Latest Short Film Reviews

Gloria’s Cut is a bloody and satirical short film about a struggling actress working at a diner. One night, she ends up confronting a seemingly more successful (and infinitely more pretentious) actress who finds her way into said diner. The two of them begin by discussing pages of a script for an audition which both characters wish to pursue. What progresses is an increasingly volatile, revealing and ultimately – as established in its cyclical opening – murderous encounter. There is so much to enjoy about the narrative of this picture as well as its superbly flashy and slick production. Whilst this is a chamber-piece for the most part, all of the structural skill is placed clearly on display; yet furthermore, within its 15-minute runtime, the filmmakers manage to also probe some deep and perceptive areas of interest...

Thematically speaking, what Gloria’s Cut presents is an engaging take on favouritism in the entertainment industry and encouraged pursuit/obsession with stardom – but through the lens of reflexive 90s nostalgia. This is a high-level screenplay, and one which I should mention is being used as a proof-of-concept for a feature-length project titled No Doubt. Personally, I find this fact to be a bit of a two-edged sword. For if there is any complaint I have of the film (though not so much of the work itself but the context provided) it’s that the heightened, to-the-point tone suits a short-form piece so well that one can’t necessarily envision it being as impactful as a long-form piece. However, having seen how incredibly well the filmmakers can get a handle on tone, setting and message, I’m confident that the feature will share this same level of artistic care and genre-based passion. My only worry is that it would feel similar to The Substance (also better as a short) whose tone becomes tiresome and repetitive.

But like many short films, what we witness is effectively a single extended conversation, and what allows the audience to engage with these ideas in the first place is the terrific style and mood being constructed through the sound and visuals. There’s an irresistible neon aesthetic at play here, with both lighting and colour producing a simultaneously grimy yet comforting atmosphere. Because of this specificity of style and place, I was sold on the film within the first few shots. If anything, the fact that the film takes place in the 90s is more a satisfyingly convenient aesthetic tool rather than a story-trait – although it never feels like a gimmick.

Written, directed and starring Olivia Gropp, this is a movie with a unique, personal vision. I’m also happy to report that Gropp manages all three of her creative roles with great success – this is not an indulgent or unbalanced work; it is, instead, carefully directed, effectively written and entertainingly performed. And the fact that this is a self-directed work may only add to the cohesion of the vision. To surmise, Gloria’s Cut demonstrates some truly impeccable storytelling and cinematic flair – a fun talky work of drama as well as an appropriately exaggerated gore-fest.

With her film debut, director Monica Dhaka explores the world of kink community by utilising the story of Pup Momo.

Momo is part of this community, a homosexual who enjoys rubber puppy play, meaning that he dresses in fetish clothing that includes a rubber mask that resembles a dog's head for fun and sexual satisfaction. When he enters role play, he calls himself ''Momo''. Via this short documentary, viewers will get to know him and learn about the world of fetish.

Momo is the centre of this film and he is interviewed, with his voice-over covering his childhood, how he currently lives his life and the kinky community. Attracted to role-playing fetishes, Pup Momo grew up in the United States, with parents from the Netherlands. He won the title of Mr. Rubber Netherlands 2022, proving his strong dedication to this group of people. With the use of home video footage, viewers get to see him as a playful child.

Through Pup Momo's words and archival footage, people will get an idea of what the kink community is, how big it is, with competitions like the one won by Momo, magazines such as the Mr B Wings (a BDSM magazine to which Bohnen is a contributor) and parades like the Amsterdam Pride Canal Parade proving how widely established it has become. All this is accompanied by Dhaka's emotional music.

One of the purposes of this documentary is to shed light on the world of kinky people and defend them, to reveal that they are not disturbed or antisocial as some think they are, but individuals who are united because they share particular desires and activities and that their world is a group where everyone is accepted.

This fifteen-minute-long short provides a brief but thoughtful insight into the world of kink communities and shows that it is a place where people can find happiness and acceptance, where they can be who they want to be and be comfortable with self-expression. It also communicates the message that just because someone is unusual does not mean they are no good.

Some viewers might find the subject matter uncomfortable, however, this documentary deserves recognition because ultimately, it points out that people who are part of this network do so in order to be happy and (as the title suggests) to belong.

