A beautiful, struggling actress lands the opportunity of a lifetime in this slow-burning psycho-thriller set in the Taiwanese film industry. When we first meet Nina Wu (Wu Ke-Xi, who also co-wrote the screenplay), she is living hand-to-mouth in a drab apartment in Taipei and appearing on a YY.com–type platform for extra income. Then she receives a surprise message from her agent about auditioning for a feature film role that requires full-frontal nudity.

Nina has a late-night conversation with the agent, who tells her not to audition if she has any reservations while he simultaneously coerces her, claiming that a real actor would never turn down such a plum role, even if it means appearing naked. Soon she is pushed to her breaking point by the emotionally charged part and a director (Shih Ming-Shuai) who doesn’t hesitate to get physically violent or put her in dangerous situations.

At various moments in the film within the film and outside of it, she speaks her lines directly at the camera, which proves an effective way for director/co-writer Midi Z to depict how Nina increasingly loses herself in the role. But the filmmaker also purposefully makes it confusing early on as to what is real versus reel. For example, the film cuts directly from Nina failing her audition to a scene of her walking down the street, crying. At first, we assume she is upset over the lost opportunity, but then it turns out she’s on the set filming.

During the shoot, Nina begins waking up in places with no memory of how she got there, as well as encountering an intense woman (Hsia Yu-Chiao) who seems to know her deepest, darkest secrets. Then during a screen test in which Nina and her two male co-stars stage the various sexual positions they will be undertaking, she has an ominous flashback of a visit to an upscale hotel—a memory she returns to repeatedly as the pressure on her career increases. The question becomes: Is it a real memory or something else entirely.

For a time, it seems reasonable to blame Nina’s declining mental and emotional health on the film shoot, but there are hints planted all along that she was under strain well before setting foot in front of the camera. By taking this approach, Nina Wu becomes about something more than just toxic male behavior; it’s also a fascinating study of how the mind compartmentalizes trauma.

The film manages never to strain credibility, mostly due to how well it establishes Nina’s sense of isolation while parceling out salient details, such as the possibility that mental illness runs in her family. Meanwhile, the idea that much of what we see actually takes place in Nina’s head is augmented by the cinematography and a sound design that are impressionistic and dreamlike. While red is frequently used in Asian cinema to symbolize sensual passion (see the work of Zhang Yimou), here it’s more like a warning sign, especially given how the aforementioned hotel scene features the color everywhere. As for the film’s aural qualities, the soundtrack includes a harsh, static-like noise that is almost imperceptible early on that shows up louder and more often—not coincidentally—as the protagonist’s suppressed memories begin to force their way up.

The performances are all strong, especially that of Wu. She’s especially expressive during many of the long, uncut shots that are part of the film shoot, in which the aforementioned director is behaving abusively. Tension arises from Nina’s attempts to maintain composure despite the bullying, which Z conveys by training his camera on her face.

Speaking of the mercurial helmer, Shih also stands out for what seems like his character’s genuine belief in the righteousness of his bad behavior, insofar it elicits a memorable performance from his star. Finally, Sung Yu-Hua, as Nina’s former regional theater colleague, with whom she shared a close relationship that might have been something more, hits the right notes as the person Nina could have been: someone who pursued her passion without the same ambition for the bright lights but nevertheless found contentment.

Wu based her screenplay on real-life women who suffered similar incidents as her fictional protagonist, including actresses who were abused by directors and producers. It doesn’t resolve its conflicts neatly, which might make for jarring viewing for those raised on too many Hollywood treatments of trauma, but the overall sense of outrage is palpable, not to mention admirable. The film is undeniably empathic toward women in a misogynistic industry, and such a point of view elevates it from mere thriller to something genuinely thought provoking, not to mention relevant beyond its native shores.