A Japanese puppeteer is hunted down by the gang she stole money from somewhere in the British Isles.
It tries too hard.
Let’s unpack that premise for a second. It is the late eighteenth century. In a remote corner of the British Isles, two Japanese puppeteers – a father and daughter travelling with a troupe of diverse performers – cross paths with a gang searching for stolen gold that they stole first. One of the gang members happens to be a Black cowboy. Right…
If that raised a few question marks, you’re already on the same wavelength as the film.
Writer Kate Leys and co-writer/director John Maclean essentially create the cinematic offspring of Quentin Tarantino and Terry Gilliam: a Scottish Western infused with surreal humour, exaggerated violence, minimal dialogue, theatrical music, and a revenge narrative that eventually culminates in something resembling a John Rambo finale. Does it work? Well… not really. Not for me, anyway.
The film constantly balances between suspense and what feels like unintentional comedy. Characters move, react, and behave according to the film’s peculiar internal logic rather than any recognisable reality. If you’re struggling to make sense of this review, chances are you’ll struggle equally to make sense of Tornado. The strange thing is that it doesn’t provoke particularly strong emotions either way. It doesn’t frustrate as much as it puzzles. Something that may raise two questions: “What am I watching?” And more importantly: “Why am I watching it?”
Beneath the eccentricity lie themes of belonging, otherness, storytelling, revenge, and greed. They are certainly present, but they remain buried beneath a stylistic approach that often feels more interested in imitating than communicating. That is always the danger with filmmakers as distinctive as Quentin Tarantino, Robert Rodriguez, or Terry Gilliam. Their cinematic voices are unique, so borrowing too heavily from them can leave a film searching for its own identity.
To Maclean’s credit, though, the intentions are sincere. Tornado never insults its audience’s intelligence. It genuinely wants to entertain, surprise, and create something different. For me, it simply tries a little too hard. If I were recommending it, it would primarily be because of Kôki, who completely steals the film with a captivating central performance, and secondly because of Takehiro Hira, who makes a lasting impression despite limited screen time. Tim Roth, a frequent Tarantino collaborator, is always sensational, but his role here is limited or overshadowed by the narrative’s peculiarity.
A shame, really. Because with performances this good, I wanted the film surrounding them to be equally memorable.
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