THE STORY – A delivery driver in New York City discovers his e-bike has been stolen. With his family en route after many years apart, Lu must contend with a community that has turned its back on him while he tries to replace the only thing promising to keep his family afloat.
THE CAST – Chang Chen, Fala Chen & Carabelle Manna Wei
THE TEAM – Lloyd Lee Choi (Director/Writer)
THE RUNNING TIME – 103 Minutes
In “Lucky Lu,” the American Dream isn’t dead; it’s hard to reach. It’s stolen like the e-bike that propels its lead character through the merciless streets of New York City. Korean-Canadian filmmaker Lloyd Lee Choi’s feature debut is a deeply affecting drama that cuts through the noise of hustle-culture romanticism and delivers a sobering view of the immigrant experience, framed through the story of one delivery rider’s desperate, two-day spiral. The film, expanded from Choi’s acclaimed short, “Same Old,” shines a light on a life most New Yorkers see every day but rarely notice: that of the delivery worker, the essential but invisible lifeline of modern convenience.
Chang Chen plays Lu, a Chinese immigrant whose daily grind on an electric bike is disrupted when his only means of income is stolen. The theft is more than just a logistical problem, it’s a devastating rupture in a fragile life that he’s been trying to hold together with five years of sacrifice, distance, and unrelenting labor. With his long-separated wife and young daughter en route from Asia, Lu’s world collapses into a frantic 48-hour race against time, circumstance, and the city’s indifference.
From its opening moments, “Lucky Lu” grounds the audience in quiet hope. As Lu tours a small apartment and excitedly films it for his family, the film carries a delicate optimism underscored by a soft, almost wistful score. “A new place. A new beginning,” a friend remarks. But that hope is quickly replaced with tension, as the camera, rarely still in the first act, follows Lu navigating the city’s chaos on his bike. It’s a kinetic dance of deliveries, spills, and dodged traffic, all culminating in the moment his bike disappears. The film never lets the audience forget the stakes: no bike means no income, and no income means no home, no stability, and no life for his family.
Lu’s spiraling descent is both gripping and heartbreaking. He begs friends for loans, tries to pawn his few possessions, and trudges on foot to complete deliveries, never once hinting at the turmoil to his approaching family. The camera is masterfully used to mirror Lu’s state of mind – unsteady and relentless during his panic, then gradually stilling as he collapses under emotional exhaustion. The pacing mirrors this shift; as the family arrives, allowing for tender, emotionally loaded moments, especially between Lu and his daughter (Carabelle Manna Wei). These scenes are achingly intimate in the rekindling of connection.
What makes “Lucky Lu” more than just a tale of personal misfortune is its commentary on labor, dignity, and displacement. Lu is not just a man down on his luck – he’s one of thousands hustling through the cracks of an economy that both depends on and overlooks him. The film acknowledges this with nuance; even those who hurt Lu aren’t villains, just other desperate souls clawing at survival. At one point, Lu’s friend reflects, “This is not our home. We can only work for other people here.” It’s a gut-punch of a line, capturing the hardship and the quiet resignation many immigrants face.
Chen’s performance is the film’s aching core. He brings layers of vulnerability, weariness, and resilience to Lu, often without a word. Opposite him, newcomer Carabelle Manna Wei, playing his daughter Yaya, adds a burst of innocence that makes Lu’s struggle all the more wrenching. She brings an intuitiveness to the role by being able to capture Chen’s emotions to reflect that Yaya knows more than her father realizes. In comparison, Fala Chen is shortchanged as Lu’s wife, with few scenes to flesh out the character or even fully see the relationship between her and Lu onscreen.
The film’s title plays like a cruel irony for most of its runtime. But it’s not without grace. In its final act, the film gently shifts from despair to a kind of bruised hope. Choi doesn’t offer a fairytale ending, but he suggests that luck, when it comes, may not look like winning the lottery. Sometimes, it’s as simple as your child’s embrace or finding the strength to keep going despite it all.
“Lucky Lu” is a quietly devastating film that’s also resonant. Choi has crafted a narrative that demands we see what we’ve trained ourselves to overlook: the men and women behind the takeout bags, the real lives at the other end of the knock on the door. And in doing so, “Lucky Lu” gives voice to the voiceless, telling a story of perseverance, sacrifice, and ultimately, love. Because, while luck takes patience, sometimes, as the film so movingly argues, the health and love of family is the only luck you need.