Eructation is a short documentary that follows Kaylee Kotkins, a young woman with incredible burping abilities, as she aims to break the world record for the loudest burp, currently set at 107.3 decibels. Her loudest belch to date is 110 decibels in practice, and she uses a decibel reader app on her phone to calculate her burps. This documentary follows her as she prepares to break that record, while also briefly exploring her relationship with her partner, Eric, as he endures Kaylee’s absurd challenge.

One of the most unique aspects of the documentary is not only its original and absurd concept but also the use of decibel numbers as a central narrative device for Kaylee as she utilises other sounds around their home. She finds a plethora of objects, such as a hair dryer, to measure the loudness of her burps. While there isn't much material to sustain a feature-length runtime, its tight runtime works in its favour, as the passionate personality of Kaylee shines through, and the filmmakers get straight to the point without ever stretching the material out. Max Henderson, serving as the film's cinematographer, primarily shoots the documentary with close-ups of Kaylee and overhead shots around her home as she prepares for the challenge. Most of the dialogue is delivered through a litany of exposition, so the audience rarely gets to know Kaylee as a person, but only her intention for the documentary.

Thankfully, many of the comedic elements of the piece land surprisingly well and the inclusion of Kaylee’s partner, Eric, offers a unique perspective on her challenge. The piece is paced incredibly well with some commendable editing choices, making the film feel frenetic in its attempt to match Kaylee’s efforts to beat her record. The brisk pace at which the expository dialogue is delivered can be overwhelming at times; however, it's ultimately a necessary choice to keep the piece utterly engaging throughout. As a viewer, it's hard not to root for Kaylee to achieve her goal, and that's a testament to how instantly the filmmakers draw the audience in, despite its incredibly minimal runtime. The piece also provides some education about the human body and the mechanisms by which we burp to relieve pressure after swallowing air while eating and drinking. The lengths to which she goes to achieve this record are mostly entertaining to endure, and it's not something that has ever really been explored within cinema.

Despite the documentary offering fairly minor context to Kaylee and Eric outside of what is depicted on camera, the direction from Victoria Trow elevates the material by giving the piece some needed propulsive nature. While the conclusion to the piece ends abruptly, Kaylee’s challenge is profoundly executed by the filmmakers, consistently finding evocative ways to frame each scene.

Eructation is a fascinating experimentation held together by Kaylee Kotkin's sheer ambition and some commendable direction and editing choices. While the piece offers fairly minor material outside of the central challenge Kaylee sets for herself, it's an aptly made piece of filmmaking, presenting an absurd concept that is both wildly entertaining and surprisingly educational.

Eructation will celebrate its world premiere at the 2026 SXSW Film Festival

They say that the closest thing to war that most people ever experience is divorce. Ryan Nunes’ short film Drowned follows a couple in the aftermath of a separation, each side bearing the scars that complicate their lives as single parents in a melodramatic but moving short.

After a fight with partner Jake (Nunes) at a Christmas party, we follow Sarah (Sonya Richards) as she navigates single parenthood of her daughter Emma (Julia Little). Sarah finds motherhood overwhelming, suffering from small memory lapses that lead to big problems. After forgetting Emma’s EpiPen, Sarah and Ryan find themselves in an emotional confrontation – where bitterness, anger and unresolved fractures explode into the open.

Drowned tackles difficult questions about parenthood and divorce with a considerate tone and a careful hand. Ryan Nunes constructs characters with depth and reality, asking his audience to empathise with both parties of the divorce and engage with their qualities and their flaws as real people, rather than cutout characters. Jake’s outburst at Sarah feels aggressive at first, but his own struggles that originate in the breakdown of their relationship mean audiences will be able to understand his exasperation in a moment where he fears for the safety of his daughter. Similarly, the time we spend with Sarah where we see how her mental and physical condition lead to daily struggles just in her own life lead us give her grace naturally. It fits perfectly with the film’s message – that parenthood can be unconventional but is always easier shared, even in ways that we may not see firsthand.

At times the film dials the melodrama up to 11, in moments that are emotional but a little awkwardly bulldozed into the story. The performers discard any sense of nuance in favour of amped-up cry-shouting. When appropriate this can be the crescendo of finely built dramatic tension that ensures no eye in the house is left dry. But rushed, and it feels like dramatic overkill – the acting equivalent of using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. There is no doubt that both Ryan Nunes and Sonya Richards are excellent at portraying a breakdown. But the place of the pivotal exchange involving the EpiPen feels rushed in the context of the narrative. Whilst it is possible to imagine real parents reacting this way, the storytelling of the film makes the moment feel a little unearned, particularly seeing as it is a trigger for the two finding common ground in what is the climax of the film.

