“Deliver Us from Evil”—A blood‑hot chase that turns Bangkok’s neon into a father’s last confession
Introduction
The first time I heard the Bangkok night sing in this film, it wasn’t music—it was the buzz of scooters, the hiss of rain, and the thud of a heart that knows it might not see morning. Have you ever watched a character make a choice so final you felt your own lungs tighten? Deliver Us from Evil doesn’t ask for patience; it grabs your wrist, pulls you through wet alleys and neon markets, and whispers that love can be violent when time runs out. I found myself bargaining with the movie like it was fate itself—“Just give him one more minute, one more chance”—even as the clock kept ticking. This is action told as a prayer for forgiveness, and the amen doesn’t come cheap. By the final shot, I understood why some people risk everything to keep a promise, and why you should press play to feel that promise reverberate in your own chest.
Overview
Title: Deliver Us from Evil (다만 악에서 구하소서)
Year: 2020
Genre: Action, Thriller, Crime
Main Cast: Hwang Jung‑min, Lee Jung‑jae, Park Jeong‑min, Park So‑yi, Choi Hee‑seo
Runtime: 108 minutes
Streaming Platform: Hulu.
Director: Hong Won‑chan.
Overall Story
In Tokyo’s cold glow, a weary hitman named In‑nam finishes what he swears is his last job, the kind that leaves your hands clean but your soul stained. He’s packed for a quiet life in Panama, a place he imagines as a blank page where no one knows his name, and no one whispers about the National Intelligence Agency he used to serve. Have you ever tried to outrun a version of yourself you no longer recognize? That’s In‑nam, checking flight times while ignoring the past pinging his phone. The text that finally breaks him isn’t from an enemy but from a long‑ago love, Young‑joo, whose life in Bangkok has just ruptured—her little girl is missing, and fear has turned her voice to sand. By dawn, news arrives like a blade: Young‑joo is dead, and In‑nam’s past is no longer a place; it’s a target painted on his heart.
He returns to Seoul not as a ghost but as a man who needs to look at a body to believe it. In the quiet of the morgue, the film lets grief breathe, and In‑nam learns the truth he didn’t dare suspect: the missing child, Yoo‑min, is his daughter. That recognition redraws the map—no more retirement brochures, no more clean exit stamps. He tracks down an old handler for scraps of intel and discovers a new threat unfolding: Ray, a sadistic brother with a butcher’s calm, is carving a trail through anyone connected to the Tokyo hit. The sound design during these revelations feels like a pressure cooker—slow hiss, sudden rattle, a lid about to leap. In‑nam books a ticket to Bangkok, not because he believes in second chances, but because fatherhood sometimes arrives as an ultimatum.
Bangkok greets him with humidity and lies. In‑nam leans on a contact, Young‑bae, and starts with the last person to see Yoo‑min: a real‑estate agent who lured Young‑joo toward a dream investment that was never real. The investigation moves like a street vendor pushing through crowds—steadily, rudely, without apology. He finds the agent, then the agent’s fear, and then the rotten beam holding up the scheme: a childcare couple moonlighting for a trafficking ring. If you’ve ever felt your gut drop in a foreign city, you’ll recognize the helplessness the film captures without melodrama. Somewhere in this maze, a child is being converted into profit, and In‑nam decides his own blood will be the down payment to stop it.
Help arrives in the elegant, luminous form of Yui, a Thai transgender woman whose skill set includes street smarts, hard‑won empathy, and the ability to make doors open in places tourists never see. Their partnership is transactional at first—cash for contacts, silence for speed—but the movie lets something warmer sprout in the cracks: respect. Yui’s presence complicates the “lone wolf” fantasy in the best way; no one survives cities like this without community, however improvised. Together they trace Yoo‑min to a high‑rise that looks like any other until a locked floor turns the elevator into a countdown. Inside lies a child‑harvesting operation that makes your throat go dry, with sterile rooms and dirty money braided into one operation. In‑nam is the wrecking ball, but Yui is the guide who helps him swing.
