Film Name: 魁拔Ⅲ戰神崛起 / Kuiba Ⅲ
In a way, I can count myself as a fan of the “Kuiba” series. I went to the theater to support the first film and bought the DVD. I even got into an argument with a friend over whether ‘Kuiba’ or “Qinsmoon” represented the new wave of Chinese animation. Even though the second film dragged on with stiff animation, I still quietly bought a ticket for the third one. But I’m not sure if I’ll go to the theater for the fourth one.
Animated films are challenging to produce, but audiences at least expect sincerity. This sincerity isn’t found in a few flashy scenes, but in the integrity of characters and storytelling—because that’s where a film truly begins, where it truly retains fans, and where excuses like “technical limitations” or “budget constraints” become unnecessary.
I’m not surprised when half an hour of content is stretched into a full feature—endless flashbacks, static staring scenes, constant character exposition, recycled settings…
Man Xiao Man exists solely to highlight others’ cleverness and deliver punchlines. Xue Lun serves as the poison tester. The white-haired youth is merely Man Ji’s romantic rival. Jingxin serves to demonstrate that a celestial being’s primary function is radar, Daikura exemplifies how brainless chefs meet their end, Hai Wenxiang illustrates how a psychopath self-destructs, Yuanlang and Xiuxiu endlessly recite cheesy love poems, and Manji connects everyone with his “Wakaka” antics.
The above is an emotional critique. Now let’s stick to facts and logic.
The opening climax should have been the showdown between the group and Okura. The pretentious youth grabbed attention first, but several close-ups felt like his facial proportions were off. Could you please take it seriously and make a good first impression, dear? The gimmick of discerning identity and abilities through reactions to food is clever, but Okura unexpectedly shattered his initially stoic, taciturn image. Boasting, “They wanted me to be a judge, but I haven’t even taken the position yet,” he chattered nonstop to the teens, lecturing the audience on his poisoning techniques while peacefully accompanying the victims to counteract the poison—so why did you later jump into liquid metal to die? Instead of “striking while the iron is hot,” he chose to heal his opponents with combat prowess matching anyone’s, only to seek his own demise afterward (metal has a cooling-off period)… Kuiba, what were you thinking? Was your true goal always “seeking your own demise”?
Speaking of Kuiba III’s villains, the subtitle “Rise of the God of War” is a misnomer. “How to Become a Suicide Villain” would be far more fitting.
Hai Wenxiang is undoubtedly the film’s ultimate villain. At first, I thought she was a gentle, kind-hearted girl. Then I realized she might be a gentle schemer. Later, I saw her as a goddess-like psychopath (hey, that can be cute too!). Finally, it turned out she was a snake-spirit lunatic who drowned in her own infatuation with the previous generation’s Kuiba hero, ultimately killing herself… Her bizarre worldview didn’t shock me to death, even after being exposed to all sorts of eccentric characters. Her habit of vomiting after confessing murders, then constantly putting the vomit back in her mouth, was tolerable. The plot hole where her battle robe vanished mid-walk but reappeared on her during the final showdown? I’ll chalk that up to a fourth-dimensional pocket (though it was probably a production issue, right? = =).
But it’s still a bit much that this kid, Bangji, can open six pulse gates instantly after healing (or resonance?), learns water-controlling pulse techniques after just a few tries, and summons pulse beasts during her battle on Qujing No. 1. Even Captain Yuanlang spotted Kuiba’s true form—and she’s a die-hard Kuiba fan! The pessimistic Hai Wenxiang, even as she lay dying, never sensed Kuiba’s energy pulse. So how exactly did the chatty deity Lei Dao perceive Kuiba? Did he spot a creature with glowing eyes via satellite imagery? Please don’t tell me it’s precisely because Sister Hai is a pessimist with bizarre values—the previous Kuiba, gazing upon the beautiful architecture and love poems of the Sea of Ten Thousand Poems, preferred to preserve the ruins even at the cost of his warriors’ defeat and death. Thus, Hai Wenxiang yearned for a scenario where she and Kuiba failed together— —either she refuses to believe Kuiba would appear before her, ignoring all clues, or she silently discovered Kuiba’s true form, hoping to join him in defeat after slaying Manji? Thinking this, I question the previous Kuiba’s intelligence too. If that explanation holds water, my IQ must have been on sale during National Day.
