Latest Short Film Reviews

A young guy pines for a girl but is unable to tell her how he feels before tragedy strikes.

Andrew (Hakim) is in love with Mia (Ooi). They’ve been best friends for a while now and they seem to hang out with each other exclusively on their down-time. Of course, Mia is blind to how Andrew really feels and just takes the relationship for granted, instinctively and permanently placing him in the friendship category of her life without ever questioning why they spend so much time together. Theirs is a story that spans time immemorial and is one which is unlikely to change anytime soon.

So, in their young, foolish, and juvenile way, the two of them hang out, have fun, take up hobbies, and spend time shooting the breeze together, all while Andrew keeps his heartfelt secret locked up inside himself and Mia waxes lyrical about the latest in a long line of boys that she’s been seeing, now finally thinking she’s caught ‘the one’. Andrew’s sister, Aeryn (Wong), can’t keep her nose out of his business and tries hard to force him into revealing his true feelings to Mia, very nearly succeeding as he gets himself ready and bigs himself up to actually do it. However, on the day that he decides to come out and tell the truth, Mia never shows, and the opportunity is missed, never to be repeated, as tragedy breaks the two apart forever.

In Almost Always, we’re invited to look upon this age-old story as it’s regurgitated for the bazillionth time, but this time transposed to Kuala Lumpur and played by an amalgam of East Asian students. Writer/director, Sanjeev Nair takes the helm for this telling of the story, using his own experiences and real-world conversations he’s had with friends to inform his own personal take on the scenario, while his fellow students play the roles and do the behind the scenes work to make his vision a reality.

Unfortunately, because everyone involved in the project is so young, and the scenario being retreaded is so deeply ingrained in YA culture, the whole thing comes across as achingly juvenile and naïve in its aspect. The dialogue is fearfully childish at most points and the painful ways the youngsters interact and flirt with each other is almost too difficult to watch at times. There is never a naturalism to the way the performances are given and most scenes are stilted by one thing or another in the way they are presented. While Nair does manage to show some narrative chops in the way he builds his story and subsequently films it, the vast majority of scenes involve two people in a room saying things to each other that don’t really have a lot of meaning behind them.

Throw into the mix the fact that these student filmmakers have not yet honed their craft, and what we get is bare, tinny audio, bad acting, basic cinematography, and an overuse of standard cinematic devices to tell the story. At twenty-two minutes long, Almost Always has enough time to build its narrative and round out its characters a little, with Nair spending enough on each part of the story to keep us looking for what’s coming next, but by the end we can only be disappointed by how little the details diverge from the main retelling of a tale that has been told several hundred times several hundred ways. There is sadly not enough to distinguish Almost Always from other unrequited young love stories that end in tragedy, but in the same breath there’s definitely enough for the filmmakers to take away with them that they can use and build on in future projects.

Funeral Car follows a working-class family as they journey together to a crematorium. The piece is set in real time and entirely shot within the confines of a car as the family grapples with grief and reflection. Shot entirely on an iPhone using equipment donated by Danny Boyle directly from the production of 28 Years Later (2025), the short is formally ambitious, employing guerrilla filmmaking techniques to evoke empathy and grief.

One of the most memorable aspects of the short piece is its emphasis on reflection and how each character embodies empathy. While the image of a family sitting alone in a silent car may initially seem isolating to the viewer, it is nevertheless compelling to observe how they navigate and cope with grief. The stripped-back approach is commendable, making each performance feel incredibly authentic. While this approach is apt for the themes and ideas the piece presents, the experience can feel like a chore to sit through at times, due to its lack of engagement and repetition. Despite this issue, it's clearly intended to make the audience uncomfortable, which is what ultimately makes the experience wholly unique.

