Written by Na Hong-jin Produced by: Na Hong-jin, Kim Sae-mi, Kim Sae-rom
Main cast: Hwang Jung-min, Zo In-sung, Jung Ho-yeon, Taylor Russell, Cameron Britton, Alicia Vikander, Michael Fassbender, etc.
Cinematography Hong Kyung-pyo
*** CONTAINS SPOILERS ***
I haven’t seen Na Hong-jin’s film The Yellow Sea (2010). But I saw the critically acclaimed horror film, The Wailing (2016) twice. While I did not connect narratively with this gruesome horror as much as the critics, it is a film, that while overlong, really makes your skin crawl. Hong-Jin’s first film The Chaser (2008) is equally gruesome as a pimp pursues a killer who has stolen one of “his” sex workers. Part police procedural and part urban horror film, it is an uneven, but exhilarating thriller full of twists and turns and flawed characters. Which brings us Na Hong-jin’s latest film release, Hope (2026). It’s also a chase film, full of action and suspense, containing an altogether different set of monsters.
Set in the remote fishing community of Hope Harbour, close to North Korea’s demilitarised northern border, Na Hong-jin’s Hope (2026) follows the local police chief (Hwang Jung-min), his deputy (Jung Ho-yeon) and a ragtag assortment of hunters and townspeople as their isolated community comes under threat from something decidedly alien to Earth. What follows is a propulsive, exhilarating action film that hurtles along at breakneck pace, with spectacular car and horseback pursuits as the locals battle terrifying off-world creatures using little more than analogue weapons, ingenuity and sheer bloody determination.
Arguably overlong and in need of some pruning, the film also feels rushed its introduction of characters and setting, particularly for those unfamiliar with small-town Korean culture. However, given the whole film is in effect a first-parter with a sequel to follow another watch would iron out such an initial reaction. Further, I only discovered afterwards that it was set in the 1980s, which perhaps reflects its occasionally muddled sense of time and place.
Much of the huge budget not only produces effective CGI creatures – although slightly videogame-ish in look – but also considerable carnage and destruction. In terms of the human cast Kang Sae-byeok’s character stands out. Following her breakthrough performance in Squid Game (2021–2025), Jung Ho-yeon confirms herself as a sparkling screen presence, effortlessly combining nuanced characterisation with an extraordinary flair for physical action. Her magnetic charisma, expressive physicality and natural screen confidence make her a compelling performer, equally convincing in moments of quiet vulnerability and full-throttle action.
Overall, Na Hong-jin’s chaotic tendencies towards structure and narrative are certainly evident, but there’s something wonderfully audacious about the sheer scale, energy and ambition of his filmmaking. Hope (2026) is a film that will undoubtedly benefit from a second viewing, not least to absorb its extraordinary detail and relentless invention. The relentless action and alien worldbuilding are impressive, although for science fiction fans certain elements will feel over-familiar. Yet, despite its flaws, this could well be one of the most thrilling films I’ve seen in 2026. A gloriously unhinged, ferociously entertaining piece of cinema that somehow manages to turn a small Korean town into the unlikely battleground for an interplanetary nightmare, with more chaos to come.
Revenge is one of the oldest narrative engines in storytelling. Long before cinema, it powered myths and literature—from the blood-soaked cycles of Greek tragedy to the meticulous retribution of The Count of Monte Cristo. These stories hinge on a simple but potent question: what happens when justice fails, and an individual takes it upon themselves to restore balance? Cinema inherited this question and, over time, fractured it into multiple forms—some cathartic, others corrosive, and many deeply ambiguous.
A Brief History of Revenge on Screen
Early revenge narratives in cinema often mirrored their literary roots: structured, morally legible, and driven by transformation. A Woman Branded (1931) is sometimes cited as an early precursor of a woman seeking revenge. Films like Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949) or adaptations of The Count of Monte Cristo framed revenge as an almost intellectual exercise—precise, controlled, and, in the case of the Ealing classic, even darkly humorous.