“Youth knows not sorrow’s taste, yet forces verses of grief”—whether in Hai Wenxiang’s recollections or Yuanlang’s, I deeply reflect on whether skipping stories like “he sacrificed his last drop of blood to grow the most beautiful rose for her happiness, only for her to discover the truth and suffer terribly” during my junior high years might have spared me some detours.
This time, the theater’s promotional boards feature Captain Yuanlang. If there’s any character left to look forward to in this film, it’s truly only him. Yet for such a pivotal character—even if her design calls for a lazy, expressionless demeanor—couldn’t they have given her some nuanced facial acting during close-ups? Judging by the previous plot, Yuanlang is a master strategist brimming with wisdom. She hasn’t set foot off her ship since her youth, yet her crew lacks any trusted confidants. It’s one thing for the demonic warriors she recruited after issuing orders to grumble, her own soldiers mutter incessantly, and she even imposes martial law on the top deck where her command post is located, as if showing weakness. I’m honestly starting to wonder if she has any military competence at all.
Regardless, this stylishly alluring older sister has always been my type. But after getting injured, she relied on Mangira’s rope to stand fixed on the deck (can we just call out that completely illogical pose where she looks like she’s standing on her own?). Later she could grab a cup and drink Kiska’s anti-shock beverage on her own, yet when pulled up, her arms hung limp as if broken. If you don’t brace yourself to stand, does the hemp rope digging into your ribs feel pleasant? Just as I pondered which part of the captain’s spine was injured, suddenly the Quijing One lost power. The ropes vanished, and the great captain stood steady at the stern, functioning as a power conversion unit…
I just can’t wrap my head around it, okay? And isn’t the cannon’s energy separate from the propulsion system? The setting world is as flat as pancakes, spreading out all these races, cuisines, and technologies—could someone please explain who designed this combat system? Everyone knows you shouldn’t put all the sail controls in one place, though I don’t think making the controls harder to operate, exposing them on deck, and placing them not too far away was particularly smart. (So apparently that tiny gap between the weapon’s range and intensity was enough to block it? = =).
Another thing just hit me: the love-stricken captain just said he’d never left the ship before, but after bringing Bangji back to Vortex Island, that scene clearly showed him disembarking, right? And how did the unpowered Curve One get back?
Then there are those lines that completely disregard character consistency: “Yu Mi Kuang and Qi Heng San are dead”—Bro, those were your comrades! Couldn’t you at least say “killed in action” or something with a shred of respect? And Hai Mei Mei repeating “dead” with a blank expression—is that really how an elegant, poetic, seemingly pacifist, benevolent race speaks?
I won’t dwell on the rest. Saying more would leave me too tearless to cry, just wanting to bang my head against the ground in regret for arguing with friends over this until my face turned dark. Would admitting my mistake save my dignity?
Speaking of the first “Kuiba,” it still holds some fond memories, much like how this movie’s opening was somewhat entertaining. “If only life were always as beautiful as the first encounter.” This series started well but has grown increasingly disappointing. Watching the pulse beast battles and some flashy scenes, I felt no awe—just muttered to myself, “Ah, so this is where the money went?” If that’s the case, it might have been better to make it into an animated storybook like the film’s opening: vibrant visuals, lively and adorable characters, and a simple, flowing narrative.
I can’t fathom what grand narrative the creators envisioned that still requires foreshadowing in the third installment. But with such flimsy logic and crumbling character development, the only thing guaranteed is that beautiful beginning.
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