The 4 Rascals Review: Vietnamese Comedy at Its Best

Tran Thanh’s The 4 Rascals begins with Kieu’s playful narration, setting up a contrast between her own modest life and best friend Quỳnh Anh’s seemingly perfect existence. Early scenes follow Kieu’s envy as Quỳnh’s marriage to banker Quoc Anh blossoms, only to reveal cracks in that picture-perfect bond. When Quỳnh Anh grows suspicious of her husband’s loyalty, she enlists four unlikely allies—Kieu herself, Uncle 11, Aunt Dì Bón and the tarot-reading Jessica—to investigate potential infidelity.

Behind the camera, Tran Thanh wears multiple hats as writer, director and part of the “rascals” ensemble, steering the film’s rhythm alongside Linh Dan Nguyen Phan’s vibrant cinematography. January 29, 2025 saw The 4 Rascals debut in Vietnam, where it shattered box-office records by hitting 100 billion VND in three days and soaring past 300 billion VND within less than two weeks. A March rollout across North America and Europe introduced international audiences to this spirited comedy-drama.

At 132 minutes, the film moves at a brisk pace, driven by rapid-fire comic set-pieces and occasional moments of reflection when relationships strain under miscommunication. Episodes of slapstick interplay with romantic tension and light crime elements, giving each sequence its own flavor. This blend of high-energy antics and heartfelt beats keeps the narrative lively, inviting viewers to both laugh and empathize with characters caught between loyalty and jealousy.

Narrative & Structure

The film opens with Kieu’s wry voice-over, delivered over a montage that cuts between her modest apartment and Quỳnh Anh’s sleek urban loft. That contrast establishes their emotional landscapes: Kieu’s self-effacing humor anchors us in her perspective, while Quỳnh Anh’s life appears effortless and polished. Early scenes of wedding bliss and domestic routines ground the audience in the couple’s six-year marriage, making the coming fractures all the more affecting.

A subtle shift occurs when Quỳnh Anh spots Quoc Anh’s distracted glances at a new client. Rather than letting rumor rule, she taps into the film’s central conceit—the “four rascals” detective team—blending melodrama with caper comedy. The recruitment montage, scored with playful staccato strings, signals a tonal pivot from romantic comfort to investigative chaos.

Each set-piece functions like a discrete level in a narrative-driven game. The roadside collision with Uncle 11 evokes the slapstick chase sequences of cult favorites like Little Miss Sunshine, while the dinner-diplomacy scene—where Dì Bón’s “take-out” debate spirals into farce—demonstrates how character skills drive plot momentum. Jessica’s tarot reading adds mystical flair, mirroring RPG side quests that deepen world-building and emotional investment.

Karen’s arrival tightens the narrative belt. Her seductive business dinner flips the script, forcing Quoc Anh into a moral dilemma that plays out in hushed one-on-one exchanges. These quieter confrontations contrast sharply with earlier broad comedy, heightening stakes through pacing shifts that feel akin to switching from puzzle-solving sequences to story-driven cutscenes in narrative games.

The final showdown unfolds like a boss battle: truths are laid bare, alliances tested and the rascals’ antics reach a crescendo in a restaurant brawl. Unlike some romantic comedies that end with ritualistic reconciliation, The 4 Rascals leaves Kieu’s voice-over lingering on a reflective note—her envy softened by newfound empathy. That open-ended emotional beat invites viewers to ponder how friendship and trust evolve under pressure.

Faces of Comedy and Conflict

Tran Tieu Vy’s turn as Quỳnh Anh grounds the film in emotional stakes. Her girl-next-door charm makes early scenes of marital bliss feel lived-in, which heightens the unsettling shift when suspicion takes hold. In the restaurant confrontation, Vy’s trembling pauses convey distrust without resorting to melodrama, echoing the subtle vulnerability found in indie cult favorite Drive (My recommendation for its subdued yet intense lead performance).

