I came into A Brother and 7 Siblings expecting a sweet, slightly messy family drama, but what I discovered was far more alive. It’s not perfect; there are moments when the film feels a bit stretched, as if it’s determined to portion out every ounce of emotion in each scene, but those moments never dull the heartbeat of the story. At its core, it’s a tale about how life’s curveballs can forge new bonds, reframe priorities, and reveal hidden strengths.
The story follows Moko, played with quiet intensity by Chicco Kurniawan. When his older sister Agnes and her husband die, one of them from a heart attack, the other in childbirth, Moko is suddenly thrust into the role of caretaker for Agnes’s three children: Woko, Nina, and baby Imah. As if that weren’t enough, fate sends other dependents his way: his ex–piano teacher’s daughter Ais, and his sister’s husband Eka and sister Osa, all moving in under his roof. It’s an impulsive decision for some, a lifeline for others, but it all lands on Moko’s shoulders. He’s forced to put his architectural dreams and plans for graduate school on hold, battling a mounting workload and emotional exhaustion. Amanda Rawles’s performance as Maurin, Moko’s capable and empathetic partner, grounds the romantic subplot without overwhelming the family focus. Their connection feels real, earned in small glances and gestures, not saccharine clichés.
From the outset, the film recognizes that life isn’t tidy. Moko doesn’t flip a switch and embrace his new role with ease. It’s awkward. The kids resist. He stumbles over costly blow-ups, burned pots, missed school deadlines, and crying late at night. The script doesn't shy away from complicated emotions, resentment, guilt, fear, or even a sense of being trapped. We watch him waver, distancing himself from Maurin and career opportunities, convinced he’s rebelling for the right reasons even when he’s unraveling inside. These aren’t the rosy notes of a manufactured feel-good flick; there's grit beneath the warmth.
Director Yandy Laurens leans into this mix. His direction navigates the crowded household with patience, scenes feel lived in, even when the drama simmers beyond what the plot demands. There's a soap-opera element at play after all, it stems from a 1990s series, but Laurens keeps it grounded, reminding us that real sacrifice isn't always wrapped in heroics. The tendency toward melodrama can drag, and a leaner cut might have sharpened the pacing. But perhaps that slow-burning structure is meant to mimic the weight and stretch of real life: sometimes too long, occasionally clumsy, but carrying texture and surprise.
What shines brightest are the performances. Kurniawan is simply magnetic as Moko, not flashy, but anchored. His internal conflicts register without the need for overinstructed voice-overs. Rawles is equally strong, giving Maurin a quiet strength; she stands beside him, not as rescue or obstacle, but as fellow traveler. Ringgo Agus Rahman brings a welcome spark as Eka, the brother-in-law whose outsider’s perspective brings both humor and tension. The kids, Fatih Unru, Freya Jayawardana, Ahmad Nadif, and Kawai Labiba, bring natural chemistry, occasionally stealing scenes without pushing into caricature.
Scenes that might have felt predictable get pulsed with life thanks to small injections of humor, an unsolicited piano lesson in the middle of a chaotic breakfast, a candid sibling spat over toys, a teenage rebel moment when Nina paints a mural on the kitchen wall. These snippets remind us that family is messy, yes, but also brimming with warmth, surprises, and resilience.
Visually, the film has its ups and downs. Dimas Bagus Triatma’s cinematography isn’t reinventing the wheel; most shots are steady, domestic, sometimes leaning too close in close-ups. But in wider, calmer moments, the framing captures a quiet intimacy between characters. Editing is serviceable; occasionally, it lingers where it doesn’t need to. The music, by Ofel Obaja Setiawan, gives the right emotional cues without shouting them. It all comes together to create a mood that’s gentle and sincere, if occasionally unrefined.
One of the more compelling undercurrents of the film is its treatment of older male figures in the children’s lives. In a sequence of reflective conversations, the narrative quietly suggests that the previous generation fathers and uncles failed in their roles: distracting, absent, or outright harmful. That layer gives the film some depth. It doesn’t cling to it, but it allows Moko’s struggles to feel like more than an individual crisis; they reflect a broader failure of accountability in families. When supporting characters step in like Eka, Maurin, and even the piano teacher Nanang, it feels earned, a protest against passive male presence.
Despite the story’s heavy premise, Laurens lets moments of hope breathe. In one particularly moving scene, the family comes together to celebrate a birthday at home. It’s not perfect—they drop a cake, the lights flicker, a kid bursts into tears, but that’s exactly the point. The film respects imperfection. These human little disasters, stitched into the frame, make the eventual quiet victories, like Moko helping his nephew with a school project, or Maurin cheering him on at a job interview, feel like genuine milestones, not scripted triumphs.
And yes, there are moments too many, a runtime that pushes 130 minutes. A more careful edit might have allowed the story’s sharper themes, loss, resilience, and what makes a parent resonate more powerfully. Sometimes plot arcs stretch because they can, not because they must. The sacrifice theme weaves through with noble intention, but if you’re not careful, it can start to feel preachy.
Still, for all its excess, A Brother and 7 Siblings rarely loses its heart. It never feels artificial or overly polished. Instead, it invites you into that cramped, messy household and asks you to stay until the lights fade on the big family photo, with everyone rumpled, tired, and somehow at peace.
As critiques go, it’s modest. It doesn’t reinvent the family drama, nor does it pretend to. But when it leans into its premise—an unexpected guardian, a house suddenly full of voices, the tension between dreams and responsibility it works. It reminds us that love isn’t always a sunrise; sometimes it’s a slow dawn, dusty but persistent, dirty from the gutters of life but still warm. And that’s enough to make the film feel honest.
In the end, A Brother and 7 Siblings is a story about chosen roles. Moko doesn’t want to be a parent—and yet here he is, learning day by day, moment by moment. None of it is grand. It’s shifting diapers, late-night homework, and arguments over chores. It’s small. But by the time the credits roll, it feels expansive.
I walked away thinking less about plot twists and more about what it means to be the one who stays, even when nothing makes sense. I thought about the choices we don’t plan for and how they change us. The film doesn’t resolve all its threads. That’s fine. Life rarely does. The real magic is in the gathering the reluctant embraces, the patience wearing thin, the quiet determination to carry on.
It’s warm with rough edges, sentimental without drowning in it. It’s flawed, but its imperfections are human, and that makes them somehow beautiful. A Brother and 7 Siblings isn’t a perfect film, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s alive, it’s honest, and sometimes that’s exactly the kind of story we need.
Final Score- [6/10]
Reviewed by - Anjali Sharma
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Publisher at Midgard Times