The camerawork throughout remains entirely confined to the interior of a car, opening with a wide shot from the rear. However, the switch to close-ups from the front of the car is commendable, making the experience intimate and emotionally engaging with each performer. The choice to shoot the piece entirely on an iPhone is a welcome one and makes the experience formally ambitious, especially within an independent short film. Another apt formal choice is the absence of music for much of the runtime, with the resulting silence becoming almost deafening, mirroring the characters’ own sense of isolation within the situation. While it may be jarring for viewers to witness, it is clearly designed with a naturalistic, restrained approach.

The pacing throughout is intentionally slow to allow each character to process their grief and the memories of their loved ones. Sam Gannie, serving as the film's director, allows each performance an opportunity to stand out by ensuring the characters are centred in the frame. His direction is nuanced and deeply engaging throughout. While the opening offers little context for the family’s loss, the performances and direction ultimately communicate the depth of their grief. It's emotionally overwhelming at times, even with the lack of context for the family's loss. The brief inclusion of a musical score is also apt, with its emotionally stirring motifs that fit the piece tonally.

While it's hard to pinpoint a standout performance in the piece, each performance is incredibly nuanced and ultimately anchors the experience through its blend of grief and reflection. The stripped-back approach makes each performance incredibly believable and an intimate portrait of a family processing the loss of a family member.

The piece concludes in a somewhat haunting manner, allowing the viewer to sit with its themes and grasp the depths of the characters’ emotions. The piece resonates deeply despite its singular set piece and limited dialogue, showcasing the profound effect a naturalistic approach can have on a viewer.

Funeral Car is an emotionally stirring portrayal of grief in the wake of loss, with incredible performances to boast. While the musical score and performances do much of the heavy lifting, the unique iPhone camerawork is memorable and makes the experience worthwhile despite its flaws.

Life Goes On is a charming yet poignant short film that makes effective use of its 19-minute runtime. The film directed by Daniel Audritt and Kat Butterfield follows Bill (David Bradley) as he is confined to a hospice bed ready to die. However, every time Bill dies, the day resets, and he is trapped in an endless loop much to his exasperation.

One of the biggest strengths of the film is the ability of both the direction and David Bradley’s performance to find the balance between humour and tenderness. Despite the dour subject matter, there are quite a good few laughs in the film that do not feel forced but feel like interactions that most people would see in a hospital. The tone is balanced out with a simple yet effective narrative that does not rely on melodrama to convey sadness but rather authenticity. For me this is where the film works best and why I liked it so much. Every interaction Bill has feels lived-in and real, no matter if it is with a nurse, his daughter or some of the other patients. Most of the interactions Bill has are brief apart from his relationship with fellow patient Lizzie (Maggie Steed), which develops throughout the film. David Bradley’s and Maggie Steed’s chemistry adds another element of warmth to the film.

The story unfolds with patience, never feeling rushed or that too many ideas were crammed into the short runtime. Every range of emotion from human warmth to hope to grief is delicately told. I found the editing to also be one of the biggest strengths, as scenes are carefully allowed to breathe, whilst the infinite time loop never gets confusing or leaves the audience lost on how many days Bill has been in the time loop. The cinematography by design is nothing over the top, with soft natural light again playing into how authentic this film feels.

The use of close-up shots on Bill and some of the other characters to portray their inner emotions was clever and not overdone. I also enjoyed the sequence where time stops still and thought that added a nice visual flair and change of pace.

As much as I loved this film, my main criticism was that I wanted slightly more from the side characters. Whilst the pacing of the film is spot on and the 19-minute runtime is made full use of, I thought that the side characters could have had more layers and depth with an extended runtime.

Overall Life Goes On is a life-affirming and reflective short film that uses the classic time loop concept in a fresh way that focuses on acceptance rather than trying to break the loop. Powered by a nuanced performance by David Bradley, the film will engage the audiences with a sharp script that blends humour and sadness to create an emotionally satisfying film.

