Some films drown in their own ambition, and Exorcism Chronicles: The Beginning fits this description from its opening minute. Adapted from the first chapter of Toemarok by Lee Woo-hyeok, the Korean animated feature wants to feel grand, ancient, and culturally rooted.
What it accomplishes instead is a head-spinning blur of exposition. Writers Lee Dong-ha and Park Seong-hee position the story as the beginning of a vast mythological saga, yet they spend so much time setting up the world’s backstory that little emotional space remains for actual character growth.
Visually, it is an impressive product. Years of animation work by LOCUS Corporation have yielded beautifully animated fight sequences, glowing temples, and elaborate renderings of Korean and mythical terrain.
At moments, it feels less like a film and more like a sizzle reel for a high-budget anime series that might have been more suited to serialized storytelling than an 85-minute feature. The result is a movie that demands patience yet seldom rewards it.
Director Kim Dong-chul maintains a slick pace, cutting quickly between battles, flashbacks, and philosophical chatter about rituals and possession. Unfortunately, this rhythm only exposes how fragmented the script feels.
Every scene races to explain another piece of ancient lore instead of grounding viewers in emotion or suspense. The story’s energy is there, but its pulse is missing.
Father Park’s Struggle Feels Symbolic but Hollow
The film revolves around Father Park, voiced by Choi Han, a former doctor turned exorcist whose towering presence contrasts with his quiet grief. His introduction sets him up as a weary man haunted by loss and purpose.
When approached by his old acquaintance Guardian Jang, he gets pulled into a war between spiritual factions and forbidden rituals that threaten to unleash cataclysmic power.
On paper, this should have been a strong emotional core: a man of science turned man of faith contending with moral conflict. Instead, his arc is hijacked by convoluted legends and unnecessary subplots.
Father Park’s story could have served as a human anchor in this supernatural storm. He is sympathetic and visually striking, constantly clutching a flask of holy water as though it were whisky. Yet, the script offers him no real introspection beyond occasional exchanges about divine duty.
We are told he has suffered losses, but we never learn who he loved or what truly motivates him to fight. His partnership with Jang feels functional rather than emotional, primarily used to deliver heavy exposition.
That exposition dominates everything. Early scenes between Park and Jang unfold like lectures rather than conversations. They discuss orders, demons, and rituals, yet their shared past remains a mystery.
When they mention the Haedong Order and its internal corruption under Master Seo, the audience expects tension, but every reveal is buried beneath more mythological jargon. The film’s structure prioritizes building lore over fostering empathy.
Then there is Joon-hoo, the gifted child they are assigned to protect. Supposedly central to the story’s prophecy, Joon-hoo rarely speaks and has almost no development.
Instead of creating an emotional thread around protecting innocence amidst chaos, he becomes just another vessel for exposition. By the midpoint, the viewer forgets who exactly needs saving or why.
A Visual Triumph With Narrative Fatigue
The greatest strength of Exorcism Chronicles: The Beginning lies in its craftsmanship. The hand-rendered animation steeped in Korean architecture and mythology is consistently beautiful.
LOCUS Corporation’s six-year effort pays off in small moments, a swirling temple emerging through fog, the vivid contrast between old stone and blue moonlight, or the kinetic flow of supernatural energy during battles. Each frame displays extraordinary attention to tone and texture.
Exorcism Chronicles: The Beginning (Credit: Showbox)
Action scenes, particularly those featuring fire, water, and lightning-based powers, show why Korean animation is becoming a global force.
The characters fight with a choreography that feels rooted in both martial arts and spiritual ritual. In a purely visual sense, the movie belongs in the same conversation as Demon Slayer and Jujutsu Kaisen, though its storytelling never reaches those heights.
Despite this polish, the editing works against the film’s emotional potential. Viewers are rushed from scene to scene without time to breathe. Exposition-heavy montages substitute for genuine progression.
The dialogue constantly references prophecies, Hindu deities, and multiple guardians whose connections to the present plot are murky. Mentions of Kali, Asura, and Shiva promise cosmic confrontation, but their symbolic presence is muddled by nonlinear writing. The result feels more like an anthology sampler than a cohesive film.
Even the musical score, though energetic, contributes to fatigue. Loud percussion underscores nearly every moment, erasing nuance where silence might have conveyed more tension. What could have been a haunting spiritual horror about inner torment instead becomes an overburdened fantasy epic.
The Curse of Too Much Lore
The rich mythology of Toemarok deserved careful adaptation. However, Exorcism Chronicles: The Beginning gets caught between fan service and cinematic structure.
Rather than simplifying its story for new audiences, it insists on introducing every faction, deity, and elemental warrior as quickly as possible. For viewers unfamiliar with the source, it feels like being dropped into the finale of a complex series halfway through.