The film looks crisp and professional with some interesting using of lighting – which ‘drowns’ out of the screen as Sarah’s desperation grows throughout the film. Nunes’ direction is also solid enough, knowing how to present Sarah as someone finding life more and more difficult and unhinged whilst her former partner becomes an invading entity (Nunes’ way of presenting his own character in the film who uncomfortably throws off the focus and balance is a particular highlight).

Whilst Drowned is imperfect structurally and will not pull up any trees when it comes to storytelling around parenthood (its release close to the dazzlingly original If I Had Legs I’d Kick You not helping in this regard), it is a solid enough effort from director, writer and star Ryan Nunes and his team which will speak to people navigating parenthood or even just those who have ever felt isolated when dealing with an imperceivable task.

Tim Cullingworth-Hudson writes, directs and stars in this captivating medieval dark fantasy.

Within one and a half minutes, with the use of striking visuals, epic music and drama, this short takes the viewer on an adventurous journey.

The film does not concentrate on telling a story, but rather to present a situation, or perhaps more appropriately, an otherwordly confrontation that takes place in the middle a battlefield. The setting is the Middle Ages and the titular Crusader (voiced by Hudson) awakens in an open area filled with dead bodies and fires. It is the aftermath of a devastating battle and as the warrior proceeds to rise, a demonic entity emerges from the soil (voiced by Betts) and begins to verbally condemn him. But the man is strong.

Regarding the mise-en-scene, it looks superb, creating a dark medieval period environment. There are brief scenes of battle, with armoured soldiers wielding their weapons in slow motion. Filmed almost entirely in black-and-white, colour is present only in shots of blood being spilled. The black-and-white cinematography makes the atmosphere feel rather sinister, which is fitting given the events that take place. The appearance of the monster turns things towards fantasy and it appears to be a being of pure evil. The creature is anthropomorphic, has huge crow-like wings on its back and sharp teeth. As for the warrior, the hero, he is a bearded man, wearing heavy armour.

This film would not be so impactful without the dynamic music. Dramatic chanting and strong drumming create a powerful atmosphere that promises adventure and brutal confrontation.

Regarding the Crusader, voice-over describes him as a veteran of many battles, who is living a life of violence that will never lead to solace. His spirit is strong, but his many experiences in the battlefield have left mental scars in him. Moreover, it is indicated that he also possesses magical powers. As for the winged creature, it seems to be his utlimate enemy, menacingly telling him that there is no salvation.

During its short duration, this film manages to explore religion, the brutality of war, bravery, self-reflection, redemption and desperation. It is a story about Good vs Evil, with the Crusader representing Good and the creature symbolizing Evil.

A sword and sorcery tale filled with excitement and confrontation. It is a brief experience but one that never loses its power from start to finish and it carries the message that when people are going through challenging times and the odds are against them, they must never give up.

Return explores a layered cocktail of themes through its brief 10 minute runtime, leading the audience on an emotional meditation on grief, memory, and humanity’s place within the natural world.

Peter Faulkner’s character carries the weight of loss deep inside, and most of Return’s runtime is spent inside his mind. He sits alone in a dark room, apparently isolated from the world, and the image is a shockingly stark one. Carr-Gomm focuses a great deal of attention on the man’s difficulty in grasping a glass of water and bringing it to his lips to drink. Yet, when he closes his eyes, colour and light return to the picture. We see rocky clifftops adorned with birds, the power of a calm sea, a beautiful natural world rich with flora and fauna. A mysterious woman (Jade Lauren) with some connection to Faulkner’s character is always out of reach standing a part of the natural world within his mind. The vast skies and dense woodland suggest something heavenly about the Earth, and as the old man walks throughout these lush environments there’s no hint of any corporeal weakness about him. At one point, he plants his face in the grass, drinking in the physical sensation. Carr-Gomm’s depiction of literal connection with the land juxtaposes the isolation of Faulkner’s character at the start of the short - sat alone in his armchair, the only hint of a world outside his room is the sunlight softly settled on his window. Similarly to the recently Academy Award nominated Train Dreams, Carr-Gomm explores loss and the nature of grief by using the natural world as a sort of bridge between the living and the dead.

