Imagine the ocean as a chalkboard and human bodies as rebellious chalk: Deck Sports in the Celebes Sea writes its syllabus of insurrection in sweat, salt, and the sulfuric glow of magnesium flares. There is no conventional arena—only the barge’s listing deck, a parallelogram of splintered hardwood where barefoot punts send rattan balls into equatorial dusk. Cinematographer Lani Hidalgo films each serve as if it were a solar eclipse, lens flares carving sickles across the frame, so every athletic gesture feels like a celestial alignment.
The narrative arc bends like a fishing rod under the strain of typhoon swells. We begin in the afterglow of a defaulted futures contract: the barge itself is collateral for sovereign debt swapped between shell companies. Yet the screenplay, coaxed by writers Arifin Bahar and Mara Velasquez, refuses to diagram finance like a flowchart; instead it atomizes it into sensory detonations—rust flakes that taste like blood, engine oil that perfumes card games, monsoon thunder that syncopates the scoreboard. This is cinema that smells of diesel and wet jute, a reminder that global capital is first and foremost a material stench.
The Athlete as Stateless Cartographer
Director Tala Ruangroj stages sport as epistemology. When Suri teaches the deckhands to dive for errant shuttlecocks, she is also instructing them in bathymetry: how to map abysses without sonar, how lungs can double as sextants. The film’s centerpiece—a 17-minute single-take volleyball rally conducted under the surveillance of a hovering drone—operates like a kinetic treaty negotiation; every bump, set, spike is a clause rewriting sovereignty. The camera pirouettes with the ball, sometimes losing it in glare, sometimes cradling it like a newborn star, so geopolitics becomes a matter of optical whoosh rather than whitepapers.
Compare this to the algorithmic chill of High Finance, where numbers metastasize across glass walls. Deck Sports counters with flesh that bronzes, blisters, and ultimately transcends ledger logic. Its balance sheet is sunburn and laughter lines.
Soundscape of Insurgent Play
Composer Dewa Pratama fuses gamelan loops with the throb of ship engines, then sprinkles in Tokyo city-pop guitar licks pilfered from the first mate’s Walkman. The result is a sonic palimpsest: every layer of empire overwritten by the next, yet none ever fully erased. During a midnight badminton match, shuttlecocks whirr like metronomes keeping time for a future revolution; the scoreboard is a broken Casio, its blinking 88:88 a sigil for infinity under late capitalism.
Performances Carved by Salt
Arawinda Kirana plays Suri with the coiled grace of someone who has breathed both palace incense and reef currents. Watch her pupils dilate when she discovers the rifles—shock transmutes into ancestral memory, the way a tide inhales debris before vomiting it back as artifact. Opposite her, Hayato Ichihara channels the magician’s art of misdirection; his character’s biggest trick is convincing the crew (and us) that escapism can be a form of confrontation.
The entire ensemble appears sun-drugged, as though ultraviolet rays have microwaved their emotional armor, leaving only raw synapses. When they erupt into a sepak takraw circle, bodies contort into silhouettes that recall the shadow puppets of Otets Sergiy—except here the stakes are not salvation but the right to keep playing under a sky that might at any moment drone-strike your court.
Color as Currency
Production designer Mae Paner limns the barge with a patina of bruised corals and shipwreck teal, shades that only reveal their true vibrancy when drenched in noon glare. This is chromatic sarcasm: the palette flaunts tourist-brochure exoticism while narrating extraction. Note how the badminton nets are dyed with achuete seeds—once used by Spanish colonizers to mark slaves—now repurposed to demarcate playing fields. The film whispers: every pigment has a colonial résumé, but even oppressive hues can resign and unionize.
Montage of Vanishing Nations
Editors Yadi Sugandi and Lav Diaz splice 16 mm maritime footage with glitchy drone POV shots—resolution so compressed you can taste pixel burn. The collision of celluloid grain and digital serration embodies the film’s thesis: modern sovereignty is a corrupted file, perpetually buffering. Intertitles written in Sharpie on cardboard flit past—fragments of maritime law, haikus of debt, karaoke lyrics—each appearing just long enough to be illegible, like passport stamps from countries that no longer exist.
In contrast, Far from the Madding Crowd luxuriates in pastoral permanence; its fields roll eternal. Deck Sports counters with a world where even horizons can be repo-ed.
The Wreck as Anti-MacGuffin
Conventional adventure scripts would fetishize the sunken gold as prize. Here, the rifles evoke Poor Innocent’s revolver—an object whose mere presence derails moral compasses. Yet Ruangroj inverts the formula: the guns are rendered inert by encrustations of coral and barnacle. They are history’s shrapnel, defused by biodiversity. The true payload is the act of salvage itself—a rehearsal for dismantling empires by growing ecosystems on their bones.
Gender Under the Equatorial Lens
Suri’s body is geopolitical battleground: tattooed wrists once entwined with silk, now inked with tidal charts. Her romance with Ichihara’s magician is less courtship than cartel negotiation—every kiss a clause, every caress a codicil. The film refuses to damselize; when she performs a scissor-kick spike that shatters the drone lens, shards rain like confetti of the surveillance state. In that instant, athletic prowess detonates patriarchy more efficiently than any manifesto.
Pace That Mimics Monsoon Breathing
At 147 minutes, the film inhales languidly—letting sweat beads accumulate like interest—then exhales in percussive typhoon sequences where cuts arrive as abrupt as water slugs against bulkheads. Compare this cadence to the frenetic skits of Roman Candles; Deck Sports chooses tidal rhythm over firecracker pop, confident that audiences will sync heartbeats to its lunar metronome.
Ethics of Spectatorship
Ruangroj implicates the viewer by staging a makeshift cinema on deck: a stained bedsheet serves as screen, while propaganda ads for luxury condos flicker via salvaged projector. When drone missiles shred the sheet mid-reel, celluloid flutters into the sea like albino jellyfish. We are forced to confront our voyeur contract: we want the thrill of insurrection without the salty consequences. The film’s genius lies in denying catharsis; the ending offers not resolution but a URL to an encrypted livestream of future beach tournaments—invitation to witness, to wager, to complicate.
Verdict: A New Athletic Canon
Some will label Deck Sports in the Celebes Sea as a niche festival oddity; others will hail it as the spiritual sequel to Felix Hits the North Pole’s absurdist exploration. Neither tag suffices. This is cinema that invents its own genre: insurgent athletic neorealism. It vaults over the complacent nostalgia of The Chocolate Soldier and the moral didacticism of Virtuous Sinners, landing somewhere salt-crusted and sublime.
By the time credits roll—handwritten on repurposed tarpaulin—you realize the film’s most subversive act is not exposing offshore finance but revealing sport itself as the last commons, a place where bodies can renegotiate sovereignty one serve at a time. And that, fellow cinephiles, is worth more than sunken gold.
