I just finished binge-watching Netflix’s The Resurrected (Hui Hun Ji), and I’m still processing what I just witnessed. This nine-episode Taiwanese crime thriller grabbed me by the throat in the first three episodes and didn’t let go—though by the end, I wasn’t entirely sure if I was being entertained or emotionally manipulated. Either way, I couldn’t look away.
The Hook That Reels You In
The premise is audacious: two grieving mothers, Wang Hui-chun (Shu Qi) and Chao Ching (Lee Sinje), resurrect the executed scam ringleader who destroyed their daughters’ lives. Not metaphorically—they literally bring Chang Shih-kai (Fu Meng-po) back from the dead through a ritual involving a mysterious goddess, all so they can torture him and extract revenge.
Those first three episodes? Perfection. The series drops you into the fictional city of Benkha, where we’re introduced to two mothers united by the most primal human emotion: the rage of a parent whose child has been harmed beyond repair. Hui-chun’s daughter Jin Jin lies comatose for three years after falling victim to Shih-kai’s operation. Ching’s daughter Hsin-yi was found dead, brutally tortured in captivity. The setup is emotionally devastating, and directors Leste Chen and Chao-jen Hsu don’t shy away from the raw, ugly grief that drives these women to the edge of sanity.
The resurrection scene itself is haunting—atmospheric, unsettling, and unlike anything I’ve seen in recent Asian crime dramas. For a moment, I thought I was watching a supernatural thriller. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. That supernatural element, as compelling as it is initially, becomes almost a narrative afterthought, serving mainly as a plot device to get Shih-kai back in the mothers’ clutches.
The Twisty-Turney Nightmare Begins
And here’s where The Resurrected transforms from a straightforward revenge tale into something far more complex and, frankly, exhausting. From episode four onward, the show becomes a labyrinth of betrayals, revelations, and moral ambiguity. Every character you think you understand reveals another layer. Every alliance feels temporary. Every motivation gets questioned.
Shih-kai, given seven days of resurrected life, proves to be a master manipulator even from his position of captivity. Fu Meng-po’s performance is chilling—this isn’t just a villain; he’s a psychological terrorist who knows exactly how to exploit the fractures in the mothers’ alliance. He plants seeds of doubt, claiming Jin Jin was his accomplice, that she’s the one who betrayed Hsin-yi’s escape attempt. The mothers begin to turn on each other, and suddenly we’re watching a chess game where every move could be a trap.
The flashbacks to the “Paradise Hotel” compound—where the daughters and other young women were held—are deeply disturbing. The show pulls no punches in depicting the reality of Southeast Asian scam operations. These aren’t just call centers; they’re prisons where trafficked victims are starved, beaten, and forced to perpetrate fraud schemes against people around the world. The series is clearly inspired by the very real crisis of Taiwanese nationals being trafficked to countries like Myanmar, Cambodia, and Laos, lured by promises of high-paying jobs only to end up enslaved.
Watching Jin Jin and Hsin-yi realize they’ve been trapped, that there’s no escape except death, was genuinely harrowing. The show doesn’t glamorize their situation—it’s claustrophobic, desperate, and hopeless.
When Everyone’s Dirty
What makes The Resurrected particularly compelling—and frustrating—is that no one is clean. Lawyer Huang I-chen (Alyssa Chia), who initially seems like an ally seeking justice for all the victims including her own daughter An Chi, has her own agenda. Pong, the seemingly helpful contact who assists the mothers, ultimately betrays them for the crypto wallet containing the syndicate’s money. Even Eason, Hui-chun’s love interest who helps with their schemes, ends up gravely injured in a fight over the wallet.
The biggest revelation, though, comes in the final minutes. Jin Jin—sweet, victimized, comatose Jin Jin—was playing a long game the entire time. The series reveals through flashbacks that she was conspiring with Yang, one of Shih-kai’s associates, to take over the entire operation. She wasn’t just a victim; she wanted to be the next kingpin. And in the series’ final moments, she wakes from her coma with a sinister look that suggests this story is far from over.
The mothers ultimately get their revenge—kind of. They pit Shih-kai against his “mother” Chia-feng (the real mastermind behind the syndicate, brilliantly played by Chung Hsin-ling), leading to a violent confrontation where both end up dead. They expose the corruption, tear down the operation, and hand the crypto wallet to Pong rather than keep the blood money. It’s a pyrrhic victory at best.