Meanwhile, Ray lands like a storm with a grudge, elegant in a way that makes violence feel choreographed and inevitable. He isn’t just a villain; he’s a worldview: the past must be paid for in equal blood. Watching him interrogate and execute is like watching a chef at a counter—precise, patient, terrifying in his control. He slices through In‑nam’s network, leaving warnings where most people would leave corpses, and closes the distance with a predator’s focus. If you’ve ever wondered whether hate can be beautiful, this movie answers: it can be, and that’s exactly why it’s so dangerous. The first clash between the two men leaves more questions than bodies, but it sets a timer you can almost hear under every subsequent scene.
Clues point to Ratchaburi, to a shuttered football factory repurposed into a makeshift surgical hub where time is measured in organ viability. Here, the editing tightens like a tourniquet as police corruption, local crime syndicates, and international brokers blur into one market of despair. In‑nam storms the place with the precision of a professional and the desperation of a father, dodging bullets and gurneys until Yoo‑min is in his arms and the surgeons are no longer a threat. The sequence doesn’t gloat about heroism; it shows the cost: blood that won’t come out of fabric, breaths counted between sirens. Ray is never far—he’s the shadow in doorways, the knife in the pocket of the next man over—and the escape feels less like victory than a temporary ceasefire. The moral math remains ugly: to save one child, you sometimes burn the house where hundreds were harmed.
They hide in a Bangkok hotel, the type with thin walls and tired carpet, a place for brief encounters and longer regrets. In‑nam secures forged passports and an exit route, the kind of preparation that makes you think about how we all hedge against risk—some with travel insurance, some with emergency cash in international money transfer apps, some with the hope that luck will remember our names. When he returns, the room is wrong: the silence is too heavy, the air too still. Yoo‑min is zipped into a suitcase by men who have no idea they’re pawns in a duel older than their paychecks. Ray steps from the shadows and redraws the plan mid‑breath, executing some of his own allies because even monsters have rules. The message is clear: we’re past negotiation; this ends tonight.
Out in the parking structure, Yui becomes something rare in action cinema: a true savior with a pickup truck and the courage to slam it into a kidnappers’ van. Metal screams, airbags bloom, and suddenly In‑nam has a shot at getting his daughter back. The chase spills onto Bangkok’s arterial roads where headlights stretch into ropes of white on wet asphalt. A grenade punched into a car’s belly becomes both tactic and metaphor—there are no clean rescues, only survivals bought on installment plans. Even hurt, Ray moves like rage in human form, and the knife work between these two men feels intimate in a way guns never are. Have you ever seen a fight scene that made you mourn while you cheered? This is that scene.
In‑nam buys time the only way he knows: by spending the last of himself. He whispers instructions to Yui—papers, a locker, a route—and trusts her with the most delicate cargo in his life. This movie understands something about chosen family that many films only sloganize: sometimes the person who saves your child shares no blood with you, only a promise. Ray closes in, and the final clinch is close enough to feel their breath; a second grenade answers a question the film has been asking since minute one—what is a life worth if it cannot be redeemed? When the smoke lifts, revenge and atonement lie together with the same stillness. It’s not a twist ending; it’s the bill come due.
The epilogue arrives like sunrise through a thin curtain. Yui uses the locker’s cash and documents to get Yoo‑min out, steering past borders and into the geography of new beginnings—Panama, the dot on In‑nam’s map he never reached. A framed photo in their new home places In‑nam beside memories he tried to keep clean, and the image hurts in the way only love can. The film leaves questions on purpose: Who gets to define family? What debt do we owe to the people we couldn’t save? As Yui and Yoo‑min settle, you feel the invisible thread from Bangkok’s chaos to a quiet Latin American street, a thread spun from sacrifice. If you’ve ever believed that redemption can be outsourced to the people we leave behind, this ending is a tender, complicated rebuttal.
Under all the gunfire and grit, Deliver Us from Evil sketches the social map of a globalized underworld: borders are suggestions, currencies are interchangeable, and vulnerable bodies are the supply chain’s most valuable commodity. Thailand’s urban sprawl becomes a character—markets, tenements, factories—each corner hiding its own economy of favors. The film also gives space to Yui without tokenizing her; she’s not a sidekick but a guardian, a queer heroine whose care work is as radical as any blade. And in‑between chases, the story reminds us how violence monetizes everything, even parenthood, as forged passports, bribes, and credit card rewards become survival tools rather than perks. Have you ever looked at a city and seen both freedom and a trap? This movie makes that duality ache. It’s a thriller that respects geography, identity, and the cost of being human.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The Yellow Bus and the Van: The mundane horror of a school pickup spiraling into abduction sets the film’s pulse. A babysitter’s smile—trust weaponized—becomes the fuse for everything that follows. The camera lingers on Yoo‑min’s small hand disappearing into a car door, and you feel how cheap safety can be bought and sold. From that second, every siren sounds like a heartbeat. The scene reframes a parent’s ordinary day as a battlefield and makes you wonder how many little routines are just negotiations with fate. It’s the quietest, most chilling action beat in the film.