Russell Tovey stars as British influencer Anthony Selvon in Sai Karan Talwar’s short film I AM THE PRIZE. Selvon is a polarising public figure, famous for his work on helping young men become more confident in difficult areas of their lives, such as relationships. His ideas, however, stem from a hate towards women, and encourage male-centrism and sexual violence. Selvon’s corruption is gradually revealed through insights into his life, through the use of several intense, long, uninterrupted takes making up this powerful short.

In an era where the manosphere is having an increasingly dangerous impact on young men, taking over areas of the internet, and influencing hateful crimes, short films like this are critical in bringing to light just how many holes are in harmful ‘red pill’ ideologies.

The film excellently replicates the methods used by manosphere creators to lure in young, desperate men. Its opening shot perfectly encapsulates how men end up in these harmful spaces, often without even realising how they got there. Viewers are held in a nondescript room, behind several rows of anonymous heads who have also found themselves there. 

There is then a slow zoom into Anthony, and so deeper into the room, mirroring the way men are gradually groomed into listening to misogynistic ideas. On the surface, Anthony’s ideas might not seem harmful at all. He brings up topics of building men’s confidence and acknowledges the male loneliness epidemic. He even encourages a man to face his emotions, though his own demeanour is cold throughout. 

This gradual luring is often how men are drawn into the manosphere, viewing influencers’ advice as a form of self-help to reshape their perspective and improve on aspects of themselves they are unhappy with. But as the camera moves closer to Anthony, viewers see him more clearly, becoming aware of the aggressiveness towards women that comes through in his language. He refers to women as things rather than people, categorises women’s thoughts using simplified, male-centric ideas, and uses misogynistic language, indicating his view that women only exist within the context of male ownership.

After a painstaking opening scene that quickly establishes Selvon’s character as a hateful public figure, starkly comparable to the real-life manosphere influencers interviewed in Louis Theroux’s documentary Inside the Manosphere, viewers are confronted with an ironic revelation. Selvon is a closeted homosexual; his views towards women are likely a result of internalised homophobia, and his expert advice to men's romantic pursuits of women is therefore utterly fraudulent.

Whilst there is no real-life specific evidence that the spread of red-pill content is a result of closeted sexuality, Theroux's documentary provides a useful perspective that buried traumas and emotions contributed to men choosing the path of harmful content creation. The ideas at play here, therefore, fulfil the ironic truth of the manosphere, as they only make men lonelier as they become radicalised away from who they truly are, blaming external factors such as women for their problems, rather than ever taking the time to reflect and work on themselves.

The use of long takes gruellingly captivates viewers into every scene. Viewers are forced to be close to Anthony throughout his journey, as he suffers on his journey like a true tragic figure; his downfall a result of his own actions and rejection of his true self. There are times that he is almost pitiful, as Russell Tovey excellently conveys a deep sadness in Anthony which is driving his mental and physical state into oblivion.

Faith Alibi’s performance as a journalist and interviewer of Anthony is brilliantly satisfying. After viewers were agonisingly trapped in Anthony’s world, the interviewer’s intellect and well-spokenness provided a moment of relief. The ingenious casting choice of a strong, influential black, disabled woman playing a self-assured character who stands up to Anthony works excellently as a direct contrast to everything that he is. 

Alibi’s presence here is also an important contradiction, to show how opinionated women, particularly black women, are never welcome in the manosphere due to the sexist and racist beliefs that they hold. Having Alibi here as the only other major character creates an imaginary world where a discussion can take place; however, as the film demonstrates, a productive conversation is impossible. 

The echo-chamber of the manosphere will always aggressively object to any discussion of the flaws in its logic or the violence that it so blatantly encourages.

I Am The Prize is screening at the 2026 Raindance Film Festival.

Set to start its festival run in July, this powerful short drama was written and directed by Zak Jarvis and it stars acclaimed actors Jack Rowan and Chrsitopher Eccleston.