Uyen An’s Kieu serves as both narrator and emotional anchor. Her sharp asides land like well-timed gameplay tutorials—she guides us through the story while owning her self-doubt. In scenes where envy gives way to solidarity, An’s expressive timing mirrors pacing shifts in narrative-driven titles like Life Is Strange, where character insight can hinge on a single look.

The quartet of rascals brings a blend of stage-ready flair and cinematic nuance. Tran Thanh’s Uncle 11 channels charismatic ring-leader energy, riffing on ancestral comedy traditions yet never feeling rote. Le Giang’s Dì Bón delivers physical gags—her grand gestures against stoic background characters recall the best of slapstick auteurs such as Charlie Chaplin, but with a modern family twist. Le Duong Bao Lam’s Jessica melds flamboyance and sincerity, using tarot sequences as mini set-pieces that underscore the film’s thematic interplay between fate and choice.

Tran Quoc Anh’s banker Quoc Anh inhabits the tension between duty and attraction, his measured restraint in the business-dinner scene suggesting an RPG protagonist wrestling with moral alignment. Ky Duyen as Karen combines polished poise with subtle manipulations—her bright close-ups recall the magnetism of Cary Grant’s suave antagonists, yet here framed in glossy Vietnamese cityscapes.

What stands out is the ensemble chemistry. Rapid-fire banter feels improvised, giving each scene an organic flow, and the veteran-youngster mix balances wisdom and freshness. As each character collision accelerates the plot, one wonders how these performances will age—will they become cult classics that redefine Vietnamese ensemble comedy?

Shifting Shades of Emotion

Jealousy and beauty intertwine as cinematic mechanics. Frequent close-ups on Karen’s flawless features mirror how narrative-driven games often zoom in on character portraits to signal emotional import. Here, those tight shots highlight both the allure and isolation that come with conventional attractiveness—Quỳnh Anh’s spark dims under the weight of others’ expectations, much like a hero in an RPG who struggles beneath a celebrated reputation.

Friendship and loyalty drive the core gameplay loop of this story. Kieu’s envy functions like a resource meter—when depleted by self-doubt, her ability to support Quỳnh Anh falters, only to refill through shared adversity. Their bond endures scripted misunderstandings that echo branching dialogue trees in narrative titles such as Oxenfree, where one misstep can fracture trust or deepen connection.

Marriage, communication and trust are presented through pacing beats that swing between high-energy set-pieces and hushed conversations. The six-year domestic montage establishes stability, then miscommunication erupts in staccato exchanges—a comedic engine fueling both slapstick chaos and genuine pathos. It recalls pacing in indie flicks like Before Sunrise, where dialogue alone propels relational stakes.

Fate, will and self-respect come into focus during Jessica’s tarot sequences. The cards act like meta-game prompts, asking characters to choose between surrendering to destiny or asserting agency. That interplay reminds me of choice-driven games such as Life Is Strange, where narrative power hinges on balancing external forces with personal resolve.

Genre-bending tone shifts feel seamless most of the time—slapstick collisions segue into near-melodramatic reveals, then pivot into light crime thrills. Yet when drama intensifies, the abrupt tempo change can jar like switching from a platformer to a survival horror segment. That dissonance, however, underlines how life’s genres rarely stay on one track—and perhaps that’s the point viewers will carry forward.

Crafting the Senses: Visual and Sonic Design

The 4 Rascals presents Vietnam’s urban sprawl and countryside with sleek polish. Neon-lit city streets contrast sunlit market alleys, recalling the eye-catching palettes of indie film The Tailor (2017). Bold hues underscore comedic moments—bright reds and yellows pop during raucous antics—while cooler tones wrap around quieter scenes, reinforcing emotional beats.

Framing often tightens on faces, especially during Kieu’s reflective asides or Karen’s seductive glances. Those close-ups function like spotlight camera angles in narrative-driven games such as Firewatch, drawing players’ focus to subtle expressions and unspoken thoughts.

Editing drives kinetic energy through rapid-fire cuts. Slapstick collisions and rapid dialogue exchanges feel almost game-like in their pacing, akin to quick-time events that demand constant engagement. When the plot demands emotional heft—such as Quỳnh Anh’s confrontation with Quoc Anh—the tempo slows. Extended takes let tension simmer, much like the lingering camera in cult favorite Moonlight.

