Help Me, Eros

In contemporary Kaohsiung, a city that hums with neon and the soft clatter of daily commerce, a former stockbroker finds his world reduced to the bare essentials of a cramped apartment and lingering emptiness. Ah Jie has watched his fortunes dissolve in the market, and now he drifts among instant noodles, a modest indoor garden, and the echo of television cooking shows that feel more like distant rituals than entertainment. The film settles into a slow, sensual rhythm, letting the viewer taste the weight of loss through muted colors and lingering close‑ups that feel almost tactile.

Against this backdrop of quiet desperation, Chyi works behind the calm façade of a suicide‑prevention hotline. Her voice becomes a lifeline that reaches through the static of bureaucracy and the anonymity of the call centre, offering a fragile thread of human connection. Their conversations hover between the scripted comfort of the service and an unsettling intimacy that hints at something more, while the city outside watches in indifferent neon glow. The tone is both erotic and psychedelic, a blend of soft sensuality and surreal undercurrents that suggest the boundary between reality and imagination is constantly shifting.

Meanwhile, the streets below the apartment pulse with their own rhythm, where Shin, a young betel‑nut kiosk worker, navigates the chaotic world of late‑night customers and fleeting relationships. Her brief encounters with Ah Jie introduce a tentative companionship that feels both transactional and oddly tender, set against the backdrop of urban signage and the scent of home‑grown marijuana that drifts through the hallway. As the three characters orbit each other, the film paints a portrait of yearning and isolation, inviting the audience to linger in the spaces between longing and connection, all while the city’s electric heartbeat persists unabated.

Last Updated: October 11, 2025 at 19:44