Quite a dramatic plot: A young man (Rowan) is not doing well. He is at a train station and his intention it to lie down on the tracks and wait for the train to arrive and put him out of his misery. After phoning support services and failing to pick up the courage to talk to them about his issues, he proceeds to carry on with his plan to end it all. Ray (Eccleston) a railway signalman spots the youngster via the CCTV monitors and rushes to save him, thankfully succeeding at the very last second. Ray then brings the unfortunate man inside the office and does not contact the police but tries instead to comfort him.

The main concept is a meaningful and life-changing encounter under drastic circumstances and the screenplay focuces significantly on the rapport that develops between these two strangers. Although initially the distressed man is unresponsive, says nothing, Ray constantly attempts to get through to him, to comprehend the situation that led him to believe that his life has no meaning. Eventually, the

poor young man breaks down and lets it all out. Twelve minutes filled with very heavy drama.

This short would not have this level of impact without the work of composer Michael Llewelyn Barker, who proves his creative skills with dramatic music that creates strong emotions.

Two stangers end up in each other's life. One is broken and the other believes in hope and overcoming bad times. Rowan portrays a person who has reached the conclusion that his life has led to a dead end and there is nothing he can do about it. Eccleston plays his savior, a middle-aged supportive and understanding man who is determined that suicide is never the answer.

In this story, the suicidal man represents desperation and Ray respresents support. Crucially, the reasons why the youth has resorted to ending his life are not revealed and that is probably because the factors are not the focus here. What this short concentrates on is to communicate the message that people must find the courage to seek help when they are going through tough times.

Heavy drama, strong performances and very serious themes. A short film that has quite an impact.

Four Days Left is a microbudget short from director and writer Hariprasath Ventakesan that looks to act as a reminder that there each immigration story is a human one. Following a student facing a visa expiration, it demonstrates the reverberating impact of losing a community member as well as the labyrinthine and perilous web that immigrants face when navigating the UK’s visa system.

Illa (Ahamed Abdulkhader) is a resident in the UK on a student visa that has only 4 days until it expires. Faced with deportation to his native India, he seeks out official routes to remain in his newly adopted home, but exorbitant fees or complex legal pathways mean the chance of extending his stay is borderline impossible. Less reputable routes open up to him, such as through the ‘services’ of smooth-talking Maran (Surj Kumar) – and Illa is faced with a life-changing decision.

It's harder to think of an issue more sensitive than immigration – with virtually every major political party in the UK swept up in a firestorm of zealotry on the subject that usually forgets the human cost of its reduction. Four Days Left is a reminder that whatever your stance, there is a human at the end of every statistic. The ending of Illa’s stay in the UK is not just heartbreaking for himself, but also to his friend Ravi (Shamas Khan) and landlady Karen (Karen Bucknall), who are desperate for their friend to find a way to stay. It is these pressures that threaten to push Illa into unwise choices – ones which blur the lines of legality and create more problems for both the individual and authorities down the line. It is hard not to watch the short and come to a conclusion that an overhaul of the system is needed – given the brick walls Illa runs into when trying to do the right thing. Although it should be said that despite the sadness of his departure, the film doesn’t necessarily convince that student visas in particular are a problem, given that Illa’s pre-agreed timing in the country is concluding and that he has a loving homelife to return to in India. The attached messaging at the end of the film doesn’t really work given this.

The film was made on a small budget, and some of the imaginative framing is impressive given these limitations. The opening Zoom call between Illa and an immigration lawyer is a great way to frame Illa’s dilemma – demonstrating how disparate assistance is for him. The film elsewhere is cleanly shot and the director includes some interesting use of light – in which some of the more vibrant settings are where some of the shadier offers are made to Illa, whereas darkly lit scenes offer comfort. It is an interesting way to show the hostility of the official system, and why so many people in desperate situations turn to the shadows.

The smaller scale of the film means some imperfections are inevitable. The main cast don’t really enliven their characters and the performances of Ahamed Abdulkhader and Karen Bucknall in particular are quite stiff. Viewers will have empathy with Illa because of his situation, but not particularly through the performance. The film’s ending also feels underwhelming and lessens the objective of the filmmakers in shining a light on the flaws in the system – as it feels there is more of a desire to give Illa a happy ending than to commit to the film’s purpose.