The soundtrack balances jaunty motifs with understated moments of silence. Light percussion and plucked strings accompany chase sequences, while sudden quiet accentuates dramatic turns, mirroring sound design in atmospheric titles like Gris.

Production design grounds every frame in authenticity. A bustling family home, with worn wood and mismatched ceramics, feels lived-in. Upscale restaurants gleam with polished glass and chrome. These environments layer character context into each scene, inviting viewers to explore this world beyond surface spectacle.

Mastering the Moment: Comedy & Timing

Physical slapstick in The 4 Rascals lands with precision. The helmeted bike crash into Quỳnh Anh’s car sets a playful tone, then restaurant brawls spin into pratfalls that feel choreographed yet delightfully wild—much like how an action-platformer alternates planned jumps with unpredictable enemy encounters.

Verbal wit sparkles in rapid-fire exchanges. Uncle 11’s quips ricochet off Dì Bón’s deadpan rejoinders, while Kieu’s self-effacing asides cut through the chaos with a rhythm akin to quick dialogue trees in narrative games. That timing keeps scenes feeling alive, encouraging both laughs and genuine reactions.

There’s an improvisational sheen to many set-pieces. When background extras stumble into the rascals’ antics, the film captures unguarded moments that mirror live-streamed indie productions, lending each gag a fresh spontaneity.

Standout sequences underscore this blend of structure and surprise. The tarot reading spins from mystical portent to comic panic, pausing just long enough for tension before unleashing a laugh. Dì Bón’s “take-out” debate turns a simple order into a full-blown character study. And Karen’s ill-fated business dinner flickers between seductive intent and awkward silence, recalling the delicate pacing of dark-comedy indies.

Brief bursts of violence punctuate the laughter, reminding viewers of real stakes without dragging the tone into heaviness. That delicate balancing act raises a question: can a comedy sustain its levity while edging close to genuine danger?

Beyond Borders: Cultural Resonance and Legacy

The 4 Rascals rewrote domestic records by hitting 100 billion VND in just three days and racing past 300 billion VND in twelve—a feat that underscores Vietnamese audiences’ hunger for homegrown comedies. Its North American bow made it the highest-grossing Vietnam-produced film overseas, a milestone that hints at untapped markets for similarly spirited exports.

Launching in 300 theaters across Europe and North America, the film signals growing global demand for Vietnamese genre-benders. It joins the ranks of recent breakout hits such as Furie and Dreamy Eyes, carving room for playful, locally rooted storytelling on the world stage.

Modern life pulses through the narrative: career-driven bankers, meddlesome relatives and an openly gay psychic reflect urban Vietnam’s evolving social fabric. Jessica’s tarot scenes bring LGBTQ+ representation to mainstream screens without tokenism, reminding viewers how genre fare can push cultural conversations forward.

Universal themes—marital trust, envy among friends—translate via physical comedy that needs no subtitle, echoing the cross-cultural charm of classics like Mr. Bean. Yet the film remains distinctly Vietnamese in its settings and family dynamics, offering a refreshing lens on familiar tropes.

As Tran Thanh cements his role as writer-director-star, one wonders whether this success will inspire more high-concept Viet comedies—perhaps even interactive experiences where audiences can shape each laugh and plot twist.

Full Credits

Director: Trấn Thành

Writers: Trấn Thành, Luong Nghiem Huy, Phan Minh, Thao Nguyen

Producers: Trấn Thành, Thao Nguyen

Cast: Huỳnh Uyển Ân (Kieu), Trần Quốc Anh (Quoc Anh), Lê Giang (Di Bon), Lê Dương Bảo Lâm (Jessica), Kỳ Duyên Cao Nguyên (Karen), Trấn Thành (Cậu Mười Một), Trần Tiểu Vy (Quỳnh Anh)

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Linh Dan Nguyen Phan

Music Composers: Nguyễn Hoàng Anh, Trần Hữu Tuấn Bách, Khuất Duy Minh