A man is laid off from the paper company he has worked at for 25 years. Over a year later and still jobless, he hits on a solution: eliminate the competition.
Park Chan-wook’s No Other Choice arrives with the kind of creative pedigree that immediately raises expectations. With Park directing, and a cast led by the magnetic Lee Byung-hun, the film promises a stylish and morally complex descent into desperation. In many respects it delivers exactly that. The craftsmanship is meticulous, the performances are layered, and the thematic ambition is unmistakable. Yet for all its technical strength, No Other Choice is a film that seems determined to keep its audience unsettled. Sometimes this works in its favour, and sometimes it becomes a barrier to engagement.
At the centre of the story is Yoo Man-su, a man who has spent twenty-five years shaping his identity around his job at a paper mill. He is the kind of worker who embodies loyalty and discipline. When an American corporation acquires the mill, Man-su refuses to fire the colleagues he trained and respects. His refusal results in his own dismissal. The firing is delivered with the sterile politeness of modern corporate bureaucracy, and the impact on his life is immediate and devastating.
Park presents this downfall as a slow collapse rather than a dramatic explosion. Bills accumulate. His family’s stability begins to crumble. Job postings appear, but every vacancy attracts a crowd of men who look and sound exactly like him. They are interchangeable, desperate, and shaped by the same system that has now discarded them. It is in this environment that Man-su reaches a disturbing conclusion. He decides that the only way to secure a job is to eliminate the competition. Not figuratively. Literally.
This premise could have been played as a brisk and darkly comic thriller. Park chooses a more uncomfortable path. Each action and decision is drawn out, chaotic, and riddled with complications. Man-su learns too much about his competition. He discovers their families, their struggles, and their disappointments. They are not villains. They are reflections of him. This emotional proximity complicates his mission and creates a sense of moral nausea that lingers throughout the film.
The tonal shifts begin early and never settle into a predictable rhythm. The first attempted murder collapses into a bizarre sequence involving mistaken identity and slapstick physicality. Later scenes plunge into much darker territory. Park seems intent on denying the audience any stable emotional footing. One moment the film invites laughter at Man-su’s ineptitude, the next moment it confronts the viewer with the bleakness of his situation and the violence he is capable of committing.
This instability is both the film’s most distinctive quality and its most significant challenge. Viewers who are familiar with Park’s genre-blending tendencies may find the constant shifts intriguing. Mainstream audiences, particularly those who already struggle with subtitles, may find themselves adrift. The film refuses to commit to a single identity. It is not a straightforward thriller, nor a pure comedy, nor a conventional drama. Instead, it occupies a space that mirrors Man-su’s own psychological state. He is confused, conflicted, and constantly on the edge of collapse. The film reflects that instability in its structure and tone.
Visually, the film is striking. Cinematographer Kim Woo-hyung delivers a series of inventive and sometimes audacious shots that keep the viewer engaged even when the pacing slows. The camera peers up from the bottom of a glass, stares out from the eye of a corpse, and finds unusual angles that heighten the sense of disorientation. Production designer Ryu Seong-hie complements this with environments that feel both authentic and symbolically charged. Homes appear comfortable until the cracks reveal themselves. Workplaces appear efficient until the underlying dehumanisation becomes clear.
Lee Byung-hun anchors the film with a performance that is as unpredictable as the narrative itself. He moves between simmering rage, awkward tenderness, and genuine menace with remarkable fluidity. One moment he appears bumbling and overwhelmed. The next moment he becomes genuinely frightening. This volatility makes him compelling to watch, even as his moral compass dissolves. He is not a hero and not even an antihero. He is a man cornered by a system that has no use for him, making choices that are indefensible yet tragically understandable.
The film’s most significant weakness is its pacing. At two and a half hours, No Other Choice stretches its material further than necessary. Scenes that should be tight and tense are allowed to sprawl. The first murder attempt, in particular, feels far longer than it needs to be. The sequence begins with promise but continues long after its narrative purpose has been fulfilled. The cumulative effect is a film that feels heavier than the story requires. Its momentum is repeatedly interrupted by indulgent detours.
Despite these issues, the film offers a sharp critique of modern capitalism. Park dismantles any lingering nostalgia for the industrial past. Workers who were once valued for their skill are now rendered obsolete by automation and corporate indifference. The men Man-su targets are not rivals by choice. They are casualties of a system that forces them into competition. The violence becomes a grotesque metaphor for the economic pressures they face.
Ultimately, No Other Choice is a film that rewards patience but demands tolerance for discomfort. It is visually inventive, thematically rich, and anchored by a magnetic central performance. Its refusal to settle into a single tone, combined with its deliberate pacing, makes it a polarizing experience. Viewers expecting a conventional thriller or a neatly packaged black comedy may find themselves frustrated.
Park Chan-wook has created something bold, messy, and memorable. Whether audiences embrace it or recoil from it will depend on their appetite for tonal chaos and their willingness to sit with a story that offers no easy catharsis. The film may not be universally accessible, but it is unmistakably the work of a filmmaker who is unafraid to push boundaries, even at the risk of alienating viewers who prefer their cinema more neatly categorised.
No Other Choice is coming to Aotearoa NZ cinemas February 19, 2026.
Find screenings here
Find screenings here