While revenge is a foundational narrative theme dating back to early cinema, Ingmar Bergman’s The Virgin Spring (1960) is widely considered the earliest major film establishing the “rape-revenge” subgenre. It follows a father seeking brutal vengeance for his daughter’s murder, influenced by a 13th-century Swedish ballad and Japanese cinema.
During the late 1960s and 1970s, something shifted. Disillusionment seeped into cinema, and revenge stories grew harsher, more grounded. Neo-noir works like Point Blank (1967), Get Carter (1971), and the classic Western, Once Upon a Time in the West (1968), reframed revenge as something mythic yet emotionally compelling. Sergio Leone’s film in particular bridges classical and modern revenge—turning personal vengeance into operatic inevitability while still rooted in grief and loss. Further, the 1960 / 1970s “Spaghetti” and Clint Eastwood westerns were also heavily driven by vengeful characters, as well as brutal bounty hunters and mercenaries. Overall, the 1970s marked a surge in mainstream vigilante revenge films, with Last House on the Left (1972) and Death Wish (1974), to name a couple, are widely seen as cementing the genre’s popularity.
At the same time, exploitation cinema erupted with raw, confrontational narratives—I Spit on Your Grave (1978), Coffy (1973), Ms. 45 (1981), and Thriller: A Cruel Picture (1973)—often centring female vengeance in ways that were both provocative and controversial. Japanese cinema contributed key films like Lady Snowblood (1973), which would later echo through global cinema. Asian cinema embraced the brutality of the subgenre with revenge films like Vengeance is Mine (1979), Park Chan Wook’s The Vengeance Trilogy and the visceral I Saw the Devil (2010) which interrogated obsession and extreme violence in equal measures.
Thus, there are many faces to the revenge including: stage plays, classic literature, gangster, Western, arthouse, war, horror and even comedic ones such as 9 to 5 (1980). Each mode reflects a different cultural anxiety. Some seek catharsis; others deny it entirely. Some empower; others dismantle the very idea of empowerment. What remains is that revenge is a primal drive and offers clear motivation as to a characters’ wants. Above all else a good vengeance narrative offers high stakes satisfaction and entertainment when done right. Here are six filmic examples of this.
Six of the Best Revenge films
What unites the six chosen films is not just quality, but how distinctly each approaches revenge. The six films selected here demonstrate the breadth of what revenge can mean on screen: spectacle, despair, inevitability, and even self-annihilation.
I really wanted to include Revenge (2017), a film which revisits the roots of exploitation film but reclaims them with precision. Coralie Fargeat transforms the genre’s historically exploitative gaze into something confrontational, self-aware and sexual. Violence is stylised and glamorous, but never empty—it becomes a language through which the protagonist reasserts control over her own narrative. Alas, it does not make the list.
*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***
Dead Man’s Shoes (2004)
I’ve written about Dead Man’s Shoes (2004) before but for me it is one of the best British films ever. Shane Meadows classic low-budget revenger evolves a brother’s vengeance into something more intimate and tragic. Meadows reframes revenge as grief and guilt, culminating in a devastating reversal that questions whether vengeance can ever truly be directed outward. It is revenge turned inward, a psychological reckoning masquerading as retribution. Paddy Considine delivers one of the rawest and most angry performances ever put on screen.
Get Carter (1971)
Get Carter (1971) is cold, methodical, and stripped of glamour, like a Northern neo-noir. Michael Caine’s Jack Carter moves through a decaying Newcastle like an agent of inevitability. There is no triumph here—only the suggestion that violence begets nothing but itself. Caine’s performance delivers the dialogue with razor-sharp timing and dark wit. A violent gangster but relentless detective hunting down the thugs who killed his brother. The clever screenplay (based on a novel) ensures those Carter is after are even worse than him as ultimately Northern decay meets moral collapse.
