Never let it be said that we don't sit through a barrage of turkeys in the pursuit of excellence.
Not unlike storing the dead body of one of your loved ones in the basement, you then have an overwhelming worry that one day that the rotting corpse only you know about will eventually make its presence felt. Or smelled at the very least.
I imagine in some cultures, keeping the remains of said loved one would be equally uneasy, for the same reasons of surprising reappearance. Like an itch you can scratch, but you'd really rather not tear at the scab if you don't need to. So there it sits, quietly but definitely, niggling at you.
And so is the case here, when Sandra Oh's Uncle turns up with her mother's remains. She stores them in the basement, out of sight and out of mind, she hopes. Only she's not going to be that lucky.
What follows is a quirks and foibles collection of under-developed cultural beliefs, a chequered and unconvincing back story and an aversion to electricity that just becomes more annoying over time. The entire things feels like it was written at gunpoint and it translates to pointless scenes, choppy scripting and seemingly random pacing. The direction is impressive at times, but only in the easiest ways, utilising the most obvious tropes. As an actor I do love Sandra Oh, but she is horribly, unforgivably wasted in this nonsense.