Four Days Left is an admirable short made on a shoestring that uses some interesting story framing to examine an immigrant’s dilemma when dealing with the UK system. It is imperfect, but given the political climate, welcome – as it shows an important aspect of a national debate that is too often ignored: that being the people involved in it.

the quiet between us is an atmospheric short piece centred on silence, memory, and emotional distance, with an intentionally bare-bones presentation. The short piece is meant to feel like a memory fragment, and this is an incredibly unique narrative device. Set in New Jersey, the piece is part of a larger trilogy that chronicles the city’s nighttime landscape, with a heavy focus on the neon-drenched nightlights.

What is perhaps most astounding and frustrating about the piece is its primary focus on the silhouettes, silence and lighting of New Jersey, which not only feels beautiful but also alienating to the viewer. The deliberate repetition of the protagonist roaming the city is stunning yet frustrating to witness as a viewer, given how vague the piece’s intention feels. It frames itself as a short-form music film, and the sensory experience is what ultimately anchors the viewing experience. The visual language is, however, astounding and uniquely evocative, presenting a world steeped in isolation that echoes the themes of stillness and separation. While the silence is isolating to witness at times, the themes and presentation are incredibly nuanced despite its ambiguous visual language. The complete lack of dialogue is also commendable, as the piece entirely rests on what’s not said.

Perhaps the most impressive aspect of the piece is its camerawork, which ultimately makes the experience worthwhile despite its vagueness. The piece primarily consists of slow tracking shots that move through the streets of New Jersey or follow the protagonist as they wander through the city. While the use of handheld camerawork is commendable, lending the film a visceral sense of intimacy, the repeated reliance on tracking shots becomes somewhat frustrating given the runtime. Despite never overstaying its welcome, the piece feels somewhat rushed, as its repetitive structure limits the sense of progression within the runtime. That said, the editing is astoundingly fluid throughout, making the piece fly by owing to its dynamic pace.

The emphasis on silence and the space between two individuals is largely effective, with the sparse presentation reinforcing these themes. However, the material occasionally feels repetitive and stilted, which is unfortunate given how quickly the piece reaches its conclusion. While the ambiguous approach and focus on memory are impactful, a prolonged runtime to flesh out its ideas would've been a better compromise, as the experience can feel alienating at times. Despite these issues, it still manages to feel stunning to experience the neon-drenched streets of New Jersey.

It's difficult to fully assess the central performance, as the viewer is rarely given insight into the characters' expressions or inner turmoil beyond their visual isolation as they wander the streets. While the silhouettes, controlled lighting, and emotional tension are merely hinted at through the protagonist's exploration of the city, the piece fails to fully engage the viewer, as the experience ultimately amounts to little. Despite the sensory experience being incredibly nuanced, given that's what the filmmakers intended, it's too ambiguous to a fault and may struggle to linger on viewers' minds.

the quiet between us is ultimately a visually stunning yet isolating sensory experience due to its intentionally vague presentation. While its ideas of stillness and the space between two individuals are commendable, the piece struggles to foster an emotional connection, as its emphasis on repetition ultimately distances the viewer.

Following her mother’s passing, Zoya invites a stranger, Amelia, to stay in her family home after an Airbnb mixup. What begins as an innocent-seeming mistake gradually transforms into a hostile takeover. ‘Animals’, by filmmaker Maya Gray, will take audiences on a wild, unpredictable and disturbing ride that will have you hanging on every word.

