What does it mean to come of age on the wrong side of the tracks, in an era when a school blazer is both a uniform and a battle flag? Phuttipong Nakthong’s 4 Kings slips us into the fever hallways and bruised afternoons of 1990s Thailand, where vocational schools function as both families and war zones. And the miracle here—the surprise, really—is that the film doesn’t just wallow in nostalgia or gangster-movie clichés; it bristles with anguish, tenderness, and an ache for lost possibilities.
Because isn’t that what adolescence really is? An endless fistfight against the world or, more accurately, against the half-imagined enemies we invent out of fear, boredom, and a hunger to belong. Through the fog of memory, the story pulses out of Billy—a former “King,” now a father knocked flat by the cyclical violence he once rode, now forced to witness its ugly reprise in the wounds of his own daughter. Played with raw, chapped honesty by Itkron Pungkiatrussamee, Billy is somewhere between a regretful lion and a low-rent ghost of himself: marking out the boundaries of old wounds, the friends he’s lost, the flesh-and-blood responsibilities threatening to overrun his hard-won cool.
The plot spreads out as a churning recollection, a bruised love letter to a generation spit out by the machinery of institutional rivalry—Intaraarcheewasueksa, Changkolburanabondh, Technologyprachachol, Kanokarcheewa: names that feel more like gangs of memory than mere school districts. Nakthong’s debut knows how to press on these scars while avoiding cheap sentiment. The film is a bittersweet, slow-boiling recollection of brotherhood, stupidity, comedy, and desperate hope—as if Stand by Me had been reimagined by Raymond Chandler and scored to the din of Bangkok’s back-alleys.
There’s a generosity in the way Nakthong handles his ensemble—Arak Amornsupasiri, especially, is given room to breathe as Da, all nervy energy and doomed affection, and Ukrit Willibrord Dongabriel’s Yat is a wonderful mess: half bully, half comedian, all confusion and clumsy charm. You can feel the poetry and rot of late adolescence here; these kids swagger on the edge of violence because there’s nowhere else to go.
And, my God, the film looks wonderful: a sullen haze of 90s neon, sweat-stained uniforms, hesitation in the body language, history thick in the color palettes and costuming. The production team conjures the era without turning it into a wax museum of retro clichés. The cinematography jitters with the nervous energy of fights that punch as hard as they ache—each blow is less a plot point than an expression of chaos and craving. The soundtrack, too, scavenges the mood: frenetic when fists fly, near-silent when the pain lands. The pauses—those little gulfs of quiet after all the thunder—are where the film breathes.
Is it perfect? Hardly. There are stretches where the pacing dawdles—perhaps the story lingers too lovingly over the scuffed rituals of youth. But I didn’t mind; the film is too generous to rush, too full of scenes that manage, improbably, to be both brutal and sweet. A few characters dart in and out, skimming the surface where I longed for depth. Still, Nakthong trusts the mess: he lets minor imperfections tangle up the narrative, the way stray memories always muddy up our best stories. Particularly memorable is the jailhouse tableau: three rivals, brought low by their own futures, forced to share space and silent, shuffling recognition.
What I admire most—what I always admire, at the movies—is when a director refuses to sentimentalize violence but also refuses to gawk at it. Nakthong is after something harder than catharsis: he wants to show how hurt and hope bleed into each other. The fight scenes bite and bruise, but so do the quiet kitchen confrontations between Billy and his daughter. There’s no fake redemption, no cheesy “one true lesson”—just a knotted, bruised faith in the possibility that somebody, someday, will find a different way.
If 4 Kings is a gangster picture, it’s one that understands how the real violence is waged in the longing to belong, the desperate calculus of choosing your loyalties, the way the past never lets go. Nakthong’s debut is less a eulogy for lost youth and more a challenge to the very myth of toughness, reputation, and pride. It’s the rare film that lingers, long after the last brawl, not as a cautionary tale, but as a question scrawled on a bathroom stall—are we really so different from the kids we once were? Can you ever punch your way out of history?
In short: If you’re tired of gangster movies that leave you numb, 4 Kings might be the punch to the heart you’re looking for. It’s a rough-edged, exhilarating film—maybe a little flawed, but never fake. As a debut, it feels both rueful and electrifying, the kind of picture you want to show your friends just so you can talk about it after. Nakthong is one to watch, and these Kings—for all their swagger—leave a mark you won’t soon shake.