The filmmaking on display in Return is spectacular and helps to sell the spiritual ideas that the film explores. The photography of the environment is breathtaking, often captured with wide shots from high above to capture the vibrant beauty of the Earth. Sunflower fields appear as a rich tapestry of colour, and a single cloud in the sky looks as though painted by a dexterous hand. Special attention is given to smaller details such as a hand running over wheat in a field, and the aforementioned face rubbing in the grass, giving a real sense of texture and presence in the world. Return’s sensory experience is heightened by a simple piano score which guides the audience through the journey. The film is entirely without dialogue, yet Ben Rowarth’s composition speaks for itself.

Peter Faulkner’s performance in the film was deeply personal to his own life experience, Carr-Gomm has stated. His character moves deliberately in every single moment, communicating feelings of love and loneliness clearly without speaking. A particularly moving sequence of Faulkner’s performance is when he dances alone in his kitchen, coming to life in a deeply vulnerable display of laboured elegance. He brilliantly embodies the heartbreak of continuing on after a loved one’s death, and the overwhelming inclination to withdraw into one’s shell. Reminiscing can be self destructive in a way, and Faulkner’s depiction of earthly liberation, to reconnect with the natural world as well as his loved one, suggests a call to be reunited with them, to return to them.

Return speaks to the loneliness of life, but also the power of the natural world and the love that connects us to each other. The confident filmmaking and the tender performances support complex ideas with the short’s brief runtime, without the help of words to convey meaning. The result is a piece of cinema that will have audiences reminiscing about their lost loved ones, and maybe picking up the phone to give their older friends and relatives a call.

The growing popularity of alternative media in the 21st century has had a fascinating effect. Truly esoteric discussions about anime, videogames, and fairly obscure movies are deftly navigated by the so-called ‘terminally online’, with new subcultures born and aesthetics named daily. The film follows Jay, described as ‘a man led astray’ who is thousands of dollars in debt, depressed, and developing an app which he believes will “change the world”. For the next 20 minutes, viewers are strapped into an outrageous, exhausting, and sometimes incoherent whirlwind of neon lights and violent gangsters. Mitch Silva’s Big Jay’s Day Out will be an enigma to general audiences everywhere, but something tells me that this won’t be a concern for the filmmaker.

Big Jay’s Day Out is first and foremost a ‘vibes-based’ film, the first in a genre which the filmmakers have helpfully identified as ‘inhalantcore’. It’s certainly a satire, comparable to American Psycho by way of Harmony Korine, and it’s a relief that the humour is generally excellent, if not irony-poisoned. There’s more drama in the back half of the short than may be expected, and while the performances generally work, a few too many scenes descend into characters yelling melodramatically. It’s less atmospheric than it could be, and more dialogue heavy than it should be. Austin Alexander’s performance is enjoyable to begin with but it was a shame that he wasn’t given much more to do after the first few minutes. Similarly for Angela Lin who performs a dual role as Evelyn Chen and Not Evelyn Chen, while she makes an intriguing and enigmatic first impression as a modern day manic pixie meets 2020s online goth girl pastiche, her character becomes flattened and fairly dull by the end of the film.

The filmmakers have added that this film is considered a ‘rebuild’ in the same vein as Evangelion. They state that Big Jay’s Day Out Remastered must be watched after the original Big Jay’s Day Out preAlpha 0.89, originally released in 2017. Having watched both of these shorts now, there’s definitely some thematic and stylistic connections between the two, but the original film is not an essential watch to understand the ‘remaster’. It does gesture towards a specific artistic intent from Silva however, giving his short films a knowing interconnectivity, as well being a knowledge check for audiences who are familiar with Evangelion and its sequels. Similarly, the aesthetics of various internet subcultures are employed throughout Big Jay’s Day Out. The result is a visual melting pot of ideas and influences, and it’s undoubtedly unique. However, it would be remiss to ignore that the film’s abrasive sound and editing styles can make it a challenging watch.

Big Jay’s Day Out may arguably be described as an exercise in style over substance. Whether or not that’s true will depend on who is watching the film. Undeniable however is the fact that there is a distinct quality in Silva’s filmmaking that certain audiences will particularly resonate with, and it would be an immense shame if this style became watered down and bent into something more recognisable.

It’s ironic that, in many ways, modern innovations in communication have made us more isolated than ever before. James Quinn taps into these complex feelings in Scrutiny, a tender short story following a young man, Nathan (Isaiah Bobb-Semple), riding on a bus through south London after hanging out with his mate Kwame (Kevin Siaw-Badu). In just 10 minutes, Quinn leads the audience through an odyssey of anxious rumination, placing them right inside the spiralling mind of the protagonist. The direction and performances are all flawless, resulting in a vulnerable and very modern portrait of self doubt.

