At one point in Bunnylovr, Rebecca—the self-destructive and deeply flawed protagonist—tells another character that she isn’t an evil person, though deep down, she fears she might be. That moment encapsulates much of what the film explores: a woman trapped in cycles of self-sabotage, unable to break free, yet painfully aware of the damage she’s causing herself.
Like many first-time writer-directors telling personal stories, Katarina Zhu centers Bunnylovr on a protagonist who mirrors aspects of her own identity: a Chinese-American woman leading a double life—an assistant by day, a cam girl by night. Rebecca is incomplete, unfulfilled, and deeply sad. Yet, she does little to change this. She still lingers around her ex-boyfriend, even though he has moved on. When gifted a pet rabbit—a living thing that requires care and effort—she immediately dismisses it, afraid to take on the responsibility.
That need for connection leads her into an unsettling relationship with one of her online clients. From the start, it’s clear this dynamic is damaging, yet she lacks the strength to pull away. What follows is a slow, painful descent—a study of a woman losing herself piece by piece, pulling further away from self-love with every decision.
The film rings painfully true in many moments, pulling us into Rebecca’s frustrations. We understand her, even as she repeatedly makes the wrong choices. But that’s also where the film may alienate some viewers—watching someone spiral, especially while pushing others away, can be exhausting. She isn’t a good friend, and at times, it’s surprising that her friend sticks around.
The ending offers a faint glimmer of hope—though it could have leaned more into genuine change. The journey remains a tough one, and while Bunnylovr is an effective portrait of self-destruction, whether or not you want to sit with that discomfort will determine how much you connect with it.