Kill Bill: The Whole Bloody Affair (2025)
As revenge epics and Asian cinema homages go,Kill Bill: The Whole Bloody Affair (2025) is a staggering piece of synthesis from Quentin Tarantino. Beatrice Kiddo’s (Uma Thurman) quest isn’t just a trail of vengeance—it’s ritualised, almost sacred, each confrontation unfolding like a chapter in a blood-soaked myth. Tarantino fuses global influences—from Anime, samurai cinema like Lady Snowblood (1973) to grindhouse exploitation—into something heightened and unmistakably his own: a world of colour, blood, incredible choreography, and cutting precision. Violence here isn’t merely destructive; it becomes a form of expression, even purification. In this universe, revenge is not corrosive or self-defeating but clarifying, elevating Beatrice’s journey from victim to legend.
Mermaid Legend (1984)
Mermaid Legend (1984) stands as a startlingly powerful vengeance film, elevated by Mari Shirato’s ethereal, magnetic performance as Migiwa—at once woman, avenging angel, and elemental force. Her transformation drives the film into increasingly confrontational territory, where extreme violence and explicit sexuality feel less gratuitous than weaponised, forcing the viewer into a state of unease. What makes the revenge so compelling is its inevitability: this is not a quest but a metamorphosis, as Migiwa becomes something beyond human, guided as much by the sea and spirit as by rage. The film’s brilliance lies in how it fuses beauty and brutality into a singular vision. Lyrical underwater imagery and sacred, mournful music elevate the violence into something ritualistic, culminating in a final pier rampage that feels less like action than ceremony—hypnotic, relentless, and mythic. By the end, revenge is no longer just an act but a form of transcendence, pushing the film beyond exploitation into legend.
Old Boy (2003)
Oldboy (2003) is a film I can watch over and over and it still shocks me. The narrative feels like a perverse inversion of The Count of Monte Cristo. But, where Dumas offers revenge as a calculated, almost righteous act, Park Chan-wook and the source material it is based on presents it as something recursive and inescapable. The brilliance of Oldboy (2003) lies in its dual revenge structure: what begins as Oh Dae-su’s pursuit of answers gradually reveals itself to be the final movement in someone else’s long-orchestrated vengeance. Both protagonist and antagonist are locked into mirrored roles, each defined—and ultimately destroyed—by the same impulse. The film’s infamous twists don’t just shock; they reframe the entire narrative as a closed system of suffering, where revenge ceases to be cathartic and instead becomes a mechanism of obscene chaos. The antagonist’s revenge is meticulous, psychological, and total, while Dae-su’s reactive violence only tightens the trap. Both men are ultimately consumed, their identities hollowed out by the nihilistic revenge that defines them.
Once Upon a Time in the West (1968)
Once Upon a Time in the West (1968) is a great revenge film and classic Western. It precisely because it strips vengeance down to something elemental, patient, and almost mythic. Charles Bronson’s ‘Harmonica’ is not a conventional protagonist but a force moving through the landscape with quiet, relentless purpose. He speaks little, explains nothing, and yet every gesture feels loaded with intent. His pursuit of Henry Fonda’s Frank—a brutal mercenary introduced through shocking, child-murdering violence—is not driven by impulse but by memory, by something buried so deep it can only be expressed through action. What elevates the film is its methodical pacing and Leone’s operatic control. Violence is withheld, stretched out across long silences, close-ups, and Ennio Morricone’s mournful score, turning each encounter into ritual. When ‘Harmonica’ finally unleashes havoc, it is not chaotic but precise—measured, almost ceremonial. The eventual revelation of his motive reframes everything: this is not just revenge, but the completion of a trauma that has defined his entire existence.
Conclusion
To distil revenge cinema into six films is, inevitably, an incomplete task. The genre is too vast, too varied spanning everything from canonical works to obscure, difficult films that remain unseen or underexplored. There are countless other entries, including many lesser-known or unseen works, that could reshape or challenge this selection.
And yet, that is precisely why revenge endures. It is a universal impulse, endlessly adaptable to tone, culture, and form. Whether stylised, brutal, philosophical, or deeply personal, revenge remains one of cinema’s most powerful motivations—for characters and filmmakers alike.