SCRUTINY immediately announces its bold visual style with the use of a grainy, analogue filter. The visual noise serves as a relevant metaphor for how Nathan is thinking and feeling, and it also reveals the film’s keen attention to detail. Through careful choices, Quinn excels in delivering a subjective experience of the protagonist’s anxiety, which Bobb-Semple is able to articulate through subtle non-verbal cues. The camera pays particular attention to Nathan’s hands as he nervously taps the back of his phone, he erratically fiddles with his bracelet, and all the while the music is pulsing arhythmically. The audience doesn't yet entirely understand what the source of the tension is, but it’s clear that Nathan is feeling it intensely.

The editor Christopher Morris must be given particular credit for how gripping SCRUTINY is. The film unfolds very quickly and discloses new information to the audience in the form of a flashback to before Nathan got on the bus. Reclined on a grassy hill with his friend Kwame, the two lay back comfortably, beers in hand, and worries apparently far far away. “You up for this again?” asks Kwame, to which Nathan enthusiastically replies “Sure!”. It’s a simple but sweet scene, unsubtly juxtaposed by the scenes on the bus which soon interrupt the relaxed flashback. Before long, the audience returns to the flashback, but this time it’s different. The script is the same, but the vibes are entirely off, and the once easy conversation which earlier flowed like honey is now stilted and awkward. Kwame seems less interested, and Nathan far less sure of himself. It’s a superb use of filmmaking, reminiscent of Kurosawa’s Rashomon, casting doubt on how the interaction between the two friends really took place. The sound design and quick editing on the bus becomes more and more overbearing as Nathan continues waiting for a text from Kwame. Passengers on the bus appear to be staring at Nathan, and it begins to look like something from a horror film.

SCRUTINY reads as a narrative deeply rooted in the neurodivergent experience. It’s not uncommon for people with autism and ADHD to replay memories obsessively, to overanalyse social situations unhealthily, and to feel overwhelming feelings of shame and regret for perceived slights. Quinn should be praised for how he chooses to dignify Nathan’s emotional experience; he doesn’t downplay Nathan’s feelings of embarrassment and alienation. The narrative even gives its characters some form of resolution when Kwame reassures Nathan that he had a great time earlier that day, absolving his friend of any guilt for asking for some support. It’s a beautiful gesture and provides a great sense of closure. Persistently, the film ends on a different note as he finally arrives at Maria’s party. The final shot is devastating and all too familiar for anyone with experience of ‘masking’ in social scenarios. The ending suggests that the events of the film are more than likely to repeat until Nathan can learn to be comfortable being himself around his friends and not needing to perform what he thinks they want him to be. It’s a complex cocktail of emotions, with the vast weight of expectations of Nathan being self imposed. It’s a seriously impressive narrative to tell in just 10 minutes.

Watching SCRUTINY through the lens of the neurodivergent experience is a rewarding one, whether or not that’s what Quinn and the crew intended. It should be praised for its depiction of neurodiversity in the black community especially, considering the fact that autism is overwhelmingly represented in media by white introverted boys. What stands out watching SCRUTINY is the sheer amount of empathy that is afforded to these characters. Although Nathan’s experience may not be one that every viewer has experienced in their life, through confident and motivated filmmaking choices, the movie may enable audiences to better understand and identify with a perspective outside of their own.

Song of the Selkie follows Isla (Layla Burns), a young girl who returns to the Scottish Highlands with her father, Craig (James Robinson). Their return leads her to the mystery of the mythical and legendary being, the Selkie. Set over two time periods, the narrative is a mix of two languages (Scottish English and Scottish Gaelic) and an exploration of grief and forgiveness.

The piece is ultimately paced as a slow burn, with a meandering depiction of a father and daughter reconnecting as they return to the Scottish Highlands. As the film spans two time periods, the transition between these sequences can feel jarring and difficult to comprehend; however, as the narrative progresses, it ties together wonderfully. While it may take multiple viewings to appreciate its subtlety on a deeper level, this approach is a welcome one that genuinely trusts its audience to follow along. It's a quietly meditative and haunting experience as Isla begins to unravel the truth about her mother’s disappearance, and both central performances from Layla Burns and James Robinson convey their characters' struggles profoundly. The chemistry between both performers is endearing and feels like a raw father-daughter relationship as the two characters grapple with grief over the loss of their beloved wife and mother.

