Disclaimer: Despite entering limited release on April 10, ‘Bunnylovr’premiered as part of the 2025 Sundance Film Festival. This reviewer saw the film as part of that program.
There exists a fallacy that all growth is linear, a fantasy instilled into us from youth that purports that personal progress occurs along a tidy chronological timeline that flows neatly from point A to B to C, and so on. We, for lack of a simpler analogy, want life to unfold like a movie, with discernible beats and moments of development: we exist in one state, we’re presented with new information or a transformative experience, and we, thus, hastily develop into an evolved, markedly improved version of ourselves.
But that’s not how life generally transpires, is it? It’s, at least anecdotally, much messier, much less refined; we’re not wholly different people today than we were one month—or even one year—ago, despite encountering countless moments along the way that were theoretically character-altering. We’re instead malleable, ever-changing products of the human experience; growth is as much a result of ‘climactic’ moments as it is the byproduct of lessons learned in situations that seem initially mundane and inconsequential. We’re but an amalgamation of ‘things we’ve learned along the way,’ and while this can sometimes spark self-dissatisfaction or paint an unflattering reflection in the mirror, growth, again, isn’t linear; one of the only ways through which we can effectively combat this internal stagnation and aimlessness is to try to be a better person today than we were yesterday, or in the poignant words of author Joe Abercrombie (who, bizarrely, has a cameo in Primate): “What can we do, except try to do better?”
Bunnylovr, despite glaring flaws and amateurish tendencies that hold it back from being a truly exceptional feature, is ultimately a movie about wanting to be better; it’s an incredibly effective snapshot of the mid-20s malaise that so many Generation Z members currently find themselves enduring, an encapsulation of the illusion of rapid self-improvement and how this concept seems inherently folly in a world in which self-sabotage is constantly available at your fingertips. What it lacks in refinement, it makes up for in raw emotion; it can, at times, feel fragmented and meandering, and while this can make for an occasionally frustrating viewing experience, these attributes ultimately capture the essence of our protagonist, acting as a canvas for a portrait of a character in internal crisis.
A vehicle for debut director/writer/lead actress Katarina Zhu, Bunnylovr follows Rebecca (Zhu), a directionless 20-something living in New York who needs to create artificial motivation to brush her teeth in the morning. She’s begrudgingly—and perhaps unknowingly—intent on self-destruction, constantly making questionable decisions against her better judgment; she re-visits and attempts to nurture demonstrably toxic relationships while putting minimal effort into healthy ones, with Zhu using Rebecca’s relationships—and what she gets out of each one—as almost a mirror for the character and her self-defeating tendencies. All of her connections—her rekindled relationship with her terminally ill father (Perry Yung), now rather hollow rapport with a friend (Rachel Sennott), sustained intimacy with her ex-boyfriend (Jack Kilmer), etc.—emphasize her self-dissatisfaction and aimlessness, this subconscious self-hatred and constant yearning for external validation most notably manifesting in the form of a problematic companionship with an internet client.
A personal assistant by day, Rebecca makes extra money by working as a camgirl, a side gig through which she encounters John (Austin Amelio); he consistently requests private interactions with our protagonist, and despite the tenuous—and increasingly tense—nature of their arrangement, he doesn’t seem necessarily abnormal or ill-adjusted… until he sends Rebecca a pet rabbit. This bunny comes to serve several narrative functions, giving Rebecca some much-needed responsibility and purpose while also loosely serving as a symbol and reflection of the character herself; it’s also the subject of what is arguably the film’s most unsettling scene, a sequence that underscores just how lost Rebecca truly is as an individual.
It could be theoretically frustrating and unsatisfying to follow a character as undirected and self-destructive as Rebecca, and it’s an inherently risky proposition to center a film around a protagonist who, by nature, lacks any discernible ambition and has no real interest in experiencing any sweeping arc. This, however, is the area in which Bunnylovr thrives, and it’s precisely Rebecca’s behavior and subsequent development (or, as some would argue, lack thereof) that make her such a compelling character; portrayed superbly by Zhu, Rebecca consistently makes poor choices, regrets them, and continues to make them anyway. Why? There are a bevy of reasons—aimlessness, subconscious self-sabotage, the constant pursuit of validation from others as a means to ignore the problems within ourselves, etc.—but her actions can perhaps be more broadly attributed to the distinctly human ability to, sometimes, just be stupid. People—especially those who feel lost in their mid-to-late-20s—often make bad decisions. We can’t explain it, and we’re not exactly pleased about it, but we sometimes do things—often against our better judgment—for immediate and momentary satisfaction, with Rebecca succinctly summarizing this idea with the line “I think I’m evil. If I have any power, I abuse it.”
And this is what makes Rebecca’s ultimate desire to be better, and her marginal steps toward achieving that ineffable, intangible task, all the more satisfying despite the steps themselves seeming relatively minor. She doesn’t endure extensive change or growth—she’s not a wholly different person at the end of the film’s several-week span than she was at its start—and this can, understandably, result in an unsatisfying and underwhelming viewing experience for some engaging with a medium generally predicated on presenting a cohesive and gratifying story in which a protagonist undergoes significant change; Bunnylovr‘s sentiment is more reflective of life, however, as rarely do we change significantly over what is a holistically short period. It’s, again, the small moments we experience, seemingly insignificant decisions we make, and small steps we take toward self-improvement that ultimately have long-lasting ramifications; Zhu’s portrait of a listless woman searching for something, anything, is simultaneously pointed and broad, a slice-of-life movie that’s a poignant and surprisingly applicable reflection of a generation that effectively presents internal growth and self-betterment as a slow, amalgamative, and often muddy process as opposed to a clean, easily trackable one.
Zhu’s debut is far from flawless, as there are some pacing issues throughout that could prompt those not actively engaged with Rebecca as a protagonist to lose interest. The Rebecca character could herself be the subject of some disagreement, as her aimlessness and general lack of ambition could prove difficult for some to resonate with and feel compelled to follow throughout an 86-minute feature; the film’s meandering nature—the partial result of a repetitive script—is, in this regard, both a strength and a weakness, as for those who don’t connect with the protagonist, its perceived lack of focus could quickly grow tiresome and monotonous. Bunnylovr also struggles to strike a consistent and balanced tone, as it haphazardly toes the line between somber character study, comedy, and unsettling thriller that lacks in the way of consistent thrills. These, however, are issues that can be fixed with experience, and for a first-time filmmaker, the way in which Zhu was able to make a character who, by design, is rather frustrating and unfocused as compelling as she was is endlessly impressive and commendable.
Bunnylovr is ultimately a meandering film that finds purpose in its aimlessness, a nuanced exploration of a lost person who is trying to be better, which, at the end of the day, is all we can do. We don’t always make good decisions. We don’t always like the person looking back at us in the mirror. We’re not always growing or changing in ways we’d like or feel we should be, but that’s life, and all we can do is try to do better; Bunnylovr, despite its flaws, captures this idea in a way that can seem unfulfilling to some and deeply meditative to others. Zhu presents the ebbs and flows of growth in a way that feels unabashedly authentic to both herself and a broader generation, and though there are elements she’ll need to clean up moving forward, the snapshot of the sinuous nature of life and non-linear nature of growth she captured in her debut is meritorious and worthy of your attention.
