Invasion Review: Anxiety in the Tropics

Invasion, directed by Bobby Boermans and penned by Philip Delmaar, Errol Nayci and Lucas de Waard, thrusts viewers into a jarring collision of sunlit calm and sudden violence. The Caribbean islands of Curaçao and Aruba become battlegrounds when Veragua’s warship opens fire on resort beaches, scattering vacationers and igniting a rapid military response. Within moments, the film sweeps from bombarded coastline to a Dutch battleship charged with rescue operations.

At its center stands Andy (Tarikh Janssen), a marine recruit whose acrophobia threatens his career. Joined by Jack (Gijs Blom) and Noa (Ortál Vriend), he navigates high-stakes naval patrols, a fraught jungle rescue and a tense embassy extraction that tests loyalties. The screenplay shifts among civilians, politicians and frontline troops, pressing forward with kinetic urgency that rarely lets the viewer catch their breath.

Boermans’s camera lingers on the contrast between radiant vistas and grim conflict. Crisp cinematography heightens every firefight, from whistling artillery shells to echoing embassy corridors under siege. Practical effects ground the combat, and a subtle political undercurrent hints at real-world tensions. Invasion stakes its claim as a lean action thriller that probes the cost of defense when the divide between protector and invader evaporates.

Splintered Frontlines

The film erupts without warning: a coastal drug-raid prologue dissolves into the thunder of Veragua’s warship raining shells on Curaçao’s sunlit sands. That jolt—beautifully orchestrated to unmoor the audience—sets the pattern for Invasion’s narrative pulse. From bustling Dutch government chambers, where officials debate a phantom threat, to the cramped corridors of a besieged embassy, the world-building sketches a geopolitical map that feels both familiar and distorted by its fictional veneer.

Multiple story threads unfurl in tandem: Andy’s fractured confidence, tethered to his injured father and a crippling fear of heights; Jack and Noa embarking on an extraction mission for Ambassador Caan; a Marine base on Aruba under relentless siege, where Maj. Brouwer’s troops scramble for a prisoner destined to shape negotiations. Each thread carries its own momentum, yet the rapid crosscutting can strain clarity, sending the viewer hurtling from deck of a battleship to jungle canopy in seconds.

Midway, the downed chopper strand forces a shift from tactical precision to survival instinct. Judsel’s pilot wife enters the fray, her aerial tours repurposed into a desperate rescue plan—an ingenious pivot that underscores the film’s willingness to fuse personal stakes with military spectacle. The ensuing cat-and-mouse pursuit through verdant undergrowth delivers a visceral reckoning: Andy must scale his fear of heights to guide his comrades to safety.

Just as the tension peaks, a colossal war-machine intervention descends—a literal deus ex machina that smothers the hard-won momentum. A single, improbably timed phone call then quells the larger conflict, leaving an anticlimactic echo ringing through the final frame.

Pacing remains the film’s double-edged sword. Its restless transitions fuel breathless engagement yet risk fragmenting narrative cohesion. A tighter weave between scenes—lingering on a single locale long enough to absorb its stakes—might have sharpened the emotional throughline without sacrificing the film’s kinetic drive.

Portraits in Conflict

Andy emerges as the film’s emotional fulcrum. His crippling fear of heights—introduced during basic training—finds its dramatic payoff amid tangled jungle canopies. Tarikh Janssen anchors each firefight and frantic scramble with taut physicality, his tense posture betraying the vulnerability that simmers beneath the camouflage. When he finally scales a treacherous precipice, the moment crackles with both relief and hard-won resolve, tethered to the injured father whose fate propels Andy’s journey.

Jack strides into view as a study in steely tenacity. Gijs Blom’s calculated calm stands in stark relief to Andy’s jittery energy. Every measured step and unflinching stare sells the idea of a soldier at ease in chaos, his silent confidence fueling the rescue mission. Noa, portrayed by Ortál Vriend, shatters the bloke-only mold with brisk authority. Her decisive commands and willingness to dive into leaden action underscore the film’s attempt to rebalance marine machismo—she never feels shoehorned into tokenism, but rather claims leadership through unvarnished competence.

Jasha Rudge as Judsel offers a quieter counterpoint: the sailor torn between duty at sea and desperation for his family. His rapport with Andy brims with unspoken history, the brotherly bond giving weight to each risky maneuver.

Gijs Scholten van Aschat’s Ambassador Caan slides between panic and opportunism, a slippery bargaining chip who underscores the film’s murky political currents. Raymond Thiry’s Maj. Brouwer and Fedja van Huêt’s CDR Bot embody two faces of command—the former a grizzled tactician forging resistance, the latter a thoughtful architect of strategy, their interplay hinting at the strain between boots-on-the-ground grit and map-room deliberation.

The Veraguan soldiers remain purposefully faceless, their nameless ranks serving as a blunt instrument of tension. In sidestepping a central antagonist, the film trades individual nemeses for an anonymous tide of conflict, raising questions about the human cost when “enemy” becomes a function rather than a fully imagined character.

Lines Drawn in Sand

Veragua emerges less as a sovereign entity and more as a cipher for real-world friction with Venezuela, granting the narrative room to probe political anxieties without naming names. That deliberate veneer invites reflection on how fiction can mirror actual tensions, even as it shields filmmakers from direct controversy.

The specter of home invasion harks back to thrillers of earlier decades—Red Dawn among them—tapping into a primal fear of outsiders breaching familiar shores. Here, the shock of shells on Curaçao’s beaches resonates as both spectacle and metaphor, prompting viewers to confront the fragility of safety under tropical skies.