Even hardcore fantasy fans may feel disoriented. Exposition lines arrive so rapidly that key ideas vanish almost immediately. When the villainous Master Seo finally reveals his intentions to harness ancient powers through a grand ritual, the moment lacks weight because his motives have been lost amid prior chaos.
The same issue wrecks the subplot involving Lee Hyun-am, a vengeful teenager whose fire-scorched arm and personal loss could have added emotional grit. Instead, his arrival feels random, creating more confusion than context.
The movie seems aware it might one day spawn sequels and, therefore, treats every scene like a teaser for future revelations. It positions itself as chapter one of an epic saga while wrongfully assuming viewers will stick around for clarity later. That decision drains tension from the immediate story.
The title promises an exorcism but gives audiences endless mythology instead.
Creative Vision Without Coherence
Director Kim Dong-chul’s team clearly loves the source material. Their dedication shows in scale, animation, and defining visual choices. Yet, passion without focus only amplifies chaos. The film’s obsession with building a massive mythos prevents any emotional anchor from forming.
Each element of Exorcism Chronicles: The Beginning almost works in isolation. The tragic exorcist, the rebellious acolyte, and the demonic overlord are all archetypes that function well in fantasy anime.
But when mashed together without proper rhythm, they cancel one another out. The experience feels similar to watching an extended video game cutscene where control has been stripped away. Spectacle remains; immersion fades.
Though the film ends with the promise of resolution, it never justifies the journey. The viewer exits with admiration for the artwork but exhaustion from the storytelling. If this truly is “the beginning,” the hope is that a potential sequel would focus less on assembling mythology and more on giving humanity back to its heroes.
A Cautionary Start for Korean Animation Epics
Exorcism Chronicles: The Beginning proves that visual excellence cannot compensate for weak narrative design. It is both striking and frustrating, filled with imagination but lacking emotional rhythm.
Its ambition to craft a Korean fantasy mythos like Demon Slayer or Bleach is commendable, yet structure matters as much as spectacle.
The film’s team has proven Korea can deliver animation on par with Japan’s best. Now the challenge is achieving emotional storytelling that audiences can not only watch but truly feel. For all its promise, this beginning feels like a story searching for its reason to exist.
Few films from the 1980s embody the era’s colorful madness quite like The Last Dragon. Directed by Michael Schultz and produced under the Motown label, it fuses martial arts heroism with Blaxploitation humor, all soundtracked to infectious pop tunes.
The result is something so strange and yet so joyous that it consistently finds new generations of fans. Nearly four decades later, its clashing tones and cartoonish chaos remain a definitive part of its charm.
The story follows Leroy Green (played by the one-named Taimak), a shy and honorable martial artist living in New York City.
Trained under a wise master, Leroy believes his next step is to find an elusive teacher named “Master Sum Dum Goy,” who holds the secret to achieving the final stage of martial enlightenment known as The Glow.
The quest is less about plot progression than character revelation, but even that term feels generous. Leroy isn’t so much questing as wandering, constantly bumping into bizarre characters, neon-lit brawls, and accidental adventures.
Leroy is admirable but awkward, devoted to discipline but socially clueless, walking through Harlem dressed like an ancient monk while others sport headbands and Adidas tracksuits. Taimak was only 19 at the time, and his performance oscillates between quietly focused and unintentionally wooden.
Yet, it works because the movie doesn’t ask for realism; it asks for sincerity. Whether he’s awkwardly resisting flirtation from pop singer Laura Charles or accidentally enraging gangs with his politeness, Leroy feels both heroic and hilariously misplaced in his own movie.
The Shogun of Harlem and the City Gone Mad
What keeps The Last Dragon unforgettable is not its script but its spectacle. From breakdancing showdowns to martial arts duels staged like Broadway numbers, every frame bursts with personality.
The film’s most famous creation, Sho’nuff, the self-proclaimed “Shogun of Harlem,” represents everything outrageous about 1980s pop culture. Played by Julius Carry with wild-eyed zeal, Sho’nuff struts into every scene wearing red armor, sunglasses, and limitless arrogance.
He doesn’t just talk; he booms. His theatrical taunts and physicality ignite the movie’s energy whenever it threatens to slip into parody.
Sho’nuff is the perfect villain because he functions on two levels: both an unapologetic cartoon and a remarkably self-aware joke.
His obsession with defeating Leroy has homoerotic undertones, his gestures border on the balletic, and his catchphrases (“Who’s the master?”) land somewhere between inspo quote and delusion. Without Sho’nuff, the movie might have been an oddity lost to time; with him, it became a legend.
