the ambient noise of a city that moves on, indifferent to the bodies piling up in its alleys.
The narrative heart of *Big Brothers* beats in the chest of Michael (played with simmering intensity), a man trapped in the gravitational pull of his father, Ko. The film deftly navigates the "turf war" trope by reframing it as a generational trauma. We are not just watching the "new generation" fight the "old generation"; we are witnessing the agonizing process of succession. Michael’s struggle is not to defeat his enemies, but to reconcile the modernization of crime—drug trafficking, corporate takeovers—with the archaic, tea-house codes of honor his father represents. It is a tragedy of conflicting updates: the software of the underworld has changed, but the hardware remains stubbornly obsolete.
Perhaps the film’s most striking achievement is how it handles the "ensemble." In lesser hands, the sprawling cast of lieutenants, rivals, and grieving relatives would feel cluttered. Here, they serve as a Greek chorus of the damned. The interactions between Michael and his right-hand man, Scorpion, provide the film's emotional ballast. Their loyalty is not spoken in grand speeches but shown in the quiet moments—a shared meal, a knowing glance before a meeting goes south. It is in these silences that the film finds its humanity. We see them not as monsters, but as men employed in a monstrous industry, burdened by the realization that in this world, retirement is rarely a voluntary option.
*GATAO: Big Brothers* stands as a formidable entry in Asian crime cinema, proving that the genre still has blood in its veins. It refuses to glamorize the life it depicts, choosing instead to expose the hollowness at the center of absolute power. By the time the credits roll, we are left with the chilling understanding that in the Gatao universe, "winning" is just a temporary state of survival. The brothers are big, yes, but the shadows they cast are even bigger, eventually consuming everything—and everyone—they try to protect.
If cinema is a mirror reflecting the anxieties of its time, then the gangster genre is often where that reflection is darkest, distorted by violence but clarified by loyalty. In *GATAO: Big Brothers*, director Jui-Chih Chiang does not merely add another chapter to Taiwan’s most successful criminal franchise; he orchestrates a requiem for the old guard. While Western audiences might rush to compare this to *The Godfather* or *Infernal Affairs* due to its dynastic struggles, such comparisons do a disservice to the specific, suffocating humidity of Taipei’s underworld. This is not just a film about power; it is a film about the terrifying inertia of legacy, where sons are not born but carved out of the sins of their fathers.
Visually, Chiang abandons the glossy, high-octane sheen that often plagues modern action cinema. Instead, he favors a grounded, almost claustrophobic aesthetic. The lighting is often low, casting deep shadows that seem to swallow the characters whole—a visual metaphor for the moral ambiguity they navigate. The camera lingers on the texture of a cigarette burning down, the grime of a street market, and the sterile coldness of a hospital room. The violence, when it erupts, is not choreographed for applause but for impact; it is messy, desperate, and devoid of glory. The sound design complements this, stripping away overbearing scores in favor of the ambient noise of a city that moves on, indifferent to the bodies piling up in its alleys.
The narrative heart of *Big Brothers* beats in the chest of Michael (played with simmering intensity), a man trapped in the gravitational pull of his father, Ko. The film deftly navigates the "turf war" trope by reframing it as a generational trauma. We are not just watching the "new generation" fight the "old generation"; we are witnessing the agonizing process of succession. Michael’s struggle is not to defeat his enemies, but to reconcile the modernization of crime—drug trafficking, corporate takeovers—with the archaic, tea-house codes of honor his father represents. It is a tragedy of conflicting updates: the software of the underworld has changed, but the hardware remains stubbornly obsolete.
Perhaps the film’s most striking achievement is how it handles the "ensemble." In lesser hands, the sprawling cast of lieutenants, rivals, and grieving relatives would feel cluttered. Here, they serve as a Greek chorus of the damned. The interactions between Michael and his right-hand man, Scorpion, provide the film's emotional ballast. Their loyalty is not spoken in grand speeches but shown in the quiet moments—a shared meal, a knowing glance before a meeting goes south. It is in these silences that the film finds its humanity. We see them not as monsters, but as men employed in a monstrous industry, burdened by the realization that in this world, retirement is rarely a voluntary option.
*GATAO: Big Brothers* stands as a formidable entry in Asian crime cinema, proving that the genre still has blood in its veins. It refuses to glamorize the life it depicts, choosing instead to expose the hollowness at the center of absolute power. By the time the credits roll, we are left with the chilling understanding that in the Gatao universe, "winning" is just a temporary state of survival. The brothers are big, yes, but the shadows they cast are even bigger, eventually consuming everything—and everyone—they try to protect.