The highlight of the film by far is the excellent central performances. Serine Sianosian brings Zoya to life with a deeply complex performance – limiting her grief and turmoil to subtle micro-expressions. This adds a striking sense of naturalism which ensures viewers’ suspension of disbelief. Rachel Alig, as Amelia, brings an entirely different energy to the piece. At first seeming harmless and naive, Alig crafts a performance that slowly peels back layers over the film’s runtime to eventually reveal a character that is hostile and cunning to the most malevolent extent. The shifting power dynamics between these two characters, who mask so much of their true emotions and intentions, lies emphatically at the heart of the narrative.

Despite the spectacle of the central performances, praise should also be given to Gray’s expert direction and understated cinematography by Olugbenga Osikomaiya. The cold colour grading that makes the house feel barren, high visual contrast, tight frames, and cluttered set design all help to provide a palpable feeling of claustrophobia. These things may go unnoticed to the untrained eye, but these choices are essential to the uneasy atmosphere of the piece – whether audiences pick up on it or not.

A key reading that one may take away from this story is the very striking parallels to colonialism. This is expressed nowhere better than in the sequence titles throughout the film:

1. Preparation | This is where Amelia lays her foundations. She uses pity and coercive tactics to convince Zoya to let her stay overnight, before gently pushing boundaries and converging on her personal space by sleeping in her bed – much like colonial incursions where access is gained gradually under the guise of cooperation or necessity.
2. Persecution | Echoing how colonial powers often frame expansion as benevolent while extracting further concessions, Amelia then manipulates Zoya by performing a “kind” act (making breakfast). At the moment of delivering this “gift”, she then springs the unreasonable question of moving in permanently, leveraging the breakfast against Zoya and portraying her as the unreasonable party.
3. Hunger | This is where the key mechanism of control comes in, becoming the gatekeeper of Zoya’s sustenance, therefore making herself essential while maintaining all the power in the dynamic.
4. Execution | Taking the first sign of resistance as an excuse, Amelia then brutalises Zoya and disposes of her – a feature of colonial campaigns throughout history which is even present in current world events.
5. Denial | The final step; denying anything ever happened and offering trivial compensation, such as naming the new dog after Zoya, to anyone who speaks out about it.

These factors, and the motif of Amelia grotesquely guzzling down water with an unquenchable thirst for more, perfectly portray this theme in a unique and eye opening manner – paralleling procedures used to enter, replace and colonise various cultures throughout history.

‘Animals’ is a slowly unravelling farce of power and control. Gray outlines pertinent themes of colonialism on a scale more easily digestible for viewers by localising it in the conflict between two characters, resulting in a visceral drama that doesn’t waste a single beat. With such a high level of artistry on display, I eagerly await what Maya Gray and company decide to create next…

Animals is screening at the 2026 Raindance Film Festival.

A photographer struggles to find the direction or the meaning behind her art.

From writer/director, Alexis Scholtz, The Dew Before Dawn is a short arthouse piece musing upon the relationship between the artist and their art. At only six-and-a-half minutes long and shot entirely in black-and-white, it is pulling no punches in settling itself firmly within the arthouse genre. Minimal dialogue and an elusive message also feed into this categorisation of the film, as we ponder over the images presented to us and try to decipher their meaning.

A young black photographer tries to capture the feeling and mood of her subject, an older white woman, as she rests within the spaces of her palatial home. A striking main foyer surrounded by a circular mezzanine is used as the main location for the photoshoot, and the photographer grapples with the idea of shooting her subject within different aspects of this space, from different angles, while getting her to play different roles. We see the older woman move into and between these spaces, and also feel her personality shift as she does so.

There is a tension between the artist and the subject, with the photographer feeling that she is not quite capturing the authentic nature of what is in front of her camera, while her subject becomes involved and somewhat overbearing in her direction of what she thinks the photoshoot should produce. This smacks loudly of the entire history of patronage within art, where the artist must bow down and concede in certain areas to the perhaps uneducated, uncreative, and philistine nature of the person providing the money. We see this all the time in big-budget creations in film, where producers and studios ruin the director’s vision simply for the reason of appeasing censors, raising the bottom line, or the stroking of their own ego.

