Two young women stand side by side on a bridge at night, smiling and looking down. City lights and a tall, illuminated tower are visible in the blurred background.

Queer romance ‘Ephemera’ harkens back to older, better films

Set in a dreamy Shanghai, Shan Jiang's "Ephemera" borrows from beloved romances yet creates a unique connection of its own

Yvonne Shuyu Zhang (Left) as Asher and Shu-Yi (Right) as Tori

Tribeca Film Festival 2026

Set in post-pandemic Shanghai, Shan Jiang’s debut feature Ephemera—a U.S./Singapore production premiering at the Tribeca Film Festivalis a romantic queer walk-and-talk that gradually builds anticipation. However, it rarely reaches any promised or implied emotional highs. Instead, its unspooling rests heavily on references to other, more famous romantic works for its fleeting yearning and its few notable formal tricks. In the meantime, it struggles to make magnetic its more-than-capable leads, who craft unique and interesting characters on the surface, whom the movies seldom explores.

Through a punchy, multi-media introduction splashed across the screen—the last scene of its kind—we meet actress and online content creator Asher (Yvonne Shuyu Zhang), a bright, chipper Chinese American reconnecting with her roots. Purple haired and free spirited, she’s set to leave for LA soon, and on the last day of her months-long hip-hop class, she asks her self-assured, tomboyish dance instructor Tori (Shu-Yi) out on a date. It begins with coffee before extending to a meal and some reminiscing through nighttime streets, though Asher doesn’t initially divulge her impending departure. It recalls, in theory, the Hong Kong films of Wong Kar-Wai, whose effervescent cinematic romances heighten both longing and physical space. This is not a flattering comparison, given how little of Shanghai seems to feel alive (or even populated) when Asher and Tori saunter across its sidewalks, which have little sense or history until the characters stop to insist otherwise in extended monologues. This is, for the most part, the movie’s lingua franca, and the few times it does become visually inventive only emphasize its plainness elsewhere.

One early scene, in which Tori regales Asher with the city’s rules for COVID-19 lockdown (which Asher spent in the United States), translates the idea of personal bubbles into mischievous onscreen frames that bring the two young women into each other’s orbits. But this too is a one-and-done feature of the movie, and is neither replicated, nor replaced by any more meaningful or eye-popping imagery. Instead, the two actresses are left to discuss their characters’ backstories at severe length, an idea seemingly borrowed from Before Sunrise—Richard Linklater’s 1995 romantic landmark, which eventually gets a very explicit, very self-aware shoutout. 

But where Linklater captured his young lovers in the throes of an impossible lust that threatened to burst through the screen, Shan’s efforts rarely extend beyond observing hers in purely functional ways. The nature of her inspirations are far more conceptual than aesthetic. From an atmosphere verging on overlit, to a noncommittal relationship between the camera and its subjects, Ephemera rarely creates a sense of electric possibility between its leads, resulting in an 82-minute runtime that should feel compact and compelling, but simply trudges along. 

The lead actresses, however, work overtime to ensure that there’s at least something worth investing in on occasion. Although the camera rarely zeroes in on it, they appear to play with body language in a manner that suggests a desire to touch, hidden beneath a conversational whimsy that engenders curiosity. However, what’s holding them back is seldom interesting—or rather, the camera has little interest in it. Shanghai is a queer-friendly city, and there’s never a moment where they have to hide (it isn’t a story of closeted-ness or repression). The basic elements of mutual, unspoken desire are seldom unearthed from beneath their performances either, whether through framing, blocking, rhythm, or any other audio-visual cues. The problem lies mostly with the filmmaking, but the cast is generally remarkable, even if their efforts only lead to Asher and Tori being affable, rather than desirable or relatable. 

As Asher, Zhang approaches a carefree vibe that meshes with the influencer’s eventual selfish streak, which in turn fuels hints of conflict between the pair (though this is often too little, too late, given the film’s condensed timeline). And, as Tori, Shu-Yi displays a remarkable vulnerability as she peels back the young dance teacher’s layers and her cautious excitement, allowing herself to get close to Asher before realizing how little time they have left together. But this structure is a major problem too. Not nearly enough sparks fly between them to justify the ticking clock premise, or the kind of hurt it seems to cause when it’s finally revealed. 

What’s more, the fact that Asher is Chinese American never really informs her behavior either, beyond what she says about her past, and even the movie’s gestures towards how the pandemic shaped modern Shanghai go largely nowhere. It’s all a little malformed, and seems to exist in this particular, restrictive form only because better dialogue-driven movies have pulled it off in the past. The nature of a brief, one-day romance (in the vein of Linklater) is that it’s, well, ephemeral. However, Shan’s movie never quite captures what’s really worth holding onto during Asher and Tori’s tryst, or what each one is seeking that they might potentially find in the other. The only time the image is sensual enough to be alluring is, ironically, during another brief but explicit visual reference—this time, a dreamlike recreation of Ang Lee’s erotic espionage romance Lust, Caution—which ends up a limiting form of artistic imagination. 

Ephemera neither justifies its dusk-to-dawn temporal mode, nor adopts its own cinematic identity. In the process, it never grants its star-crossed lovers the kind of relationship to the world around them—or to each other, through pulsing sapphic desire—that might make this tale worth telling, in this specific form. 

Published on June 15, 2026

Words by Siddhant Adlakha

Siddhant Adlakha is a critic and filmmaker from Mumbai, though he now lives in New York City. They're more similar than you'd think. Find him at @SiddhantAdlakha on Twitter