A Queer Thai Drama Goes Operatic

Whether or not it means to be, Boss Kuno‘s “The Paradise of Thorns” is a delightfully macabre soap opera of betrayal and family secrets; it also just happens to double as political affirmation for same-sex marriage in Thailand. The law legalizing gay unions was approved in June, but is still pending royal approval, making this film’s inquiry into the need for such protections all the more pressing.

“The Paradise of Thorns” tells of a queer couple, Thongkam (Jeff Satur) and Sek (Pongsakorn Mettarikanon), who are married in all ways but final paperwork, and who have made a life together on a sprawling orchard. However, when Sek falls from a durian tree while tending to his stock, his death leaves Thongkam vulnerable to draconian inheritance laws, and family members eager to snatch away what the couple has built.

The orchard, while belonging to both men in spirit, happened to be in Sek’s name. That leads to complications after his passing when his invalid mother Saeng (Srida Puapimol) and her adopted daughter Mo (Engfa Waraha) arrive to claim what they believe is theirs, with some unresolved family mysteries in tow. However, before this cold war over property erupts, the film allows the shattering grief on either side to fester, allowing both factions to feel irrevocably human before things hit the fan.

This helps monumentally towards pre-empting an overly caricatured depiction, considering how much of the story is tethered to Thongkam’s point of view. Through his eyes, he sees Saeng and Mo as invading, malevolent forces, cackling at the sheer thought of inheriting such a vast patch of land. Saeng even sleeps in Thongkam’s bed, and to add insult to injury, urinates in it. But this is a consequence of her disability — she can’t get around unless Mo pushes her wheelchair — and behind Thongkam’s back, Kuno creates a sense of sympathy for both women as well.

They are, however, still villainous for much of the film’s presentation, going as far as kicking Thongkam off his own land. However, in order to snatch back what’s his, he concocts his own scheme to get into their good graces: a sly, slow-burning revenge plot that’s surprisingly enjoyable to watch, given how two-faced Thongkam gets to be. He’s practically a classic Disney villain, with a heart of gold and a justified grudge, and Satur rounds out the character’s contours in ways that are as slimy as they are poignant.

Kuno laments the tragedy of recognizing personhood through documentation, but all the while, he provides the kind of high drama that makes this message digestible for mass entertainment (perhaps in corners that may still need convincing). His more subdued themes do tend to subsume the central scheme of the script. Thongkam, at one point, has a romantic tête-à-tête that further magnifies the film’s purview of queer oppression, but this straightforward thoughtfulness — with its functional visual approach — comes at the cost of his most gaudy and explosive conflicts.

Balancing these contrasts proves difficult at times, even though the film’s LGBTQ politics ought to theoretically go hand-in-hand with its cultural queerness — a kitschy, high-camp style of dramatic storytelling. Despite never fully blending these approaches, Kuno’s fun melodrama sits comfortably alongside his more serious paean to equal rights, making “The Paradise of Thorns” enjoyable enough.