The Morgue and the Name “Father”: In‑nam’s discovery that Yoo‑min is his daughter lands not with a shout but with an exhale you can almost see fog the air. The sterile light makes grief look like a medical condition, and Hwang Jung‑min plays the moment with a smallness that devastates. Have you ever tried to stand up while the ground moved? That’s the feeling as he pivots from assassin to father in a single, irreversible step. The scene is a vow without words, and the rest of the movie is him keeping it. It’s where the thriller becomes a tragedy with a heartbeat.
Ray’s Entrance: We meet Ray by watching him correct people’s lies with surgical violence. He’s elegance weaponized—tailored shirts, quiet steps, and eyes that never blink. The choreography tells you he believes in fairness, his kind of fairness: a wound for a wound, a life for a life. When he learns In‑nam’s route, the air in the theater thins; prey has a direction now, and so does the hunter. His presence turns every alley into a possibility. It’s the rare antagonist introduction that makes you lean forward and recoil at the same time.
The Organ Floor: The elevator opens and the set design does the rest—silver tables, plastic curtains, and the dissonance of cleanliness serving something filthy. In‑nam’s fury here isn’t operatic; it’s procedural, a checklist of rooms to clear and sins to interrupt. Yui’s quick thinking saves bodies as much as bullets do, and together they rupture a pipeline that was counting down a heart’s remaining minutes. The sequence acknowledges a global black market that thrives on poverty and paperwork. It’s a heist against despair, and for a breath, it works. Then the sirens remind us that victories this pure never last.
The Football Factory Chase: Ratchaburi’s factory turns into a maze where gurneys become shields and skylights become escape routes. Police shots crack the air as if justice showed up late and angry, and In‑nam plows through with fatherhood as body armor. Ray’s interference makes the pursuit feel like dueling symphonies—one of rescue, one of revenge. When Yoo‑min’s stretcher flips and time wobbles, the cinema went silent where I watched; collective breath is a language. The rescue is messy, loud, and painfully human. It’s the moment the film cashes the check it wrote in scene one.
The Hotel Siege: A cheap room becomes a war room as Chaopo’s men flood the corridors and Ray rewrites the pecking order on the spot. The image of a child in a suitcase is almost unbearable, a visual thesis on how crime commodifies innocence. Yui’s truck hits like a hymn of defiance, and suddenly all the tactical prep—the documents, the contacts, the contingency plans—snaps into place. Have you ever felt a movie push your chair back from under you? That’s this sequence. It’s where friendship, courage, and terrible necessity collide in one thunderous minute. The aftermath changes everything.
The Final Embrace of Grenade and Knife: Two men lock together in a clinch that looks like a dance and feels like a funeral. There’s no clean shot, no witty line, just breath and blade and a pin pulled from a future that will never arrive. In‑nam’s decision is the kind of arithmetic only parents understand: subtract me to add her a life. Ray accepts the terms because he never believed in any currency but pain. The boom is inevitable, but the echo is the point—it lingers in the bones. This is how some prayers end: with smoke, not words.
Memorable Lines
“I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m asking for time.” – In‑nam, bargaining with fate more than with people It sounds like a plea to an informant, but the target is really the universe. The line reveals how fatherhood reframes his priorities: time becomes the only currency that matters. It also sets the film’s tempo—every scene after is a countdown. And it foreshadows a finale where minutes are paid for in blood.
“Blood answers blood.” – Ray, stating his creed with terrifying calm He isn’t simply threatening; he’s articulating a theology of vengeance. The sentence tells us there will be no bribing or bargaining him away from his course. It clamps the story into a tragic groove where justice and revenge become indistinguishable. Hearing it, you understand why running won’t be enough.