A Genre-Bending Mess or Ambitious Masterpiece?
Here’s my struggle with The Resurrected: I genuinely don’t know if it’s brilliant or bloated. The show tries to be a supernatural thriller, a crime procedural, a revenge saga, a commentary on human trafficking, and a family melodrama all at once. Sometimes it succeeds at all of these; sometimes it feels like three different shows competing for screen time.
The supernatural resurrection, which should be central given the title, becomes almost irrelevant after the first episode. The mothers later concoct a cover story about saving Shih-kai from execution, and the magical element is barely referenced again. It feels like the creators wanted the hook of resurrection without committing to it thematically.
The pacing also suffers in the middle episodes. With so many flashbacks filling in backstory and so many plot threads to follow—the mothers’ revenge, the syndicate’s internal politics, the daughters’ experiences in captivity, the corrupt politician connections—the seven-day countdown in the present day sometimes feels secondary to everything else happening.
What Works Brilliantly
Despite my quibbles, there’s so much to admire here. Shu Qi and Lee Sinje deliver powerhouse performances as women pushed past their breaking points. Shu Qi’s Hui-chun is the more conflicted of the two, constantly wrestling with how far she’s willing to go, while Lee’s Ching is bloodthirsty and uncompromising—at least until her own doubts begin to surface. The dynamic between them feels authentic; these aren’t women who were friends before tragedy united them, and that tension simmers throughout.
The show’s unflinching look at real-world criminal operations also sets it apart. The telecommunication fraud compounds depicted in The Resurrected aren’t fiction—they’re based on actual scam operations that have victimized thousands of people from Taiwan, China, Malaysia, and beyond. By centering the story on the families destroyed by these operations, the series humanizes statistics that are often reported without context.
The production values are exceptional. This looks and feels like a premium production, with cinematography that captures both the seediness of the criminal underworld and the desperate beauty of the mothers’ grief. The violence, when it comes, is brutal but not gratuitous—it always serves the story.
The Ending: More Questions Than Answers
The Resurrected ends with the clear intention of a second season. Jin Jin’s awakening, Yang’s mysterious role, Pong’s possession of the crypto wallet, and the raid on the shaman’s temple all point to unresolved storylines. Whether we need a second season is debatable. Part of me wants closure on these dangling threads; another part of me thinks the ambiguity is the point.
The final message seems to be that revenge, even when justified, corrodes everything it touches. The mothers achieved their goal, but at what cost? They’ve become criminals themselves, they’ve lost their moral certainty, and the daughter Hui-chun fought to avenge turns out to be complicit in the very horrors that nearly killed her. It’s a dark, cynical ending that refuses to offer catharsis.
Final Verdict: Should You Watch It?
If you’re a fan of revenge thrillers that challenge your expectations and don’t mind a healthy dose of moral ambiguity, absolutely yes. If you prefer straightforward narratives where you can clearly identify heroes and villains, this might frustrate you. If you’re easily disturbed by depictions of trafficking and abuse, proceed with caution—this show doesn’t pull punches.
The Resurrected is messy, overstuffed, occasionally confusing, and undeniably gripping. It’s the kind of show that makes you immediately want to discuss it with someone else who’s watched it, if only to confirm that yes, all of that really just happened.
The comparisons to Park Chan-wook’s Sympathy for Lady Vengeance are apt—both films explore the cost of revenge and the impossibility of true justice. But where Park’s film is elegantly structured, The Resurrected is maximalist, throwing everything at the wall to see what sticks. Most of it does, even if the wall is barely standing by the end.
I gave this show nine hours of my life, and I don’t regret a minute—even the confusing ones. Just be prepared: this isn’t a show you watch casually. It demands your full attention, and even then, you’ll probably need to rewatch certain scenes to catch everything. The twists and betrayals come so fast in the later episodes that you might find yourself pausing to process what just happened before moving forward.
Would I recommend it? Absolutely. Would I warn you it’s a lot to take in? Also absolutely.
Taiwan continues to prove itself as a powerhouse in Asian television, and The Resurrected is further evidence that the region’s storytelling is among the most daring and innovative in the world. Whether this becomes the next Squid Game-level phenomenon remains to be seen, but it deserves the attention.
Just maybe prepare yourself emotionally before hitting play. And clear your schedule—you’ll want to watch it all in one sitting, even if it leaves you devastated.
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