Then there’s Laura Charles, played by the late Vanity, a pop icon of 1980s music royalty who brings real warmth and charisma to the screen. She hosts a Soul Train-like TV show called 7th Heaven, where glittering sets and dance sequences give the movie its Motown heartbeat.
Her chemistry with Leroy is teasing and sweet, even if their romantic arc is mostly composed of double entendres and misunderstandings. Vanity gives life to scenes that could have fallen flat, counterbalancing Leroy’s innocence with luminous confidence.
The supporting cast feels equally vivid, if entirely chaotic. Eddie Arkadian, a deranged arcade mogul bent on turning his girlfriend Angela into a star, behaves like a cartoon villain plucked out of Looney Tunes.
Christopher Murney plays him with bug-eyed mania, while Faith Prince gleefully embodies Angela as a tone-deaf diva with too many sequins and not enough self-awareness. Even the cameo roles, like a young Chazz Palminteri and William H. Macy, add to the farcical charm of a film that treats absurdity as a virtue.
The Glow of 1980s Style
To describe The Last Dragon is to describe a sensory overload. Everything screams louder than necessary: the neon signs, the outfits, the exaggerated acting, and the synth-heavy soundtrack.
The Last Dragon (Credit: Netflix)
Yet, this excess somehow becomes affection. The movie is pure spectacle, a time capsule of an era when entertainment swung for the fences without irony.
The fight sequences, surprisingly well-choreographed, hold up remarkably well. Schultz chooses not to hide behind quick edits; instead, he lets audiences see entire martial arts routines from wide shots, allowing Taimak’s athletic prowess to shine.
When Leroy finally unleashes his “Glow” in the climactic battle against Sho’nuff, hands and eyes radiating with literal energy, the scene crosses from camp into transcendence. It’s silly, yes, but it’s also sincerely triumphant. By that point, viewers aren’t laughing at the film; they’re cheering for it.
The film’s humor toe‑taps between parody and sincerity, mocking stereotypes while celebrating them. A standout running gag involves Leroy’s family running “Daddy Green’s Pizza,” complete with a hilariously corny jingle.
His younger brother, Richie, constantly teases him for being too pure, suggesting he doesn’t understand women at all. Whether through dated jokes or unintentional irony, the movie remains fascinating as a reflection of how mid-80s Black culture fused global cinematic influences from Bruce Lee to Motown in unpredictable ways.
Even its flaws make it endearing. Some jokes haven’t aged well, and the representation occasionally veers into stereotypes, but the film’s heart keeps it buoyant.
It celebrates multicultural energy before that term was even common in Hollywood discussions. Rarely had a movie blended hip-hop, R&B, Asian martial arts tradition, and urban New York attitude so effortlessly.
The Cult Legacy That Keeps Growing
Four decades later, The Last Dragon shines not because it achieved technical greatness, but because it remains so unabashedly itself. It doesn’t apologize for being absurd. Instead, it revels in that identity.
The movie’s mixture of racial parody, sincerity, and humor reflects a transitional period in pop culture history when genre lines blurred and creativity thrived outside seriousness.
Its soundtrack remains a major selling point: a collage of Motown hits, funk grooves, and 80s dance-floor intensity. Songs like “Rhythm of the Night” by DeBarge anchor iconic moments, blending perfectly with the movie’s free‑spirited chaos.
Michael Schultz’s direction captures it all with just enough control to keep its weirdness cohesive. He never allows irony to drain warmth.
Modern viewers might recognize The Last Dragon as an early template for genre-blending cinema. Long before mash-ups became DIY trends online, this film mixed martial arts with musical fantasy long before Hollywood embraced such creative freedom.
It feels part Bruce Lee homage, part comic fantasy, and part music video marathon.
Its influence lingers subtly across pop culture. Rap artists reference Sho’nuff in lyrics, Quentin Tarantino has cited admiration for it; and its campy charisma continues to inspire midnight theater screenings.
Despite the odd racial gags or dated slang, very few films have managed to maintain both humor and sincerity so effectively for this long.
Ultimately, The Last Dragon endures because it is powered by joy. Every character, no matter how absurd, seems genuinely committed to the ride. Every costume, every exaggerated kick, and every synth note plays like a tribute to the imagination of a time when sincerity and ridiculousness coexisted freely.
Why The Glow Still Burns
Films like The Last Dragon remind audiences that authenticity matters more than polish. It’s a joyous artifact from an era that treated experimentation as its own virtue. Even at its silliest, Schultz’s movie radiates confidence in its own weirdness.
It’s rare for a flawed film to feel this alive. Forty years later, its glow hasn’t dimmed; it has only reflected brighter through nostalgia. For a movie that was never supposed to be perfect, The Last Dragon comes closer to immortality than most polished blockbusters today.
