In 2026, revisiting the atrocities of the Vietnam War through a crudely simplistic lens offers little justification. While nuance is often lost in the immediate aftermath of conflict, the war is now widely recognized as a costly mistake that forced a significant reevaluation of American identity. Despite this cultural maturity, Shinya Tsukamoto’s “Mr Nelson, Did You Kill People?” struggles to provide any meaningful new perspective.
Based on the memoir of Allen Nelson, a Black American veteran, the film attempts to explore PTSD through the outsider gaze of the Japanese director known for “Tetsuo: The Iron Man.” However, the narrative spends considerable time in a therapist’s office yet remains primarily invested in graphic flashbacks rather than psychological depth. The film also offers only a cursory, stereotype-laden treatment of the war’s specific impact on the African-American community.
Mark Murphy and Rodney Hicks portray Nelson at different stages of his life. After returning from service in severe shellshock, Nelson lives in squalor in New York City, accompanied only by a cat and rats. Following a dissociative episode triggered by fireworks, he agrees to speak to a school class, where he is unable to answer a child’s titular question. Years later, plagued by violent nightmares, he enters therapy with Dr. Daniels, played by Geoffrey Rush.
The film’s flashback sequences focus heavily on gruesome acts of barbarism, often intercut with imagery of rats and decay to maintain tension during the slower present-day scenes. The review notes that the movie seems to treat its non-combat scenes as penance for the visceral thrills of the war depictions. Hicks, a Broadway actor, is constrained by a screenplay that limits his emotional range toanguish or relief.
Rush delivers a performance defined by repetition, varying the delivery of his single key line, “Why did you kill people?” until it eventually prompts a breakthrough. However, this moment is followed by an excessive series of endings, with the film dragging on through multiple epilogues and timeline jumps. The inclusion of actor Lily Franky near the end underscores the film’s tendency to prolong its narrative unnecessarily, ultimately failing to transcend its basic premise.
Finally, someone says it: Tsukamoto’s style overpowers any real exploration of Black veteran trauma. The rats and decay gimmick get old fast.
I almost admired the ambition, but the film keeps circling the same violent beats without ever digging into why Nelson’s story matters beyond shock value.
As a Black viewer, watching PTSD flattened into gratuitous imagery felt dismissive. Our stories deserve more than visual spectacle.