“Bangkok eats the careful.” – Yui, warning In‑nam while opening another locked door It’s sly and poetic, but it’s also a survival manual written in one breath. The idea is that caution alone won’t save you here—you need courage, community, and cash for when the rules change. It deepens Yui’s role from fixer to philosopher of the streets. And it frames the city not as backdrop but as opponent.
“If she breathes, I breathe.” – In‑nam, redefining mission into fatherhood The line collapses his past identities—agent, assassin, expatriate—into a single vow. It explains why he rejects an exit plan that would make any mercenary proud. It also clarifies his moral arc: redemption won’t be found in a passport stamp, only in a child’s safety. The movie spends the rest of its runtime testing that vow.
“Families are the people who carry you when you can’t carry yourself.” – Yui, accepting a responsibility she never asked for This is the film’s thesis tucked inside a quiet moment. It reframes “family” as an act rather than a noun, a decision rather than DNA. The line also threads Yui’s story to Yoo‑min’s future, proving that found family can be as binding as any blood tie. By the epilogue, you realize this sentence built the bridge to Panama.
Why It's Special
The first thing to know about Deliver Us from Evil is that it’s a chase that never lets you breathe. A retired assassin races through Bangkok’s sweltering streets after a kidnapped child, while a vengeful butcher of a villain stalks him in return. In the United States, you can stream the film on Netflix, with additional availability on Hulu and Amazon Prime Video; rentals and purchases are also offered on Apple TV, and select ad-supported services carry it, too. If you’ve been looking for a late‑night adrenaline hit without leaving the couch, this one is waiting for you.
From its opening beats, the movie frames heroism as a burden more than a badge. Have you ever felt this way—doing the right thing even when it drags every old regret to the surface? That’s the hum running beneath the gunfire. The film’s cat‑and‑mouse rhythm keeps you leaning forward, not just to see who survives, but to see whether redemption can outrun revenge.
Deliver Us from Evil is also a travelogue of danger. Most of it unfolds under Thailand’s bleached sun, which gives the action an unusual heat—literal and emotional. The production shot chiefly on location in Thailand, and you can feel it: tight alleys, chaotic markets, and the relentless humidity that makes even stillness feel like motion.
There’s an intoxicating genre blend at work—hard‑boiled action steeped in noir melancholy, punctured by unexpected tenderness whenever a child or a stranger’s kindness slips into frame. When the villain enters, the tone tilts toward operatic menace; when the protector steps up, it snaps back to bruised humanity. On the surface, it’s a rescue thriller; underneath, it’s a prayer whispered through clenched teeth.
Visually, this is a feast for anyone who loves kinetic cinematography. Director of photography Hong Kyung‑pyo (Parasite) paints the chase in warm, dusty ambers and sweaty close‑ups, then lets the camera prowl through Bangkok in handheld surges. It’s gorgeous without ever going glossy, and the light feels like a character of its own, pressing down on everyone.
Listen for the pulse, too. Composer Mowg laces scenes with bass‑heavy cues that throb like a second heartbeat, pushing the action ahead while giving sorrow a place to sit in the quieter moments. The score’s cool swagger catches your ear without crowding out the story.
What makes the film stick is how personal the stakes feel. The hero isn’t saving the world; he’s trying to save one child—and maybe what’s left of himself in the process. The villain isn’t a faceless boogeyman; he’s grief sharpened into a knife. When their paths cross, every punch and every pause means something.
And yes, the performances crackle. Hwang Jung‑min plays the kind of man who can clear a room with a glance yet looks wrecked by the weight of his choices; Lee Jung‑jae turns a tattooed nemesis into a figure both magnetic and terrifying; and the character Yui, played with disarming warmth by Park Jung‑min, brings flashes of compassion that let the film breathe between firefights. Those sparks of humanity are why, after the last explosion fades, you’ll still be thinking about the people caught inside the blast radius.
Popularity & Reception
Released in August 2020 when theaters were struggling, Deliver Us from Evil became a genuine event in Korea. Within weeks it drew over 4 million admissions and held the No. 1 box‑office spot for 20 straight days, proof that audiences will still line up when a movie delivers high‑stakes thrills with star power to match.
Critics worldwide were largely impressed by the film’s relentless momentum and sun‑baked aesthetic. On Rotten Tomatoes, reviewers praised its “sweaty thrills,” punch‑drunk action, and the way it keeps you watching even when you might prefer to avert your eyes—a nod to how elegantly it balances brutality and craft.