Within this rupture, bureaucratic deliberations unfold in sterile meeting rooms, each rodent-like debate of policy set against Marines charging headlong into chaos. The film dramatizes that gulf—the glacial pace of paper-pushers versus the immediacy of those wielding rifles on the front line—revealing how lives hinge on decisions made far from sand and surf.

Amid the gunfire, acts of selflessness define character arcs: a recruit scaling his fear to save comrades, a diplomat traded like a chip in a high-stakes game. Those moments underscore the toll of warfare, where camaraderie can become the only steadfast force.

Yet the story asks its audience to embrace improbable rescues and sudden shifts in fortune. The tension between plausibility and genre delight underlies every firefight, inviting us to judge when contrivance enhances adrenaline and when it unravels credibility.

Kinetic Choreography

The opening shelling of Curaçao’s beach is a masterclass in orchestrated panic. Boermans stages the chaos with frenzied camera swoops as tourists scatter, every scream and ricocheted round grounding the sequence in visceral terror. Crowds dissolve into frantic clusters, the choreography of mass confusion underscoring how quickly paradise can fracture into mayhem.

Naval boarding and Coast Guard patrol scenes lean on tangible authenticity. Real ships and seafaring rigs lend heft to each boarding action, the deckwork feeling earned rather than simulated. On Aruba, firefights shrink to squad-level encounters: marines duck behind shattered walls, exchanging measured volleys. These tight engagements keep focus on individual survival, reinforcing the film’s investment in character-driven stakes amid airborne metal.

In the jungle, rescue efforts hinge on terrain as much as trigger pulls. Canopy traversal becomes a crucible for Andy’s acrophobia, vines whipping past the lens as he ascends into both literal and symbolic heights. That payoff—his trembling grip finally giving way to resolute climbing—transforms the setting into an emotional battleground.

Boermans’s direction embraces rapid cuts and handheld intensity, alternating between sun-drenched wide shots and claustrophobic command-room close-ups. A fleeting mini-submarine cameo injects submarine-thriller tension, its claustrophobia mirroring the Marines’ own entrapment.

Yet many combat scenes default to “run-and-gun” simplicity. Moments of strategic depth—flanking maneuvers or silent infiltration—might have sharpened the tactical edge. More deliberate pacing in key set pieces could heighten dread: a slowed heartbeat before each assault, clearer geography to orient the viewer. By lingering on a single vantage point or extending a suspenseful drone-over shot, the film would amplify its most electrifying clashes without undermining its momentum.

Precision in Craft

Daan Nieuwenhuijs’s lens paints two distinct worlds: the Caribbean’s lush blues and greens burst with sunlit clarity, while Dutch command centers adopt a muted palette of grays and cold steel. Tracking shots sail alongside speeding vessels and weave through jungle thickets, then anchor into still tableaux for moments of exposition, inviting both urgency and pause.

Sound design roots each explosion and naval engine roar in tangible weight. Subtle swells of the score punctuate key beats—an accelerating drumline as marines brace for assault, a rising brass motif when Andy confronts his fear—binding audio cues to emotional stakes.

Production design favors tactile authenticity: weathered resort villas, battered embassy halls, sand-swept barracks come alive through hands-on detail. Military support lends real ships and helicopters, and practical pyrotechnics deliver each blast without digital gloss. Editing balances breathless action with quieter dialogue scenes, though a handful of abrupt cuts jolt the flow, reminding viewers of the film’s breakneck impulse.

Closing Fire

Relentless momentum defines Invasion’s greatest appeal, each firefight buoyed by genuine naval assets and finely tuned tension. Janssen’s raw vulnerability and Thiry’s grizzled resolve lend shape to explosive set pieces, while smaller roles sputter under a thin political veneer.

The narrative demands suspension of disbelief—deus ex machina arrivals and last-minute calls strain plausibility, yet viewers drawn to blistering action will likely forgive these shortcuts. Fans of no-frills war thrillers will feel at home amid sand, steel and sweat. Casual viewers and genre devotees alike will find enough high-octane spectacle to justify a single viewing.

Critics crafting a full review should weave character milestones into analysis of strategic set pieces, highlighting where tactical daring eclipses emotional connection. Maintaining measured praise for craft alongside incisive plot critique will ensure intellectual rigor sustains engagement. If pulse-quickening sequences are your compass, Invasion charts an exhilarating trajectory, even as its deeper currents remain just out of reach.

Full Credits

Director: Bobby Boermans

Writers: Philip Delmaar, Lucas de Waard

Producers: Errol Nayci, Laura Chatterjee

Cast: Tarikh Janssen (Andy), Gijs Blom (Jack), Ortál Vriend (Noa), Jasha Rudge (Judsel), Fedja van Huêt (Stan Bot), Gijs Scholten van Aschat (Maurits Caan), Raymond Thiry (John Brouwer), Uriah Havertong (Daniël), Jonas Smulders (Tom), Siawaash Cyrroes (Cem), Nyncke Beekhuyzen (Marjon), Mark Rietman (Bruno Staal), Carine Crutzen (Janice Kroes), Dennis Rudge (Carl), Ziarah Janssen (Isa), Matteo van der Grijn (Guus Piwek)

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Daan Nieuwenhuijs

Editors: Bas Icke, Jasper Quispel

Composers: Laurens Goedhart, Fons Merkies​