Both Jon Burton and Ryan Gibson, serving as the cinematographers, do an incredible job of showcasing the landscapes of the Scottish Highlands while making the experience intimate and thought-provoking. The camera is often positioned close to the actors during scenes of self-discovery or discomfort, allowing the performances to shine in each frame. David Julyan, serving as the film's composer, delivers an evocative musical score that is quietly haunting and striking in its motifs. It's a haunting portrayal of loss and acceptance, deeply rooted in its technical prowess. One of the most surprisingly memorable aspects of the narrative is a wonderfully choreographed dance sequence that feels thematically rich in its purpose during the story and deeply enriches Isla’s character arc. While it may take its time to find its footing, the film is a rewarding and emotionally resonant experience with plot points that piece together wonderfully.

The mix of a contemporary setting with the old folklore is constructed perfectly and becomes less jarring as the story delves deeper into the two time periods colliding. The over-reliance on visual storytelling is both a positive and a detriment to the experience; despite the lack of exposition being refreshing, the limited context provided for certain elements of the narrative can become frustrating for the viewer to piece together. Its meandering pace at times can also hinder some of the engagement within the story; that being said, as a directorial effort from Kerry Browne, it's a stunning achievement with splendid direction that may entice viewers to seek out her upcoming projects.

Song of the Selkie is an absorbing experience that blends two time periods and explores profound themes of grief and forgiveness. The importance of family and understanding one's grief is a prevalent theme at the centre of the story, and the film never shies away from this. Despite some hiccups in its pacing and some jarring tonal elements, the film is an affecting and gripping piece of filmmaking that ties together superbly in its emotionally resonant conclusion.

When it comes to the last year of short-form filmmaking, Nostalgie is a true standout. Written by Stacey Gregg and based on the short story by Wendy Erskine, Kathryn Ferguson’s 19-minute drama tells the tale of a has-been singer, now an IT company manager, who’s invited to a remote venue in Northern Ireland to perform his hits from yesteryear. Thematically speaking, the screenplay manages to hit on many intriguing topics (recapturing one’s youth, how oppressive forces can weaponise pop music, rural areas becoming more isolated as modernity advances) without having them seem pointed or the overall piece overwhelmed. The narrative is beautifully structured; enriched with reflective, often disturbing little details; and with a turn that takes place between the second and third act which stands as one of the better-executed story shifts this critic has seen in some time. This is mainly due to the naturalness of the reveal and the believability and prescient nature of the subtext. One can draw slight comparisons between this film and Jeremy Saulnier’s uncompromisingly visceral Green Room which evokes something more explicit, yet thematically similar to this piece.

There’s a reason why within only the opening shot, you can tell this is a superior production. Nostalgie’s director of photography is none other than Robbie Ryan, a legend of modern cinematography; someone who has shot the work of Ken Loach, Andrea Arnold, Yorgos Lanthimos, and Noah Baumbach (my favourite looking film of Ryan’s is The Meyerowitz Stories). What the visual artist brings to this project is an unmatched ability to capture the texture of a location. Based on the colour, one presumes this was shot on film. Even if it wasn’t, it has that irresistible grainy characteristic, with certain frames flooded with green and pink tones. Much like Ryan’s best work, he also bases the depth of field / aperture on the lighting conditions of the moment, instead of using filters or different film stocks – thus, we get some lush soft-focus photography for interiors, and some strikingly vivid deep-focus photography for some hard-lit exteriors. All of this, for anyone interested in the technical side of filmmaking, is incredibly exciting to witness.

Director Kathryn Ferguson has arranged the film’s formal and narrative aspects masterfully. They’ve also managed to provide invaluable space to each and every collaborator’s talents. Cinematography and writing I’ve already discussed in this regard, but perhaps the most obvious place to look to understand Ferguson’s directorial skill and dramatic awareness is in the outstanding performances, especially from seasoned players like Aidan Gillen and Michael Smiley. One feels compelled to conclude on this note because, believe it or not, I believe this to be a career-best performance from Gillen who plays the protagonist of Drew. This is simply unheard of when it comes to such an established Hollywood presence being featured in a short; but the tiredness, the sense of confused melancholy, and then the hard rise and fall from euphoria to utter shame, is a testament not only to Gillen as an actor but to Ferguson as someone crafting these careful moments for him to freely exist in. Nostalgie is a real cinematic pleasure.