As the film rolled out internationally in 2021, more viewers discovered it on digital and streaming platforms, which only amplified word‑of‑mouth. The combination of a lean 108‑minute runtime and a clear emotional throughline helped it travel well; even with cultural specifics, the story’s core—save the child, confront the past—plays in any language. Box Office Mojo ultimately tallied a worldwide gross in the mid‑$30 million range, no small feat for a pandemic‑era release.
Industry recognition followed. At the Blue Dragon Film Awards, Park Jung‑min won Best Supporting Actor while the film also took Best Cinematography & Lighting; at the Baeksang Arts Awards, Park repeated his Supporting Actor win and the film earned major nominations, including Best Film and Best Director. Those nods tell you what audiences already felt: this is muscular entertainment built with care.
The afterglow has been strong enough to spawn a planned spin‑off series centered on the villain Ray, with Lee Jung‑jae set to reprise the role and creatives from the feature attached. Whether you meet the film in a theater or via a streaming queue, its cult keeps growing—one late‑night recommendation at a time.
Cast & Fun Facts
Hwang Jung‑min anchors the movie as In‑nam, a professional killer who’s tried to bury his past with precision and distance. The beauty of his performance is how much he does with stillness—every flinch is rationed, every breath controlled—so that when he finally breaks into motion, it feels volcanic. In interviews, Hwang has said he aimed to show a man sick of violence and desperate for atonement, and you can see that fatigue in the way he carries a gun like a curse.
It helps that Hwang and Lee last shared the screen in New World, a fan‑favorite crime saga, making their reunion here a built‑in thrill. You sense the history between the actors in how their characters circle each other—respect mixed with revulsion, calculation braided with barely contained rage. That chemistry gives even a wordless stare‑down the electricity of a dialogue scene.
Lee Jung‑jae makes Ray something more than a stock heavy. He’s stylish, meticulous, and frighteningly single‑minded—the kind of villain who treats violence like choreography. Lee has talked about the pleasure and challenge of crafting a “new” kind of antagonist, one who communicates more through movement and presence than exposition, and that choice pays off; Ray’s silence is its own threat.
Ray’s impact has been so potent that a dedicated series, Ray (working title), is in development with Lee returning to the role—an uncommon honor for a film villain and a testament to how vividly he owns the screen here. The spin‑off’s creative team includes key talents from the feature, signaling how much the character resonated with audiences.
Park Jung‑min is the film’s stealth weapon as Yui, a transgender woman whose wit and warmth cut through the machismo. Park threads a delicate needle, finding gallows humor and genuine tenderness without ever turning Yui into comic relief. When the film needs a heartbeat, he supplies it, and when it needs a spark, he flips the lighter.
Award bodies noticed. Park won Best Supporting Actor at both the Blue Dragon Film Awards and the Baeksang Arts Awards for this turn, and it’s easy to see why: Yui is where Deliver Us from Evil remembers what it’s fighting for—not just survival, but dignity. Those trophies also underline how thoroughly Park has expanded his range in recent years.
Choi Hee‑seo appears as Young‑joo, the woman whose death lights the fuse. In a role that could have been purely functional, she gives the story moral gravity; her scenes carry a hushed ache that keeps the film from drifting into pure spectacle. That lingering sadness is what makes the rescue matter—it’s not a plot point, it’s a promise.
Child actor Park So‑yi plays Yoo‑min with a naturalness that never curdles into precocity. Her presence raises the stakes without speeches; every time she’s on screen, the film tightens. The best action movies remember to protect something tender. She’s that something here.
Director‑writer Hong Won‑chan steers the whole machine with a sure hand. A Cannes Midnight alum for his debut Office, Hong brings a taste for propulsive pacing, sardonic humor, and clean, readable geography in the action. He knows when to step on the gas and when to let a glance do the work—one reason this chase leaves bruises that feel earned.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If your weekend plans include settling in with a new streaming subscription and a bowl of popcorn, make room for Deliver Us from Evil. The film’s heat, heart, and hurt play even better on a big screen at home—especially if you’ve just upgraded your 4K TV or dialed in a home theater system that lets the low end of Mowg’s score curl through the room. Have you ever needed a movie that moves fast but leaves a feeling behind? This is that movie. Press play, and let the chase test your pulse and your empathy in equal measure.
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