Here, the photographer is more than ready to stand up for herself, and berates her subject for getting in the way. While there may be some kind of mentorship or expertise on offer, this is dismissed by the artist, and she is left to find her own path through the mire of finding meaning within her art. Director and cinematographer, Alexis Scholtz highlights the themes of light and dark within the photography, expressed also by the decision to shoot in black-and-white, while expanding this idea into the ‘rights and wrongs’ of artistic expression as the photographer tries to find her way. When, eventually, she begins to cut up the photographs and piece them back together with different halves, she perhaps finds the missing piece of her expression that she could not find in the initial frames, allowing her to see more than what was there in the first place.

With each section of the film and transference into a new frame or idea punctuated by the ringing of a Tibetan singing bowl, and the main subject of the film moving around, changing colour of dress, and changing her personality, we are invited to make what we can of the themes and images that we are exposed to as a viewer. These ephemeral aspects are left to float in the air as spectres of something real yet untouchable, and we must give of ourselves to feel what must be felt by the characters and scenario we are witness to.

There is plenty to hold onto in The Dew Before Dawn, if not enough for a structured narrative, and as an art piece for the artists it works very well in presenting what it wants to achieve. There is a lot to think about and discuss from what we see, and the images are beautiful and striking enough to keep us captured in the frame with them.

Surfing is a superb, tightly constructed drama. Set in Birmingham in 1969 (effectively the vague backdrop to our story since the action only takes place in one room), a down-on-his-luck musician finds himself sleeping on a friend’s sofa when he receives a phone call about a potential gig. This gig isn’t for him, however, but meant for the person whose sofa he’s crashing on. Our protagonist Pete, played by Harry Clarke in a performance which the whole film hinges on, feels like a British reimagining of the similarly ill-fated, self-sabotaging character of Llewyn Davis in the 2013 Coen Brothers masterpiece.

Clarke (who is also the film’s writer-producer) delivers a great performance which is both effectively comedic and holds pathos. And in terms of the technical side of the production, director Duane Adamoli is also the film’s cinematographer and editor. Whilst this is a small-scale production, Adamoli and Clarke have formed a strong collaborative team – with one in charge of story and performance, the other in charge of aesthetics and assembly. Both demonstrate an impressive level of craft in their respective areas, making Surfing a near-faultless cinematic expression.

It’s not easy to find anything of note to complain about with regards to this short. The only possible flaw I can find has more to do with the very nature of current short-filmmaking than it does with the movie itself... By deciding to tell a story based around a series of phone calls – set, as I’ve mentioned, in one room – you’re bound to have a critic or two say that the filmmakers have limited themselves in terms of creative scope. While watching, I personally do not find this to be the case. And yet, you can’t help but be reminded that this is what a great proportion of short films are these days. It makes sense since it saves time and money; and out of all the shorts this critic has seen recently that fall into said category, this resides in the very top tier in terms of quality.

The cinematography and design of this project appeals to me greatly on a personal and artistic level. What follows is a quote provided in the submission notes for Surfing:

“Our aim was to create a character study reminiscent of early 1970s cinema and, through unorthodox methods, such as placing a pair of tights over the lens and make the film feel as though it had genuinely been shot in that period.”

For those who maybe aren’t filmmakers or who have little interest in low-budget cinematography techniques, this may even sound gimmicky. But when you see just how well these shots work, and how authentic the grain and the haze feels, it’s incredibly exciting for a fanatic like myself. The very specific period of low-light, low-contrast, murky and desaturated image-making – exemplified through Vilmos Zsigmond’s collaborations with Altman on The Long Goodbye and McCabe & Mrs. Miller (the greatest cinematographer-director combo there ever was or will be) – is the most fun aesthetic to be inspired by and attempt to recreate, even digitally. And why it works is because Surfing is not just trying to resemble film stock, but evoking the messy, textural, rebellious visual experiments of that era.